April 1814
Sarah sat in the secretaries’ room, waiting for His Grace’s visitors to leave. “I shall tell the duke you want a moment of his time, my lady,” offered the man in charge, one of the Duke of Winshire’s foreign retainers. Sarah told him not to interrupt the meeting. The last thing she needed was to begin a painful interview with His Grace annoyed at her.
Uncle James is not like father and grandfather, she told herself. If she didn’t believe that, she wouldn’t be here, kicking her heels while each minute took an hour to creep by. Still, her heart pounded and her hands perspired. A lifetime of experience assured her that men were erratic, and powerful men expected her to sacrifice her own needs and wishes to their whims.
Not Uncle James, Charlotte had insisted. In any case, you have no choice. If you want money to start a new life, he will need to give his permission. He certainly isn’t going to do so without knowing your reasons. Charlotte had always been the braver twin, despite outward appearances.
She had offered to see the duke with Sarah. Up in the little sitting room of the chambers they shared, Sarah had refused. If she took Charlotte with her as support, how could she convince Uncle James she was capable of striking out on her own? Now, growing more anxious by the minute, Sarah wished for her sister’s supportive presence.
The murmur of voices in the other room grew louder. Sarah leapt to her feet as the duke’s door opened. A group of gentlemen exited, almost walking backwards as they assured His Grace of their goodwill, their co-operation, their thanks for his condescension in meeting them himself rather than sending an agent.
For a brief moment, Sarah wondered what they were talking about, but then the duke smiled at her from his doorway, and her own business with him consumed her again.
One of the secretaries took over to usher the guests out, and the Duke of Winshire held out his hand to Sarah. “You wished to see me, Lady Sarah? Come in, and I shall send for tea.”
Sarah firmly tamped down the urge to flee. She entered the duke’s study, breathing a little more steadily once she was inside. The room bore little resemblance to the lair to which she had been summoned by her grandfather when he decided to personally communicate his expectations, or to rebuke her for failing them.
It had been redecorated to the taste of its new incumbent. The great desk from behind which the former duke had handed down his edicts had been replaced. Light streamed in windows previously obscured day and night by heavy curtains.
His Grace underscored how much he differed from his father by not directing Sarah to the supplicant position before the desk and ensconcing himself behind it. Instead, he led her to a comfortable chair by the fire and took the one opposite.
The changes in decor weren’t enough to keep the memories at bay. Sarah could feel what little confidence she had leaking away, taking coherent thought with it. She must have shut her eyes, because her lids flew open when the duke leapt to his feet, saying, “This won’t do.” He was already out of his chair and striding for the door to the anteroom.
“Zagreb, I am taking my niece to the blue parlour. Redirect our afternoon tea, please. If I am late for the appointment with Mr Chalmers, please make my apologies. Ask him if he would like to visit the stallion he enquired about while he waits.”
Sarah blinked at him as he returned to stand before her, holding out his hand. His nod and his gentle smile reassured her. She allowed him to help her to her feet, place her hand on his sleeve and conduct her to the private door on the inner wall of the room—the one that led to the servant’s corridors.
“This was a room of horrors, Sarah, was it not?” He smiled down at her. “My father mostly ignored his children, and I must suppose his grandchildren, too. But when he did notice us, it was never to praise. Only to berate and punish.” He lifted a brow in question, and Sarah nodded, his understanding soothing her as much as leaving the office behind them.
He let them into the blue parlour, one of the smaller reception rooms on this business floor of the mansion that was their London home.
Sarah had recovered enough for an apology. “I am sorry to take you from your work, Your Grace. Uncle James, I mean.”
The duke shrugged. “The work exists to provide for those who are part of the duchy, Sarah. From you and the rest of my family to the least tenant’s child and the youngest scullery maid. If I cannot make time for the people, and particularly for my own family, there is no point to the work.”
Her grandfather, father, and brother had assumed the duchy and all its dependents existed to provide for them: for their wealth, power and pleasure. Mulling on that, and its costs to her and all she held dear, she barely noticed the aide delivering the tray. She started when her uncle handed her a cup of tea he had prepared himself.
The gesture—a man of his stature doing women’s work—reassured her as nothing else had. She blurted her errand. “Uncle James, I want my dowry. I want to retire to the country so I can raise my son myself.”
The duke’s only reaction was a slight widening of the eyes. He took a sip of his own tea before he responded. “Your son. Are you with child, Sarah? Or has a great nephew been hidden from me these past two years since I arrived in England?”
The phrasing of the last question broke the dam on Sarah’s resentment and it burst out. “He has been hidden from me these past six years, sir. Since the day he was born and taken from me, though I begged to hold him just one time.” She stopped to blink back angry tears.
His Grace reached for her hand, and held it gently. “Tell me.” His voice was warm and concerned, and she found the words came easily at last.
“My grandfather ordered him put out to foster. Mama assured me that she had met the couple herself, but then the duke gave them money to move away, and she could not find out where they went. When you reinstated my pin money after the duke died, I hired an enquiry agent to find him. I just wanted to know that he was well and cared for.”
She swallowed, remembering the skinny, frightened, angry little waif that the agent, Mrs Wakefield, had introduced her to that morning. Searching her uncle’s eyes for condemnation and scorn, she saw nothing but compassion. “I take it he was not,” he commented.
“The foster parents my mother approved died last year. Their relatives did not want Elias—that’s what his foster parents called him—so he had been put into the parish orphan asylum. Mrs Wakefield said it was a dreadful place, and she could not leave him there.” Sarah clutched at her uncle’s arm. “I want to keep him, Uncle James. I can go somewhere I am not known, change my name, pretend to be a widow…”
The duke smiled. “We can do better than that, my dear. Did I not just say that the duchy is here to serve the family? And your little Elias is family.”