The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

Marcus grunted. “Your voice is better than the song, Spears. At least it rhymes. Napoleon gave us thirty days when?”

“To leave Berlin, my lord. Schwarzenberg had commanded Bernadotte to protect the city, but as you know, Bernadotte gave orders to abandon Berlin and would have if his subordinate Bulow hadn’t talked him out of it.”

“Ah, but it isn’t all that accurate, Spears. There was nothing about thirty or thirty-one days. Well, perhaps there were a few jests about it, but it wasn’t a fact.”

“It is lyrical license, my lord, surely the prerogative of a ditty writer. I understand this ditty writer is quite the popular man in the army ranks. The men are singing his little trifles as they march along.”

Marcus was smiling, finding himself singing the silly little song when Sampson opened the great doors to Chase Park and bowed him inside. Marcus was at last used to the deference and the endless services heaped upon him by his staff. He thanked Sampson, as was his wont, and said, “I suppose Crittaker is awaiting me in the estate room, a woeful look on his hangdog’s face and a pile of papers for me to review.”

“Yes, my lord, I believe that is quite accurate a description. I heard him shout some twenty minutes ago, shortly after I delivered your lordship’s mail to him. I immediately went into the estate room with the repellent thought that he had succumbed to an apolaustic outburst, which, I might add, would have been vastly inappropriate, but he hadn’t. It is evidently a missive of grave importance, my lord, and he had inadvertently, in his shock and surprise, given verbal vent to his, er, feelings.”

“What the devil does apolaustic mean?”

“It refers to the giving of enjoyment or pleasure. It is an act of self-indulgence, my lord, something to be avoided unless one is lucky enough to so indulge.”

“You’re quite right, Sampson, I should have boxed his ears had he done it in my presence.”

“Rightfully so, my lord.”

Marcus, now thoroughly intrigued, didn’t change, but rather strode directly to his estate room, flung open the door and said, “Tell me, Crittaker, with no tumult or stewing, exactly what news made you vent your, er, feelings.”

Mr. Crittaker said nothing, merely handed Marcus a single sheet of paper.

Marcus read and read again, sucked in his breath and said, “My God! This is quite beyond anything I could ever have imagined. Do feel free to indulge in another fit of apolaustic behavior, Crittaker.”

“Apolaustic, my lord?”

“You heard me, man. Surely you know the meaning of apolaustic. You are my secretary, after all, and it’s your duty to be up on all meanings of all words I may use.”

Crittaker was silent as the clock on the mantel, broken now for over seventy-five years. He looked to be in agony.

“It appears that the Duchess will be coming to us shortly,” Marcus said, looking through the narrow windows that gave onto the winter-barren east lawn. “That is, she will be coming to us for at least a short time. She doesn’t say that she will remain. Though she will remain, if she isn’t completely stupid. I suppose I will see to it that she does remain. She is a woman. I am a man. She will obey me for I am the earl and her cousin and it is her duty to do as I tell her.”

“Mr. Spears believes it will be a close call, my lord.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. It seemed that his butler, his secretary, and his valet had formed a coalition. “The Duchess is proud, I agree, but she isn’t stupid, at least I trust not, in this particular instance.”

“Spears said that pride many times exonerates a greater stupidity than a blank brain.”

Marcus carefully folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and took himself upstairs to change his clothes. Well, Duchess, he thought to himself, at last you will have to come to me. It wasn’t until later that he reread the letter once more and focused on the final sentence. “Mr. Wicks wishes to see you on Thursday following my arrival. You doubtless already know this.”

What the devil did his uncle’s London solicitor want? Was there more afoot than he knew? But what?

She arrived at Chase Park one week before Christmas. The deadline had been the first of January 1814, but she had decided to have it over and done with. Badger stood beside her on the great front steps holding one small valise for her, and she was in the process of lifting her gloved hand to knock on the e

vil-looking lion’s head knocker that had quite terrified her as a child, but of course, she’d never let on that it had.

Before her hand descended the door was opened and she was faced with a beaming Sampson.

“Miss Duchess! Ah, Lady Duchess! What a pleasure, a wonderful event, do come in, yes, do come in. Who is this person?”

“This is Badger. He is my—valet.”

“Ah, well, no matter, doubtless his lordship will sort out everything to your satisfaction. He is awaiting you in his library. Do come with me, Lady Duchess. Your, er, valet—”

“My name is Erasmus Badger, sir.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Badger, I will take you upstairs myself to introduce you to Mr. Spears, his lordship’s valet. Perhaps the three of us can come together later and discuss, er, things.”