Chapter 4

CHAPTER

a

4

A gatha Wainright, the Dowager Countess of Dartmouth, sat at the desk in her boudoir at Dartmouth Manor. Even though her husband, Reginald, had died nearly a decade earlier, she still claimed the opulent suite for her own. Until Winston married Jasmine, she would continue to use it. In fact, she was thinking she might not even relinquish it then. Why should she?

Jasmine was twenty and she was accustomed to her elders telling her what to do. If Agatha complained that it would be a huge inconvenience to surrender her private quarters, that Jasmine should take the smaller one on the other side of Winston's master suite, then Jasmine would comply with the suggestion. She wouldn't like it, but she'd obey.

The wedding was rapidly approaching and it was supposed to bring many changes in the large mansion. Jasmine, as Winston's bride, was expected to move in and assume control of the house and the servants. The mother-in-law was to slither away and allow her new daughter to seamlessly glide into the role she'd won by snagging the lord and heir. The mother-in-law was to slink off to the Dowager's Cottage and stay out of the way.

Unfortunately for Jasmine, Agatha was only fifty and she had no desire to become irrelevant. She was slender and willowy, her blue eyes sharp and cunning, her grey hair dyed to black, her face smooth and unlined, so she looked thirty rather than her true age. She wasn't about to yield any power.

She'd always run the manor, just as she'd always run Winston's life, and she had no intention of altering her position. Jasmine had been trained to be the wife of a man of Winston's elevated status, but she was barely out of her adolescence, so she was focused on the latest fashions and trends. She could be silly, and Agatha was certain—if Jasmine was given the chance—she'd spend her days shopping and socializing with her juvenile friends.

If she didn't want to fill her hours with frivolous pursuits, if she tried to butt in and exert some influence, Agatha was an expert at manipulation. She would swiftly put Jasmine in her place, so she wasn't a nuisance.

She hadn't gotten dressed yet, but was having her morning chocolate and reading the mail. She dealt with the bills and other mundane issues, then she turned to her personal correspondence, and she was surprised to have received a letter from Winston. There was one from Boggs too, which was a disturbing sign.

Years prior, when Winston had been sixteen and had joined the Navy, Reginald had insisted Boggs tag along to protect him. After Reginald had passed away, and Winston had come home to begin his duties as Earl, Boggs had remained his aide and trusted counselor. But Boggs was, and always had been, Agatha's servant. He apprised her of Winston's actions and misdeeds and he was heartily rewarded for it.

But he could be an irritation too. She had plenty of secrets that she kept from Winston, and it was for his own good. Boggs was aware of what some of them were, and frequently, he was caught between his obligation to Winston and to her. In the end, her wishes prevailed.

She decided to peruse Winston's letter first. No doubt, whatever Boggs had penned, it would be a more detailed explanation of the situation than what Winston had chosen to share.

Very much against her advice, he'd traipsed off to the country. With the wedding in six short weeks, his furtive flight to the coast was very selfish, both to her and to Jasmine, but then, she'd reared him to be selfish. When he acted precisely as he'd been taught, it was ridiculous to protest.

Jasmine had been anxious to flaunt them as a couple at numerous pre-nuptial festivities, so she was disappointed that he'd disappeared on her, but she would have to get used to it. Winston was an important man whose rank was just a few steps away from the King. He would always behave exactly how he wanted to behave, and despite how poor Jasmine presumed otherwise, she would never change him.

He'd been so adamant about sneaking off for a bit that Agatha couldn't imagine what might have spurred him to write. She was braced for any calamity, and as she scanned his missive, she could have slid to the floor in a stunned heap.

The bastard daughter was at Fog Bay! Winston had provided shelter to her. How could such a catastrophe have occurred?

Fog Bay was a tiny, decrepit, ignored property that was mostly shuttered. Agatha bribed the caretaker to watch for letters from the school, then send them on—unread—to Agatha, but in the entire period the girl had been a student at Pemberton, no letter had ever been delivered.

That foolish headmistress, Mrs. Pemberton, had known better. She'd been paid, and paid handsomely, to mind her own business. Why would she have jotted down the name of Fog Bay on any piece of paper? What was she thinking? And why would one of her teachers feel free to travel there and ask questions? It was outrageous conduct.

Agatha opened Boggs's letter, hoping the teacher had perhaps brought the wrong child, but no. She was really there and Winston was inquiring as to whether she had Wainwright relatives.

Well, she had the highest relative of all! She was Winston's natural daughter, the result of a reckless romp with a London tavern wench when he was seventeen. He'd been home on furlough from the Navy, then he'd returned to his ship, so he'd never learned about the incident.

The wench had had the good grace to perish in childbirth, then one of her friends had dumped the infant in Boggs's lap and Boggs had dumped her in Agatha's. In some families, a bastard was tolerated, usually shuffled off to a tenant farmer for him to raise. He would be offered a stipend to cover the costs, but Agatha would never have picked that route.

The Wainwrights had the purest bloodlines in the land and they didn't permit bastards to sully their exalted status. In the normal course of events, she'd have conveyed the baby to an orphanage to die a quick death. It would have been a callous ending, but she didn't have a sympathetic bone in her body, and she wasn't a compassionate individual. Winston was though.

For all his pomp and grandeur, he had a generous heart. He would have wanted to acknowledge the child, to be her parent, but Agatha would never have let that happen. Yet before she could proceed with the orphanage, Boggs had intervened to stop her, and on occasion, he could be very honorable. Agatha had tried to bribe him to look the other way, but it hadn't worked. She'd only managed to buy his silence.

He'd promised to never tell Winston he was a father, so long as Agatha treated the girl appropriately. So Agatha had had her educated, and with her being nearly thirteen, she'd recently betrothed her to the son of a prosperous London merchant. The sole stipulation for the match was that the merchant, Mr. Ludlow, never contact Agatha again. He was a greedy ass and he'd eagerly concurred.

Soon, Agatha would hand the girl over to Mr. Ludlow, and she would become his problem rather than Agatha's. The lengthy fiasco had been about to conclude on schedule, except now, the girl was with Winston. Would he realize who she was and that Agatha had concealed her existence?

Ever since she'd helped to hide Holden's marriage to Antoinnette, she and Winston's relationship had been on shaky ground. She'd been just as incensed about their nuptials as Winston had been, but she'd remained mum as a favor to him. By the time he'd found out what Holden had done, the wedding had been over for months, the union legal and consummated, so they couldn't have severed it. Besides, Holden was so besotted that he wouldn't have let Winston sever it.

Agatha had figured the truth would tear the brothers apart, which it had, and Winston had blamed her for Holden's demise—just as he blamed himself. She'd had to swear she would have no secrets ever again, but even as she'd vowed candor, she'd had the biggest secret of all: Winston had a daughter.

Jasmine was aware of the debacle because her own mother, Florence, had told her about it. Florence had been Agatha's dearest friend and Agatha had confided in her about the scandal. Florence was deceased, so she couldn't blab about it, but Jasmine had been apprised before she'd passed away.

Jasmine and Agatha were in complete accord about the girl: She had to be kept out of sight forever. Jasmine refused to be a stepmother, refused to have the little nuisance impact her life with Winston. She agreed with Agatha that Winston would want to welcome the girl into the family and Jasmine would never allow it to occur.

She was so determined to be shed of the child that she had supplied the money for the dowry. Mr. Ludlow had been keen to receive it, so the situation would be resolved shortly. They just had to prevent Winston from getting too nosy.

The marriage to the Ludlow boy was to be held in a few months, but apparently, matters were unraveling, so the ceremony needed to be rushed. She and Jasmine were so close to their goal and she couldn't have their plans derailed.

She pulled out paper, quill, and ink and began to write several letters.

v

Polly was seated at a table in the Earl's den at Fog Bay. There was a chessboard on it and she was scrutinizing the carved pieces. She wasn't sure she should be in the room. With its dark paneling and sturdy furniture, it was very much a man's space, and she imagined Lord Dartmouth viewed it as his sanctuary.

So far, she hadn't been introduced to him. He was away frequently, riding the country lanes or sailing in the small boat docked down on the water. She couldn't decide if she should be glad or insulted to be ignored by him, but Miss Charlotte claimed that—if Polly met him—she wouldn't like him. He was very important and imperious, so he wouldn't have time to fuss with a charity case like her. It was enough of a benefit that he'd let her and Miss Charlotte stay with him while he investigated her circumstances.

Miss Charlotte had always been Polly's favorite teacher. She was so pretty and so smart. When she'd offered to escort Polly to Fog Bay, Polly had been delighted, but if Lord Dartmouth couldn't find her kin, they'd have to travel to London and seek assistance from Miss Charlotte's awful stepmother.

From the stories Miss Charlotte had shared, that was a very bad idea. Polly was an enormous burden to Miss Charlotte, and since she'd always been a burden to others, she worked hard to be pleasant and amenable. Her position was precarious and she would never give adults a reason to send her away.

It was the middle of the afternoon, the house empty and quiet, and she was bored and at loose ends. The servants were murmuring in the kitchen, but no one else was around. Miss Charlotte was walking on the beach, and Polly could have accompanied her, but she hadn't.

She was an avid reader, and she'd been eager to snoop through the Earl's books, but she'd been scared to ask if she could, so she'd waited for an opportunity when she would be unobserved. She'd also noticed the chessboard in the corner and she loved to play chess. The set was fancy and expensive, beautifully carved from ivory and practically begging to be handled, and she'd snuck in to take a peek.

The various pieces were arranged as if the Earl was studying a difficult maneuver, and she'd already deduced the answer. Her fingers were hovering, as she wondered if she dared move the Queen to solve the riddle.

As she was debating, heavy strides echoed out in the hall, and she flinched, then remained very still. She prayed, whoever it was, they would continue on by without glancing in, but to her dismay, a man stopped and entered the room. He was tall and handsome—like a hero in a fable—with broad shoulders, long legs, and a thin waist, and she was certain she'd finally crossed paths with Lord Dartmouth.

Her school forms had listed her surname as Dartmouth, so she'd assumed she was a member of the posh family, and now that she'd seen the Earl, she was positive they were related. They looked exactly alike and the notion that they were kin was very comforting.

While he held a very high rank in the world, currently he was attired in the clothes of an ordinary fellow: leather trousers, a flowing white shirt, scuffed boots. His black hair curled around his shoulders. It was windswept and messy, his cheeks rosy, as if the temperature outside was brisk and he was chilled.

He appeared fit and magnificent, kind and wise, and she thought—if she could have picked the candidate she'd have liked to have as her father—he'd have been perfect.

She wasn't normally nervous in any situation. She had a natural aplomb that served her well, and she felt she belonged in whatever spot she chose to occupy, but for once, she was trembling. If the den was off-limits, she might be in trouble, and if she had caused problems for Miss Charlotte, she'd never forgive herself.

She stood, as was appropriate when meeting such an exalted personage. He hadn't realized she was present, and he pulled up short, obviously surprised to stumble on her.

"Miss Polly, I presume," he said and he smiled, which was a relief.

"Yes, I'm Polly. Are you Lord Dartmouth?"

"The very one."

"Is it all right that I'm in here? I didn't know if it was allowed and I blustered in without requesting permission."

He waved away her words. "It's fine. Were you lured in by the books? You must like to read."

"Yes, I read constantly."

"Then you may help yourself to any of them."

"Do you have any novels?" she asked. "Or are they on more serious topics?"

"I have some novels. Not many, but some. Is there a type you like? I don't think I have any stories that would be suitable for a girl."

She wrinkled up her nose. "I hate stories written for girls. The characters are so silly. Are there any tales of adventure? I especially like swashbuckling pirates."

"Ah, now you're talking."

He walked over to the shelf, pondered for a minute, then retrieved two titles and brought them over. He motioned her to her seat and he sat too.

"How old are you?" he inquired.

"Twelve, but I'll be thirteen in three months."

"That's a great age," he said as if he meant it. He gave her the first book. "When I was twelve, this was my favorite. It takes place in the Caribbean and I liked it so much that I joined the Navy because of it. Once I grew up, I made sure I sailed there, so I could visit the locations the author describes."

She grinned. "I've always wanted to visit the Caribbean. You're so lucky."

He handed her the second one. "This is set in the Mediterranean and I sailed there too." He gestured to the chessboard. "Do you like to play?"

Her cheeks heated, as if it would be embarrassing to admit it, but she forced herself to confess her interest. "I love it. Our headmistress, Mrs. Pemberton at my school? She taught me."

"I learned from a teacher too."

"It seems that we have a lot in common."

"It does, doesn't it?" he said. "I belong to a chess club."

"There's a club for it? I had no idea."

"We send each other tricky moves and try to solve them. I've been stymied by this one. Have you studied it? What's your opinion? Will I ever figure it out?"

"If I show you, would that be breaking the rules? Can someone furnish you with advice? Or is that cheating?"

He winked, as if they were conspirators. "I'm not supposed to have help, but if you assist me, it will be our secret. We don't have to tell other people the truth about everything."

"No, we definitely don't."

They smiled, identical eyes flashing with mischief, then she explained precisely where the Queen should go and why.

v

Boggs loafed at the rear of the house and gazed out the window at the ocean. Far off in the distance, he could see Miss Cronenworth strolling on the beach. Lord Dartmouth was out there too. He had a small skiff that he used to toddle around the bay. Occasionally, he'd sail down the coast to Baywick. He'd just returned from a jaunt, so they were out there together.

To Boggs's consternation, there was an improper attraction bubbling up between them. He didn't necessarily believe Miss Cronenworth would be amenable to a flirtation, but the Earl was a handsome devil who reveled in his dalliances. If he pursued her, she wouldn't be able to deflect his potent allure.

From the few conversations Boggs had had with her, it was clear she was alone in the world. Apparently, she had some kin, but for reasons she hadn't clarified, she was estranged from them. She'd been raised in lofty conditions, but had tumbled down Society's ladder, so she had no money, prospects, or ability to change her fate. She'd had steady employment as a teacher, but that job was over, so what would become of her?

She was a damsel in distress, and a female in reduced circumstances always caused a fellow's masculine instincts to flare, so it would be easy for the Earl to coax her to folly. The exalted scoundrel ought to know better, but he could really be horrid when he was in the mood to misbehave.

It wasn't any of Boggs's business how the Earl carried on, but he was very worried about Miss Cronenworth. It seemed as if they were trapped in a bubble at rustic Fog Bay, so any sort of illicit conduct could be perpetrated without penalty. Miss Cronenworth was shrewd and smart, but even the most perceptive maiden could fall off the moral path when the temptations were delightful and hard to fight.

Might she succumb to the Earl's advances? If she did, she'd likely assume the Earl would marry her in the end, but he never would. Even if he wasn't about to march to the altar with someone else, he'd never stoop that low.

There was no man on Earth more pompous than Winston Wainwright, and he would never make the odd choice, the unusual choice. More than anyone in the kingdom, he felt that disparate couples should never wed, and Boggs was British enough to agree with him.

Winston Wainwright was so different from commoners like Boggs and Miss Cronenworth that he didn't appear to be from the same species. He was like an angel up in Heaven, and it was impossible to comprehend his attitudes or habits. It was best to stay out of his way.

Boggs whipped away from the window and walked toward the kitchen, thinking he'd have a snack, then proceed to the barn for a nap. He was a long-time servant, but that's all he was. He didn't dine with the Earl, didn't sleep in the house. No, he ate with the staff and bunked with the grooms over the barn. He was fine with that situation though.

During a reckless summer years earlier, when he'd been a randy young stallion, he'd enjoyed a brief affair with the Earl's mother, Agatha, and he'd learned several painful lessons from it. He wasn't keen to be on cordial terms with any of them and he maintained a cautious separation. He liked his position, and for the most part, the family members were courteous and easy to please, but they could be vicious and cruel too, could be dismissive and petty, without even realizing they were being awful.

The Earl wasn't so bad, but Boggs had seen his parents fire employees for nothing. He'd seen them close ranks and blame innocent bystanders for their own misdeeds. They never paused to wonder how they were viewed by others. They didn't care how they were viewed.

As he neared the stairs, Polly flitted down them. She'd grabbed a shawl, as if she was headed outside.

"Hello, Boggs," she said. She was such a charming, pretty girl and the Pemberton school had done a fabulous job with her.

"Hello to you too, Miss Polly. Where are you off to at such a fast pace?"

"I noticed Lord Dartmouth has returned with his boat. Do you know I've never been on a boat?"

"Haven't you? The Earl and I sailed the globe together when he was in the Navy. I can't imagine not having had that experience."

"If I inquired politely, might he take me out on it? Or at least show it to me? If he isn't busy, that is."

She couldn't fraternize with the Earl, and Boggs didn't dare foster a friendship between them, so he had to lie. "He would love that, but are you off to ask him now?"

"Yes. I thought I'd catch him before he comes inside."

"He has an appointment this afternoon. He's leaving for it the moment he has a chance to wash and change his clothes."

"Drat it! I was so excited about it. I guess I'll read a book in the den."

"That's probably a better plan."

She went down the hall, and he stood in his spot, feeling torn and weary. Ever since she and Miss Cronenworth had arrived, he'd been swamped by the most overwhelming sense that doom was racing in his direction. What perils would it create? How destructive would it be?

He'd written to the Dowager to apprise her of the debacle and he was waiting for her reply. He hoped she had an idea as to how to resolve the fiasco because Boggs was at a loss. The Earl was commencing a flirtation with Miss Cronenworth, so it meant he was in no hurry to be shed of her. Yet each minute she spent in the cottage, the prospects for disaster grew.

Boggs was just a servant, just a working man. He'd been born at Dartmouth, where his father had been a horse groom and his mother a housemaid. He'd had a stint in the army, then he'd traveled home and had stayed put. He'd kept the family's secrets—as any competent servant would—but he didn't like them.

The secret about Miss Polly was the worst one of all. He shouldn't have assisted the Dowager in her skullduggery toward the girl. He should have immediately tattled to the Earl that he had a daughter, but he hadn't. The Earl had been on maneuvers off the Scottish coast, and Boggs had feared that, by the time he could have been contacted, the child would have vanished. Boggs had saved her life as best he could. He'd guaranteed she was educated, that she'd be suitably wed someday, but that was all he could manage for her.

Because of his prior amour with the Dowager, he could manipulate her in minor ways, and he'd used his meager influence for Polly's benefit, but it was too late to be truthful with the Earl. If the Earl discovered how duplicitous Boggs had been, there was no predicting how he might react. Boggs had furtively involved himself with the Dowager, to the Earl's great detriment. Candor would only bring dire consequences and he was too old to courageously face them.

Polly's birth had ensured Boggs received plenty of bribe money from the Dowager to shut his mouth. He'd accumulated a hefty nest egg, and he'd always wanted to move away from the Wainwrights, to somewhere isolated and quiet. Maybe he'd open a tavern and he'd find a sturdy, pleasant wife to join him in the venture.

With his having to babysit the Earl for so many years, he'd never had the option to marry. But he'd like to settle down, would like to shuck off his responsibility to arrogant, spoiled Winston Wainright, to horrid, spiteful Agatha.

Perhaps the time was approaching when he would be forced to do exactly that.