Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

DANIEL COMES HOME

G winnie was coming down the stairs Sunday morning when Jimmie answered the front door to a large, Black man wearing a greatcoat over a neat, plain suit with a silver-and-green figured waistcoat. He held a bowler hat in one hand and a portmanteau in the other.

"Tom Cott to see His Grace, the Duke of Malmsby," he said crisply, with a slight country accent, Gwinnie thought. "I've been sent by Mr. Lewis Martin."

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Cott," Gwinnie said from behind Jimmie.

"You must be the Lady Guinevere Lewis told me about," he said, smiling.

"I am. Jimmie, please let the man in and go tell my father Mr. Cott is here."

"Yes, my lady," Jimmie said, limping away on his still-healing sprained ankle.

Gwinnie stared after the young man for a moment. She shook her head. She'd heard his foot had slipped off the curb and twisted when he jumped out of the way from three running and yelling street urchins pushing a stolen tinker's cart. "He needs to stay off that ankle for another few days or he will hurt it worse."

"Now that I be 'ere, perhaps the lad'll 'ave that opportunity," Mr. Cott said.

Gwinnie liked his calm demeanor. Though a big man, he did not speak with a big voice. It was one of those voices that sounded like it was more accustomed to laughing than yelling. His dark brown eyes shone with comfort. He was not as tall as she, but his broad shoulders and barrel chest had the impression of great size.

"You can leave your portmanteau, your coat, and your hat here," Gwinnie told him, pointing to the footman's alcove.

"Thank you, my lady," he said, bowing to her.

Mercy ran down the stairs. "His Grace says you are to come up to join him for breakfast."

"Where is Jimmie?" Gwinnie asked.

"His Grace says as how he was to stay off that foot and if he wanted to do something he was certain Mr. Harold could give him silver to shine."

Gwinnie and Mr. Cott laughed. She heard his humor rumble out of him.

"I 'ave already eaten," Mr. Cott said. "I could wait 'ere, until His Grace finishes."

"Nonsense," Gwinnie said. "I'm sure a man of your stature could eat several meals a day. Besides, my father likes to hold meetings over breakfast. Keeps them more informal, he says. You will see, he is not a formal man. Forget all you think you know about dukes," she said with a laugh.

She led him up the stairs to the breakfast parlor. "Father, this is Mr. Cott, the gentleman Mr. Martin talked to us about yesterday."

The duke rose and held out his hand to the man. Mr. Cott paused, uncertain, then placed his hand in the duke's. "Glad to have you with us," the duke said. "Sit— what would you like, coffee or tea?"

"Tea," he said softly.

The duke waved to Mercy to serve him.

"I hear you are a veteran of the 88th Regiment Foot."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"That was a good regiment. The newspaper always was saying how many times the 88th routed the French."

Mr. Cott grinned. "They didn' like our bayonets."

"That's what I've read. And now you are a pugilist?"

"Yes, I'm tryin' to save money to buy in as a tenant farmer, or become a yeoman farmer, if I'm lucky."

"Do you have experience with farming?"

"Yes, Your Grace, my family were wage labor for a large tenant farm in Yorkshire."

The duke nodded. "I like that you have goals. Good goals for our country."

Mercy served Mr. Cott a plate full of breakfast items. Gwinnie thought his eyes got as round as saucers.

"Go ahead and eat, Mr. Cott. I don't know all that Mr. Martin has told you, so I will just start rambling about the family and the possible challenges ahead of us that may need your help."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

The duke spent the next twenty minutes while Mr. Cott ate talking about his interest in inventions and what they could do for the nation, and the pushback he was getting from those who were afraid the new machines would take away their livelihoods.

"There will need to be some retraining, of course, but I don't see the number of workers being reduced. I do respect their fears but not the pushback. Change is inevitable. It is how we react to the changes that determines the outcomes. I'd like to train people to be ready for change."

Mr. Cott laughed. "I'm sure that is not as easy as it might sound."

"No, it is not."

Mr. Cott nodded. "My father would be one of those filled with fear for losing his job, particularly as a Black man. Don't think he'd be a rabble-rouser though— that's not his nature, but he would worry and pray."

"Unlike your father, there would be people only too happy to cause problems."

"I see that, Your Grace," Mr. Cott said, nodding.

"I have received letters threatening me and my family."

Mr. Cott frowned. "So Mr. Martin said. Said I'm to 'elp protect everyone."

The duke nodded. "I warn you, however, my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Malmsby, and my daughter here, can be stubborn."

"Never say so," protested Gwinnie.

"Don't give into them," the duke said firmly, looking intently at Mr. Cott from under his dark, bushy brows, his lips pressed in a firm line.

"Father!" protested Gwinnie. He ignored her.

"But the next group of people I would tell you of are the Norwalks," the duke continued. "The Dowager Countess of Norwalk likes to fund inventors and their inventions. She has also received threats, but she insists on ignoring them. I'd say she is more stubborn than my mother and my daughter combined."

"You cannot be serious," Gwinnie said, her eyes flaring.

Her father glanced in her direction, then back at Mr. Cott. "I am. They will be here this afternoon so you will have the opportunity to meet them."

Mr. Cott touched his napkin to his lips. "Might I 'ave a tour of the property?" he asked.

"Excellent request, Mr. Cott. I will have Mr. Harold, our butler, give you a complete tour. Afterward, we will go over the plans for the next few days." He rang for the butler.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"If you are serious about the danger," Gwinnie said after Mr. Cott left with Harold, "one man— no matter how broad his shoulders are, or how many pugilistic exhibitions he's won— can protect us all."

"I know. I'm hoping the presence of an escort will show we are not as vulnerable and make these miscreants think twice before taking action. In addition, I have been thinking steadily of what we discussed yesterday. Maybe I am rushing too fast. Working with Mr. Edmunds yesterday made me realize these inventors are starting to see money signs in their eyes when their inventions are not perfected yet."

"So, you are saying we need to talk to Lady Norwalk? Maybe persuade her to hold off on her funding for a while?"

"Yes. And what would be the most appropriate under the circumstances, would be for them all to return to Devon at this time."

Though Gwinnie had been looking forward to spending more time with Helena— they so seldom got to see each other— she agreed with her father. Oh, bother!

"Finally, I've found you!" Gwinnie's grandmother said later that afternoon as she walked into the music room. "I almost didn't think to look for you in here, as quiet as it was. What are you doing?" she asked, as she crossed the room.

"I'm going through the quartet music I have. I need to make decisions as to what we will play when the spring social season gets underway."

"Can't you just do what you did last year?" Her grandmother sat on the small blue armchair near the fireplace, near where Gwinnie sat on the floor, sheets of music surrounding her. The light-blue-painted room was not filled with the comfortable furniture that decorated other parlors in the house. Other than the one settee and two armchairs, the furniture consisted primarily of chairs for listening to music.

Gwinnie scrunched her face up. "I could, but I don't like to. It is better for us to practice new pieces. It keeps our playing fresh— though there are a few hostesses for whom a repeat of last year wouldn't be amiss. They have no appreciation of music other than something society says should be part of a party." She looked down at the music she had in her hand, shook her head, and pushed it aside.

The duchess leaned back in her chair, a pensive smile on her face. "I hadn't considered the work you go through for balls and your little concerts."

Gwinnie smiled as she nodded. "It is work, but I enjoy it, almost as much as I enjoy teaching the women at Mrs. Southerland's."

"You like working with these women more than your music?" the duchess asked. She looked quizzically at her granddaughter. "When did that happen? For years, music was all you talked of."

Gwinnie looked up at her grandmother as she laughed. "And I still love music. But my love for music is for me, like when I played the violin on the ramparts of Baydon Castle when I was there last year, the wind whipping through my hair." She hugged herself at the memory, an impish smile on her lips. She looked back up at her grandmother. "I don't care if I play for anyone else's enjoyment— and I certainly dislike it when no appreciation for the music is shown by those I play for." Her smile fading. "That it is taken for granted."

She paused and tilted her head to the side as she thought. "But the women I teach, they so much want to help themselves. They want to rise above whatever circumstances have tossed them into misery. If you could see their faces as they listen, soaking up the words I say to them, you would understand," Gwinnie explained, her face glowing with her enthusiasm. She felt a trifle embarrassed at her enthusiasm and returned her attention to her music sorting.

The duchess rang the servants' bell as Gwinnie continued her task.

She hadn't really thought before about her changing attitude toward her music. It was just something she had done since she was a child. Was she tired of music? She didn't think so; however, what she told her grandmother stirred something within her. For her, music was personal. She loved it. She did not love the inattention of people when the quartet played, or the rude hostesses who dictated what they played and desired the same pieces repeatedly.

Now she had a quartet whose members depended on her to get them opportunities to play and get paid for doing so. If she didn't negotiate the jobs, they might starve.

Gwinnie's brow creased as she went through another stack of music. She felt trapped. She hadn't articulated the feeling for herself before now, but there it was, hitting her in her heart. But she couldn't abandon the quartet!

" Please serve tea in here? " she heard the Duchess ask the footman who answered the bell. Gwinnie looked up. She'd almost forgotten her grandmother was in the room with her. She felt guilty for ignoring her.

"Certainly, Your Grace," the footman said.

"We could have gone to the Lady Margaret Parlor for our tea," Gwinnie protested.

Her grandmother waved her hand. "I am comfortable where I am, and you are well into your task. Here works as well as the parlor across the hall," she said airily.

Gwinnie neatened her piles of music into two types: music to be retired for a time and music to play this year, and opened the French-painted music cabinet to put the music away. She smiled when she realized the piece of music that had ended up on the top of the keep pile was one she and Mr. Martin had played that morning.

That was fun.

"Did you know that Mr. Martin plays the pianoforte?" Gwinnie asked her grandmother as she slid the music in place and shut the cabinet door.

"No! Does he play well?"

"Very well. I learned that when Uncle Candelstone was shot. He came to interview the quartet about that night. The group was nervous. I think he played the pianoforte to get the musicians to relax around him."

"If he did, he would be highly knowledgeable about people," her grandmother said.

Gwinnie nodded. "I think he is," she said, a hint of wonder in her voice. She then smiled at her grandmother with a hint of mischief. "And I made audacious use of him this morning to accompany me as I played one of the new pieces I am considering. Father had a visitor and asked that we wait until his visitor was gone to finish our conversation, so I decided to put the time to good use."

The maid, Mercy, came in with the tea, followed by the footman returning the music room's sherry service— which Gwinnie was delighted to see returned.

Gwinnie poured the tea, making it like her grandmother preferred.

"Mr. Martin seems to have become quite useful to the family," her grandmother said as she accepted the teacup and saucer from Gwinnie.

"Yes. This may sound odd; however, I feel he understands us." Gwinnie tilted her head as she smiled. She turned back to fixing her own tea.

"What do you mean?" her grandmother asked, leaning forward toward Gwinnie.

Gwinnie sat in the armchair nearest her grandmother. "Our manner of being in society. Our sense of humor. Our interests," she said easily. "We aren't like many in the ton are, caught up in their importance and, because of that, afraid to step out of the tightly constrained box of their heredity." She looked up at her grandmother again. "Gracious, consider, a duke's daughter playing the violin as part of an evening's entertainment? A duke's heir writing lurid gothic novels? Another son becoming a physician?— And we must not forget the duchess who likes to play practical jokes," Gwinnie said pointedly, staring at her grandmother.

"Nonsense, I haven't played a practical joke in months," protested the duchess, straightening.

Gwinnie laughed.

The dowager duchess pursed her lips. "I must tell you, Mr. Martin reminds me of someone, and every time I try to think of who it might be, it slips away," the duchess complained, pursing her lips together.

"Maybe what I learned the night Mrs. Southerland was murdered, might help you to recall," Gwinnie said, suddenly anxious to know of Mr. Martin's family. "We were chatting together, having tea, and awaiting her return. He said it is his fault he is base-born. He was born early and his father had not yet returned from procuring the special marriage license he'd gone after."

"Interesting," her grandmother said. She cocked her head, smiling.

Gwinnie swore she could almost see her grandmother thinking, so pensive was her smiling expression. She believed her grandmother had a glimmer of an idea as to who Mr. Martin's family was.

"Did his father raise him?" her grandmother asked suddenly.

"Yes, and from what I understand, his father thought he should have a career as a solicitor, but he became more interested in crime. He is different from what one would consider a Bow Street agent. He is well educated, and he plays the pianoforte brilliantly."

The duchess leaned back on the sofa. Her smile grew brighter. "I had no idea, though I might have guessed."

"You know who his family is?" Gwinnie asked. "Who?"

Her grandmother waved her hand airily but did not answer Gwinnie. Instead, she said: "I knew I liked him from the time he was at Versely Park during the threats to the Michelangelo sketches."

"I consider him a friend," Gwinnie confessed to her grandmother.

The Dowager Countess looked at her granddaughter. She nodded and smiled broadly. "And so you should."

Lewis sat in his study situated in the front of his small house when the Earl of Soothcoor's carriage arrived.

Lewis laid down his quill. Daniel was home. Then he laughed at himself for referring to Daniel being home. He'd taken in the boy as his ward less than a year ago. He'd settled in nicely, and now Lewis could not imagine the boy not being part of his life.

He grinned, Daniel had only been at school two weeks, and he'd missed the scamp. But he couldn't let him know that. He dismissed his smile. He had to have a serious look when he greeted the boy, for he was only home because he'd gotten into mischief and injured himself.

When he got outside, Lord Soothcoor was gingerly helping the boy descend from the carriage. Daniel's left arm lay in a sling. He stood stiff and straight, no doubt due to the tight wrapping of his ribs.

Lewis bowed to the earl. "Thank you, my lord, for bringing Daniel back to London."

"I had to come anyway to attend this inquest for Mrs. Southerland," he said. "Do you know who killed her?"

"No, my lord. Mr. Gedney of the coroner's office is leading the investigation."

"Does he have any good leads?"

"No. I was just organizing my notes when you arrived. The Duke of Malmsby has hired me to take over the investigation if there is no solid suspect from Mr. Gedney's actions."

Soothcoor frowned and nodded. "We'll talk later. The horses shouldn't be standing in this cold after the drive here," he said. He climbed back into his carriage and signaled his coachman to drive on.

"Lord Soothcoor tol' me he was comin' back to Lunnon for Mrs. Southerland's inquest. I never met that lady; who was she?" Daniel asked.

Lewis picked up the portmanteau the carriage footman had set down beside Daniel, and placed his left arm under Daniel's right to help him up the stone steps before the house.

Daniel tried to shrug away from him. "I don't need no help," he declared.

"Maybe not," Lewis said. "My hand beneath your elbow steadying you ensures that."

"I'm not an infant," Daniel complained.

They climbed the stairs to the door. "No, you are an idiot for using your shoes as skates on the ice."

"It worked!"

"Until you fell," Lewis reminded him as he opened the black-painted front door.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Mr. Martin," said his man, Philip Lindsay coming into the entrance hall. "Can I be of assistance?"

"Take his winter wear, then ask Mrs. Fullerton to meet us in Daniel's room. You go on up with Daniel's portmanteau. I want everyone to hear what the rules are to be for Daniel's recovery so there can be no wheedling," Lewis said strongly, looking down at Daniel as they walked to the stairway that would take him up two flights to his bedroom.

"I'd never," Daniel said stiffly.

Lewis stared at him; his lips compressed in a disbelieving smirk.

"I could have stayed at school. I didn't have to come home," Daniel said.

"If you had followed instructions, that would be true. I understand you rarely remained in bed as the doctor requested."

"I feel better, nothin' hurts as much as it did."

"Daniel, cracked and broken ribs are serious. They could have punctured your lungs. And as damaged as they are now, there could be more damage if you don't allow them to grow back together."

Daniel made a disgusted face.

"The fact it doesn't hurt as much is good. We'll have Dr. Brogan check on your ribs and your wrist this week. I do wish Dr. Nowlton was in town, though."

"Is he the brother of that tall, pretty lady with the red hair?"

"Yes. Lady Guinevere Nowlton. I didn't know you knew her," Lewis said, as they reached the second floor.

Daniel side-eyed him. "I know you're sweet on her," he said slyly.

"I like her. She's a friend, as much as a Bow Street agent and a duke's daughter can be friends. That's not courting sweet," he said.

"I used to see her down near the docks afore I moved in with you. But she wasn't dressed like no duke's daughter."

"Hmm," was all Lewis could manage to say to that, but his mind flooded with thoughts of all the times she had undoubtedly put herself in the line of trouble. He led Daniel over to a chair by the desk in the room. "Sit," he said. He took off Lewis's shoes.

"Here's Daniel's portmanteau," Lindsay said, coming into the room. "Mrs. Fullerton will be up in a moment. She is preparing something for Daniel to eat."

Lewis nodded. "Find a nightshirt in there." He carefully removed Daniel's sling, then pulled his bad arm out of the jacket, then the other.

Immediately Lindsay opened the bag and pulled out a white muslin nightshirt.

Lewis had Daniel stand up, then pulled his shirt over his head. "Mr. Lindsay, help me get this nightshirt on him and his pants off. I'd like to have him in bed before Mrs. Fullerton gets here." He examined the bandage around Daniel's chest, satisfied it remained tight and would prevent improper movement.

"See if we have extra pillows we can use to prop him upright."

"Oh, we do, Mr. Martin," Mrs. Fullerton said, coming in the room with a tea tray. "In the linen closet near your room."

"I'll get them," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Now then, Young Master Wrightson, I baked an apple pie today when I heard you were coming home. I thought you would quite enjoy that your first day back and stuck in bed. And the tea I made special for you with plenty of milk and sugar, just like you like it."

"Wonderful! Thank you, Mrs. Fullerton," Daniel said. He lunged forward to grab the plate only to stop suddenly with a pained look on his face. "I keep forgetting," he said, his voice tight with pain.

"Which is precisely why you were sent home from school," Lewis said.

"Here are pillows to support you while you sit up," Mr. Lindsay said, coming into the room.

"I'll get these situated," Mrs. Fullerton said, taking them from the man and carefully placing them behind Daniel to support him. "When you want to lie down you must tell one of us so we can help you. I imagine all the jolting about in the carriage today has not done you any good," she said.

"Excellent point, Mrs. Fullerton," Lewis said.

"Do you need me to stay the night?" she asked.

"No, your family needs you home."

"Oh posh," she said. "They's old enough to takes care of themselves. But if you need me, you let me know and I can make arrangements."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fullerton."

"But I believe you and Mr. Lindsay here, needs to see young Daniel stays quiet. Not easy for him. Look how easily he forgot and went after the pie I brought and grimaced in pain. Master Daniel, did you bring any schoolbooks home with you?" the housekeeper asked.

"Yes," he said, with pathetic resignation.

"I thought you liked school," Lewis said.

"I do, I just don't like reading The History of Britanica right now."

Lewis laughed. "I wouldn't either. Is there anything you would like to read?"

"One of those gothic novels!"

"Is your reading up to that level already?"

"Yes," he said proudly. "Head of the class."

"What a clever boy you are," said Mrs. Fullerton.

"Too clever, sometimes," Lewis said drily. "I'm not a gothic reader, but I do have one given to me by its author. I'll bring that up to you, otherwise you will have to wait until Lindsay or Mrs. Fullerton can go to the subscription library tomorrow. I will be busy with the murder inquest."

"Who's the author?"

Lewis grinned. "I can't tell you. The book says Anonymous on it."

"Well, I'd best go look to dinner," Mrs. Fullerton said. "If you be needing anything from me, just tell Mr. Martin or Mr. Lindsay."

"Yes, ma'am," Daniel said.

"Lindsay, if you would, stay here with Dan while I get the book for him and my writing supplies. I can use his desk to finish organizing my notes. I'll stay with him this afternoon. I want to get a sense of how he is."

"Understood, Mr. Martin. And if he and I leave our bedroom doors open tonight, I shall hear him from my room across the hall should he need anything."

"Yes, I was wondering if I should set a pallet up in his room; however, I think what your suggested will work better."

"Mr. Martin?" Lewis heard from the darkened corner of the room where Daniel lay in bed.

"Yes?" Lewis answered. It was getting late, and he should be seeking his own bed, but once he'd started his notes and letter inquiries in Daniel's room, it had just been easier to continue at his small desk.

Daniel would recover from his injuries. Lewis knew he felt overly concerned. Somehow, the lad had gotten under his skin, just as Lady Guinevere had. At least he could take care of young Daniel. He wished he could take care of Gwinnie, as he would love to call her.

"You need a stool," Daniel's almost disembodied voice said from the shadows.

Lewis turned toward him. "A stool?"

"Yes. You need a courting stool. For Lady Guinevere," he said seriously.

Lewis laughed.

"So you can kiss her," Daniel continued.

He'd obviously been thinking about this for a while. "A fact of society is gentlemen born out of wedlock can't kiss a duke's daughter," Lewis said, the idea of kissing Lady Guinevere's full, lush lips flashed in his mind, and he found himself yearning for her.

"Why not? You're a man and she's a woman."

Lewis choked out a little laugh. "I wish it were that easy… You should be asleep. Sleep will help the bones knit together faster."

"I know. I was just lying here thinking," Daniel said. "Mr. Martin?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for taking me in."

"I enjoy your company. And I think you should call me Lewis, not Mr. Martin."

Daniel was silent for a moment. "Goodnight, Lewis."

"Goodnight." Lewis gathered up his writing and turned out the oil lamp on the desk. "Remember, if you need anything during the night, you have only to call out to Mr. Lindsay."

"Yes," said a sleepy voice in return.

Lewis stood at the doorway looking toward Daniel, then left the door open and went downstairs to his rooms.