this man, and thereby possibly endangering his family. Autumn would send him packing quickly enough, and she would be gone on the morrow. “I will take you to the dower house, where my mother now lives,” the Marquis of Westleigh said. “My sister is there.”
Surprised to have been granted his request, Sir Simon Bates followed Henry Lindley from his house and through the gardens, on the other side of which stood a beautiful small stone house, two stories in height. They entered without knocking, the marquis calling out to his mother to come to her salon. An elderly serving man, dressed all in white, a strange cap upon his head, hurried forth.
“My lord Henry.” He bowed.
“Adali, this is Sir Simon Bates, and he has come to inquire after my sister’s health,” the marquis said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Indeed, my lord,” Adali replied.
Sir Simon was unable to restrain himself. “What is that you wear upon your head, man?” he asked.
“It is called a turban, sir,” was the frosty reply.
“You are a foreigner. I thought so,” Sir Simon said.
“I have lived in this land longer than you have been alive, sir,” Adali answered him, “but you are correct in your assumption that I was not born here. My father was French and my mother, Indian. I have been in my mistress’s service since her birth.” He then turned to the marquis. “I will fetch her ladyship, my lord,” he said, bowing, and then he withdrew from the room.
“How did your mother come to have a foreigner for a servant?” Sir Simon asked the marquis.
“My mother was born in India. Her father was its emperor,” Henry Lindley said quietly, rather irritated by the query.
Fergus More-Leslie entered the salon bearing a tray with a decanter and several goblets. He wore no livery, but rather dark breeches, a white shirt, and a well-worn leather jerkin that matched the deep brown of his equally worn leather boots. “I hae brought ye some whiskey, my lord, and wine for the ladies when they come. Shall I pour, or will ye want to be doing it?” He set the tray down upon a small table.
“We will wait for Mama and my sister, thank you, Fergus,” the marquis said.
“Verra well, my lord,” the reply came, and Fergus withdrew from the salon.
“A Scot? Your mother has a Scot for a serving man?”
“My stepfather was a Scot, Sir Simon,” Henry said tightly.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Simon Bates knew he was in over his head. He had been a fool to come here.
The door to the salon opened again, and two women entered. The Duchess of Glenkirk went immediately to her son and embraced him. Then she looked at Sir Simon. “Did Adali understand you correctly, Henry? Is this indeed Sir Simon Bates?”
“I am, your grace,” Sir Simon answered eagerly.
Jasmine Leslie turned icy eyes on the man. “I was not addressing you, sir, but since you have had the temerity to speak to me I shall tell you what I think of you.”
“Mama!” Henry’s voice held a warning.
“Do not mama me, Henry. This man could not control his troopers and is responsible for Bess’s death and that of a loyal servant. And, if that were not enough, remember what else he did in giving my poor, innocent daughter a pistol! How dare you come here, sir, and for what reason, may I inquire?”
“To make certain your daughter was all right, your grace,” Sir Simon Bates replied. “The incident at Queen’s Malvern was regrettable, but these things happen in war, I fear. I am not a monster, madame, and I have two young sisters of my own.” God’s blood, how old was this woman? he wondered. She was utterly beautiful, with hardly a line on her face. She was every bit as lovely as her daughter, who stood pale and silent by her side.
“Your reputation precedes you, sir. It is said you have overseen the murder of innocents, and that would certainly seem to be the case in my daughter-in-law’s tragic demise,” Jasmine said angrily. “You say you have come to ask after Autumn.
Surprised to have been granted his request, Sir Simon Bates followed Henry Lindley from his house and through the gardens, on the other side of which stood a beautiful small stone house, two stories in height. They entered without knocking, the marquis calling out to his mother to come to her salon. An elderly serving man, dressed all in white, a strange cap upon his head, hurried forth.
“My lord Henry.” He bowed.
“Adali, this is Sir Simon Bates, and he has come to inquire after my sister’s health,” the marquis said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Indeed, my lord,” Adali replied.
Sir Simon was unable to restrain himself. “What is that you wear upon your head, man?” he asked.
“It is called a turban, sir,” was the frosty reply.
“You are a foreigner. I thought so,” Sir Simon said.
“I have lived in this land longer than you have been alive, sir,” Adali answered him, “but you are correct in your assumption that I was not born here. My father was French and my mother, Indian. I have been in my mistress’s service since her birth.” He then turned to the marquis. “I will fetch her ladyship, my lord,” he said, bowing, and then he withdrew from the room.
“How did your mother come to have a foreigner for a servant?” Sir Simon asked the marquis.
“My mother was born in India. Her father was its emperor,” Henry Lindley said quietly, rather irritated by the query.
Fergus More-Leslie entered the salon bearing a tray with a decanter and several goblets. He wore no livery, but rather dark breeches, a white shirt, and a well-worn leather jerkin that matched the deep brown of his equally worn leather boots. “I hae brought ye some whiskey, my lord, and wine for the ladies when they come. Shall I pour, or will ye want to be doing it?” He set the tray down upon a small table.
“We will wait for Mama and my sister, thank you, Fergus,” the marquis said.
“Verra well, my lord,” the reply came, and Fergus withdrew from the salon.
“A Scot? Your mother has a Scot for a serving man?”
“My stepfather was a Scot, Sir Simon,” Henry said tightly.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Simon Bates knew he was in over his head. He had been a fool to come here.
The door to the salon opened again, and two women entered. The Duchess of Glenkirk went immediately to her son and embraced him. Then she looked at Sir Simon. “Did Adali understand you correctly, Henry? Is this indeed Sir Simon Bates?”
“I am, your grace,” Sir Simon answered eagerly.
Jasmine Leslie turned icy eyes on the man. “I was not addressing you, sir, but since you have had the temerity to speak to me I shall tell you what I think of you.”
“Mama!” Henry’s voice held a warning.
“Do not mama me, Henry. This man could not control his troopers and is responsible for Bess’s death and that of a loyal servant. And, if that were not enough, remember what else he did in giving my poor, innocent daughter a pistol! How dare you come here, sir, and for what reason, may I inquire?”
“To make certain your daughter was all right, your grace,” Sir Simon Bates replied. “The incident at Queen’s Malvern was regrettable, but these things happen in war, I fear. I am not a monster, madame, and I have two young sisters of my own.” God’s blood, how old was this woman? he wondered. She was utterly beautiful, with hardly a line on her face. She was every bit as lovely as her daughter, who stood pale and silent by her side.
“Your reputation precedes you, sir. It is said you have overseen the murder of innocents, and that would certainly seem to be the case in my daughter-in-law’s tragic demise,” Jasmine said angrily. “You say you have come to ask after Autumn.
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