The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Certainly not, my lord. The very thought offends deeply. Your other boot, my lord.”

Marcus stuck out his other foot, still mulling and brooding and sprinkling all of it with an occasional curse. “This bloody Mr. Wicks who’s coming on the morrow, what the hell does he want? What’s going on?”

“I daresay we will know soon now, my lord. I recommend, my lord, that you allow Mr. Badger to remain at Chase Park. He’s a man of excellent skills and his brain is of the first order.”

“He was her damned chef.”

“Yes, I will speak to Mrs. Gooseberry. Perhaps she can be, er, cozied into allowing Mr. Badger to prepare an occasional meal for the family.”

“You miss the point, Spears. She was living with Badger, alone, together. It isn’t done. She’s barely nineteen years old.”

“Your lordship surely realizes that Mr. Badger could be her father. He loves her deeply, just as a father ought to love his offspring. He would never harm her. He would protect her with his life.”

So would I, Marcus thought, then cursed. He was now standing naked in front of a blazing fire, his hands outstretched to the flames.

“Would you care for a nightshirt tonight, my lord? I understand from Biddle, the second footman who has lived here his entire life, indeed, whose family has lived here for six generations, that tonight will bring frigid temperatures.”

“No,” Marcus said as he scratched his side. “No nightshirt. The bloody things belong on women, not on men. What do you think this Wicks fellow wants, Spears?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord. However, if you would care to get into bed, you could spend some time thinking about the possibilities. You would be warm rather than cold.”

Marcus said nothing, merely climbed into the huge bed, sinking down instantly into the cocoon of warmth. Spears had used a warming pan and Marcus sighed with pleasure. It was quite unlike lying between the two thin blankets on the floor of his tent in Portugal.

“Is there anything else your lordship requires?”

“Humm? Oh no, thank you, Spears. Oh, have you seen Esmee?”

“Esmee, the last time I came into rather close contact with her, my lord, was stretched on her belly in front of this fireplace, sleepi

ng quite soundly.”

“Ouch! Here she is, Spears. After you warmed the sheets, she must have decided this was softer than the damned floor. It’s disconcerting when she wraps herself around my belly.”

“She’s a very affectionate feline, my lord.”

Marcus grunted at that and Spears appreciated his lordship’s obvious verbal restraint.

“Sleep well, my lord. We will see this Mr. Wicks soon enough.”

Mr. Wicks arrived the following morning at eleven o’clock. Marcus watched the old gentleman step gingerly down from the carriage. He couldn’t make out his features for he was swathed in a huge muffler, a fur hat with ear flaps, and at least three scarves, all intertwined over his greatcoat, an immensely thick wool affair that nearly dragged the ground.

He walked back into his library, guessing it would take Mr. Wicks at least a half an hour to be divested of his outer garments.

When Sampson gently knocked on the door and entered quietly, Marcus merely turned and raised a black brow at him.

“Mr. Wicks requests that the Duchess be present, my lord. Actually, he, er, insists she be present.”

“He does, does he? Well, I suspected as much, truth be told. Have her fetched, Sampson.”

“She is here, my lord, speaking right now with Mr. Wicks. She is assisting him out of all his layers of gear.”

“Ah, so kind of her,” he said, feeling testy and sounding sarcastic because he didn’t know what was going on. Well, actually he did know. Obviously Mr. Wicks had come to inform him of the amount of money his uncle had settled on her. Who cared? He would have settled money on her himself, in any case, as a dowry. He said, “When the Duchess has completed her disrobing of Mr. Wicks, do show them in, Sampson.”

It was, in truth, another ten minutes before Mr. Wicks, a scrawny, quite old, rheumy-eyed gentleman, walked into the library, the Duchess at his side. The old man looked around him with great interest. The library was a wealth of history, Marcus thought, feeling a surge of unconscious pride. He looked at the Duchess. There was no expression whatsoever on her face. She looked serene and calm as the damned mistress of the Park, as if Mr. Wicks were the vicar here to discuss an excursion to the lime wells near Bell Busk for the orphans.

But Mr. Wicks was a London solicitor of some renown. He was the man Marcus’s uncle had hired to legitimize the Duchess. What more was there other than a monetary settlement? Odd that his uncle had hired an entirely different solicitor to deal with this matter rather than one of the distinguished Messieurs Bradshaw, solicitors for the Wyndhams, father to son, for the past eighty years.

What the devil was going on here?