Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (12 page)

“Well, you must be starving,” the maid remarked. “You missed supper altogether last night.”

Andrew went into town with his secretary and two footmen, stopping at Mr. Evanhurst’s office where he signed the papers he’d asked to have prepared for him the day before. When it was done, he asked Evanhurst to ride out to Primrose Manor with the papers at his earliest convenience and explain the changes he’d made to Eleanor.

When his business with the solicitor was concluded, Andrew sent the others to partake of the amusements in town while he went on his own to see if there were any members of Parliament that he might miss at Lord Claymere’s party.

Time was working against him. He wanted Eleanor at his side when he returned to London for the meeting with Peel on Saturday. But what could he say or do between now and then to convince her of his sincerity? Of his trustworthiness? He had to think of something, and soon.

He started to walk toward the racecourse, thinking of Eleanor’s father and all his sins. It was no mystery that Weatherby had used Eleanor’s disgust for such licentiousness to sway her against marriage to Andrew. Clearly, she’d been aghast at the notion of sharing her husband with a mistress.

But Andrew was nothing like Derington. He was not licentious, nor was he a drunkard or a gambler. He’d dismissed his mistress as soon as he’d met Eleanor, well before their engagement, months before their wedding day. Surely Eleanor would not believe Weatherby’s lie on its own merit. She had to think better of him than that. And then it dawned on him. Weatherby must have found someone to corroborate his story. A false witness.

But who would do such a thing? Andrew had no enemies except for Weatherby, and only a few adversaries – all of them in Parliament, none of them so underhanded. Perhaps there were some who envied him his wealth, or . . . He wondered if someone owed Weatherby a favor, and he’d substantiated the lie.

He silently cursed Weatherby as he walked through the crowded lanes of the town, keeping an eye out for the bastard and whomever he might be trying to bend to his cause. Andrew knew the earl did not care about defeating the labor bill. His only interest was in thwarting his adversary. The man was still trying to exact revenge for Andrew’s interference two years before at the Chester horse race.

All at once, he caught sight of Weatherby heading toward the stables near the racecourse, and when he saw the gentlemen who were with him, Andrew knew he could not let this opportunity pass.

It took him only a moment to catch up to the earl, walking with Viscounts Stanton and Maryfield. None of them could afford to snub a duke in public, and Andrew used that fact to his advantage. While the three men stopped to admire one of the thoroughbreds, he circled around them so they would have to face him when the handler took his horse away.

Stanton’s step faltered slightly when he looked away from Weatherby saw Andrew. Which seemed indicative that the men had not been engaging in idle chatter.

Andrew did not doubt Weatherby was working to convince Stanton to vote against Sir Robert’s bill.

“Your Grace,” Stanton said, quickly composing himself. “I did not know you were coming to the races.”

“Nor, I expect, did your companion.” Andrew turned a cold eye to Weatherby.

As Eleanor washed and dressed for the day, she could not escape her new understanding that her father had not been the reprobate he’d seemed. Well, not intentionally, at least. He’d been denied his wife’s affections, and that had driven him to leave their family.

Or, at least, that’s the way it seemed to Eleanor.

The lies were a little more difficult to understand. Why hadn’t anyone told her about Arthur? His birth and death seemed to have occurred while she was too young to understand such things, but surely someone ought to have told her before her mother had died. After all, Eleanor had been ten years old at the time. Certainly capable of understanding at least some of it.

She felt as though a gaping hole had opened up in her heart overnight. And there was nothing she could do to close it. The way her mother had rejected her father was unfathomable. So were the lies that had followed Eleanor throughout her life. She wished she’d have known about her newborn brother. Arthur.

Eleanor felt absolutely wretched. Drained, even after a full night’s sleep.

Perhaps if she jumped in the lake and swam as hard and as fast as she could to the far end and back a few times, she might rid herself of the horrible emptiness inside her.

But perhaps nothing could change it.

Eleanor went downstairs to a quiet household. The only person she encountered was her aunt, who was having breakfast in the dining room.

“Beckworth is not here,” Minerva said.

“I was not looking for him, anyway,” Eleanor replied. “Perhaps he’s gone for good.”

Minerva clucked her tongue. “It is unseemly for you to speak of the duke in such a way, Eleanor. Your father would—”

“Please do not speak to me of my father,” Eleanor said quietly. Even though everything she felt about her sire was in complete disarray, her mind had not changed about Beckworth.

“Will you sit down?” Minerva asked.

Eleanor did so, but declined to be served when Thornberry asked. The butler left the room and Eleanor turned her thoughts to Beckworth. She knew he had not left for good, because he was not through tormenting her.

But his absence this morning annoyed her. How dare he avoid her this way? He was a disruption to her peace of mind, and it would be so much easier if he just left Primrose Manor and went back to London. And she intended to tell him so.

“Have you taken ill, Eleanor?” Minerva inquired.

“No, aunt. I feel well enough.” For someone who’d just learned her entire life was built upon a lie.

“Why, you have barely touched any food at all since we’ve come to the manor.”

Eleanor swallowed. “I believe I need a bit of time to adjust. These past weeks . . .”

Minerva lifted her teacup. “Preferably sooner rather than later, Eleanor. You are looking quite peaked.”

Which was no wonder, considering.

“Aunt Minerva . . .”

“What is it, Eleanor?”

She hesitated to ask. Speaking of Arthur could easily spoil her aunt’s day and could alter relations between them. “I believe I will go and speak to Thornberry about the household finances.”

“What is the point, Eleanor, when Beckworth is in charge of such things?”

Eleanor bit back a retort about Beckworth and her annuity, and went to the kitchen in search of Thornberry. He was there with his wife and Sally, the kitchen maid.

“Why, good morning, Miss,” Mrs. Thornberry said. “Thornberry tells me you are not hungry this morning.”

Eleanor shook her head. “No. I thought I would take some time to go over the household finances with Thornberry this morning.”

“Of course, Miss Easton,” the butler said, wiping his hands on a towel as he came toward her. He took an account book from a shelf. “Shall we go into your father’s study?”

She would rather not go in there just yet, not until her thoughts about him had a chance to settle. “No, we can talk right here.”

She sat down at the big hardwood table in the center of the room, and Thornberry sat on the bench beside her. He opened the book and began to go over the columns of numbers with her, outlining the manor’s housekeeping costs.

As they talked, Eleanor felt her brows coming together with worry. Would the annuity be sufficient to sustain them for years at Primrose Manor? It seemed an astronomical sum when all the columns were added together, and yet Beckworth had said nothing about trimming expenses.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she took a bite of the jam-laden toast Mrs. Thornberry had set on the table in front of her, and looked up at the butler. “Do you send all the bills to Beckworth, Thornberry?”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “No. Everything goes to Mr. Evanhurst, in Reading. He is the duke’s man of business in town.”

Eleanor took another bite of Mrs. Thornberry’s thick, delicious toast and drank her tea, realizing now that she was hungrier than she thought. “How long has Mr. Evanhurst been paying the bills?”

“For many years, Miss Easton,” Thornberry replied. “He was the one to maintain Primrose Manor on your father’s behalf.”

And Beckworth had kept him on. Eleanor supposed it was wise of him to do so, for the solicitor knew the history of the house – its typical expenses, what repairs had been done, and so forth.

Thinking about Beckworth only increased her restless irritability. She had to do something. If she had a horse, she would ride until they both dropped.

But she did not, and she did not even know if she could afford one.

She left the kitchen and headed toward the front door, irritated that Beckworth had not yet returned. There were the money issues, and then there was Beckworth himself. If he thought he could just come out to Berkshire and kiss her until she did not know her own mind, he was sadly mistaken.

“I am going out,” she said to Lizzie, who was just coming down the stairs.

“Oh yes, Miss?” the maid replied. “Shall I come with you?”

“No,” she answered. “I’m only going to see Lucy, and Stillwater House is not far.”

Lizzie gave her a look of concern. “Well, if you are sure you do not need me to accompany you . . .”

Eleanor nodded, aware that her behavior must seem strange. After all, she’d slept in her clothes in her mother’s bed last night, covered by the blanket Lizzie had pulled over her, and now she was going out walking alone. “Just tell my aunt where I’ve gone if she asks. But not too soon.”

The day was warm, so Eleanor did not take a shawl with her. She left the manor, shrugging off the weight of her parents’ deception as she walked.

She set off for the house she’d once known as well as her own. She and the neighboring children had spent long summer days together, and Stillwater House was where she’d gone when life at Primrose Manor became too oppressive.

She would not think of those days now. Instead, she tried to enjoy the sunny walk across fields rich with growing crops.

She slipped through the turnstile that led to Stillwater property, and finally approached the house. Before she’d gotten even halfway up the drive, the front door opened and Lucy came out, smiling.

“Oh, my dear Ellie! You’re here!”

“Yes,” Eleanor replied. “You sound as though I was expected.”

Lucy laughed. “Not expected, but I’d hoped you’d come. My father’s sister has arrived from Scotland.”

And on that news, Eleanor halted and considered bolting.

Weatherby stared into Andrew’s eyes, but made no reply to his remark. His mouth tightened and his color deepened enough to demonstrate his frustration, and more than a touch of ire. Andrew could not remember ever seeing such hatred in another man’s eyes.

Not that Maryfield looked particularly friendly. Andrew had never liked the young viscount, finding him to be a conceited little man without principle. Which was obvious, since he counted Weatherby among his friends.

“Er, we were discussing the quality of horseflesh we’ve seen this morning,” Stanton said haltingly.