A Secret Affair

Chapter 17

EVERYONE SEEMED EXCITED next morning at the prospect of the children’s party during the afternoon, even those guests who had no children. After breakfast a few of the men, led by Mr. Park, went out to mark out a cricket pitch not far from the lake. Julianna Bentley and Marianne Astley went with Katherine, who was looking only very slightly pale, to stake their claim to a piece of level land upon which various races would be run. Barbara Leavensworth headed a self-proclaimed committee to plan a treasure hunt. Lawrence Astley and Sir Bradley Bentley offered to test out the boat, which had been repaired and painted last year but never actually rowed out onto the water. Jasper, Lord Montford, took the older children riding to get them out from underfoot. A few of the mothers as well as Stephen and Mr. Finch stayed in the nursery to amuse the younger children.

A total of twenty-two children of various ages from the neighborhood were expected to arrive soon after luncheon. Their parents had been invited too for a picnic tea out on the grass beside the lake.

Hannah was in the kitchen consulting the cook, unnecessarily in Constantine’s estimation. But she was more excited than anyone else. She had positively glowed at breakfast. Her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes bright.

He had been on his way out to look at the boat with Bentley and Astley, but he had been delayed by the arrival of a letter from Harvey Wexford at Ainsley. It had been sent on from London. He might have ignored it until later except for the fact that he had received a report just a few days ago and had not expected another so soon. Curiosity got the better of him and he stayed on the terrace to read it.

Hannah found him there when she came through the drawing room and out through the French windows on her way to check on the others at the lake.

Constantine smiled at her and folded the letter.

“Your cook has everything under control?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “I was made to feel very welcome as a guest provided I did not step too far into her domain and get in the way.”

She laughed and looked at him, and from him to the bustle of activity farther from the house. She glanced at his letter.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

“No, nothing.” He smiled again.

She sat on the seat beside his.

“Constantine,” she said, “what is wrong? I absolutely insist upon knowing.”

“Do you, Duchess?” he said, narrowing his eyes upon her. She sat there waiting.

“There can be no relationship like this,” she said at last.

“Is there a relationship?” he asked. “We sleep together, Duchess. We take pleasure of each other. That hardly qualifies as a relationship.”

She stared blankly at him for a long moment.

“We slept together,” she said at last. “We took pleasure of each other. Past tense, Constantine.”

And she got to her feet and walked away in the direction of the lake without another word or a backward glance.

It was ingrained in him, was it not? This deep need to protect himself from harm by turning deeply inward. The knowledge had been there for as far back as he could remember that he was inadequate. He had left his mother’s womb too soon, two weeks earlier than expected, two days before his father could both acquire a special license and marry her. His mother had complained to him, perhaps believing that he was too young to understand, that her yearly pregnancies and her yearly miscarriages or stillbirths would have been unnecessary if he had only waited to be born at the right time. His father had complained to him, even when it must have been perfectly obvious to him that his son was old enough to understand, that his wife’s failures would not have been so tiresome if he had waited a few days to be born legitimate. Even his good health had been an inadequacy. It had accused his parents in their efforts to produce another, healthy, legitimate son and heir.

And Jon, whom Constantine had hated because he could have done so much better a job of it had he become Earl of Merton on the death of their father. And his agonized love for Jon. The guilt of feeling hatred when he had wanted only to love. When he had only loved.

And then the need to protect Jon’s grand scheme for Ainsley, to make sure that nothing and no one stopped him just because he was an imbecile in the eyes of the world. And the refusal to let even Elliott in on the secret because Elliott, surprised by the suddenness with which he had succeeded to his own title and responsibilities, would surely have chosen to protect Jon from himself.

And Elliott’s terrible betrayal, lashing out with accusations instead of simply asking questions.

Would Constantine have answered the questions truthfully even if they had been asked, though? Perhaps not. Probably not, for Elliott would still have felt it his duty to put a stop to what Jon wanted done. Elliott would have felt it necessary to protect the estate intact. It was what guardians did. It was not that Elliott did not have a heart, but after his father’s sudden death, that heart had become subordinate to duty. At least at that time it had. He seemed to have rediscovered his heart since marrying Vanessa, but the damage had been done by then. Jon was dead, and a lifelong friendship had been ruined beyond repair.

And so secretiveness, hiding within himself, had become part of Constantine’s nature. And now he had been cruel to someone who did not deserve his cruelty.

Good God, he loved her!

A fine way he had of showing it. Was cruelty, coldness, part of his nature too? Was he that much like his father?

He got to his feet to go after her. But he had not noticed that she had doubled back. She came and stood in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“We do not just sleep together,” she said. “We do not just take pleasure from each other. There is more than that, whether you admit it or not. I will not put a name to it. I am not sure I can. But there is more, Constantine, and I cannot bear to be shut out of your deepest pain. You know mine. Or, if I have never been quite specific about it, this is it. I grew up hating my beauty because it set me at a distance from people I wanted simply to love. My sister was jealous of me, though I tried and tried not to give her cause, and finally she hurt me terribly perhaps because I had hurt her. Perhaps she had always loved Colin. Or perhaps she loved him only because I did and I got him. My father was caught in the middle and did not know how to cope after my mother died, and he ended up letting me down dreadfully, taking Dawn’s side when it ought to have been obvious to him that she had behaved badly, that my heart was breaking. Oh, very well, maybe not one of them, even Colin, was an out-and-out villain. Maybe they all felt justified in what they did and said. Who knows? But they ought to have known that I had feelings, that I could be hurt as deeply as the ugliest girl on earth, that beauty is no buffer against pain and loss. Thank God—and I do not blaspheme—thank God for Barbara, who knew me and loved me all my life, and for the duke, who saw through my outer looks to the broken, frightened child who was disturbing his peace in that room by weeping noisily and without dignity.”

“Duchess,” he said.

“He taught me to rescue and nurture and strengthen that broken person within,” she said, “so that she could be strong again. He enabled me to love myself again, without vanity, but with acceptance of who I was behind the appearance that has always attracted so many in such a very superficial way. He taught me that I could love again—I loved him—and that I could trust love—I trusted his. He left me still a little fragile but ready to test my wings. That was my pain, Constantine. It still is my pain. I hover a little uncertainly behind the invulnerable armor of the Duchess of Dunbarton.”

He swallowed against a gurgle in his throat.

“Jon’s dream is threatening to turn to nightmare,” he said. He held up the letter, which was still in his hand. “Jess Barnes, one of the mentally handicapped workers at Ainsley, left the door of the chicken coop unlatched one night and a fox got in and made off with a dozen or so chickens. My manager claims not to have scolded him too severely—Jess tries so very hard to please and he is one of the hardest workers on the farm. But Wexford told him that I would be disappointed in him. Jess went out the next night and helped himself to fourteen chickens from my closest neighbor’s coop. And now he is languishing in jail even though the chickens have been returned unharmed and paid for, and Jess has made a tearful apology. That particular neighbor has disapproved of me and my project ever since it began. He never loses a chance to complain. Now he has all the evidence he needs that it is a reckless project, doomed to failure.”

She took the letter from his hand and set it down on the table before taking both his hands in hers. He had not realized how cold his were until he felt the warmth of hers.

“What will happen to the poor boy?” she asked.

“The poor boy is forty years old or thereabouts,” he said. “Wexford will sort it out. It is clear that Jess did not intend to steal but only to please me by putting right his mistake. And Kincaid has been more than adequately recompensed, though I cannot blame him for being angry. It has always been the worst fear of my neighbors that they are not safe with so many unsavory characters living close to them. I just hate the thought of poor Jess in jail, though, and not quite understanding why he is there. I had better go down to Ainsley next week, after we go back to London.”

“Do you want to go today?” she asked.

He looked into her eyes. “There would be too many questions to answer here,” he said. “And I want to spend the rest of today here with you even if you do insist that we abstain from … pleasure.”

He grinned at her.

She did not smile back.

“Thank you, Constantine,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”

And good God, devil take it, he felt tears welling into his eyes. He drew his hands from hers hastily and turned to pick up Wexford’s letter. He hoped she had not seen. That was what happened when one let go a little and confided in someone else.

He ought not to have burdened her with his problems. She was preparing for a party.

“I love you,” she said.

He turned his head sharply, tears notwithstanding, and gazed at her, startled.

“I do,” she said softly. “You need not feel threatened by it. Love does not deck the beloved in chains. It just is.”

And she turned about and strode across the lawn again. This time she did not turn back.

Devil take it!

Idiot that he was, he felt frightened. Now wouldn’t the ton be fascinated to know that the devil himself was frightened by love? Though perhaps it made theological sense, he thought with wry humor.

I love you, Con. I love you more than anyone else in the whole wide world. I love you forever and ever. Amen.

That had been Jon, on the night of his sixteenth birthday.

The following morning he had been dead.

I love you, Hannah had just told him.

He closed his eyes. Pray God Wexford had got Jess safely out of jail by now. And it was a prayer. The first one in a long, long while.

THE CHILDREN’S PARTY was long and chaotic and excruciatingly noisy. The children all enjoyed themselves enormously, with the possible exception of Cassandra’s baby and another babe in arms, who both slept through most of the proceedings as though nothing very special was happening at all.

The adults were looking a little the worse for wear by the time all the neighbors had rounded up their offspring and herded them off back home and the house guests had picked up all the play equipment and debris and trudged back to the house with the remaining children.

“One always knows a children’s party has been a vast success,” Mrs. Finch said, “when one is so exhausted afterward that even putting one foot before the other takes a conscious effort. Your party has been one of the best, Your Grace.”

Everyone laughed—rather wearily—and agreed.

Hannah was feeling happy and proud of herself as she dressed for dinner an hour or so later. She had involved herself with the children all afternoon rather than standing back, as she might have done, playing the part of gracious hostess. She had even run a three-legged race with a ten-year-old girl who had shrieked the whole length of the course, leaving Hannah feeling slightly deaf in one ear as well as sore in all sorts of places from their numerous falls.

She was feeling happy.

She had told Constantine that she loved him, and she was not sorry. She did love him, and it had needed to be said. She expected nothing in return—at least, so she persuaded herself. But too many things were left unsaid in life, and their unsaying could make the whole difference to the rest of life.

She had told him she loved him.

They had scarcely spoken to each other all afternoon. It was not that they had avoided each other. But they had both been involved in playing with the children and conversing with the neighbors, and their paths had hardly crossed.

Of course, she had made no great effort to see to it that they did cross. She felt embarrassed, truth be told. She knew he would not laugh at her for telling him such a thing, but …

What if he did?

She was not going to brood. There was one whole evening of her house party left, and though everyone would undoubtedly be tired, they would also enjoy relaxing together in the drawing room, she believed. She was looking forward to relaxing with them.

And she believed she had female friends who would remain friends after they had all returned to London. Friends in addition to Barbara, that was. She had felt the friendships this afternoon—Cassandra and her two sisters-in-law, even Mrs. Park and Mrs. Finch. Both Lady Montford and the Countess of Sheringford had found a moment in which to invite her to call them by their given names. Katherine and Margaret.

If only she could find the courage to be her inner self as well as the Duchess of Dunbarton in London.

Life was complicated. And exciting. And uncertain. And …

Well, and definitely worth living.

“That will do nicely, Adèle,” she said, turning her head from side to side so that she could see her hair in the mirror. It was prettily piled and curled without being overelaborate.

She wore a gown of deep rose pink. She had intended to wear no jewelry, but the low neckline was too bare without anything. A single diamond pendant—a real diamond—hung from a silver chain. And on her left hand she wore the most precious of her rings, her wedding present, along with her wedding ring.

“That will be all, thank you,” she said, and she gazed at her image for a while after her maid had left the room. She tried, as she occasionally did, to see herself as others saw her. In London, of course, she always made sure that other people saw her a certain way. But here? She had felt friendship here during the past few days. Apart from the fact that she was the hostess, she had felt as if no one viewed her as being any more special than any of the other ladies.

Was it her clothing? She had not worn white even once. Or her hair? It was more formally dressed tonight than at any time since she had come into the country, but even now it was not as elaborate as she wore it in town. Or her relative lack of jewelry?

Or was it something else? Had her guests seen during the past few days what she was seeing now? Simply herself?

Was she able to inspire love, or at least liking and respect, as herself?

She was not the only beautiful woman in the world, after all. Even here. Cassandra and her sisters-in-law were all strikingly good-looking. Mrs. Finch was pretty. So were Marianne Astley and Julianna Bentley. Barbara was lovely.

Hannah sighed and got to her feet. She was so glad there had been this house party. She had enjoyed it more than she could remember enjoying anything for a long while. And there was this evening left. Tomorrow she would be back in London. She and Constantine would be able to spend the night together. Unless, that was, he felt it necessary to hurry down to Ainsley Park to see that all was well with his farm hand.

She hoped for the sake of both him and Constantine that that situation would resolve itself soon.

“TOMORROW NIGHT,” he said, gazing up at stars too numerous to count. “My carriage at eleven o’clock. At my house by quarter past—not one second later. And in my bed at twenty past. Not to sleep. Be prepared for an orgy to end orgies.”

She laughed softly, her head on his arm.

They were lying on the bank of the lake. Everyone was pleasantly weary after the children’s party and picnic and quite content to sit about the drawing room after dinner, conversing or listening to whoever had the ambition to play the pianoforte or sing. Four people were playing cards. The duchess had clearly felt no qualms about leaving her guests to their own devices when Constantine invited her to step outside with him. Indeed some of his cousins had actually smiled indulgently from one to the other of them.

His female cousins and Cassandra were actually calling her Hannah, he had noticed during the day.

“You must not expect to hear any argument from me,” she said now. “But having made such a boast, Constantine, you must live up to expectations. I insist upon it.”

“I’ll be going down to Ainsley the next morning,” he said. “I must go. Everything is probably settled happily by now, but I must go in person to smooth things over with Kincaid and the other neighbors. And to thank Wexford for handling the matter on my behalf. And to assure Jess that I am certainly not disappointed in him. I may not see you for a week or more.”

“That will be tiresome,” she said. “But I daresay I shall survive, you know. And I daresay you will too. You must go.”

Suddenly the end of the Season seemed not very far off at all. Indeed, if it were not for his affair with the duchess, he would probably decide that it was not worth coming back to London this year. But he could not contemplate putting an end to their affair quite yet. And perhaps …

Well, he would think of that some other time.

She had told him this morning that she loved him. What exactly had she meant by that? It was not a question he could ask aloud, though he would dearly like to know the answer.

“In the meantime …” He slid his arm from beneath her head, raised himself onto one elbow, and looked down at her. “Tomorrow night seems a long way away.”

He bent his head and kissed her—a lazy exploration, first with his lips, then with his tongue deep inside her mouth.

“It does,” she agreed with a sigh when he raised his head again.

He rubbed his nose back and forth across hers.

“I will respect your wishes, Duchess,” he said, “even though your guests probably have their own idea of what is going on between us out here. Let me love you without dishonoring those wishes.”

“How?” She reached up one hand and set her forefinger along his slightly crooked nose.

“No penetration,” he said. “I promise.”

“And so respectability will be preserved,” she said. “Everything but penetration, and our guests believing the worst. It is the story of my life.”

He rose up onto his knees and straddled her body. He slid her gown off her shoulders and beneath her breasts and smoothed his hands over her, fondled her, rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, lowered his head to suckle them one at a time, and kissed her mouth again, his fingers tangling in her hair, his tongue sucked deep and then luring hers into his mouth to be suckled in its turn.

Her hands pressed over his back, under his shirt, down inside his drawers.

She was hot with passion.

He was throbbing with need.

Not a good idea after all. And what the devil difference would it make if he entered her and rode to completion with her? It was what they both wanted. It was what they had both lived without for far too many days and nights.

He moved to one side of her, his mouth still on hers, and slid a hand beneath her skirt, up over the smoothness of her silk stockings, along the heated flesh of her inner thighs and up …

“No.”

Surprisingly, the voice was his own.

He withdrew his hand, lowered her skirt, and raised his head.

“Damn you, Constantine,” she half shocked him by saying. “And thank you.”

And she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew his head back to her own. She kissed him softly and warmly. He could feel her heart thudding in her bosom, the heat of her arousal, the determined effort she was making to return their embrace within the bounds of decorum.

“Thank you,” she said again a minute or two later, hugging him close. “Thank you, Constantine. I am not sure I would have been able to resist. You are so gorgeous. I was perfectly right about you from the start.”

Did that mean he might have …?

He was glad he had not.

But dash it all, he deserved some sort of medal of honor.

There was probably not a person in the drawing room who did not believe he was enjoying everything there was to enjoy with her.

She had a strange—and touchingly wonderful—sense of honor.

They strolled arm in arm back to the house, and he remembered again the words she had spoken this morning—and not since. Because he had not said them back to her? Could he? Would he?

They were the most dangerous words in the English language when strung together. They were so completely irrevocable.

He would have to think about saying them.

Perhaps tomorrow night.

Or when he returned from Ainsley.

Or never.

Coward.

Or wise man.

“I will have to go up to my bedchamber before returning to the drawing room and ordering the tea tray brought up,” she said. “I probably have grass clinging to my person from head to toe. My hair surely looks like a bird’s nest. I must look thoroughly tumbled.”

“I wish you were,” he said with a loud sigh.

She laughed.

“Tomorrow night,” she said. “And the promised orgy.”

He escorted her upstairs to her room and went along to his to comb his hair and make sure that he did not look as if he had been rolling in a haystack somewhere.

HANNAH SHOOK OUT her dress, adjusted it at the bosom, washed her hands, and repaired her hair as well as she could without taking it all down, and peered dubiously into the mirror above her dressing table. Were her cheeks as flushed as she thought they were? And her eyes as bright?

Ignominiously, she wished he had not kept his promise outside. That way she could have enjoyed all the pleasure without assuming any of the guilt. She could even have scolded him afterward.

But really that was an ignominious way to think. She was very glad—very glad indeed—that he had kept the promise.

Oh, how she loved him!

She hurried across her dressing room and reached out a hand to open the door. Someone rapped on the other side before she could do so and opened it without waiting.

Ah, impatient man!

She smiled before two things registered on her mind. Constantine was as pale as a ghost. And he had changed during the minutes since he had left her outside the door. He was dressed for travel in a long cloak and top-boots. He held a tall hat in one hand.

“I must ask a favor of you, Duchess,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I did not bring my own carriage. I came here with Stephen and Cassandra. I must beg the loan of a horse—Jet, if I may, to get me back to London. I’ll get my own carriage there and proceed on my way.”

“To Gloucestershire?” she said. “Already? Now?”

Foolishly, all she could think of was that he did not want the promised orgy of lovemaking after all.

“There was another letter waiting in my room,” he said. “They are going to hang him.”

“Wh-a-a-t?” She gaped at him.

“For theft. As an example to other would-be thieves,” he said. “I have to go.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked him.

“Save him,” he said. “Talk sanity into someone. Good God, Hannah, I do not know what I am going to do. I have to go. May I take Jet?”

His eyes were black and wild as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“You most certainly will not,” he said. “A horse?”

“The carriage,” she said, and she opened the door again and swept out of the room ahead of him. “I’ll give the orders. Take my carriage and go directly to Ainsley Park. It will save you at least half a day.”

She went out to the stable and carriage house herself, as if her physical presence could hasten him on his way. Horses and carriage were readied with great speed, though it seemed agonizingly slow to Hannah, and to Constantine, who paced, like a caged animal.

She took his hands in hers again when she saw that the carriage was almost ready, and the coachman was hurrying up, dressed in his livery.

But she could not think of anything to say. What did one say under such circumstances?

Have a safe journey?

I hope you get there in time?

But in time for what?

I hope you can talk them out of hanging poor Jess.

You probably will not be able to.

She drew his hands to her face and held them to her cheeks. She turned her head and kissed his palms one at a time. Her throat was sore, but she would not shed tears.

She looked up at him. He stared blankly back. She was not even sure he saw her.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His eyes focused on her.

“Hannah,” he said.

Her name again. It was almost like a declaration of love. Not that she was consciously thinking of such trivialities.

He turned and climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him, and within moments the carriage was on its way.

Hannah raised a hand, but he did not look out.

HIS PRESENCE at Ainsley would achieve nothing, Hannah thought with a great sinking of the heart as she watched her carriage disappear at some speed down the straight driveway.

That poor man was going to hang for theft. And Constantine would never forgive himself for taking him in to live at Ainsley and then somehow failing to keep him safe from harm. This was something from which he would never ever recover even though, of course, it was all none of his fault.

There must be a way of saving Jess Barnes. He had taken fourteen chickens from the coop of a neighbor and then returned them and apologized. Constantine’s manager had paid the value of the chickens even though they had been returned. And for all that a man was to lose his life—as an example to others.

The judicial system was sometimes capable of asinine and terrifying madness.

An old adage leapt to her mind: “One might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” But one could hang for either. Or for a few chickens.

Someone must be able to help. Someone with influence. Constantine, despite his lineage, was a mere commoner. There must be …

She looked toward the house and then hurried toward it, holding her skirt up out of the way, half running. And it would have been quicker, she thought as she ran up the steps beneath the pillared portico and through the front doors, to have gone around to the side and into the drawing room through the French windows.

Good heavens, it must be very late indeed. Everyone would wonder where she was, where the tea tray was. Everyone was tired.

Everyone was still in the drawing room, she saw when she hurried into it after a footman had darted ahead of her to open the doors. They all turned to look inquiringly at her. Belatedly she realized that she must look flushed and disheveled—again. A few of those who were seated got to their feet. Barbara came hurrying toward her.

“Hannah?” she said. “Is something wrong? We heard a carriage.”

She took Hannah’s hands, and Hannah squeezed them tightly. Her eyes found the Earl of Merton.

“Lord Merton,” she said. “A private word with you, please. Oh, please. And please hurry.”

It was fortunate that there was a chair directly behind her. She collapsed onto it, her hands sliding from Barbara’s as she did so. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth were chattering. Her thoughts were racing about inside her head. She was, she realized in some dismay, going all to pieces.

And then the Earl of Merton was on one knee before her, and her hands were in his very steady ones.

“Your Grace,” he said, “tell me what it is. Is it Con? Has he met with some accident?”

“He has g-g-gone,” she said. She closed her eyes briefly, imposing some control over herself. “I am so sorry you have not all had tea yet. Will you order the tray, Babs, please? But may I talk to you outside, Lord Merton?” She tightened her hands about the earl’s.

No one moved.

“Hannah,” Barbara said, “tell us what has happened. We are all concerned. Did you quarrel with Mr. Huxtable? But no, it is more than that.”

The earl’s hands were still warm and steady. Hannah looked into his blue eyes.

“How may I be of service to you?” he asked her.

He did not know. None of them did. Oh, foolish Constantine, to have been so secretive all these years.

It was not her secret to divulge.

But the time for secrets had passed.

“He has gone to Ainsley Park,” she said, “his home in Gloucestershire. And home to a large number of unwed mothers and handicapped persons and reformed criminals and others rejected by society. One of the handicapped—I think he must be a little like Constantine’s brother—let the fox in with the chickens and tried to compensate for the loss so that Constantine would not be disappointed in him, by taking chickens from a neighbor to replace them. He returned the chickens and apologized, and the manager of the project paid for the chickens in addition, but even so poor Jess has been sentenced to hang.”

She gasped for breath. She was not sure she had paused for one during her explanation.

There were other gasps in the room. A few of the ladies clapped hands to their mouths and closed their eyes. Hannah was not aware of much, though, beyond the intent eyes of the Earl of Merton.

“So that is what Constantine has been doing in Gloucestershire,” Lady Sheringford half whispered.

Hannah leaned a little closer to the earl.

“He took my carriage,” she said. “He thinks he can save that poor man, but he probably will not be able to. Will you let me take your carriage? And will you escort me to London?”

“I’ll go myself to Ainsley Park if I can discover where in Gloucestershire it is,” he said. “I’ll do all in my power—”

“I thought the Duke of Moreland …” she said.

“Elliott?” He searched her eyes with his own.

“Oh,” she said, and the sound came out as a near wail. “I wish my duke were still alive. He would save Jess with one look in the right direction. But he is dead. The Duke of Moreland’s word will count for a great deal.”

“Elliott and Con have been bitter enemies since before I knew either,” he said.

“That is because Constantine was selling the Merton jewels to finance the project at his brother’s behest,” she said. “It was all his brother’s idea, though he embraced it wholeheartedly himself. But the Duke of Moreland accused him of robbing his own brother and even of debauching the poor unwed mothers in the neighborhood, and Constantine would not contradict him, partly because he feared the duke would put an end to his brother’s dream, and largely because of pride. The duke accused instead of asking.”

She watched him draw in a deep breath, hold it, and then release it slowly.

“I am not sure Elliott will be willing to help, Your Grace,” he said. “Let me—”

But Lady Sheringford was on her feet and approaching across the room.

“Of course he will help, Stephen,” she said briskly. “Of course he will. He would not have remained angry with Constantine all these years if he did not care deeply for him. And if he even hesitates, Nessie will talk him into helping. She will be easy to persuade. She always likes to think the best of people. I have suspected for years that she would forgive Constantine in a heartbeat if he would only ask her forgiveness for whatever it was he did to hurt her.”

“I must go,” Hannah said, getting to her feet and withdrawing her hands from the earl’s clasp. “Even now it may be too late.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks. “But I have a houseful of guests.”

Suddenly everything was taken out of her hands. The guests would all go, both to London and to Ainsley Park, if they followed mere inclination, someone declared—perhaps Lord Montford. But they could do nothing but get in the way. They would remain, then, and Stephen would go with her grace. Everything at Copeland ran so smoothly because of the duchess’s careful planning, the Countess of Sheringford said, that her presence was not strictly necessary until they all left tomorrow morning. And Miss Leavensworth had been a perfect substitute hostess at tea yesterday and would be again at breakfast tomorrow. It would be a delight to have Miss Leavensworth return to town tomorrow in their carriage, Lady Montford said. Which was an extremely generous offer, Mrs. Newcombe declared, as of course they would gladly have taken Barbara with them, but she would have been severely cramped, poor dear, in the carriage with them and the twins. Of course Hannah could leave without any worries at all, Barbara added. She must go.

And Mr. Newcombe knew just where Ainsley Park was situated. Although he had never been there, it was no farther than twenty miles from his own home. He had even heard some good things about the training school there. He had not realized that the owner and Mr. Huxtable, his fellow guest here, were one and the same. If he had, he would have enjoyed a good heart-to-heart chat with him on the subject.

Cassandra had hurried from the room. She was going to come too and had gone to prepare the nurse and the baby for an imminent departure.

“Come, Hannah,” Barbara said, quiet and efficient in her usual way. “You must change your clothes and have a bag packed. I will see to everything else.”

Lord Sheringford had gone to order up the Merton carriage.

An hour later Hannah was on the way to London. The Earl of Merton sat opposite her with Cassandra. He was holding the baby, who was fast asleep. Apparently Cassandra had fed him before leaving.

Where was Constantine now? How far had he gone?

Would he be in time?

Would it matter even if he were?

Would the Duke of Moreland go?

Would he be in time?

Would his influence be powerful enough to stop the madness of hanging a mentally handicapped man whose only crime was trying to put right a wrong that had happened because of his carelessness?

If only her duke were still alive. No one would have stood against him. She had never known anyone with more power than the elderly Duke of Dunbarton. Except the king, perhaps.

The king.

The king.

Hannah pressed herself back into the corner of her seat and closed her eyes tightly.

Could she?

Could she? She was the Duchess of Dunbarton, was she not?