CHAPTER 6

Followed closely by a heavy dray heaped with traveling trunks, the hired carriage—a fancy landau with matching bays driven by the owner himself, an elderly, cordial man of color who had introduced himself as Mr. Hepplewhite—proceeded along the winding, oak-lined drive up to the impressive house at River’s End.

Still at a distance, and like a seductive woman, the white-columned mansion coyly teased the observer with fluttering glimpses of itself around curves in the roadway and through breaks in the seemingly braided branches of the moss-draped oaks. As if encouraged by a soft breeze, the dappled sunlight, like so much bright yellow paint spattered about by a willful child, dotted the lush landscape and danced ahead of the conveyances.

Spencer knew himself well enough to admit that under normal circumstances, he would have been entranced by the exotic beauty of coastal Georgia. The almost painfully green and lush environment fairly spoke to him of languid nights spent with a sultry woman. Indeed, the very warmth of the place encouraged one to slow one’s step and lie back and forget one’s problems.

Not bloody likely today. Scowling, foul-tempered, and seated across the landau from his secretary and valet, Spencer couldn’t help but compare this scene to the one that fateful day a few weeks back when he’d come home to find his wife gone. On that day, too, he’d been burdened with the carriages, the traveling trunks, Hornsby and Mr. Milton—

And Edward Sparrow, the Right Honorable the Earl of Roxley. Even now, that brigand sat cheerfully mashed up next to Spencer on the carriage’s padded leather seat. So far, his blasted cousin had professed a love for every stick, rock, and frog he’d seen in Georgia, but especially he loved her women. Proving this, he’d created a minor stir in Savannah proper by standing in the open carriage, doffing his hat and loudly greeting every comely lady they’d passed as they’d traveled around the many resplendent squares. Spencer counted himself lucky they’d escaped the city without being shot or lynched by a mob of outraged husbands and fathers.

Dismissing that scene from his mind, he concentrated on River’s End, the approach to which they now rode through. He found he was able to appreciate the pleasing juxtaposition of the wild beauty that the tame orderliness of the well-manicured grounds seemed only to keep at bay. He noted especially the trailing Spanish moss that draped the oaks with gray beards—but then recalled what, or who, awaited him not too many minutes ahead. With renewed irritation eating at him, he rubbed a finger inside his collar, suddenly detesting this hothouse humidity designed to make breathing damned near impossible unless one were a fish and had gills.

“You’re awfully restless, Spence, old man.”

Spence, old man, shot his cousin a look. “It’s this damned wet and heavy air here. Much like breathing through a damp bath towel, I would suspect.”

Edward nodded sagely. “I’ve had to do that before, and very much against my will. It’s not pleasant. But a very good comparison you make.”

Spencer cut his gaze his cousin’s way but said nothing, lest Edward feel it necessary to enlighten Spencer on the whys and wherefores of his having been forced to breathe through a damp towel. Or not breathe was more like it. No doubt, some lady’s husband had come home sooner than expected and found his wife in the bath with Edward. At any rate, Spencer did not wish to be regaled with a tale that was certain to scorch even his far-from-innocent ears.

Though his cousin’s shoulder was already pressed against Spencer’s, Edward suddenly leaned hard against him and spoke softly. “Do you suppose she’ll actually be here, under the circumstances? I mean really. I know we’re hoping she is. But do you really suppose she is?”

“If I did not, Edward, do you suppose I would be here myself?” Mindful of his secretary and valet only mere feet away, Spencer smiled at his cousin … through gritted teeth. “Do not start this line of questioning with me again, Edward, I warn you.”

A shared cabin on the Atlantic crossing, as well as many shared bottles of whisky, had provided time and opportunity for Edward to slowly drag out of Spencer every wretched component of his predicament. Spencer now regretted that intimacy because Edward bothered the very devil out of him with his questions and conjectures.

“You see, I was thinking,” Edward said, apparently intending to ignore Spencer’s warning, “how amusing it would be to find she’d outfoxed us and had never left England. But had only said she meant to travel to Liverpool to throw us off the scent.”

“Yes. Very amusing. Only the booking agent very graciously—”

“After you pulled him across the counter by his lapels and shook him.”

Spencer ignored this. “At any rate, the booking agent showed me the entry where she bought her ticket for passage on a steamship traveling to Savannah.”

“That does not mean she actually boarded the ship.” Edward had trouble giving up his pet theories. “If she’s not here, and I mean at River’s End—a name which hardly evokes the grandeur of this place, I must say; look at these magnificent oaks with the wonderfully scary moss—where shall we start our search?”

With each passing second and more intrusive question, Spencer felt less and less inclined to be forthcoming, for all the good it did him. “There is no ‘we’ in this, Edward. This is my life you are dissecting. Besides, that is the fourteenth time, I’ll wager, in the past week or more that you have asked me that very question.”

Edward appeared appalled. “Really? I say. Then one would think you’d have an answer by now, wouldn’t one?”

Spencer caught Mr. Milton and Hornsby staring wide-eyed at him. No doubt, they expected him to pick up and toss his elegantly thin cousin out of the open carriage. Not a bad idea, all in all. Except, upon his return to England, he would have to explain to Edward’s dear mother that he had murdered her son. Not a pleasant prospect. She was a kind, gentle woman.

Besides, this time Spencer did have an answer for the Earl of Roxley. “If she’s not here”—he no longer worried about keeping his voice down; it was quite impossible to carry on even the most innocuous of conversations in the forced proximity of a carriage this size, and it wasn’t as if his two employees weren’t aware, to a certain extent, of the reason for their being here—“I shall prevail upon her father for his assistance. He’ll know the lay of the land, so to speak, who the right people are, where to look, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, jolly good. I’m certain he’ll be most happy to help us. However, it seems logical to me that she would be here. A criminal returning to the scene of the crime, as it were.”

Spencer frowned mightily. “The woman is my wife and a duchess, Edward. She’s hardly a criminal.”

Edward tapped Spencer’s knee. “No, of course not, old man. Simply a turn of phrase. I meant nothing by it.”

After that, Edward was blessedly quiet, which gave Spencer time to wonder if his wife had sought out her former lover once she’d come here. He believed she would have. After all, the letter she’d received had not been from family, according to Fredericks. The son of a bitch. He meant the man who had seduced a young girl and then left her on her own to face the consequences and then had the audacity to lure her away again, once she was married. Spencer wondered what the blackguard would do when Victoria told him she carried a baby that could be his. Spencer was willing to bet the wretched man would flee. Just as I did, he suddenly realized.

“Do you really think her father will be willing to help?”

“Yes, Edward.” After all, Mr. Redmond had been the one, along with his wife, who’d dragged Victoria across the ocean and gone in search of a husband—a very needy but worthy man on foreign soil … meaning far, far away from Savannah and all the rumors here. They’d as much as advertised—in a discreet and flattering way, and in the rarefied air of the many balls and suppers held by the ton, of course—for a good, kind, desperate man among the host of impoverished bachelors of the peerage, who would agree to marry their rebellious and compromised daughter for the very high price to be settled upon her. They’d wanted all that and a man who would not mistreat her, either.

Many had pursued her. Victoria Redmond was, after all, as beautiful as she was rich. But the man … the fool, the imbecile … her parents had chosen—since she’d made it very plain she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the decision—had been him, Spencer fumed. He’d fit all their criteria, plus he’d been the highest-ranking eligible bachelor to … apply for the position.

Looking out the other side of the carriage, away from Edward, Spencer quirked his lips in a self-deprecating manner. There was no other way, delicately or otherwise, to state the proposition than to say he’d applied for the position. It was the truth, yet it certainly wasn’t flattering to either one of them. Flattering or not, Spencer didn’t think Mr. Redmond would be amused to have his daughter back so soon after the debacle here.

“I think we should go over the other myriad possibilities, Spencer.”

Spencer stared into Edward’s guileless brown eyes and, very reasonably, said: “And I think I should poke you in the nose for continuing to put it in my business.”

Discreet coughing and harrumphing, no doubt meant as a warning to Edward for caution, came from across the narrow aisle from where Spencer and his cousin sat.

Alas, it was lost on Edward. “I’m entirely serious, Spencer. A delving into the range of possibilities we could face in only a few moments’ time is called for. Say she’s here. What will be your course of action?”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “I will throw myself into her arms, declare my undying love for her, and beg her to come home with me, whereupon I will throw my duchy and all its wealth at her feet and carry her about on a satin pillow for the rest of her days.”

At long last, Edward was insulted. Wordlessly, he turned away, staring out over the cultivated fields, just beyond the lawn, that seemed to stretch on in endless waves. “One would think one would welcome assistance from one’s family,” he muttered, “even if that family member is of a lesser rank than oneself.”

Spencer covered his eyes with a hand and rubbed tiredly at them. Damn it all to hell. He flopped his hand into his lap. “All right, Edward, suppose she is here at River’s End.”

Edward turned excitedly back to Spencer. “No, suppose she isn’t, Spencer. Suppose her father, irritated in the extreme to have her show up on his doorstep so soon after her, uh, departure, has already booked passage and left with her to return her to England? Wouldn’t that be calamitous?”

“I’ve thought of that.” He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He reasoned it out now. “I assume, in that case, should he arrive at Wetherington’s Point, he will not be daunted by my absence—”

“Or by Fredericks telling him you’ve come here to fetch your bride.”

Dear God, the possibilities were endless. Spencer frowned, thinking about it, putting himself in Mr. Redmond’s place. “No. Mr. Redmond doesn’t … daunt easily in my experience with him. A man who can amass an even greater fortune while being aligned with the losing side of a war would simply leave her at Wetherington’s Point with a warning for her to stay put. And then he would return here.”

“In which case our trip here will have proved to be pointless.”

Spencer eyed Edward meaningfully. “For some of us it already is.”

Edward was again oblivious to insult. “Here’s something else.”

Even Mr. Milton and Hornsby groaned. Spencer almost had, too. “Well, go on, Edward, what is it?”

“Suppose your lovely wife is here and she’s come home with a ridiculous story that you abused or neglected her and she’s only just escaped being locked up in a tower? If so, we could be riding right into a situation where we’ll all be shot on sight.”

No one said a word. Spencer wanted very much to tell Edward just how ridiculous his theory was, but found he couldn’t. Victoria very well could have done just that.

“Well?” Edward asked.

“Well what?”

“Well, Spencer, what should we do in that case?”

“In a word? Duck.”

Edward cuffed his higher-ranking cousin’s shoulder. “You’re going to get us all killed, man.”

Spencer ignored the attack on his person and spoke pointedly. “My dear cousin, I have known the moment in the past several weeks in which that very idea held great appeal for me.”

Mr. Milton and Hornsby stared wide-eyed like scared owls at their employer. Spencer merely raised an eyebrow at them. Let them worry. In truth, though, a prick of conscience had assailed Spencer, telling him that the neglected-wife version Edward had just outlined could possibly be proved. But neglectful only in the amount of time he’d spent with her since their wedding. Certainly, the woman, his duchess, had every gown and bauble and indulgence her heart desired. He’d seen to that. Spencer’s masculine pride suffered a bit with the realization that even those luxuries had been paid for with Victoria’s dowry.

Damn it all, he was tired of riding his own back with that truth. Why couldn’t he allow it to count with himself that he had, in exchange for the bailout of his duchy, settled on the young woman a lavish wedding, an honorable six-hundred-year-old title, and instant respectability? That was the bargain brokered with her father, that and his fidelity to the man’s daughter, a clause to which he had thus far adhered. He wondered if she could say the same thing since she’d been back in Savannah. Spencer shook his head and exhaled a sigh.

“Are you quite all right, Your Grace?”

Spencer focused on his motherly valet’s ruddy and dewlapped face. A concerned expression rode the older man’s features. Still, Spencer wanted to shout: Surely you jest, man. You’ve experienced every bump in the road and high wave at sea that I have. No, Hornsby, I am not fine. I am, in fact, not certain I will ever be fine again. But thank you for asking. However, what he actually said was, “Yes, thank you, Hornsby. I’m just tired.”

“Spencer, old man, I’ve thought of something else.”

Completely deadpan, Spencer said: “And I feel certain you will tell me what it is, Edward.”

“She could not be here at all, you know.”

“She’ll be here.”

As if doing so helped him think out loud, Edward wagged a finger at Spencer. “Not necessarily. She might not have contacted her family in any way since she left England. She might have booked passage to Savannah but, once she arrived here, she then immediately departed for somewhere else … with, ahem, someone else. So her family could be none the wiser. If that proves to be so, you will be in the humiliating position of arriving unexpectedly at the Redmonds’ front door, your hat in your hand, and bearing the wonderful news that their daughter is missing.”

Shocked by this possibility, Spencer stared straight ahead, as good as looking through Hornsby. The horrible thing here was Edward could be absolutely right. That scoundrel who had seduced Victoria could have set it all up, and they were even now elsewhere and together. This realization elevated Spencer’s mood to murderous.

“No,” he said aloud and with force, needing to hear himself say it. “She’s here, I know she is.”

No one contradicted him. Spencer again turned his head to look out the side of the carriage opposite from Edward. She had to be here. He could hardly wait to see her, to confront her, and yet he had about convinced himself she was the last person he wanted to see. He indulged himself with a mental image of himself in front of her and smiling and saying, Why, hello, my dear. How nice to see you. I would be the happiest man on earth right now if you would simply go straight to hell. And then he would turn around and walk away.

However, that couldn’t happen. She was his duchess, and she could be carrying his heir. But he did wonder what his wife would have to say for herself and how she would act. Would she be contrite? Tearful? Angry? Rebellious? Surprised?

Surely, not surprised. She had to have at least feared he would find out she had flown and would then follow her. Pride and responsibility dictated that he would. But beyond that, Spencer really could not completely deny that he relished the thought of seeing her again. She was, if nothing else, a passionate woman in all ways, but especially in temperament and daring. He respected very much how she had stood up to him on the day she’d told him her news. Very brave of her. And honest. Spencer grinned. Never a dull moment with her, no matter her sins.

But, if the other man was involved at all, Spencer couldn’t say, despite weeks of time to do nothing else but think about this situation, how he might behave or what he might do. If it proved to be true that she had run to him and he, Spencer, took her home with him, how could he ever trust her again—or be certain she’d stay? He’d heard it said that the seed of doubt, once planted, never lay fallow, but grew in the heart like a thorny vine until it squeezed out any love it found there. Spencer’s mood darkened, bringing a troubled grimace to his face. Damn it all to hell.

Though he rocked along in the well-sprung carriage, with the horses’ tack jingling pleasantly, and with the sweet scent of exotic flowers filling the air, Spencer sat unmoved by it all. Dear God, he was sick of all this mental wrangling. He simply wanted to collect his wife, worry about the details later, and embark immediately on the return voyage home. But the mere thought of another ocean crossing made Spencer queasy. Given the stormy trip they’d all endured to arrive at this coastal Georgia city, he was loath even to see another steamship, much less board one.

Adding to his discomfort, and doing its part to keep his glower firmly in place, was this seemingly interminable ride out to River’s End. They’d already traveled from the raucous and bustling riverfront docks and then through Savannah proper. What a beautiful and orderly city it was, too, laid out around green parklike squares. Still, although they had only disembarked from the steamship and then hopped into this crowded carriage, the day was proving to be one of many upsets. Bearing witness to this was Hornsby, a consummate valet but not a young man anymore, who looked a bit green, and the young and fussy Mr. Milton, who sported an impressive bleached-white coloring.

“If you will forgive me speaking, Your Grace?” Mr. Milton said suddenly, leaning toward Spencer in a respectful imitation of a bow, something hard to execute fully when one was seated.

Spencer eyed the man impatiently, but with considerably more warmth than he would have shown Edward, had his cousin felt inclined to offer another of his outrageous theories. “Please, Mr. Milton. Proceed.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I was thinking that despite the obvious beauty and charms we have encountered here, I feel more as if we’ve landed on another planet than simply another continent. The people and the language are quite foreign to my eye and my ear. It’s all very strange.” The properly dressed and sweltering secretary sat back and swatted irritably at some huge, flying, buzzing insect that had rudely landed on his cheek. “Heaven help me, I fear I am being eaten alive by these horrid creatures.”

“I expect you’ll get used to it over time,” Spencer remarked evenly, not possessing the least bit of sympathy for the young man’s complaints. Indeed, he’d had nothing but complaints since they’d left Wetherington’s Point for Liverpool and points beyond.

Traveling together, it seemed, bred not only familiarity but contempt—at least, on the part of his valet and secretary for each other … and Spencer for both of them. He hadn’t known the two men shared a mutual hatred—there was no other word for it—until he’d been forced into close company with them for days on end aboard the steamship. Over time, their constant bickering, in combination with the angry seas, had been enough to cause Spencer to seriously consider tossing one or both of them overboard. Of course, he would have thrown Edward over for good measure, as well. Or even himself. Only good breeding, on the one hand, and strong liquor, on the other, had stopped him. And, of course, the thought of Edward’s mother.

“Oh, I say,” Hornsby drawled, eyeing the bespectacled secretary, “the winged pests do seem especially fond of you, Mr. Milton. They’ve been buzzing around you since we first stepped on terra firma.” The expression on the valet’s fleshy, heavily jowled face became faintly superior. “Myself, I have yet to be accosted.”

Knowing all too well how this little exchange would play out, Spencer wished he’d not packed his pistol in a far-removed traveling trunk, now that he sorely needed the damned thing.

Sure enough, Mr. Milton’s retort to Hornsby was quick in coming. The secretary’s smile, which could only be called sour as he focused on his nemesis, revealed plainly enough how close to being accosted Hornsby was—and not by flying insects, either. “I am certain that the reason you have not been bitten, Hornsby, is because you do not smell good to them.”

Hornsby was not amused. His glower proved this. “I beg your pardon, sir. How dare you—”

“Tut-tut. Do not interrupt me, my good fellow. First allow me to take exception to what else you said. Meaning, there’s not the first thing firma about this terra we find ourselves on. For, despite a few high and dry places, such as this road, I fear it’s all fens and bogs and marshes.”

“Indeed,” Hornsby all but sneered. “A perfect soup for breeding something as hideous as malaria, I’d say.” Mr. Milton’s horrified intake of breath cheered Hornsby considerably. “Malaria. An Italian term, actually. Two words made into one. Mal. And aria. Quite literally, ‘bad air,’ such as that from fens and bogs and marshes.”

“Really?” This was the ever-curious Edward Sparrow. “I had no idea, Hornsby.”

“Oh, yes, sir, it’s quite true. But do you know the symptoms?” He turned to Mr. Milton. “Chief among them are night sweats, a loss of hair, and high fevers. Not very pleasant in the least. And from what I understand, younger persons who are thin and sallow, such as yourself, Mr. Milton, are more prone to it than their older, healthier counterparts.”

Mr. Milton pinched his thin lips together and glared at the man mashed up next to him on the narrow seat. “I think you are making the whole thing up, Hornsby. Especially the part about age.”

“I say,” the outraged valet huffed. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

At last exasperated, and fearing they would escalate to an all-out brawl that would tip the landau over—especially if Edward decided to egg them on—Spencer warned: “That will be enough. And I mean for the rest of the day. One more word from either of you and I will bodily and cheerfully toss you both out and under the wheels of the dray following us. Do I make myself clear?”

Like scolded children sitting cramped together, their shoulders hunched, the thin, elegant secretary and the heavyset butler stared wide-eyed and quietly across the aisle at their employer, the duke.

“Good,” Spencer added, accepting their contrite demeanors as compliance.

“Excuse me, suh,” Mr. Hepplewhite, the driver, called back over his shoulder. “River’s End ain’t but one mo’ turn ’round the bend in the road up heah. I expect we’ll be there in a moment or two.”

Still eyeing his recalcitrant employees, Spencer said, “Thank you, Mr. Hepplewhite. Not a moment too soon, either.”