Tugbert tensed. Prudence bowed her head. A barely perceptible blush crept up the luscious curve of her neck.
“I couldn’t let you marry her,” she said. “Don’t you see? It would have destroyed us all in the end.”
“So you’d rather see me dead?”
She shook her head. “You’re not to be hanged. You’re not even to be brought to trial.”
Sarcasm thickened his burr. “How did you manage that? Offer your bookkeeping services to the King?”
She glanced at Tugbert. Sebastian’s gaze traveled between the two of them, then his mouth quirked, his smile a weapon of unmistakable contempt.
“So the two of you have everything worked out. How cozy! Perhaps you can name your first brat after me.”
Tugbert stepped forward. “If you only knew to what depths your chicanery has driven this good young woman—”
“Arlo! You promised.” A note of panic touched Prudence’s voice. Sebastian caught a glimpse of something beneath her cool expression—something fearful and passionate.
“If I weren’t a gentleman …” Tugbert let the words hang in the air. His ashen hair was caught in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. Without his wig, he didn’t look nearly so foppish. “You are to leave Northumberland, Kerr, and return to the Highlands. If I catch you anywhere near the English border again, I will hang you.” He paused. “With pleasure.”
Sebastian walked over to the window to stare blindly at the rust that had flaked off the iron bars and fallen to the windowsill.
After a moment he spoke to Tugbert, but he slanted a dangerous look at Prudence. “Give me a moment alone with her.”
“I’d say not, sir. If you think I’m mad enough to—”
“Do as he says.” Prudence’s voice held a quiet note of command. “Please.”
Tugbert sputtered indignantly. “Very well, then. I’ll be outside the door. Right outside the door.”
Sebastian watched him go, darkly amused. “You’ve got him dancing like a marionette. Tricia would be proud of you.”
He came to stand directly in front of her. She fidgeted with her soft kid gloves.
“Look at me.”
She reluctantly lifted her head.
“I said look at me,” he repeated, the terse request more effective than a roar.
She paused for a moment, then drew off her spectacles and slipped them into her pocket. She tilted her head back and studied him through the thick fringe of lashes.
His jaw tightened. “Do you think you’ll forget, Prudence? When you’re lying alone these cold winter nights to come, do you think you’ll forget the way I kissed you, the way I touched you?”
When she would have lowered her eyes, he squatted in front of her. She turned her face away.
“You won’t forget me. I swear it. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your lonely, miserable life. Even if you marry Tugbert and he comes to your bed blushing in his long nightshirt, who do you think you’ll see when you close your eyes? It won’t be him. It will be me.”
“Stop it! You don’t understand.”
His mouth curved in a shadow of his tender smile. “I understand one thing. I was a fool to let you out of my bed. You might have thought twice about betraying the father of your babe.” He leaned toward her, putting his mouth next to her ear. “Stay out of my way, Prudence Walker. I won’t make the same mistake again. I promise you that.”
He stalked to the wall, refusing to look at her. She rose, her spine poker-straight. Her legs did not falter until she reached the door. He turned around and for a maddening instant, he thought she would crumple. He could not have caught her if she had. She recovered, though, swaying briefly. The haunting fragrance of honeysuckle tickled his nostrils as she brushed past him.
Sebastian pressed his eyes shut, determined that Tugbert would not see him cry.
Prudence walked past Arlo without seeing him. Something in her face kept him from stopping her. She gathered her skirts in her gloved hands and started down the muddy road toward Lindentree.
The warm wind burned her dry eyes. On the eastern horizon, streaks of peach shot through the muted gray. It promised to be a beautiful day—a fine day for a wedding. Her toe caught in a rut. She did not look back at the jail to check if anyone had seen her stumble, but hastened her steps instead. She must get back to Lindentree. She was needed there, for she would have to deal with her aunt’s vapors when Tricia discovered her bridegroom had fled. Tricia relied on her. She must be strong. She could not afford to succumb to her own hysterics.
A needle of pain jabbed her head. Her fingers flew to her temples.
Do stop grimacing, dear. You’re not getting any younger. Tricia’s echoing clucks drowned out the nearby shriek of a jay.
Prudence dropped her skirts and broke into a run.
The first thing ye’re goin’ to have to do is learn how to fight dirty. Sebastian ain’t never known no other way.
Jamie would be long gone by now. Sebastian would not return from his midnight ride, and Jamie was too bright not to realize something was drastically wrong. Mud spattered her skirts as she dragged her hem heedlessly through a puddle.
You won’t forget me. Sebastian’s voice thundered unbidden through her skull. I swear it. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your lonely, miserable life.
She clawed at her hair, tearing out the hairpins in a vain attempt to stop the pain. Her hair streamed across her face, and the only reality became the thud of one foot in front of the other and the harsh rasp of her breathing.
She skirted the gatehouse and fled across the lawn, ignoring the curious stares of the sleepy peacocks. She crushed her skull between her palms, desperate to silence the accusing cabal of voices screeching through her mind. Her feet slipped on the slick grass and she fell to her stomach. Her thigh crunched against the spectacles in her pocket.
She lay for a long time, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tearing up tufts of damp earth. If she had stayed in the jail for one more minute, she would have been on her knees at Sebastian’s feet, begging him to understand, pleading with him to take her away with him.
“Oh, Sebastian, why did you make me do it?” she whispered. “I hate you.”
But as she baptized the grass with her bitter tears, she would have given her dying breath to have his arms around her one last time.
Prudence dragged her fingers through the water of the fountain, parting the dead fronds, then watching them float together again. Leaves drifted from the trees in languid blobs of russet and yellow. To her, the garden was a pleasant blur. Her wrecked spectacles lay on her dressing table. Her new pair had not yet arrived from London. She did not care. The world looked better without them.
A cool rush of October wind caught the leaves in a spinning dervish before scattering them across the terrace. She pulled her shawl tighter and strolled past a leering Apollo. His scant drapes fell across the exaggerated masculinity of his marbled form. A fat, hairy spider strung a web between his knees.
Prudence shivered, unable to banish the spooky vision of her and Tricia growing old alone there, strolling arm in arm through the garden until cobwebs festooned their graying hair.
Tricia appeared like a ghost in the doorway. “There’s a man here to see you,” she said in a thick voice.
To Prudence’s genuine dismay, her aunt had taken the disappearance of her handsome fiancé harder than the timely deaths of her seven previous husbands. Tricia’s eyes were rimmed with red, her nose shiny, and her wig crooked and ratty-looking. Was it Prudence’s own guilty imagination or did wounded accusation burn in her aunt’s eyes?
“If it’s the viscount again,” she said, “tell him he may call tomorrow. If it’s Sir Arlo, tell him I’m still ill.”
She had no desire to discuss chemistry with the persistent Frenchman. And Sir Arlo, through no fault of his own, only reminded her of the grim path she had almost taken in the darkest moment of her life.
“It is the viscount,” Tricia said, “but he’s brought a m
an who says he has business with you.”
Prudence frowned. “With me? Who would have business with me?”
“How should I know? I told him I was mistress of Lindentree, but he insists on seeing you.” She sniffed. “He’s a bit pompous, if I do say so myself.”
Prudence followed Tricia reluctantly. After the fresh autumn wind, the house felt stale and closed. For weeks now, Prudence could hardly bear to be indoors. The house was an empty shell. She could not turn a corner without expecting to hear a warm, masculine burst of laughter or the jaunty click of a cane on the parquet floor. As Tricia followed the corridor to the parlor, Prudence breathed a sigh of thanks that her aunt had not put the guests in the library. Prudence had been there only once in the last two months. The lingering fragrance of cheroot smoke had driven her out into the garden, biting back tears.
D’Artan and his companion rose as they entered the parlor. The stranger would have looked comfortable in a drawing room a century ago. Lace erupted from the sleeves and collar of his frock coat, and powder flew from his elaborate wig as he bent over Prudence’s hand with a courtly bow.
“Miss Walker, I presume?”
Prudence pinched back a sneeze before he could straighten. “I am.”
The viscount gave Tricia a pointed look. A hint of her old pout touched her lips as she trotted obediently from the parlor. The tip-tap of her slippers paused right outside the door.
D’Artan lifted Prudence’s hand to his lips. “Lovely as always.”
As his companion plopped back down in a Sheraton chair, the delicate legs teetered dangerously. D’Artan introduced him, but Prudence was too interested in seeing if the dainty chair would hold his ample frame to give her full attention to his name. She wasn’t sure if it was Lord Pettiwiggle or Periwinkle. D’Artan sank onto the settee, beaming like a satisfied cat.
The other man snapped open a silver snuffbox and tucked a wad up his nose. D’Artan took a pinch, and Prudence thought for a moment the man might offer her some, but he checked the gesture. The box disappeared into the voluminous folds of his coat.
The chair creaked as he settled back. “I am here on behalf of George III, King of England.” His voice boomed as if he had spent his entire life saying important things.
“The King?” she repeated. “What business could the King possibly have with me?”
“A petition your father filed has recently come to the King’s attention.”
Before she could stop it, an unladylike snort escaped her. “It’s a bit late, wouldn’t you think? My father has been dead for almost eight years.”
D’Artan leaned forward, crossing his satin-clad legs. “As I’m sure you know, my dear, the King was indisposed for quite some time.”
Mad as a March hare, she thought uncharitably.
“We attempted to locate your father as soon as the King reviewed his petition.” Lord Petti wiggle-Peri winkle shook his head sadly. “A regrettable and tragic circumstance. We tracked you to your London lodgings only to discover you’d gone. The missives we sent to Lindentree received no response.”
“But I never—”
He continued in his chiding tones as if she hadn’t spoken. What he had to say was obviously more important than anything she might add. “One of our agents was dispatched here a few months ago, only to be informed by a rather churlish creature that you had emigrated to Pomerania where you later died. My agent was forced to flee the grounds of the estate when this enfant terrible began to fire arrows at his coach. When our inquiries in Pomerania yielded nothing—”
Jamie. Prudence stared into her lap, biting back a smile. A rush of nostalgia blurred her vision.
“—I decided to investigate the matter myself. The King is very dismayed by the length of time that has passed. He and the Prime Minister have taken extraordinary measures to rectify their part in the sad affair.”
He patted his coat and pulled forth a creamy envelope. Prudence recognized the Royal Seal and sat back in her chair, bracing herself for a lengthy and boring formal condolence.
“The King has little doubt that your father did outstanding scientific work and would have been of great benefit to the crown had he lived.”
She murmured an agreement.
His throat rumbled. “So it is with great pleasure and approval of the King that I wish to confer upon you, Miss Prudence Walker, the only direct descendant of Livingston Walker, this patent of nobility. You are henceforth to be known as the first created Duchess of Winton.”
A shocked squeak from the other side of the door was quickly muffled.
The man continued. “Your aunt’s dear friend, the viscount, recently managed to convince the King that the title was worth little more than paper without some monetary compensation.”
D’Artan reached over and patted Prudence’s hand. She was too dumbfounded to protest.
“As I’m sure he has told you,” the man continued, “the viscount pursues interests similar to your own from his laboratory in Edinburgh. The King believes an exchange of information between the two of you regarding your father’s fulminic research would benefit all of England. So for this service to the crown, he has decided to gift you with an annual pension of ten thousand pounds.”
Prudence sat as if frozen. “Am I to understand,” she asked in a very quiet voice, “that I am now a duchess?”
Before the man could reply, D’Artan said smoothly, “A duchess of moderate wealth, my dear.” With great ceremony, he dropped to one knee and folded her fingers in his cool hand. “Your Grace.”
Tricia couldn’t resist poking her head around the door as she heard a sound she hadn’t heard in over two months—the rich, velvety notes of Prudence’s laughter. Prudence rocked back in her chair, clapping her hand over her mouth. Both D’Artan and Lord Pettiwiggle-Periwinkle were staring at her as if she’d gone as mad as old King George. But she could no more stop her wild peals of laughter than she could stop the tears streaming down her face.
Part Two
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause luver staw my rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.
Robert Burns
1791
Eighteen
Edinburgh, Scotland 1792
The Duchess of Winton stood at the mullioned window, watching the rain stream down the sparkling panes. Tendrils of steam curled from the tiny glass in her hand and warmth wafted out from the marble hearth, but still she shivered. The cold crept up from deep within her. She took a sip of the heated liqueur. It slid down her throat, as dark and bitter a comfort as the night outside the window.
Street lamps cast misty halos of light over the glistening cobblestones of Charlotte Square. The teeming streets of Old Edinburgh might have been a galaxy away from this elegant symmetry of park and avenues christened New Edinburgh. Wrought iron gates and snarling stone lions guarded the neat rows of brick town houses. Across the park, the lights from other mansions winked like distant stars. A shiny carriage clip-clopped past. A man in a woolen greatcoat bustled down the walk, his shoulders hunched against the icy rain. Prudence wondered if Sebastian was out there somewhere, cold and wet and alone.
She closed her eyes, battered by the memory of a stormy night when she and Sebastian had clung to each other in a haze of mud and rain and fear. She would trade all of her warm comforts for a chance to go back to that damp, dusty crofter’s hut and begin again. It was too easy to imagine Sebastian safe in this cozy drawing room—leaning against the pianoforte with negligent grace; clinging to Tricia’s arm with those long, elegant fingers, the paragon of a doting husband while he winked at Devony.
Prudence’s eyes flew open. Her lips tightened. Sebastian had made his choices. And she had made hers. A stranger’s eyes glittered back at her from the darkened pane.
Who was the elegantly coiffed woman in the window? she wondered. In a room humming and twirling with laughing people, Prudence felt utterly alone with the
woman she had chosen to become. She had swathed herself in armor of lace and silk, as soft as velvet and as hard as steel, burying the awkward, wistful girl who had dared to offer her heart to Sebastian Kerr. Her skin was porcelain, her heart ice, and no one would know or care if her own brittle laugh shattered her into a thousand pieces.
A raindrop skittered down the window, wavering like an errant tear past her cheek. She touched her finger to the cool glass.
A breathy whisper interrupted her reverie. “Lovely creature, isn’t she? Wherever did she come from?”
“Tricia had her tucked away in the country,” another female voice answered. “Lady Gait swears she’s a Hapsburg princess. Her aunt was once married to one of their princes, you know.”
“Tricia de Peyrelongue has been married to nearly everyone,” a third woman said. “This one’s in no haste to follow her lead. She’s received three proposals since Christmas and turned down every one. Much to her aunt’s chagrin, I might add. Tricia threw quite a tantrum after the last one. Perhaps the girl’s holding out for a prince herself.”
“A bit thin for my tastes. I’ve never seen her eat. You’d think she’d wear a bustle.”
Prudence stiffened. After three months in Edinburgh society, she should have grown accustomed to the murmurs and stares, but they still unnerved her.
The brittle tinkle of champagne glasses was followed by a new whisper, this one low and masculine. “After she dared to debate him on the morality of his poetry, even Burns is besotted with her. And they say old Romney offered to paint her. For nothing.”
“For nothing? Or with nothing on? She might be his next Emma Hart.”
The ripples of laughter ceased as Prudence swung away from the window alcove. She lifted to her eyes her gold spectacles, which hung from a chain around her neck, and favored them with the glacial stare that had earned her the sobriquet “the Duchess of Winter.” She noted with dull amusement that two of the women were wearing identical pairs of spectacles. Spectacles fitted with plain glass had become all the rage since “the mysterious young duchess” had made her Edinburgh debut. Their blind emulation both repelled and fascinated Prudence.