“What do you mean she doesn’t want to see me?”
The man’s voice carried to the third floor of the library, where Adam was starting to read the duke’s confessions about his forties. He’d had to wait until late afternoon, when the three maids assigned to the room had finished dusting it. At the slow pace he was going, a few more midnight visits were in order. Few people bothered him in the middle of the night.
He bit back an oath, stood, and straightened his jacket before descending the staircase and heading toward the front door.
The junior footman in training looked terrified, a strange sight since he towered over the man being refused admittance. The senior footman, on the other hand, was trying to appear conciliatory. Adam counted three bows from Thomas by the time he made it to the front door.
“What’s going on, Thomas?” Adam asked.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” the visitor said. “This damn fool is keeping me from my daughter.”
Evidently, the short man with the voice of a giant was Edward Hackney. Adam had heard of the man in India. Hackney had been one of the directors of the British East India Company, making a fortune over the years.
He wondered if it was just a coincidence that both the late duke and Hackney had deep ties to India. So did he, since he’d been in the country at the same time.
Hackney’s head seemed oddly out of proportion to the rest of his body, as if God had created a man of small stature and then had only large heads left over. Nothing matched. His nose was long, his mouth almost too broad for his face. His neck was a little squat, giving the impression that his shoulders were too close to his ears.
What he lacked in physical presence, however, Hackney made up for in sheer determination.
“You will take me to my daughter this instant.”
Adam glanced at Thomas. “Have you let the duchess know that she has a visitor?”
“Not just a visitor, damn it,” Hackney said. “I’m her father.”
“Her Grace is not receiving, sir,” Thomas said, his expression deadpan while Daniel still looked terrified. It couldn’t have been easy to refuse Hackney.
At Thomas’s words, Hackney grew even more belligerent.
“Like hell. Where is she?”
Daniel looked at Adam. “She’s in the conservatory, sir.”
When Hackney would have pushed past both the footmen and strode into the house, Adam held up his hand.
“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I will inquire of Her Grace if she wishes to see you.”
He’d been in command of hundreds of men. He knew just what kind of tone to employ to a recalcitrant soldier or an idiot general. In this case he chose something halfway between either extreme, but that left Hackney no doubt that he wasn’t going to enter Marsley House.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“A member of your daughter’s staff, sir,” he said. “I will ask the duchess what she wishes to do.”
As he turned and left, Adam thought the older man might be on the verge of apoplexy.
At least the duchess had come out of her room.
According to Mrs. Thigpen, the conservatory was one of the duchess’s favorite rooms, and he could well imagine why. It was one of the brightest rooms at Marsley House in a building that had hundreds of windows to let in the light. Here the windows jutted out and met at the ceiling to form a roof of sorts. He’d been in this room during a storm once. Nature had surrounded him, the sound of the rain against the windows like a giant drum.
He stood in the doorway, admiring the various kinds of plants for a few seconds. He knew nothing about growing things. In Glasgow, they’d never been close to a garden. In India, he had been too busy to learn about the native flora and fauna.
There was a small enclosed area to the left with a table and two chairs against the window. The Duchess of Marsley was seated there, her hands clasped together on the tabletop, her face turned not toward the conservatory, but toward the back of the house and the kitchen garden.
At his appearance, she turned her head and regarded him with a steady look. He fingered her brooch in his pocket and thought about returning it now.
Instead he said, “Your father is here to see you.”
“I know.” Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “I can hear him.”
He took a few steps toward her. “He seems intent upon seeing you, Your Grace.”
“Does he?”
She didn’t say anything else. Nor did she look away. She blinked slowly, as if she were half-awake.
“Some people always get what they want. Have you ever noticed that, Drummond?”
“I have,” he said, wondering if he should summon some tea for her. Something strong to wake her. Or had she been drinking?
“My father always gets his way. He demands it.”
“He doesn’t have to in this case, Your Grace.”
“Oh, Drummond, you must take my word for it. He will never accept no. Not from me. Not from anyone. He can be quite ferocious.”
She smiled lightly, but it wasn’t an expression of amusement.
“Would you like me to send him away, Your Grace?”
“I should like that very much, Drummond, but I’m afraid it will not work.”
She looked almost fragile sitting there in the sunlight in her black dress. Her blue-gray eyes seemed to see down into his soul. No doubt it was only his guilty conscience that made him think that. Why the hell should he be feeling guilty? It was her husband who was the traitor.
“What did you say to me?”
He frowned, not understanding.
“The other night, on the roof. And then in my bedroom. You said something to me. In Gaelic, I think. What was it?”
He toyed with the idea of lying to her. It hadn’t been the most polite of expressions.
“What the hell are you doing hiding out in this place, Suzanne? You’re the Duchess of Marsley. Act like it. You don’t need to go to ground like a damn fox.”
They both turned to see Hackney pushing his way into the conservatory, the two footmen following. Short of physically accosting the man, there was nothing they could have done. A determined bully could outmaneuver a servant trained in tact and politeness any day.
Adam was slightly different.
He caught the duchess’s flinch and saw her face pale slightly.
Turning, he stood between her and Hackney. He braced himself with his feet apart, his arms crossed in front of him.
“The duchess is not at home,” he said, parroting an expression he’d been taught. The art of lying was specific among the upper class. You didn’t actually come out and say that you didn’t want to see someone. Instead, you implied that you weren’t there, even though everyone knew you were.
“Get out of my way, you damn fool,” Hackney said.
He outweighed the man by at least fifty pounds and a good six inches. Plus, he wasn’t a normal majordomo. He’d been a soldier in Her Majesty’s army, with experience in the Sepoy Rebellion, and countless skirmishes before and after. He’d been wounded twice and promoted for his stubbornness.
He didn’t back down easily.
“The duchess is not at home,” he repeated, more than willing to act as a human bulwark against Hackney and his daughter.
He felt her hand on his shoulder and smelled her perfume as she came to stand beside him. The scent was different from what she’d worn that night on the roof. Light yet lingering and suiting her better.
She trailed her hand over his sleeve to rest at his elbow.
“That’s all right, Drummond,” she said. Her voice was calm, as if he were a wild animal and she his trainer. “I’ll see my father.”
Without a word she left them, leading the way, evidently, because Hackney followed her. Adam wanted to as well, but remained in the conservatory with the two footmen.
“She could have made our job a damn sight easier, sir, if she’d agreed to see the man in the first place.”
Adam looked at Daniel. “That is the last time I’ll hear criticism of the duchess, do you understand? If you value your place here.”
To his credit, Daniel looked a little abashed. He nodded. “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Adam dismissed them and as they went back to their post, he turned and looked at the view the duchess had found so interesting.
What was wrong with her? And why did he care?