Page 39 of Earl on the Run (The Duke's Estates 2)

Six

Harriet sat beside her mother’s bed, holding her hand as Mama tossed and fretted. She’d refused to let Harriet out of her sight when they returned from the brief carriage ride. “Please tell me what’s gone wrong, Mama,” she said. Again.

“Nothing! I already said—nothing.”

This was clearly not true. But Harriet didn’t know whether there had been some new misfortune or if this was baseless anxiety. She could only hope Mama would calm down, given time. She’d ask Slade if she’d heard of any disturbances. Her grandfather often shouted his complaints.

Her mother pulled her hand away and sat suddenly upright. “What is the time? We must dress for dinner. We will be late.”

“Wouldn’t you like to stay here and have a tray?” Harriet asked. “I could join you.” And then neither of them would have to dine with her grandfather. That would be a relief.

“No! We must go down. Papa expects us.”

“I can tell him you’re feeling ill.”

“I am not ill! You know how he despises weakness.”

“Unless it is some little malady of his own, which must be catered to by the whole household.”

“You mustn’t say such things! Promise you won’t argue with him.”

Harriet looked into her mother’s strained blue eyes. It was ironic that Mama resembled Grandfather, as Harriet did not. And she looked even more like him since they’d come to live with Grandfather in the country. So much older and more tired, her round face creased with worry. She’d grown thinner, too. Once upon a time, Mama had relished her food, particularly sweets. Now it was hard to tempt her even with rich confections. “You know I try to avoid doing so, Mama.”

“You do not! You are always chafing at him.”

“Well, he provokes me.”

“He has made you a great heiress. You have no right to object to his wishes.”

This was the crux of the matter. Accept the fortune and subject oneself to its conditions. Or return to the penurious scraping of her youth. There was no middle ground. Her grandfather had made that clear. And her mother had begun to view the latter prospect with something like terror. Could she be made to see a third choice?

Harriet squeezed Mama’s trembling hands. Perhaps she should have refused the legacy at the very beginning? Her mother had been stronger then. She had, after all, gotten them through years of genteel poverty. Mama might have been outraged, but surely not…broken, as she seemed to be now. But how could Harriet have known? Her grandfather had descended on them with false words of reconciliation. He’d appeared jovial and almost…repentant, at first. He’d lured her mother in, Harriet thought resentfully. And once she was caught, he’d started using Mama’s childhood doubts against her.

“We must behave properly.” Her mother rose and began to twitter about the room. “Ring the bell. Go and dress. Hurry. Come back when you are ready, and we will go down together.” She made shooing motions.

Harriet obeyed with a wisp of relief at leaving her. Both her remaining relatives demanded obedience, in their different ways. It was oppressive. How glad she was that she knew a rogue who did not prize submission. She clung to the thought of getting away to see Jack.

She endured the usual heavy dinner, accompanied by her grandfather’s grumbling and constant stream of orders. Harriet tried to keep his attention on her so her mother might be left alone. To do so without arguing was a test of both her ingenuity and her temper. She ended the meal and the day exhausted.

As a result, Harriet slept longer than usual, which spoiled her plan to get out early for a walk. Her mother pounced at the breakfast table with a list of activities that would keep Harriet close by her side all day. She would hear of no deviation, and Harriet struggled with a sharp answer. Mama had never required her to dance attendance in this way before. It could not go on.

Fortunately for her temper, Cecelia came to call at midmorning, bringing a breath of fresh air and a diversion. “How are you today, Mrs. Finch?” she asked.

“How should I be?” replied Harriet’s mother. “I am always perfectly well.”

Cecelia blinked at her truculent tone, then passed it off with a smile.

They sat down to chat, and Harriet admired her friend’s ability to set a group at ease. Cecelia really was a perfect duchess. Mama’s fragile mood smoothed so much under her attentions that she did not object when Cecelia asked Harriet to show her the new blooms in the garden. Mama said only, “Be sure to take a parasol, Harriet. The sun is very bright.”

Harriet dutifully fetched one, failing to notice a somewhat grubby, folded scrap of paper resting on her writing desk. She rejoined Cecelia, and they walked out together into the fine summer day.

“I have news,” Cecelia said when they were well away from the house. “We’ve found the missing earl. Or James did, I should say.”

“So easily?” asked Harriet. “Where was he?”

“In the Travelers camp. Of all places.”

“What?” A premonitory shiver ran through Harriet.

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