A Duke by Any Other Name Page 7

  Or—in for a penny, in for a pound—he might have kissed the lady herself and got a proper dressing down for that presumption.

  Robbie joined him in the breakfast parlor, his hair a bit windblown, the toes of his boots damp.

  “Have you been in the garden already?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Good morning, and yes, I have been in the garden. Spring and autumn are the busiest times for a gardener, and I smell rain in the air.”

  Robbie liked rain, liked the dreariness and the steady patter. Rain meant people were less likely to be abroad, to his way of thinking, and that was a good thing.

  “I’ve been seized by a notion,” Nathaniel said, dabbing marmalade onto his toast. “We could connect the orchard walls to the walls of our existing garden and double the garden space we have to work with.”

  This scheme had occurred to him in the small hours of the night, as he’d ruminated on the way Lady Althea’s lawn blended into her back garden. Not much maintenance required, and the scheme set off Lynley Vale nicely and made sneaking up on the place by day impossible.

  Not that Nathaniel would be sneaking up on Lynley Vale ever again.

  “Can you afford the labor this time of year?” Robbie asked, taking the place to Nathaniel’s right. “I know your home farm is busy now too.”

  As were the tenancies, the brewery, the dairy, the kitchen gardens, the stables…The weight of a sleepless night abruptly doubled.

  “If we order the stone now, we’ll have it on the property when the labor is available.” Rothhaven Hall almost never hired additional workers, not unless an employee was pensioned off and could personally vouch for the discretion of his or her replacement.

  “To run walls all the way to the orchard will take a lot of stone,” Robbie said, tucking into his eggs. “You’d have to raise the walls around the orchard by another three feet at least as well.”

  To ensure privacy. Always, always to ensure privacy. “We can take it in stages. First add on to our existing garden, then complete the work on the orchard as time allows.”

  “Have you a mason among your employees?”

  This pleasant, unremarkable conversation was familiar terrain on a battleground Nathaniel had been fighting over for years. He used plural pronouns to discuss projects such as this—we, us, our—and Robbie returned fire with the ammunition of the second person singular—you, your, yours.

  Nathaniel sat at the head of the table even when dining alone with his brother, and if Robbie was feeling particularly unhappy, he used proper address—Your Grace, Rothhaven, His Grace.

  “We surely have somebody whose skills are adequate for building a wall.” Nathaniel set down his toast, only a single bite taken from one corner. The marmalade was bitter, but then, marmalade at Rothhaven was always bitter.

  “Is there any more of that delightful cheese?” Robbie asked, pouring himself a cup of tea. “I would not want to suggest that Cook’s efforts are in any way lacking, but an omelet might be a nice addition to the breakfast buffet.”

  Coming from Robbie, that was tantamount to open rebellion. He never criticized the staff, never suggested change of any kind. He believed that rigid routine helped minimize his incidents, and who was Nathaniel to argue with that logic?

  “We haven’t any more of that cheese,” Nathaniel said, “though Lady Althea might be willing to send some our way. What exactly are you getting up to in the garden?”

  Robbie went off on a flight about arranging colors in a pattern consistent with the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—which would never in eighteen eternities have occurred to Nathaniel. Robbie had of necessity become a genius at defeating boredom, while Nathaniel…

  His problem was worse than boredom, and it had dogged him without pity since last night. He’d sat at a card table for less than two hours and conversed with another adult about politics, brandy, books, and music. Even more than the warmth in Lady Althea’s sitting room, even more than her most excellent libation, the sheer companionability of the evening spent with her had swaddled Nathaniel in comfort and ease.

  If his problem had been simple sexual frustration, he was acquainted with ladies in York who were amenable to a casual encounter with a fellow they knew only as Mr. Nathaniel Debenham, a wealthy squire from west of Durham.

  Nathaniel hadn’t been to York in months, because those encounters didn’t help with what ailed him. In fact, they made his affliction worse, and the time spent with Lady Althea had rendered him nearly sick with his malady.

  He was lonely. The word had taken years to emerge from between lists of duties, worries, and hopes, but having admitted itself to the broad light of awareness, it refused to resume a life in the shadows.

  Robbie kept up a stout wall between himself and all of life beyond Rothhaven Hall, and most especially between himself and the ducal role. That meant Nathaniel was also kept at arm’s length. The servants had learned to maintain a distance as well—proper respect, they called it—and they worked hard enough without the burden of befriending eccentric aristocrats. Sorenson never presumed past cordial games of chess, but then, he had an entire parish to befriend.

  And then there was Lady Althea, full of intensity and purpose, bright as a new penny, and ferocious as a mother cat.

  Also damnably kissable. “I could easily make an ass of myself.”

  Robbie paused, the marmalade knife in his hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just thinking out loud. I’m off to confer with Elgin about the state of our broodmares. Foaling will soon be upon us, and Elgin must boast of the accommodations he’s prepared for the new arrivals and their mamas.”

  Would the Rothmere family ever again welcome a brand-new arrival? A ducal heir? An equally precious sister or cousin to that little boy? Nathaniel could see no way to accomplish that feat, not as long as Robbie refused to venture beyond the garden walls.

  “I will see you at dinner,” Robbie replied, slathering preserves on his toast.

  “Not luncheon?”

  “The garden calls, Rothhaven, and rain will soon be upon us. I must do what I can when I can.”

  That was a subtle scold, and Nathaniel was in no mood to be scolded. He left the breakfast parlor and stopped by the library, thinking to shuffle through the morning post before dealing with Elgin.

  The penmanship on the third letter caused a vague unease to roil in his gut. He’d seen that hand before or something very like it.…

  And he’d read the few words the note contained as well: I know your secrets, Your Grace, and you will pay for my silence.

  Nathaniel had ignored the same warning when it had arrived a month ago, because really, what was there to do? No demand for payment had been made, no specific action threatened. He shoved the letter into the desk drawer, dropped the rest of the damned mail onto the blotter, and left through the nearest door.

  “You issued a summons.” Rothhaven made a simple statement of fact into an accusation.

  “You turn away all callers,” Althea retorted. “How else was I to ensure your cheese found its way to you other than by putting it directly into your keeping?” She snatched his walking stick from him the better to ensure he didn’t do an about-face and let himself back out into the night.

  “The first cheese found its way into my kitchen readily enough,” Rothhaven replied, making no move to unbutton his greatcoat. “The second was assured of safe passage if its quality was anything like the first.”

  “And how was I to know that?” Althea set his walking stick amid the parasols and umbrellas by the porter’s nook. “It’s not as if you sent a note thanking me.”

  Rothhaven drew himself up, then leaned near, like a dragon examining the morsel it would soon toast for a snack.

  “Allow me to impress upon you, my lady, the distaste I have for being hailed by royal decree to retrieve cheeses from my neighbor.”

  Something had him in a temper, not merely in the usual state of annoyance he wore like a highwayman’s cloak.

  “Do we stand here in the foyer, Your Grace, arguing over a cheese like a pair of dockside streetwalkers, or shall we repair to my parlor, where we can have a fire to warm us while we bicker?”

  “Surrender the damned cheese and I’ll be on my way.”

  “The damned cheese is wrapped and waiting for you in my parlor.”

  He unbuttoned two buttons. “You weren’t sure I’d use the front door.”

  “You pride yourself on eccentricity. For all I know, you’d attempt to stuff yourself down the chimney purely for the sake of novelty. Come along.”

  He stalked at her elbow, his boots thumping against the carpets. For a man bent on remaining undetected, he made a deal of noise when in a pet. The parlor was warm, the sconces lit. Septimus had been curled on the sofa but he was nowhere to be seen now.

  “You were having tea,” Rothhaven said, sampling a jam tart. “These are good.”

  “Monsieur Henri regards the kitchen as a vocation, not simply a job. Do help yourself, by all means.”

  Rothhaven went wandering around the room again, though he put his tarts—all three of them—on a plate before settling at Althea’s desk. He shrugged out of his coat between bites and then picked up a sealed note Althea had spent the better part of an hour writing.

  “You are corresponding with Lady Phoebe Philpot?” Munch, munch, munch.

  “You have crossed the line, Rothhaven, from flouting convention to outright rudeness. That is my personal correspondence, and I did not invite you to examine it.”

  “No,” he said. “You issued an imperial summons, and having conjured the Demon of Rothhaven Hall, you must now suffer his company. If you take exception to rudeness, then how do you tolerate Lady Phoebe?”

  Althea poured him a cup of tea,
added a dollop of honey, and brought cup and saucer to the desk. “I won’t be tolerating her company, as it happens. She sent the first invitation I’ve received in months, and I must decline it.”

  He finished his tarts and dusted his hands over the empty plate. “You are disappointed to decline an invitation from the biggest gossip between here and London?”

  “It’s an invitation, Rothhaven. Beggars can’t be choosers, even when those beggars grow up to acquire a title.”

  He peered at her note again. “You don’t have a beggar’s penmanship, but then, you were speaking metaphorically.”

  Althea would have taken the seat opposite the desk, but that was where a guest would sit and this was her parlor in her home. She took the wing chair by the fire instead.

  “I spoke literally. From earliest memory, I did whatever work I could find, but when there was no work, my father would send his children out to beg. My brother Stephen lost the use of a leg early in life, and his job was to look wan and pathetic, leaning on his crutch. My job was to do the actual pleading.”

  Rothhaven remained seated at the desk, tapping the note against the blotter in a slow, quiet rhythm.

  “Your father sent his children out to beg?”

  The note of horror was predictable, though disappointing nonetheless. “Quinn was older and usually away from home because he was large enough to take on serious manual labor. He also knew that as soon as he came back to the house, Papa would demand any money he earned. I learned from Quinn’s example.”

  Tap…tap…tap…“What did you learn?”

  “First, if I made any money begging, buy Papa some gin, or be prepared to dodge a very fast, mean set of fists. Buy food second and be sure we children had eaten most of it before arriving home. Give Papa the gin and the remaining food. Save a little coin to give Papa as well, and if the day was particularly lucky, save the last coin to hide somewhere outside the house. Rather than discuss this, might we resume arguing over the cheese?”

  Over anything.

  “So Phoebe Philpot extends you an invitation, and you are again that hungry girl, willing to brave the cold for hours in exchange for a morsel of acceptance.”

  I will always be that hungry girl. “I cannot have what I want without learning to manage the Phoebe Philpots in this life. She’s nothing compared to the brood of vipers at Almack’s or the gantlet of Hyde Park’s carriage parade.” She should be nothing, rather.

  Rothhaven broke the seal on the note, donned the spectacles in the pen tray, and read Althea’s polite regrets. “This will not do. Why aren’t you attending her infernal dinner?”

  “Rothhaven, my own brothers do not open my correspondence. My sister at her most obnoxious—”

  He crumpled up the note and glowered at Althea.

  For the first time in her acquaintance with him, Rothhaven looked genuinely angry. Wearing her spectacles did not lessen his ferocity one bit, but rather, gilded his ire with a hint of scholarly scorn. Ye gods, he’d be a terror if he ever voted his seat in the Lords.

  “My companion is in York visiting her sister,” Althea said. “If I admit I’m dwelling here alone, I’ll cause talk. When I show up at Lady Phoebe’s without Mrs. McCormack, Lady Phoebe will ensure the news is all over the county before my coach brings me home.”

  He tossed the balled-up missive straight into the fire. “You’ve never mentioned having a companion.”

  “Why would you assume I lack one? I’m an unmarried female living apart from my family. Of course I have a companion. Unlike you, when I ignore the rules, I do not endear myself to my neighbors. Drink your tea before it grows cold.”

  “You’re not having any?”

  Althea wanted a brandy, or several brandies, but drinking spirits to deal with frustration was a dangerous practice.

  “Perhaps you’d be so good as to pour out for me, Your Grace?”

  To her surprise, he prowled over to the low table, poured her a cup, added a dash of milk and a drizzle of honey, put a jam tart on the saucer, and brought it to her.

  “My thanks. If you ever give up duking, you might do as a butler.”

  He settled into the opposite wing chair. “Tell me about your companion.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I ignore the rules, it’s endearing—according to you. When you ignore them, you are judged and ostracized.”

  The tea was good. Hot and fortifying. “The last time I called on Lady Phoebe, she’d placed on the mantel in her formal parlor your refusal of her invitation to a musical soiree. At first, I thought she was making a point—she invited the local duke to her affairs, but did not invite me, a duke’s sister. I would be received if I called with Mrs. McCormack at my side, but my call would not be returned.”

  “Be grateful. Lady Phoebe is insufferable.”

  How did he know that? “She is an earl’s daughter, Your Grace. Insufferable or not, she is the hostess of highest rank in this area. I am unmarried, a relatively recent addition to local society, and without connections here. She is the citadel I must storm.”

  Rothhaven aimed a look at Althea over the rims of the spectacles. “You are the hostess in this area of highest rank. Your younger sister is the second-highest-ranking hostess. Lady Phoebe has been doubly deposed from top-hostess honors.”

  If Rothhaven had tossed his tea over Althea’s skirts she could not have been more dumbfounded. Firstly, because he’d stated the obvious, and secondly, because she’d never noticed this herself. Could this be part of Lady Phoebe’s hostility? She resented anybody who outranked her?

  “I haven’t dared to invite anybody to anything,” Althea said, “lest they decline.”

  “They would accept out of vulgar curiosity if nothing else.”

  “I must correct myself. I invited you—my nearest neighbor—to an informal dinner. You declined my invitations twice.”

  That retort merited a second visit to the tea tray, which Rothhaven relieved of another jam tart. “I decline everybody’s invitations.”

  “Which is why Lady Phoebe had your regrets displayed on her mantel, like a mark of royal patronage. You ignore the rules and are nearly venerated for it. I observe the rules as carefully as possible and get nowhere. I want one-tenth the cachet you have with the neighbors when you don’t even show up.”

  Rothhaven resumed his seat at the desk and uncapped the ink. “No, you don’t. My cachet, as you call it, comes at a high price. This is the reply you send, but wait until at least next week to have it delivered.” He scratched at a piece of foolscap while holding his tart in his left hand.

  Althea rose to read over his shoulder:

  On behalf of herself and Mrs. McCormack, the Lady Althea Wentworth accepts.

  AW.

  “I’m to refer to myself in the third person?” And in the somewhat formal third person, using the written version of address that would appear on the outside of a letter.

  “Third person implies your correspondence secretary wrote the reply at your behest. My own steward very early in my tenure as the titleholder explained the niceties of this fiction to me, and it has served me well.”

  “I have a behest and a correspondence secretary?”

  He waved the paper gently to dry the ink. “Not to be confused with your amanuensis, whose responsibilities relate largely to managing the estate and handling communication with your London merchants and suppliers. You will have to copy this in a feminine hand, but make sure the writing differs in a few particulars from your natural penmanship.”

  “In case I ever have occasion to actually write to Lady Phoebe as myself.” Rothhaven’s gift for strategy put Althea in mind of Quinn, who’d learned shrewdness early and well, and from a very hard school. “Do I beg off if Mrs. McCormack isn’t back before the date of the dinner?”

  “No, you do not beg off. You send a note worded as this one is, expressing the Lady Althea Wentworth’s regrets that Mrs. McCormack will be unable to attend, and apologizing for the late notice. Offer no explanation at all. Have your regrets delivered about four hours prior to the occasion.”

  “Because,” Althea said slowly, “that is barely enough time to find a replacement guest if the numbers are to match, but a savvy hostess will be able to produce another lady guest on even that little notice. What a diabolical mind you have. I will have challenged Lady Phoebe before I step down from my coach.”