Home > Someday My Duke Will Come(7)

Someday My Duke Will Come(7)
Author: Christina Britton

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said in his sonorous voice. “Are you expected by Her Grace?”

This man had known him since he was a babe in arms, had given him rides upon his back, and had snuck him sweets when things were at their worst. That he now had no idea who Quincy was should not have affected him as it did. Yet he felt a slight cracking in the region of his heart. He pushed the feeling aside and plastered a carefree grin on his face. “Come along, Byerly. Never say you have forgotten me.”

The butler frowned at the familiarity, his mouth opening no doubt to lay Quincy low with a scathing retort. Whatever words he had been about to utter, however, stalled when recognition sparked. The man’s jaw dropped. “Master Quincy?” he whispered.

Quincy smiled. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

But there was no answering smile. Instead a dawning horror filled the man’s features. He bowed, deeply. “Ah, but forgive me. I forget myself.”

Quincy’s smile faltered, his insides lurching. That sensation only worsened as Byerly’s hands came together, the fingers tangling in a mass of white-gloved digits. “But you’ll be wanting to see your mother. Please, allow me to show you the way. Or would you rather find the way yourself?” He shook his head sharply. “Oh, dear,” he muttered. “Dear me.”

Quincy, growing more alarmed by the second, stepped toward the man. He looked as if he was about to keel over on the spot. “I say, are you well?” Perhaps he was losing his faculties. Though he could not see his mother, a stickler for all that was perfect and proper, allowing Byerly to keep his post if that was so.

To Quincy’s everlasting shock, a desperate laugh burst from the butler. Then, without another word, he turned and began a swift stride across the front hall and up the sweeping staircase. Utterly bewildered, Quincy nonetheless followed with alacrity. He didn’t know what the devil was wrong with the man. But if the desperation in his step was any indication, he was headed to Quincy’s mother to apprise her of her youngest son’s sudden appearance. With that woman Quincy would finally have the answers he sought. Hopefully.

The near sprint through the house was short. Even so, Quincy was stunned by the physical reminders of his childhood, memories he had banished from his mind in an attempt to survive. Here was the railing he had slid down more times than he could count under his father’s mischievous tutelage, there the bust of some long-dead ancestor he had once dressed as a woman, complete with his mother’s best rouge and wig. As they made their way up another flight, turning the corner into the family apartments, he tried not to look at the long line of doors before him. But he was aware of each and every one. And in his head he recited the litany of names: Gordon, Kenneth, Sylvester, Quincy. Their bedrooms in a neat row leading to their parents’ apartments. Each door was firmly closed, and it surprised him, the ache in his chest to glimpse within those rooms.

He had not been close to his brothers, being the last born long after the others. His three elder brothers had been close, in age and friendship. And forever excluding Quincy, who would have given anything to be included. Before Quincy’s flight from home all three had moved out of the London house, Gordon returning only to take their father’s place after his death, Kenneth and Sylvester at university preparing for their lives as younger sons. And no doubt finding relief from their mother’s constant criticisms.

His boots clicked sharply on the polished wood floor of the hall, sending back echoes of his mother’s sharp reprimands, something that had haunted him despite all the happiness he had managed to scrape out with his father between these walls. Would that he could go on with his life without needing this meeting to close the last of his wounds. Would that he could turn around and never think of this place again.

No matter the urges deep inside him, however, it was too late to retreat. The door to his mother’s sitting room loomed. And then Byerly was pushing open the door, his agitation making him forget to knock.

“I told you I was not to be disturbed, Byerly.” His mother’s voice, sharper than Quincy remembered, rang out into the hall. And suddenly he was a boy again, being called to the carpet for one of the thousand things he had done wrong. Forever a disappointment.

Drawing himself to his full height, he pushed into the room before Byerly had a chance to announce him. “Hello, Mother,” he said, pasting a devilish smile to a face that felt stiff and unyielding—so quickly falling back on defenses he had always used to hide his hurt. “Have you missed me?”

His mother’s face was frozen, halfway between shock and fury. As if upon seeing him her mind had simply stopped working, and she was now caught in some horrible purgatory. She was as beautiful as ever. That much was obvious to him, though he could comprehend little else. Yet that same coldness that had taken away from her beauty was still present, even in her shock. She was as flawless as a marble statue, and without an ounce of warmth. Though perhaps, now that he was returned to her after so long, she might show a modicum of happiness.

That pathetic hope died a quick and complete death as she came back to her senses. Her eyes narrowed as she took him in, from the top of his carefully mussed hair to the tips of his gleaming boots. “You’re not dead.”

The words were spoken without emotion. It was no different from any interaction they’d had when he was a child, and so should not surprise him in the least.

Why, then, did it hurt so damn much?

But he had never shown his pain before. He was not about to start now. He grinned and executed a flourishing bow. “Obviously. I’m glad to see your advanced age has not taken away your powers of observation.”

Her lips pressed into a harsh line before she recalled herself and her face smoothed once more. Anything to keep away the encroaching signs of aging, he thought with bitterness. Now that the initial shock was gone, he could see that the toil of time had not been held completely at bay. She was nearing six decades, after all, and her skin was beginning to show it. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, crossed the expanse of her forehead, and bracketed the corners of her mouth. Her hair, too, had not escaped the march of years. More than a few fine gray strands were worked through the deep brown.

“I see you are just as charming as ever,” she said, acid leaching into her voice. Her sharp eyes took in his fine clothes with grudging interest. “Though it appears you have not been living a pauper’s existence. Where have you been all this time?”

The moment the words were out of her mouth her lips twisted, as if the taste of the question offended her. Her curiosity must be great indeed for her to ignore her pride. He briefly welcomed the idea of stringing her along, refusing to answer, making her squirm.

But although he had always enjoyed baiting her, he found that he was too damn tired for such games. This reunion was taking too much out of him. All he wanted was to finish with it, to escape from this place and put it behind him once and for all.

He strode to a seat near his mother and sank down into it. She had not bid him to sit, and no doubt she never would. Well, to hell with that. He was not a youth any longer, desperate for her approval. “I have been to America,” he said. “To Boston.”

Her eyes flared wide. “Whyever would you go and do a thing like that?”

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