Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.
‘I might be a trifle foxed, but I am fully in possession of my faculties, I assure you. The damned rogues relieved me of my valuables and my boots.’
Two more men hurried into the vestibule: Matthews, the Beauworth steward, and Nidd, his father’s ancient valet who did for Garrick on the rare occasions he came home.
‘Johnson told us what happened,’ Matthews said. ‘These villains need teaching a lesson.’
And the beefy Matthews was ready to mete out the punishment. The thought of the saucy little wench in his hands did not sit well in Garrick’s stomach.
‘Send for the constable,’ Uncle Duncan said, taking in Garrick’s stockinged feet with raised brows.
‘Not tonight.’ Garrick put a hand to his head and winced. ‘The morning will be soon enough. Right now, I’m for bed.’
Uncle Duncan’s lips flattened. He glanced toward the dining-room door. ‘I expected you for dinner. It takes more than a contretemps with the lower orders to keep a man from his duty.’
‘Johnson said they struck his lordship on the head,’ Matthews said.
The hard expression on Le Clere’s face dissolved into concern. ‘I’m sending for the doctor.’
The doctor who would poke and prod and wonder. Garrick put up a hand. ‘A small lump, nothing more. I’ll be well by morning.’
The broad back stiffened. ‘A knock on the head, Garrick…I’m only thinking of your welfare.’
‘Don’t fuss.’
Le Clere recoiled. ‘But your head, Garrick…’
A black emptiness rolled out from the centre of Garrick’s chest. He knew what Le Clere was thinking, knew from the wary look in his eyes what he feared, and Garrick honestly couldn’t bear it.
Garrick rubbed his sore knuckles. Le Clere hadn’t yet heard of the latest débâcle. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I know you mean for the best, but I do not need bleeding or quacking tonight.’
His uncle blew out a breath. ‘As you wish. But if there is any sign…’ He had no need to finish the sentence; his gentle smile said it all.
Garrick nodded. ‘I’ll see the doctor.’
‘So be it,’ Le Clere said. ‘I cannot tell you how good it is to see you come home. There is much to be done, much to learn in the next twelve months, my boy.’
Hardly a boy. And the rest of it would wait for the morning. ‘Good night, Uncle. Oh, and I brought my tiger.’ He gestured to Dan, who moved closer to Garrick.
Uncle Duncan glanced at Dan with pursed lips. ‘He belongs in the stables.’ He waved off Garrick’s response. ‘We will talk tomorrow when you feel better. I must attend my guests. Take good care of him, Nidd. Matthews, I’ll see you in the library later.’ He hurried back to the dining room. The stolid Matthews bowed and wandered off.
Nidd’s cadaverous face was anxious. ‘He worries about you, my lord. You know how he is.’
Garrick sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But I wish to God my father hadn’t tied up my affairs so tightly.’
‘You were but a babe then, my lord. He never dreamed he and your mother would go so early.’
A regretful silence filled the empty hall. It pressed down on Garrick’s shoulders with the weight of a granite mountain. He started up the stairs.
In Garrick’s chamber, Nidd eased him out of his coat and went to work on his waistcoat. Garrick gestured at the boy hovering by the door. ‘My wits were begging. I should have sent him to the stables with Johnson.’
‘Leave him to me, my lord. I’ll see he gets there. Johnson was only saying the other day as how he could use more help.’
That was another thing. Why so few servants in the house? In the old days there had been a footman stationed in every corridor. Was something wrong? Did he care?
Sometimes he did, and then the old anger he worked hard to contain erupted.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, seeking distance. ‘Take him now, Nidd. I can manage the rest.’ Since he had no boots to be pulled, undressing presented no difficulty. He opened his eyes as Nidd headed out of the door with his hand on Dan’s bony shoulder. ‘Tell Johnson to treat him gently. He’s had a rough go of things.’
Eyes closed, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers sought his fob. Gone. He stared down at his right hand in horror. His signet ring, a family heirloom handed to him by his dying father, had also been stolen. Rage surged in his veins like a racing tide. This time he let it flow unchecked.
To lose the family signet ring now, when he’d finally made his decision. Damn the woman to hell. Damn him for falling under the spell of her kiss.
He pulled off his shirt and glared at the tester bed with its carved insignia of the Beauworth arms, the shield and white swan, a motif repeated on the moulded ceilings here and in the dining room. The same as the insignia engraved on his ring. He would have it back if he had to search the length and breadth of England. And when he found the woman, she’d rue the day she’d crossed his path.
The next morning after an early breakfast, Garrick traversed the second-floor gallery and made his way down the sweeping staircase. Marble pillars rose gracefully to support the high carved ceiling above a chequerboard floor he couldn’t look at without cringing. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his composure. He was twenty-four, not a scared child. Nor would he allow his uncle’s cautious solicitude to get under his skin.
He knocked on the library door out of courtesy and entered. A polished oak desk dominated one end of the long room. Immersed in the papers before him, Uncle Duncan did not look up.
While Garrick waited, memories curled around him like comforting arms. He could almost hear the sound of his father’s voice, the feel of his arm heavy on Garrick’s young shoulders as they poured over maps or Father told him stories of military engagements.
On a warm spring day like today, the bank of French windows leading to the balcony would have been thrown open, a breeze heavy with the scent of roses from the garden beyond billowing the heavy blue curtains into the room.
He hated the smell of roses.
Garrick blinked, but the recollections remained imprinted in his mind like a flame watched too long: a young boy wide-eyed with imagination, his father, jabbing at the air with his cigar to emphasise some important point of strategy, until Mother chased them out into the fresh air. How his father’s face lit up at the sight of her as she swept in, her powdered black hair piled high, her hands moving as she talked in her mix of French and broken English.
Mother. Like an icy blast from a carelessly opened door in mid-winter, the warmth fled, leaving only a cold, empty space in his chest. Hell. He would have sent Le Clere a note if it had not been cowardly.
It seemed to require every muscle in his body, but somehow Garrick slammed the door on his memories. He locked them away in the same way his father’s old maps were locked behind the panelled doors of the library bookcases and focused his attention on Le Clere instead. Uncle Duncan, as Garrick had called him since boyhood, had grown heavier in the past four years. His ruddy jowls merged with his thick neck. His hair was greyer, but still thick on top and he looked older than his fifty years, no doubt dragged down by responsibility. As if sensing Garrick’s perusal, he raised his flat black eyes. Garrick resisted a desire to straighten his cravat. Damn that the old man could still have that effect on him.
‘Well, Garrick.’ The deep voice that had once reached to the far reaches of a parade ground boomed in the normally