Never Deceive a Duke (6 page)

She dropped her gaze to the carpet. “It is in a dreadful state, I’m told,” she replied. “Cavendish says it will take a vast deal of money to set it to rights. It was abandoned, I collect, some years past.”

He felt his jaw harden. “Indeed it was,” he said. “I lived there, you see, as a boy. And even then, it was a run-down, rotting mess.”

Her head jerked up. “I…I did not know,” she stammered. “It was said, of course, you once lived here—”

“I never lived here,” he interjected. “I have never lived in this house.”

“Oh.” She looked away. “I have never been inside. Knollwood, I mean.”

“There is nothing to see,” he said sharply. “Indeed, it must be perfectly uninhabitable now. Twenty years ago, the roof leaked and the floors were rotting. There is no plumbing whatsoever, and the cellar is so damp the downstairs reeked of mildew.”

At that, the duchess wrinkled her nose and made a face. It made her look perfectly girlish—and it made him want, inexplicably, to laugh. Not at her, but with her. For an instant, he forgot about the cold and miserable nights he had spent in that grim old house—and the nights which had come after.

“It actually looks quite lovely from the outside,” she said apologetically. “Like a little fairy castle, I sometimes think.”

“It’s the turrets, I suppose.” He forced himself to smile. “They appear rather romantic from the exterior. And if you really wish to live there—and never mind what Cavendish wants—then the necessary repairs can be made. Assets must be maintained, and I’ve no doubt the estate can afford it.”

“Indeed, you are one of England’s wealthiest men now, Your Grace.” Suddenly, she paled. “Not to suggest, of course, that you weren’t before. I cannot presume to know your circumstances—”

She had succumbed to blushes. “Just what did that old prune Cavendish think he was getting when he ran me down?” Gareth muttered. “Some back-alley blackleg? A cutpurse? A grave robber, perhaps?”

The blush deepened. “A stevedore, I believe he said,” she answered. “Or a dockhand? Are they the same?”

“More or less.” Gareth smiled. “I’m almost sorry now that I wasn’t one. I’d have had a devilish good time watching him mince about the docks with a handkerchief clamped to his nose.”

For an instant, she looked as if she might laugh. He found himself waiting for the sound with an inexplicable eagerness, but she kept silent.

He laid the file aside and set his hands on his thighs as if to rise. “Well, we can do no more at present, I think,” he said musingly. “What time is dinner served these days?”

“Half past six.” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “And it is Monday, Your Grace.”

“Monday?”

“Sir Percy and Lady Ingham usually dine at Selsdon on Monday, along with Dr. Osborne,” she answered. “And usually the rector and his wife. But they are on holiday in Brighton. Do you mind terribly?”

“I mind it a great deal indeed,” he returned. “I should much prefer to be on holiday in Brighton myself.”

The duchess gave another serene smile. “I meant Dr. Osborne,” she clarified. “He is our village doctor in Lower Addington. And Sir Percy and his wife are quite nice people. They have all—well, stood by me, I suppose, during this terrible time.”

“Then I shall look forward to meeting them,” he said, rising. And it would have the added benefit, he inwardly considered, of helping him avoid another hour alone in her company. With a deliberately distant smile, Gareth offered his hand and helped the duchess rise from her chair.

At the door, however, she hesitated and turned to face him. Her expression was once again bleak.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“I realize this is your first afternoon at Selsdon.” Her eyes were focused somewhere beyond his shoulder. “It is but a matter of time, however, before you…well, before you hear the rumors.”

“Rumors?” He smiled a little bitterly. “I should think Selsdon is rife with those. To which do you refer?”

She returned her gaze to his, her eyes bleak. “There are some who believe my husband’s death was not an accident,” said the duchess quietly. “It has been whispered that perhaps—well, that perhaps I was unhappy in my marriage.”

The words, spoken so emotionlessly from her own lips, sent a chill down his spine which Xanthia’s rumor had not. “Are you saying that you have been openly accused?”

She gave a muted half smile. “Accused? No. That would be too complicated. It is far easier to simply blight my reputation with whispers and innuendo.”

Gareth held her gaze steadily. “And did you kill him?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I did not. But the damage is done.”

“I learnt long ago what an ugly, destructive force rumors can be,” he answered coolly. “In this case, I suggest we pay them all the heed they are worth—which is nothing.”

But as he left her standing by the door, he was not at all sure his suggestion was a good one. There was something strange and a little otherworldly about the Duchess. Something haunting in her eyes. But a murderess? He was utterly certain she was not, though why he felt such confidence, he could not have said.

Unfortunately, in her world—the world of the
ton
—that sort of rumor could be worse than ruinous. Perhaps he was beginning to comprehend why she might prefer to shut herself away in a lonely, ramshackle place like Knollwood rather than return to that world and try to build a life for herself.

But none of this was really his problem, was it? He had come here merely to look over the estate, and make certain it was being profitably run. He was not here to save the world—not even the duchess’s elite little corner of it.

Upon her return, Nellie greeted Antonia at her bedchamber door. “You’ve come back!” she said, as if she’d expected her mistress to have been eaten alive. “What was he like, ma’am, the new duke?”

Antonia gave a grim smile. “Arrogant,” she said, tossing her black shawl onto the bed. “Now pack up my things, Nellie. We’re going—”

“Oh, ma’am!” the maid wailed. “He must be heartless! Truly!”

“—back to the ducal suite,” Antonia finished.

Nellie’s mouth dropped shut. “Well, bless me!” she said after a moment had passed. “Back to your old rooms, then? That’s right and proper of him, if I do say so myself.”

Antonia had crossed the room to the window. It was clear Nellie wished to hear more about the meeting, but Antonia drew away the sheer drapery and stared down at the graveled forecourt. She was inexplicably reluctant to allow the maid to gauge her mood just now. She was not perfectly sure she understood it herself.

What had just happened to her in the morning room? Something…strange. She felt oddly aware—but aware of what? It was as if she was shaking—or perhaps the word was aquiver? As if something inside her had been stirred up.

She had expected, really, to dislike the new Duke of Warneham, not that she had cared much one way or the other. At her very first glance, the man had appeared high-handed and arrogant—which he was. He had looked every inch the haughty aristocrat, with his form fitting coat and snug breeches. His golden gaze had seemed to pierce her. His jaw had been too hard, his nose too aquiline. His leonine mane entirely too luxurious. And inexplicably, she had found herself almost spoiling for a fight. That was not like her. It truly was not. There was no longer anything worth quarreling over in life.
Was
there?

And that spate of temper! Where had it come from? She had not raised her voice to anyone since. well, in a very long while. But something about the duke had provoked her. The man had seemed so cocksure. So…apparently
comfortable
in wielding his new power. And in the end, to her shock, he had been almost kind. He had believed her, she thought.

She had expected, she supposed, that he would be rough-edged and ill-mannered; a rustic who would have gazed about his easily-got gains in gaping stupefaction. She had not expected him to look so young, and she had assumed that his years drifting about in the navy and the colonial islands would have rubbed off any bit of bronze which had been left from his brief life at Selsdon. But he was not like that at all. He was something far more dangerous.

“Yes, Nellie, the new duke said everything which was proper,” Antonia finally responded. “I do not believe him a warmhearted man by any estimate, but I have hope that he is just.”

Nellie touched her lightly on the arm. “But he was arrogant, you said?”

“Yes…” Antonia was not sure how to describe it. “Perhaps it really is bred in the blood, Nellie? I think this man would have been imperious had he been raised in a cow byre.”

“Well, we don’t really know where he was raised, do we, ma’am?” said Nellie suspiciously. “We only know what’s said belowstairs: that he killed his little cousin, and broke the old duke’s heart—not that I ever saw as he had one.”

“Nellie, that will do,” Antonia gently admonished. “By the way, he tells me he actually lived at Knollwood. Had you ever heard that?”

“No, ma’am.” The maid had returned to her task of folding stockings. “Just that he was brought up here.”

“But it’s not quite the same, is it?” Antonia mused. “Tell me, Nellie, what are they saying belowstairs?”

“Most everyone is kind of quiet-like,” the maid admitted. “There are some as say the new duke was very kind to take the time to meet everyone, seeing as how it was beginning to pour the rain. And some remarked favorably on his way of plain speaking. But one or two are saying how they don’t fancy working for a jumped-up piece of—well, never mind that.”

Antonia shot her a sidelong glance. “Yes, never mind that indeed.”

Nellie shrugged. “Metcaff says there’s been whispers that the new master had something to do with the old duke’s death, ma’am.”

“The only whispers are Metcaff’s,” said Antonia. “An idle tongue is Satan’s tool, Nellie. And you’ll recall that it was I who had done the dastardly deed until this new opportunity turned up.”

“No one really believes that, ma’am,” said Nellie, but Antonia knew she was just being kind. “Anyway, Metcaff says he’s thinking of giving notice.”

“Does he?” said Antonia incredulously. “To do what, pray?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am,” answered the maid. “But he’s egging on some of the others to go with him.”

“Then they shall all starve together,” Antonia retorted. “People are already without food in London, and this damp is like to ruin the harvest. They had better be grateful for employment.”

Nellie was quiet for a moment. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you perfectly all right?”

“Yes, Nellie, perfectly.” Antonia turned from the window. “Why do you ask?”

This time Nellie lifted just one shoulder. “You seem in an odd frame of mind, ma’am,” she answered. “And your color…but never mind that, either. If you are well enough, then—”

“I am fine.”

“Then, as you say, I ought to pack.”

“Yes, thank you.” Antonia had returned her gaze to the window. “But be so good as to lay out my dinner dress first.”

Nellie opened the dressing room. “Which would you have, ma’am?”

“You choose,” Antonia said, gazing not at the forecourt but at her own watery reflection in the glass. Nellie was right. She did not look quite herself. Her color was a little high, and her expression not one she easily recognized.

“Nellie,” she abruptly added, “choose something with just a little color. Perhaps the dark blue jacquard satin? Is it too soon, do you think?”

“Of course not, ma’am.” Nellie extracted the gown and gave it a healthy shake. “The new duke has come. It is your duty to welcome him.”

“Yes, Nellie, I suppose you are right.” Absently, Antonia lifted her hand and lightly touched the stranger in the glass. “It is my duty, isn’t it?”

That evening, Gareth greeted his guests with both a measure of dread and at least a modicum of relief. After his meeting with the Duchess of Warneham, he was not perfectly sure he wished to be alone with her again. He was not certain why he felt that way. Visually, the woman was an indulgence—but like a too-rich dessert, better cut with something bland, perhaps, like tepid coffee.

He got his wish in Sir Percy Ingham. If the duchess was a chocolate gâteau with crème anglaise, Sir Percy was weak tea. He was also a relative newcomer to the village of Lower Addington, which Gareth found a relief. He was a little tired of the whispers which already went on behind his back. Not that Sir Percy seemed above it—certainly his wife was not—but at least Gareth did not know them from his childhood. He found the same favorable trait in the doctor, a man named Martin Osborne, who was well spoken and obviously well educated. Osborne looked to be a bit less than forty, and he possessed all the polish of a gentleman.

Gareth was also relieved to discover that Selsdon was gifted with a chef of outstanding skill. He looked down the dinner table in some satisfaction as the third course was removed and a selection of fruit tarts and ices was brought in.

“Let me say again, Your Grace, how pleased we are to dine with you on this, your very first night at Selsdon,” said Dr. Osborne solemnly. “You are most gracious to carry on our little tradition.”

“Very gracious indeed,” said Sir Percy, picking judiciously over the platter of tarts. “On the whole, Your Grace, how have you found your first day in your new home?”

Gareth nodded at the footman, who was offering more wine. “What was it, Sir Percy, that the Reverend Richard Hooker once said?” Gareth mused as the servant leaned over to pour. “‘Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better?’”

“Quite so! Quite so!” Sir Percy looked surprised. “Have you by chance read Hooker’s masterpiece
Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical Politie
? It is one of the rector’s favorites.”

“I have read it,” said Gareth a little tightly, wondering if any insult—or worse, some probing question—hid behind the baronet’s words. Reverend Needles had crammed Hooker into his head
ad nauseam
—not that it was any of their damned business. But the remark had passed without notice. Gareth relaxed.

“What, pray, do you find inconvenient about this change, Your Grace?” twittered Lady Ingham. “I vow, I can find nothing about Selsdon Court to dislike.”