“I went along with your wrong-headed decision to keep Wilhelmina, but now…now, you’ve gone too far.”
“What, what’s happened?” He tried to quell the alarm creeping into his own voice.
“You’ve chosen…” she trailed off and then seemed to rally. She leapt to her feet and commenced pacing in front of the hearth. “You’ve chosen her over my Nurse. How could you? How could you betray me this way?”
“Nurse?” Lord Rumsford thought back over everything that had happened that day and then his eyes widened. “Nurse—. Yes, I signed over a stipend for her retirement, and provided her a cottage here on the estate. You have to admit she’s too advanced in years to handle a lively, clever child like Mina. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“The right thing? The right thing?” Her voice rose, dangerously shrill again.
“Why, yes. She can live out her dotage in comfort. She’s close by, so you can visit her.”
“You miss the whole reason I had my old nurse put in charge of Mina. She needs someone to curb all that exuberance that you encourage. She’ll never find a suitable husband if there’s no one to crush all her naughty tendencies.”
“Mina could have caught her death of a cold, or fallen from the balcony the night of the masquerade, because that attics-to-let old woman opened all the windows in Mina’s bedchamber and then climbed under a pile of blankets in her own bed and ignored the child.”
“You know perfectly well that brat wanders the Abbey at all hours no matter who is in charge of her.”
“I’ve always deferred to you on decisions about the nursery, but this time, I’m not having Mina abused and ignored any longer. My decision is final.” Lord Rumsford stood and returned to his desk chair.
“Have you consulted with the ‘shadow viscountess?’ Do we know whathethinks? He always has an opinion on everything.”
A deep flush rose from his neck to his cheeks, and his anger matched the intensity. “Perhaps you should consult with Mina’s father when you return to London. Maybe his ardor will cool when you tell him how you wish to have your old nurse torture his child.”
The viscountess struck as quickly as a venomous snake, leaning across the desk and slapping her husband soundly.
* * *
WILHELMINA TINDALL’S DIARY
June 18,1833
Mayfair, London
Mr. Jacob Baker, the youngest son of a family that owns a copper smelting factory in Cornwall, sent me a poem about how the blue of my eyes resembles the waters of the Serpentine. If I thought he’d ever arisen early enough to observe the waters of the Serpentine during the light of day, I might be flattered.
His breath always reeks of the smell of spirits and something else sickeningly sweet. He also has an annoying habit of disappearing into hallways at short intervals to do God knows what. I’d actually made up my own mind about Mr. Baker’s unsuitability when we received a mysterious, huge bouquet of wildflowers by messenger. The card said only, “Rumsford House.”
When Bridget was arranging them in a vase, she found a note hidden amongst the stems at the very bottom of the basket. No terms of endearment, of course. Who am I, the scapegrace of the Tindall family, to expect sweet notes from a duke?
The card contained nothing more than a few scrawled words:He’s a lover of the fruit of the poppy. This time His Grace did not even bother to sign the warning. He merely sketched in the likeness of a tiger cat. When I showed the inane drawing to Sir Cinnamon II, he yowled and raked his claws across the paper. My sentiments exactly.
5
Lord Rumsford touched his cheek and worked his jaw a few times before giving her his best military salute. “Touché´, my dear. It appears neither one of us is innocent in this situation, but I intend to see Mina enjoys as happy a life as I can provide.” They exchanged angry stares for a moment before Lord Rumsford returned to the papers he’d been signing earlier. He looked up again and said, “Good day, milady.”
The crashing slam of the study door belied his wife’s delicate, ethereal beauty. Viscount Rumsford sighed and set aside the contracts he’d been working his way through. He stood abruptly and strode after his wife through the still shaking door to his study.
The memory of fierce French cavalry troops and the endless cannon fire during the final battle on the continent paled in comparison to his wife’s assaults on their marriage over the years. He’d been convinced she’d understood, and accepted, the arrangement he’d offered so many years before. But apparently, he’d been too eager to believe in her compliance.
She’d agreed to a marriage in which, after an heir and a spare, she could live her life as she pleased without any interference on his part.
All had been well when George had arrived, followed closely by Wills. And then disaster had struck. Her not-so-secret affair with their head footman, John Taylor, had resulted in an unwise pregnancy.
But when he’d first seen Mina and then held her in his arms, he refused to have her fostered out to a tenant farm family on the estate. The wisps of honey-blonde hair and impossibly blue eyes on the infant had rendered him immediately smitten. And then he’d sworn she’d shined her now famous smile on him, even though Mina’s first nurse had assured him newborns were incapable of smiles. Since then, he’d accepted the tiny heartbreaker as his daughter, his own to claim.
Even he had a hard time explaining his connection to the wee bit of a bundle to his old friend, Sir Thomas. And then the man, who was much more than a friend, fell under Mina’s spell as well.
Lord Rumsford finally caught his wife when she paused halfway up the wide front Abbey staircase. He squeezed her hand gently. “Please. I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you. Please come back to the study, and I’ll have tea brought in.”
