No, she thought grimly. He wanted her under his thumb or worse.
They reached the stables and handed Princess Buttercup off to Mick. When she related the news of Cyril’s fate, Mick’s face went pale, and he crossed himself. He was a Roman Catholic, and quite religious, and Cyril had been his special charge.
They had made it across the yard and into the gardens, when a flurry of black crinoline caught her eye through the hedgerows.
Astrid reacted on instinct, knowing exactly what was attached to the crinoline. She tugged Montford’s arm towards a row of rose bushes.
“Where are we going?” he demanded.
“Shhh!” she said, crouching down, signaling for him to do the same.
He was having none of it, and stood above her, hands on his hips. “Miss Honeywell, what is going on?” he intoned.
“I am attempting to save your neck,” she muttered.
But it was too late. They were discovered.
A tall, robust woman appeared at the entrance to their hiding place, dressed in an elaborately ruched and gusseted black crinoline gown a decade out of fashion. Her neck was encircled in an ornate gold necklace set with rubies, and her gray hair was topped by a silk turban. She was handsome and middle-aged, with dark blue eyes that were never anything but vexed.
They were very vexed now.
In her considerable wake followed Alice, who was looking distraught, and a young woman dressed to the nines in pink silk taffeta with a dizzying array of bows and flounces. Astrid thought uncharitably that the gown was a very unbecoming color and made her cousin Davina’s pale skin look sallow. The profusion of bows and flounces were just downright absurd and did nothing to ease the girl’s haughty, pinched features. Davina was only slightly less dreadful than Lady Emily.
She knew exactly why this pair had deigned to call on them, and the reason was standing stiffly at her side. Astrid sighed and rose to her feet to greet her Aunt Emily and Cousin Davina, but before a word could escape her lips, her aunt began to talk. And talk.
“Astrid! What in heavens’ name are you doing, skulking about the roses? You look a disgrace. As usual. Stand up straight, gel.” Aunt Emily lifted her lorgnette and peered at Astrid and Montford with a mighty frown. “My son has just informed me that you’ve been racing in the lanes again. Disgraceful, disgraceful. And that some ill had befallen you. But you seem to be in one piece.” She didn’t look relieved at this discovery. In fact, she looked extremely disappointed. “Racing like a common ruffian! If your mother was alive … and now to find you thusly, crouching in the gardens with this … this … swain …” She indicated the Duke with a dismissive cut of her bejeweled hand. “It is just like you to have no regard for your reputation.” She paused, raised her lorgnette again, and peered at the Duke’s shirtfront. “Good God, is that blood?”
“It is…” Astrid began.
Aunt Emily raised her hand dramatically to her brow. “This is beyond the pale. Cavorting in the roses with this … this person in such a state. And with a Duke under your roof. Have you no sense of propriety? What must he think of us all? I swear, you shall be the death of me.” She fixed the Duke with a look of icy contempt. “Now off with you now, young man, and repair yourself. I shall overlook this … contretemps this time, since I am sure it is not your fault she has led you to such a pass.”
“Madam,” the Duke began in a chilling tone that could not bode well.
“Dare you speak to me, sirrah!” Aunt Emily gasped, all astonishment at his audacity, as she seemed to be under the impression the Duke was a servant.
She could feel the Duke turning to stone at her side.
Astrid exchanged looks with Alice, who had clasped her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. This was not going to be pleasant for her aunt, and Astrid planned on enjoying every minute of it. She stepped aside a few paces to allow herself a better view of the proceedings.
Even rumpled and bloody, the Duke was a sight to behold in his ire. His silver eyes glinted with fire, his perfect features set in stone. “Dare you speak to me, madam?” he said in a deceptively cool voice. “May I have your name?”
“Of all the…” her Aunt spluttered.
“Your name, madam,” the Duke interrupted. He turned to Astrid. “Miss Honeywell, who is this person?”
Astrid hated to enter such an amusing scene, but it appeared she had no choice. “This is my aunt, Lady Emily Benwick, and her daughter, Miss Davina.” She indicated the vision in pink scowling in her direction. She turned to her aunt. “Aunt, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Montford.”
Aunt Emily’s face went white beneath her paint. Her haughty features screwed up first in disbelief, then with alarm when the truth finally hit her. Her lorgnette fell out of her hands and hit the earth. Miss Davina had a similar reaction, but not being in the possession of her mother’s backbone, she swayed on her feet and looked seconds away from a full-fledged swoon.
Alice coughed into her hand. Astrid didn’t bother to hide her smile of satisfaction.
Aunt Emily recovered herself and proceeded to grace His Grace with a curtsy that would have rivaled any at court. She tugged on her daughter’s arm, and Miss Davina was forced to do the same. The hems of their gowns, Astrid thought uncharitably, would be quite ruined in the mud.
“Your Grace, it is an honor. Indeed…”
Montford looked at Astrid and rolled his eyes.
It was apparent Aunt Emily and Davina weren’t going to rise without a direct order. But it was equally apparent that Montford was not going to give one.
So they remained squatting low to the earth, with Montford glowering above them. Astrid had not witnessed such a pleasing spectacle since Montford had fallen in the mud two days before, and she didn’t feel the least bit of pity for her relatives. They were horrible people, and she was quite happy to see them grovel.
“Miss Honeywell,” the Duke intoned. “It appears you have callers. Don’t let me detain you.”
He gave her a stiff bow and strode off, leaving Astrid and Alice to pull their relations out of the ground.
“YOU COULD have had the sense, gel, to tell me who that man was before you let me make such a dreadful faux pas,” Aunt Emily said to her, applying the smelling salts to her daughter’s nose.
Astrid and Alice had managed to help the baroness and daughter to their feet and lead them into the parlor, where Miss Davina promptly fainted, quite elegantly, against the divan. Astrid wanted to tell her cousin that the Duke was no longer present to witness such a charming display of feminine sensibility, but she bit her tongue and ordered tea to be brought around while her aunt attempted to revive her daughter.
“But I suppose that would be too much to ask of you,” Aunt Emily continued, scowling at her niece. “No doubt you enjoyed seeing me humiliated.”
I reveled in it, she wanted to retort, but she held her tongue and attempted to look contrite.
“It is surely a reasonable mistake to have made,” Alice interjected, ever the peacemaker between the two women. “He was covered in blood and looked a fright.”
“Indeed,” Aunt Emily inclined her head, somewhat mollified.
“I believe it was the Duke who took a tumble today,” Alice continued. She looked at Astrid with some concern. “He is uninjured?”
“Yes, but Cyril was not so lucky. He’s dead.”
“Cyril? Who is Cyril?” demanded the baroness.
Astrid sighed and clenched her fists in her lap. “The horse His Grace was riding.”
“I’m so sorry, Astrid,” Alice cried.
Astrid nodded and looked at her hands, willing her mind away from the afternoon’s tragic turn. She could not think of her horse right now, or she would cry in front of her aunt, something she’d vowed never to do.
“It was the Duke who was racing you in the lanes?” Aunt Emily cut in. “What folly have you led the poor man into, gel? I should have known you’d have no respect for his station. Racing indeed! Lucky for you it was only his moun
t who suffered the consequences of your impetuous display.”
Astrid gritted her teeth. She found anger an amazing remedy for her sorrows.
Aunt Emily had fallen out of patience with her daughter, who still refused to be roused. She shook her by the shoulder. “Pull yourself together, Davina, and sit up. There’s no one here to appreciate your theatrics.”
Davina sat up and arranged her skirts fussily. She stared daggers at Astrid through narrowed eyes. Astrid, quite used to her cousin’s petty jealousies, arched an eyebrow.
“It was a good thing I learned from my staff of the Duke’s arrival,” Aunt Emily continued, after Flora had come in with the tea. Flora rolled her eyes behind the baroness’ back as she departed, which raised Astrid’s spirits considerably. “Someone must be here to show His Grace that not everyone in the county is without manners or sense.”
“I am sure that is what you meant to show him in the garden,” Astrid could not help but mutter.
“What did you say, gel? Speak up. Don’t mumble like a half-wit.”
“I said, it was very kind of you, Aunt, to think of such a thing,” she lied.
The door to the parlor cracked open, and Astrid saw Aunt Anabel poke her head into the room. When she spied their callers, however, she shut the door without entering.
Astrid couldn’t blame her.
Aunt Emily waved away Alice and began to pour the tea for them all, not bothering to ask how they liked it. In Aunt Emily’s world, everyone liked their tea precisely how Aunt Emily said they liked it. Sugarless, and swimming in cream.
“You will invite me and Davina to dinner tonight,” Aunt Emily said some minutes later. It was an order, not a suggestion.
Astrid gripped her teacup until she was certain it would shatter. “I had not thought to host a formal dinner tonight, aunt,” she ground out.
“Nonsense. Of course you will. And I have taken it upon myself to invite the vicar. To round out the numbers.”
“How kind of you, Aunt Emily,” Alice said with a remarkable dearth of sarcasm. “You have thought of everything.”
“You shall instruct your kitchens to prepare game hen for the main course. I shall send Monsieur Roualt over later to oversee the preparations. I’ll not have the Duke of Montford believe that we are incapable of decent cuisine in Yorkshire,” Aunt Emily continued.
“We wouldn’t want that,” Astrid murmured.
“And you shall sit the Duke next to my Davina,” Aunt Emily intoned, patting her daughter’s hand. “She’s had a Season, and knows just the sort of conversation to please His Grace.”
Davina bowed her head demurely, though her face looked smug.
Astrid felt a surge of rage towards her aunt and cousin. She knew exactly what they were up to. It couldn’t have been clearer had they shouted it from the rooftops. Aunt Emily meant to put Davina into the Duke’s path. As if her cousin stood a chance of garnering that man’s regard! Why, he couldn’t be expected to locate Davina’s face amid all of those ruffles. And as for her brain, her cousin didn’t have one.
Well, she did have a brain, but it was reserved solely for formulating snide remarks.
The Duke would never countenance such a blatant attempt at matchmaking. Would he?
The thought of Montford in thrall to Davina was utterly inconceivable, but nevertheless, Astrid’s heart shriveled just contemplating it.
She didn’t like the Duke, she reminded herself as she sipped her tea. She loathed him, so what should she mind if her Aunt and cousin importuned him? Why indeed? It would be infinitely amusing to see how he reacted to Davina over one of Monsieur Roualt’s creations.
Infinitely. Amusing.
And even if he were taken in by Davina’s simpering, dull-witted conversation, she would not be in the least bothered. In fact, it would be no less than he deserved for falling for such a twit. “I think, Aunt, that that is a wonderful idea,” she said at last.
Aunt Emily and Davina both looked surprised by her agreement.
Davina even had sense enough to look a little suspicious as well, leading Astrid to speculate that the girl was not as empty-headed as she appeared.
Astrid smiled graciously and set down her cup. She rose. “You will need to go back to the grange to prepare for the night,” she said.
Aunt Emily and Davina, who had not finished half of their tea, rose as well. “Of course,” Aunt Emily said.
“We shall not keep you then.”
It was a dismissal.
Aunt Emily frowned, but said nothing, probably thinking it wise to leave while she apparently had the upper hand.
“Until tonight, Aunt, Davina,” Astrid said, still smiling stiffly.
“Yes, well, we should be going anyway,” Aunt Emily said, wanting the last word.
Astrid and Alice escorted their relations outside to their waiting barouche and waved them off. Astrid’s smile immediately faded when the barouche was out of sight.
“Well, that was interesting,” Alice said. “Did you see the look on her face when she figured out who the Duke was?”
“It was a moment I shall treasure for the rest of my days.”
“You were devilish clever in getting rid of them,” Alice continued.
“I have my uses. Now if you’ll excuse me, Alice, I think I’ll change.”
Alice placed a hand on her arm, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”
Astrid could not forget Alice’s harsh words from the day before. She winced from her sister’s concern. “I shall be fine. I always am,” she said, pulling her arm away.
“Astrid,” Alice started, looking contrite.
“We have much to do,” Astrid said, evading another argument. Or a round of apologies. “You heard our Lady Aunt. We cannot allow the Duke to believe that all of Yorkshire is without manners or sense.”
“Are you actually going to go through with this dinner party?”
“What choice do I have? And maybe Aunt Emily can succeed in scaring away the Duke. God knows I have tried and failed.”
“Aunt Emily won’t, but Davina might.”
“Yes. Let’s hope one of her bows strangles the Duke over the soup course.”
Alice giggled, and they went inside on each other’s arms in awkward silence.
Things were not repaired between her and her sister, but Astrid hadn’t the strength to undertake such an endeavor, nor the desire. She had not forgiven Alice her harsh words, though they were probably well deserved. She would sort things out later, she assured herself, as she mounted the stairs alone to her room, waving off Alice’s offer to help her out of her habit.
She wanted to be alone. It was not yet noon, but the day was already shaping up to be ten times worse than the day before. Poor Cyril.
When she reached her room, she locked the door and threw herself across the bed.
She cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
IN WHICH ALLIANCES ARE MADE AND VILLAINS ARE REVEALED
THE SCOTSMAN found Montford in the castle’s library, reordering one of the shelves in alphabetical order. Montford had managed to gather as many volumes of poetry as he could find strewn about the room, and had carved out a space on one of the shelves to accommodate the collection. He decided to file them by author, like his own library. Most would have thought his occupation quite beneath his station and not a little peculiar, but Montford found the work soothing. There was nothing like putting something in its proper place to calm his frayed nerves.
And his nerves were very frayed at the moment.
Mr. McConnell must have stood behind him watching for several minutes, for he had to clear his throat before Montford noticed he was no longer alone. He turned around and attempted to hide the latest volume of Essex smut behind his back.
Mr. McConnell looked puzzled by his action, and pulled the pipe out of his mouth. “Duke.”
“Mr. McConnell.”
He set down the book and motioned for McConnell to have a seat. The Scot took him up
on his suggestion and eased himself into a chair gingerly, sighing in relief as he did so. He looked quite worn out.
“Did you find anything in the wood?”
“Aye. Shell casing, bit of powder. It were a rifle what killed the poor creature.”
“No sign of the perpetrator?”
“The perpe-what?”
“The shooter,” Montford clarified through clenched teeth.
“Nay.”
Montford waited for an elaboration, but none came. McConnell, it seemed, didn’t mince words.
“And you’ve no idea who might have done it, Mr. McConnell?”
Something flashed in the man’s eyes, but he shook his head.
Montford crossed his arms and gave the Scot his best ducal glare. “You’ve some idea, do you not?”
“Nay.”
“Shall we call in the constable? Maybe he would have a different opinion on the matter. Someone tried to kill me, McConnell. It is a hanging offense, need I remind you?”
McConnell puffed on his pipe and looked quite unconcerned by Montford’s threat. “I’m the constable ‘round these parts, Your Grace.”
“That’s hardly reassuring.”
McConnell looked at Montford as if he’d have no problem wiping the floor with his face, Duke or not. Montford believed the man could probably succeed. Montford was a large man, well over six feet, but next to McConnell, he felt rather petite. The Scot had the shoulders of an ox. “I’m the constable, and the estate manager, as a matter o’ fact. I’ve known Miss Astrid since she were a wee bairn, an’ if you think I’ll help ye to put her in danger of a neck stretching, you’ve got another thing comin’,” McConnell said, punctuating his speech with a jab of his pipe.
“You think Miss Honeywell had something to do with this?” Montford asked, incredulous.
Mr. McConnell looked alarmed. “Nay, nay. I dunna think so. But ye do.”
“I most certainly do not. Miss Honeywell is many things, but she is no murderer.”
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