Was her father prepared to deliver his daughter to a man who had pushed his first wife down the stairs? Thanks to Sally’s eager support, she had been able to find this much out: After a furious argument with her husband, the duchess had been found at the bottom of the stairs the next morning – dead. The subsequent hastened burial had fuelled the rumours surrounding her sudden passing, much as the widower’s behaviour afterwards. For over one year, the duke was nowhere to be found, and when he returned to Beaufort Castle, the pleasant, sociable, and cheerful man he had once been, had vanished completely. He dismissed most of his servants, including all of the female servants, from his townhouse in London. Everyone who did not see fit to move into the sinful pool of the main city, was placed elsewhere by his administrator. The duke closed off the east wing, where his dead wife had once resided and used only the west wing of the house, employing only male servants. Even his cook was a man and a French one at that! Sally had told her that she had served him a couple of times in the Dog & Bones, and she had pulled a face as she remembered his foreign chef de cuisine. She had said that he seemed a proud and conceited man, and that he had not once given her any gratuities.
“What about the festivities that take place there every full moon?” Minerva had asked and immediately added what had come to her mind. “The ghost in the forest cannot possibly be that of his wife, if she died in the house.” She had noticed that her voice sounded somewhat triumphant and she wondered where the feeling of relief, deep inside her chest, had come from.
Sally had eyed her cunningly and smiled as if Minerva were some naïve little child.
“Ah, but that little building in the forest was her most favourite place,” she had replied. “I know nowt about festivities – I mean, I do not know anything,” she corrected herself. “John, the duke’s servant, doesn’t tell me that much, not even when I…”
Minerva raised her hand as a warning. Over the past few days, she had learned that her maid either spoke too little, or she said too much. Sally did not seem to be able to walk the path between those two extremes.
Nevertheless, Minerva had grown fond of her in the short time, almost against her own will.
* * *
At night, Minerva often lay awake, thinking about the Duke of Scuffold. Now that she knew that he associated the magical place in the forest clearing with his late wife (and where he may even have kissed her), she began to understand his anger at their first encounter. Although she knew that she did not bear any resemblance to the black-haired beauty that the former duchess had been, she still had to admit, in hindsight, that she had overstepped her boundaries with her recklessness.
Much to her despair, she did not have enough time to work on her manuscript during the day. Two days after the Buckleys had informed her parents about the duke’s intention to have her stay at his castle, her days were engulfed in a whirlwind of activities. Whenever she sat down to adapt the figure of her novel villain to match her living and breathing model, the preparations for her upcoming visit made her presence indispensable.
Shortly after her father’s letter, her mother arrived in Scuffold. She brought two huge luggage chests, holding most of Minerva’s wardrobe – from her very best evening dress, to a modest morning gown. Her mother apparently assumed that she would spend the rest of her life at Beaufort Castle, since she had even brought her older jewellery, which Minerva had long considered to be too childish, and which she had not worn in years. When she asked her mother why she had taken it upon herself to travel all the way to Scuffold, her mother smiled mischievously. “Your Aunt Catherine has a good soul, but I can tell from her letter that she does not approve of the Duke of Scuffold.” She gazed at her sister-in-law, who had fallen asleep and she whispered: “Nobody is better equipped than a mother to assess a possible marriage candidate thoroughly.”
A moan escaped Minerva’s throat, which her mother, who was overly excited about her daughter’s possible prospects, did not take note of. “Even if this gentleman refuses to fall under your spell, you will have the unique opportunity to make friends with Lady Annabell Carlisle. If all else fails, there is still Mr Nicholls, to whom you could still give a chance.”
In all the hustle and bustle, Minerva had completely forgotten about Mr Nicholls. She had wiped out the poor man from her memory, ever since her relatives had invited him for tea, and before the duke had displaced him so ruthlessly. She could not imagine that even the most good-natured fool – should Mr Nicholls turn out to be one – would feel the desire to meet her a second time.
“Mama,” she began, but her mother shook her head and put a finger on her daughter’s lips, before putting her through a painstaking examination of her table manners, for the third time. This enraged Minerva more than anything – after all, her social manners were impeccable. Her mother even took the liberty of asking Minerva’s uncle to dance a few steps with her, which was a more than strange experience, since the music was missing entirely. Her aunt had been right – her uncle really was a formidable dancer, and since neither her mother nor her aunt played the pianoforte, the silent performance remained an odd affair.
On day six, her nerves were so tense that she longed for the Duke of Evesham and Lady Annabell Carlisle’s arrival with every fibre of her body – even if that meant that she would be completely and utterly at the mercy of the Duke of Scuffold. She had no illusion about his lordship’s intentions. She suspected that much more lay beneath his invitation than the mere request to keep his guest’s daughter company.
Minerva was a fly that had landed in the spider’s web voluntarily.
Chapter 11
He had taken away her husband, and now he wanted to take away her virtue.
Salvation arrived in the form of a letter. The duke expected Minerva, her mother and her aunt for tea, on the afternoon of the following day. It had only been a short note, respecting the required etiquette, and was addressed to her uncle as the male head of the household. Her mother pressed the letter against her heaving breast, as if it was a promise to a solution for all of her problems.
On their way to the castle, Minerva attempted one last time to explain to her mother that the duke had not actually invited her there to court her – however, her words fell on deaf ears. Each in their own way, Aunt Catherine and her mother could not be deterred from their beliefs that they knew the true intentions of the Duke of Scuffold better than Minerva did. Her aunt anticipated the worst of him, whereas her mother expected the best.
During the past few days, Minerva had noticed how similar the two women actually were, despite their radically different points of view. Similarly to Aunt Catherine, her mother had not missed any opportunity to prepare Minerva for her anticipated encounter with the duke. Aunt Catherine had implored her to try not to speak, ever, with the duke in private, if she did not want to ruin her reputation even further than she already had. The invitation itself was not considered scandalous, only the fact that the duke and she had met without any chaperones being present. Her aunt had warned her that, should this secret become known, along with his bad name, it would ruin Minerva’s reputation for good. Her mother had adopted this particular advice into her own repertoire – but with the opposite intention. If Minerva wanted to encourage the duke’s plans to marry her, then it would be all the more important to present herself as virtuously as possible.
She generously ignored the facts of Minerva’s original encounter with him, which according to the rules of society had never actually happened. A random encounter in a forest was considered scandalous, but she excused the duke’s faux pas by conferring on him a sudden and irrevocable passion for her daughter, which could not be contained by conventions. Minerva suspected that it was not her mother’s hidden romantic disposition that caused her to turn a blind eye on the matter, but rather an overwhelming combination of desperation and relief. Relief that a gentleman of his ranking would show any interest in her daughter, and desperation because Minerva had rejected every single man who had asked
for her hand in marriage, so far, except the duke.
But how could she reject something that had never been spoken about?
Yet again, she wondered why neither her aunt nor her mother ever mentioned the rumours about the murder. It was highly unlikely that her aunt and uncle, or her parents, had not heard the particularly dangerous whisper. Yet, all her Aunt Catherine ever spoke about was the dark morality of the Duke of Scuffold. Minerva would have liked to question her aunt about what exactly constituted his supposedly immoral conduct, but she did not dare to awaken her aunt’s quietly simmering rage. When she had asked her mother why she had accepted an invitation from a gentleman who was suspected to have killed – and she had emphasised the word carefully – his first wife, her mother had just rejected it with a casual wave of her hand. “The Scuffolds are one of the oldest families in the country,” she said, and she seemed genuinely appalled at the idea that a duke might have killed anywhere other than on a battlefield. “Of course, I made some enquiries, when I received the good news,” she added. “The current duke is a good friend of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and I cannot imagine that a man such as the Archbishop would tolerate a murder, even if the murderer was coincidentally considered a good friend of his.” She frowned. “As you very well know, some people are just malicious.” She rolled her eyes towards her sister-in-law. “If you do not have anything to do all day, gossip and tittle-tattle are the usual ways to distract yourself and to keep occupied.” Minerva had to agree with her mother, even though she would not have expected such wisdom from her mother’s mouth.
Nevertheless, she was still worried.
Minerva peeked outside and could not help a small yelp of excitement. The lush forests that surrounded Beaufort Castle, had given way to a beautiful park. The closely-trimmed lawn harmonised with the changing colours of the leaves in the big old trees, which lined up randomly along the winding path. Some blossoming bushes and flowers deepened the impression of a thoroughly vibrant garden, which almost resembled a natural paradise in its randomness.
The first impression of Beaufort Castle was breath-taking, and Minerva felt that she could almost forgive the duke his pretentiousness.
The residence was built on a soft hill, and much like the surrounding park and gardens, the building seemed to have a life of its own. The house had the stocky style that was typical for noble families who could follow their ancestors all the way back to the time of the Norsemen. Minerva remembered the magnificent paintings she had seen when she and her governess had visited a museum in London a few years ago. She could not recall what Miss Frost had told her back then, but she did remember the slight shiver she had felt, when she had taken a closer look at the dark and defensive castles. Although the soft rays of the autumn afternoon sun painted Beaufort Castle in a warm glow, the residence still seemed to have jumped straight out of a Gothic novel. Minerva could see and feel Marianne de Lacey running through the hallways, searching for a way out – away from the clutches of the duke.
“That is right, my dear,” her mother said, as she squeezed Minerva’s hand. “With such a smile on your lips, the duke will not be able to resist you. I already feared that…” She fell silent as the carriage drove through the rather imposing gate of the outer ward, before it came to a stop in the inner castle courtyard. Immediately, a liveried servant came running out and opened the coach door. Minerva was the only one who accepted his helping hand. Her legs were shaking. She realised that she would spend the next days in the company of the very man who occupied most of her thoughts.
The major-domo was already waiting for them in the entrance way, and he ordered two servants to take care of the guests’ luggage. He looked at Sally, who had travelled atop the coachman’s seat, and who now attempted to follow Minerva, with an inquisitive gaze. Although the man did not move a muscle of his face, his disapproval was almost palpable, as if he had uttered the words aloud. Minerva pushed out her chin defiantly. “Please show my maid to my room,” she said loudly and turned her back on the man. Her mother looked at her with a reprimanding gaze, which told her that this matter would be discussed thoroughly later.
Before she entered the castle property, Minerva turned around one last time. The mighty tower that was looming threateningly from the fortress wall, as well as the high walls, seemed to belong to an entirely different building than the one she had admired from her coach just moments ago. What had seemed imposing mere minutes ago, now felt oppressive. How was this even possible? Her breathing quickened. She and Marianne de Lacey were in the exact same situation! Well, she was being accompanied by her own mother and Aunt Catherine, whereas Marianne was completely on her own, but she realised that this was the only difference between them. She raised her hand to her eyes and blinked up towards the sun.
For one crazy, gobsmacking moment, Minerva was certain that art imitated true life, and she believed that she had actually mysteriously written herself into her own story, which was dominated by an atmosphere of fear and terror.
“Minerva, darling,” she heard her mother say, “... are you coming?” Her voice sounded muted from the entrance hall, where she and Aunt Catherine, who persistently shrouded herself in disapproving silence, were waiting for her. The major-domo guided them towards the parlour where, he assured them, tea would be served shortly. Minerva expected to find their host and his other guests in the room, but there was nobody there. She took advantage of this opportunity to look around. The contrast to the dark and cold entrance hall, where she had been greeted by two suits of armour, which flanked the massive staircase, could not have been greater.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, and expensive carpets covered the floor. The main colour in the room was pale blue, which appeared not only in the heavy curtains and wallcoverings, but also in the randomly placed decorative items. Porcelain figurines surrounded a precious little clock and competed for the attention of the beholder with vases and statues of heathen goddesses, who completed the somewhat strange collection. Above the fireplace was the portrait of a woman, whom Minerva thought must be the duke’s former wife. It was a most indecent portrait of a woman and would never have been hung in the parlour of anyone who valued etiquette. The woman’s black hair fell unrestrainedly over her shoulders and she was dressed in the type of dress that wrapped itself unseemly around her feminine curves. The woman was almost certainly not wearing a corset, which was obvious in her relaxed posture and rounded waist. However, the most disconcerting thing was her eyes, which had a colour somewhere between violet and blue, and which seemed to stare at Minerva maliciously.
A quick glance assured Minerva that her aunt and her mother were busying themselves with their tea, so she walked over to the fire, closer to the source of her uneasiness, and stretched out her hands, as if she wanted to warm herself. The mocking eyes still gazed at her; however, the signature revealed to her what she had hoped for – it was not a portrait of the Duchess of Scuffold. This painting was dated around one hundred years ago.
Relieved, Minerva returned to her mother and sat down beside her, where she took a sip of the delicious tea. Her aunt, who most likely remembered this room from her first visit to Beaufort Castle, had hardly touched her tea, nor the light pastries that lay untouched on her plate. If the circumstances had been different, Minerva would have gladly eaten them, however, in this tense state of expectation, she only managed to take a bite of one of them, and now it sat, indigestible, in the pit of her stomach.
She steered her attention to Aunt Catherine, as she was saying something in a low voice, which sounded suspiciously like an impolite remark about their host’s character.
At that moment, the door opened, and he entered the room.
Minerva gasped for air.
She had made his acquaintance in unfavourable circumstances –she was sure of that – however, his transformation from a man who had resembled a gamekeeper, to a man whose every move demonstrated his noble background, was nothing short of astounding.
Someone, most l
ikely his personal valet, had cut his hair and, undoubtedly, his clothes came from the best tailor in London. At first glance, his suit seemed modest, almost plain. Not the slightest embellishment distracted from the perfectly crisp cut. Instinctively, Minerva’s eyes wandered back to the portrait of the woman, whose figure-hugging dress she had just admired. The duke’s clothes hugged his body in a similar fashion, and yet, they didn’t hinder his movements. Broad shoulders and… Minerva blushed, as her gaze wandered lower… long and elegant legs were accentuated by the black fabric. A bright white shirt, starched cuffs, and buttons that only revealed their modest shine at second glance, completed the appearance of a perfect gentleman. Even the artfully bound necktie – there was nothing dandy-like about it – emphasised the masculinity of his face.
“Please remain seated,” said the stranger who had slipped into the duke’s skin, politely. Was her mind playing tricks on her, or did his voice even sound different? “No need for excessive formalities, since we are entre nous.”
Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel Page 10
