One Perfect Rose (21 page)

Stephen stroked her back gently. “Marriage has not been kind to you. One husband who betrayed you, and one who is dying. You deserve better.”

She could not let him worry about her, not when his own problems were so much more grave. She reached for composure and found it. “My marriage to Charles is in the past. I'm concerned about now, and I have no complaints about the bargain I've made in marrying you.”

She raised her gaze to his, using her acting skill to project sincerity. “We won't have much time together. That's sad, but it also means that we will never grow bored with each other. If either of us truly comes to regret this marriage, at least we won't have to endure the consequences for long. We'll have none of the mundane irritations that gnaw away at the best of marriages. We will have only the cream—the excitement and wonder of discovering another person.”

His brows rose, and she noticed that the greenish tone had returned to his eyes. He seemed strong and alert again. He'd made a swift recovery from that horrible attack.

“That's an interesting thought,” he said. “You're overlooking the fact that some of that cream will be sour, but it's true that our marriage will never be boring.”

“Then let's have no more talk of sending me away.” She stepped back and pulled her hood over her hair. “I won't go, you know. I have my reputation to consider.”

His laughter was deep and genuine. “You're better for me than that whole bottle of pills. Very well, I promise not to have this fight with you again for at least a fortnight. In the meantime, let's enjoy the cream.” He offered his arm. “How can we best use what time we have? I'd like to spend a few days here, then take a leisurely route to London, seeing some sights I've never found the time to visit. Do you have any special requests?”

She took his arm. “I've always wanted to go to York. Would that be possible?”

“Of course.” He held the door open and they left the chapel. “I want to see the Lake District myself, though it will have to see the Lake District myself, though it will have to be a very brief visit.”

The sun was beginning to break through the clouds. Rosalind took it as a good omen. Stephen looked almost as well as he had the day before, yet there was still a subtle sense of distance between them. Not as much as when she first found him in the chapel, but enough to make her mourn the loss of the closeness that had existed the night before.

She supposed that a degree of detachment would help him resolve the conflict between wanting her company and despising his weakness. Perhaps that distance would also help her cope with the difficult weeks ahead.

Nonetheless, she hated it.

“Lord Michael Kenyon,” the butler intoned.

Micheal entered the small drawing room of Bourne Castle on the servant's heels, his companion several steps behind. Seated by the fire over a late afternoon cup of tea were the Duke and Duchess of Candover. Both rose and came toward him with smiles.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Michael,” Rafe said with a powerful handshake. “Well-timed, also. Two days later and we would be on our way to London.”

“With the Little Season in full swing, I was afraid that you might be there already.” Michael released Rafe's hand and turned to the duchess. “Margot, you're a sight for sore eyes.”

She gave him a warm hug. “How are Catherine and the baby?”

“Very well the last time I saw them, which was entirely too long ago.” He turned to his companion, who had been hovering uneasily near the drawing-room door. “Rafe, Margot, allow me to present Dr. George Blackmer.”

After the introductions, Margot gave Michael a shrewd glance, then said, “You will both spend the night, of course. Dr. Blackmer, I'll take you to your room so you can rest and refresh yourself before dinner. Michael, you'll be in your usual quarters.” She ushered the doctor out, giving her husband and his friend a chance to talk privately.

“Have a seat.” Without being asked, Rafe poured a cup of tea, produced a bottle of brandy, and laced the tea liberally, then handed the cup to Michael. “Wretchedly rainy out there. You look like you could use this.”

“It's not fit for man nor geese.” Michael settled in a wing chair, some of his tension easing for the first time since he'd received Blackmer's letter about Stephen. The steaming, brandy-fortified tea brought welcoming warmth.

Rafe resumed his seat. “We've been blessed with a plenitude of Kenyons lately.”

Michael came instantly alert. “Have you seen my brother?”

“Ashburton was here a couple of weeks ago.” Rafe grinned. “Acting in a play. The Duke of Athens in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, to be precise, and doing a very decent job.”

Michael leaned forward in his chair. “How did he look?”

“Very shaggy. He wore a false beard so that no one would know him, but Margot recognized his voice. I spoke with him after the performance. He seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly.”

“He didn't appear unwell?”

Rafe frowned. “No. Should he have?”

Tensely Michael set down his teacup and got to his feet. “My brother is very ill. Dying, according to Dr. Blackmer. Once Stephen learned how serious his condition was, he left the abbey alone with no word of when he'd be back. Blackmer eventually wrote me, and ever since then I've been trying to trace Stephen across half of England.” He began to pace restlessly about the drawing room. “It's like chasing a blasted will-o'-the wisp. Even Lucien, with all his nefarious connections, hasn't been able to help.”

Rafe's expression was grave. “I'm so sorry. Might the doctor be wrong?”

“Who knows? Blackmer doesn't say much, but the mere fact that he insisted on accompanying me doesn't bode well. He's as nervous as a hare on a griddle. I think he's afraid that we won't find Stephen before”—Michael stopped, then forced himself to finish—“before it's too late.”

Rafe, who seldom swore, muttered a vehement oath under his breath.

Michael slanted a glance at his friend. “You said that Stephen looked well.”

The duke hesitated. “I didn't see him clearly in good light. Now that I think about it, he looked a bit thin and his expression was drawn. I thought nothing of it because his mood was good.”

“Do you think he's still traveling with that theater troupe?”

“Perhaps, though he told me that soon he would be returning to his normal life.” Rafe's brows drew together. “A day or two after he was here, he sent a message asking for the use of a reliable man to perform some commissions for him in London. I sent him my assistant steward, Gardiner, who was gone for three or four days.”

“Do you know what he wanted done in London?”

“I didn't ask because it seemed none of my business, but perhaps the errands will shed some light on your brother's plans. I'll send for Gardiner.”

The duke rang for a footman and gave the order to summon the steward. When the men were alone again, he said, “Wouldn't it be easier simply to wait for your brother to return? I've always found him admirably levelheaded. He'll come home in his own good time.”

“Will he? He's already been gone for well over a month. Blackmer says it's unlikely that his mind has been affected by his disease, but who can say for sure? His behavior has been so bizarre that I fear the worst.” Michael's mouth twisted. “Running away without a servant. Going onstage under an assumed name. He's always been fond of the theater, but even so, that's almost beyond belief.”

“Believe it.” The duke finished his tea and set the cup aside. “Is there some special reason you need to find Ashburton as soon as possible?”

Michael's pacing brought him to a window. “There are plenty of good practical reasons to find him, but they aren't the important ones.” He stared sightlessly at the gray rain. “I…I still haven't quite accepted that my brother might be dying. I need to see him with my own eyes. Find out if he's really ill or if Blackmer is only a pessimistic quack. If his condition is serious, I want Ian Kinlock to see him…and Catherine, too, of course. It was Ian's medical procedure and Catherine's nursing that saved my life. Maybe they can do the same for Stephen.”

“And if he's beyond human help?” Rafe asked quietly.

“Then I want to say good-bye.” Michael swallowed hard. “To tell him how much I've come to value him in the last two years. Kenyons are a tough lot-I thought we had thirty or forty years of conversation ahead.” He rubbed his neck, which ached from too many days of riding and anxiety. “It's interesting, the different kinds of friendship. You and Luce and Nicholas and I grew up together. We know most of each other's darkest secrets. I would trust any of you with anything. But Stephen-he's my brother. We're connected by blood and childhood memories and temperament. Sometimes that's uncomfortable. For many years we were estranged. But when he is gone, he'll leave a hole in my life that no one else can ever fill. I…I need to tell him that.”

“I've always regretted being an only child,” Rafe said. “I don't know if what you're saying makes me relieved that my life was simpler, or even more regretful for what I've missed.”

Michael hesitated, then said slowly, “Like all kinds of caring, it's better to love and lose than never to love at all. But losing someone you care about is the very devil.”

And losing his brother, a vigorous man only two years older than he, brought death very close. Not the swift, random death of battle that Michael had faced so many times, but an insidious, more personal demise. If Stephen could succumb to a mortal disease, so could Michael. So could Catherine or their young son Nicholas, and that knowledge was almost unendurable.

Neither of them spoke again until the assistant steward arrived. Michael turned from the window to see a compact young man with red hair.

Looking a little nervous, the steward said, “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

Rafe nodded. “Gardiner, this is Lord Michael Kenyon, the Duke of Ashburton's brother. He wants to know what commissions you executed for Ashburton in London.”

“Well, I took his horse to town and left it at Ashburton House,” Gardiner replied. “The housekeeper put together a bundle of his clothing for me to bring back, and I went to his bankers to cash a draft, and to Doctors' Commons for the special license.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Michael said incredulously, “Damnation. He sent you for a
marriage
license?”

“Yes, sir.” The steward instinctively retreated a step when he saw Michael's expression. “That was the main reason for the trip. The other commissions were merely because I was going to be in London.”

Since Michael was teetering on the verge of explosion, Rafe intervened. “Do you remember the name of the woman he intended to wed?”

Gardiner's expression clouded. “I'm sorry, sir. I simply gave the clerk the paper that Ashburton had written out. I suppose I glanced at it, but I don't remember the lady's name.” He thought, then said helpfully, “He didn't say it in so many words, but I got the impression he was going to marry one of the girls from the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe.”

“An actress,” Michael spat out. “And you didn't think twice about that?”

The steward's face pokered up. “It's not my place to question a duke, my lord.”

Rafe gave Michael a swift glance. “If you have no other information, you're excused, Gardiner. Thank you.”

As soon as the door closed behind the steward, Michael swore, “My God, if only I'd found Stephen in time! His mind must be affected by his illness, or he would never even consider making some round-heeled doxy the Duchess of Ashburton.”

“The fact that he got a license doesn't automatically mean that there has been a wedding,” Rafe pointed out. “Besides which, if he was hell-bent on marriage, you couldn't have stopped him.”

“I could have tried,” Michael said grimly.

Rafe sighed. “The woman isn't necessarily a doxy. Fitzgerald is a very decent sort of fellow, a gentleman by birth. He and his wife run a respectable troupe, as these things go.”

“‘As these things go,'” Michael said, his voice caustic. “I don't need Stephen's personal fortune myself, but I'll be damned if I'll stand by and watch while an opportunistic harpy takes advantage of his vulnerability to get her hands on his money.”

“Perhaps he fell in love with the woman.”

Michael gave an eloquent snort.

“Cynic,” Rafe said equably. “Even if it isn't love, if she's making his last days happier, do you have the right to interfere?”

Michael's face tightened. “Stephen is a man of refined tastes. His first wife was a model of propriety. I have trouble believing that a vulgar lightskirt who wants to feather her nest will gladden his final days.”

“Ah, yes, his first wife. Do you resent the thought of her being succeeded by a commoner because you were fond of her?”

Michael hesitated. “Because of my years in the army, I never knew Louisa well. She was very lovely. Impeccable manners. She…she did beautiful needlework.”

Rafe's brows arched. “Did she make her husband happy?”

“I don't know,” Michael admitted. “They were very…courteous with each other.”

“Not exactly the portrait of a dynamic marriage,” Rafe said dryly. “In my experience, one can generally tell if a husband and wife truly care for each other, no matter how proper they are in public. If you never saw such a bond between your brother and his late duchess, he might have been merely making the best of an arranged marriage while at heart he preferred a very different kind of woman.”

“But an actress with a fourth-rate theater troupe?” Michael protested.

“I married a spy, Nicholas a Methodist school-teacher, Lucien a thief who also had a promising career as a stage comedienne, and you a deceitful widow,” Rafe pointed out, his gray eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why shouldn't Stephen marry an actress?”

Knowing that he was being baited, Michael clamped down on his instinctive flash of anger. “That is not a fair description of Catherine or the others. They may be unconventional, but all are ladies.”

“Perhaps Stephen's intended wife is, too.”

Michael sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “My wits are dull from travel fatigue. Perhaps you should spell out exactly what you're trying to tell me.”

“I know that your protective instincts are in full cry where Stephen is concerned,” Rafe said gently. “But you can't save a grown man from folly, if indeed he is being foolish. If you find your brother and go roaring in like the cavalry, accusing his new wife of being a mercenary slut, it could be disastrous. As a gentleman, Ashburton is bound to defend his wife, even to you. If he truly cares for her, your intemperance could cause another estrangement, and there might not be time enough to overcome it before his death. If that were to happen, I doubt you would ever forgive yourself.”

The words struck Michael with the force of a hammer. “Lord, I never learn, do I?” he said ruefully. “How many times over the years have you given me good advice?”

“Occasions beyond number.”

“How often have I listened?”

Rafe considered. “Perhaps half the time.”

“Add today to the ‘listened' side of the scales.” Michael stared out the window again. The rain had brought an early nightfall. “If and when I meet the new duchess, I shall accord her all due courtesy, whether she deserves it or not.” He smiled faintly. “But please—remember that an old infantry officer would never rush in like the cavalry.”

Rafe laughed. “I'll bear that in mind the next time you need to be restrained.”

And there would be a next time; Michael knew himself and his temper well enough to be sure of that. But thanks to Rafe, he would proceed with more caution. He'd find the Fitzgerald troupe and discover if a marriage had taken place, and if so, who the new duchess was.

And when he eventually found the missing duke, he would remember that what mattered was Stephen, and his wishes for what might be the end of his life. If that meant Michael had to be polite to his brother's doxy, so be it.