The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
Davies dared to give a rusty laugh. “Aye, Your Grace. That it would.”
Despite his claim of gratitude, however, Tristan still looked vaguely unsettled by the other man’s revelation. He dipped his head once more, a sign Mr. Davies evidently read as dismissal, for that gentleman at last jumped into action.
“Very good.” He bowed sharply, nearly poking them both with the spines of his umbrella. “I’ll send Kevin out straightaway. Miss Burke is welcome to wait here for any news.” The enthusiastic glimmer in his eye foretold a few more questions about the plot of her sister’s novel if she accepted his invitation.
Without looking at her, Tristan offered Erica his arm. “I will not impose upon you, Mr. Davies. I made a promise to Miss Burke. She is my…responsibility.”
That hesitation. She felt certain he’d been about to say “my problem.”
Except she was neither his responsibility nor his problem. Not his in any sense.
She glanced toward Mr. Davies, but even if he wished to, he obviously believed he dared not contradict his employer. Why was Tristan so determined to take her to Hawesdale Chase? His behavior smacked of something more than simple hospitality.
Then an earlier question jostled its way to the forefront of her mind: Why had he stopped at the cottage to begin with? It was as if he didn’t want to go home alone. Or perhaps he didn’t want to go at all. What awaited him in that enormous, ornate mansion? A sister, he’d said. And a stepmother. Was that all? With five siblings, Erica hardly knew what solitude was.
Loneliness, however, was another matter entirely.
An unexpected—and no doubt unwarranted—ache of sympathy coiled within her, and she knew it would find its release in ill-advised words if she did not give it some other outlet. She had to move.
Pinned between Tristan’s outstretched arm and his horse, however, she had few alternatives. Suppressing a tremor that had nothing whatsoever to do with the icy rain, she lifted her hand and settled it on the sleeve of his greatcoat.
* * * *
When they arrived at the stable block, Tristan found it full of horses and the mud-spattered carriages belonging to his stepmother’s guests. Grooms stood in a knot near the back, and for a moment, no one broke away to take his horse. At last the huge hand of James, the head groom, caught a passing boy on the shoulder, nearly bringing him to his knees. “G’on wit’ ye, Dick.” The boy righted himself, tugged at his forelock, and scampered forward to take Lady Jane Grey’s reins.
A cold reception, no question, and though different from Mr. Davies’s strange obsequiousness—as a child, Tristan had played with the man’s son, for God’s sake—he could not help but wonder whether the behavior stemmed from the same source. Distrust. For a duke who ought never to have become one.
Fortunately, Major Laurens could fall back on the rank he had earned. He had years of experience in establishing his authority and maintaining proper order.
“James,” he barked to the head groom. “You’ll look after my horse.” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Miss Burke, who stood beside him in the pungent warmth of the stable, breathing quickly. Her rapid stride for the last half-mile had given Tristan no excuse to check his own. “Come. We’ll go to the house,” he said, though he did not relish facing anyone in his present condition.
Her bare hand lay pale against the darker sleeve of his muddy greatcoat, highlighting the dirt under her nails. What a pair they made. What would his guests make of such a display?
“Are you displeased with your stepmother?” she asked, catching unexpectedly at the thread of his thoughts and withdrawing her hand from his arm.
“I am…” He reached for Davies’s word. “Surprised.”
Oh, how he despised surprises. And he was about to escort the living embodiment of one into his home.
If only he had not given in to the impulse—not sentiment, surely—to stop at the abandoned gardener’s cottage. But he had, and so had she, and he could not, in good conscience, have abandoned her there. Still, he might easily have avoided bringing her here. A man of sense would have accepted Davies’s offer to keep her. And he was nothing if not a man of sense.
But this morning, he had not acted like one. Perhaps a part of him had hoped, in a most ungentlemanly fashion, that her appearance would distract attention from his own. The better part of him, however, had begun to suspect that something interesting lay beneath Miss Burke’s rough exterior, like an unpolished gem…
His mind tossed aside the cliché. She had more in common with a challenging bit of code. The cultured voice, the educated mind, a well-made dress—if one overlooked the filth. Almost certainly a young lady of good breeding, despite her protests. So why did she resist the label so strenuously? And if he succeeded in cracking the code, would he uncover something dangerous after all?
Almost instinctively, he ushered her toward the servants’ entrance near the kitchen garden. As a boy he’d made frequent use of it on escapades not unlike this one.
Until sneaking past the kitchen had lost its appeal.
“Now,” he said as they moved quietly along the empty corridor, “we shall enlist the help of Mrs. Dean.”
The housekeeper was not, however, the first to greet them in the servants’ hall. A dark-haired girl, the very image of her father, peeked from a doorway, squealed “Tris!” and barreled toward them, throwing her arms around his waist, heedless of dirt or damp. “Is it really you?” Her voice was muffled against his coats. “It’s been weeks since your things arrived. I was afraid I’d—” She hiccupped around a sob. “I was afraid you’d never come.”
“Vivi.” He laid one hand on the back of her head and wrapped the other around her body, her shoulder blades sharp against his palm. Her slight figure shook and trembled against him.
His sister had entered the world when he’d been almost fifteen. The bond that had sprung up between them had surprised everyone. Most of all himself. On school holidays, he’d spent hours in the nursery simply watching her. When she’d grown old enough to toddle, she had gamely followed him everywhere, and he had never complained. The morning he had descended the stairs wearing his first scarlet uniform, she had beamed up at him through tears streaking down her cheeks. During the years far from home, her ill-spelled, rambling letters had given him hope.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, stroking her hair. Months had passed since the accident that had claimed Father and Percy, months in which the news had traveled over land and sea to reach him. He was surprised to find her grief so raw. Twenty-five years her senior, Percy had been all but a stranger to her. And if Father had sometimes been distant to Tristan, he had been largely indifferent to his only daughter.
Still, Vivi was young and had always been sensitive. He held her until she pushed away and looked up at him. A welter of emotions crossed her pinched, tearstained face. Grief. Guilt—over the secret of this ridiculous party, perhaps. But he was relieved to see she had not lost all her good humor, either. “Phew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like a wet sheep, Tris.”
“A wet sheep, eh?” He swept her up into his arms and spun her around before returning her to her feet. “And just how would you know? Have you been going about in the rain sniffing sheep?” She dissolved in a fit of giggles.
The severely clad figure of Mrs. Dean came sweeping down the corridor at the sound. “Hush, Lady Viviane. You’ll have only yourself to blame if Miss Chatham hears that screeching and finds you here.” The sight of him sent her rocking back on her heels. “Why, if it’s not Lord Tris—” He caught the flicker of a twinkle in her eyes. But before he could speak, she shuttered her expression and curtsied deeply. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
His arms ached to sweep the housekeeper into a boisterous hug too. Propriety held him back. He thought of his cool reception from Davies and in the stable. Now, more than ever, it was time to behave