The Duke's Christmas Mystery: A Regency Romance Christmas Mystery

by Kate Carteret

  More than once, Rowena had wondered how the two had come to be together in the first place. They never discussed such things, of course, but Rowena could only imagine that the marriage between her parents had been of the variety that was arranged to suit the families rather than the two young people in question. It was all she could find to explain their relationship.

  They did not argue, particularly, but they did not talk contentedly either. It seemed to Rowena that they simply existed under the same roof, rarely spending much time in one another’s company. They ate meals together but, beyond that, they seemed to go about their own business. It was true to say that her father seemed always ready to please her mother, and equally ready to make himself scarce when his attempts fell wide of their mark. It had left Rowena with a vague impression that her father’s feeling for his wife ran deeper than his wife’s feelings for him.

  Whenever they went out into society, her mother always returned with some imagined grievance, largely connected with her not receiving what she thought was her due deference.

  Rowena wondered if that was why they did not take her out with them often, for it was true to say that they so rarely did. They seemed intent on having their share of society without their daughter in tow and Rowena had long since decided that to dwell on the reasons why was nothing short of futile.

  Still, if they did take her out once in a great while, Rowena might have another friend in the world beyond her wonderful little maid.

  Then again, perhaps she would not. Whenever they did take her to some engagement or other, her parents kept her at their side throughout and saw to it that she had little opportunity to speak. It was another source of upset to Rowena, to be out in the world and kept apart from it at the same time. So much so that she would much rather not go at all, for she was bound to be lonely either way. At least when she was alone at Frinton Manor, there were no witnesses to her sadness.

  With a sigh, Rowena turned the parcel of food over in her hands before finally determining to set off. She would walk fast and far, anything to shake the same old thoughts clouding her mind and ruining things once more.

  As Rowena strode out across the immaculate lawns, she thought to herself that her parents seemed to have ruined enough already. It was nothing they had done to her, as such, but rather the things they had never done which hurt her the most.

  Chapter Two

  Elliot Spencer was almost done with his breakfast when his father came striding into the dining room.

  With a silent sigh of resignation, Elliot realized that he would not be released from the room simply because he had finished and would have to bear witness not only to his father’s early morning ill humor but to his poor table manners also.

  Bartholomew Spencer was the Duke of Darrington, not that the title had done much to improve the man’s slovenly habits.

  As Elliot watched his father at the sideboard piling his plate high with bacon and kidneys, he thought how the man was careless in every way possible. He was careless with his dress, which looked a little unclean to Elliot, careless with his health, if his ever-growing belly and reddening complexion were anything to go by, and careless in his treatment of others, namely in possessing just about the worst manners Elliot had ever encountered.

  “Good morning, Father.” Elliot said when his father settled himself down at the table, his chair scraping noisily across the floorboards in a way which jarred Elliot’s own humor.

  “Mmm.” His father responded without bothering to look at him before he crammed a large forkful of kidney into his mouth and began to chew.

  Elliot watched his father’s distended cheeks and the thin trail of reddish-brown liquid which had escaped his mouth and was now running unchecked down his chin.

  He could feel his own hackles rising; there was no need for such behavior in a man of wealth, title, education, and alleged good breeding. The whole display was so rough, primal almost, and Elliot knew that pure arrogance and antagonism lay at its very heart.

  But Bartholomew Spencer was the Duke of Darrington and he would do as he pleased. As far as he was concerned, there were few men in the country who would dare to correct him.

  “What is wrong with you now?” The Duke bellowed suddenly, taking his son entirely off guard.

  “I beg your pardon?” Elliot studied his father for a confused moment or two, seeing the jaws still chewing the kidneys and hoping he would not speak again until the whole sorry mess was swallowed.

  “You have that look on your face, the one your mother always wore. It is trying my patience, boy, and I will not have it at my breakfast table.

  “I see.” Elliot said and shrugged as if he did not have the vaguest idea what his father was talking about.

  He did, of course, realize that his father, already trying to provoke a response with his vile manners, had seen a little revulsion in his son’s face and was reacting to it. But the whole thing was controlled entirely by the Duke, and Elliot, knowing the man of old, knew there was little point in responding to it all.

  “You have turned out to be nothing better than a milk-sop, Elliot.” The Duke began, treading an already well-worn conversational path. “Too much like your mother for your own good.”

  Elliot said nothing and simply made a pretense of pouring himself more tea from the rapidly cooling pot.

  His father never took tea or coffee with his breakfast, he just ate. And, for a moment, Elliot hoped that it was a lifelong decision that would lead to his eventual choking; perhaps even that very day at the breakfast table.

  As far as Elliot was concerned, to be reminded that he was more his mother’s son than his father’s was reassuring, rather than the insult his father had intended it to be.

  “That woman had much to answer for.” The Duke continued to grumble as he loaded another forkful of kidney.

  Elliot made a silent determination not to wince this time. He would carry on as if nothing was happening, it was far simpler.

  But Elliot’s own annoyance was rising; he always felt protective of his mother, even now when she had been dead for almost fifteen years. But he would do what he could to keep his anger on the inside. To argue with his father was pointless. It was always an exercise in futility and produced the most extraordinary exasperation.

  “This is why you have reached your thirtieth year without finding a bride. For heaven’s sake, you should have sired an heir by now.” The Duke scoffed sarcastically.

  Elliot had heard it all before but still it irked him. His father, a competitive man by nature, was always keen to point out his son’s shortcomings, or what he saw as shortcomings, at any rate. He always did his best to make Elliot seem somehow less of a man for not reaching out and grabbing the first young woman who crossed his path, little considering that Elliot was simply a man of some discernment.

  More than once, the Duke had tried to interfere and had paraded many a bright and pretty young lady before him. But they were either too forceful and intent on the title, which was distasteful to Elliot, or so timid that he knew they would never survive life under the roof of Darrington Hall with a father-in-law who would undoubtedly frighten the living daylights out of them.

  And Elliot had always been most determined to find his own bride; someone he would truly love. He had seen how well a poorly done deal had worked for his mother. The Duchess had been pushed towards the brash, arrogant young Duke by her father when she was still a girl and she had spent her short life regretting it. Elliot, knowing he had a good deal more power and say over his future than his poor mother had enjoyed, always stood firm against his father’s irrational bullying on the matter.

  “I shall marry when I am ready.” Elliot said, wanting to draw a line over which he would never allow his father to cross.

  “I know, I know.” His father growled. “I have heard it before. But when you do choose to marry, remember that young ladies prefer a man to be a man.” The insult was clear.

  Elliot had long since stopped taking his fath
er’s opinion of him to heart. For one thing, he knew his father did not really think Elliot lacking in masculinity. It was, after all, ridiculous, given that Elliot was a foot taller than his father and a good deal broader, albeit his own frame was muscular and taut, not run to fat and miserably soft like the Duke’s.

  Elliot had an altogether stronger appearance and his manners, the very manners his mother had taught him, had made more of a man of him than any of his father’s haphazard attempts at training. He knew well that his father confused boorishness and arrogance with true masculinity. And if the number of young ladies Elliot attracted at every social occasion was anything to go by, the women of Derbyshire considered the heir to the Duchy to be masculine enough for them.

  “Yes, Father, they most certainly do.” Elliot smiled, thinking his father more like an old pig snuffling for truffles than a fine man sitting at the table for breakfast.

  The Duke scowled at him, knowing he had been gently insulted but unable to work it out. Elliot, for his part, was not inclined to explain, he simply lifted the cup of cold tea and took a sip.

  “Perhaps I ought to marry again.” The Duke mused as he took a mouthful of bacon. “Show you how it’s done!” He laughed callously, displaying his yellowing, uneven teeth.

  Elliot simply stared at his father, fighting the urge to wish the unsavory old Duke the best of luck in finding a woman who would have him.

  “Yes, that is what I shall do!” The Duke went on and Elliot had the sudden feeling that he was watching something which had already been rehearsed; surely his father did not have some poor woman in mind?

  “Very good.” Elliot said in a determinedly disinterested manner.

  “I shall marry some young slip of a thing and sire another heir. What do you say to that? Replace you and your excellent manners in a heartbeat and raise a son my own way, instead of raising a milk-sop with too much of his mother’s influence.” He laughed heartily, all the while studying Elliot for his reaction.

  “A new heir to the Duchy? Are you planning to have me removed, Father? When will you be going to Parliament to make your case for that? Before or after this new child of yours is born?” Elliot knew his father was not only trying to vex him but also sensible of the fact he would stand little chance of having his heir disinherited on a spiteful whim.

  “Well, I am in jest, of course.” The Duke laughed without mirth. “But it is good to keep you on your toes, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” Elliot said flatly.

  “But perhaps I am not in jest about finding myself a nice little bride. Somebody quiet this time.” He mused as if the whole thing really was a possibility.

  Of course, Elliot realized it was not entirely impossible. His father, although not a fine specimen of health and efficiency, was still only in his middle fifties. Perhaps he would find some jaded lady out in the world who would put up with his boorish excesses for a fine roof and nicer gowns. But young? Elliot doubted that very much.

  Regardless of his status as a Duke, Bartholomew was several years, not to mention several pounds, beyond being a catch. And then there was the fact that he rarely took advantage of the hot water conveyed to his chamber in a fine porcelain jug every morning.

  The man, despite his wealth and grand home, would certainly take some clever advertising to raise an eyebrow of interest anywhere in Derbyshire, Elliot was sure.

  “And it is not a bad idea to have a spare, is it?” The Duke went on, and Elliot immediately realized he really was talking about fathering another son. “I mean, anything could happen to you, boy, and then where would I be? A Duke with no heir and the awful prospect of knowing the Duchy could land in any hands at all; unsuitable hands!”

  “Then presumably the prospect of losing the Duchy is far more awful to you than the loss of your only son?” Elliot need not really have asked the question, but his patience was wearing very thin.

  “Ah, there is your mother’s influence again! That damned foolish woman making a wet blanket of you.”

  “Have it your own way.” Elliot shrugged, not keen to have his annoyance further excited by yet more abuse aimed posthumously at his mother.

  The woman had suffered enough in life, she need not have the same old insults hurled at her in death. Still, at least she was beyond the reach of her husband’s true cruelty. If nothing else, that was a blessing to Elliot.

  “But just think of it.” The Duke had returned to his musings, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands.

  His face was round and shiny, the skin taut over the ever-growing mass of flesh beneath. His father was certainly eating more and doing less of late, and it showed. And his color was always high, sometimes through the emotions of the outrage he seemed to suffer daily, but predominantly a manifestation of the copious amounts of liquor he had always imbibed.

  “Think of what, Father?” Elliot decided to humor him.

  “A brand-new son to teach, to mold in my own way. Someone to make a man of, to teach the skills of hunting and riding and everything else a man needs to know.” The Duke was staring off into the middle distance as if he could somehow see into the future and was, even as they spoke, looking at his second-born son sitting perfectly in his saddle ready to chase whatever creature took his fancy.

  As it was, Elliot could not remember a time when his father had been a particularly proficient horseman, certainly not to the degree that Elliot was. Still, Elliot knew his father’s musings, like his manners, could be anything he wished them to be. Fact or fiction, it mattered not. Bartholomew Spencer was the Duke of Darrington and he would do as he pleased, even in his own imagination.

  “And I would certainly make sure that the next one knows what to do with a woman!” He roared with laughter.

  “I daresay you will need an extraordinarily young bride to have even the vaguest hope of fathering a child now.” Elliot said in retaliation when his father’s laughing had subsided.

  “I need no such assistance!” The Duke said with ridiculous pride. “I would sire a son with any filly at all, young or old.”

  “Is that so?” Elliot knew he was goading him but he had heard enough.

  He wanted breakfast to be over so that he could keep himself away from the vile old Duke for the rest of the day.

  “That is so, boy.” He leered over the immense dining table in what would have seemed to anybody else a terrifying manner.

  For Elliot, who had seen the expression used weekly since his own childhood, it was nothing more than an act to which he had become desensitized many years before.

  “Well, I wish you luck in finding a bride.” Elliot said with the sort of smile that added just enough ambiguity to have the Duke wondering once again if he had been insulted.

  “I shall not need luck.” The Duke spoke almost as if to himself and reached for his knife and fork to carry on with the bacon and kidneys.

  Elliot wondered again if his father had some poor woman in mind, he seemed so very sure of himself. Of course, the Duke always seemed sure of himself, but Elliot had the strongest suspicion that there was more to it than just an aging man’s customary arrogance.

  The Duke continued his meal in silence, not speaking to his son again before finishing and leaving the room. It was not uncommon for his father to be so determinedly rude, but still, it annoyed him.

  Elliot stared through the large windows and out across the immense estate of Darrington. The sky was as blue as he had seen it this year, and he knew it would most certainly feel like a fine Spring day if he did but strike out and leave the hall behind.

  Deciding to do just that, Elliot left the dining room and made his way down to the boot room. He wanted an older pair of knee boots for walking. Clean, but worn and comfortable.

  When the footman handed him just what he needed, Elliot pulled them on and strode out of the hall via the servants’ area, not bothering to go above stairs again and risk having his day further tainted by any more of his father’s appalling company.


  Chapter Three

  Rowena had walked out further than she had ever done before. She was a keen walker and she thought she would easily be able to walk for another hour before she would have to turn around and head back towards Frinton Manor.

  Ordinarily, she headed into the somewhat more rolling and gentle countryside, but today her mood was better suited to the steeper hills and the craggy rocks to the north. It did not usually seem so inviting and, being a little further away from her home, Rowena had never previously felt drawn in that direction.

  But today she did feel drawn. She wanted something different to look at, somewhere new which would take her mind off her mother and father and even her own life; the life which seemed to be wasting slowly, every day looking and feeling very much like the one before.

  Just as Rowena thought she would give her right arm for something different, she came up against a densely overgrown area. As she made her way around the edge, she realized that it was more than just a randomly growing hedgerow that had become thick and impenetrable. There was something about the lay of the land that gave her the impression that the foliage and thorns were encircling something; that there was something to be seen on the inside.

  The whole area was so different from her usual gentle countryside that Rowena wondered for a few minutes if she was simply mistaken. After all, there was not a flat bit of land anywhere and there were great clusters of rocks and a number of trees mixed in with the thorny foliage.

  But still she could not shake the impression that the greenery formed some sort of boundary and she was so keen to see inside it that she determined to find a way in.

  Walking around the edge took some minutes and gave her the idea that the area within must be large. Rowena peered in through the leaves and branches as she went, knowing that the hawthorns which intertwined would be largely impassable.

  Her determination, however, paid off when she found a softer patch of low growing laurel. She crouched down and pushed an arm though experimentally. Finding nothing dense or thorny to hold her back, Rowena began to work her way forward, hoping against all hope that she did not simply find herself wedged in the center of foliage from which she could not escape.