Miss Guinevere didn’t like him one bit. She clung to the skirts of a woman he could only assume was Miss Miller and glared at him through the curtain of her dark curls with such ferocity her displeasure was almost palpable. He paused on his way towards the front door, keeping his distance.
‘Who are you?’ An aggressive flush sat high on Maggie Miller’s cheeks. She had her hands tucked behind her back and her shoulders set straight as a ship’s main mast. With her mottled brown and grey hair she resembled a tall tabby cat guarding her precious kitten.
There was another woman who watched him warily through the kitchen window. Probably the sister-in-law who’s cottage this was.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he repeated.
‘Then what exactly are you doing here?’
‘I’m a friend of Ellie’s ahh…Miss Burney.’
Gwen started at that the sound of her sister’s name, but she didn’t make a sound. Even half hidden, there was no doubt she was related to his Ellie. They shared the same dark eyebrows, the same small chin.
He knew nothing of children, so he forced a smile. ‘Hello there… little one.’
Gwen’s glare instantly magnified.
He turned hastily to Maggie. ‘I have a note of introduction from Miss Burney explaining why I’ve come and what’s to be done next.’ There’d be no point trying to explain anything else until Maggie had read the letter. Judging by his less than warm welcome, they wouldn’t believe him even if he tried. He held up the sealed letter to show her.
Maggie’s stern manner didn’t relent. In this scenario, he was like an unknown dog. To them, he surely looked a lot like Tzar—with his scarred muzzle and the chunk missing from his ear.
Cal turned his head, presenting them with his good side. ‘I’ll give you time to think in peace. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be waiting in the lane.’ He placed the letter on the garden path, donning his hat and retreating back down the lane to his waiting horse.
***
Sophy Calder appeared overnight.
Ellen rested a hand on the cool glass of the half-window of the ballroom. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the woman she’d bumped into at the fireworks was now surveying the house from across the street.
Her dress was almost identical to the one she’d been wearing the other night, with its faded linsey apron. In the sunlight, her hair shone an even brighter red, the old straw bonnet doing little to disguise her locks.
The neighbour’s second footman, dressed in ostentatious livery of blue and gold, approached. They conversed for a few minutes, but Sophy shook her head and eventually he retreated. A few moments later the second footman returned accompanied by the first footman and the butler. They kept gesturing for her to leave, but she would not be told.
The servants disappeared inside again, and a family of five girls and their mother stepped out. They marched from the house, resolutely ignoring Sophy as they passed, and clambered into a crowed closed-roof town coach. The driver set the greys in motion and they disappeared around the corner in the direction of the Pantheon Arcade at a fast trot.
Their papa’s pocketbook was going to be considerably lighter by day’s end.
The old townhouse creaked in the silence. Everything seemed so much quieter without Calum around. Ellen shuffled from foot to foot. He’d only been gone a day and a half and wasn’t supposed to return for another day and a half.
To make matters worse, her menses had arrived the other night. Her breasts and abdomen ached and she felt generally out of sorts, like she was on the verge of crying.
She watched as Sophy’s gaze roamed over the large yew tree and its resident crow to the two matching front doors and the disused ballroom balcony. Looking straight at the ballroom window, she raised a hand and waved.
Ellen spun on her heels, retreating to the kitchen.
‘Miss.’ Cook bobbed head and knees. ‘I’m just about to take up a tray for her ladyship. Can I get you anything?’
‘No. Thank you.’ Ellen’s stomach churned at the thought of food. She bent to pat Tzar’s head. He was sitting by the range, keeping an eye on the tray of food Cook was carrying. As she left the kitchen, Tzar sighed, clambered to his feet and trotted after her, his waging tail in a wave goodbye.
The stockpot full of Calum’s marmalade was still on the sideboard. Cook had tried to decant it into smaller jars, but it was particularly thick and nothing short of sheer determination was enough to move more than a teaspoon at a time. And at the centre of the long table was the square cake tin wrapped in a thick chain and secured with the padlock. Chakrabarti had tried to pick the lock to no avail.
Ellen walked a lap of the kitchen, letting the warmth from the hearth seep into her hands and feet. This room even smelled a little of Calum. There was a bottle of half-drunk whisky on the sideboard and one of his old cloaks hanging on a hook by the door. He was probably the only duke to ever make himself comfortable in his own kitchen. She smiled. He was probably the only duke who even knew how to find his own kitchen.
‘I have a missive for you, Miss…’ Chakrabarti stood on the threshold, one foot in the kitchen and one foot out. ‘It was pushed under the front door. I didn’t mean to read it, but it’s not sealed.’ He held it out to her, refusing to make eye contact.
‘Not sealed’ was an understatement. It was just an old calling card with battered corners. The name and address had been crossed out and on the back someone had scrawled a single sentence.
I’m coming for you, whore.
It hadn’t even been signed. Not that it mattered. There was no mistaking Geoffrey’s handwriting. ‘Did you see who delivered it?’
‘No, Miss ahh…Burney.’
She winced. Burney, not Smith. The servants knew about her brother. Did they all hate her now they knew she was a liar?
‘Are you all right?’
He nodded, staring down at his shoes—a reliable pair of black buckled boots.
‘My brother—’ She stopped, unsure about where to take that sentence. Then another thought occurred to her. ‘I like to think we were friends when I was her ladyship’s companion. And we’re friends still, if that’s alright with you.’
‘Now you’re His Grace’s fiancée?’
Fake fiancée. But she couldn’t tell him that. The fewer people who knew, the safer it was for Gwen. You’re good a keeping secrets, scoffed a voice in her head. Will you ever not be living a lie? ‘Still friends,’ she repeated allowed.
He smiled, visibly relaxing. ‘We’ll keep you safe. Your brother won’t find his way back into this house.’
‘Thank you.’ She forced a return smile then looked back down at the card in her hand. Geoffrey was like a snake in the grass. He’d always preferred to do his bullying from the shadows. Verity called it a muzzle move, like in boxing. Ellen just called it cowardly.
A ring sounded and they both glanced towards the bell board. Someone was at the front door.
‘I didn’t realise we were expecting visitors.’
‘We aren’t.’ Chakrabarti hurriedly tugged at the lapel of his jacket and headed down the passage to answer it. He reappeared a few moments later and passed Ellen another calling card. This one was clean and crisp, with elegant handwriting announcing their guest.
‘She asked for her ladyship,’ he said, as Ellen stared down at the name.
‘Then you’d better send Pamela up to wake her at once. Lady Faye isn’t going to want to miss seeing her daughter.’
***
Cal gave a well-practiced bow, acknowledging Maggie as she strode towards him down the lane. The overgrown gooseberry hedges either side provided the perfect cover for a private conversation. Howbeit, they prevented Cal from seeing very far in either direction, so if anyone came across them there wouldn’t be much warning.
Ellie’s friend dipped into a curtsey. ‘It seems you were telling the truth after all, Your Grace. I would know Ellen’s handwriting anywhere.’ Her eyes flickered to the scars on his face. She was uncomfortable being so close to him but doing a very good job at hiding it—a better job than the half the ton.
Judging by her worn dress, her deportment and her manner of speaking, she was probably the daughter of the local parson or a respectable farmer. Her hand was free of a wedding ring though she was closer to forty than he was.
‘I’m to take Miss Guinevere to London, to Miss Burney.’
Maggie nodded. ‘I’m a little relieved. We’ve been convinced Geoffrey will appear up the lane at any moment, but Verity—that is, Mrs Nott is having trouble finding us new accommodation.’
‘If you pack Gwen’s belongings into a small bag, we’ll leave as soon as possible.’
‘Where’s the carriage?’ Miss Miller leaned around him to frown at his single horse.
As he’d ridden almost non-stop for a day and a half, resting only for a few hours at a posting-house, he’d long since swapped the black gelding he’d borrowed from Owen for a hire horse. His current ride was a chestnut mare who’d been slow to get going but who’d kept up a steady pace with a little bribery.
‘We don’t need a carriage. Miss Guinevere will be quite safe riding in front of me.’ The mare would barely even notice the added weight of the child.
‘You’re not leaving me behind.’ Maggie’s eyes flashed something fierce. ‘Your Grace,’ she added quickly.
‘We don’t have time for this.’ Calum barely resisted tossing his hands in the air in suddenly exasperation. ‘Gwen will come with me. You’re not in any personal danger from Blackford, are you?’
‘He doesn’t care a tuppence about me. It’s the girls he wants, but that doesn’t mean I’m letting you take Gwen away from me. She’d terrified of men. You’ll give her palpitations.’
‘It cannot be all that bad.’
‘Just because you say something doesn’t make it true. Geoffrey hit her, for goodness sakes.’ She stared him down. She was nearly as tall as he was, nearly eye to eye with him. If Ellen and Lady F had taught him anything about women it was that this fight was over long before it had even begun.
‘Fine,’ he growled. ‘I’ll hire a carriage from the village. Be ready to leave in two hours.’
***
Evendale proper liked Cal about as much as the wee Miss Guinevere did.
Passersby glared at him as he rode down Main Street. Their eyes bored into his back and their snide whispers stung his ears. They mightn’t know he was a duke, but half his face looked like it had been to hell and back, and that was more than enough fodder to feed their imaginations.
Which was exactly why he hated leaving his house.
Yes, he was used to people staring. They’d stared at him most of his life. After all, he was the half-Scottish son of a duke and he looked nothing like his father. But since the age of ten, he’d had Pierce by his side, and the two of them had held their heads high. It had made him feel dangerous and desired. Between Pierce’s blond hair and blue eyes, and Calum’s darker looks, they’d been the centre of everyone’s attention. The ladies of the ton had found the pair irresistible, and, if he was being completely honest, he’d rather enjoyed the attention.
But now the staring was nothing more than judgemental. And he no longer had Pierce by his side.
Not that he’d left his townhouse much these last four years; he hadn’t travelled further than the House of Lords and only when they were to vote on a particularly important piece of reform legislation. He was a Whig and an abolitionist loud and proud. Ten years fighting at sea could do that to man.
Cal tugged on the upturned collar of his greatcoat, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He was here for one reason and one reason only. Ellie. He had better things to worry about than a handful of ill-mannered country knaves.
A row of cottages lined Main Street, a medieval church dominating one end. Its graveyard likely housed more headstones than people currently living in Evendale, including Ellen’s parents.
With those bruises, Ellie was lucky not to be buried in that graveyard. Lucky? He ground his teeth. There was nothing lucky about being dragged about by your own brother until your wrists turned black and blue.
The air might be clearer out this way and the fields greener, but this was where Blackford lived and that made it rotten.
He dismounted outside the one and only posting-house, aptly named The Sinking Ship, and left his horse with the waiting ostler, a boy of no more than eleven or twelve. If he was going to find a carriage in this middle-of-nowhere village, the posting-house would be the place to ask.
A loud bang reverberated around the village.
Cal’s heart leaped into his mouth. ‘What the hell was that?’ He sought signs of an attack. His wounded knee started to give way and he to press a hand to his horse to keep himself upright.
The ostler squinted up at him, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘It’s just a farmer popping a couple of rabbits.’
‘Right.’ Cal forced his knee to straighten and take his weight again. Just a farmer. Shooting rabbits. Of course. This was the country after all. Goddamn country!
‘You good, sir?’
‘Aye, of course.’ He wiped a hand over his mouth, where sweat had gathered on his top lip, then tossed the ostler another coin.
Inside, a hush fell over the diners as Cal shrugged off his greatcoat and stamped his feet to rid his boots of excess mud, then he shoved his shaking hands into his pockets.
Mismatched tables littered the taproom. The grimy windows let in very little natural light and the candles had dripped tallow over all the tables. Everything smelled of burned fat.
He ordered food and found an empty table.
‘You’re not from around here.’ A gentleman stopped by his table. He smiled down at Cal, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his catskin waistcoat.
‘Nay.’ Cal focused on his meal, waiting for him to leave. He wasn’t in a very charitable mood. He was still a little clammy, and his gaze seemed determined to jump continuously towards the door as though Boney and his army were going to come sailing into the taproom at any moment. Maybe he should have requested a table in the private parlour.
‘A Scot?’ The catskin pulled up a chair.
Calum preserved a weary silence, choosing not to grace that question with an answer.
‘Never mind my forwardness, sir. It’s my unofficial job to keep an eye on any strangers we have passing through. Although’—his eyes roamed over the cut of Cal’s mud-splattered jacket and looked impressed—’you’re not exactly the normal type of visitor we get.’
‘You the local magistrate?’ He very carefully kept his voice clean of his childhood accent. He was tired, otherwise he wouldn’t have made such a slip already.
‘Ha! Nothing so sinister. Dr Audley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The catskin stuck out his hand, confident his unorthodox introduction couldn’t be unwelcome, an idea that likely originated from the same place as his ridiculously flamboyant lace shirt cuffs. He was by far the most exuberantly dressed man in the establishment. His clothes would have given poor Owen nightmares for weeks.
Then again, his eyes were rather glassy and his speech slurred. This catskin wasn’t so skilled at holding his drink.
He pulled his chair even closer, completely unfazed. ‘Look, I didn’t want to say anything but you’ve kind of got everyone on edge.’
Cal met his gaze, refusing to break the tension. The other man had started this conversation; he could damn well finish it.
‘Those are really quite impressive burn scars? Get them in the war?’
Still Cal held motionless.
‘I served too.’ He pulled back a little of his cravat to reveal a small, shallow scar about half the length of Cal’s smallest finger. He had to squint to see it.
Still, service was service. ‘Navy,’ Cal acknowledged grudgingly.
‘Army for me. Spain. So, what’s brought you to our small corner of the world?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’ There was no way Cal was going to tell this busybody—even if he had been a fellow man-in-arms—about Gwen. ‘Baron Blackford. You know of him?’
‘Blackford, sure. He’s in here most days.’ He jerked his head towards the back of the taproom. At a glance, there appeared to be a gambling table, with cards and dice and coin and men with that look of desperation they always seemed to wear when they’d lost their wages to vice. ‘Although I can’t say I’ve seen him in here for a while. Apparently his sister went missing, the minx.’
‘Er?’ Cal raised a single eyebrow, preserving a calm composure.
‘Blackford’s gone crazy looking for her. He’s even offered up a reward. Whoever uncovers her whereabouts gets twenty pounds.’
‘A considerable sum.’
‘I know. The sop actually won at cards.’ The catskin shook his head with a laugh. ‘After all these years, he finally found some Irish luck.’
‘And he’s willing to spend all his winnings on finding his sister?’ What did Geoffrey want with Ellie? The man was obsessed.
‘Not just Ellen. He wants that dumb girl too. Guinevere. Blackford’s face almost turned purple when he found out they’d gotten away. He was in here ranting and raving.’ He pulled a flask from his pocket, opened it with long-practiced ease and gulped down a mouthful, with a furtive glance towards the barman.
If he wasn’t drunk from dawn to dusk, Cal would be very surprised. God help his patients. ‘Why do you think he even cares about finding them so much? Wouldn’t he be glad to be rid of them if he was having money problems?’ Geoffrey hadn’t exactly struck Cal as a family man.
The catskin’s eyes narrowed and he pulled away from Cal. ‘Why exactly are you looking for him?’
‘No reason concerning yourself.’
He gave Cal a blurry-eyed once-over. ‘Ho! You know where is she.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m thinking you’re not interested in twenty pounds.’
‘Not particularly.’ Cal returned to his dinner.
‘She’s not worth your effort, friend. She’s gotten herself into trouble before. A disgrace to her parents.’ He was grinning like a fool, relishing the power a little information gave him. ‘Of course, I can’t tell you what she did. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’ And he patted his breast pocket, jiggling a couple of coins.
‘Tell me.’
‘Not likely. Unless…’ He patted his pocket again. ‘I reckon you’ve got more money than anyone round here. How about helping out a former soldier?’ He laughed again. The snide jackass.
Cal ran a hand over his scratchy chin. He hadn’t had time to shave since leaving London. And he certainly didn’t have time for games. He stood, the legs of his chair scrapping along the sticky floor. Pressing his hands to the tabletop, he leaned over the doctor. ‘You want to know who I really am? I’m the goddamn Duke of Woodhal. Now tell me what I want to know.’
‘A what now?’ His month opened and closed. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d been kicked by a fish. Suddenly his eyes widened in shock. ‘Captain Callaghan? The Captain Callaghan? I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Not Captain anymore. I sold out.’ But not before his ship had caught fire, his brother had died and his reputation had been destroyed. ‘And you’ve been disrespected my future duchess.’
‘Crazy Calum.’ The doctor licked his lips, glancing around the taproom. ‘I… That is… Blackford blames Ellen—ah, Miss Burney for everything.’ He spoke quickly and quietly. ‘His gambling and money problems. He says everything changed seven years ago, when…’
‘When what?’
‘I’m not supposed to say. The family made me swear.’
‘When Ellen went and got herself pregnant.’