Captain Durant's Countess

chapter 3


Reyn had a difficult evening. Patsy Rumford had not been fobbed off with a few cuddles and kisses, and he was ever so glad to see her husband return early from his club before being forced to go further. She may have been wanton at the society, but she was a dutiful wife at home. How she explained his visit to her husband he had no idea, but likely she would find her movements restricted in the future.

It would be something else she’d resent him for. Reyn was not convinced she’d keep her mouth shut about Lady Kelby, even if he’d promised her unlimited punishment and pleasure at a later date.

Worse, Lady Kelby had tattled on him. He’d come home to a tersely worded note from Mr. Ramsey on London List stationery, who urged him to keep his commitment to the Kelbys. It did not take a genius to read between the neatly printed lines. He had threatened to reveal Reyn’s recent coronation as a Monarch in one of his wretched gossip columns—not that anyone but his sister Ginny would care.

Reyn was already sorry he’d joined the society, for it had done nothing but make him feel a bit ridiculous, whacking at women—and some men—like a mad villain from one of the demented gothic Courtesan Court novels Ginny liked to read. If he hadn’t been at such loose ends . . . but there was a solution to all that. He could go to Kelby Hall and impersonate a bloody classics professor.

The Kelbys were collectively insane. While they may both be experts in Etruscan civilization, they knew nothing about Reynold Durant in the nineteenth century. He would never be able to pull off such a deception. Apart from his youth, there was his ignorance to deal with and his inability to examine anything for any length of time before he lost interest. The idea of being trapped in an attic with the Countess of Kelby and remnants of ancient dead people’s things collected by somewhat more recently dead people held absolutely no allure.

She had told him he was not really expected to do any scholarly work, so there must be a couch or an old feather mattress she planned on using for sexual activity, however. Reyn wondered how many times a day she would expect him to service her. It gave him something to contemplate as he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up the next morning—not that he’d slept very long or very well—almost convinced to do as hired, or at least go to Kelby Hall for a day or two and see where that led him, though he was a little annoyed with Ramsey. He didn’t like thinking of him and Lady Kelby conspiring against him like two strict schoolteachers with a naughty boy in their charge. He wasn’t even all that naughty, when one examined all the facts.

Blast. That was what came of trying to adjust to civilian life without adequate income or occupation. Throw poor Ginny into the mix and he had been between a rock and a very hard place.

He had plenty of time to ride out Richmond to see his sister before he made his final decision. Ginny wouldn’t judge him, not that he’d tell her what he’d been up to lately. She still thought of him as a hero, and he didn’t want to disabuse her of that preposterous notion, particularly on the front page of The London List. What he’d done on the Belgian battlefield five years ago was steeped so deep in the mists of time he could barely remember it. He may have won his captaincy as a result, but his career had been distinctly downhill from there.

He’d managed to hang on to his old charger Phantom through thick and thin, and Reyn walked to the stables where the horse was housed. After a few words with the groom, he found his horse waiting, long nose poked over the stall. The gelding seemed pleased to see him, whickering and tossing his coarse gray mane in greeting. Reyn pulled an apple from his coat pocket and watched while Phantom enthusiastically chomped down on it. The horse didn’t have a care in the world. He was warm and fed and dry, no longer evading bullets or sabers.

Not faced with a moral dilemma, either.

Reyn dealt with the tack himself and wended through London’s morning traffic. The December day was bright and clear, with just enough nip in the air to make the ride to Richmond pleasurable.

It was not long before he came to Ginny’s cottage. A few very late roses climbed bravely up the lattice by the door. The house was altogether charming, much nicer than anywhere Ginny had lived in a long time. Their parents’ financial circumstances meant that year by year their accommodations were reduced in size and restricted by neighborhood.

When Reyn had come back to London from Canada, he’d found his little sister pale and coughing her head off, living above a butcher shop belonging to their old cook’s brother. He’d done what he could, moving her to better lodgings along with Mrs. Clark the cook. Thanks to the Earl of Kelby, the cottage and the extra servants were a vast improvement.

After tying Phantom to a bare sapling in front of the house, he strode down the path and knocked on the door. Ginny wasn’t expecting him, as he usually visited on Sundays. Most of the time she was too ill to attend church services, but the earnest young vicar stopped by Sunday afternoons and she seemed to take comfort from his visits.

Reyn had endured the homilies and platitudes over tea for his sister’s sake, but was not convinced God was watching out for any of them. If anything, the Old Boy must have lost patience with him years ago, when he could not sit still in church to save his life. His mother had swatted him after he looked up at the ceiling one Sunday and said during a lull, “That’s enough, God. I want to go home.” Some in the congregation had tittered; most had not. But it was not long afterward that his parents were evicted from the manor house they leased and had moved to yet another parish where Reyn endeavored to say nothing but “Amen.”

Molly, the maid of all work he’d hired, opened the door and blinked in surprise. “Good morning, Captain. It’s not Sunday.”

Reyn doffed his hat. “I trust you’ll let me in anyhow, Molly. Is Mrs. Beecham about?”

“She’s upstairs with Miss Virginia. They neither of them passed a peaceful night, I’m afraid.”

“How bad was it?” Reyn asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Mrs. B. worried she’d cough up blood this time, but she didn’t, praise God. Cook’s gone out to get a beefsteak to build up Miss Virginia’s strength.”

Beefsteak probably would not help, but Reyn was grateful to his family’s longtime loyal cook and the other two women who attended his sister. He’d been lucky to get them through Mr. Ramsey’s London List. When he’d explained to the newspaperman why he was applying for the Kelby job, the man had worked a miracle, finding the cottage and the nurse and maid. Ramsey had taken pity on him then, but was not so happy with him now.

Reyn followed Molly up the narrow stairs, ducking his head. The cottage was sturdy, though built a century ago when people must have been considerably shorter—or knocked unconscious regularly by the low beams. Reyn heard his sister gasp for breath, then the comforting murmur of Mrs. Beecham before he entered the little bedroom.

Ginny was propped up against half-a-dozen pillows, her face gray, her dark curls damp beneath a lace cap. To his mind, she was much too young to wear a spinster’s cap, but she might never live long enough to be anyone’s bride.

Poor Ginny. She was just twenty-two, and had spent half her life in poverty and illness. He’d escaped when he was barely more than a boy, but he should have given her a thought before he ran off to enlist.

“Reynold!” Her face lit at the sight of him, but then the coughing spasms began. Her little terrier Rufus thumped his tail, but remained in Ginny’s lap.

“Captain Durant, this is a surprise. But a welcome one.” Mrs. Beecham patted Ginny’s face with a dry cloth. Despite the open window and the breeze wafting through it, beads of sweat shimmered on his sister’s forehead and throat. “Do you want me to leave the two of you alone?”

“If you don’t mind. I promise I won’t tire her too much.” Reyn pulled a chair up closer to the narrow bed and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Good morning, sweetheart. Don’t try to talk. Promise?”

Ginny bit a lip and nodded. Her eyes were fever-bright beneath dark brows as formidable as Reyn’s. She resembled him greatly, from the curl and color of her hair to her long, straight nose to the dimple in her cheek. Where he was handsome, she was handsomer still, or would have been if her pallor did not betray her. But she’d never had a season to show off her dark good looks, never danced, never flirted.

And never would. Reyn restrained himself from punching one of her pillows. It was so unfair. She’d done nothing to deserve her fate. Their parents had died in a house fire two years ago while he was still in Nova Scotia. Ginny had not succumbed, but her lungs had been so damaged the doctors who treated her were not optimistic she would ever fully recover.

It was really a miracle she was still here. She had never been strong, even before the accident, catching cold with every shift of the weather, struggling to breathe in London’s wet yellow fog. He’d been foolish to think the recent move to Richmond might make a difference.

But it had only been two months. He had money for better doctors now, better food, better care. Their old cook Mrs. Clark had done the best she could with limited resources until he’d come back a year ago. The woman was a saint, a better mother to Ginny than Corinne Durant had ever been.

“I may have to go away on business for a little while, Gin. Not far, though, just outside Guildford. If you need me, I can be back here in a trice.”

“Business?” she whispered. “What sort of business?”

“I told you not to speak.”

She grinned up at him. “I never follow orders.”

Nay, she hadn’t. Reyn had had a willing accomplice in his younger sister as they made mischief for their parents. She’d been a lively little girl before he’d gone away. Before her asthma became so troublesome. The damage to her lungs made those earlier breathing difficulties seem like child’s play.

“Have you a promise of a real job?” Ginny had not been happy to learn that Reyn was earning his living by gambling as their parents had. In her eyes, Reyn should have been doing something respectable—clerking for some great man or seeking a position as a steward. The fact that he had trouble tallying up numbers larger than the ones to count the points in his hand was unknown to her. He was good with figures in his head; it was just the sitting down to tote them into neat columns that defeated him. The damned numbers would not stay where he put them no matter how careful he was.

He managed his money well enough now that he had some, except for the purchase of that unfortunate waistcoat. He’d have to make it last and hope for more luck, as any avenue of gentlemanly employment seemed blocked for him by his vexing stupidity.

No. He was not stupid. Just . . . different.

“Yes. A real job. I’m to help an old earl clean out his attics.”

She pinched his coat sleeve. “Don’t bam me, Reyn.”

“It’s the honest truth. The man wants an accounting of the treasures he has up there before he sticks his spoon in the wall.”

“That sounds exciting! I wonder what you’ll find.”

“Loads of dust and probably dead mice, love. Over the centuries, I gather his ancestors brought back everything that wasn’t nailed down from three continents. Perhaps I’ll discover the Holy Grail.”

“I wish I could help. I’d love to see such things.” She gave him a wistful look, then turned her attention to Rufus, who snorted happily on the counterpane as she scratched his belly.

“Perhaps I’ll sneak something out for your inspection.”

“Don’t tease. You wouldn’t want to lose this position, Reyn. Perhaps the earl will keep you on permanently.”

Reyn couldn’t imagine such a thing, but he nodded and joined her in indulging Rufus. He had wondered at first if the dog might upset her breathing, but the comfort the little animal provided seemed worth the risk.

“Rufus hasn’t had a proper run since you were here Sunday.”

Reyn took the hint and scooped the dog up. “It will do us both good to get some fresh air, then,” he said, kissing his sister’s damp forehead. Some days she was well enough to leave her bed and take the animal out herself, but today was not one of them.

Once outside in the walled back garden, he plopped Rufus on the grass to do his business and picked up a handful of acorns, rolling them around in his palm. The oak in the center of the lawn was stripped, brown leaves curling on the ground.

Reyn had not been impressed with the recent English autumn. He missed the breathtaking fall foliage of Nova Scotia. After Waterloo, he’d spent almost four years with what was left of his regiment in Canada. He’d not much cared for the ocean crossing, but once he was there the blunt natural beauty of the place had awed him. The primeval forests, rough Atlantic coastline, and abundant wildlife—even the winter hardships—had touched something within him.

Canada had nothing like the manicured countryside of Kelby Hall. That civilized place had made him feel like a savage. Everything about the estate was managed, from the formal gardens to the geometrically clipped yew hedges to the uniformity of the pea stones on the drive. The long façade of the house itself, with its glowing honey-colored stone and scores of windows, was designed to intimidate. Rumor had it that one of the Kelby earls rebuilt the original dwelling to please Queen Elizabeth, who had been a frequent guest.

Reyn had seen nothing but the enormous entry hall and the library on his visit. He’d felt dwarfed by the high coffered ceilings and long windows. Somehow the rugged cliffs and roar of the ocean on Cape Breton did not frighten him quite the way silent, elegant Kelby Hall did.

Reyn turned to his sister’s snug cottage and tossed an acorn up to her bedroom window as he’d done from the time they were children. In the old days it was the signal for her to slip out of bed and join him on an adventure. Now it just garnered him a puzzled look from Rufus.

“I know, boy. You want me to throw something for you.” Reyn cast around for a proper stick to throw and found one amidst the fallen leaves. He spent the next ten minutes running the dog from one end of the garden to the other until his arm ached. When he looked up, Ginny was standing at the window, her thin white hands pressed against the glass. He gave her a jaunty wave, as though the sight of her wasn’t a bit spectral.

“All right, Rufus. Fun’s over for us, I think. Time to return to town and face the Gorgon.” Not that Lady Kelby was Gorgonish at all. From what he’d seen when her hat fell off, her hair was not snakelike but molasses-brown. She was not exactly beautiful, but no single feature was objectionable. She was tall and well formed, her face a near-perfect oval with dark eyes and a wide mouth. He’d not seen her smile yet, but wanted to.

What in hell was the matter with him?

Oh, what wasn’t? He was beyond bored. Still. And in desperate need of an adventure. He must be desperate indeed, if he thought mounting grim Lady Kelby would be any sort of adventure. Where was Napoleon when one needed him?

Nothing might come from his trip in the country, and that suited him perfectly. It was rather repugnant to think of himself as that dancing circus bear. He might get some country air and shooting in though, if an antiquities expert was allowed to hold a modern gun.

Reyn rubbed his shoulder, wishing he could pluck out the ball inside. It was so inconveniently lodged that the army sawbones had been reluctant to go digging any further for it. After six years, it was a part of him, tangled in muscle and blood.

Everyone carried some sort of secret inside, didn’t they? Reyn wondered what Lady Kelby’s was. He supposed he’d soon find out.