Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion

by Wendy Soliman

  “It is time to stand up for ourselves.” Uncle Charles clasped his lapels, his expression grimly determined. “That is why I agreed to do the duchess’s jewellery. It gives us a legitimate excuse to put it ahead of Reece’s demands. I am not sure what good that will do us, but it makes me feel better about myself.”

  “I thought as much. What do you have in mind, Uncle?”

  “We need to discover who Reece reports to. He is just the messenger.”

  “Yes, we have always known that.” She shuddered when she recalled what had happened to her father. He behaved badly in allowing greed to get the better of him. Even so, he had not deserved the brutal punishment that befell him when his conscience tormented him and he could no longer be a-party to the activities he had been drawn into. “Do you imagine there is someone in the village?”

  “Reece never leaves the district, and receives no visitors to his room at the Crown and Anchor, so we must assume so. After all, he must get his orders from somewhere.”

  “Hmm, so how shall we discover who he is in league with, and what help will it be to us if we do find out?”

  “Knowledge is power, my dear.”

  “I still don’t see how producing the jewellery for the duchess will help us in that respect.”

  “The duke and his brothers are very fair-minded, Crista. I have known them all since they were in short coats, and they have never had reason to question my honesty.”

  “You cannot risk telling them, Uncle.” Crista grasped his hand, filled with alarm that he might do something foolhardy. “I understand how you feel, but we must resolve this problem alone. Think of Amelia. Besides, even if we could convince the duke we are innocent pawns, we have still broken the law, and such appetising scandal could never remain secret for long. Just think what the residents of Compton would do with it.”

  “I know, but I am at the end of my career, and I’ll be damned…excuse the language, my dear, but I simply will not allow this situation to endure indefinitely. Had they not dragged you into it, it would not have even started, regardless of your father’s stupidity.”

  “Which is precisely why they involved me. I just wish I knew how they found out about my skills. That question plagues me, keeping me awake at night. So few people knew.” Crista felt tears spring to her eyes. “Do you have any idea how wretched I feel each time I think of the way you have been used.”

  “There, there, my dear, do not distress yourself.” Uncle Charles patted her hand. “Now that we are agreed something must be done, I am sure a means of extricating ourselves will present itself before too long.”

  “I so very much wish to see the back of the odious Mr. Reece, but if we do get the better of him, his masters will simply replace him. They will go after Amelia just to remind us what they are capable of and possibly you, too.” She flung her arms around him. “I could not bear it if anything were to happen to either of you. I know Amelia can be selfish and rather silly, but she is still my sister, and I would not have her disappointment on my conscience.”

  When she released Uncle Charles, she noticed his eyes were also damp. “You have spent all your life trying to please others, my dear. I had thought with the demise of your father you would finally have the opportunity to live for yourself. I cannot tell you how sorry I am you find yourself in this position.”

  “Hush, Uncle, it is not your fault.” She offered him a tired smile. “Together we shall think of a way to get the better of them and expose them for the villains they are. You’ll see.”

  “That we shall, but in the meantime there is something you could do for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Go out and enjoy the evening air for an hour before Kate has dinner ready for us. You look fearsome pale, and fresh air will revive you. It is a beautiful evening. I know how much pleasure you take from your rambles on the common, and you have not indulged in one for several days.”

  At first Crista shook her head. She had planned to put in at least another hour this evening but, now that her uncle had suggested the idea, the call of the outdoors was simply too strong to resist.

  “Very well,” she said. “To please you, Uncle, I shall do just that. Let me tidy up here. Then I had best change into a gown, just in case I encounter anyone and excite their curiosity. Are you sure you can spare me?”

  “Get along with you, child. I shall tidy up for you. You go and change. I don’t expect to see you again until it’s time for dinner.”

  Crista ran up to her room on the second floor and shed her breeches and shirt. She then uncoiled her hair from the tight bun that had contained it for the entire day, aware from painful experience that if she did not keep it clear of her work, it could easily be ignited. She sighed with pleasure when the pressure on her skull receded, brushed it loose and felt the headache that had been threatening diminish almost immediately. With her hair neatly tied back with a ribbon, she donned an old yellow cotton gown, draped a shawl negligently around her shoulders, and didn’t bother with a bonnet. She was unlikely to meet anyone on the common at this hour. Indeed, she had made an art form of avoiding people and their intrusive questions since moving to Shawford. So successful had she become at hiding herself away, few people were aware she was still in residence at her uncle’s establishment. They thought she had come for a visit and then returned to London.

  Feeling giddy with relief at having a moment to herself, she slipped back down the stairs and through the back door, from which she was unlikely to be seen leaving. With a light step she headed for the common, determined to make the most of her moment of freedom and not mar it with gloomy thoughts. The air was fresh and warm on her face as she turned it upwards, breathing deeply, happy as long as she did not allow herself to think about Reece. She tried, truly tried, to count her blessing instead. She had an uncle whom she loved and respected, and who loved her in return, a sister on the brink of an advantageous marriage, and she herself was doing what she had always wished to, even if she could not take public credit for it. It ought to be enough she was making jewellery for a duchess to celebrate her birthday. How many men in her position could boast such an honour?

  She followed the familiar track across the common, unsurprised no one else was abroad. She failed to understand why they preferred the canal to this lovely wilderness with its wild flowers, trees in full leaf, and birdsong to ease her troubled spirit, but was glad they did. This small corner of Winchester was hers alone, or so she liked to think, and she was familiar with every corner of it. She felt the knots leaving her muscles as she headed wherever her feet directed her, thinking about her visit to Winchester Park the previous day and the courteous manner in which she had been received. She had poured tea for a duke and two of his brothers. Only imagine that!

  She buried her nose in a bush of wild honeysuckle, breathing in its fragrant aroma, chiding herself when her thoughts returned to Lord Amos. They had done so with disturbing regularity since the previous day. His disarming smile, elegant manners, and animal vitality had had a profound effect upon her, much as she wished it could be otherwise. If she shared her worries with him, she felt sure he would be able to resolve them for her. She shook her head to dislodge such a whimsical notion. Even if he believed her and took up the cudgels on her behalf, she would have to admit to her culpability, and he would lose all respect for her, always supposing he entertained any. Somehow that thought was more painful than the terrifying prospect of challenging Reece alone.

  She left the honeysuckle and wandered on. No, confiding in anyone was out of the question, especially Lord Amos. Damnation, was that a horse she could hear approaching? She looked over her shoulder and gasped. She recognised the magnificent stallion being trotted along the path she had just walked. She also recognised the man on its back. It was as though her thoughts of Lord Amos had summoned the man himself. Like her, he was hatless, hair as black as his horse’s coat blowing in the wind. He was informally dressed in a white shirt and his habitual tight-fitting breeches, controll
ing the powerful horse with just one hand, shading his eyes with the other as he glanced around as though looking for someone. Eager not to be caught here alone she picked up her skirts and ran towards the trees. As she breeched their leafy canopy a hand shot out from behind a solid oak and caught her around the waist. She cried out before a second hand was clapped across her mouth, stifling all sound.

  “Miss Brooke,” said the voice she recognised, with a sinking heart, as belonging to Reece. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

  ***

  Where the devil had Reece disappeared to, Amos wondered as he trotted Warrior across the common. He had kept well back for fear of being seen by him, even though it didn’t appear to occur to the man he might be followed. In any event, he strode along as though late for an appointment and had not once looked back. By the time Amos decided it would be safe to get closer, he had lost the fool. He must have taken the path through the trees, but Amos decided against following his example. There were low branches and rabbit holes everywhere. He would not risk Warrior’s or his own welfare for the sake of chasing shadows.

  “This is a rum affair, Warrior,” he said, shading his eyes against the lowering sun with one hand as he peered in the direction of the woods that separated the common from Sheridan land, thinking he had seen movement in the treeline. “What possible business could he have here?”

  Unless, of course, he had an assignation with a lady. God forbid he was here to meet with Miss Brooke. The thought was abhorrent to him, and Amos dismissed it at once, satisfied he would not be so attracted to her if she had such poor taste. He shook his head and again focused on the treeline, thinking he saw a flash of yellow. He halted Warrior and looked more closely, but there was nothing there. Then a scream rent the air−a scream that was abruptly cut off. Without hesitation, Amos spurred Warrior into a flat out gallop and headed for the trees.

  He arrived to find Miss Brooke lying on the ground, looking dazed. Her forehead was grazed and bleeding.

  “Lord Amos.” She blinked up at him, her eyes clouded, not with pain but fear. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Six

  “You are perfectly safe now.” Amos slid from Warrior’s saddle and crouched beside Miss Brooke. “Your attacker is gone. Are you harmed? Can you stand?”

  “I was not attacked,” she said quickly, looking down at her torn and dirtied gown, not at him. “I caught my foot in a rabbit hole. It was careless of me.”

  Amos was disappointed she chose not to be honest with him. A simple fall would not occasion the terror evidenced in her eyes. Besides, he knew she had been assaulted because he caught a glimpse of the rogue responsible as he took off on foot through the trees. The desire to chase him down and thrash the living daylights out of him for his insolence had been compelling, but he could not leave Miss Brooke, possibly injured, without protection. There might be others hiding out in the trees waiting to assault her, also. He had heard nothing about a band of marauders being in the district, but since the end of the war there had been an increasing number of such incidents in rural areas.

  Not that he gave the possibility serious consideration. Amos couldn’t be sure her attacker had been Reece, but given he had just now followed him to an otherwise deserted common, the possibility of anyone else being the perpetrator was remote.

  “Here, take my hand and allow me to help you to your feet.”

  He reached down, smiling his reassurance. She hesitated for a protracted moment before slipping her hand into his with obvious reluctance, as skittish and unsure of herself as one of his new born foals. Amos closed his fingers firmly around her palm and pulled her easily and gently to her feet. A part of him wished he could sweep her into his arms and pick her up by less conventional means. The desire to behave recklessly consumed him whenever he was anywhere near Miss Brooke. Stimulated by the mere touch of her hand, he ignored his extreme reaction to it, concentrating all his efforts upon making her feel safe. The urge to protect her and frighten off those who wished her harm burned through him like a virulent disease. That any man could behave so despicably towards a respectable young woman roused him to a paroxysm of fury.

  “Have you twisted your ankle?”

  She placed her weight on the afflicted limb experimentally. “No, I don’t believe any harm has been done by my clumsiness. Thank you for coming to my aid, Lord Amos, but I need detain you no longer.”

  She gasped when she noticed her bodice had been torn, revealing the top of her shapely breasts. Amos reached for her shawl and tied it across her bosom, preserving her modesty.

  “Let us go over there and sit on that log until you recover.”

  “I am perfectly all right. There is no necessity for you to inconvenience yourself.”

  Why is she so anxious to be rid of me? “On the contrary, there is every need.”

  He led Warrior with one hand and placed the other on her elbow as he guided her towards the log in question. She took several deep breaths and appeared to recover some composure, yet was still deathly pale. Amos was gripped by the sight of her thick riot of curly hair, cascading over her shoulders. The ribbon holding it in place had slipped free during her attack. Thoughts of that attack−of what might have happened had he not been there to save her−fuelled his murderous rage and deepened his determination to discover her true reason for being in the district.

  Amos had yet to decide if he would tell her what he knew about her activities. She made most, if not all, of the jewellery for her uncle, but took no credit. The strain, the secrecy, was starting to tell on her nerves. Amos was willing to wager Reece did not know one end of a soldering iron from the other. Zach was right to say it was not Amos’s concern−or rather, it had not been. Since witnessing an attack of Miss Brooke’s person and saving her reputation, even the wildest of the horses he bred could not have stopped him from delving more deeply into her business.

  “Here,” he said, helping her to sit.

  Once she was settled, he tied Warrior’s reins to a low, stout branch, and the horse idly set about cropping the coarse grass. Amos sat beside Miss Brooke and fixed her with a steady gaze. There was blood on her forehead, but it had stopped flowing and the wound did not appear serious. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, moistened the cloth with his tongue, and gently dabbed at the injury. She inhaled sharply but not, Amos suspected, because he had hurt her, at least not physically. She could not possibly be aware how much pain such a simple, albeit rather inappropriate action, was causing him. Their gazes clashed, her eyes gleaming with liquid fire and the awakening of…of what precisely? The air between them became taut with expectancy as she watched him with unnerving stillness. When a gasp of awareness slipped past her lips, it brought Amos to his senses, and he ceded control of the handkerchief to her. She pressed her fingers to it, holding it firmly against her forehead.

  “Thank you.”

  “What happened?” he asked for the second time. “I know you didn’t fall.”

  She did not immediately respond. The only sound was the jingling of Warrior’s bit as he chomped at the grass, the distant sound of a dog barking, and a melodious chorus of evening bird song. She absently pulled away a piece of the bark from the tree trunk they sat upon, her expression distant, brooding. A deep silence spread between them−the silent awareness of shared sensibility. Amos saw no occasion to break it, leaving her to her cogitations.

  “Someone did take me by surprise and caused me to fall,” she eventually said, staring off into the distance. “I did not see who it was.”

  Amos was disappointed by her response, but not surprised. “I would prefer it, Miss Brooke, if you would either tell me to go to the devil, or be honest with me.”

  She gasped and turned her head sharply back in his direction. This time he had her full attention. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean you know who attacked you. It was Reece.”

  Her eyes darted wildly in all directions, as though seeking a way to escape from him
. She was very afraid of something. Or someone. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw him walking this way as I left the village. If he cut through the trees, he would have reached your position just before I did.”

  “Mr. Reece is not my favourite person−”

  “I am very pleased to hear you say so.”

  “But he would not attack me.”

  Amos screwed up his features. “There we must disagree.”

  “You do not know him.”

  “I have known men like him. They take what they want.” Amos had difficulty containing his anger when he saw the bruised look in her eye. Unable to understand why she would protect a man she despised, Amos itched to know the truth. “It is fortunate for you I came along when I did,” he said laconically.

  “I am very much obliged to you, my lord.”

  “I did not say that in the hope of earning your gratitude, Miss Brooke. Any gentleman would have provided the same service.” He fixed her with an ardent look. “But if you wish to reward me, I much would prefer you would honour me with your confidence.”

  She trilled a laugh that sounded forced. “About what? I don’t believe I have any secrets, and even if I did, why would I share them with you? More to the point, why would a gentleman of your stature be interested in my affairs?”

  Amos sighed. He enjoyed sitting there on an uncomfortable log at the edge of the common with the young lady who had made a huge impression upon him and occupied so many of his recent thoughts. He was in a position to know trust needed to be earned, and she was too afraid to place hers in him quite yet. Amos accepted he must set about earning that privilege.

  What struck him as extraordinary was the manner in which she spoke to him. Her uncle was a skilled and respected craftsman, it was true, but he was not a gentleman. Ergo, she was no lady and ought to be tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of a duke’s brother. And yet, she was not—nor had she been when she came to the house with her uncle. She poured tea for them all as though she was perfectly accustomed to doing so, barely a shake of her hand indicating nerves. Her speaking voice was refined, as were her manners. This infuriatingly secretive young lady was no stranger to good society, and he yearned to know more of her background. But he did not force the issue, instead asking a question of his own.