Page 85 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“The duke has given us an entire wing,” Hermia said in approval.

Emma sighed.

By now Adrian had gone to the duke’s private chambers across the courtyard. She knew he’d wished her to accompany him. But she had claimed to be exhausted from the day’s ordeal. Poor Adrian, she mused. He would probably have preferred to fight off another band of brigands rather than face his father.

Two chambermaids guided her down a hallway lined with tall Venetian-glass mirrors. “Madam,” the eldest maid said, “one of us will sleep on the bench outside your door all night should you require anything.”

Emma nodded, not truly listening. Hermia and Odham had been assigned separate rooms at the end of the hall. Hermia was already asking the footman to make certain that any connecting doors were locked.

One of the chambermaids swallowed a yawn. “There’ll be a pint drunk to Lord and Lady Wolverton’s health in the local house tonight.”

Emma hesitated, eyeing Hermia coming toward her. It was perfectly unacceptable to prod a servant into repeating gossip, and yet suddenly she could not resist. “Lord Wolverton must have many relatives, close friends, who have awaited his return.”

“We’re all relieved to have the young master home, my lady,” the woman said. Which was a polite reply but lacking the information Emma had hoped for.

“How convivial of them.” She came to a halt outside the door. Hermia had paused to admire her reflection in a mirror. “The girls,” she prompted, clearing her throat. “The local ladies will be happy to see him again, I suppose.”

For a moment the two maids stared back at her with such an absence of comprehension that she could have shouted. “I suppose they will,” was the first’s formal, unsatisfactory response.

“Heavens above, Emma,” Hermia said as she swept toward them. “Do stop dancing about the issue and ask them outright.”

Emma frowned. “As tactful as thunder, aren’t we, dear?”

“When one advances in age,” Hermia said, “one is disinclined to waste precious time worrying about what others think.”

Emma gave her a wry look. “It seems to me that some people did not worry about the polite world even when they were young.”

Hermia smiled. “Some of us learned our lessons at a tender age, thank goodness. I could not imagine a life more wasted than one dedicated to pleasing others.” She directed her attention to two chambermaids who’d most likely been warned how peculiar London ladies could act at times. “What Lady Wolverton wishes to know is whether her husband has any sweethearts awaiting his return.”

“Oh.” The older of the chambermaids brightened. “Oh.”

“I think I’ll go to bed now,” Emma said. “Thank you for that humiliation, Hermia. I shall pretend that our experience today caused this unspeakable breach of confidence.”

Hermia put her hands on her hips. “Do I need a spoonful of treacle to loose that tongue?” she asked the chambermaid. “Is there, or is there not, a young woman hereabouts who wears her heart on her sleeve for your young master?”

The maid nodded slowly. “You mean, Lady Serena? Why didn’t you say so?”

Hermia’s mouth hardened. “At last. Is this Lady Serena married?”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

Emma ducked her head, then opened the door to a warm firelit chamber. “Good night, everyone.”

“Nah,” the maid said. “She hasn’t had time to marry what with all the work that fell upon her shoulders when her father took sick. Her day’ll come soon, I reckon.”

The younger maid chimed in. “There ain’t a person within twenty miles what don’t worship Lady Serena.”

“I see,” Hermia said, narrowing her eyes. “A paragon. I don’t mean to sound unkind, but this lady sounds to be a bit of a spinster.”

“All I know is that she’s a beauty, ma’am,” the second maid answered. “A spot of sunlight on a cold winter day.”

Adrian stood for several moments behind his chair and examined his father’s oak-paneled drawing room. This had not been a familiar place in his youth. Children had been forbidden to enter the duke’s hallowed sanctuary. Now the entire family, his brother and sister, his medieval aunt, even the stooped estate manager, had assembled to greet the prodigal.

The gratitude on their faces, the affection, all older and more important to him than he’d realized, humbled him.

“The young viscount is home,” Bridgewater, the bald secretary, said over and over. “Home after all these years.”

“Where’s he been, anyway?” his great-aunt asked.