An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  “Why would you have such a silly question?”

  “Because. When your brother passed and you couldn’t be found, Lady Audrey prepared to take the title and everything with it. She, and her mother, can’t be happy now that you’ve returned and spoiled those plans. I just don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

  “Anything like what?” He playfully touched the end of her nose. “I’ll get a bunch of cats to test my food?”

  “Don’t be flippant. I feel useless to help. Who would I even turn to if I suspected some sort of foul play?”

  “Emma, you’re being silly. You need to get back to your tea before your old guests fall asleep.” He kissed her again. “If you did have a worry, and either I or Lord Harry weren’t around, you could go to the gamekeeper and his wife, Arson and Rose Henderley. They practically raised me. You can trust them. I do. Rose is a kitchen maid.”

  “Oh, I met her yesterday when you were gone. A very nice woman. All the staff are. As a matter of fact, I like them more than I do your family.”

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “I can’t argue with you there. Put your fears aside. Nothing will happen, except you might be sought after if you don’t return to the sitting room.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Go back to your duty, and tomorrow we’ll go riding. I’ll show you Brightshire and Goldenbrook. I’ll introduce you to some of my oldest friends. Would you like that?”

  Nodding, she made herself smile for him. He hadn’t been in that room when Lady Coldred brought up Beranger’s stepmother and the secret marriage that had transpired before her own. The look the dowager duchess had sent said everything. She’d not forgotten. And she’d not forgiven.

  The deck was stacked against Beranger, Emma was convinced. If he didn’t want to acknowledge that, she’d have to be all the more watchful for them both.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Saturday morning, Tristen strode toward the castle kitchen, three pheasants slung over his shoulder, tied with twine about their feet. Yesterday, Cook had sent a note to the cottage requesting fresh pheasant for tonight’s dinner. In addition to catching poachers, Tristen’s job entailed raising game birds on the duke’s lands, managing their habitats, and controlling the predators such as weasels and other critters that got at the eggs or took the young. When the duke and his guests were in want of leisure activity, he released game birds for them to hunt.

  Bagley romped by his side, distracted by every bush and tree he passed. Tristen was beginning to have his doubts concerning the young dog. A great hunter needed to pay attention more and play less.

  Emerging from the forest on the road that led from his uncle’s cottage, Tristen slowed his footsteps. The duke and duchess were crossing the meadow from the stable, riding side by side on very different horses. The duke’s mount was huge, black, and went with a prancing gait, whereas the duchess’s mount was small and nondescript and ambled along with his head low and relaxed. An odd pair for sure. Both mounts were undoubtedly different from the leggy thoroughbreds and feisty Welsh cobs that were often seen in these areas, or even from the giant workhorses. Before his troubles in Wales had started, he’d considered himself a horseman to a certain mark, but now that life was gone.

  The duke, some two hundred yards away, saw Tristen and put up a hand.

  Tristen waved back, amazed the duke had taken notice. But would he feel differently knowing that his game was entrusted to a former convict? For now, his history was safe with his uncle and aunt, but if the truth ever came out, surely he’d be sent away. Then what would he do? How would he make a living? Not many were willing to take a chance on an ex-jailbird.

  He approached the meat room’s door with the intention of slipping in and out, but when he opened the door, Bagley darted inside. “Bagley,” Tristen called, not too loudly, hoping the scamp would mind.

  A shout of surprise went up in the kitchen.

  There was no option but to follow into the large, open workspace.

  The room was crowded. The servants stood around laughing as his dog wolfed down something he shouldn’t.

  Mrs. Darling scowled.

  Mr. Pencely, the butler, who was the man his uncle reported to, frowned even harder. Pencely knew Tristen’s past—but in deference to Uncle Arson, who’d been at Ashbury all his life, he’d allowed the young man to stay. Now Bagley’s mischievous nature was risking all that goodwill.

  “Bagley, heel!”

  Everyone turned.

  Aunt Rose came his way, eyes twinkling, though she kept a serious expression on her face. “I tried to stop him, Tristen, but I wasn’t fast enough. That rascal needs to stay outside.” Her gaze slid to the butler, who was shaking his head ruefully. Tristen grabbed Bagley’s collar and dragged him toward the door.

  “After you tie him up, come back in for some cake,” Mr. Pencely called. “We have a celebration going on.”

  Embarrassed—what sort of gamekeeper would he make if he couldn’t even train his dog?—he took Bagley around to the garden and secured him in some shade. Returning, he deposited the pheasants in the meat room, then joined everyone in the kitchen. He noted with relief that the celebratory cake looked unmolested. Miss Aldridge was there, watching with amusement. She knew the truth about his dog.

  “We’re celebrating Amelia’s return,” Aunt Rose said, slicing the cake. “Though Charlotte has been a good replacement while Amelia was sick, and we’ll miss her, we’re glad to have Amelia back. And any excuse to have cake is welcome.”

  He had worked up an appetite this morning tromping through the grasslands on the hunt, the only place he felt free of the bars that had held him for years. He liked pheasants better than chickens because at least the former lived free, rather than in coops. He knew the feeling of impotence of being caged and respected the wild animals on the estate, letting them live their lives in freedom until they were needed.

  Alcott, his apron covered in pastry flour, grinned. “We’re thankful she’s come back to us shining with health.”

  Basking in attention, Amelia laughed. Charlotte stood at her side.

  “Yes, we’re so pleased,” Mrs. Darling added. “We couldn’t be more delighted.”

  Tristen nodded politely at Amelia, a girl he’d met several times, whenever he had a kitchen delivery. She was pretty, with a coquettish smile and a scattering of freckles across her nose, making him think she liked to get outside when she could. Did her return mean Miss Aldridge would be leaving?

  As Charlotte and Amelia began handing out the sliced cake, Mr. Winters passed through the servants’ hall in sight of the celebration. Tristen frowned. He was taking liberties by entering the servants’ space as often as he did. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what he’d come in for. But was Charlotte aware? Would Winters turn her head with silken words and then leave her in a family way after he’d had his fill? Tristen hoped she was smarter than that.

  Margaret sent him an adoring smile. With cake in hand, she came his way.

  “How you be, Mr. Llewellyn?” she asked, her white apron already spotted with grease.

  “Good, thank you. I guess now that Miss Smith is back, you’ll be returning to the kitchen,” he replied.

  She nodded and swallowed a bite of cake. “Mrs. Darling will be giving me word later today, I’d think. I won’t miss the scullery.” She held up one reddened hand. “And what of you? I see Bagley hasn’t learned many manners yet. Is he coming along at all?”

  Bagley had a reputation. And not a good one.

  “Picking up more all the time—it’s just his doggy brain keeps forgetting what he’s learned.”

  Charlotte came his way, then hesitated when she saw him speaking with Margaret. She looked around and tried to find someone else who needed cake, but he was the only one left.

  He hadn’t encountered her since that night in the kitchen when Winters was there. Had Tristen made her uncomfortable? He hoped that would never be the case. But perhaps it was that she welcomed Winters’s a
ttention and felt his censure without him even voicing his concerns.

  She held out the offering, and their gazes briefly touched. Beside him, Margaret straightened as if ready to go into battle.

  “Are you packed and ready to go home?” Margaret asked. “I saw your travel case out this morning. I thought you’d be gone by now.”

  Margaret Malone, the bane of my life!

  When rising in the wee hours each morning, Charlotte attempted to be as quiet as possible, but Margaret wasn’t as considerate. She stomped around like an elephant, making as much noise as she could. She never refilled the water jar when she used the last or allowed Charlotte to open the window to let in the cool night breeze. The worst was her silent treatment. She was surprised Margaret had spoken to her now.

  Charlotte smiled, first at Margaret and then Mr. Llewellyn, offering him the plate of cake. Their fingers briefly touched, sending a spark of awareness up her arm. “I am, later today.”

  “Thought as much,” Margaret replied. The cake on her plate was already gone, but a small crumb had fallen onto her chin and jiggled when she spoke.

  Charlotte briefly brushed her own chin, widening her eyes slightly as a subtle sign.

  Margaret didn’t take the hint.

  Mr. Llewellyn did. He reached forward and gingerly removed the morsel, then held the crumb out so she’d know what he’d done. Margaret’s face flushed a bright red, and she turned calf eyes up at the handsome gamekeeper.

  “But, actually,” Charlotte began—not wanting to be cruel, but Margaret had a way of driving her to distraction—“Mrs. Darling has asked me to stay on. I’ll be going home for a few days to find out if that’s possible. I’m not sure I’ll be back, but I hope so.”

  Margaret’s mouth gaped. “Stay on?” she spat, then her eyes narrowed. “Because of Mr. Winters? I saw him down here laughing with you this morning. Your face turned pink at everything he said. He’s way above you, Charlotte. Most likely, he put in a request so he can get to know you.”

  “Margaret!” Charlotte gasped. Yes, Mr. Winters had been quite solicitous toward her, but she wasn’t willing to let it go further than that—at least not until she’d sorted through her feelings. The last thing she needed was Margaret spreading rumors. “Please, think before you speak! Each time he came into the kitchen, he was looking for something, that’s all.” She didn’t dare look at Mr. Llewellyn. Did he share the same low opinion of her?

  From the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed Rose coming their way. “I couldn’t help overhearing you might be returning,” Rose said, her eyes bright. “That’s wonderful.” She looked at her nephew and then back at Charlotte. “What time do you plan to depart? I’d feel better if Tristen escorted you through the woods. They never used to be so unsafe, but of late . . .”

  Alarm streaked through Charlotte. “I’m fine walking alone,” she replied quickly. “Mr. Llewellyn has work to do. I don’t need his help.”

  Mr. Llewellyn straightened sharply, as if he too found the idea off-putting. “I am busy, Aunt Rose, I don’t—”

  Rose waved away his excuse as if it were mist in a breeze. “I insist. Tristen said just last night he’d discovered more tracks around the woods that shouldn’t be there. Not when the pheasants are nesting. There may be poachers about, or outlaws.” She laid her hand on Tristen’s arm, but his expression didn’t change. Charlotte could see he was none too happy regarding this turn of events. “I’d feel better knowing you’re with him and will accomplish the walk unmolested. It won’t take that long.”

  Tristen’s gaze seemed to reach out and touch Charlotte.

  Margaret’s audible squeak of distress was almost funny after what she’d done, besmirching Charlotte’s name in front of Tristen. Charlotte didn’t feel one speck of guilt.

  “But, but, she can ride back to Brightshire with the coal man,” Margaret blurted. “He’s arriving any time and always has room on his front seat for whomever.” She glanced around in alarm. “Myself, Amelia, and even Cook have traveled with him from time to time. More too. He’s a nice man and won’t mind at all.”

  Rose tipped her head in thought. “That’s a possibility. What time did you plan to leave, Charlotte?”

  “I promised to bake a few more items for Mr. Brown before departing. I won’t be ready until about three, so . . .”

  Rose nodded firmly, as though that decided it. “The coal man never stays past one. Tristen will be by at three to collect you. Does that give you enough time to do what you must?”

  Charlotte squirmed. She didn’t want to make the walk under his disapproving gaze, especially after what Margaret had insinuated. “Please, that won’t—”

  “My aunt is right,” Tristen finally said, although his tone was none too happy. “I make a point of being out there at differing times of the day and have yet to walk those acres. It’s no inconvenience at all, Miss Aldridge. The forests are my responsibility. Leaving you to make that walk alone would be taking a risk. But bear in mind to bring your raincoat. The clouds have been gathering all morning.”

  What was the use in arguing? “Very well. I’ll be ready at three and meet you outside by the entrance to the forest.”

  He nodded, then forked a large bite of cake into his mouth and seemed determined to be polite even if he did disapprove of her. “Did you make this, Miss Aldridge?” he said after swallowing. “It’s awfully good.”

  Just what I need. More reasons for Margaret to hate me. “Yes, I did indeed.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Beranger, this is beautiful! What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon,” Emma said, her voice ringing with deep emotion. She gazed at the land lying between the manor and Brightshire, having taken the long way around to see a river and the many meadows. They visited the small lake and marshlands, and a mountain peak where you could see far into the distance. “Each place we visit I like better than the last. I understand now why your memories are so vivid. Your homeland is beautiful. The air is so crisp, clean—and brisk.” She hugged her arms around herself. “I’m glad we came.”

  He turned in the saddle. They’d stopped a few minutes back, and she’d given Dusty, her trusty gelding from Colorado, rein enough to reach down and grab a mouthful of grass. Early this morning Beranger had let everyone know he’d be occupied until the following day. He refused to be called away for problems that would still be there for him to consider tomorrow, next week, and most likely next year. He and Emma hadn’t had a proper honeymoon aboard ship, and he intended to remedy that now.

  “That makes me happy. I’d like to take you on an extended visit to London. To see the symphony, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey.”

  She looked utterly charming in the riding habit the dressmakers had delivered—almost a native Englishwoman, except that no amount of talking could convince her to try an English saddle over her western. He’d told her to wear her riding britches from home, if she preferred, but she’d declined. She was an American, and he didn’t want one hair on her head to change.

  “And Buckingham Palace, Beranger? I definitely want to see that, but not the queen. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that.”

  His loud bark of laughter spooked Charger. The horse jerked to the side, his large, intelligent eyes wide. Easily keeping his seat, Beranger reached down to calm the gelding with a pat on his neck. “No, my love, we won’t be meeting the queen anytime soon. As a matter of fact, I believe my father only met her once in all the years he was duke. I wouldn’t be ready for a visitation like that myself. Although I’m sure she’d be interested in meeting a beautiful American like yourself. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  They started off again, her riding close enough to reach out and playfully slap his thigh. “Don’t you dare tease me, not today. This is the first we’ve been alone since the ship, practically. There’re so many servants in the castle I never know who is walking by my bedchamber door. It’s disconcerting.”

  He cocked his head. “You had help on the
ranch, didn’t you?”

  She arched a brow in mock surprise. “Help? Yes. A cook and a housekeeper. Nothing more. That can’t compare to the multitude of servants here. The dowager duchess is in the process of hiring a proper lady’s maid for me, though I’m not sure I like a stranger helping me in and out of my clothes several times a day.”

  “I happen to remember a bunkhouse full of young men just waiting to do your bidding—take Trevor Hill, KT, Moses Poor, and others. Did I dream those ranch hands, Mrs. Northcott?” He teased her with the American address. “They were there to help.”

  “They were there to ranch, not assist me in and out of my clothes.”

  He conceded with a nod and a chuckle. “You have me there.”

  Emma laughed. He’d never seen her so free and relaxed. They topped a rise and had a nice view of Goldenbrook, the hamlet where they’d dropped the midwife, Mathilda Tugwer, the evening of their arrival. Had that only been four days ago?

  Using her saddle horn for leverage, Emma pushed taller in the saddle to get a better look at the hamlet below.

  In the general view, a dozen cottages sat scattered on one side of a common area, across from more on the other. Some were clean and neat, others run-down and shabby. Two women stood outside doing their laundry. A baby sat at their feet in the grass. A group of children dashed in and out of a nearby shed, perhaps playing a game of tag. Several benches were haphazardly dispersed about, and a swing hung from the sturdy branch of a tall elm. From here he could see patches of kitchen gardens, flush with emerald-green lettuce leaves, strings of climbing beans, and lime-colored plants laden with red tomatoes. The Gilded Goose, a small country tavern at the end of the commons, was a place Beranger remembered well. The menfolk went there every afternoon to sate their thirst after long days in the fields.

  Unaware they were being watched, one woman fished a bedsheet out of a bucket of water and handed one end to her companion. The two twisted the material until most of the moisture had been extracted. With wooden pins, the wet linen was fastened to the short line between their homes.