The Secret Pearl(49)

But she would not have to worry about having to look after her daughter, he had told her. Her governess would do that—at Pamela’s own request.

Pamela had been in the highest of good spirits and had been made much of by all the ladies and by a few of the gentlemen too. She had grown flushed and loud by the time they had reached the ruins, but Fleur had taken her quietly by the hand, whispered something in her ear, and taken her to see the inside of the tower—Sir Ambrose Marvell had followed them there.

Fleur herself had succeeded in staying in the background the whole of the afternoon and had assisted in the serving of the picnic food at his wife’s request. She had made no objection at being treated like a menial servant. Indeed, he had thought, she was probably glad of something to do.

And so they were home, and if he were fortunate he would have a few quiet hours to himself before dinner—unless Lady Underwood contrived to keep him in her company, that was. They made a rather noisy entry into the hall. Jarvis was waiting for him there and bowing before him.

“You have visitors in the saloon, your grace,” he said.

The duke sighed inwardly. Who would be calling at this hour of the afternoon? He hoped it was no one who would linger. He turned to make his excuses to Lady Underwood and strode toward the saloon.

“Visitors?” he heard his wife say in her light, pleasant voice. She had been in the best of spirits all afternoon, Shaw dancing attendance on her every movement.

The duke stopped inside the doorway of the saloon and clasped his hands at his back. Strangely, he did not feel particularly surprised, he thought, taking in the bronzed good looks of his brother, his fashionable clothes, his smile. He had surely always known that Thomas would come back.

“You look as if a feather could knock you backward, Adam,” Lord Thomas Kent said. “Have you no welcome for me?”

“Thomas.” The duke extended his hand and strode toward his half-brother. “Welcome home.”

Lord Thomas was smiling, but his eyes moved beyond the duke’s shoulder as he took his hand.

“Thomas.” The word was whispered, but it filled the saloon.

Lord Thomas’ grasp loosened on his grace’s hand and his gaze fixed on the figure in the doorway. “Sybil,” he said, and his eyes and his smile softened. He moved toward her, both hands outstretched. “How beautiful you look.”

“Thomas,” she whispered again, and her small white hands disappeared into his bronze grasp.

“Sybil,” he said quietly. “I have come home.” Then he turned his head, smiling. “Do you know Bradshaw?” he asked his brother. “Matthew Bradshaw, Lord Brocklehurst, of Heron House in Wiltshire? He was the first friend to call on me after my return from India. And he helped persuade me that I should come all the way home. I have brought him with me for a few weeks.”

His grace shook hands with Lord Brocklehurst. “You are welcome,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Brocklehurst.”

“India?” the duchess was saying, her large blue eyes fixed on her brother-in-law, her hands still clasped in his. “You have been in India, Thomas?”

“Yes,” he said, “with the East India Company. I came back to see if jolly old England was still in the same place. So you are the Duchess of Ridgeway after all, Sybil?” He squeezed her hands before releasing them.

“In India,” she said. “All this time?” And she began to cough.

“I’ll escort you to your room, Sybil,” his grace said, taking in her pallor and the spots of color high on her cheeks. “The afternoon’s outing has been exhausting for you.”

Surprisingly, she took his arm without argument and went with him after he had directed his half-brother to entertain their guest until dinner.

She said nothing as he led her along the hallways to her sitting room and rang the bell for her maid. She just held her shoulders back and stared blankly ahead of her, occasionally coughing.

“Armitage,” she said when her maid came into the room, “I will want you to undress me and brush out my hair. I wish to lie down.”

She sounded like a tired and bewildered child.

The Duke of Ridgeway, closing her door quietly behind him as he left, could not remember a time when he had felt more furiously angry.




LORD THOMAS KENT WAS WHISTLING. It felt good to be back. Even though he had left vowing never to return just as vehemently as his brother had ordered him never to do so, it was, after all, Willoughby, his childhood home, his father’s home. And all his own for many months when Adam had been reported dead in action.

Yes, it felt good. And it had been worth all to see Adam’s face. Good breeding had provided him with an almost adequate mask, of course. Brocklehurst had probably not even realized that the greeting the duke had afforded his brother was less than cordial. But Adam had been white-hot with rage. Lord Thomas knew his brother well enough to have detected that without even looking for it.