This was a highly unsatisfactory system but quite normal in wealthy and aristocratic households. Even in her own home she had seen little of her parents when she was young. Fortunately her nanny had been a kind and loving soul and provided everything a small child required. Not until she was out of leading strings did her mother begin to take an interest.

However she’d recently read in a pamphlet about such matters—this had stated quite categorically that all mothers, not just the poor folk, should feed their children themselves. The author was calling for women at every level to do what nature intended. She shrugged. This was another decision she could put off for a few months.

She would dearly like to have visited with her family during the few weeks she had been in Norfolk. Although Home Farm was less than fifty miles from her birthplace she hadn’t dared to go to Bracken Hall. Her father would have sent word immediately. He knew which side his bread was buttered and would not risk offending the duke. Being with child was making her maudlin—she must stifle the feeling and be strong.

*   *   *

They travelled at a leisurely pace taking three days to complete the distance. The gig, which contained staff and baggage, had gone ahead in order to ensure the overnight accommodation was suitable. When the carriage turned through the gates of Newcomb Isobel’s confidence slipped. Making rash decisions was one thing, but carrying them through in the face of her formidable husband might prove a different proposition.

Mary fussed with her bonnet, shook out the folds of the travelling cloak and smiled a trifle nervously as the vehicle rocked to a halt outside the enormous building. Isobel expected the usual army of liveried footmen to pour from the front door. Foster and Maynard would no doubt be waiting to greet her with sneering faces.

To her astonishment the door remained closed. She stepped down and stared at the building only now seeing the shutters were closed. The house was unoccupied. Alexander had removed to Grosvenor Square. He had shut the house and given up on her.

She felt a moment’s regret but forced it away. So much the better; she would have free rein to set herself up before he heard of her return. There must be a skeleton staff, fires had to be lit on a regular basis or the place would become damp and uninhabitable during the winter months.

“Mary, ask Sam to hammer on the door. There must be someone in.”

Mary relayed the message through the window and Sam dismounted and went to speak to the others sitting in the gig. Othello and Ebony whined to be released. She pushed open the carriage door and let them out to explore their new home. They had never been here but it would soon become familiar territory. Animals didn’t worry about etiquette and preserving their good name; if they wished to relieve themselves a hovel was as good as a palace.

Sam’s thunderous knocking eventually produced the required result. The door was unbolted and a flustered middle-aged woman, with her cap askew and her apron strings flapping, gawped out at him. This was not someone Isobel recognized.

“His grace has moved to London. The house is under covers and I haven’t been told to expect any visitors.”

“My good woman, her grace, the Duchess of Rochester, has returned. You’ll do well to mind your tongue.”

The servant glanced at the travelling carriage. On seeing her the servant paled and threw her apron over her face as if by so doing she would become invisible.

Isobel laughed. “This is quite ridiculous.” She walked forward and gently pulled the apron down. “My arrival is totally unexpected. I don’t intend to live in the main part of the house. As soon as it can be cleaned I shall remove to the east wing.”

The woman was too distressed to do more than curtsy clumsily and step to one side to allow her to enter. About a dozen servants were arriving, hurriedly buttoning livery and straightening their caps. They more or less curtsied and bowed in unison.

Sam and Mary took charge leaving Isobel to head for the small parlour at the rear of the house which would be far easier to heat than any of the enormous rooms.

The maid curtsied nervously. “I’m acting housekeeper here, Smith’s the name, your grace. His grace has taken the rest to Grosvenor Square. There’s no one left inside, apart from us few. And all the grooms and such have gone with him and all the horses too.”

This was exactly the news Isobel wanted. Without the objectionable Maynard and Foster to interfere she might well be installed in the east wing with her own people around her before Alexander became aware of her presence at Newcomb.

“I am delighted to hear you say so. I’ve need of loyal staff of my own. From now on you’re in my employ and shall become my retainers. Mrs Watkins is my housekeeper, Mr Watkins my man of business and Mr Brown my butler. I shall leave them to organise matters as they see fit.” She turned to Mary. “Send someone along to light fires in the small parlour and also in the yellow guest suite. I shall sleep there until the east wing is ready for occupation.”

A tall young man bowed to her. “If I may be permitted to speak, your grace. There’s nothing we’d like more than to serve you. We’ve not had an easy time working here. We’re all recently taken on, that’s why Mrs Maynard and Mr Foster left us here on half pay.”

“Good— I require my staff to be loyal to me. I wish no mention of my arrival to reach London. Do I have your assurances on this matter?”

A chorus of assent ran round the circle. Satisfied she had made progress in her desire to be recognized as a person in her own right, and not merely an adjunct of the duke, she left her staff to get on with what they did best. In less than an hour she was warm and cosy and drinking tea served on the best china.

*   *   *

The next few days were a bustle of activity as her minions cleaned and prepared the east wing for her. Mary insisted she remained with her feet up, reading and sewing.

“The east wing is in good shape, my lady, considering how long it has been left unoccupied.”

“How long before I can move in?”

“I’ve fires burning in every chamber. I reckon the place will be warm and dry in no time. The furniture and curtains you’ve selected from here are being transferred this afternoon. Sam says you can come and see for yourself later on.”

At three o’clock, just as night was drawing in, Sam escorted Isobel from Newcomb and around to her new home. This section was accessed by its own front door and there were no communicating entrances. The east wing was beginning to look like a place where she could be comfortable. The ceilings here were considerably lower, the rooms less vast and although it did not have the modern appointments of Newcomb, it made up for it in other ways. The building was of ancient construction and had been the original Newcomb before the current monstrosity had been added by Alexander’s grandfather.

For the first time she felt in control of her own destiny, not beholden to her parents or her autocratic husband. By the end of March the entire staff had transferred to join her. Extra servants had been taken on from the village and so far no one had seen fit to send news to Grosvenor Square that she was in residence. Mary had the house running like clockwork. Bill was a magnificent butler, firm but fair and, more importantly, he was almost as tall as her husband and much younger and fitter. She was praying he would not allow the duke to barge his way when he eventually arrived to confront her.

She had not been in residence long when the estate manager, Mr Reynolds, approached her. “Your grace, forgive me for bothering you, but your tenants and their cottages are in dire straits. There have been no repairs or improvements here for many years. Two children died from lack of warmth last week.”

“That’s appalling, Mr Reynolds. I give you permission to instigate any repairs necessary. Get the men to do the work themselves and pay them for it. Make sure there is enough fuel for everyone and give food where it is in short supply.”

Alexander had been irresponsible. How could he have been so lax with his duties? He prided himself on his birth and yet he had neglected the most crucial part of his inheritance—taking care of those dependent on him.

Reynolds beamed, his cheeks glowing from the cold. “Thank you, your grace. I’ve access to sufficient funds which I usually draw on for day-to-day matters. If we get started right away by the time the depredations are noticed the work will be completed.” He grinned, and looked almost boyish in his excitement.

“Do whatever you have to, spend what you need, but I suggest everything is done as rapidly as possible. I’m sure you understand the necessity for speed.”

“I do. What’s done can’t be undone. I reckon we’ve got a month before … well a month to get things done.” The estate manager went about his business leaving her to contemplate the scale of what she’d set in motion. This was tantamount to stealing; as the duchess she had no legal right to her husband’s money. He would come hurtling down from Grosvenor Square when he noticed the discrepancies in his accounts. Was that why she’d given her permission without a second thought? Did she feel now was the time to tell him of her condition?

Word had spread around the neighbourhood that she had returned and had authorised much-needed improvements. Everyone knew she had no right to do so but the artisans had done the work anyway. When the duke eventually came he would be faced with a fait accompli. All his tenants would be well housed and there would be nothing he could do about it apart from rant and rave. She would take the blame; no one else would suffer. She had done the right thing and was confident those around her would support her when he came.

Isobel was sitting quietly in front of the fire reading a new novel that had recently arrived from London entitled Pride and Prejudice. She had never read anything so enjoyable and was so engrossed she ignored the faint fluttering in her stomach. When it happened a second time her book fell unheeded from her fingers. She placed both hands on her distended belly. Yes, there it was again. The baby inside was kicking, telling her she was going to be a mother in a few months. Her heart contracted. The idea of handing over her child appalled her. But could she learn to live with a man she feared and didn’t trust?

Chapter Nine

Alexander ran his fingers through his hair and frowned at the column of figures. There was something amiss here; the amount of money leaving this account was astronomical. His estate manager was either corrupt or run mad. The man had had no authorization to draw such sums of money from the bank. He pushed the papers to one side with a sigh. He must return to Newcomb and see for himself what was going on. This was a damn nuisance as the season was about to begin in earnest and he was determined to complete the process of re-establishing himself in the eyes of the ton.

He had easily resisted the voluptuous temptations of his erstwhile mistress and doused his physical needs by vigorous exercise. Much to the astonishment of his staff he’d taken to running round the park at dawn, also hurtling up and down the staircase at regular intervals during the day. He’d also resumed his sparring at Jackson’s and during the last bout he’d only been floored once.

Being fit and clearheaded for the first time in many years had sharpened his intellect—unfortunately it had also made him more aware of the sins of the flesh. One thing was very certain. However much he might lust after a woman he would never be unfaithful to Isobel. She was constantly in his thoughts. He sent up a fervent prayer every day asking the Almighty to give him a second chance.

A sharp tap on the door reminded him he was expecting a visit. Gathering up the loose sheets he stuffed them into the drawer of the desk and locked it. For some reason he didn’t quite trust Richard Bentley, the young man his lawyers had tracked down as being next in line. Bentley was altogether too unctuous and already showing an inclination towards fast play and fast women.

“Come in, if you must.”

The door swung open and Bentley stepped in, Alexander struggled to remain expressionless. The man was a popinjay and followed the most extreme of fashions. Good God! The idiot could scarcely turn his head because his shirt points were so high.