The Duchess Read online

  But thirty minutes later it was nearly full light and they had reached the west wing of the house. Claire thought of the long day before her. There wouldn’t even be a possibility of seeing Harry. She could always find her mother and spend the afternoon with her. Or she could introduce herself to the other people in the household and…And what? Talk of dogs and horses?

  She stood by the door that led into the west wing and looked at her watch.

  “Miss breakfast again?” Trevelyan asked, his hand on the door.

  “No. I still have plenty of time to dress yet.” She made no motion to move toward the front door of the house.

  “They still have that no talking rule at breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Claire said glumly, thinking of the long, boring meal awaiting her.

  Trevelyan sighed. “All right then, come upstairs and we’ll see what Oman can cook for us.”

  Claire’s smile was radiant. She forgot all about her intention of never seeing this man again. Now all she could think of was his cozy room and his books and the fire and the delicious food.

  They entered the old part of the house and had reached the sitting room when Oman came from the bedroom and said something in another language to Trevelyan.

  Trevelyan turned to Claire and said in a low voice, “Harry’s in there.” He nodded toward the bedroom.

  Claire smiled as she took a step toward the bedroom, but Trevelyan caught her arm.

  “This might be personal,” he whispered.

  “I—” Claire began, but Trevelyan put his hand over her mouth.

  “He may not be alone,” Trevelyan said in a mysterious way.

  Claire opened her eyes wide in disbelief, and Trevelyan removed his hand. He opened a big medieval chest behind her. “In here until I find out what he wants.”

  “I will not—” she began, but then Trevelyan picked her up by her arms, dropped her into the chest on top of some things that in other circumstances she’d have liked to examine, shut the lid, and sat on it, just as Harry entered the room.

  “Where the devil have you been?” Harry asked. “I’ve been waiting here for half an hour. And whose voice was that I heard? It sounded like a woman’s.”

  “It must have been your imagination. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “MacTarvit’s at it again.”

  “How many this time?”

  “Six.”

  “And your mother’s on a rampage? I doubt that she can bear to part with six cows.”

  “She wants me to put him off the land.”

  Trevelyan was silent for a moment. “And you thought I might do your dirty work for you.”

  “Vellie, you were always so good at talking. I thought you might talk to the old man.”

  “Nobody can talk to him. No one ever could. What about his sons?”

  “They’re either dead or emigrated. The old man’s the last one left.”

  “And now she wants him off the land. Why not just give him money and send him off to join his sons?”

  “He’d never go, and besides, where would I get the money? Sell another picture?”

  “What about your little heiress?”

  Until that moment Claire had been silent inside the chest, listening to every word and trying to figure out what they were talking about. The name MacTarvit meant something to her but she couldn’t remember what. When she heard Trevelyan begin to ask about her in his snide, insinuating way, she didn’t want to hear what Harry had to say. She was a little afraid of what she’d hear, and she realized that it was Trevelyan who had put doubt in her mind. She pushed up on the lid of the chest with her feet.

  “What the hell do you have in there?” Harry asked when he saw the chest lid move and almost dislodge Trevelyan.

  “I’ll show you if you want to see.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve seen enough of what you bring back from your trips.” He didn’t say anything for a few minutes as Oman came into the room and placed two glasses of whisky on a table by Trevelyan. When he was gone, Harry spoke again as Trevelyan handed him a glass. “Aren’t you afraid that man will slit your throat at night?”

  “Oman? Those people living in your house scare me a lot more than Oman does. Speaking of terror, when’s your marriage?”

  “Later,” Harry answered vaguely.

  “And is your little heiress happy living under the old hag’s rule?” Trevelyan said with great sarcasm.

  “Mother’s not so bad. You’ve never given her a chance. As for Claire, I believe she’s adjusting.” Harry finished his whisky and stood up. “I have to go.”

  “Off to visit some exotic creature?”

  Again Claire pushed up on the lid, but this time Harry ignored the movement. “Actually, I’m going south to look at a mare for her.”

  “Her? Your little heiress?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Buying gifts for her, are you? It must be true love,” Trevelyan said snidely.

  Inside the chest, Claire held her breath.

  “I like her well enough. Her head is a bit too full of dates and history and the romance of the world, but she’s all right.” Harry’s voice changed from its usual easygoing tone to one of warning. “Keep your hands off her.”

  “What would a man my age do with her if I did touch her?” Trevelyan said with great sarcasm.

  “You heard me,” Harry said. “Hands off.”

  “Tell me, is it her money or the girl you like?”

  Claire, who couldn’t see the faces of the men, thought Harry took a very long time before he answered. And when he did respond, all he did was laugh, but Claire couldn’t tell what the laugh meant, whether Harry was saying he liked her a great deal or he only wanted her money.

  Chapter Six

  Well?” Claire said as she stepped out of the chest. Trevelyan hadn’t bothered to open the lid for her or to help her out when she opened it, but that wasn’t what was on her mind. She was growing accustomed to his not helping her.

  He was already at one of his tables and writing. She went to stand in front of him. “What are you going to do about this man?”

  “Would you sit down? You’re blocking the light.”

  She stepped to one side but continued to glare at him. “Harry has asked you for a favor and you must do something about it.”

  Trevelyan put down his pen and looked up at her. “Because you’re willing to give the man your life doesn’t mean I am. I have no intention of doing anything except what I’m doing. Do you want some breakfast?”

  “Of course.”

  She followed him into the bedroom, where there were two plates of steaming eggs on a table. She guessed they ate in the bedroom because Oman could not fit so much as one more table into the sitting room. She took a bite of her eggs. “Who is this man MacTarvit?”

  “Enjoying your food?”

  “I’ve never had anything like it and it’s delicious. Who is MacTarvit?”

  “Curried eggs. From India.”

  She glared at him.

  “He’s some old man. His family’s always lived on this land.”

  She looked down at her eggs. They really were quite delicious. “Why does the name sound so familiar to me?”

  Trevelyan took a drink from his teacup—Claire didn’t ask if it was tea or whisky—and mumbled, “Tradition.”

  “What?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’d think that with your romantic knowledge of your precious duke’s clan you’d know exactly who the MacTarvits are.” At that he held up his cup in salute to her.

  Claire put down her fork and looked at him in wonder. “The whisky makers,” she said breathlessly.

  He gave her a little smile to acknowledge that she was right.

  Claire stood up and walked to the window. “All the great clans had other clans under them who were responsible for certain things. Some clans had families that were bards, men who wrote poetry for them and memorized the family’s history. Other clans had pipers.” She turned bac