Project Duchess Page 3

  “I would have arrived sooner,” he said, “but I was traveling and the letter didn’t reach me until yesterday.”

  Sheridan turned to include Beatrice in the conversation. “You see, Bea? I told you he might have trouble receiving word.”

  “You did, indeed.” That wasn’t all Sheridan had told her, but she didn’t figure it wise to point it out, even if Greycourt had rubbed her wrong.

  “I take it you two have met?” Sheridan asked.

  “Not formally, no,” Greycourt said, shooting her a wry look that flummoxed her.

  “Well, then,” Sheridan said, “Bea, as you may have deduced, this is my brother Grey.”

  “Half brother,” Greycourt corrected him.

  Sheridan scowled. “You just had to make the distinction, didn’t you?”

  “If I didn’t, the lady would be confused. Since you’re the heir to the Armitage dukedom, she’d be forced to wonder if I am merely much younger than I look or if I’m illegitimate. I am neither, so I thought it best to clarify.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Beatrice said with false sweetness. “Not all of us make assumptions without being aware of the facts.”

  “Really?” Greycourt drawled. “How unusual.”

  “And if you’d given me time to make the introductions, Brother,” Sheridan said acidly, “I would have clarified your position to my cousin.”

  To Beatrice’s vast satisfaction, that made Greycourt pale. “Cousin? Child of your uncle Armie?”

  “No, his younger brother Lambert. He died years ago.”

  “I see.” Greycourt looked at Beatrice. “Forgive me for my earlier rudeness, Miss Wolfe. I had no idea that Sheridan and Heywood have a cousin.”

  “Two, actually,” Sheridan put in. “Bea’s brother is named Joshua.” Then he blinked. “Wait, you were rude to Bea?”

  “It was nothing,” she put in with a forced smile. “His lordship objected to the funeral biscuits, that’s all.”

  Greycourt’s eyes gleamed at her. Apparently, it hadn’t escaped him that she hadn’t actually accepted his apology.

  “Ah,” Sheridan said, “they’re frightful, aren’t they? But the undertaker assured us that they’re a requirement for any funeral in Sanforth.”

  “Did he?” Greycourt said, sparing a meaningful glance for her that roused her temper again.

  “Trust me,” Beatrice said frostily, “if there were no funeral biscuits and port before the procession, the entire county would gossip about the family.”

  “Yes, all our staff said the same,” Sheridan said. “Cook was mortified at the very possibility of our neglecting to offer them. But I still think they’re dreadful. Sorry, Bea.”

  “They are dreadful,” she conceded, torn between pleasing her cousin and sticking her tongue out at Greycourt. Which would be childish, but enormously satisfying. “We had so many left after Papa’s funeral that we and the staff were eating them for months. To this day, I can’t abide the taste.”

  The glint of pity in Greycourt’s eyes made her regret having said so much. A decent man might be lurking somewhere deep in there—very deep—but she still didn’t like his pitying her.

  “Speaking of staff,” Sheridan said, glancing about the foyer, “where have the footmen gone off to? Poor Grey is still standing here with hat in hand.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, annoyed with herself for neglecting to call one. No wonder Greycourt thought her a country bumpkin. “I’ll take his coat and hat.”

  Sheridan caught her arm before she could reach for them. “No need. I’ll do it.” He shot Greycourt a side glance. “Bea has been working dawn to dusk to help us prepare for the funeral. I’m afraid we’re rather short-staffed, and she knows more about what’s needed than anyone.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Miss Wolfe.” Greycourt even sounded as if he meant it.

  Perhaps she’d been too hasty to judge him. When he wasn’t making assumptions, he wasn’t all that bad.

  A footman rushed into the entry hall. “Forgive me, Your Grace, we were in the back and didn’t hear the carriage.” He hurried over to take Greycourt’s coat and hat. Bobbing his head at Sheridan, he added, “It won’t happen again, Your Grace.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sheridan said genially. “I know everyone has their hands full.”

  As the footman headed off, Greycourt murmured, “Careful, Sheridan. You’re the master here now. You don’t want your servants walking all over you. It’s important to establish boundaries from the beginning.”

  And just like that, Beatrice was reminded of why he’d rubbed her wrong. Yes, he was somewhat attractive, with his straight white teeth, chiseled features, rumpled black hair, and gorgeous eyes, but he was also a superior arse who thought he owned the world. She was never going to like him.

  Never.

  Chapter Three

  Sheridan said something about going to see their mother, and Grey was willing to follow, especially when Miss Wolfe went along.

  Most in society would disapprove of her looks, since she’d clearly never met a ray of sunshine she didn’t like, as evidenced by her golden skin and the sprinkle of freckles across her peachy cheeks. The gossips would criticize her bold walk and murmur over her full, sensual lips and coffee-hued eyes, not to mention the thin wisps of straight, nut-brown hair that kept escaping her fat chignon. Straight hair and dark eyes weren’t fashionable just now.

  But he had never let fashion dictate to him. The idea of trying to unwind that hair to see how far it fell sparked an unwise heat in his blood. Despite himself, her energy did the same, making him wonder how she might use that energy in bed. And when she moved ahead as they headed for the stairs, he didn’t mind getting another look at her ample bottom, which would fill a man’s hands nicely.

  Her turned-up nose just made him want to laugh. She obviously disapproved of him. That wasn’t surprising, given his reputation, which wasn’t entirely unfounded. He had sown his wild oats in his early days of freedom from his aunt and uncle’s control.

  But that hadn’t lasted nearly as long as the reputation he’d gained from it, which was evidenced by Miss Wolfe’s reaction. Still, it was usually the matchmaking mamas who despaired of him and not their daughters.

  That made him wonder—where was the chit’s mother? And why was he not familiar with this branch of the Wolfe family? He supposed that wasn’t surprising, given how little he’d seen his family in the past twenty-odd years. Before that, he’d been paying less attention to his stepfather Maurice’s relations than to tramping the streets of Berlin with his twin half siblings, Gwyn and the Duke of Thornstock, whom they’d all called Thorn since his birth.

  Which reminded him . . . “Where’s Gwyn? Has Thorn arrived yet?”

  “Last night,” Sheridan said. “Fortunately, Thorn was at his London town house when the accident happened, so he was able to get here quickly.”

  “Accident?” Grey frowned. “Mother only said that Maurice passed away. I assumed it was of some illness.”

  To his surprise, Sheridan shot Miss Wolfe a veiled glance. “Actually, he drowned, which necessitated the expense of sending to London for an embalmer. But we’ll talk more about it later.”

  Sheridan headed up the stairs behind Miss Wolfe.

  After Sheridan’s earlier complaint about lack of staff, the remark about the embalmer gave Grey pause. Aware of Miss Wolfe climbing the stairs ahead of them, he lowered his voice. “Are you having a shortage of funds at present?”

  “At present?” With a bitter laugh, his brother opened a door and waited for Grey and Miss Wolfe to precede him into the drawing room. “That’s something else we’ll need to discuss later, too.” This time he nodded meaningfully toward the other end of the room.

  Grey followed his gaze to find their mother dressed in widow’s weeds, with Gwyn sitting beside her in a similar gown of jet bombazine. The two were engrossed in tying black ribbons around sprigs of rosemary. Indeed, the room reeked of rosemary and lavender, both of wh
ich were in clear abundance in the vases.

  Then Sheridan moved forward, and Grey spotted the coffin. His hands began to tremble, and he shoved them into his coat pockets. Maurice. He couldn’t bring himself to approach the body. Not yet.

  Instead he turned his attention to his mother and half sister, who were so caught up in their task that they hadn’t yet seen him. Mother’s eyes looked sunken in her face, her cheeks had a dull cast, and her usual bright smile was absent. He well remembered how Maurice had been able to make her smile even when she was annoyed with him.

  Maurice couldn’t make her smile today. Grey’s throat constricted. Never again.

  And yet, when Miss Wolfe went to join the women and asked if they needed help, Mother did smile, though it was a pale imitation of her usual one. “We’re almost done,” she said, “but thank you. I don’t know what we would have done without you, my dear.”

  That’s when she saw Grey. With a choked cry, she jumped up and ran to embrace him. Her familiar smell of starch and lemons made his throat tighten with an emotion he dared not examine too closely. Because behind it lay the pain of his childhood loss, threatening to swamp him.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she whispered. “I was afraid that—”

  “Ah, but I’m here now. You needn’t have worried.” He brushed a kiss to her red curls before releasing her.

  Her graying red curls. That reminder of his mother’s age hit him hard. Granted, she was only in her early fifties, but how long before they would be here to watch her put into the grave? The thought made his heart falter in his chest. He’d had her for so little of his life already.

  Then he noticed the tears running down her wan cheeks, and the sight was a punch to his gut. He’d seen his mother cry many times—she was an emotional woman who felt no compunction to hide her feelings, especially if some play or novel moved her. She also laughed, swore, and gushed over her children. It was her way.

  But these tears didn’t stem from her being swept away by a poem. Which was precisely why they twisted his insides. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Mother, I’m so sorry about Maurice.”

  She bobbed her head, obviously too overcome to answer as she blotted her cheeks with his handkerchief.

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “You could call him ‘Father’ for a change.” She fixed him with her misty blue eyes. “It always grieved him that you stopped doing so once you came to England.”

  Once I was banished to England, you mean. No, this wasn’t the time for such reminders. And what did it hurt to give her what she asked? It was such a small thing.

  Yet it felt huge. “Of course. Whatever you wish.”

  A sigh escaped her. “Forgive me for being short with you. I am just . . .”

  “Grief-stricken. I know.” He seized her hand. “You’re entitled to be as short as you please.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “I shall throw those words up at you in a week, when you’re chafing to be away from me because of my peevishness.”

  He forced a smile, inwardly groaning at her expectation that he would stay a week. “I’ve seen you be many things, Mother, but peevish isn’t one of them.” He spotted his half sister approaching now that she’d finished consulting with Miss Wolfe across the room. “Gwyn is another matter entirely.”

  Gwyn heard him, as he’d intended. “You’d better not be saying anything bad about me,” she chided, “or I will give you grief for taking so long to arrive. I was on the verge of sending Thorn after you, but I feared that the two of you would disappear into the London stews, and we’d never see either of you again.”

  Ignoring that barb, he bent to press a kiss to her cheek, then scanned the room. “Where is Thorn, anyway?”

  “There’s no telling. You know how he is—good at finding wenches and wine no matter where he travels. No doubt you taught him that skill.”

  It was a measure of how little time they’d spent together that she still knew naught of his true character. “I did no such thing.”

  Gwyn surveyed him with a sister’s usual skepticism. “Then why did Father always worry that you would lead Thorn astray here in England?”

  “I have no idea. Thorn is perfectly capable of leading himself astray, which Mau—Father ought to have known. And despite what nonsense you may read in the papers, I’m not Thorn. I don’t spend my time in the stews.”

  “Hmm. Methinks the man doth protest too much.”

  “Don’t quote Shakespeare to him,” Mother said plaintively. “Or he’ll start mocking me by quoting Fletcher.”

  “I don’t mock you, Mother,” he retorted, relieved to change the subject away from his supposed wild nature. “I merely think you’re unfairly biased toward our ancestor. Shakespeare is the better playwright, and you know it.”

  “I know no such thing! Fletcher wrote some of the most engaging, witty plays in the English language. Why, The Wild Goose Chase never fails to make me laugh.”

  “You see what you started, Grey?” Gwyn smiled. “Next thing we know, she’ll be acting out the scenes.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sis,” Grey said, “but you were the one to start it. I’m just standing here defending myself.”

  Sheridan came over. “What has Grey done now?”

  Mother’s irate expression softened. “Nothing. Today he can do no wrong.”

  A lump stuck in Grey’s throat.

  “That’s good to hear,” Sheridan said blandly. “Because I need to steal him for a bit.”

  Mother tightened her grip on Grey’s hand. “Must you? He just arrived.”

  “I’m afraid I must,” Sheridan answered. “But you’ll have plenty of time with him later. He’s planning on staying at Armitage Hall for a while.” He fixed Grey with a hard look. “Aren’t you?”

  Damn. “I am now.” Grey narrowed his gaze on his brother. “So tell me, how long am I staying, exactly?”

  “We’ll discuss that.” Sheridan gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  With a quick squeeze of his mother’s hand, Grey said, “I’ll be back soon, Mother. Keep a chair warm for me, will you?”

  Then he followed his brother out the door and down the hall to what had been Maurice’s study when he was alive.

  After Grey took a seat, Sheridan went to pour them both some brandy and handed Grey a glass. When Sheridan then stood there staring down into the amber liquor, Grey asked, “Is this about the family finances? Because I’m happy to pay for the funeral and offer you a loan at whatever terms you—”

  “It’s not about money. Not yet, anyway.” Sheridan sipped some brandy, then faced him. “It’s about the manner of Father’s death.”

  “By drowning.”

  Sheridan met his gaze. “Yes. But not an accidental one, I don’t think.”

  “What in God’s name do you mean?”

  “I believe Father was murdered.”

  Grey took a healthy swallow of brandy, then another. “And what exactly brought you to that conclusion?”

  “A few things. First of all, there are the details of his death. He drowned when he apparently fell into the river from the bridge near the dower house—”

  “There’s a dower house?”

  “It’s where Bea and her brother Joshua have lived ever since my grandfather died.”

  Grey had assumed that Miss Wolfe was at the hall only for the funeral, but apparently she was a fixture hereabouts. Odd that he hadn’t met her on his two previous visits.

  “Where exactly is this dower house?” Grey asked.

  “A few miles away, at the other end of the estate. Grandmother and Bea lived there for most of the period when Joshua was serving in the Royal Marines. He’s a major, you know. After he was wounded and consequently discharged, Uncle Armie proposed that Joshua reside there and serve as head gamekeeper for the estate. Which he’s done for a few years now, since before Grandmother’s death.”

  Grey frowned. “Gamekeeper? A duke’s grandson? For God’s sake,
that is hardly a gentleman’s profession.”

  “I agree, but I gather that his choices were few after his return. It took him some time to recover from his wounds, which left him lame. As a result, he walks with a cane. He has trouble in crowds, and some fear his mind is . . . well . . . disordered. For one thing, he has a vile temper. Indeed, he’s prone to violent outbursts.”

  “War can do that to a man.” Then the entirety of Sheridan’s remarks registered. “You’re not saying you suspect Joshua Wolfe of—”

  “Yes, I am. I fear that my cousin may have murdered my father.”

  Chapter Four

  The stark words hung in the air, as if the spirit of Maurice himself lingered in the study. Grey shivered before he caught himself. There was no such thing as ghosts, damn it. He set down his brandy glass. “Your lame cousin, you mean.”

  “Hear me out.” Grim-faced, Sheridan took the chair next to his. “Father was only on the bridge the night he died because Joshua had summoned him to the dower house. And Father didn’t just fall off the bridge; he fell through the railing and into the river. We know this because a large portion of the railing was broken away.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Grey, what made him fall? It’s not as if Father was ever clumsy.”

  “Well, no, but he was getting older, and if it was dark—”

  “He was armed with a lantern. And it was a full moon. No reason for him to fall. What’s more, the bridge is sturdy, so even if he did somehow stumble into the railing, it should have held under his weight. I believe someone set him up to drown—damaged the bridge before he crossed it and then pushed him through the railing to make it look like an accident. Bad leg or no, Joshua has the muscular arms of a field hand—strong enough to shove an old man into a railing, believe me. Especially if he took that man off guard.”

  Grey sighed. Clearly, Sheridan’s grief had disordered the man’s brain. “And why the hell would you suspect Wolfe of such a thing?”

  “You’re not listening! I told you, Uncle Armie treated Joshua very shabbily—”

  “So why didn’t Wolfe kill your uncle Armie instead?” Grey pointed out.