Page 90 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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Maggie walked slowly up the stairs, holding on to the railing as she did so. Every time she made her way to the second floor, she was reminded these were the steps Katherine, Welles’s mother, had fallen down, and she took special care.

A large male cat, one ear partially missing and black as coal, shot down the stairs, startling her. A shriek followed the cat’s departure, coming from the direction of the duchess’s rooms.

Phaedra came around the corner, skidding to a stop as she narrowed her eyes. “Theseus!”

Margaret bit her lip to keep from laughing. The big tomcat’s adoration of the duchess was well known among the household staff at Cherry Hill. No matter Phaedra’s best efforts, Theseus continued to leave gifts of dead birds and mice for the mistress of the house.

Phaedra sped by her on the stairs. “Today,” she informed Margaret as she passed, “it was a mole. Mama was horrified. She may have fainted.”

“I shall check on her.” Margaret turned sideways, placing a hand on the small bump of her stomach, and continued up the stairs.

Margaret drank in the stunning beauty of Cherry Hill, the Duke of Averell’s seat. She tried to imagine Welles as a child, growing up in this enormous house, perhaps running outside to play soldiers with Leo. Comprised of three separate wings and constructed of stone, Margaret had not yet walked from one end of the house to the other. Though the estate was grand, the furnishings were warm and welcoming, instead of the pretentious formality she’d expected from a duke. The downstairs was paneled in dark woods and jewel tones, with plush carpets thrown over the heavy wood floors. Margaret’s rooms were bright and sunny and painted a lovely shade of cream with accents of rose and gold.

Cherry Hill was a study in understated elegance, just like the Averell mansion in London. She thought her new mother-in-law had something to do with the warmth to be found in both places.

Upon her arrival at Cherry Hill, Margaret had stepped out of the coach and immediately been embraced by the duchess and the rest of the family. The girls swirled around her, chattering and arguing. A splash of paint decorated Theo’s cheek. Romy had been making something with feathers, for they were stuck in her hair as well as that of Miss Nelson, who had apparently been assisting her.

Phaedra had hugged her tight before taking off to run after Theseus, the cat.

Margaret had sobbed at that first sight of them. She hadn’t been sure of her welcome but need not have worried. Romy had held her hand and admonished her not to cry.

“It’s only that I’ve missed you all,” Margaret had said before bursting into tears again.

The duchess had kissed her cheeks, cupping Margaret’s face between her palms. She wasn’t easily fooled. “My dear daughter. Welcome home.”

It had been an emotional reunion, to say the least.

Margaret continued to climb up the stairs toward the room at the far end of the hall, first stopping in to check on the duchess. Her mother-in-law was lying on a chaise lounge, one hand over her eyes, using the other to fan herself with a dramatic wave.

“Your Grace?”

“Good Lord, Margaret. Do you see the mole? The poor thing has more holes in it than one of Romy’s pincushions. And no eyes that I can see. I rang for a footman to dispose of the creature. What is wrong with Theseus? Why can he not thank me by purring quietly in my lap?”

Margaret looked carefully around the room until she saw a dark pile of fur. Moving closer, she scrunched down to check for any signs of life.

“Is it dead?”

“Quite.” Margaret stood. “Theseus is very devoted to you as evidenced by the gifts he brings.”

“I would prefer an orchid. Or even a spray of violets.” A trickle of laughter escaped her. “I assume you are on your way to see Marcus?” The duchess’s pretty face grew anguished, and her lip trembled before she smiled bravely. “I’m sorry, my dear, I get melancholy. My husband would be very upset if he knew, so please let it be our secret. And remind His Grace,” she said, her voice rough with tears, “we are dining together tonight so he should look his best.” She winked.

“I will make sure not to tire him, Your Grace.” Margaret stepped toward the door, eyes averted from the poor mole.

Margaret had been prepared to hate the Duke of Averell, despite the affection Amanda and the girls had for him. She felt quite the opposite now. Whatever type of man Marcus had been, the selfish father Welles remembered, the man dying inside the lavish suite of rooms, was that man no longer. The duke and Margaret had become friends during her stay at Cherry Hill. She found him to be loving and affectionate, a man who adored his wife and daughters. After being introduced and learning Margaret had only just begun to play faro, the duke had taken it upon himself to teach her every card game and trick he knew. Which was substantial.

The duke’s nurse, Gladys, came out of the double doors carrying a basin of water. She bobbed politely at the sight of Margaret. “Lady Welles. His Grace is expecting you. He says he will take you for every bit of your pin money.” She touched Margaret’s forearm. “I’ve given him his medicine. Don’t be alarmed if he nods off. I thought he should rest before dinner tonight with the duchess. He wishes to be at his best.” The nurse’s eyes grew watery, for she adored her charge as well.

Margaret nodded. “I won’t, Gladys. Thank you.”

She entered the darkened room, gratified to see the duke sitting up in bed, two fluffy pillows lodged firmly behind his back. He was already toying with a deck of cards, the elegant, tapered fingers trembling as he did so.

“Hello, Maggie.” He looked up and winked at her, his wide mouth ticked upward in a smile she was more than familiar with. “I’ll take your pin money today if you aren’t careful.”

The Duke of Averell was still a handsome, charming devil no matter the ravages of the disease which was slowly killing him. Just like his son. The eyes Welles had inherited from his father were still brilliant, the darkening rings of blue stark and glowing in his face, a sharp contrast to his withering, frail body. No matter the feelings of her husband for his father, it saddened Margaret greatly that the duke was not long for this world.

“You’re very bold, Your Grace,” she said in a saucy tone. “I may have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

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