Lady of the Lock Page 19

  She should protest but could not. It was close on nine years since she had first set eyes on Bourne Challenor. She was nineteen years old and her heart had never wavered. Through every surge of hope, through every plunge into despair, her heart held fast even when her mind knew quite well she was caught up in a lost cause.

  And then came the cave-in, the final knell to her dreams.

  And still her heart refused to cast him out.

  She was hopeless to the point of being a sinner—using Lord Jeremy and his friends to deceive poor Mrs. Oglethorpe who only wanted what was best for her daughter.

  As the Duke and Duchess of Carewe wished for their sons.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mandy murmured. “I should never have proposed such a scheme. It is quite ineligible. Please pardon—”

  “Miss Merriwether . . . Mandy! It is not improper. Truly. I recall Miss Oglethorpe from Bath—a well-brought up young lady with delightful manners. It will be pleasure to assist her in this. And who knows? As we expand her circle of acquaintances in society, perhaps she will discover she did indeed mistake her heart and another young gentleman will strike her fancy.”

  “You rogue!” Mandy exclaimed, her lips twitching into a smile. “Are ducal children born knowing exactly the right thing to say?”

  “I suspect I carry off the bon mots with a bit more charm than my brother, who tends toward the serious,” Lord Jeremy returned, “but let us consider the matter closed. You may return to Wiltshire with full confidence that Miss Oglethorpe will not lack for dance partners, drives in the park, or compliments placed in all the right ears.”

  “Bless you, my lord, you are a true friend.”

  Lord Jeremy stood, looking a trifle pained, as he replied, “I had hoped to be more, Miss Merriwether, but I am happy to serve in any way I can.” He bowed and was out the drawing room door before Mandy could summon a proper response.

  Guilt swept her. Mortification. She had the manners of a trollop, the sensitivity of a Covent Garden fish wife. After she managed to banish a silent litany of the worst words she had overheard during her years surrounded by engineers and navvies, Mandy contemplated her sins. The Challenors were anathema, guilty of murder. And yet, not six months later, she was, quite blatantly, using Lord Jeremy to make Hetty Oglethorpe’s life more enjoyable in the same society she had sworn to shun forever.

  And there still wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t wonder where Bourne was, what he was doing . . . and if he ever spared a thought for the Lady of the Lock.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Miss, Miss!” Eyes wide, panting from his haste, Evans, the Merriwether’s footman cum butler, dashed into the bookroom of the house on Upper Berkley Street. “A visitor, Miss. ’E’s a duke.”

  “A duke?” Mandy echoed, not quite taking it in. Dukes did not pay morning calls. They expected the rest of the world to come to them.

  “’Tis Carewe, Miss, but he didn’t give me no card. Just said it, bold as brass, ‘Tell your mistress the Duke of Carewe wishes to speak with her.’ That’s what he said, Miss, I swear.”

  Mandy dropped her quill, splattering ink over the household accounts she had been perusing. The Duke of Carewe here? Asking for her?” Mandy’s heart charged up into her throat, threatening her ability to speak, but she managed a somewhat shaky, “I trust you showed him into the drawing room.”

  “Directly, Miss, and told him I’d see if you wuz at home,” Evans returned, obviously pleased with himself.

  “Thank you,” Mandy murmured. “Please inform the duke I will be with him directly.” She looked down at what she was wearing, heaving an anguished sigh when she saw the ink spatters on her no-more-than-serviceable gown of light brown woolen. She looked a sight . . . yet keeping the duke waiting was rudeness beyond measure. Mandy made an ineffectual stab at blotting the ink spots but only managed to smear them. She groaned, for a moment resting her head in her hands before she stood, squared her shoulders, and headed for the drawing room.

  “Your Grace.” She sank into a deep curtsey.

  “No need to stand on ceremony with me, child. I have known you since you were in leading strings.”

  It was true, but Mandy would have sworn he’d never noticed her. She rose and sat on the room’s well-worn gold brocade sofa, where she could face her visitor who was once again seating himself in a commodious armchair. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the duke to reveal the purpose of his visit. Had he truly come to see her? Surely he understood she was no longer a threat to his heir. But when he simply stared at her, as if gazing at a painting, she said, “I regret my father is not here to welcome you, Your Grace. He will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “You may extend my high regards, my child. I have always had great respect for your father’s skill.”

  Not enough to listen to him about the tunnel.

  “But today I have come to see you.” He raised a cylindrical leather case Mandy had not noticed before. Uncapping it, he carefully removed a large rolled-up piece of paper. “This,” he declared as he spread it out, “is your remarkable sketch of Castle Carewe, which was left behind during your hasty departure. He paused, demonstrating that even dukes could be aware when situations were awkward. “It is, Miss Merriwether, by far the best sketch of Castle Carewe that anyone has ever done. I wondered . . . I hoped you might consider reproducing it in watercolors so we might display it at the castle.”

  Speechless, Mandy could only stare as insidious thoughts chased through her head, attempting to overwhelm the euphoria of such high praise. Why on earth would the Duke of Carewe ask a favor of a female whose life he has made every effort to destroy? Perhaps she should ask him how much he was willing to pay. Or if Montsale knew his father wished to employ her.

  “Your Grace, I am convinced you cannot mean it.”

  “On the contrary, my dear, it would please me considerably. And the duchess as well. She is fond of you, you know.”

  Fond? Wasn’t that just like a male not to realize the limits of his wife’s “fondness.”

  Or was he simply lying through his teeth?

  The Duke of Carewe held the most shares in the Kennet and Avon Canal Company, making him her papa’s primary employer—a fact she knew all too well, but seemed to continually forget. Pride made her want to take the sketch, rip it up, and toss the pieces at his feet. Her artistic soul longed to do as he asked. Common sense declared there was no way she could refuse the duke’s request.

  “You flatter me, Your Grace. But if you truly wish me to render this sketch in watercolors, then naturally I shall be happy to do so.”

  She expected him to hand her the sketch, then take his leave. Instead, looking a bit conscious, he said, “I believe you and Montsale have formed something of an attachment over the years.”

  Ah! Was this then his primary interest, the sketch a mere excuse? Mandy swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “We have enjoyed many an argument through the years, Your Grace. I would not call our many contretemps an attachment.”

  “Would you not?” the duke murmured, and proceeded to change the subject, initiating a discussion on the artists who had created the eclectic collection of paintings at Castle Carewe.

  “But, Your Grace,” Mandy protested at last, “you are only adding fuel to the fire of why I am wholly unworthy to join such an eminent array.”

  The duke laughed and Mandy caught a glimpse of one of Montsale’s rare moments of mirth. One day he would be amazingly like the distinguished nobleman seated before her.

  “Nonsense, my girl. Not a one of them painted Castle Carewe, now did they? Make your watercolor as good as this sketch and we will be honored to hang it.”

  Was this the duke’s way of apologizing for the cave-in? For Montsale’s defection?

  No, probably not, although a sense of guilt might have influenced the duke’s condescension in paying a visit to Upper Berkley Street and engaging her in conversation.

  At the end of twenty minutes—and ref
raining from commenting on her lack of chaperone—the Duke of Carewe rolled up her sketch, gently fitted it into the leather holder, and handed it to her. Mandy assured him she would have the watercolor delivered to the castle as soon as it was finished. She curtsied, personally escorted him to the front door, then, oblivious to Evans’s astonishment, she leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and shook from head to foot. Why had he come? Why? A duke had innumerable flunkies he could have sent on such an errand, so why had he come himself?

  Had he planned to warn her off Montsale and decided it wasn’t necessary?

  Had he planned to buy her off, using the watercolor as an excuse?

  Was he examining her for the position of his son’s mistress?

  Mandy had not thought it possible to feel worse than she already did, but the duke had managed it, while adding confusion to her pain. Clearly, the Challenors were destined to haunt her life.

  “Carewe? Here?” John Merriwether, jaw agape, regarded his daughter with horror.

  “Really, Papa, do not look so. Our house is quite respectable. Mrs. Deakins may allow things to slide nine months of the year, but when we are in residence she sees that all is up to snuff. The hall and drawing room were spotless, I assure you.”

  “I beg your pardon, my dear. It’s just that I cannot imagine Carewe unbending enough to travel to Upper Berkley Street. ”

  “Papa, it is not as if we live in Cheapside. We are but a block from Montagu House!”

  John sank onto the nearest chair, staring straight ahead for nearly a minute before he sighed and said, “There has to be some reason beyond the one he gave for Carewe to pay you a morning call, and I most sincerely wish I could guess what it is.” Suddenly, he made a sound that was perilously close to a groan. “Did you entertain him alone?”

  “Papa, I am not some young chit just making her come-out. I had Meg attend me when Lord Jeremy called, but for the duke it seemed—”

  “Lord Jeremy was here?”

  At the arrested look on her papa’s face, Mandy’s eyes opened wide. That there could be any connection between Lord Jeremy’s visit and the duke’s had not occurred to her. “I–I asked his help, and that of his friends, in smoothing Hetty’s season. A kindness for a friend. Surely there can be no harm in that.”

  John stood and walked to a tall window overlooking the street. Hands behind his back, he listened to the rumble of carriages and stared at the parade of nurses, governesses, and children walking toward Portman Square. He had failed his only child. But for the lack of one small piece of paper, two signatures in a registry, he would be a duke, and his daughter’s suffering would not exist. Until now he had never really minded being born on the wrong side of the blanket. He valued his productive life, would never have exchanged it for a dukedom. But Mandy was suffering and he knew not how to fix it.

  And what Carewe’s latest start was, he could only imagine. And some of those imaginings were enough to fire his temper to near boiling. He turned abruptly. “My apologies, my dear, for not being here when you needed me. And in future . . . you will entertain no one outside our immediate circle without a chaperone. If I am not here, only Mrs. Deakins will do, not Meg. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Papa . . . but why—”

  “Must I spell it out, child?” At nineteen a young woman should not be so naive. Then again, he should be grateful she was, for being raised by engineers and navvies was not exactly leading a sheltered life.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mandy murmured, “for I truly don’t understand. The duke is surely above such nonsense.”

  “The duke, if he chooses, can ruin your reputation with but the lift of an eyebrow. And if he should choose to imply anything untoward in your behavior while he was here . . .”

  “Never!” Mandy cried. “He would not, I know he would not.”

  “I wish I had your confidence in human nature, my dear, but I don’t. Maligning your reputation is but one of the reasons I can guess at for his visit.”

  “But he could not know I would be alone,” Mandy protested.

  John sighed. “I fear he is well aware we are an irregular household, to say the least. He knows I have been your sole chaperone these many years.”

  Mandy fixed her father with a disappointed glare. “Truly, Papa, I never dreamed your mind ran in the gutter.”

  “I am a man, my girl. Our minds always run in the gutter.”

  “Papa!”

  Ignoring her outburst, John thought for a moment, a hand raised to cover his mouth. “Amanda, if Mrs. Oglethorpe is willing, would you like to remain in London for the Season. I’m sure she would see that you are invited wherever she and her daughter—”

  Mandy bounded to her feet. “Absolutely not!”

  “But you would be under the protection of a most respectable female, the wife of a vicar—”

  “How can you even think such a thing?” Mandy wailed. “I have always been with you—at every site from Reading to Bristol. You cannot do this to me!”

  John slumped back down into the chair, shaking his head. “But the only opportunity you have had to meet young men was last winter in Bath, and this year you refused to go back. Do you not see? You are nineteen years old, and I have failed you. You deserve better, my dear, truly you do. Please tell me you will stay here if Mrs. Oglethorpe is willing.”

  Mandy sank back onto the sofa and was quiet for so long John thought he had won. Until she said, “If you do not take me, I will board the next stage coach on the Bath road, and even if I have to walk the tow path all the way from Great Bedwyn to the tunnel, I will do so. I promise you.”

  John sighed. “Amanda Grace, I do not want you anywhere near High Meadows.”

  “And I assure you I will see more Challenors in London than I would in Wiltshire.”

  In a manner similar to the long-ago day he had lost his argument with the Duke of Carewe, John knew when it was time to give in. “Very well, my dear, we shall go on as we have. But you must know it cannot continue. You are a woman grown and I will not see you waste your life wearing the willow for a young man who so clearly dances to his father’s every tune.”

  John stood and walked to the sofa, laying a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I truly am. You deserve far more than I have ever been able to offer you.”

  She placed a hand over his. “No, Papa, think no more about it. I have had a good life, I want no other. Perhaps it is the cave-in that makes us melancholy. Certainly it is one of the reasons I must go back. If another disaster strikes, I am determined not be miles away, sketching a castle!”

  John shook his head. “Montsale will not have you, child. You must put him out of your mind. Alan’s a good man or young Rutherford, if you prefer a more stable life.” He looked down into her brimming eyes. “I do not want to lose you, child, but it is the nature of things. It is time for you to set up your own household. When the Caen Hill locks are done—when the K&A is open from London to Bristol, our peripatetic life must come to an end.”

  His daughter closed her eyes, lips quivering. Slowly, she nodded.

  “That’s well over a year from now, so do not think me a beast—”

  “I had hoped to marry for love.” The merest whisper.

  “And I might have been Duke of Bridgewater.”

  Mandy flung her arms around him and held on tight. “I’m so sorry, Papa,” she cried. “I’m a flibbertigibbet with her head in the clouds.” She continued to bury her face in his chest. Only later did he realize she had made no promise to be ruled by her common sense instead of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Wiltshire, Summer 1809

  The Duke of Carewe, standing shoulder to shoulder with John Merriwether, was but one of a multitude of eyes fixed on Alan Tharp and two demolition experts as they laid kegs of black powder. This time, Mandy thought, the explosion would be of their own making. Alan and his helpers were about to blow up the coffer dam which, until now, had shunted boats into the natural course of th
e River Avon, which wound around the base of the Challenor’s hill.

  To Mandy’s left was the cluster of navvies who had just finished shoveling a great pile of tunnel debris into the river’s natural course, creating a makeshift dam. To her right, a narrowboat waited, moored to a sturdy oak, its horse contentedly cropping grass at the edge of the tow path. After the navvies cleared the debris from the explosion, the narrowboat would be the first through the tunnel that had taken nearly four years to build. And seven lives.

  Mandy, heart heavy, stood slightly apart from the duke and her papa, noting there was little rejoicing in the air. In fact, the cluster of navvies was so silent she could hear Alan’s voice as he instructed the men placing the black powder. Please, God, no more accidents.

  “Montsale is in Cornwall,” she heard the duke say to her papa. “He is, I am certain, quite disappointed not to be here, but it is high time he became acquainted with what will one day be his.”

  While Papa made some polite response, Mandy seethed. The duke was offering yet another not-so-subtle reminder of Montsale’s exalted position, while he manipulated their lives with all the panache of a conductor wielding his baton.

  A shout from the canal. Alan, ordering the powder men out of the dry canal bed, leaving only himself kneeling at the edge of the coffer dam. A quick glance upriver showed one of the boatmen had a firm hold on the huge workhorse’s bridle. “Sir?” Alan called.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Tharp.”

  A flicker of smoke as Alan put a match to the cord that led to the powder. Mandy’s heart rate soared when he didn’t move, other than slowly rising to his feet, never taking his eyes off the cord. “Papa!” she pronounced in strangled tones.