The Duchess Read online

  Hobson the butler saw Markham come downstairs to the kitchen, and spoke to him quietly. “How is His Grace?”

  “About the same,” Markham said with worried eyes, as Mrs. White hovered nearby to listen. The kitchen was bustling with activity, although neither Angélique nor her father was eating. They were going to send Angélique’s supper up on a tray, but there were twenty-five servants still to feed in the house. Belgrave was a busy place, particularly below stairs.

  “What’s going to happen to the little one?” Mrs. White asked the butler when Markham went to join the others for supper. “She’ll be at the mercy of her brothers if something happens to His Grace.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Hobson said, wishing he weren’t as concerned as the housekeeper, but he was. He had come into service as a butler years before, when his wife and daughter died in an epidemic of influenza. He had discovered that a life of service suited him, and he had stayed. Now, he thought that the safest solution for Angélique would have been for her to be married by the time her father died, and under the protection of a husband, with a settlement from her father. But she was still young, she hadn’t done the Season in London that summer, which was the first time she could have, and didn’t really want to. And now if her father didn’t recover, it would be too late, unless Tristan saw to it the following summer, and that didn’t seem likely. Angélique’s future was of no interest to him, and he had made that clear. He had two daughters of his own who were sixteen and seventeen, not nearly as pretty as their young aunt, who was only a year older. Angélique would have been the star of any London Season, in competition with their daughters, which was the last thing Tristan and his wife wanted.

  Mrs. White and Hobson joined the others for supper, and shortly afterward Markham went upstairs to check on the duke again. He had been up and down stairs all day. When he got there, His Grace was sleeping, and Angélique only picked at the supper tray he brought her, and he could see that she’d been crying. She felt as though her father were slipping away from her. She had always known this day would happen, but she wasn’t ready for it yet.

  Her father hung on for three more days, neither worsening nor getting better. His eyes were bright with fever when he opened them and looked at her late one night, but as Angélique watched him, she could see that he was more alert, and seemed stronger.

  “I want to go into my study,” he said firmly, in a voice that sounded more like himself, and she hoped that it was a sign that the fever was finally breaking and he’d recover. She had been desperately worried about him and trying not to show him, and put on a brave face.

  “Not tonight, Papa. It’s too cold in there.” The maids hadn’t lit the fire in the small library next to his bedroom, where he often pored over the ledgers of accounts of the estate late at night. But since he hadn’t been out of bed in over a week, Angélique had told them they didn’t need to light the fire, and she didn’t want him leaving the warmth of his bedroom.

  “Don’t argue with me,” he said sternly. “There’s something I want to give you.” She wondered for a moment if he was delirious, but he seemed entirely lucid, and wide awake.

  “We can do it tomorrow, Papa. Or tell me what it is, and I’ll bring it to you.” She was already on her feet when he pushed the bedcovers aside, got out of bed, and stood up with a look of determination. She rushed to his side, afraid he would fall after so many days in bed. Seeing that she couldn’t stop him, she put an arm around him to support him, and he towered over her, as they walked toward his study, with Angélique trying to steady him with all her strength. Like her mother before her, she was a slip of a girl, and she would have had a hard time carrying his full weight if he had fallen.

  They were in the small, book-lined study a moment later, and it was as icy cold as she had feared. Knowing exactly what he had come for, her father walked to the bookcase, removed a large leatherbound book, and sat down heavily in a chair. She left him to light a candle on the desk, and in the candlelight she saw him open the book, and noticed that it was hollowed out. He removed a leather pouch from it, and a letter, with a serious glance at his daughter. Then he rose again, and replaced the book, and still holding the contents, he turned back toward his bedroom, leaning on Angélique and exhausted from the effort.

  Angélique quickly blew out the candle in the study, and helped him back into bed, as he held the papers in his hand and looked at the daughter he loved so much.

  “I want you to put this in a safe place, Angélique, where no one else will find it. If something happens to me, I want you to have it. I put it aside for you some time ago. Do not tell anyone. You must keep this to yourself. I want to believe that I can rely on your brother to take care of you after I’m gone, but the law does not protect you. You may need this someday. Keep it, save it, do not use it unless you must. Do not use it now. It will provide for you later if something happens. You can buy a house with it when you’re older, or use it to live comfortably, if you don’t wish to stay at Belgrave, or find that you can’t.” He spoke with utter seriousness and clarity, of events she couldn’t imagine and didn’t want to think about, and never had. But he had thought of nothing else.

  “Papa, don’t say that,” she said as tears sprang to her eyes. “Why would I not want to stay here, or have to buy a house on my own? Belgrave is our home.” She was confused by what he was saying, and didn’t like it. His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she looked like a frightened child, as he held the pouch out to her, with the letter.

  “You don’t need to read it now, my child. This is for when I’m gone. When that happens, this will be Tristan’s home, and Elizabeth’s. You must live on their generosity, and by their rules. They have two daughters to think of, almost as old as you are. Their first concern will not be you. But you are mine. There are twenty-five thousand pounds here, enough for you to live on for a long time, if you need to and use it wisely. You must save it for now. It’s enough to bring to a respectable man who loves you, or to take care of yourself until you marry, should that be necessary, or even if you choose not to marry. I hope that Belgrave will be your home forever, my darling, or until you marry, but I cannot be sure. I’ve asked Tristan to let you live here, in the house or at the Cottage when you’re older. It’s as comfortable as the Dower House I’ve given Edward. And I’d prefer that you stay in this house until you’re much older. But I will sleep more peacefully at night, knowing that you have this. I give it to you with all my love. The letter confirms that I gave this to you in my lifetime, and it is yours to do with as you wish.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she listened to him, but she could see that he looked calmer than he had before, and relieved to have given her the pouch and letter. It seemed like a vast fortune to her and was a very handsome sum. It had obviously been worrying him a great deal; concern for her future was preying on his mind. He settled back against the pillows with a tired smile once she took the pouch in her trembling hands.

  “I don’t want this, Papa. I won’t need it. And you shouldn’t give it to me now.” It was a first step toward his leaving her forever, and she knew it, and didn’t want to help him start on that path. But she didn’t want to upset him either, although she couldn’t imagine what she would do with twenty-five thousand pounds. It was an astounding amount of money, but in truth, it was all she had of her own. Should her older brother not give her enough money to support her, she would be less dependent on him. Her father had protected her with his generous gift. “Thank you, Papa,” was all she could muster as she leaned over and kissed him, tears still rolling down her cheeks, as he closed his eyes.

  “I’m going to sleep now,” he said softly, and a moment later he was asleep, as Angélique sat beside him, and stared into the fire, with the pouch still in her lap. It was so like her father to think of everything and do whatever he could for her. If he got old or weak or infirm now, she would have enough to live comfortably, if not lavishly, for the rest of her life. But all she wanted, as she looked at him sl
eeping, was for her father to live for a long, long time. That meant more to her than anything he could give her. Her father was a generous, loving man.

  She read his letter then, and it confirmed what he had said to her, and the gift, and that she could keep all the jewelry he had bought for her mother in the short time they had been married before her death. Angélique knew that if Tristan wished it, she would have to return to him any family heirlooms her father had given her, but the beautiful pieces Phillip had given his second wife were hers to keep. There was nothing more Phillip could do for her now, except pray that Tristan would be kind to her, and honor her as his sister, according to his wishes. Angélique was sure Tristan would, despite his resentment of her mother, they were blood relatives after all, and he would certainly respect their father’s requests. Angélique was confident of that.

  She slept at her father’s bedside that night, with the letter and pouch in the deep pocket of her full skirt. She didn’t want to leave him to put them in her room, and the money was safe where it was. She fell into a deep sleep, curled in the chair next to his bed. She was as comforted by his presence as he was by hers.

  Chapter 2

  In the morning, they sent for the doctor when Markham and Mrs. White agreed with Angélique that her father seemed worse. The duke had had a restful night, but his fever was higher when he woke up. He coughed so much he could hardly breathe, and was shivering beneath the blankets and covers Angélique put on him to keep him warm. Nothing seemed to help. He had a little tea for breakfast, but that was all.

  The doctor examined him, and emerged from the duke’s bedroom frowning, and said that clearly His Grace was worse. Angélique was terrified he might have caught a chill going into the study the night before, but the doctor explained that it was the infection in his lungs that was making him so ill. He would have bled him, but didn’t think he was even strong enough for that. He was going to suggest sending for her brothers, but didn’t want to frighten Angélique more than she already was. She was panicked at how poorly her father was doing, and left him with his valet only long enough to go to her room, hide the pouch in a locked drawer in her desk, bathe, change her clothes, and return to her father’s bedroom as quickly as she could. He was sound asleep by then, and seemed even hotter to the touch than before. His lips were parched, but he wasn’t drinking, and she noticed how thin and white his hands were, lying on the covers. He suddenly looked like a very, very old man. She didn’t leave his room all day, and watched him closely as he struggled for breath.

  He woke in the late afternoon, and talked to Angélique for a few minutes. He asked if she had put the pouch in a safe place, and she assured him she had, in a locked drawer, and then he closed his eyes with a smile, and drifted off to sleep again. It was almost midnight when he woke, opened his eyes, and smiled at her. He seemed better than he had before, although the fever hadn’t changed, but he seemed comfortable as he took her hand in his own, kissed her fingers, and she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

  “You have to get well, Papa. I need you.” He nodded, closed his eyes, and slept again as she watched him long into the night. He never stirred, and with a peaceful expression on his face, as Angélique held his hand, he drifted away silently and stopped breathing. Angélique saw it immediately, kissed his forehead, and tried to gently rouse him and wake him, but he was gone, after seventy-four years, leading the life he had been born to, caring for those who depended on him, and the estate he had been entrusted with. He had been a wonderful father, husband, and lord of the estate he had been given, had left everything in good order for his older son, and had given Angélique an incredible gift at the end. And now he was gone, and Tristan was the Duke of Westerfield, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  Angélique sat with her father all through the night, and in the morning she went to tell Hobson what had happened. He sent one of the grooms for the doctor, on horseback, and he came a short while later to confirm that Phillip, Duke of Westerfield, had died during the night. He offered his condolences to Angélique and left, as word spread quietly through the house and into the servants’ hall. Angélique felt as though she were living a bad dream, and then she went to help Markham bathe and dress her father. The footmen carried him into the library downstairs to lie in state, until his older son arrived. Another footman was dispatched to London in the carriage to advise Tristan of his father’s death. Angélique sat with her father in the library through most of the day. The footman returned from London at nightfall to say that His Grace would arrive in the morning. It pained her to hear Tristan called “His Grace,” but that was who he was now. He was the Duke of Westerfield and master of Belgrave Castle and the estate.

  For most of the night, Angélique stayed with her father in the library, keeping him company, until Mrs. White came to encourage her to rest for a little while. She felt dazed as she followed her out of the library to eat some broth that Mrs. Williams had prepared. Angélique couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and didn’t care. The father she loved so much was gone. It didn’t matter what happened now—she couldn’t imagine life at Belgrave without him, or anywhere else. A thousand memories flooded her mind. She was an orphan now, and had lost her last surviving parent. She knew that no one would ever take his place. No brother, no husband, no man. Her world had suddenly become an empty place.

  At Mrs. White’s urging, she slept in her bed that night, for the first time in days, and she was so exhausted, she slept deeply until morning when she heard a carriage arrive, and shouting outside, as the grooms held the horses, and she heard the footmen calling to each other, and then her brother Tristan’s voice. He had arrived. She peeked through her bedroom curtains and saw him just before he walked inside. He was dressed in solemn mourning, and she knew the servants had put a black wreath on the front door the day before. There was no sign of Elizabeth with him; he had come alone. Angélique hastened to dress and comb her hair to meet him properly downstairs. They shared the loss of a beloved parent, and she wanted to tell him how sorry she was.

  Tristan was in the dining room quietly having breakfast, and he looked up when she walked in. She was wearing a somber black high-necked dress, which was proper mourning attire, but still showed off her tiny waist. Her face looked as ravaged as she felt. She approached him immediately, and hugged him, and he sat at the head of the table as though etched in stone. It shocked her that he was sitting in her father’s chair, at his habitual place, and seemed totally at ease there, but she didn’t comment. It was his rightful place now. He was the lord of Belgrave Castle and the entire estate.

  “Good morning, Tristan,” she said quietly as she sat down next to him. “Have you seen Papa yet?” He shook his head and then turned to look at her again.

  “I’ll go in after breakfast. I was ravenous when I arrived.” She nodded, not knowing what to say. She could barely eat she was so bereft, and she was stunned that he hadn’t gone first to see their father. “Elizabeth will be here tonight. I told Hobson to have Mrs. White get their rooms ready—the girls are coming with her. Edward will come tomorrow. I thought we’d have the funeral on Sunday.” He said it matter-of-factly, like an ordinary dinner he was planning, not the burial of their father. He would be laid to rest in the family mausoleum, which was fortunate since the ground was frozen too hard to dig a grave. Her mother was in the mausoleum as well, along with Edward and Tristan’s mother, and several generations of Lathams before them.

  Angélique went upstairs after breakfast and was shocked to see several housemaids airing out her father’s room, and putting clean linens on the bed. At first, she thought they were simply tidying up, and then she saw them bringing in vases of flowers from the hothouse, and lighting the fire, as though the room were going to be used that night. “Why are you doing all this?” she asked them. “There’s no need.” It made the room seem even sadder to keep it as though her father would be sleeping there that night, when he would never sleep there again.

  “Mrs. White told us
to get it ready for His Grace and the duchess,” the head maid Margaret said, as Angélique’s mind went blank, and she tried to comprehend what had just been said, and what it meant.

  “They’re sleeping in here tonight?” Angélique asked in a whisper, and Margaret nodded, feeling sorry for her. Her oldest brother was losing no time stepping into his father’s shoes, even sleeping in his bed. The thought of it made Angélique shudder. She checked further and discovered that they were preparing one of the two best suites of rooms for her nieces, far nicer than the ones they usually stayed in when they came to Belgrave. The rooms were usually reserved for royal dignitaries who came to visit. They were losing no time making themselves at home.

  She retired to her own suite then, and sat shaking in a chair for a little while, and reminded herself that she would have to make herself useful and assist them with whatever changes they wanted to make, but it all seemed so much too soon. Their father wasn’t even buried yet, and was still lying in state in the library. He had been dead for only a day. She steeled herself to go back downstairs, and Angélique watched her brother, with a serious expression, leaving the library after he had seen their father.

  “By the way,” Tristan accosted her immediately with a chilly stare, “Elizabeth thought you might move to one of the smaller guest rooms. She wants the girls to feel at ease here, and Gwyneth has always liked the view from your suite.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was her home, or it had been. Now it was his, and belonged to him, Elizabeth, and their daughters. She was a guest now, literally overnight. The changes her father had feared had already begun to happen.