A Dangerous Nativity Read Online Free Page B

Instead, his pursed lips all too
eloquently showed his opinion of an earl who stormed into his
refuge dirty from road and horse.
    The old man quickly shifted his gaze past the
earl's left shoulder. "May I assist you, my lord?" he oozed.
    "You have been butler at Eversham many years,
have you not, Stowe?"
    "I had the honor of serving His Grace's
grandfather, the seventh duke," Stowe told him.
    Will considered Stowe's likely loyalty to
Emery, his ingrained belief in Eversham's routines, even the ones
Will abhorred, and knew a moment of doubt. Impulse drove him
anyway.
    "Can you tell me what lies between Eversham
and its neighbors at Songbird Cottage?"
    "Lies between, my lord?"
    "Why, for example, does the kitchen of this
house not obtain its eggs from Songbird?" That should be a safe
enough start.
    "His Grace so ordered it, my lord." Stowe
clamped his lips closed.
    "But why?"
    "It isn't my place, my lord, but…" he
hesitated.
    Will nodded. "Go on, go on."
    "The seventh duke knew the vicar's daughter
was no better than she ought to be. He went so far as to step aside
when he saw her in the village."
    "What about his son?"
    "The seventh duke forbade his son to see
her," the old man said as if it explained everything. "Will that be
all?" He looked ready to escape.
    "The seventh duke? You mean the current
duke's grandfather?"
    Stowe found it unnecessary to reply while
Will stood looking at an equestrian print on the butler's wall,
reasoning it out. Charles's grandfather forbade Emery "the vicar's
daughter," and so Songbird Cottage. Why should that apply to
Charles? Is Catherine the vicar's daughter? She can't be. He tried
to remember when the seventh duke died. After Sylvia's wedding, but
when?
    He seized on the one solid piece of
information he had. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"
    Stowe looked pained.
    "Come, come, man. Speak up."
    "Master Arthur didn't know his place," the
old man said through tight lips.
    "His place?" He called Wheatly "Master
Arthur," as if he knew him as a child.
    "The duke forbade his sons to go near the
vicar's daughter, that is what I know." He clamped his jaw
shut.
    Will no longer doubted that Lord Arthur was
Emery's brother. Their father had forbidden both his sons to go
near the vicar's daughter. One, or both, failed to respect their
father's wishes.
    I see no sign of vice at Songbird, but what
if Emery, for once, had good reason to keep his son away?
    More than one aristocrat kept his bastards
away from his legitimate family. Will needed more information, and
he needed it quickly.
    An hour later, he sealed a carefully worded
message with the Chadbourn signet ring. Private messenger would get
it to London faster than the post, and more securely. If anyone
could unravel Wheatly family secrets, it was the Marquess of
Glenaire, Will's boyhood friend. Glenaire's discretion could be
counted on.
    A groom left for London moments later. Will
dispatched a footman carrying a request for an interview to Squire
Archer soon after that.
    Now what? Will had met few men and no women
who had as much passion for the land as he. Catherine Wheatly
seemed to be the exception. It would be interesting to press her
knowledge. It would be interesting to watch her eyes light up when
he did. It would be interesting to watch those eyes if he bent to
kiss her. He shook his head to clear that thought. Slow down,
Will!
    His impulse was to invite the Wheatlys,
father and daughter, to dinner. Who would object the loudest,
Wheatly or Sylvia?
    "You wish to do what?" Sylvia exploded when
he asked her an hour later.
    "They are gentry. They are neighbors. It is
merely a thought."
    Sylvia sank back on her chaise longue. "I
cannot entertain. I am in mourning. I am ill."
    Even in mourning, a family dinner is
unexceptional. He didn't dare say that out loud.
    "Emery would not permit it. He refused even
mention of them in this house. They are not received."
    "Emery is dead." God be praised, he thought
without shame. "Who is Lord Arthur