The English Duke

by Karen Ranney

  “I haven’t asked him to lie, Mr. Burthren.”

  He smiled. “No, of course you haven’t. Jordan’s honor doesn’t limit itself to honesty, Miss York. He dislikes subterfuge of any sort. Or cheating. He was the first to report a boy for cribbing on an exam.”

  She frowned at him, still not understanding.

  “He thinks taking your father’s notes and his vessel would be like cheating,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because he didn’t do the work on the torpedo ship himself.”

  “He and my father communicated about Bessie every week,” she said. “He knows everything about it.”

  “I understand your father got the vessel to work.”

  She nodded.

  “A great achievement,” he said.

  “Not as great an achievement as you think, Mr. Burthren. He didn’t share the information with anyone.”

  “Not even you?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  She shook her head. “He was saving the information for the duke. That’s why giving him my father’s notes wouldn’t constitute any advantage. The information isn’t there.”

  “Then perhaps you could tell him that.”

  “I see no reason to have to explain anything to the man.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, Miss York. The torpedo ship has been the one thing occupying him for the last year.”

  She wanted to ask about the duke’s accident and why he walked with a limp, but she didn’t. First of all, she didn’t want Mr. Burthren to know of her interest. Second, it would be rude to talk about the man behind his back—just as they were currently doing.

  “Perhaps you could add your expertise to Jordan’s work,” he said. “As long as you’re here. It might be a form of collaboration.”

  She glanced at him, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Not many men would welcome a female into his sphere of work.

  “He truly wants to apologize.”

  “He has no intention of apologizing,” she said, certain of it.

  “He told me, ‘Go and get her, Reese. I have to explain.’”

  “That doesn’t constitute an apology.”

  He didn’t answer.

  If she returned to the boathouse it would be for her father and not the duke.

  Taking a deep breath, she brushed the remnants of tears from her face and nodded.

  “For a moment,” she said. “Just a moment.”

  He didn’t say a word, merely kept her company as they retraced their steps. At the door to the boathouse he stayed back.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

  Once more she nodded, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  Chapter 7

  This time when Martha entered the boathouse she made more of a study of the interior. The ceiling was high, the beams overhead soaring into darkness even on this bright summer morning. Rows and rows of shelves were carefully labeled with the contents and dates. Near the door to the dock, now open to the sparkling water of a sun-drenched lake, were copper forms she recognized as the initial stages of a torpedo ship.

  The workbench had two lanterns set on either end. Now extinguished, they served as proof of long nights spent in experimentation.

  There was nothing about the boathouse leading her to believe the duke enjoyed spending time on the lake. No boats sat in the bays. No fishing gear stood in the corner, ready to be used. This structure was surprisingly like her father’s cottage in its dedication to a task, that of invention and discovery.

  “Thank you for coming back,” he said.

  She turned her head slowly. He was still seated at the workbench, his right hand holding a curling tool. His left held a piece of copper fixed with a small set of gears.

  “Mr. Burthren said you wanted to apologize. I told him I didn’t think you would.”

  “Would you have spoken that way to him?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would you have said the same things to him that you did to me?” He studied the part in his hand, crimped a flange of metal, then examined his work.

  “I don’t know,” she said, confused. She hadn’t expected the question.

  “Women don’t. They see something in Reese’s eyes, I suppose. They think him kind. Or compassionate. Or understanding. Something I lack.”

  Since she agreed with that comment, she remained silent.

  “I knew your father a great many years,” he said. “I was introduced by someone in the War Office.”

  “I know that. You corresponded and asked him some questions. He was impressed by your knowledge and your curiosity.”

  “I liked him,” he said, surprising her. “More than any other man I’ve ever met. I would even consider him a mentor.”

  “Which makes it even less understandable why you would ignore him when he needed you and treat his work with such disdain.”

  He glanced over at her, answering the second part of her accusation. “Not disdain, Miss York. Never that. I read your letters. I just didn’t respond to them. I should have. At least I should have told you how much I regretted Matthew’s death. What he meant to me.”

  She was not going to cry again.

  “Your bringing Matthew’s work here means that whatever I achieve from this moment forward won’t be mine. He already found the answer. It would be his victory. His torpedo ship.”

  “No,” she said. “He found the answer, but he never told anyone.”

  His scowl was impressive, but she wasn’t cowed by the Duke of Roth.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “That last day,” she explained. “He found the answer, but he was saving the information for you. But you never came.”

  “He never told you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve tried to recreate what he’d done, but I’m not certain what it was. I think it had something to do with the gyroscope. Or maybe even the pendulum, but none of my experiments have succeeded.”

  The duke smiled and she had the curious thought that it was fortunate he hadn’t smiled before now. Otherwise, she would have acted like a besotted idiot. His face altered and softened. His eyes warmed.

  Although improbable and no doubt uncommon, she understood how someone could fall in love at one glance.

  “You’ve been working on your own?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why not?” she countered. “Are mysteries only to be solved by men?”

  “Is that how you think of it? A mystery?”

  “Yes.” A short answer and the only one she was going to give him. At least until he smiled again. Then she might confess anything.

  “Are you angry he didn’t tell you?” he asked.

  A question she’d never before considered. She gave him the truth, quickly spoken.

  “I wasn’t angry,” she said. “I was hurt. But it was your collaboration and I understood that. What I didn’t understand was why you never came.”

  “Forgive me,” he said softly, surprising her yet again.

  Just when she thought she had him labeled and categorized, he popped out of his little box and demanded she take another look.

  “What happened to you? Were you recovering from your injury?”

  “I’m sorry your father died,” he said, which was an answer, of sorts. He had no intention of discussing his leg.

  Nor should she have asked. She wished she hadn’t voiced her curiosity.

  She turned to leave, but was stopped by his comment.

  “He often wrote about you,” he said.

  She truly wanted to cry, and she wouldn’t allow herself to do so.

  “Do you really not know what he discovered?”

  In the past few minutes she’d been buffeted by emotions: sadness, regret, compassion, and now irritation again.

  “No,” she said, turning to look at him once more. “I don’t. It should work. It doesn’t. I haven’t f
ound the answer why. Perhaps you’ll have more success.”

  “Reese suggested that I ask you to help me,” he said.

  “He said the same to me.”

  In the silence she studied the shelving around them. Everything was carefully marked, stacked by size and date. Below the shelves were slots for materials including the sheathing to be hammered into the final ship’s form.

  “I could show you the latest adaptations to Bessie,” she finally said.

  “Bessie?”

  “It’s the name of his latest prototype.” She smiled. “He named all of them. But you’d have to move my father’s things in here.” She pointed to an empty space on the far side of the boathouse. “You have room.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Accepting her help would give her something to do for the three days they were forced to remain at Sedgebrook. Also, she could show him her father’s other inventions, explain his notes, perhaps give him an appreciation for the bequest.

  “Are you still angry?” he asked.

  She linked her fingers together and looked at him. He confused her, excited her, made her think things no proper woman should consider. He also enraged her and hurt her feelings more than any man she’d ever met. Yet she had no intention of telling him the whole truth. Her emotions were hers and right at the moment she didn’t want to share them.

  He studied her in the shadowed light as if she was a puzzle he’d been given to solve. Her father had often worn the same expression. Copper sheathing, gun powder, and pendulums were much easier to understand than people.

  Was he as much a hermit as her father had been? She had the feeling that the answer to understanding the Duke of Roth was tantalizingly close. All she needed was a little more time.

  He was evidently not willing to give it to her.

  She ended their stalemate by nodding, turning, and heading for the door.

  “I’m used to working alone,” he said, as she was stepping over the threshold.

  “Mr. Burthren was with you earlier,” she said.

  “He doesn’t understand that I prefer solitude. He doesn’t like being alone, I suspect, which is why he’s unable to accept that state in others.”

  “Do you have no one transcribing your thoughts? Making notes of things to check?”

  “No.”

  With one hand on the door frame, she glanced over her shoulder.

  “Are you not willing to alter your workday a little?”

  “No,” he said. “I find I don’t like change. Not recently.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to say, is there?”

  “Yes, there is,” he said. “Don’t go.”

  She stopped and glanced back at him.

  “I’d be grateful for your help, Miss York. As long as you understand I’m not given to extraneous conversation.”

  She bit back her smile. “Neither am I, Your Grace.”

  “Then shall we muddle through? I’m certain we can tolerate anything for a few days.”

  She didn’t know if that was an insult or not.

  “Will you help me retrieve my father’s things?”

  “No.”

  “No? Because it’s not a fitting job for the Duke of Roth?”

  “Tell the majordomo, Frederick, that you need assistance. He’ll assign someone to help you.”

  He once more occupied himself with studying the part in his hand.

  “I’ll return after I talk to your Frederick.”

  “I’ll expect you,” he said, not looking at her.

  She should walk away from the boathouse and spend the rest of the time at Sedgebrook with Gran. She should not be feeling a surge of anticipation about returning to spar with this strange and unsettling duke.

  Yet she knew she’d be back as soon as she could arrange it.

  What the hell had he done?

  He should race after her—not that he could—and tell her he’d changed his mind.

  His boathouse was off limits to women. Or to anyone he didn’t want there. He endured Frederick’s presence or that of a footman from time to time. Nor had he any choice with Reese. His friend simply appeared and veiled—or not so veiled—hints didn’t affect Reese.

  He was also surprisingly powerless against Martha York’s studied indifference. He knew for a fact that it masked a determined character.

  He wanted to know what she knew. Even more startling was his curiosity about her. Did she understand the principles guiding the torpedo ships? Did it fascinate her as much as it did him?

  She was different from most women he’d known. She didn’t seem to care much about her appearance—witness the windblown condition of her curly hair. Or the fact that she’d not worn a hat in the morning sun. She obviously didn’t fear browning her skin because it already had a healthy glow, not the pale and pasty hue so favored among London beauties.

  Nor was Martha York a coy female. She didn’t mince words but came out and said what was on her mind.

  She’d pinned his ears to the wall, hadn’t she? He’d never been excoriated quite so completely.

  He remembered Matthew’s comments about her London season.

  They do not understand her, those London men. They seek someone who would charm them. Martha doesn’t wish to charm them. She wants to know what they think. Are their thoughts weighty or interesting enough?

  He couldn’t help but wonder if Matthew had described Martha correctly. Or were his words only those of a fond and biased father?

  He’d find out in the next three days.

  The maid’s name was Constance and she was a sweet thing, if not exceptionally bright.

  It had taken Josephine less than five minutes to convince her that, as a guest of the duke’s, she should have access to the closed private rooms, especially the Conservatory.

  The girl had proven to be surprisingly informative about some of the furniture in the Duke’s Parlor. Evidently, the housekeeper lectured the staff on the history of their surroundings, the better to appreciate the items they tended.

  Josephine swept through the third floor after realizing it was set aside mostly for servants’ quarters and some storage over the north wing.

  The second floor was comprised mostly of bedrooms and newly renovated bathing chambers. Constance had been fulsome in her praise for the new boiler and the special building built for it. Josephine smiled in earnest appreciation, the better to encourage the maid to divulge other secrets of Sedgebrook.

  From Constance she learned where the duke’s suite was located. The grand staircase intersected the guest rooms from the family quarters and she made mental notes of the directions.

  She would give Constance a little gratuity at the end of their explorations and hint that any information about the duke would be appreciated even more.

  Of course, the girl would be one of the first changes she made once she became the Duchess of Roth. It would never do to keep a servant who knew too much.

  Chapter 8

  Martha made her way back to the house and up the stairs to the second floor. Before she sought out Frederick she’d go and check on Gran and, while she was at it, make sure Josephine hadn’t gotten into any trouble.

  Perhaps she should be as concerned with her own behavior. After all, she was going to put herself within working distance of the Duke of Roth. He was too handsome for her, too charming—when it was obvious he didn’t mean to be—and too intriguing.

  She wanted to know how he’d been injured, why he felt it so necessary to achieve something of his own, and what he thought about her father’s advancements.

  Not one of those questions was commonplace. Nor had she learned the answers from reading his letters. She’d learned how his mind worked when reasoning out the problems inherent with the torpedo ship, but she wanted to know more.

  The only way she was going to satisfy her curiosity was by working with the man.

  She reached Gran’s room and knocked softly. When her grandmother answered, she pushed in the door,
unsurprised to find her sitting up in bed, reading, a pot of tea on the nightstand, and biscuit crumbs on a plate.

  Amy was sitting in the chair by the window. At Martha’s entrance, she folded the garment and stood.

  “You sit here, Miss Martha,” she said. “I’ll just go and get some more biscuits.”

  She smiled at Amy and thanked her.

  The windows in the chamber were open to let in the summer breeze. The sunlight formed a large square on the carpet and in the middle of it sprawled a fat orange striped cat.

  “That’s Hero,” Gran said.

  Martha edged past the sunlight, but Hero didn’t move, merely remained in his position of half on his back and half on his side, allowing the sun to bathe his hairy belly.

  “Why Hero?” she asked.

  “He’s quite the mouser, I understand, and the father to countless litters. There’s one in the barn right now.”

  Evidently, Gran had made friends with the staff.

  “You look like you’re feeling better,” she said.

  Would her grandmother admit to playing ill? Or should she say something about her suspicions? This journey to Sedgebrook was a perfect opportunity for Josephine. The duke was young, handsome, and unmarried. Josephine was his perfect foil. She was young, beautiful, wealthy, and desirous of marriage.

  “I am,” Gran said. “I think there’s something magical in the tonic Dr. Reynolds gave me. I need to make sure my doctor has the same formula.”

  She wasn’t going to second-guess the physician, but it didn’t seem as though Gran truly needed to rest for three more days.

  “Are you absolutely certain you don’t feel up to going home tomorrow?” she asked.

  Her grandmother closed the book she was reading and studied her.

  “Why? Is there some reason you want to leave, Martha?”

  She shook her head.

  In three days a great deal could happen. She could become even more fascinated with the duke. Josephine could make a nuisance of herself exploring Sedgebrook.

  “How is Josephine faring?”

  She glanced at her grandmother.

  “She seems quite taken with Sedgebrook,” Martha said.