“You are avoiding my question.”
Mrs. Noot stopped, brush midair. “I feel your pain, Miss Thorne…it happened to me.”
Rachel felt the blood drain from her face. To hear the tragedy spoken aloud was even worse.
Mrs. Noot put her trembling hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I will keep your secret in the strictest confidence, my lady.”
Rachel swallowed a hard lump.
Mrs. Noot set the brush on the vanity. “I will share my painful story, and I believe it will help. My husband, Cuthbert, was the Duke’s former manager. How Cuthbert swept me off my feet. I considered myself lucky to be married to such a nice man. Under that layer of kindness was great cruelty. He took pleasure in humiliating, beating and raping me. Cuthbert was merciless with the Duke’s tenants, but they were too afraid to go up against him. I stood up to him one day, told him I was going to report him to Duke Rutland. If Lord Anthony hadn’t happened by…heard my screams…” She shook her head. “Anthony thrashed my husband. I had never known this side of Lord Anthony, always thought of him as a quiet scholar without a hint of violence. He became my young knight in shining armor. I am indebted to him for saving my life.”
Mrs. Noot took a deep breath. “Cuthbert was dismissed and banished from the estate, yet that day is branded on my memory. I lost the child I was carrying, and almost died from hemorrhaging. Lady Lucretia, Lord Anthony’s mother ordered me brought to the house to convalesce. When her lady’s maid retired, I became her replacement.”
Rachel clasped her maid’s hand. Their eyes caught in the mirror, an unspoken acknowledgement that they belonged to a special club…thin fragile strings wound the shame and emotional vulnerability of two women into a thick cord that bound them.
“You said, was—”
“My husband is deceased. When Lady Rutland hired me on the heels of Cuthbert’s dismissal, he flew into a jealous rage, burning down half of the Duke’s stables in retribution. Prosecuted and sent to prison, he picked fights, his anger earning him an early death.”
In a soothing tone, Mrs. Noot said, “To hold it in, Miss Thorne, is to freeze the pain. Know that I am here for you.”
Rachel sat there for a long time, allowing the older woman to fuss over her hair, her lady-maid’s way of offering compassion and mothering. Rachel’s heart melted.
“You are ready, Miss Thorne.”
Rachel rose and hugged her. “Thank you.”
“Off you go, my lady,” said a flustered Mrs. Noot.
Rachel descended the cantilevered stairs, the rich red carpet hushing her footsteps. She stopped midlevel and gazed out a huge leaded window that overlooked the vast estate of Belvoir Castle, catching the rising sun to best advantage. Beautiful Baroque gardens, dormant now, terraces, lawns, and a sleeping fountain of cherubs, announced gaiety to the world. There was so much to discover and explore.
The Rutland’s ancestral home was just short of a palace. When Rachel had first clapped eyes on the magical structure she was beyond words. The façade dominated the landscape, stretching left to right of bulging, stonework, lending the building an air of unyielding authority, further accentuated by a powerful repetition of windows and turrets. The effect was dramatic. By no accident had Anthony’s ancestors built the edifice on high ground so that anyone in the valley had to look uphill, almost compelling them to genuflect.
Her heels tapped a quiet tattoo across polished, opalescent marble floors to the dining hall, another room of rich splendor, accentuating red velvet walls and gold trim. A crystal chandelier, the length of a carriage painted rainbows on the opposing wall from the brilliant morning sun shining through the windows. Would she ever get used to the opulence? A footman seated her next to Anthony.
Coming from Boston, Rachel was used to rising early and she was glad that the Duke and Anthony were not disposed to the indolent lifestyle of their peers.
The Duke sat at the head of the table looking overLloyd’s Listand theLondon Gazette.She couldn’t get over how father and son radiated waves of regal authority, a trait she presumed, bred from birth, happenstance and experience.
The Duke probed a portion of kidney pie on his plate. “You enjoyed the ball last night.”
It was a statement not a question. “I did, Your Grace.”
“I understand, Miss Thorne, that Lady Ward was less than…I want to apologize for some of my countrymen.”
Rachel blanched, then looked away. How much had he heard? Anthony shook his head. Not from him.
“Lady Ward and I had a misunderstanding—” Rachel made an extensive study of the eggs offered from the sideboard. Had he heard how she compared Lady Ward to a donkey? Would the duke send her packing back to Boston? Rachel buttered her croissant with the intense diligence Michelangelo sculpted thePieta.
The duke lifted an eyebrow. “Your comparison to a particular equine was appropriate. I could not have phrased it better.”
Rachel choked. But, was that a grin that the normally stoic butler was quick to conceal? She tried to remember his name. Sebastian? He stood next to the door, tall, beak-nosed, silver hair and grey eyes beneath beetle brows that discerned the air around him. He was lean and thoughtful, chest out, shoulders back and he gave the impression if he broke his posture, not only would it be an effrontery to himself but to humankind.
The Duke delved into a plate of bacon, enough to feed a whole army and selected the crispiest piece. “Too bad about Sir Bonneville. Broke his knee. Fell drunk, I suppose. Rather clumsy of him, don’t you think, Anthony?”
Was there anything the Duke did not know?
A servant tonged three quail eggs to Anthony’s plate, three clicks on bone china. He leaned back in his chair, and then winked at Rachel as though they were conspirators. “Bonneville, Lord and Lady Ward, all sail the same ship. What life has taught me is to never argue with idiots. They will grind you down to their level and beat you with experience.”
