The Duke's Reform (13 page)

She would take the blame; no one
else would suffer. She had done the right thing and was confident those around
her would support her when he came.

Isobel was sitting quietly in front
of the fire reading a new novel that had recently arrived from London, Pride
and Prejudice. She had never read anything so enjoyable; she was so engrossed
she ignored the faint fluttering in her stomach. When it happened a second time
her book fell unheeded from her fingers. She placed both hands on her distended
belly. Yes, there it was again. The baby inside was kicking, telling her she
was going to be a mother in a few months.

     
Her heart contracted. The idea of handing over her child appalled her. But
could she learn to live with a man she feared and didn't trust?

Chapter Nine

Alexander ran his fingers through his hair and
frowned at the column of figures. There was something amiss here; the amount of
money leaving this account was astronomical. His estate manager was either
corrupt or run mad. The man had had no authorization to draw such sums of money
from the bank. He pushed the papers to one side with a sigh. He must return to
Newcomb and see for himself what was going on. This was a damn nuisance as the
season was about to begin in earnest and he was determined to complete the
process of re-establishing himself in the eyes of the
ton
.

      He had easily
resisted the voluptuous temptations of his erstwhile mistress and doused his
physical needs by vigorous exercise. Much to the astonishment of his staff he'd
taken to running round the park at dawn, also hurtling up and down the
staircase at regular intervals during the day. He'd also resumed his sparring
at Jackson's and during the last bout he'd only been floored once.

Being fit and clearheaded for the
first time in many years had sharpened his intellect—unfortunately it had also
made him more aware of the sins of the flesh. One thing was very certain.
However much he might lust after a woman, he would never be unfaithful to
Isobel. She was constantly in his thoughts. He sent up a fervent prayer every
day asking the Almighty to give him a second chance.

      A sharp tap on
the door reminded him he was expecting a visit. Gathering up the loose sheets
he stuffed them into the drawer of the desk and locked it. For some reason he
didn't quite trust Richard Bentley, the young man his lawyers had tracked down
as being next in line. Bentley was

altogether
too unctuous and already showing an
inclination towards fast play and fast women.

      'Come in, if you
must.'

The door swung open and Bentley
stepped in, Alexander struggled to remain expressionless. The man was a
popinjay and followed the most extreme of fashions. Good God! The idiot could
scarcely turn his
head,
his shirt points were so high.

      'My lord, I beg
your pardon for disturbing you, but I've a matter of the utmost urgency to bring
to your attention.'

      Even his voice
irritated—this was slightly high pitched, and he ended sentences as if asking a
question. 'As you see, Bentley, I'm busy. Can it not wait until I've done'

The young man smiled and nodded as
if in understanding but looked as if he intended to stay all morning.

      'Well, get on
with it. What is it you wish to discuss with me?'

      Undeterred by
the brusque response Bentley leaned forward, placing his hands on the desktop.
‘I’ve heard the most disturbing
rumour
, your grace.
It is being said in more than one drawing-room that the Duchess of Rochester is
missing.'

Alexander's fingers gripped the edge
of the table. Have dare this jackanapes ask him such a question? Bentley had
only been in residence three weeks and was already behaving as if he were a
member the family. 'My wife is at Newcomb, she does not come to town. In fact,
I am going down to visit her today.'

      He was dammed if
he was going to sit here and be interrogated by someone who was only a relative
in the most tenuous of fashions. According to his lawyers Bentley was his heir,
a clear line of descent from an ancient uncle, but he was a cousin so many
times removed Alexander felt him not to be kin at all.

      The wretched man
sprung to his feet all eagerness and conciliation.
'How
delightful!
Then if you'll permit me, I shall accompany you the country.
I believe it will be in order for me to meet your wife. I can't tell you how
much I am anticipating the pleasure.'

      This was too
much. With one swift stride Alexander was beside him. He was a head taller and
twice his weight. Bentley took a step backward and, tripping over his feet,
landed heavily on his backside. Alexander could not stop his bark of laughter
at the man's expense.

      'Get up, man.
And get rid of those high-heeled boots, you'll break your neck falling off them
one of these days.' He offered his hand and pulled him to his feet.

      'Thank you, my
lord. I do beg your pardon for being so clumsy. I take it you have no
wish
for me to accompany you this morning. I quite understand,
perhaps I may join you in the country next week?'

      The young man
was a buffoon. Bentley had been brought up in very different circumstances
to his own
but maybe in time he would improve. 'Very well,
if I don't return to town before then, you're welcome to follow me to Newcomb,
if that's what you wish to do.'

Bentley bowed and
retreated
leaving Alexander to consider his options. He would not disturb his
staff,
they could remain in situ as his visit would be
brief. He would deal with Reynolds and then depart immediately. Newcomb would
be cold and unwelcoming with only a handful of staff in residence to receive
him.

He frowned and rubbed his chin. The
Season was about to start—why did Bentley have this sudden urge to visit
Newcomb? That he wanted to meet Isobel was fustian. Surely he was not already
running from his debts? He shrugged and dismissed this unpleasant notion. It
could be dealt with on his return.

      Today was clear
and crisp; the storms and poor weather of the previous months gone. March
weather was notoriously fickle, but spring appeared to have arrived early this
year. He decided to ride. The distance was no more than twenty miles and his
restlessness demanded the extra exercise.

There had been no word on Isobel's
whereabouts, but he was determined to find her eventually. When he did she
would see at once he was a different man, not the one who had mistreated her
last year. Somehow he would persuade her to return and then would spend the
rest of his life demonstrating how much he loved her, and how their lack of
children made no difference to him.

      He was resigned
to passing on his title and estate to a virtual stranger. He shuddered at the
thought of what damage Bentley could do when
he
became the Duke of
Rochester. God willing, that would not be for another thirty years. Hopefully
the man would have grown out of this sartorial extravagance and tendency to be
profligate and have learnt what it meant to be in a position of power. He
scowled. Small wonder Bentley was going astray— the young man would know all
about his mentor's profligacy and thought he was expected to sew his wild oats.
This was something else he must rectify on his return.

His valet was following behind in a
closed carriage with the luggage. Alexander did not require much for an
overnight stay, and there was still a closet with sufficient garments
languishing at Newcomb.

 Foster had been horrified to
think of his master returning to an empty house with only a handful of staff to
serve him. Nowadays the
staff were
more impressed by
his importance then he was. He'd assured his butler he was making a fleeting
visit, and would come to no harm during a single night without a flock of
flunkies at his beck and call.

He was well aware the majority of
his older staff treated young Bentley with barely concealed contempt. They were
not quite disrespectful, that would have been easier to deal with, but they had
closed ranks at his appearance. Were they refusing to accept the inevitable—
that he would never produce a son of his own,

The ride from London to
Hertfordshire was invigorating. He had purchased a magnificent chestnut
stallion with a fiery temper to match his own. The horses in his stable were
more than adequate, but he'd been taken by this beast the moment he'd seen him.

He had two grooms in attendance
mounted on equally impressive horses, but even so they were hard pressed to
keep up. Rufus could gallop across country all day, taking huge hedges and
ditches in his stride. He halted at midday to rest him and take refreshments.
He had made good time and would be at his destination long before dark.

As he cantered down the drive he was
aware there was something odd about Newcomb, but he couldn't quite place it. He
reined back and studied the huge edifice with interest. The main building was,
as expected, shuttered and dark. But there was quite definitely smoke
spiralling
into the sky and it could only emanate from the
east wing. Had the remaining staff moved in there for some reason?

He kicked Rufus and despite the
length of the journey the stallion responded and he arrived outside the stable
yard, sending gravel in all directions. He vaulted from the saddle and pulled
the reins over his mount's ears in order to lead him through the archway.

      To his
astonishment several equine heads turned to view his arrival. The stables
should be empty. Someone had taken up residence here in his absence.

****

Isobel was sitting contentedly in front of a
roaring fire completing a small garment. She was not a skilled needle woman but
was determined to make something for the baby. This was the least she could do
if she managed to adhere to her plan to abandon the child soon after birth.

      She looked up as
door burst open and Ellen, the senior
parlourmaid
,
came in. They stood on no ceremony here; this was a happy establishment, unlike
Newcomb next door.

      'Good heavens,
Ellen, why are you in such a fuss?'

'He's come. He's just ridden into
the stable yard. What shall we
do,
your grace?'

Isobel was on her feet, her sewing
slipping unnoticed to the carpet. 'Who's come? Are you telling me the Duke of
Rochester is here?'

The girl
nodded,
her complexion pale. 'He is
,
my lady, what shall we
do? There's nothing ready for him and Newcomb is abandoned and we all work for
you here.'

Isobel was confident she could face
Alexander with equanimity and not be bullied or browbeaten into making a
permanent return. But her hands were damp and her stomach churned at the
thought of seeing him again. He was terrifying when he was angry.

      'You must tell
Mrs
Watkins to prepare a guest chamber for the duke. No
doubt his man will be travelling separately and he can fetch whatever his grace
requires from next door and bring it here when he arrives. Don't look so
worried, no one will suffer because of this.' She prayed she was speaking the
truth. He was stronger than
her,
if he wished to abuse
her there would be little she could do to stop him. The idea that she could use
Sam and Bill to protect her was nonsensical —Alexander would see them on the
gallows if they raised a hand to him.

      She must make
sure he did not vent his spleen on the staff that had deserted their posts in
order to join her employ. His appearance was not really unexpected. He was
bound to have noticed the discrepancies in his account eventually and come to
investigate for himself. It was
Mr
Reynolds who would
require protecting from Alexander's wrath, for the agent had withdrawn the
money for the repairs and refurbishment.

      She glanced
around her
cosy
parlour
. She would not receive him here—this was
her
domain as the study had been his. She would greet him in the grand salon.
The fires were lit throughout the ancient edifice so it would be perfectly
comfortable in there.

      Mary met her in
the corridor, her face anxious. 'My lady, Ellen says we are to let him in. Are
you sure this is wise?'

‘I’ve no option, Mary. I've my
people around me and he is by himself. He owns Newcomb so we can hardly leave
him standing outside in the cold.'

'I shall prepare the blue room, and
Cook has instructions to make a more substantial dinner. Unfortunately it will
be delayed an hour, but his grace never liked to eat early so I expect there
will be no complaint on that score.'

'It is no matter to me, Mary, when I
eat. It is my authority that matters, here
I
make the decisions and you
answer to me, make sure all the staff are well aware that.'

Her words were mere bravado.
Alexander could do as he wished and there was nothing at all she could do about
it. She checked in the over-mantel mirror that her cap was not askew, her
velvet gown hung straight and that the bulge of her pregnancy would not be
immediately apparent. The high-
waisted
gown dropped
in tiny plates from under her bosom, the rich russet colour matching what
little of her hair that could be seen. The emerald green sash and matching
slippers completed her ensemble perfectly.