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Mrs. Pomeroy nodded her head sadly. “Aye, he wants to take all his hurt and brood on it. He was always like that, Master Max—kept all his feelings tight inside, locked up like a box. His mother, the dear duchess, could tease him out of his doldrums, but now she’s gone, bless her. The duke, he’s too much the same. Carved from the same piece of wood, they were…”
Her voice trailed off and there was an uncomfortable silence. Around the walls of the dining room the portraits of long-dead Vallands gazed upon them with Max’s eyes, as if secretly eavesdropping on the conversation.
“You don’t believe it, do you, Mrs. Pomeroy?” Marietta asked softly. “You don’t believe the duke isn’t Max’s father?”
Mrs. Pomeroy hesitated, and then she looked up, directly into Marietta’s sympathetic gaze. “No, miss, I don’t. I can’t. And if you saw them together then you wou
ldn’t believe it neither. It’s plain daft to suggest it.”
“Then why has Max been disinherited? Why does his father accept this letter as truth?”
“He was angry, I suppose. The duke always flies off the handle when he’s angry, and he was inconsolable when he read that letter.” Again Mrs. Pomeroy rubbed vigorously at the table surface.
“And now the deed is done,” Marietta murmured.
There was a rattle of the knocker on the outside door.
With an exclamation, Mrs. Pomeroy hobbled over to the sash window and peered out. “’Tis Mr. Harold and Miss Susannah,” she declared. “They’re around here most days to see his lordship, but that’s not surprising. They’ve always been close, ever since they were children. Miss Susannah was like a daughter to the duke and duchess, for all she’d come from those heathen parts. Jamaica or whatever it’s called.”
Marietta remembered Mr. Jardine telling her that Barwon had adopted a young Creole girl he had found living wild on one of the old plantations. That must have been Susannah.
She joined Mrs. Pomeroy at the window and peered curiously down to the street. There was Harold, stamping about impatiently, and beside him a tall and slender woman in wide green skirts and a matching feather-decorated bonnet. As if she felt their eyes upon her, she glanced up. An oval face, skin so pale and delicate it was like petals, and dark, tragic eyes. Susannah Valland was certainly beautiful.
Just then a movement on the other side of the square caught her eye. A middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a wide chest packed into a shabby brown coat was standing, watching the Vallands as they entered the house. She noted that his hair was sparse brown, and his face reminded her a little of Dobson’s—as if he had been in too many fistfights. Almost as soon as Marietta noticed him, the man glanced up and saw her at the window and hurried away.
The knocker rattled again, and then the door opened. Out in the hall they could hear Pomeroy’s important tones, joined by Harold’s, and then the voice of Susannah—low and languid with a strangely foreign inflection.
Marietta was tempted to go to the dining room door for another peep at them, but she was not quite brave enough. After all, she shouldn’t still be here, gossiping with the servants, and it would be embarrassing for her to be caught—no doubt worse for the servants.
“The duke was here yesterday,” Mrs. Pomeroy said quietly, also staring at the door as they listened to the visitors making their way upstairs.
Marietta turned to her in surprise.
Mrs. Pomeroy nodded. “Aye, he came up from Valland House soon as he heard about Master Max’s accident. He stood by the bed—Master Max, he was asleep—and he just looked.” She sighed. “Pomeroy said the duke forgot he was there, or else he’s sure he wouldn’t have done it.”
“Wouldn’t have done what?” Marietta asked softly.
“Called Master Max my son,” Mrs. Pomeroy whispered.
The dining room door banged open, and they both jumped guiltily. Daniel Coachman grinned at the effect of his entrance, pale eyes sliding from one to the other. “Pomeroy says they all want tea and cake,” he announced, “and I’m to fetch it.”
Mrs. Pomeroy clicked her tongue. “Do they now,” she muttered, setting off to the kitchen. “And Daniel, what have I told you about knocking before you enter a room? You nearly did for me then, you silly boy.”
Daniel gave Marietta one more grin, and followed after the housekeeper.
Marietta, left alone in the dining room with the watching portraits, found herself with much to ponder. There was more to Max’s misfortune than a husband betrayed by his wife and a son disinherited, far more. Something was wrong—off-kilter. Everyone knew it, felt it, apart from Max that is, but no one was doing anything about it. Marietta felt a stirring inside her, an irresistible urge—apart from the one she had to see his chest again.
Max was helping her by agreeing to be her practice partner; why shouldn’t she help him by untangling the mess he was in? It was the least she could do.
Susannah brushed her cheek against Max’s in lieu of a kiss, her liquid dark eyes full of sympathy. As always, he was struck by her beauty. Susannah had been a beautiful child, wide-eyed and silent when his father brought her home to England, and now she was a breathtaking woman. Really, she would be the perfect Duchess of Barwon.
“Max, how are you today?” Harold peered over his wife’s shoulder.
“Better,” Max allowed.
“The streets just aren’t safe no matter who you are,” Susannah said, arranging her wide silk skirts about her.
“Max seems to have an angel perpetually watching over him,” said Harold.
