Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (2 page)

“Our sisters are an endless source of entertainment,” Zach replied. “When they are not irritating the life out of us, that is.”

“I am pleased you find them to be so entertaining,” the duchess replied, seating herself beside the fire and accepting a glass of champagne from Faraday’s tray. “I must say, it is very pleasant to have you all together like this. It has been too long.” She raised her glass. “Welcome home, Nate.”

“Thanks, Mother, it’s good to be here and to be idle for a change. All that studying quite takes it out of a chap.”

“Is that so?” Amos replied, biting back a smile.

“Certainly, although I dare say Zach will find me an occupation soon enough.”

“If he does not then I certainly shall,” their mother replied. “Your sisters and I need escorting on an excursion to Winchester over the coming week. We must set our minds to Portia’s wardrobe for her come-out.”

Nate’s horrified expression caused more amusement amongst the brothers, but he was saved from finding a way to excuse himself from the engagement by the arrival of their guests.

As Amos intermingled with their neighbours and friends he thought his mother was right about one thing. A close-knit family, it had been too long since they had all been at home at the same time. He watched his mother, elegant and charming still although she was now well into her fifties, and wondered how she could have produced four such strapping sons when she herself was so diminutive. But what she lacked in statue was more than compensated for by her style and steely determination to maintain the family honour. Anyone who mistook her easy going manner for weakness was not left in ignorance as to her true character for very long.

Amos had been severely worried about her when their father died three years previously. The two of them had been so much in love, right until the very last. Even a boisterous family of six could not quell the affection between them. Amos and Zach had thought her heart might actually fracture beneath the weight of her grief, and nothing any of them said or did seemed to comfort her. She recovered from her loss in time, but a light in her eyes had been permanently extinguished. She devoted herself to her children, and turned her attention to Zach in particular. Never tiring of introducing him to young ladies whom she considered suitable duchess material, she allowed her annoyance at his tardiness in selecting one to become increasingly apparent.

Unfortunately the brothers had seen for themselves just how harmonious their parent’s marriage had been, and that example now worked against the duchess. None of them were in any particular hurry to embrace matrimony as a consequence. For his part, Amos was absolutely determined not to become leg-shackled unless he found a lady who could inspire him to similar devotion. Despite being inundated with potential candidates whenever he showed himself in society, Amos had yet to find a female who moved him to the extent he would sacrifice his freedom for her sake.

Zach, he knew, was similarly minded. Although, as Annalise had so artfully just reminded them all, expectations rested on his shoulders which, sooner or later, he would be obliged to fulfil. Hopefully, he would do so before Portia’s prophecy of physical incapability became a reality.

During dinner, the conversation turned to the annual garden party their mother threw to celebrate her birthday. It had become quite a tradition over the years. Both sets of villagers attended and managed to behave with civility towards one another, at least until the ale supplied in strict rotation by the competing inns in the two villages loosened tongues and opinions. Their father had been a firm believer in supporting local businesses. His widow and Zach maintained that tradition, spreading their custom with conscious consideration for the ongoing competition. The duchess sought to fill Portia’s wardrobe, and doubtless replenish her own and Annalise’s in Winchester rather than London. It was a consideration that was noted and appreciated by local tradesmen.

She would almost certainly look to smaller establishments in Shawford and Compton for additional items. Amos smothered a smile, reminding himself to tell Nate the taproom at the Crown and Anchor made a very convenient place to wait while the ladies selected their purchases−a chore, he had reason to know from painful past experience that took up a considerable amount of time. Once he was privy to that knowledge, Nate’s enthusiasm for escort duties would likely undergo a marked improvement.

“As to the addition to your silverware, your grace,” Palmer, the local squire, remarked during dinner. “Have your thought to look anywhere other than Shawford this year?”

Amos wondered what the devil Palmer was playing at. Their late father had always commissioned a new piece of silver to add to his wife’s growing collection to coincide with her birthday celebrations, where it would be set on display for all to admire. That duty now fell to Zach and, like his father before him, he only ever went to Mr. Chesney in Shawford for that purpose. Chesney’s work was quite exquisite and even Compton residents reluctantly conceded they had no one skilled enough to compete with him.

“Whatever can you mean, Mr. Palmer?” the duchess asked, looking up from her roasted guinea fowl. “I would not insult Mr. Chesney by even thinking of going elsewhere.”

“No insult was intended by the question, your grace. It is just that Chesney’s health is no longer robust.”

He is unwell?” Amos asked. It was the first he had heard of it, and not much local gossip escaped him. He visited the Crown and Anchor’s taproom at regular intervals for precisely that reason.

“His eyesight is failing him, my lord, although he is too stubborn to admit it. The delicate filigree work he undertakes can only add additional strain and make the situation worse.”

Amos looked towards Zach, seated at the head of the table, and they exchanged a loaded glance. Neither of them particularly liked or trusted Palmer, although if pressed, neither could have said why. He was supposed to be neutral when it came to the competition between the two villages, but Amos had always suspected he leaned in favour of Compton.

“If his eyesight is failing,” Amos said, leaning back in his chair and fixing Palmer with a steady gaze, “what possible reason could he have for continuing with his labours? I cannot persuade myself he is short of blunt and he is definitely approaching the age where retirement must seem attractive.”

“He takes prodigious pride in his work, Amos,” the dowager said. “Since he enjoys our patronage, perhaps he is reluctant to let us down.”

“I have business in Shawford tomorrow, Mother,” Amos replied. “I shall call upon Chesney and assess the situation for myself.”

Palmer frowned, presumably because that was not the response he had expected, and it did not meet with his approval. Wisely, he did not attempt to dissuade Amos from his purpose.

“Thank you, Amos,” the dowager replied. “That would put my mind at rest. I would not wish to offend him, but nor would I wish him to feel under any obligation to this family.”

Cristobel Brooke wiped perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. Her back ached from the amount of time she had spent crouched over her work bench. She was desperate to move her cramped muscles, but couldn’t afford that luxury until she had completed her task. She leaned further forward, peered through the magnifying glass attached to the leather band circling her forehead and bit her lip as she carefully applied the soldering iron to the delicate filigree necklace she had almost completed. This was the difficult part. Too much solder and the silver would run, causing ugly blobs. Too little and the gemstones would fall out.

“There, that should do it,” she said aloud, feeling a great sense of satisfaction at a job expertly done, though she did say so herself.

She put her solder iron aside and picked up tweezers. She used them to carefully remove excess chips of solder before applying flux solution to the wire arches with a brush and placing the necklace aside to cool. The sapphires, embedded between tiny seed pearls, made an unusual and highly attractive arrangement that would, hopefully, be remarked upon, leading to further commissions for her uncle’s establishment. Crista thought of Lady Middleton, about whose rather fat neck her masterpiece was destined to reside, and sighed. Hardly the best showcase for her talents.

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” she muttered, placing both hands on the small of her back and finally indulging in luxurious backwards stretch. She sighed with pleasure when her muscles unknotted themselves.

“Talking to yourself again, Miss Brooke.”

Crista abruptly sat upright, heart pounding but the rest of her freezing at the sound of the indolent voice she had grown to despise. She was perfectly sure speaking to herself was a far better alternative than conversing with the owner of that voice but saw little profit in antagonising the man unnecessarily by saying as much.

“I did not hear you come in,” she replied, without looking round.

“I have been watching you for some time and enjoying the view.”

She felt his gaze rove insolently over her body. Clad in the tight-fitting breeches and the man’s shirt she wore when working, Crista felt disadvantaged. Her face heated with anger, as it always did when she was in the man’s presence. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to give him the set down he so richly deserved. It would be unwise to display any signs of weakness in front of him. He wouldn’t hesitate to exploit any chinks in her armour for his own purposes, and she refused to play into his hands. Instead she ignored him and, still with her back to him, reached for a velvet display case in which to place her now cooled creation.

“You were engrossed in what you were doing.” His boots rang out on the stone floor as he moved closer and peered over her shoulder at the completed necklace. He stood much closer to her than was necessary. Crista felt his coat brush against her back and his breath, hot and heavy, peppering her face.

“Magnificent,” he said softly. “You have excelled yourself.”

“I have done my job.”

“Such a shame no credit will find its way to your door.”

She removed the leather band from her forehead, where it was starting to chaff, and tossed it aside. “I do not do this for personal acclaim, Mr. Reece, as you well know.”

He was still too close for comfort, and so Crista stood up and packed away her equipment.

“I fail to understand why we cannot be friends.” He watched her intently as she moved around the workroom, his penetrating stare causing her to shiver. It felt as though he could see right through her. She found it as unnerving as his ridiculous suggestion that they be friends. Odious man! Friends did not coerce one another into acting against their consciences. “I could do a very great deal to enhance your reputation, if only you would be nice to me.”

“Release my uncle and me from our obligation, and I am sure we can enjoy a very congenial friendship,” she replied, crossing her fingers behind her back. She would see herself in the workhouse before she
ever
befriended this callous popinjay. Besides, she knew very well what he really required from her, and it had little to do with friendship.

“Alas, my hands are tied.” He sounded convincingly regretful. “Were it up to me then…”

Voices coming from the shop caught the attention of them both. Crista’s uncle was speaking with a customer in very deferential terms.

“Hello, what do we have here?” Reece moved towards the door and placed an ear against it. He listened for a moment, and then scowled. “One of the Sheridan clan, unless I mistake the matter. What the devil does he want?”

“The duke’s family always calls upon my uncle for their jewellery requirements.”

“We thought to have put a stop to that.” Reece eyed Crista with suspicion. “I do not trust your uncle any more than I trust you. I had best go out there and keep a watchful eye on him.”

“Do you think you should?” she asked capriciously. “Whatever would your masters say?”

He grasped her arm so tightly it brought tears to her eyes. “Just so we’re clear, I am in charge here, and I make my own decisions.”

“Whatever you say.”

Crista was tempted to point out that Reece, so out of place in her uncle’s shop, would raise speculation. She refrained from doing so, thinking perhaps that would not be such a very bad thing, although she could not have said why precisely. At least it would rid her of Reece’s loathsome company, and give her an opportunity to eavesdrop. Her uncle was sometimes secretive about their commissions for fear of placing too much burden upon Crista. Poor Uncle Charles. She felt for him excessively. He possessed the fierce Chesney pride that made it a torment to admit to being anything other than completely self-sufficient which, up until now, he had been for his entire life. Crista ought to know because she inherited the same trait. She had yet to decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

Reece had the temerity to place his grubby hands on her waist to move her aside. She had an aversion to being touched generally, even by people whom she admired. Reece most certainly did not rank amongst that select group. Startled by his action, her instinct was to grab her still cooling soldering iron and brand him with it. He chuckled, as though reading her mind, and swaggered into the shop before she could act upon that increasingly compelling impulse. She expelled a frustrated breath, promising herself that when the time was right she would have her revenge upon Reece and the people he worked for. There was only so much humiliation she and her uncle could be expected to withstand, and Crista’s patience−not one of her strong points−was fast reaching its limit.

Fortuitously, Reece left the door between the work room and shop slightly ajar, affording Crista a glimpse of her uncle’s aristocratic visitor. My goodness, what a fine sight to behold, she thought, suppressing a gasp of admiration. The tiredness left her limbs as she observed him. Even Reece prowling around the shop like a strutting peacock failed to annoy her, as it usually would have. Instead, her eyes were all for his lordship. Which one was he, she wondered, moistening lips that suddenly seemed inexplicably dry.