Never Deceive a Duke

by Liz Carlyle

  She gave a muted half smile. “Accused? No. That would be too complicated. It is far easier to simply blight my reputation with whispers and innuendo.”

  Gareth held her gaze steadily. “And did you kill him?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I did not. But the damage is done.”

  “I learnt long ago what an ugly, destructive force rumors can be,” he answered coolly. “In this case, I suggest we pay them all the heed they are worth—which is nothing.”

  But as he left her standing by the door, he was not at all sure his suggestion was a good one. There was something strange and a little otherworldly about the Duchess. Something haunting in her eyes. But a murderess? He was utterly certain she was not, though why he felt such confidence, he could not have said.

  Unfortunately, in her world—the world of the ton—that sort of rumor could be worse than ruinous. Perhaps he was beginning to comprehend why she might prefer to shut herself away in a lonely, ramshackle place like Knollwood rather than return to that world and try to build a life for herself.

  But none of this was really his problem, was it? He had come here merely to look over the estate, and make certain it was being profitably run. He was not here to save the world—not even the duchess’s elite little corner of it.

  Upon her return, Nellie greeted Antonia at her bedchamber door. “You’ve come back!” she said, as if she’d expected her mistress to have been eaten alive. “What was he like, ma’am, the new duke?”

  Antonia gave a grim smile. “Arrogant,” she said, tossing her black shawl onto the bed. “Now pack up my things, Nellie. We’re going—”

  “Oh, ma’am!” the maid wailed. “He must be heartless! Truly!”

  “—back to the ducal suite,” Antonia finished.

  Nellie’s mouth dropped shut. “Well, bless me!” she said after a moment had passed. “Back to your old rooms, then? That’s right and proper of him, if I do say so myself.”

  Antonia had crossed the room to the window. It was clear Nellie wished to hear more about the meeting, but Antonia drew away the sheer drapery and stared down at the graveled forecourt. She was inexplicably reluctant to allow the maid to gauge her mood just now. She was not perfectly sure she understood it herself.

  What had just happened to her in the morning room? Something…strange. She felt oddly aware—but aware of what? It was as if she was shaking—or perhaps the word was aquiver? As if something inside her had been stirred up.

  She had expected, really, to dislike the new Duke of Warneham, not that she had cared much one way or the other. At her very first glance, the man had appeared high-handed and arrogant—which he was. He had looked every inch the haughty aristocrat, with his form fitting coat and snug breeches. His golden gaze had seemed to pierce her. His jaw had been too hard, his nose too aquiline. His leonine mane entirely too luxurious. And inexplicably, she had found herself almost spoiling for a fight. That was not like her. It truly was not. There was no longer anything worth quarreling over in life. Was there?

  And that spate of temper! Where had it come from? She had not raised her voice to anyone since. well, in a very long while. But something about the duke had provoked her. The man had seemed so cocksure. So…apparently comfortable in wielding his new power. And in the end, to her shock, he had been almost kind. He had believed her, she thought.

  She had expected, she supposed, that he would be rough-edged and ill-mannered; a rustic who would have gazed about his easily-got gains in gaping stupefaction. She had not expected him to look so young, and she had assumed that his years drifting about in the navy and the colonial islands would have rubbed off any bit of bronze which had been left from his brief life at Selsdon. But he was not like that at all. He was something far more dangerous.

  “Yes, Nellie, the new duke said everything which was proper,” Antonia finally responded. “I do not believe him a warmhearted man by any estimate, but I have hope that he is just.”

  Nellie touched her lightly on the arm. “But he was arrogant, you said?”

  “Yes…” Antonia was not sure how to describe it. “Perhaps it really is bred in the blood, Nellie? I think this man would have been imperious had he been raised in a cow byre.”

  “Well, we don’t really know where he was raised, do we, ma’am?” said Nellie suspiciously. “We only know what’s said belowstairs: that he killed his little cousin, and broke the old duke’s heart—not that I ever saw as he had one.”

  “Nellie, that will do,” Antonia gently admonished. “By the way, he tells me he actually lived at Knollwood. Had you ever heard that?”

  “No, ma’am.” The maid had returned to her task of folding stockings. “Just that he was brought up here.”

  “But it’s not quite the same, is it?” Antonia mused. “Tell me, Nellie, what are they saying belowstairs?”

  “Most everyone is kind of quiet-like,” the maid admitted. “There are some as say the new duke was very kind to take the time to meet everyone, seeing as how it was beginning to pour the rain. And some remarked favorably on his way of plain speaking. But one or two are saying how they don’t fancy working for a jumped-up piece of—well, never mind that.”

  Antonia shot her a sidelong glance. “Yes, never mind that indeed.”

  Nellie shrugged. “Metcaff says there’s been whispers that the new master had something to do with the old duke’s death, ma’am.”

  “The only whispers are Metcaff’s,” said Antonia. “An idle tongue is Satan’s tool, Nellie. And you’ll recall that it was I who had done the dastardly deed until this new opportunity turned up.”

  “No one really believes that, ma’am,” said Nellie, but Antonia knew she was just being kind. “Anyway, Metcaff says he’s thinking of giving notice.”

  “Does he?” said Antonia incredulously. “To do what, pray?”

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am,” answered the maid. “But he’s egging on some of the others to go with him.”

  “Then they shall all starve together,” Antonia retorted. “People are already without food in London, and this damp is like to ruin the harvest. They had better be grateful for employment.”

  Nellie was quiet for a moment. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you perfectly all right?”

  “Yes, Nellie, perfectly.” Antonia turned from the window. “Why do you ask?”

  This time Nellie lifted just one shoulder. “You seem in an odd frame of mind, ma’am,” she answered. “And your color…but never mind that, either. If you are well enough, then—”

  “I am fine.”

  “Then, as you say, I ought to pack.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Antonia had returned her gaze to the window. “But be so good as to lay out my dinner dress first.”

  Nellie opened the dressing room. “Which would you have, ma’am?”

  “You choose,” Antonia said, gazing not at the forecourt but at her own watery reflection in the glass. Nellie was right. She did not look quite herself. Her color was a little high, and her expression not one she easily recognized.

  “Nellie,” she abruptly added, “choose something with just a little color. Perhaps the dark blue jacquard satin? Is it too soon, do you think?”

  “Of course not, ma’am.” Nellie extracted the gown and gave it a healthy shake. “The new duke has come. It is your duty to welcome him.”

  “Yes, Nellie, I suppose you are right.” Absently, Antonia lifted her hand and lightly touched the stranger in the glass. “It is my duty, isn’t it?”

  That evening, Gareth greeted his guests with both a measure of dread and at least a modicum of relief. After his meeting with the Duchess of Warneham, he was not perfectly sure he wished to be alone with her again. He was not certain why he felt that way. Visually, the woman was an indulgence—but like a too-rich dessert, better cut with something bland, perhaps, like tepid coffee.

  He got his wish in Sir Percy Ingham. If the duchess was a chocolate gâteau with crème anglaise, Sir Percy was weak tea.
He was also a relative newcomer to the village of Lower Addington, which Gareth found a relief. He was a little tired of the whispers which already went on behind his back. Not that Sir Percy seemed above it—certainly his wife was not—but at least Gareth did not know them from his childhood. He found the same favorable trait in the doctor, a man named Martin Osborne, who was well spoken and obviously well educated. Osborne looked to be a bit less than forty, and he possessed all the polish of a gentleman.

  Gareth was also relieved to discover that Selsdon was gifted with a chef of outstanding skill. He looked down the dinner table in some satisfaction as the third course was removed and a selection of fruit tarts and ices was brought in.

  “Let me say again, Your Grace, how pleased we are to dine with you on this, your very first night at Selsdon,” said Dr. Osborne solemnly. “You are most gracious to carry on our little tradition.”

  “Very gracious indeed,” said Sir Percy, picking judiciously over the platter of tarts. “On the whole, Your Grace, how have you found your first day in your new home?”

  Gareth nodded at the footman, who was offering more wine. “What was it, Sir Percy, that the Reverend Richard Hooker once said?” Gareth mused as the servant leaned over to pour. “‘Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better?’”

  “Quite so! Quite so!” Sir Percy looked surprised. “Have you by chance read Hooker’s masterpiece Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical Politie? It is one of the rector’s favorites.”

  “I have read it,” said Gareth a little tightly, wondering if any insult—or worse, some probing question—hid behind the baronet’s words. Reverend Needles had crammed Hooker into his head ad nauseam—not that it was any of their damned business. But the remark had passed without notice. Gareth relaxed.

  “What, pray, do you find inconvenient about this change, Your Grace?” twittered Lady Ingham. “I vow, I can find nothing about Selsdon Court to dislike.”

  “You misunderstand his point, my dear,” said her husband.

  “It is not a matter of dislike, ma’am,” Gareth calmly lied. “I am inconvenienced in having to leave my business unattended in London.”

  Lady Ingham smiled benightedly. “But surely you must have clerks?”

  Gareth felt suddenly and inordinately weary. These people were kind enough, but they knew little of the real world. “We’ve a dozen clerks, ma’am, but it would be a bit much for them to take on,” he answered. “And my business associate is newly wed, so she—”

  “She?” Lady Ingham pounced on the morsel of gossip. “Why, what sort of business associate do you have?”

  Gareth was tempted to say he’d gone in halves on Mrs. Berkley’s latest flagellation house, since that was the sort of salacious reply she obviously hoped for. He restrained himself. “The Marchioness of Nash is my associate,” he answered. “We are part owners in a company called Neville Shipping.”

  The duchess said nothing, but Gareth saw her eyes widen in obvious surprise.

  “Neville Shipping,” mused the doctor. “Have you an office in Wapping High Street? I think I’ve seen it.”

  “On one of your trips up to town, I daresay?” said the duchess, breaking her silence.

  “Yes, I remember seeing the sign thereabouts,” Osborne confessed. “I use a chemist near Wapping Wall. What a small place the world has become.”

  “Not too small, I hope,” said Gareth. “If it is shrinking, Neville’s shall soon be out of business altogether.”

  “But surely, Your Grace, you do not mean to continue on with it?” Mrs. Ingham’s tone was faintly chiding.

  At that, Gareth finally felt his temper slip. “Why would I not?” he asked pointedly. “Hard work never did a man much ill—and often a vast deal of good.”

  “Quite so! Quite so!” said Sir Percy again.

  The doctor leaned forward as if to emphasize his words. “There are vocations, Lady Ingham, and then there are passions. Perhaps this business is a passion for the duke?”

  Gareth glanced down the length of snowy linen to see that the duchess was watching him attentively, as if wondering what his answer would be. “It was a necessity which has become a passion,” he said. “Shall we leave it at that?”

  Moments later, the desserts were cleared and port was brought in. The gentlemen did not linger long. When they rejoined the ladies in the withdrawing room, it was to see Lady Ingham already being helped into her cloak.

  “I heard a little thunder,” she said almost sheepishly. “I think, Percy, we must go at once.”

  Sir Percy winked at Gareth. “The wife does not care for thunderstorms.”

  “Nor does Her Grace,” Osborne gently added.

  The duchess, who had been neatening Lady Ingham’s cloak collar, froze. She looked at no one, not even the doctor. Osborne must have realized his faux pas, and he began prattling in more general terms about the weather.

  “May we set you down in the village, Osborne?” Sir Percy interjected. “I fear my wife is right about the rain.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Osborne. “I brought an umbrella.”

  Gareth accompanied the Inghams to the front door, but the duchess held back almost deferentially. When Gareth returned to the withdrawing room moments later, however, he wondered if deference had anything to do with it. Osborne stood just inside the door, the duchess’s hands clasped lightly in his own. He was holding her gaze intently.

  “And the sleeping draught?” he murmured. “Promise me, Antonia, that you will not forget it?”

  She caught the plump swell of her lower lip between her teeth, and something in Gareth’s stomach did a flip-flop. “I dislike it immensely,” she finally said. “It makes me feel very queer afterward.”

  “Antonia, you must promise me,” he said more firmly, lifting her hands as if he might kiss them. “You need it—otherwise you know you will not do well with this storm coming in.”

  She dropped her gaze in a sweep of dark eyelashes. “Very well. I shall consider it.”

  Gareth cleared his throat sharply and stepped inside the room.

  The pair sprang apart almost conspiratorially. The duchess lowered her eyes again and drifted toward the cold hearth, rubbing her arms as if she felt chilled. Dr. Osborne began to express his thanks for the dinner.

  When Gareth returned from escorting the doctor out, he was somewhat relieved to discover that the duchess had vanished.

  Chapter Five

  G abriel stood at a distance as the older boys played, kicking their ball along the swath of green. He had seen them in Finsbury Circus before. And he had seen the ball, too; an amazingly round and bouncing sphere which skittered across the grass at lightning speed, and made a satisfying “thunk!” when kicked.

  The smallest boy caught Gabriel’s eye and crooked a finger. With a glance back at his dozing grandfather, Gabriel dashed onto the grass.

  The boy held out the ball. “We need a sixth,” he said. “Can you kick?”

  Gabriel nodded. “I can kick.”

  The biggest boy elbowed past him. “Give it, Will,” he said, snatching the ball from between them. “We ain’t playin’ with Jews.”

  Gabriel let his arms drop.

  The bigger boy danced backward across the grass, sneering. “What?” he said. “You want the ball? You want it? Here—catch!” He dropped the ball and punted hard, his long leg swinging wide.

  The ball caught Gabriel in the gut. The breath burst from his lungs. He fell to the grass in a heap, the pounding of blood in his ears almost—almost—shutting out the peals of laughter. At first just the laughter of one. And then another and another, until all the boys were laughing.

  His humiliation was complete when Zayde snatched him from the grass. “A broch tsu dir!” he said, shaking his fist at the boys. “Go back to Shoreditch, you little pigs!”

  Still giggling, the boys dashed away. Zayde began to dust Gabriel off. “Oy vey, Gabriel! What were you thinking?”

  “I—I liked their ball.”


  “Eingeshpahrt!” His grandfather sighed. “But I can buy you a ball, yes?”

  “And I want someone to play with.”

  “Then keep to your own kind!” Zayde seized his hand and set off across the grass towards their house. “They don’t want us, Gabriel. When will you learn, eh?”

  That night, the heat broke and a rainstorm hammered across Surrey with a vengeance. Gareth went to bed to the sound of howling wind and the incessant rattle of overflowing drainpipes. Inordinately weary from the day’s travel—and the thoughts of the duty which lay before him—he fell at once into a deep but uneasy sleep. He awoke sometime after midnight in a cold sweat, caught in a tangle of sheets, unable to catch his breath. He jerked upright, terrified and disoriented.

  Selsdon Court. He was at Selsdon. A burning sconce in the passageway beyond limned the outline of his door. A very wide and very solid door. His cousin was finally dead, thank God. There was no ship, no chains. But the dream clung like damp, moldering sailcloth. He could smell it thick in his nostrils, along with the stench of tarred rope and the press of rancid, unwashed bodies. The Saint-Nazaire? Good God. He had not dreamt of that rotted old hulk in months.

  He did not realize until that moment just how badly he was shaking. Dragging a hand through his tousled hair, Gareth tried to steady himself. Lord, what did it mean that he should dream of his lost youth tonight, of all nights?

  Nothing. It meant noting. He was not a child any more. He could defend himself now. But at the moment, he needed a drink. Yes, a generous tot of brandy—Rothewell’s infamous cure for all ills. He extracted himself from the sheets, sat up on the edge of the bed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Beyond the windows, lightning flashed; once, then again. Seconds later, thunder rumbled, but far in the distance.

  The brandy sat on a side table between the windows. Gareth lit a lamp, pulled on his dressing gown, then poured a glass. And then a second. He was well into his third, and growing impatient with himself for brooding, when the restlessness struck. He looked at the mantel clock. Half past two. Why did it seem another lifetime?