Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (5 page)

“I see.”

The gentlemen looked briefly at Crista’s other designs but came back to the rubies and diamonds almost immediately.

“I have some very fine Burmese rubies in stock, your grace, if this design meets with your approval.”

“In ancient times, the ruby was said to signify power and vitality,” Crista told them. “It has been called the king of gemstones. Warriors embedded rubies in their skin to give them courage and protection before going into battle. It was considered to be a talisman to ward off danger, evil, and bad dreams.”

“How very interesting,” the duke said, fixing her with a speculative expression. “Can I ask why you have not recommended diamonds?”

“I feel persuaded her grace must already have an abundant supply,” Crista replied.

“Quite so. My father gifted many to her.”

“What else can you tell us about rubies?” Lord Vincent asked.

“In days gone by, they were symbols of power.” Crista leaned forward, warming to her theme in the light of the gentlemen’s obvious interest. “It is also said they have healing powers which assist blood circulation.” At a warning glance from her uncle Crista abruptly fell silent. “My apologies, gentlemen, I sometimes get carried away with my enthusiasm.”

“Not in the least.” Lord Amos sent her a smouldering smile. “Do tell us more.”

“Well, rubies are supposed to ease transition by providing clarity, my lord. And the diamonds surrounding them represent pure and unbreakable love.”

The brothers shared a prolonged glance. Crista laced her fingers together in her lap, aware she had overstepped the mark. She ought to have remained silent and allowed her uncle to sell her suggestions to the duke and his brothers. One of Crista’s many failings was permitting her enthusiasm for and knowledge of jewellery to overcome social mores. She had certainly done so on this occasion and had probably cost her uncle a valuable and prestigious commission into the bargain. She really was a sorry excuse for a niece, she thought despairingly. Her uncle had taken her in when she was badly in need of his protection and all she had done in return was visit her troubles, to say nothing of the spontaneity that always landed her in difficulties, upon him. Crista had never liked herself less.

“Excellent,” said the duke. “Then rubies it must be.”

“Really?” Crista’s head shot up, and she suspected her surprise and delight was self-evident. “Oh, how wonderful.”

“After such an impassioned plea, Miss Brooke, we would not have it any other way. How quickly can the pieces be ready?”

“What the devil do you make of that?” Vince asked when their visitors had departed. “Those jewellery designs were exceptional, and done by a chit of a girl, too. She cannot be above two and twenty.

“It explains your interest in Chesney’s apprentice,” Zach said, grinning at Amos.

“She is deuced attractive and intelligent,” Vince agreed. “It makes an agreeable change from the chits we usually have to endure.”

“Miss Brooke’s presence raises more questions than it answers,” Amos replied thoughtfully. “Why does she feel the need to dress in male clothing? Why does she undertake Chesney’s design work? If his eyesight is still good enough to make intricate jewellery then he ought to be able to sketch.”

“His assistant does the close work, remember,” Zach pointed out.

“Supposedly.” Amos still had his doubts about that. “Chesney has always taken great pride in the uniqueness of his designs and guards that aspect of his work most jealously. It makes no sense for him to cede that part of his business to a young girl.”

“He doesn’t look as strong as he once did,” Vince remarked. “Perhaps he feels the need to let go of the reins.”

“Which would explain his need for an assistant,” Zach pointed out.

“An assistant who didn’t see fit to keep an appointment with a duke.” Amos scowled. “Does that not strike you as odd, Zach? You are by far and away
the
most important person around these parts, and your patronage can make or break an establishment. Can you think of another single occasion when a craftsman ignored a summons of yours?”

“I don’t suppose the man can help being indisposed,” Zach replied mildly.

“Hmm.” Amos refused to be appeased. “It’s damned odd, that’s all I know.”

“The points your Miss Brooke made about rubies and diamonds were inspired,” Zach said. “It was as though she understood Mother’s sorrow at our father’s passing.”

“Healing powers, ease of transition, and diamonds representing pure and unbreakable love.” Amos nodded. “The same thought occurred to me.”

“Miss Brooke must be a romantic at heart,” Zach said.

“Why have we not seen or heard anything of her before now?” Amos shook his head. “Unless we are losing our touch, one of us would have noticed her.”

“She certainly seems to have caught your attention now,” Zach replied, sharing an amused glance with Vince. “Not that I altogether blame you. All that chestnut hair, those most unusual eyes, her lively spirit, and intelligence make for a compelling combination. But have a care. She is respectable and not of Martha’s ilk. You can look, you can admire, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Thank you for your advice, your grace,” Amos replied drolly.

“My pleasure.” Zach grinned at both brothers and led the way towards the dining parlour. “Come along, it’s time for luncheon.”

Amos brooded through the meal, his head full of the mysterious Cristobel Brooke. Unless he was losing his edge, Amos was prepared to wager all was not as it appeared to be with that young lady. Why else would she choose to hide herself away in her uncle’s workshop when she ought to be enjoying the pleasures of village society? The thought of any of the young traders in either village sniffing around her petticoats filled him with protective instincts that were as strong as they were inexplicable. Miss Brooke was not his responsibility.

And yet, he had never felt such a fierce attraction towards any female. God alone knew, enough of them had been scattered in his path by hopeful and ambitious mothers, but none had retained his attention for long. Even before formally meeting Miss Brooke today, catching a glimpse on her in her breeches and still thinking her to be a lad, had been a defining moment, like turning a corner in his mind. He was unable to say why, since his feelings and expectations were uncertain.

He jerked upright when a possibility occurred to him. When riding home in the early evenings across the common land between the village and Winchester Park, on several occasions he had seen a mysterious woman walking there. Most villagers chose to walk by the canal, waving to the regular passage of loaded barges moving to and from the wharf near Shawford Mill. For that reason, a lone woman on the common was unusual enough to stick in his mind, especially when that woman possessed a profusion of distinctive chestnut hair. He had raised a hand in greeting once or twice, but the woman disappeared into the tree line, as though she did not wish her solitary ramble to be interrupted.

Amos was convinced now the woman had been Miss Brooke. He was equally convinced she had secrets, was in some sort of trouble, and mistrusted any well-intentioned offers of help because experience had taught her to be cautious. Every instinct he possessed assured him he had hit upon the reason for her reclusiveness. Amos was determined to find out why and resolve her difficulties for her. Beyond that point, he was unwilling to speculate.

An early opportunity to put his plan into action occurred the following evening. Nate had badgered Amos into a visit to the Crown and Anchor. Leaving Nate to flirt with Martha, Amos took a stroll down the main street in Shawford. The businesses were closed for the evening, and there was no sign of life in the vicinity of Chesney’s shop. He had not supposed there would be at this hour. Amos glanced up at the two stories above the shop, where lights showed in several of the windows. Chesney had done well over the years and could probably afford to live elsewhere. And yet, even as his trade and reputation grew, he chose to remain in the rooms over his shop. Amos supposed Miss Brooke must now reside there with him.

He slipped down the alleyway to one side of the premises, which led him to the workshop at the rear. As he had suspected, light spilled from the window, presumably because Chesney or his damned assistant were hard at work on the commission for Amos’s mother. Not wishing to be caught in the embarrassing position of snooping, Amos flattened himself against the wall, close to the window, and cautiously chanced a glance around the glass.

“What the devil?”

Amos blinked, thinking his eyes must be playing tricks on him. He took a second, longer look but nothing had changed. Miss Brooke, clad in her masculine attire, was bent over a work bench, not sketching but soldering jewellery in what appeared to be a professional and competent manner. He leaned back against the wall, cogitating. If she was now undertaking all the jewellery making, it would explain the male attire. Skirts and petticoats would hamper her movements. He could also understand why she was reluctant to take credit for her art. Most men were insufficiently enlightened to accept a woman could be capable of holding down a traditionally male occupation, and would resent her talent if they knew about it. The question was, why did she need to do the work instead of her uncle? Where had she learned her trade, and what part did Reece play in the deception? The name Brooke, in connection with jewellery, rang a vague bell, but he couldn’t think where he had heard it before. He would ask his mother. If anyone knew, it would be her.

Amos stole another glance at Miss Brooke’s figure, still bent close to her work. She straightened up as he watched, appeared to sigh and massaged the small of her back with both hands. Her face looked drawn and tired. She wore a magnifying glass attached to some sort of strap that circled her forehead. She removed it, tidied her equipment and extinguished the lights. So she ought. It was gone nine in the evening. She must be exhausted, the poor darling. What was her uncle thinking of, keeping her working so late into the night?

He headed back towards the Crown and Anchor deep in thought. The more he learned about the enigmatic Miss Brooke, the more curious about her circumstances he became. Sheridan males were not accustomed to living with unanswered questions plaguing their minds, and Amos fully intended to discover what secrets this delightful creature was concealing.

***

Crista had the strangest feeling she was being watched. She glanced through the window, but there was no one there. She had been working since seven that morning, with hardly a break and was weary to the bone, almost too tired to stand. Was it any wonder she was imaging things? She critically examined the emerald-studded bangle she had just completed. It was far too ostentatious for her taste, but exquisitely made, if she did say so herself. She wished she could take more pleasure from the result, but that was impossible. What she was doing was against the law, and against every principle she possessed. She was not a criminal by nature and felt nothing but contempt for the things she had been forced to do.

She heard the door open behind her and knew, without turning around, it was Reece come to check on her progress. Her skin crawled when he was anywhere near her.

“Is it completed?” he asked.

She kept her back to him. “I told you it would be.”

“You had better not have skimped just because you think to make a name for yourself designing jewellery for a duchess.”

Crista was tempted to throw the bangle at his face. She resisted only because it might be damaged if it fell to the floor, which would mean more work for her putting it right.

“See for yourself.”

Reece picked up the bangle and examined the workmanship minutely. She continued to tidy away her equipment, not caring about his opinion. He gave it anyway.

“Superb,” he said.

Crista said nothing.

“I need a necklace to match.”

“That was not part of the agreement.”

“Nevertheless, you will do it.”

Crista stood up, placed her fisted hands on her hips and glowered at him. “I cannot, not now. I must finish the commission for the duchess. After that, we shall see.”

He took a menacing step towards her. To her considerable annoyance she instinctively backed away, giving the impression she feared him. She did, since he was a bully with an unpredictable temper and took especial pleasure in intimidating helpless women. But that didn’t mean she should show her fear. The moment she did that, he would take advantage of her.

“Do I need to remind you what is at stake if you fail to do as you’re told?”

He stood so close his rancid breath, smelling of whisky and rich food, peppered her face. When he reached out, as if to touch her, Crista’s temper erupted. She felt behind her for a weapon, something to make this contest of wills more even. Her hand closed around the wooden handle of her soldering iron, still warm from recent use. She whisked it towards his face, close enough to singe his whiskers. He jumped back, murder in his eyes.

“What the devil−”

“You are not the only person capable of intimidation. Never, ever try to touch me again or I will have my revenge.”

He sneered at her. “You will do as you are told.”

“No, I will do as I see fit. I shall finish the commission for the duchess, and then we shall see about your wretched business, not a moment before.”

“It is not for you to see, but to do as you are told.” Reece back away from her, and Crista returned the soldering iron to her bench. “You are too good at what you do. We have a plethora of customers eager to benefit from your expertise.”

She tossed her head. “That must make you very proud.”

“No, m’dear, it makes me very rich, which is all that concerns me.”

“I do not have the slightest difficulty believing you on that score. Even so, I will not make anything else for you until I have seen to the duchess’s requirements, and there is an end to the matter.”

Reece appeared to realise she was in earnest, and she had the satisfaction of watching him snarl his agreement. She knew her victory would be fleeting and he would find a way to make her pay for it, but Crista was too tired to care.