A Dangerous Nativity

Chapter 2

Will's laughter followed him home. It broke loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger of offending his charming hosts. Angelic goat! He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted toward Eversham Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the neighbors.

Even the confirmation that most of the county enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him. He admired the woman's knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right to fire Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting hay. His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being right gave Will cold comfort.

His elation dimmed completely when Stowe, Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the foyer.

"Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the old man intoned. "She said to tell you it is most urgent."

"It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private. He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a weeping bundle of misery.

If God is just—and I know He is—coals are being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now, while I repair the havoc he left behind. That thought sat ill in his belly. He had to pause in front of Sylvia's door to gather his self-control. When he pushed the door open, heavy, uncirculated air and the suffocating smell of lavender and burnt feathers assaulted his nose. Heavy draperies over every window made the room so dim he had to blink to adjust. He longed for the sunny barnyard he had just left.

Sylvia Wheatly, Duchess of Murnane, swathed in black, languished on a chaise lounge, holding a handkerchief to her nose. Thin, pale, and perpetually ailing, she bore no resemblance to the confident young woman who had danced through her first Season just before Will left to join the army in 1803. Upended books and broken porcelain littered the floor.

"Why can't he come when I call him? Doesn't he know I need him?" she complained loudly.

Who, the late duke or me? It didn't matter. Her rant sounded like a tired litany. She craved a man's attention. Hell, she thinks she needs a man to validate her every thought.

"Oh, Chadbourn, thank goodness you're here. Fire this woman!" his sister demanded, pointing with an upswept arm toward her lady's maid, cowering in the door to Her Grace's dressing room. The duchess collapsed back against the chaise.

"She is utterly incompetent," Sylvia whispered, her breathing raspy and ragged. "She misplaced my tonic and only found it moments ago. Turn her out without a character." She finished her pronouncement with a dramatic arm across her eyes.

The maid's pleading look tore at Will. He had ordered her to hide the opium-laced tonic. Obviously, she had not been able to withstand the duchess's whining. How on earth am I going to find a position for a lady's maid?

Sylvia peeped out. "Is she gone?"

Will sighed. He gestured toward the hall and followed the maid to the door. His whispered reassurance and request to meet him in the butler's pantry in an hour did little to wipe the fear from her face. He would think of something.

"Is she gone?" Sylvia's voice quavered.

"We will reassign her."

"No! I demand she be turned off without a reference!"

One thing he had learned: his sister cowered before the voice of authority. "You will leave that to me," he said as firmly as he could manage.

Sylvia crumpled immediately, and Will's heart sank. "Yes, Chadbourn, of course," she whined. "Do as you see fit." He would rather she showed some spirit and railed at him. Not that he would turn the maid off. He would just have to make sure the poor girl came nowhere near the duchess. That, and find a lady's maid made of sterner stuff.