Page 25 of Some Like It Wild
Pamela settled herself on the settee. Sophie was about to plop down beside her when Pamela cleared her throat pointedly. Puffing out a long-suffering sigh, Sophie moved to stand at the far end of the settee, her hands clasped in front of her like a dutiful servant.
Connor gingerly lowered himself to a delicate Hepplewhite chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Brodie stationed himself directly behind Connor’s chair, standing at rigid attention like an enormous bewigged bulldog.
The duke nodded toward Sophie. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, girl, and help my sister serve?”
When Sophie simply nodded and moved to join Astrid at the tea cart, the duke asked Pamela, “What’s wrong with the chit? Is she mute or just as slow witted as she looks?”
“Neither, your grace,” Pamela replied, thankful she was a much better liar than Sophie. “She’s simply shy.”
The duke’s sister poured while a sullen Sophie distributed the cups of tea, then brought around a tea tray laden with pastries. Although Connor declined both, Brodie reached over Connor’s shoulder, plucked a cream-filled cake from the tray and popped it in his mouth whole, chewing with relish. Pamela winced as the silver spoon vanished from the clotted cream as well, disappearing up his sleeve without a trace.
While Sophie returned to her station beside the settee, the duke squinted at the drooping feathers on Pamela’s bonnet. “Although your dowdy ensemble might suggest otherwise, I suppose you’re fresh from Paris and itching to collect my little reward?”
Thankful to have something to occupy her trembling hands, Pamela took a genteel sip of her tea. “Not Paris, your grace, but Scotland.”
“Scotland! Why would anyone waste their time in Scotland? Why, the Scots are nothing but a bunch of skirt-wearing barbarians too ignorant and insolent to recognize their betters.” He cast Connor’s kilt a sly glance. “No offense, lad.”
“None taken,” Connor murmured, his eyes narrowed to glittering slits.
Pamela downed the rest of her tea in a noisy gulp. She knew she’d best plead their case before Connor stormed out or stabbed their potential benefactor in the throat with a pastry fork. A pastry fork probably pilfered from the tea tray by Brodie.
Resting her empty cup on the delicate pier table at her elbow, she said, “I didn’t waste my time in Paris, your grace, because I knew your son wasn’t to be found there.”
The duke bestowed a benevolent smile upon her. “And just how did you come to this rather unique conclusion, my dear? Based upon our limited interaction thus far, I can only assume it wasn’t as a result of your keen wits.”
Connor rose halfway out of his chair but Pamela steadied him with a pleading look. He sank back down in the chair, his smoldering glance warning her she would not be so successful a second time.
Pamela reached into her reticule, drew forth her mother’s letter and held it out to the duke. “Perhaps your wife’s words will speak with more eloquence than I can.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Archibald!” his sister exclaimed. “Why don’t you let me ring for the footmen and have these scoundrels removed? I know you’re bored half out of your mind and enjoy torturing them for your own amusement, but there’s really no need to waste your breath or your time by reading some ridiculous forgery that—”
“Hush, Astrid!” the duke barked. “Still that flapping tongue of yours for five seconds and fetch me that letter.”
His sister reluctantly obeyed, marching over to Pamela and sweeping the letter from her outstretched hand. It was all Pamela could do not to snatch it back. The duchess’s letter might have cost her mother dearly but it was still all she and Sophie had left of her.
The duke scowled down at the letter, turning it over in his hands. The wax seal might have crumbled over time but it was still recognizable as his own.
Pamela held her breath as he unfolded the pages, knowing he would recognize his wife’s flowing script as well, no matter how blurred or faded.
When he was done scanning its contents, he crumpled the letter up in his fist and shook it at Pamela, his expression fierce. “Who was this Marianne person? Why would my wife exchange such shocking intimacies with her?”
“She was your wife’s dear childhood friend.” Pamela sat up straighter in her chair, unable to keep the prideful note from her voice. “And my mother.”
The duke leaned his head against the back of the chair as if suddenly too weak to hold it upright. “Dear God, she’s really dead, isn’t she?”
At first Pamela thought he was referring to her mother, but in the space between one breath and the next, she realized he was speaking of the duchess…his wife.
She exchanged a dismayed glance with Connor. It had never occurred to her that in some small corner of what passed for his heart, the duke might have been seeking news of his runaway wife as well as his heir. The realization made her feel even more wretched with guilt.
“I’m afraid so, your grace,” she said gently. “She never arrived at her grandfather’s cottage. She didn’t survive the journey to the Highlands.”
“I suppose I’ve always known it.” He sighed, his blue-veined lids fluttering shut over his weary eyes. “The headstrong minx probably died just to spite me.” When he opened his eyes again, they were as dull and flat as his voice. “Since it’s the reward you’re seeking to line your greedy little purse, I’m guessing you’ve brought me word of my son as well.”
Pamela drew in a deep breath, praying God would forgive her for damning them all with her lie. “I’ve done better than that, your grace. I’ve brought you your son.”
Chapter 10
The duke jerked upright in his chair, feverish spots of color darkening the hollows of his cheeks. His hazel eyes burned with an unholy fire, and for an elusive instant he bore more resemblance to the vital young man in the portrait behind him than the wizened, prematurely aged man he had become.
