A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  “I didn’t!”

  He looked around the room and then back at her face.

  She followed his gaze, her formidable brows drawn together in a bewildered frown. “I went to sleep,” she said. Her voice sounded distant, as if she was still half there. “Just as usual. I did have a dream.” She clasped her forearms as if for comfort. “I’ve had it before.” She swallowed.

  He gave her a little time. But when she didn’t speak, he said, “And then?”

  “There was a sound, I think, and I woke up in the dark.” She shuddered. “I had no idea where I was!”

  Peter had already noticed a vase lying on the floor in pieces. She must have brushed against the stand it had sat on and knocked it off. “You were sleepwalking?”

  “What? No, of course I wasn’t.”

  “But if you woke up here, you must have been.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes wide and frightened again.

  “I’ve heard of sleepwalking but never seen it,” Peter commented.

  This was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Sleepwalking,” she repeated as if the word was a curse. She clutched her arms tighter.

  The movement drew her thin nightdress tight against her body, leaving very little to the imagination. Peter couldn’t help noticing. Such a lovely sight compelled attention. He could stop staring, however. He raised his eyes to her face. “I beg your pardon.” Whether this applied to his awkward remark or to noticing her unclad state, he could not have said. Both, probably.

  She scarcely seemed to hear him. “I’ve never done that before,” she said. A tear slid down her cheek. With a soft moan she buried her face in her hands. “You must think I’m mad.”

  “Not remotely,” said Peter.

  Miss Ada looked up. Her dark eyes swam with tears. “You don’t?”

  “Obviously you aren’t.”

  She blinked, gazing at him. “You’re so calm.”

  He wasn’t certain whether this was a compliment or a criticism. Her tone was a mystery.

  “Drawing-room conversation seems to unsettle you. But you’re perfectly at ease with this.” She gestured at their eerie surroundings.

  The movement pulled at her nightdress in a way that sent Peter’s pulse racing. At ease did not describe his state just now. And her opinion of his manners didn’t help. He looked away. “I suppose I’m more accustomed to shadowy solitude than to drawing rooms.” He realized the truth of this as he spoke, while wishing that it hadn’t sounded so stilted.

  Miss Ada appeared to consider this. She looked calmer, which was good. “Did I break the vase? Oh dear.”

  “A matter of no consequence. I’ve always thought the thing quite ugly.”

  This won him a fleeting smile. Then her formidable eyebrows came together again. “But why did I sleepwalk?”

  Peter had no idea. He was moved to help her, however. “Perhaps the influence of a strange place?” He attempted a joke. “Alberdene must be unlike any other house you’ve visited.”

  “Delia said it was mystical,” she replied in a strained voice.

  He wanted her to find comfort. More than he could offer as a stranger. “I should fetch one of your friends,” he began.

  She straightened, suddenly fierce, and gripped his hands “Promise you won’t tell anyone about this!”

  “You’re freezing,” he exclaimed at the touch of her fingers.

  “Promise!”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if someone knows? Your aunt or—”

  “I’m not a child!”

  “No, but—”

  “You couldn’t be so low as to betray me.”

  Under the intensity of her gaze, it seemed he couldn’t. And yet help wasn’t a betrayal. Was it?

  “This has never happened to me before. I daresay it never will again. I can’t bear to be watched as if I might go off at any moment. Or pitied for being odd.”

  Peter certainly understood that. “All right,” he said. “I won’t mention this. But if it should happen again—”

  “It won’t!”

  She sounded certain enough to make it so. “Let me take you back to your room now,” he answered. “You are cold.”

  Miss Ada rose, rubbing her hands together. Her nightdress billowed about her, to Peter’s rueful relief. “I am,” she said as if just noticing.

  Retrieving his candle, Peter led the way to the stair. Behind him, she spoke very softly. “Sorry?” he replied. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “You don’t think it was Delia, do you?” she said.

  “What?” He turned. The candle flame pulsed between them, gilding her face.

  “Delia,” she repeated. “Leading me? Somewhere?”

  Instinctively, he rejected the idea. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “It’s just… This was her home.”

  Regret and remorse filled him. “It was. But she is no longer here.”

  “No. Of course not. There was nothing like that in the dream.”

  “Dream?” They stood very close together. The candlelight practically shone through the thin cloth of her nightdress. He could see contours that he…shouldn’t be seeing. He felt his face flush.

  “I dream of Delia. Sometimes.”

  “She was your friend,” Peter managed. His throat was constricted. “She wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Miss Ada’s dark eyes widened. She stood a step below him—barefoot, her hair escaping its braid in dark, tousled curls, her nearly transparent nightdress gathered up in one hand for walking. Her lips parted in apparent astonishment. She stared at him, through him. “She…she wouldn’t, would she?”

  Peter was struck speechless. As if the power of speech hadn’t yet been invented. He fought to tear his eyes from her. “Up,” he said, and nearly choked on the quite unintended implications of that word. “Upstairs,” he managed. “Must go.” He turned and moved away.

  Her footsteps were silent behind him. He wanted to turn and look, but he denied that inner request, told himself to concentrate on the stairs.

  “What is that you’re wearing?” Miss Ada asked then. “You look like an Arab in an adventurous novel.”

  Peter looked down at the robe he wore, with its wide stripes of buff and brown. He used it because it was warm and practical. And he couldn’t waste his slender resources on a fashionable silk dressing gown. He half turned, his gaze firmly downcast. “My father found it in the attic. He thought it came from Egypt.”

  “Egypt?”

  “My great-grandfather went there on the grand tour.”

  “Oh. How interesting.”

  Interesting was what kind people said when they meant odd, Peter thought. She sounded as if she’d recovered from her nighttime adventure. They were back in the realm of polite society, where he was a foreigner.

  “My toes feel like blocks of ice.”

  “We must get you back to bed.” He felt his flush deepen. Stop talking, Peter thought. Don’t think of beds. Escort her back, leave her. He turned and hurried up the stairs.

  “Thankfully, Sarah is a heavy sleeper,” Miss Ada murmured as they reached the upper corridor. “She probably doesn’t even know I was gone.” They came to her room. She put a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you,” she added, and smiled.

  Peter nodded, and kept on nodding. As at dinner, her smile transformed her.

  “You should take the light away before I go in. In case Sarah wakes.”

  He started and backed away, nearly stumbling on the hem of his robe. She seemed wholly recovered. Peter wasn’t so sure about himself.

  Three

  Peter made his way to the kitchen early the next day to speak to Mrs. Anselm. “I believe we need to hire more help,” he said to the cook. “We can’t take proper care of so many visitors.” He’d seen Conway hauling a great load of wood and Evan staggering under a large ca
n of hot water. That wouldn’t do. The unexpected influx of visitors was asking too much of his aged staff. Yet he didn’t want the newcomers to go. It had been pleasant to have Macklin’s company. The arrival of the ladies had raised his spirits even farther. He disliked the thought of returning to emptiness and silence. He would have to use the small store of funds he’d been setting aside, for as long as it would last.

  “I suppose this would be temporary?” the cook said. “Conway and Evan will worry you mean to turn them off unless we say so.”

  “How could I ever?” He’d known the two footmen longer than anyone else in his life.

  “The maids are run off their feet as well,” Mrs. Anselm continued.

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Young Tom has pitched in, but there’s just too much to do. And he shouldn’t have to, by rights.”

  Peter nodded. “Can you find some local helpers?”

  “I expect I can.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Anselm, for all your efforts.”

  “Provision bills will be up,” she replied.

  “I know.” How he hated the pinching and scraping, Peter thought as he left the kitchen. He didn’t want to spend lavishly or haunt the gaming tables. But what sort of duke couldn’t even entertain a few guests? It was humiliating. And of course they’d noticed the truth of his situation. How could they miss it, what with the fraying draperies and sofa cushions? Not to mention the bat. Was it possible to be entertaining enough to compensate for dilapidation? How, precisely? Among all the things he’d been taught, there had been no lessons in that. What had Miss Ada said last night? That drawing-room conversation seemed to unsettle him. It wasn’t the conversation so much as the fear of not being able to come up with any, he thought.

  Most of his visitors were waiting for him in the drawing room, ready for the tour of the house he’d promised. Macklin and Tom flanked the four girls. Peter’s gaze skimmed over Miss Ada. She looked prim and smooth this morning, not adorably disheveled as she had on the stairs. He glanced at her face for signs that she was thinking of last night and found none. Her little dog sat at her feet. “Are you sure you want to bring your dog?” he asked.

  “I can’t leave Ella alone in our bedchamber. She mopes dreadfully.”

  Peter thought of suggesting that Ella stay in the kitchen, but he didn’t think Mrs. Anselm, or her cat, would appreciate the addition. He examined the dog. Bulging bright eyes in a tiny triangular face stared back at him. The creature seemed a mere puff of cinnamon fur. Her panting tongue was very like a grin. “You should put her on a lead then,” he said. “There are places where she shouldn’t run about. Most of them, really.”

  Miss Ada went to fetch the leash.

  “Are you bringing your bat catcher?” asked Miss Deeping. Her dark eyes glinted satirically.

  “I don’t bother with it except in the dining room.”

  “You give the bats free rein?”

  She made it sound as if his home was teeming with bats. Peter decided that Miss Deeping was his least favorite of the younger visitors. “There aren’t so very many,” he said.

  “Perhaps there’s only the one,” suggested Miss Finch. “The same bat rendered mindless by repeated blows, so that it comes to the dining room over and over.”

  A smile softened this jest. Miss Finch really was lovely, Peter thought. That red hair combined with those green eyes was striking.

  “Oh no,” said Miss Moran.

  “Or it’s simply enjoying the game?” asked Miss Deeping. “Hide and smash?”

  “Charlotte!” said Miss Moran.

  Tom burst out laughing. This caused the three young ladies to look at him. He stepped behind the earl, who had been observing the conversation with silent interest. Almost as if they were all in a play that Macklin had come to see, Peter thought. He appeared to be enjoying it.

  Miss Ada returned and fastened a lead to her dog’s collar. Peter distributed unlit candlesticks.

  “Are we venturing into darkness?” asked Macklin mildly.

  “Ivy has grown over quite a few windows,” Peter replied. “We can’t keep up with it. It makes the rooms dim.” He lit his candle at a lamp that had been left burning.

  “Are there dungeons?” asked Miss Moran.

  “No. Unless under the tower at the top. The rocks are too tumbled to tell what might be below.”

  “Were you hoping for a skeleton still locked in ancient shackles?” Miss Deeping asked her friend.

  Miss Moran denied it. But her round face showed disappointment, as if she might have been.

  “Shall I carry a poker from the fireplace?” asked Miss Deeping.

  “Why would you wish to?” Did she imagine his home harbored bandits?

  “In case of rats,” she replied. The other girls looked anxious.

  “There are no rats,” Peter assured them.

  “Of course there aren’t,” said Miss Ada. “You’re being tiresome, Charlotte.”

  “I am not,” replied the spiky, angular girl. “Only realistic.”

  “My father established a troop of cats in the tower block years ago,” Peter said. “He made an entry for them in the oldest part of the house. They control rodents quite well.” The stares of his guests made Peter realize that this was another oddity not encountered at the typical house party. At least, he expected it wasn’t. He’d never been to one. His father had called the cats a troop, as if they were a military installation. He ought to find another word.

  “I love cats,” said Miss Moran.

  “Ella mostly doesn’t,” said Miss Ada.

  “We’re not likely to see any of them. They’re quite shy.” Still another reason for the dog to be leashed, Peter thought. The cats that patrolled the uninhabited parts of his house probably outweighed the little creature. If any of them caught her alone, they might choose to punish her trespass on their territory.

  “How can you keep such a large house clean?” asked Miss Finch.

  “We don’t try,” Peter said. “I told you there would be dust.” And they’d laughed at him as if it was a joke. Had they forgotten that?

  “Of course there will be,” said Miss Ada. “We are quite prepared.”

  Miss Deeping and Miss Finch exchanged uncertain glances. Miss Moran, on the other hand, seemed to brim with enthusiasm.

  Among the many entertainments offered at fashionable gatherings, coating the guests with dust must rank near the bottom, Peter thought. Or…what nonsense. It wasn’t on the list at all. He hoped Mrs. Anselm had recruited some stalwart helpers to carry hot water later. “You’ve seen this wing, which is much like any other house.” Except for the general decrepitude. But he needn’t mention that. “So we’ll move on to the next oldest part and work our way up to the Norman tower.” He started off, noticing that young Tom had fallen in beside Miss Deeping. Macklin took a position at the back, like a rear guard.

  Peter unlocked a stout door and let them into the largest part of the house. This rambling seventeenth-century stretch was in poor repair but still livable. There was just no reason to use cramped rooms with low ceilings and warped paneling. Ushering his group in, Peter marshaled his facts. His father had made him memorize a condensed family history as a boy. Could he make it interesting to his guests? “The first Rathbone in this country arrived with William the Conqueror in 1066, though the name was a bit different then,” he began. “He tagged along to the Welsh Marches with the first Earl of Shrewsbury, one of the Conqueror’s chief henchmen. That Rathbone married a Welsh girl with some property and managed to establish himself before a later Shrewsbury rebelled and got his title abolished.”

  “But there is an Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Miss Moran. “My father knows him.”

  “Yes, the earldom was revived later.” Peter forgot why. Some service to the crown, he supposed. “After a few centuries of lying low, the Rath
bones threw in their lot with the Tudors, as they were so near Wales here. Which was risky at first but advantageous later. The third Baron Rathbone was killed fighting at Bosworth Field.”

  “Fourteen eighty-five,” said Miss Moran. “The last stand of Richard the Third.”

  “Yes.” Peter smiled at her. She, at least, was interested. It was a relief to have an appreciative audience. “His grandson was a friend of Henry the Eighth and benefited from that connection, moving up in the ranks over the years.” He had in fact played tennis with that quixotic monarch, using the paddle Peter now applied to the bats. He debated whether to mention that and decided not to remind them. “No one knows why Queen Elizabeth granted the dukedom not long before her death.”

  “A romance?” asked Miss Moran, brightly hopeful.

  “Well, the queen was seventy and the new duke nineteen.” Peter made an equivocal gesture. Who knew what those ancient types got up to? He led his group out into a cavernous space. “This is the great hall which was once the main entrance to the house.” The space was designed to intimidate. There had been banners hanging from the ceiling when he was a boy. Peter couldn’t see any now. Perhaps they’d fallen to pieces. “We’d best light your candles here,” he added. The ivy took over in the next section, and the medieval floors after that were uneven. “And look out for loose tiles. It’s easy to trip.”

  Peter set his candle flame to their wicks and led them on through the dim, silent house. Gradually, his guests grew subdued. Even Miss Moran, who had started out wishing to peer inside every chamber and examine every ornament, began to look daunted. He knew the feeling. The dusty, empty spaces dampened one’s mood. “Perhaps you’ve had enough for today?” he asked. He received a chorus of denials, and he couldn’t tell whether they were sincere or mere politeness. So they pressed on. Peter searched his memory for entertaining anecdotes about his feckless ancestors.

  Ada stepped over a broken bit of tile and moved past Charlotte, wondering how she was ever going to speak to the duke alone. Her friends had agreed to help her manage this, and Aunt Julia’s absence was a definite advantage. But so far they’d all moved along in a clump. She couldn’t say anything important in front of everyone. And after last night, more than ever, she longed to talk to him. She’d wakened lost in the dark, alone and frightened. Then Peter Rathbone had come along and comforted her. He’d accepted her bizarre situation as if she had done nothing wrong. She’d felt cheered rather than ashamed. And on the way upstairs he’d spoken the phrases that still rang in her mind. Delia had been her friend; she wouldn’t hurt her.