A Duke by Any Other Name Page 5

  Robbie tucked into his eggs. From long experience, Nathaniel knew the man felt no compunction to maintain any discussion whatsoever at table. For years, Robbie apparently hadn’t been permitted to converse with his fellow diners.

  “Where will you put the separated flowers?” Nathaniel asked. “Your garden is splendidly full of blooms as it is.”

  Robbie downed another forkful of what had to be the most uninspired dish ever to issue from an English kitchen. “Old Mac can toss the extra on the rubbish heap. The whole bed will choke if I don’t thin them. Flowers need air, sunlight, water, and space to breathe. The garden has no more room.”

  So plant them outside of your bloody garden. “You could dig a new bed, Robbie.”

  “I have dug all the new beds the space will hold.”

  “Hanging pots?”

  “Hang them from what, Nathaniel? The garden has no trees.”

  “Pot them for the back terrace.”

  “Irises can’t thrive for long in pots.”

  Nathaniel was no sort of gardener, and Robbie determined on a course was as unstoppable as a herd of rambunctious pigs.

  “The rubbish heap it is, I suppose.” Another household would have planted those flowers along the front drive, offered them to the tenants, or given them to the neighbors. Rothhaven’s extra flowers would die beside the muck heap.

  “You went out last night,” Robbie said. “Your usual Tuesday call upon the vicarage?”

  His tone was casual, but Nathaniel nonetheless heard the worry. Robbie had been abandoned by their father, and still—years after Robbie’s return to Rothhaven—Nathaniel’s loyalty was not a given in Robbie’s mind.

  “My last call on the vicar for the season. Planting and shearing approach.” And the staff wasn’t getting any younger, meaning every able-bodied man was required to pitch in.

  “Last week you paid a call. In the afternoon, if I’m not mistaken.”

  And Robbie, in his usual fashion, had brooded on that development for days without saying anything. Now he was asking a question, and doubtless dreading every possible answer because dread had become part of his very nature.

  “A neighbor’s breeding sows got loose and took a notion to inspect the walled orchard. They are a valuable herd, and I didn’t want her ladyship to worry about their whereabouts.”

  Robbie rarely offered a direct gaze, but he did now. “You might have sent Elgin with a note. Were they Lady Althea Wentworth’s hogs?”

  How did the true recluse of Rothhaven Hall know that? “They were, and they are back where they belong now, none the worse for having taken a constitutional.”

  “Tell me about Lady Althea.”

  When Robbie had first come home, he’d barely spoken. He hadn’t left his room by day for nearly a year, and he’d not gone outside for two. He’d read as if the printed word was food for the soul, until his room could hold no more books or newspapers. The library had been his initial destination beyond his room, but at first he’d ventured forth only at night and after being assured all the curtains were drawn.

  His conquest of the walled garden had begun three years ago, and he’d confined his activity out of doors to that space ever since. At first, he’d sat out there sketching briefly on overcast days. Then had come the oils—a more complicated undertaking—and finally, the gardening by the hour. He’d left the house in the past year only to tend his flowers. Other than that, he never so much as went for a drive in the closed carriage or sat on the front steps with a morning cup of tea.

  Now he was asking about a neighbor, and Nathaniel dared hope that was a positive sign.

  “Lady Althea is a singular female. She manages her own household, though she’s neither widowed nor married, and from what I saw, she manages it very well.”

  “What did you see?”

  Elegance, an eye for beauty, spotless housekeeping. “Light, Robbie. Her home is full of light. Lots of windows, none of them boarded up or bricked over. The draperies pulled back, the mirrors abundant and polished to a high shine. Not so much as a smudge on the chimney lamps or brass fenders.”

  Nathaniel had forgotten what that much light felt like inside a house.

  “The opposite of Rothhaven,” Robbie said.

  “Rothhaven is elderly compared to Lynley Vale. Keeping a shine on this place would take effort beyond what Mrs. Beaseley can spare us. Toast?”

  “No thank you. Have we any more of that cheese?”

  The last of the wheel Lady Althea had provided sat on the sideboard. Nathaniel fetched the plate and set it on the table. “This is Lady Althea’s cheese. She sent it over by way of apology.”

  “A fine quality, to apologize when one has caused inadvertent hardship for others. What are her other attributes?”

  Nathaniel waited until Robbie had taken as much cheese as he pleased—most of it—and speared one of the three remaining slices for himself.

  “To be honest, I think she’s somewhat lost on the moors, Robbie. She wasn’t raised in the country, she has not enjoyed her London Seasons, and yet, she’s a duke’s sister. The squires and their ladies won’t presume to call on her, and she’s not quite sure how to call on them.” Like young people at their first tea dance, though Nathaniel couldn’t say that, because Robbie had never attended a tea dance.

  Or a dance of any variety.

  Robbie aimed another direct gaze at Nathaniel. “The moors are dangerous.”

  That lesson was drummed into the head of every Yorkshire child from infancy. Every village had a tale of some toddler disappearing into a peat bog or a tippler wandering off into a snowstorm.

  “Lynley Vale is quite safe,” Nathaniel said, “and in her way, Lady Althea is formidable. She not only raises the finest pigs in the shire, she’s well educated, employs a master chef, and is competent at both chess and cribbage.”

  The curtains were drawn, as they were in every room save Nathaniel’s personal sitting room, which looked out over the endless sea of heather, gorse, and broom that covered the moor. A shaft of sunlight managed to steal into the breakfast parlor nonetheless. Robbie was Nathaniel’s elder by not quite two years, though he looked younger. His air now was that of a newly fledged scholar puzzling out a difficult translation.

  “You liked her,” Robbie said. “You enjoyed calling on her.”

  Robbie would never make accusations, but his observations could nonetheless have a challenging quality. That too was progress.

  “I admire her fortitude, though that very trait is likely why polite society has been so cruel to her. She also offered a tea tray to make the gods weep.”

  Robbie’s gaze went blank, and Nathaniel at first thought his brother was having one of his staring spells, but no. Robbie’s eyes were intently focused rather than empty, and he wasn’t blinking.

  “You should call on her again.”

  “I can’t.” You know why I can’t. Except that Nathaniel wasn’t sure exactly how much Robbie comprehended. He was a singularly intelligent man, but his experiences had left enormous bogs in his mental terrain. He grew muddled, his memories colliding and blending in odd ways. His staring spells took a toll, and he’d suffered at least one blow to the head in childhood that had had disastrous and lingering consequences.

  “Pay a call on her, Nathaniel. You did it once, you can do it again.” Robbie flung out those words with all the glee of one sibling hoisting another on his own petard. Nathaniel had frequently invoked the same logic to inspire Robbie to repeat accomplishments such as leaving his room, opening a window, or venturing to sit on a bench in the walled garden.

  “Robbie, such an overture could be misconstrued.”

  “By whom? You won’t misconstrue it. If she’s as bright as you say, she won’t misconstrue an occasional chess match. You have extolled the virtues of fresh air and sunshine to me for years, Nathaniel, until I had no choice but to take Mama’s garden in hand. Now I suggest you trot a mile down the lane, and you haven’t the courage for it.”

  Robbie speared another slice of cheese as if landing a touch on an opposing fencer’s breast. Clearly, he was pleased with himself, while Nathaniel was torn.

  For Robbie to confront anybody about anything was unheard of. He was painfully agreeable, a trait learned at the hands of well-paid jailers professing to act in the captive’s best interests. To suggest that Nathaniel leave the estate on a social call…

  That went so far past unheard of as to be suspect.

  “Why should I call on Lady Althea? She could well think to reciprocate the courtesy, and then we must turn her away. Rudeness causes talk.”

  “You’ve already turned her away—twice. Tell her the usual tale: The Hall is falling down around your ears, your staff has more than enough to do, and you are out of the habit of entertaining. You haven’t a hostess.”

  Long, long ago, Robbie had been a normal boy. He’d teased Nathaniel, been his only playmate, and his partner in endless mischief. That had all but ended when Robbie had turned eleven. Papa had insisted his heir graduate from a pony to a full-grown horse. A bad tumble had followed, and life had changed for all concerned.

  Not for the better, but now a glimmer of that confident, mischievous boy showed through in Robbie’s words: You have no hostess.

  “You know why I have no hostess.” Why Rothhaven would never again have a hostess.

  “Indeed, I do, but that does not explain why you must deny yourself even a game of cribbage, Nathaniel. The moors are dangerous when we attempt to navigate them alone. You and I ventured out there regularly long ago. We took the dogs, we had walking sticks, we were careful. Lady Althea is alone, and people can be nasty. Go play the duke and let her win a few hands of cards. The neighbors will call on her just to quiz her about you, and you can get back to being the cu
rmudgeon in residence.”

  Nathaniel considered that scheme—raising Lady Althea’s standing by paying her a visit or two, imparting a bit of the guidance she was so keen to gain from him, and for once allowing Robbie to be the older brother dispatching the younger on an errand.

  From those perspectives, another call on her ladyship made sense, and would even be gentlemanly. She sought a husband, and Nathaniel could boost her a few steps along the path that led to her goal.

  He could and he should provide her that assistance, but like Robbie locked in his windowless room, Nathaniel did not want to depart from the safe and narrow way he’d been treading for years. He’d spoken the partial truth when he’d told Robbie he admired Lady Althea’s fortitude.

  The rest of the truth was that he found the woman attractive, and that was a sentiment more dangerous than all the bogs and moors in Britain combined.

  Chapter Four

  In the three days since Constance’s departure for London, Althea’s usual solitude at Lynley Vale had taken on a curious weight. When she and Constance had first returned to the north and they’d both been busy with households to put to rights, visits back and forth had been frequent.

  As Constance had become acquainted with Thorndike Manor’s neighbors, time spent with Althea had figured less prominently, until this past year, when Althea had bided with her sister over the Yuletide holidays and not since.

  “Perhaps she has a special friend.” Althea offered that suggestion to Septimus, the pantry mouser. He regarded his duties belowstairs as purely honorary. Witness, he’d wandered into Althea’s sitting room, after following her around the manor for most of the day.

  “Shall we read our evening away?”

  Septimus leapt onto a hassock and commenced his ablutions.

  “No reading, then. Shall we pen a letter to Jane explaining that expiring of boredom in Yorkshire is preferable to expiring of mortification in Mayfair?” And how could a lady be bored when running an estate meant she always had more to do than the day allowed?

  The cat curled at an angle to undertake an indecent maneuver involving its nether parts.

  Jane was owed some explanation for Althea’s decision to avoid the social Season, and a letter sent tomorrow would arrive in London before Constance did. Althea had taken the chair at the escritoire by the window and was casting about for an innocuous way to begin her epistle when something clicked against the glass of the French doors.

  The wind this time of year could be fierce, and an occasional twig or acorn might be blown against the windows. Birds, confused by reflected sunlight, had been known to dash themselves against a pane, but the sun had set an hour ago.

  The sound came again, a cross between a ping and a thwack.

  Althea opened the door and got smacked on the shoulder with a pebble. “Ouch.”

  “Good evening, my lady.” The voice rumbled softly from deep shadows below the balcony. “Might you be interested in a game of cribbage?”

  Althea had thought much on her previous encounter with Rothhaven and had decided she’d been a fool. The duke had the right of it: Never beg, and especially don’t beg eccentric neighbors who refuse to aid a damsel asking for a bit of social guidance.

  “Rothhaven, I employ both a butler and a night porter. Have you a reason for eschewing the front door?”

  The privet hedge rustled. “Piquet or chess. Choose, or I’ll disappear back from whence I came.”

  Never to be seen again. He needn’t say the words for Althea to infer them. “In a puff of black smoke no doubt. I choose cribbage. Best of three hands.”

  He vaulted onto the balcony more lightly than Septimus leaping onto the chaise. “If you’re subjecting me to cribbage, then I’ll have another wheel of that cheese for my trouble.”

  No scent of horse or leather clung to him, meaning he’d come on foot. “Did you travel the lanes looking for stray children to snack on, Your Grace?”

  “I traveled the fields and half-ruined my boots. I have a suggestion. Rather than remove to more commodious surrounds, let’s stand out here half the night waiting for lung fever to overtake us.”

  “You disdain to use the front door, but expect the hospitality of my private sitting room at an hour bordering on indecent. And women are supposed to be the gender in want of rational processes.” She returned to the parlor, a room small enough to be kept cozy on even frigid nights.

  Rothhaven followed her and crossed to the fire, unbuttoning his greatcoat. “Will we be disturbed?”

  “I am expecting the ghost of the first Viscount Lynley to walk in the next hour or so. Perhaps you and he are acquainted. The viscount was famous for riding the shire at all hours too, though his inspiration was the fine ale brewed by the local publican’s daughters.”

  “I am not troubled by the company of ghosts, my lady. Gossiping servants are another matter entirely.”

  Oh. Oh. “You are concerned for my reputation should we be discovered debauching at the card table.”

  He draped his coat over the back of Althea’s reading chair and commenced a circuit of the parlor. “Even a man of my prodigious imagination is stymied by the notion of debauching over a hand of cribbage. Nonetheless, you are an unmarried female, and I am a similarly unencumbered gentleman. Conclusions will be drawn if we are found alone together after dark, and your campaign to land a bachelor will be over before it begins.”

  He paused before a sketch Constance had done of Quinn. Both Constance and Cousin Duncan enjoyed significant artistic talent, while Stephen was a prodigy with mechanics. Quinn could make money multiply with a snap of fingers.

  While I can age a good cheese and hold conversations with my cat. “If you think my brother would force you to marry me, you need not worry. Quinn isn’t that sort. Brandy?”

  “Please.”

  With Rothhaven inspecting the appointments, Althea wished she’d thought to bring a shawl with her to the parlor. She wanted to cover herself against a slight chill, for the sake of both modesty and comfort. He examined each frame on the wall, drew the curtains over every window, and peered closely at her bookshelves.

  She poured two brandies and handed him one. “Will you open the drawers of my writing desk next, Your Grace?”

  He passed the brandy under his nose. “When you are shown into a guest parlor, how do you comport yourself?”

  “Civilly. One sits and either accepts or declines a cup of tea, and hopes the tea cakes aren’t stale.” Which they all too often were.

  “How does an obedient child behave upon entering the schoolroom?”

  Althea had never been a child in a schoolroom, but she took his point: Walk in quietly, sit at the indicated desk, remain in the appointed chair until given leave to stand. Expect a rebuke for wandering about the room or showing undue interest in anything but the day’s lesson.

  “Isn’t it rude to peer at my every sketch and sniff my brandy?”

  “Why do people display art on the walls if it’s not to be admired? Why is the nose considered the most delicate aspect of any high-quality spirit? You never did answer my question: Will we be disturbed by a chambermaid bringing up a last bucket of coal?”

  “We will not.” Althea took a sip of her brandy. “Shall we to the cards?”

  “Not yet, my lady. If you’re determined to ignore propriety to the point that you drink spirits, then at least drink them properly. This is excellent brandy and it deserves proper respect.”

  So do I. Though to be fair, Rothhaven had already passed along a useful insight: Don’t sit if, where, and when you’re bid to sit, like a child in the schoolroom, always in fear of a birching. Wander and investigate like a predator beginning the evening’s hunt.

  “How does one respectfully drink brandy, Your Grace?”

  He lifted his glass with a slight, circular flourish of his wrist that caused the liquid to slosh gently. “I shall demonstrate and then we will settle to the cribbage. Consumption of high-quality spirits involves three phases. Attend me, for I shall not repeat myself for the laggards in the class.”

  Rothhaven explained that one first evaluated the appearance of the drink. How quick or sluggish was the liquid to run down the sides of the glass? How deep was the color, how clear? Then the aroma was to be savored by holding the glass at chin level and nosing the scent. First impressions mattered, but some brandies evolved thereafter into a more complex fragrance—or a worse stink.