The Haunting of a Duke(65)

"I cannot have you treating her that way, Eleanor,” Phyllis said quietly. “She is my daughter-in-law, and she is making Rhys happy. Don't you want to see him happy after all that he has suffered?"

Eleanor's voice was cold and hard as she replied, “His duty to the family name should make him content."

When Rhys returned from his ride the storm was raging in full force. Lightning crashed, splitting the grey sky, and thunder rumbled ominously. Entering the house, he strode directly to his chambers. His valet awaited him with fresh clothing. He removed his muddied boots and sodden garments. The fire had been built up, warming the room considerably, but he still felt the chill. He rubbed himself briskly with a towel before donning fresh breeches and a shirt. “Where is Her Grace at present?” he asked Timmons, his valet.

"I believe she is in the sitting room, Your Grace,” the smaller man responded, indicating the adjoining door.

Rhys didn't bother with a cravat or waistcoat, and dismissed his valet, “I'll ring for you later."

He crossed to the adjoining door and pushed it open. He crossed through the duchess bedchamber and entered the small sitting room beyond. Emme sat at the escritoire, her head bent as she peered at the page before her. A pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose. They had not been an affectation, after all, he realized. “Good afternoon."

Emme started. Her attention had been so focused on what was before her that she hadn't heard him enter. Her hand flew to her racing heart and her lips parted on a soft cry. “You frightened me half to death.” She took in his casual dress and his bare feet, which explained why she hadn't heard his approach.

He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, it was not my intent to sneak up on you. I wished to once again apologize for my aunt's behavior toward you. I am at a loss as to what to say to improve the situation."

Emme stood and walked toward him, placing her hands on his chest. She could feel the comforting warmth of his skin through the linen of his shirt and the steady thrum of his heart beneath. “There is nothing to forgive. You, contrary to your opinion, do not control everything and everyone. Eleanor is entitled to her opinion of me and she will hold that opinion regardless of what we say or do. Only time and perhaps familiarity will allow her to become more accustomed to my presence."

"And in the meantime I should ignore her insults to you?” he asked, somewhat heatedly.

Emme chose to ignore the tone, recognizing that the anger was directed more at Eleanor and himself than toward her. “If I can ignore them, can't you?"

He considered it. “No, I can't. I am going to send her back to Arden Hall, Alistair's estate."

Emme shook her head. “Rhys, your mother is dependent on Eleanor's company. I know that she appears to be fine, but let us be honest. She is fragile in ways that most have no inkling of. How long has it been since she has made a decision regarding the running of this household?"

Eleanor had run the household for nearly two decades. Phyllis had not functioned independently since Melisande's murder. She loved parties and entertaining; she enjoyed company, but lacked the focus to arrange those entertainments or to run the household.

"I can't run a household of this size, Rhys. The simple truth is that you did marry far beneath your station and your wife is ill equipped for the duties of being a duchess."

He grasped her hand that rested over his heart and pulled it to his face, pressing his mouth against her palm. “I don't give a damn about your social standing or your fortune. Any misgivings I had when you came here were about your character, and I was wrong to have ever doubted you."

She smiled at him. “Wrong! You were wrong? I didn't think that was permitted."

He nipped at her fingers playfully. “It was an aberration, and will never be repeated.” Growing more serious, he said, “I will not make any decision about Eleanor for the time being, provided she maintains civility."

Emme didn't press. It was a concession for him, and she knew that he had made it for her.

Changing the subject, she said, “I think we need to look at the murders a bit differently. Rather than trying to decipher from Elise's journal who the murderer was, I thought we should examine acquaintances that Elise and Melisande had in common and who was present at Briarwood at the time."

It was a smart approach.

"Michael and Spencer were both here that summer, as was Alistair, but they were children at the time."

"But Jeremy wasn't. He would have been fifteen that summer?"

"Sixteen,” he said absentmindedly. “Alistair and Jeremy were of an age and were thick as thieves then. Pommeroy was here as well, visiting with father."