The Duke's Last Hunt Page 6
Voices behind one of the closed doors gave him pause. He glanced at the dark wood door—it was Rufus’ chamber, but it was a woman’s voice inside. Frowning, Henry put an ear to the door. “Please, your grace. Let go of me.”
Henry stepped back in time to be a couple paces down the hallway when the door opened. A blond-haired girl stepped out in a dark dress with her apron somewhat askew. In one hand she gripped an empty porcelain pitcher and with the other she pulled the door closed.
She started at seeing Henry in the corridor, her blue eyes as panicked as a doe in flight. Putting a finger to his lips, Henry put his other hand under her elbow and steered her down the hallway towards the stairs.
“Constance, isn’t it?” he asked, once they were a safe distance away from his brother’s room.
“Yes,” she said, her lip trembling a little. Henry let go of her arm, and she tried to put her apron back to rights.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Henry. “Is this the first time that my brother the duke has…bothered you?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“Have you told Mrs. Forsythe?”
“No, but even if I did, what could she do, sir?” Her eyes began to mist a little, and Henry was afraid she would burst into tears.
“A very good deal, my dear.” Henry pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to the maid. “She can send another maid to fill his wash basin, someone much plainer than you, and keep you out of his way altogether. Or if you fear for your virtue, she can give you a reference to find another position.”
“Thank you kindly, your lordship,” said the maid, “but I can’t think where else I would go. And my parents need me to keep my place and earn my wages, for I’m the oldest with a dozen still at home.”
“I might be able to help you there,” said Henry, patting her arm encouragingly. She managed a smile and handed him back the handkerchief.
The sound of a footstep arrested them both, and looking behind them, they found they were being observed by another of the house’s occupants. The blond maid bobbed a quick curtsey to Henry, and darted off with her porcelain pitcher, while Henry found himself a few yards away from a flustered Miss Malcolm.
* * *
“Good morning,” said Lord Henry. Eliza saw him give a fleeting glimpse to the pretty maid making her exit.
“G-good morning,” said Eliza. She had never witnessed a gentleman on such familiar terms with one of the domestics—the way he had touched her arm, and shared his handkerchief with her…it crossed all bounds of propriety!
Eliza looked down at the floral carpet of the corridor and forged ahead toward the head of the staircase.
“Going to breakfast?” asked Lord Henry. He had advanced as well and was now matching his own stride with hers as they came down the stairs.
“Yes,” said Eliza, biting her lip. How dare he try to accompany her! Her mother had been right. She must keep her distance from this man.
“May I join you then?” said Lord Henry, offering her that same smile he had been giving the maid only a few moments earlier.
Eliza paused on the stairs. “Lord Henry,” she said quietly, “I must confess, I would prefer it if you did not.”
He stared at her, his brown eyes nearly on a level with her green ones. Then, lifting his beaver, he made her a slight bow. “I salute you, Miss Malcolm. You’ve finally found the courage to speak your mind. Don’t let it desert you, for you’ll need it in this house.”
And with that, he turned his back on her and descended the stairs at a fast clip. Eliza watched him disappear through the saloon, and a few seconds later, the front door slammed, with far more force than was necessary.
* * *
“Traveling on a Sunday, your lordship?” said Ned, eyebrows raised.
“Dash it all, yes!” replied Henry. Since the breakfast table at Harrowhaven—or rather, Miss Malcolm—had rejected his presence, he had stopped in at the Blue Boar to break his fast before he began his ride.
“What’s back in London that’s so urgent?” Ned asked. He leaned his elbow on the counter and placed his bearded chin in his hand. “A pretty young lady, is it?”
Henry scowled. “Hardly.” He took a forkful of salt pork and thrust it into his mouth. Normally he liked to bandy conversation with Ned, but the morning’s events had made him indelibly cross with the world. How had Miss Malcolm contrived to come upon him at exactly the wrong instant? She must think him a rake, through and through…and all when Rufus was really the one to blame.
He dropped his fork on the plate with a clatter. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Ned—where pretty young ladies are concerned, it’s best to tip your hat and walk the other way.”
“Ah,” said Ned, scenting a story behind the foul mood. “Rumor has it there’s a pretty young lady up at the big house….”
“I will neither confirm nor deny your rumors.”
“So it’s true then,” said Ned. His eyes sparkled. “Blonde, is she?”
“Auburn.”
“With blue eyes?”
“Green.”
“And yea high?” Ned held his hand a little above the counter.
“Quite tall actually,” said Henry. “Willowy. But you knew that already, I suspect.”
Ned nodded. “I did have a description of her from Jimmy—the second footman, an’ you’ll recall. ’Twas his night off last night and he spent it here.”
“And what else did Jimmy tell you?”
“That his grace’s younger brother was most friendly with the young lady. It seems he knew her in London, and she was the reason he stopped in at Harrowhaven.”
Henry laughed. One forgot how much the servants liked to talk. His little deception would have spread all over the village by now.
“Yes, well, the young lady was less than friendly with his grace’s brother. And due to some unfortunate circumstances, she thinks him an irreligious libertine not worth associating with.”
Ned whistled. “Seems the poor girl has the brothers a mite confused.”
Henry took a swig of ale. “Seems that way.” He slapped a coin down on the counter and stood up to take his leave.
“Aw, come now, your lordship,” said Ned, stowing the money in his chest, “it’d be a pity to leave now and leave the poor girl in such a state of befuddlement.”
“You know me, Ned,” said Henry, snatching up his hat that lay on the counter, “always one to run rather than face the music.” He looked away, his face a little pained.
“I don’t know as I’d hold with that, your lordship. The measure of a man’s not taken in one single moment.”
Henry gave a noncommittal grunt and headed for the door. It was kind of Ned to say, but his own conscience knew better, and had known better for the last ten years.
* * *
Eliza had ample time to be alone with her thoughts at the empty breakfast table. She stirred her chocolate slowly, trying to recover from the unpleasant encounter upstairs. Lord Henry had not seemed embarrassed in the slightest to be caught with his hand on that maid’s arm. And what did he mean when he encouraged her to continue speaking her mind?
She frowned. What did it matter? She must follow her mother’s advice and stop thinking about that odious man.
The door opened and Eliza saw Mr. Blount entering the dining room.
“Good morning!” he said, helping himself to some eggs and bacon from the sideboard and sitting down diagonally from her at the large table. “How are you this morning, Miss Malcolm?”
“Very well, thank you.” Eliza took a sip of her chocolate. Mr. Blount had barely spoken three words to her yesterday, but he seemed kind enough. “Will the rest of the family be down soon, do you think?”
Mr. Blount grinned. “Well, I should imagine that Lady Adele will take breakfast in her room.”
Eliza smiled. Yes, she
could not imagine Adele getting out of her bed any sooner than she had to.
“And I hear the duchess has been keeping to her room as well ever since…well, ever since she has been out of sorts. The duke was up ’til all hours playing cards with Turold and Curtis—I bowed out once the small hours of the morning began to chime—so it’ll be no small feat to roll them out of their bedclothes. But Henry’s an early riser, and I imagine he’ll be down soon enough.”
Eliza flinched. “Lord Henry has already come and gone.”
“Oh?” Stephen popped a bite of eggs in his mouth. “Gone for good, you mean?”
“It seemed that way.”
“Wish he’d stopped in to say good-bye, but no matter. Expect he has business back in town.”
Eliza set her cup down carefully. “What business is that, Mr. Blount?” She felt unusually forthright asking such a question, but her curiosity had got the better of her, and besides, Mr. Blount seemed…safe.
Stephen looked up from his plate apologetically. “I’m sorry, I can’t really say. He…doesn’t like it talked of.”
“Oh, of course,” said Eliza with a blush. She might have known the question was too bold. Doesn’t like it talked of? She wondered if it was something unsavory—like managing a gambling hell or…worse.
“But seeing as how you’re such good friends, you should ask him yourself!” said Mr. Blount enthusiastically. “Next time you see him, that is.”
Eliza murmured something non-distinct. She could sense no hint of sarcasm in Mr. Blount’s voice—he was really very kind, and very trusting. “How long have you known the Rowlands?”
“I’ve known Henry nearly half a dozen years. We were at Oxford together.”
“And…Lady Adele?” asked Eliza, having the pleasure of seeing someone else besides herself turn red in the cheeks.
“Just since the beginning of the season—nearly a year now, I suppose.” Mr. Blount looked down at his plate with a bashful smile. “Has she mentioned me at all?”
“Yes, with the utmost consideration,” said Eliza reassuringly—although she did not know how considerate it was to consider throwing someone over if a better match presented itself.
“It is rather a gamble,” said Mr. Blount confidingly, “to aim for a star so high above me, but Henry gave me reason to believe that he would not frown on the match, unequal as it might be.”
“And the duke?” asked Eliza, much more interested in his opinion than Lord Henry’s.
“Well, I had thought Brockenhurst might quibble at my lack of fortune, but then again,”—Mr. Blount looked at Eliza in her plain pale blue dress—“perhaps he is not so opposed to an unequal match as I had thought.”
Eliza did not know how to answer that, but fortunately, the dining room doors swung open and she did not have to.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Sir Arthur, with Lady Malcolm on his arm. Eliza’s father helped himself to a full plate, the hearty fare much more plentiful than what they had to break their fast in London.
Lady Malcolm, on the other hand, contented herself with a muffin and some tea. “I hope they have already ordered the carriage,” she said with a sniff. In town, the Malcolms always arrived at Sunday services with at least a quarter of an hour to spare. Lady Malcolm did not approve of being late.
“I am sure the duke will have everything in order, Mama,” said Eliza.
“Of course he will!” said Sir Arthur, amidst a mouthful of sausage. He eyed the sideboard lovingly. “He’s a good man, Brockenhurst! A good man!”
* * *
Henry mounted his horse and, setting his back to the Blue Boar, headed north up the main road. With fast riding, he would be in London before noon. He would stop in at Maurice’s on Bond Street and make sure all was well and perhaps pay a visit to Mr. Maurice himself to assure him of the fact.
London would be dull now that the season was over, but then he was always used to spending his summers at Harrowhaven. Boyhood habits died slowly. A pity the old house was forbidden country for him now, except for the occasional visit he could steal behind Rufus’ back or underneath his nose.
Was it only yesterday morning that he had walked through the entrance hall and found Miss Malcolm frozen there against a column like the statue of some virgin goddess? He had hoped that the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves would drive that picture out of his head, but instead, it only seemed to set Ned’s words to a regular rhythm in his memory: “It’d be a pity to leave now and leave the poor girl in such a state of befuddlement.”
Yes, well, it was not his duty to mend matters that were none of his own making.
He urged on his horse with a flick of the reins.
“Please, your grace. Let go of me.” He could hear the maid’s voice echoing in his head now. The hair bristled on his arms and his jaw clenched at the memory. He had confronted his brother about this very behavior three years ago—and Rufus had thrown him out on his ear. Clearly, time had not improved his brother’s morals.
What if Miss Malcolm had walked down the corridor a few moments earlier? What if she had been the one to overhear the exchange behind the closed door and glimpse the distraught maid trying to put her apron to rights?
What if the same scene was reenacted three months from now, when Miss Malcolm had been lured into becoming the new Duchess of Brockenhurst? What if she learned the truth about Rufus only after it was too late?
Henry let out a low growl. Sensing the tautness in his rider’s body, his horse became skittish and he was forced to slow the pace. He had no special knowledge of the future, but he would wager a thousand pounds or more that matrimony would not rectify Rufus’ rakish nature. And it was certainly not a love match if Rufus had the audacity to make love to a maid while his intended was in the house.
Henry pulled sharply on the reins and brought the horse to a halt in the middle of the road. Dash it all! Ned was right. Elizabeth Malcolm was a lamb going to the slaughter. He could not, in good conscience, leave now and leave her to her fate.
He turned his horse’s head around. If that meant returning to Harrowhaven and enduring her ill opinion of him, so be it. And if that meant braving a service in Reverend Ansel’s church—
He took a deep breath.
7
Much to Lady Malcolm’s relief, the carriages came round the drive a full half hour before services were to start. The occupants of the house were a different story, however, and the Malcolms waited in the entrance hall with Stephen Blount for at least a quarter of an hour before the Rowland family descended.
Rufus and Walter Turold came down together, the duke’s close-cropped red hair contrasting with his friend’s light brown, shoulder-length locks. “Good morning,” said Rufus, placing a neat kiss on Eliza’s hand. His eyes had a hungry quality to them, and she blushed furiously. He had a gray suit on, the coat fitting perfectly over his strong shoulders and a light blue waistcoat that nearly matched the shade of her own dress.
“What a pair you make!” cooed Adele, coming down the stairs on the heels of her silent mother. “Eliza,” she said, taking her new bosom friend’s hands in her own, “you must let me lend you a bonnet to go with your dress. I have just the thing.”
A footman was sent upstairs, and a few minutes later, Eliza found herself going out the front door on Rufus’ arm in a straw poke bonnet festooned with white feathers and blue ribbons.
“It’s such a beautiful morning,” said Rufus, looking up at the sky, “I really ought to drive the phaeton. Miss Malcolm, will you accompany me?”
“Oh, I….” Eliza looked at her mother. She could not remember ever having ridden alone in a vehicle with a man. But then, it would just be up the road along the edge of the forest, with her mother and father in a carriage right beside them.
“Of course, of course!” said Sir Arthur waving the couple off with a smile. His wife set her lips into a firm
line as he helped the duchess and her into the first carriage. Adele, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Blount, and Mr. Turold climbed into the second carriage, and Eliza saw that Adele contrived it so that she was sharing a seat with Mr. Blount, his leg pressed up against the delicate sprigged muslin of her Sunday gown.
She looked up at Rufus, her heart beating a little faster. In a moment she would be sharing a seat with him. The groom brought the phaeton around. Rufus escorted her down the front steps, and she expected him to hand her into the carriage. But instead, he put his hands around her waist quite unnecessarily and lifted her up into the seat. “I hope you don’t mind,” he murmured, sliding his hands away from her, stepping up into the seat, and taking the reins from the groom.
Eliza was speechless. She looked around to see if anyone else had glimpsed this impropriety, but the other carriages had already pulled forward around the circular drive. There was still the groom, however, and however many footmen were standing at attention by the door. She slid over as far to the edge of the phaeton seat as she could, putting more space between herself and her suitor. Rufus did not seem to notice. He whipped up the horses to catch up with the others, and Eliza soon found herself holding on to her ornate bonnet with one hand and the side of the phaeton with the other.
“How do you like Harrowhaven?” the duke asked, raising his voice above the pounding of the horses’ hooves.
“Very grand,” said Eliza. It was an intimate question she felt—the duke inquiring how she liked his most important asset.
“It’s a little run down of late.” The duke’s brow furrowed as he turned onto the drive that led towards the church. “My mother has been…unable to manage it as she once used to. The housekeeper does her best, but it needs a mistress to take charge of it.”
Eliza’s chest tightened. Were these the opening lines to a declaration?
He sent her a sideways look. She kept her eyes fixed on the tops of the horses’ ears. The church was in sight, its steeple cutting through the tree-lined horizon like a knife. Eliza could see that the other carriages were already disembarking at the church door.