The Duke's Holiday

by Maggie Fenton

  “Which is precisely why you are pretending,” Astrid explained through clenched teeth. Her cousin had never been the quickest study, but really. Did she have to spell out every word to him?

  “But Astrid, I can’t lie to the Duke of Montford,” Wesley whispered.

  “It is not a lie. You’ve never actually said you’re my brother.”

  Wesley looked unconvinced and very confused. “Well, that’s because I’m not, am I?”

  Oh, for the love of … “Wesley, I need you to do this.”

  Wesley’s brow creased with annoyance. “Look here, old girl, I don’t want to get mixed up in this … this whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish … what are you trying to accomplish?”

  “I am trying to save Rylestone Hall. For heavens’ sake, Wesley, do try to keep up. The Duke has come here because he knows about father. He thinks Rylestone Hall belongs to him now…”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  She waved this away. “Details.”

  Wesley sighed. “But I’ve told you in the past you don’t need to worry about trying to stay here when you can come to the Grange. Mother –”

  “Would have a fit of vapors.”

  “She’ll get over it.” Wesley grabbed her hand, an earnest expression falling over his face, reminding Astrid of a startled kitten. “You know what I want, Astrid, and that is for you to be…”

  Astrid shook her hand free and forestalled Wesley from an outright declaration. Another proposal of marriage was the last thing she needed. “And you know what I want, Wesley. I think I have been clear on that. I want Rylestone Hall. It is my home, and Alice’s home. I’ll not let the Duke of Montford take it from us just because of some two hundred year old piece of parchment.”

  Wesley gave her a pitying stare. “What happened to you, Astrid?”

  She stiffened. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “I remember a time when you dreamed of a different sort of life. You never wanted to run the estate. You never even wanted to stay here. You couldn’t wait to leave Rylestone.”

  Astrid turned away from Wesley and stared out the window to hide her expression from her cousin. She was shaken by Wesley’s words, had not thought her cousin capable of such cutting insight. Yes, she had once dreamed of something very different. Travel. Adventure. Romance. Silly dreams of a silly girl.

  But then her mother died in childbirth, and her father went … well, crazy, and there was nothing for it but to take up the reins. Ardyce had been two years old and Antonia had been newly born, and Aunt Emily had threatened to take them both from Rylestone Hall to give them a “proper upbringing”. Astrid had been all of fourteen, but she had fought her aunt and won. Her family had stayed together, and after a time the estate began to prosper. She couldn’t imagine how her life could have turned out any differently.

  Oh, who was she fooling? Of course she could imagine. But only that.

  She would not change what she had now for all the travel and adventure and romance in the world. And she would not give up Rylestone Hall without a serious fight.

  “That was a long time ago,” she murmured.

  Wesley touched her shoulder. “Not so very.”

  She moved away from his hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know that trying to keep this estate afloat single-handedly is too much for you.”

  She stuck her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You think me incapable.”

  “No, of course not. Good gad, Astrid, you have a way of twisting a body’s words. What I mean is it is not the life you chose. It is not the life you were meant to live.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “And you think you are the one to give me what I need?” she asked bitterly.

  Wesley remained silent for so long that Astrid finally turned to him. He was staring at her with a stricken expression, and she felt immediately guilty for her harsh tone.

  “I don’t know if I am anymore,” Wesley said in a quiet voice. “But you need something. Someone. Before you wake up and find yourself…”

  He trailed off, unwilling to complete his thought, his cheeks flooding with color.

  At least one of them had a filter.

  Though Astrid knew precisely what he would have said.

  Before you wake up and find yourself alone.

  Which was ridiculous, because she had Ardyce and Antonia and Alice. And Aunt Anabel, who would not be around for much longer, granted, but who loved her. She had Hiram and his family and Flora, and Charlie and Mick and even Sir Wesley himself. She had countless people who loved her and depended upon her.

  How could she ever be alone?

  The Duke chose at that moment to step into the room with Alice on his arm. Astrid moved away from Wesley’s side and tried to compose her face, though her emotions were in turmoil. When she turned back to the others, the Duke was studying her questioningly, wryly. After a moment, he turned his attention to Wesley, who cleared his throat several times and avoided making eye contact with anyone.

  Astrid could read nothing on the Duke’s impassive features but the mildest of interest in the new arrival. As if Astrid had not just thrown an obstacle of monumental proportions in his path. There was no way the Duke believed her, but he was not calling her bluff.

  Which was interesting.

  And worrying.

  Astrid had a devious mind, and knowing what she herself was capable of made her fear that others were equally cunning and unscrupulous. But while she generally held the male mind in low esteem, she was not inclined to underestimate the one belonging to her current opponent. If she was plotting against him, chances were good that he was also plotting against her.

  Astrid felt rather like the fox at the hunt, which meant that the Duke was definitely the pack of hounds dogging her heels. But for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single prevarication to throw him off the scent at the moment. Wesley had upset her with his unexpected wisdom, just like Hiram had done earlier in the morning.

  What was wrong with everyone? Did they want her to fail? Did they want her and her family to lose their birthright?

  The silence in the room stretched until it was so taut Astrid feared Wesley was going to blurt out the truth. He was definitely beginning to squirm under the Duke’s steady gaze.

  “So, Mr. Honeywell,” the Duke finally said abruptly, startling everyone in the room. “Why don’t you tell us about your trip.”

  Wesley’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Ah, yes. My … er, trip.”

  “I’ll send for tea,” Alice said, darting from the room, as if escaping from a trap.

  The Duke indicated a chair for Astrid, and, after a bit of hesitation, she sat down on the edge of it, feeling distinctly nervous.

  Wesley settled across from her after the Duke claimed one of the high-backed, throne-like Jacobean chairs Aunt Anabel favored. He crossed his leg over his knee and propped his chin on his hand, arching a brow, as if waiting for the action to continue, a King at his leisure.

  “Steam engines,” Wesley finally blurted after an interminably long and awkward interval.

  Astrid tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Here we go, she thought with grim satisfaction. Montford wouldn’t know what hit him after Wesley started in on his favorite subject.

  The Duke’s brow caved downwards in puzzlement. “I beg your pardon.”

  “The purpose of my trip. I’m interested in steam.”

  “How … fascinating,” the Duke said in a tone that betrayed how very un-fascinating he thought it was.

  Wesley leaned towards the Duke confidentially. “Don’t tell my moth…” Wesley blanched and gave Astrid a look of alarm. “That is, I would rather not the world know where I’ve been. It’s rather a sensitive matter. Not very many people understand or appreciate my interest in steam.”

  Few people understood or appreciated Wesley’s tinkerings full stop. He was constantly building strange contraptions and making things explode. The roof over t
he conservatory at the Grange had had to be replaced last year because of one of Wesley’s “scientific” experiments gone awry.

  “You see, I’ve been up north on the coast a because I heard of a man who was working on an engine powered by steam. Can you imagine it, Your Grace? A horseless carriage? Faster than a team of twenty.”

  The Duke grimaced. “I shall try very hard not to,” he murmured.

  Wesley apparently missed the Duke’s sarcasm, because he continued brightly: “Some have gone so far as to suggest fitting out ships at sea with steam engines, but I don’t know if I agree on the physics of such an idea.”

  “Sounds outlandish,” the Duke agreed.

  “One day the world’s going to be powered by steam, mark my words,” Wesley said, riding high on his soapbox. “It is why I am investing in it.”

  Her heart sank. “Oh no, Wes … I mean Anthony. Do you really think that wise?”

  Wesley looked annoyed by her superior tone, but she didn’t care. Someone had to be the voice of reason. He was always plunging what little funds he had into ridiculous schemes like this. Steam engines indeed.

  “Of course,” Wesley huffed.

  “But have you seen an actual engine that works?” she pressed.

  Wesley paused, his expression falling. “Well, no, but some have come terribly close. The problem is combustion, you see.”

  No, she didn’t see.

  Astrid sighed and sank back into her chair as Wesley began to explain in detail the inner mechanics of steam-powered locomotion. He wasn’t usually quite so voluble, but the Duke’s presence had made him nervous and disinclined to pause for breath, lest the Duke question him regarding his identity.

  Thankfully, they were all saved from dying of utter boredom when a loud thunk, followed by a howl, sounded outside the window.

  The Duke looked pained and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “What now, I wonder,” she heard him mutter.

  A moment later, Flora appeared at the door, gracing them with a very agitated bow. She avoided looking at the Duke as she said, “Miss Astrid, I think you might want to come out in the yard with me.”

  She followed behind Flora down the corridor, through the servant’s entrance, and down into the stable yard. Wesley, Alice and the Duke trailed behind.

  Petunia was loose once more and in high dudgeon, squealing and running about the yard with Ant and Art trailing behind, laughing and chanting in Greek. The object of Petunia’s pursuit appeared to be a stick insect covered in mud, squealing in much the same manner as the pig.

  It was Coombes.

  At last the beleaguered valet managed to hoist himself upon a barrel and shoo the pig with his hands.

  She laughed and hazarded a look back at the Duke. She was surprised to find a hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. It quickly disappeared when he discovered her staring at him. He cleared his throat and resumed his usual stern expression. “Coombes, what is going on here?” he bellowed.

  “That … that beast … those … those … heathen children…!” Coombes spluttered, pointing in the direction of the pig and the girls, who were disappearing around the stables into the garden. “I’ll not stand for it, Your Grace. This is … this is beyond the pale,” Coombes continued. “I demand that we return to London immediately.”

  The Duke’s jaw twitched worryingly. “You demand?”

  Coombes paled beneath the mud staining his cheeks, his courage waning. Then he seemed to recover a bit of nerve, taking a deep breath and puffing out his chest. “I … I’ll not remain another moment in this … this pit.”

  “I would hardly call Rylestone Hall a pit, sirrah,” Astrid retorted.

  “You’re right. It’s a mad house,” Coombes intoned. He stepped off the barrel, lost his balance on the way down, and slipped into the mud. He flailed about for several seconds, then finally regained his feet. His dignity now completely in shreds, he faced his employer with a furious expression. “I’m returning to London, Your Grace.”

  “Wonderful. The mail coach departs this afternoon in the village,” Astrid replied breezily.

  The Duke stepped towards Coombes, who took a step backwards when he saw the icy look on his employer’s face. “If you leave, Coombes, I shall be most displeased,” the Duke warned.

  Petunia chose at that moment to reenter the yard. Squealing at the top of her lungs, she lunged straight for Coombes, who yelped and climbed back upon the barrel.

  “I don’t care,” Coombes cried over his shoulder. “Nothing could make me stay another moment in this Bedlam.”

  “Coombes, I’ll have your head if you leave me here,” the Duke cried, raising a fist, a hint of panic seeping through the cracks of his icy displeasure.

  Coombes mumbled something that sounded distinctly like “I don’t give a rat’s arse,” as he attempted to pull his leg out of the way of Petunia’s snout.

  Then the barrel toppled over, sending Coombes sprawling once more. He scrambled to his feet and began running towards the kitchens, Petunia on his heels.

  The Duke made as if to follow his valet, stopped at the edge of a mud slick, and cursed.

  Astrid giggled behind her hand until the Duke spun around and glowered at her. She broke off and tried to glower back. “Your valet is all that is sensible. You should return with him, you know. How will you ever survive without him?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he muttered. His glance moved from her and pinned Wesley in its sight. Her cousin froze like a startled deer. “You. Mister Honeywell. I suggest you attempt to bring your family under control. A man who allows his females to run riot is a disgrace to his sex.”

  “Now see here…” Wesley began.

  “I did not come here to be mowed down by pigs and bluestockings,” the Duke said, flashing a significant glance in Astrid’s direction. “I want to see the books to this damnable pile. I want straight answers to my questions. If these blessed events occur, I shall reconsider razing this pile of stones and everyone in it.”

  “Now see here …” Wesley attempted again.

  The Duke growled at Wesley and stalked towards the castle without another word. Horrid, horrid man.

  Wesley followed him with his eyes, then turned back to Astrid and Alice, his brow furrowed. “I say, he’s rather upset, isn’t he?”

  “I think he was born that way,” Astrid said.

  “Raze Rylestone,” Wesley said speculatively. “Do you think he’s serious?”

  “I think he’s never anything but serious.”

  “Well, that will never do.” He stared up at the North Tower, which was looking suspiciously drunk. “Don’t think the Hall could survive a razing. Mebbe you should just show him the books.”

  Astrid and Alice exchanged panicked glances. “Absolutely not,” they said in unison.

  “Look here,” Wesley said petulantly, “what’s wrong with you? How do you expect to keep this up? The longer this goes on, the worse things are going to get. Where are the books? And what are you two hiding?”

  “Nothing. You’re not trying to bring us under control, are you?” Astrid countered.

  Wesley snorted. “Someone needs to.” Seeing he would get nothing from Astrid, he turned on Alice. “You’ve always been a steady sort, Alice. A real brick. You must see it shall be impossible to fob off on Montford. Where are the books?”

  Alice’s face flooded with color around the moment Wesley called her a brick. Then the color intensified until her face was scarlet, and not with pleasure. She was livid.

  Astrid took an involuntary step backwards. She had never seen her mild-natured sister look so … terrifying. So very like … well, herself in a temper. But she hardly blamed Alice. If a man she loved had called her a brick, she’d have put her fist through his mouth.

  “I don’t know where the books are, Sir Wesley,” Alice said in a too-calm voice.

  Astrid wanted to cheer her sister.

  Wesley studied Alice’s countenance in mounting puzzle
ment. “Alice,” he began placatingly. “Be a good girl…”

  Alice snapped, stomping her boot in the earth and clenching her fists. “Don’t Alice me in that condescending tone. And don’t ever call me a b-b-brick again. Idiot man. Idiot blind man! I don’t know where the books are, and even if I did, I’d not tell you. You’re no better than the Duke, thinking you know what’s best, trying to manage us. Well, I’ll tell you something, Sir Wesley Benwick. We don’t need managing. You and Montford will manage us right out of our home. Astrid’s right. All men are m-morons!”

  With another stomp of her foot and a toss of her chin, Alice strode back towards the castle.

  Wesley stared after her, eyes wide.

  “What did I do?” he murmured. “What did I say? Gads, Astrid, what’s gotten into her?”

  Astrid sighed and patted Wesley’s arm. “Oh, Wesley, you really are an idiot.”

  AN HOUR later, Astrid and Alice turned over the last bale of hay in the loft above the stables to no avail.

  “It’s gone,” Alice cried, pulling straw from her hair. Her face was still flushed from her sharp exchange with Wesley, her pale blue eyes glistening with pent-up emotion. She hadn’t talked or met Astrid’s eyes since the encounter, other than to mumble out the location of the estate book. Astrid had thought it best to commandeer the book in case Alice compromised its whereabouts. But it seemed she was too late, for the book was missing. They’d turned over the entire stable from top to floor without coming across it.

  Alice’s hands were trembling and her chin quivered, sure signs she was a breath or two away from tears. Astrid had never seen Alice so worked up. Wesley’s arrival and dunder-headed behavior seemed to have pushed her into near-hysteria. But Astrid did not have time to deal with a hysterical sister. She felt near tears herself, and, as was becoming usual, angry. At the Duke. At Wesley. At herself, for being so stupid as to entrust the book to scatterbrained Alice.

  “How can it be gone?” Astrid cried, falling back onto the hay. “Are you quite sure you hid it here?”