The Desperate Duke

by Sheri Cobb South

  Theo assured him that he understood this caveat very well.

  “Excellent! Miss Drinkard assured me that I might rely on you.”

  “I should not like Miss Drinkard to be disappointed,” Theo said, “in either of us.”

  “No, of course not.” Sir Valerian dismissed Daphne with an impatient shake of his head. “Let’s see, what else? Would you care for some barley water? Never touch the stuff myself, but I’ve no objection if others do. Ah! If I’m not mistaken here comes the first arrival now.”

  He was not mistaken. The heavy tread of a large man sounded in the hall beyond, and a moment later Abel Wilkins entered the room. He appeared momentarily taken aback by Theo’s presence, but made a quick recovery.

  “Well, if it isn’t Thee-o-dore,” he said, his lip curling in a sneer.

  “I believe you know Mr. Tisdale,” Sir Valerian put in smoothly. “He has agreed to take notes for us this evening.”

  Wilkins looked less than pleased with this revelation, but raised no objection. Theo suspected he was afraid of running counter to Sir Valerian’s wishes, and thought it rather ironic that one who didn’t hesitate to bully the dozens of mill workers under his supervision should himself be cowed by a fellow of whom any one of a dozen gentlemen of his acquaintance (to say nothing of his own brother-in-law) would have made very short work.

  A number of mill workers arrived in Wilkins’s wake, including the boy Davy Williams, who shot Theo a look that was both sheepish and reproachful. Although Theo could not have put a name with even half of the dozen or so men crowded about Mrs. Drinkard’s table, he recognized most of their faces, and they obviously recognized him—and were none too pleased to see him there, if the suspicious looks with which they regarded him were anything to judge by.

  Sir Valerian, perhaps aware of the general air of disapprobation, announced to the group at large, “Mr. Tisdale is acting as my secretary tonight. Naturally, I have cautioned him as to the need for the utmost discretion. He will not repeat anything he hears within these four walls.”

  The devil I won’t, thought Theo, bestowing upon the group a bland smile.

  His intention had been to write at once to Sir Ethan in London, informing his brother-in-law of any havey-cavey dealings by his opponent and trusting that this second letter would not go amiss, as had, apparently, the first. But it soon transpired that there was little, if anything, to report. Indeed, the order of the day appeared to be the planning of an autumn festival for the mill workers and their families, since Lady Helen Brundy, who usually hosted just such an event, was currently in mourning for her father.

  “I’ve spoken to the squire, and he is willing to let us use his barn for the occasion,” Sir Valerian informed the group.

  “Aye, that’s all right,” put in one of the men, nodding in approval. “It’s near enough to the mill to be reached quick enough, even in the dark, but not so close as to arouse any suspicions.”

  Several of the men shifted uneasily in their chairs, and Davy’s gaze dropped to stare fixedly at the tablecloth. Sir Valerian said, with a hint of steel in his voice that had not been there before, “I don’t know why you should think there would be any need for ‘suspicions,’ Ainsworth. What could anyone find objectionable in a simple night of music and dancing? Unless, of course, you intend to partake a bit too freely of the liquid refreshment, and don’t want your wife to know.”

  It seemed to Theo that all the men laughed a bit too heartily at this witticism, but he was forced to agree with Sir Valerian. True, the man was taking advantage of his opponent’s bereaved status in order to ingratiate himself with the locals, but that wasn’t objectionable in and of itself; all was fair in love and politics, after all, and these men would not be able to vote in any case, so Theo failed to see what Sir Valerian hoped to gain by this show of generosity. In any case, the highest sticklers—who could vote—would certainly hold it against Ethan if he were to fail to show the proper respect for his father-in-law’s passing, so Theo was inclined to think his sister was right in not hosting the event.

  “Of course, I will need a lady to act as hostess,” Sir Valerian continued, glancing at Theo to make sure he was committing all these details to paper. “I hope to persuade Mrs. Drinkard to oblige me in this, as she has been so gracious in allowing me to hire her dining room.”

  Theo frowned a little over his writing. Surely it was unnecessary to belittle the lady by betraying to these men that she was being compensated for her hospitality. Or did he mean to hint that Mrs. Drinkard’s straitened circumstances gave him some hold over her? If so, Theo could assure him that no such coercion was necessary; Mrs. Drinkard would no doubt be over the moon to be returned, even if only for one night, to what should have been her proper sphere.

  Nor would she be the only one. As the details were discussed of what musicians were available locally to play for the dancing, as well as what food and drink should be procured from whom, Theo was a bit taken aback by the air of suppressed excitement underlying the preparations. In his experience, most men were content to leave the finer points of entertaining to their wives, while as for attending such events, the general lack of enthusiasm with which the male of the species regarded them was the bane of hostesses throughout London. He supposed, without much conviction, that such pleasures rarely came these men’s way. Yes, that must account for it. For there was no denying the intensity on the faces of the men seated around the table, as if they were plotting a military campaign instead of a night of revelry.

  The only exception appeared to be Davy Williams, who spoke up at one point to say, “I don’t know—I think maybe we ought’n’t to—” Seeing that every man in the room (every man except Theo, anyway) was regarding him with thinly veiled hostility, he continued in a quavering voice, “That is, what I mean to say is, Sir Ethan’s been that good to me after my old man died. I—I wouldn’t want to do anything he wouldn’t like.”

  Sir Valerian bent a rather brittle smile upon him. “That’s quite all right—Davy, is it? I’m sure no one is asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re welcome to leave us right now, if you so choose.”

  There followed an uncomfortable silence. Davy slumped down in his chair and mumbled, “I’ll stay, sir.”

  “Very wise of you,” commended Sir Valerian. He glanced at Theo and nodded slightly, giving his secretary to understand that he was to make a notation of the boy’s unwillingness. With considerable reluctance, Theo wrote, Davy Williams voiced his objection to—to what? Granted, when Theo had been Davy’s age, he wouldn’t have submitted meekly to an evening of doing the pretty when he might have been more agreeably occupied in riding hell-for-leather over the countryside, or bagging a rabbit or a partridge or two. But there seemed to be more to Davy’s reluctance than a youth’s indifference to a night of dancing. —to the plan, Theo wrote.

  Alas, he was no more enlightened when the meeting broke up several hours later. He didn’t know if the men were being particularly careful of how much they said within his hearing, or if they were merely a bit embarrassed at their own unmanly enthusiasm for an event that should have held more appeal for their wives and daughters than for themselves. This might account for their displeasure at his presence, and Sir Valerian’s need to reassure them as to Theo’s discretion. And yet, Theo could not quite forget Mr.—Ainsworth’s, was it?—comment about “suspicions,” and how quickly this suggestion was quashed by Sir Valerian. No, more than ever he was convinced that there was some more sinister purpose to the meetings. He had no very firm idea of what that purpose might be, but of one thing he was certain.

  Daphne and her mother must be kept out of it.

  THEO HAD NO OPPORTUNITY to speak to Daphne that night, as she had already sought her bed by the time the meeting was adjourned, but he resolved to do so as soon as he returned from the mill the following day. With any luck, he would reach her before Sir Valerian had an opportunity to speak to her mother about acting as his hostess. If at all possible, Mrs.
Drinkard must be persuaded not to become any more deeply embroiled in the enterprise (whatever it was) than she was already. He did not envy Daphne the task; from what he knew of her mother, that lady would not willingly give up her chance either to play the Lady Bountiful or to drag her daughter along willy-nilly in an attempt to fix Sir Valerian’s interest.

  When he reached the mill, he discovered that somehow the word had got out that he had joined the conspirators, if conspirators they were. Responses to his new status were mixed. Wilkins regarded him with, if hardly affection, then surely less hostility than he had previously done, and several of the other men who had been present now greeted him with terse nods that acknowledged him as one of their number while at the same time discouraging him from making any reference to the meeting or what had been discussed there. Tom, on the other hand, had withdrawn from him, saying no more than was strictly necessary for the sake of civility. Davy Williams had not come to work at all; Theo found his absence ominous without precisely knowing why.

  When the noon break came, Theo sought out a place beside Old Ben, who greeted him with a rather curt nod.

  “Not you, too!” Theo exclaimed in some dismay. “Ever since I arrived at the mill this morning, half the men here have been treating me like I’m some kind of leper.”

  “And the other half?” Regarding him speculatively, Ben thawed only somewhat. “How have they been treating you?”

  Theo gave a bitter laugh. “They’re not openly hostile, like Tom and the rest, but it’s plain as a pikestaff they don’t trust me. You’d think I’d turned spy.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  Theo had the grace to blush. “In fact, I only attended the meeting to oblige a lady. I’d helped her out of a rather tight spot, and she’d thought to repay me by helping me get a position as Sir Valerian Wadsworth’s secretary, beginning with my taking notes during the meeting last night.” It was the truth, so far as it went. What he didn’t say was that, had Miss Drinkard not given him the entrée, he’d had every intention of eavesdropping through the chimney flue. Spying, in fact.

  “So”—Ben leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near-whisper—“what do they do at those meetings, anyway?”

  “Just a bunch of men airing their grievances,” Theo said with a shrug, falling back on Davy’s description. “Oh, and it appears Sir Valerian is going to host a party for the mill workers and their families, since Nell—that is, since Lady Helen Brundy can’t do it, being in mourning as she is. The men all seemed over the moon about that, so perhaps they’ll be less prone to complain in the future.”

  “Is that all, then?” asked Ben, the furrows in his brow clearing. “I’d been afraid—but never mind that. Young Davy seemed a mite worried about it, is all.”

  “Where is Davy today? Do you know?”

  Ben shook his head. “No, and it’s not like him to miss a day. ‘In sickness or in health,’ he is, like a marriage vow.”

  “Do you know where he lives? Perhaps I’ll stop by after work and look in on him.”

  Ben did indeed know where Davy lived—Theo suspected there wasn’t much about the village that Ben did not know—and, true to his word, after he left the mill that evening, Theo did not return immediately to the boardinghouse, but followed Ben’s directions to the cottage where Davy lived with his mother and younger siblings.

  A worn-looking woman of middle age opened the door to him and, being informed of his errand, stepped aside to allow him to enter. He did so, although the door was so low that he had to duck his head. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light within, he found himself in a room that seemed to serve as drawing room, dining room, and kitchen, all in one. A black cauldron hung from a crane in the fireplace, and something redolent of onions and garlic bubbled within. Two adolescent girls set pewter plates around the table, their lanky forms swathed in aprons that had obviously been made for their mother. At Theo’s entrance, they looked up from their task with much giggling and blushing. Three smaller children stacked wooden blocks precariously on a rag rug covering the unvarnished boards of the floor.

  “It’s right kind of you to ask after my Davy,” the woman said, making a vague gesture toward the back of the house where, presumably, Davy might be found.

  “Is he ill, then?” Theo asked. “I was told that it’s unusual for him to miss work.”

  “Ill?” she echoed in some consternation. “I see you don’t know, then. No, he’s not ill. He was set upon on his way home from the Drinkard place last night.”

  “S—Set upon?” Theo echoed stupidly.

  “Aye, three men—or he says maybe it was four, he couldn’t see very well on account of it being dark, and him being too busy trying to ward off blows to stop and count. They was lyin’ in wait just this side of the bridge. But he can tell you himself, if he feels up to it.”

  Theo tried to recall the ending of the meeting. It had been quite late by the time it broke up, and he’d been impatient to go upstairs to bed, knowing he would have to get up at dawn this morning. He’d been more than a little annoyed, too, at having wasted the evening listening to a group of men planning the details of a party in which he had not the slightest interest. But he vaguely recalled Wilkins detaining Davy for a moment to ask him some work-related question about a problem that had arisen that day. Had it been a deliberate attempt to delay the boy, allowing the others time to stake out a position from which to attack him? And why should they have done so? The answer to this question, at least, was not far to seek: Theo remembered Davy’s timid suggestion that they ought not to—to what? More than ever, Theo was convinced that something more than a party was at issue.

  “I’d take you to him, excepting that I’ve got to get supper on the table,” Davy’s mother continued, glancing back at her giggling daughters.

  “You need not trouble yourself,” Theo assured her hastily, throwing the girls into confusion by winking at them. “I’m sure I can find my own way.”

  This, at least, proved to be no mystery, for the cottage was not nearly large enough to become lost in. He found Davy in one of the two bedrooms in the back of the house, and suffered a check. Davy lay flat on his back in the narrow bed with the quilt drawn up to his chin, but this was insufficient to conceal the extent of the damage. The boy’s face was covered with bruises, and although he appeared to be asleep, one of his eyes was so swollen that Theo doubted he could open it in any case. Blood had dried along a cut in one cheek, and matted together the blond hair over his forehead. As Theo stood wondering whether to go or stay, Davy spoke.

  “Warned you—not to go,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

  “Yes, you did,” Theo acknowledged ruefully, “and yet, you went yourself.”

  “Once you’re in . . . can’t get out. You’ll see.”

  “Who did it? Do you know?”

  “Couldn’t see . . . in the dark. One of them . . . might have been Ainsworth. Sounded a bit like him . . . never be able to prove it, though.”

  “Davy . . .” Theo hesitated, uncertain how to voice the question. “What’s it all about? It must be more than just a dance.”

  “Aye, though that bit is necessary. It’s—”

  He got no further, for at that moment his mother came into the room. “Dinner’s ready. Do you think you could come to the table, or shall I have Molly bring it to you in a cup?”

  Davy rather cautiously expressed his ability to come to the table, and Theo, seeing there were no further confidences to be got from him, judged it time to take his leave. He assured both Davy and his mother that there was no talk of replacing him at the mill, then followed Mrs. Williams from the room.

  “Will he be all right?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the bedroom they had just vacated. “What does the doctor say?”

  “We haven’t had the doctor in,” confessed Mrs. Williams with a sigh. “There’s no money for it, especially now that my boy is out of work.”

  “Send for the doctor, and send the bill to m
e,” said Theo without hesitation. Ethan had already paid several of his debts; he could jolly well stand the nonsense for one more.

  Hope flared briefly in the woman’s eyes before giving way to doubt. “Are you sure you can afford it, Mr.—Tisdale, was it?”

  “I’m sure.” Lest any further assurances were needed, he gave her his sweetest smile. “Unlike Davy, I’ve no one but myself to support,” he said, with a silent apology to the army of servants, tenant farmers, and tin miners whose livings were subject to the Duke of Reddington’s every whim.

  After an initial show of reluctance, Mrs. Williams allowed herself to be persuaded, and Theo set out for the boardinghouse with, if not a mind set entirely at ease, at least the sense of well-being that generally accompanies the performance of a good deed. Alas, this gratifying state of affairs did not long survive his return to the boardinghouse, for upon reaching his temporary residence, he found Daphne in the dining room setting the table.

  “Oh, Mr. Tisdale!” she exclaimed, brightening upon seeing him. “You’re late this evening.”

  “Is your mother terribly vexed with me? One of the men who was at the meeting last night was, er, injured on his way home, so I stopped to call on him.”

  “That was kind of you,” she said warmly. “But what happened to him? I hope he is not too badly injured.”

  Theo struggled for some way to reassure her without resorting to outright fabrication. “Nothing that won’t heal, I trust.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Miss Drinkard, I feel I should perhaps warn—”

  “In any case, I am glad you are home now, for I have the most wonderful news! Sir Valerian Wadsworth is hosting a dance for the mill workers and their families, just as Lady Helen Brundy would have done had her father not died, and he has asked Mama to act as hostess!”

  He didn’t let any grass grow under his feet, Theo thought resentfully. Although he knew what answer he would get, he asked, “And what did your mother say?”

  “She agreed, of course. In fact, she is quite in alt, for it is just the sort of thing she might have done if Papa were still alive. And—and I confess, I am excited at it myself, for Mama would never let me go before, even though the vicar always attended, and the doctor, and any number of quite respectable people in addition to the mill workers! Not that you are not respectable, of course,” she added hastily, realizing too late that he might be justified in taking exception to this assessment of himself and his co-workers. “It is only that she must let me go now, for it would be very odd if she were to be hostess, and yet not allow me to attend! Truth to tell, after Papa died, I thought—I thought I would never be able to dance again.”