A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  From this spot, the building’s flaws weren’t noticeable. But a few steps along—he took them—revealed the cracks and holes. The elation ran out of him. He felt as if he carried every broken stone on his back.

  Turning away, Peter walked to the end of this ridge. A great hump of a boulder hid the tower, with a flat grassy spot beside it. In front, the ground fell away to the river valley. This had been a favorite spot of his as a boy. He’d come here to sit, leaning back against the stone and watching the water and the animals that came to drink. He’d found it peaceful.

  He’d showed Delia once, he remembered. But his sister hadn’t taken to the place. She’d preferred a view of Alberdene and to make up marvelous stories about their ancestors. She’d written little biographies of those she could trace, he recalled. They would be in the library most likely. Should anyone care.

  But he did care. That was the thing. Peter put a hand on the stone, cold and solid under his fingers. This land his forebears had held, his crumbling home, the history his family had made—all of them meant something to him. He could not see so many centuries’ heritage lost if he could possibly prevent it. He would not give up. It just didn’t seem fair that his reward for caring was solitude.

  An insinuating inner voice spoke up. What if they could actually find a Rathbone fortune? Piles of treasure hidden away by his misguided ancestor. That would change everything. Peter almost smiled. He would become a dragon with a hoard in that case. He could offer up buckets full of jewels in exchange for his bride. He could take his chance at happiness, along with many other things he’d dreamed of—a renewed birthright rising from the ruins.

  It was true that he’d believed in chimeras too often. And always he’d been proved wrong. But such things did happen, once in a great while. Long-lost items were found. The wheel of fortune turned. She’d said that she would be his good luck. An idea as sweet and lovely as she was herself. Peter leaned against the boulder, wondering. Could he change his life with one wild throw?

  Like a hardened gamester or a helpless sot, an inner voice jeered. Repeating the actions that had ruined them. It was idiotic to hope. And worse still to shift the responsibility onto the shoulders of the young lady he loved, still little more than a girl. And yet, it was so hard not to want. He did love her. He faced that bittersweet truth. And he rested against the rock and struggled with himself.

  In the end, Peter couldn’t believe in the fairy tale. He’d never had good fortune. Indeed, his fortunes had been steadily declining all his life. Ada mustn’t be pulled into that melancholy slide. She should go. It was wrong of him to try to keep her, to hope to enjoy her company a little longer. He should give up foolish dreams and return to the solitary duties he’d taken up when his father died, fighting the long rearguard action to sustain an ancient dukedom.

  But if he made sure he was never alone with Miss Ada again, perhaps he could wait a bit? No, it wasn’t right. She had to see that there could be nothing between them.

  A pall descended over Peter. Returning to his empty life and long, slow failure seemed too much to bear. Loneliness hit him like a smashing leveler in the boxing ring. The silence would be so much more vacant, the empty rooms more melancholy.

  Macklin would stay a bit, he told himself, though the earl had mentioned obligations that would call him home soon. And in any case, his presence, so welcome in the beginning, was no longer enough. Peter craved more, particularly the company of a certain lovely young lady.

  * * *

  Ada sat at a draped table before a pan of soapy water. With a soft cloth, she polished a crystal from one of the chandeliers in Alberdene’s drawing room. Her aunt had criticized the fixtures’ condition and had them lowered on their ropes, much to the chagrin of the older Alberdene housemaids. Rose had muttered about interfering outsiders. Ada thought her aunt had heard, but she’d ignored the complaint.

  This sort of work was usually left to maids, but her aunt had decreed that they should know how it was done, and would in any case benefit from busy hands. Idleness being the devil’s playground.

  Charlotte, across the table, was positively seething. The heat of rebellion showed in her burning eyes and clenched jaw. Of course she wanted to be in the secret room, poring over the mass of papers. Sarah did, too, though she looked more resigned. Who could blame them? Ada wanted that herself. She wondered where the duke had gone, and why the hidden documents in his house had made him so angry. She needed to talk to him about that. And other things. There seemed to be so many matters she wanted to discuss. She longed to spend whole days in his company exploring them.

  Down the table the four maids polished diligently. Tom had not turned up to join them this time. Probably he had gotten some advance warning and taken himself off, Ada thought. He seemed clever that way.

  Adding the crystal to the pile of clean ones on her right, Ada wondered whether Compton was thinking of their kisses right now, as she was, continually. They’d been even lovelier than she’d anticipated. How often did longed-for treats turn out to be disappointing? The thought of Compton as a treat made Ada smile. She picked another crystal from the water, which was warm to soften the dripped candle wax, and began to clean it.

  “She’d best not be planning to throw away them old candles,” muttered Tess. “They’re beeswax and cost the earth.”

  “Indeed I am not,” said Ada’s aunt. One might have thought that her piercing voice ruled out keen hearing. One would have been wrong. “They are scarcely half burned. We will put them back when we have finished.”

  Ada liked the use of we. Her aunt wasn’t polishing. She patrolled the room, critiquing everyone’s technique. Ada wouldn’t have imagined there was an approved method for cleaning chandelier ornaments. But it seemed that there was.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” replied the maid.

  “Frugality is always welcome. Unlike impertinence.”

  Tess ducked her head and polished harder.

  Movement at the far end of the room caught Ada’s eye. Compton had come in, pausing on the threshold. “What is this? You’re my guests. You don’t have to work.” He sounded chagrined.

  Charlotte set down her cloth, poised to take this opportunity to rise and flee. Like a deer coming alert in the forest, Ada thought, except with a ludicrously hopeful expression.

  “It is not a case of necessity,” replied Ada’s aunt. “Your house is providing a benefit. All young ladies should have a thorough grounding in household management.” Charlotte slumped.

  The duke made a wry face, as if he’d bitten into something sour. He looked around the room. Ada blushed when their glances crossed. His jumped away immediately. She racked her brain for a way to break free and join him. There was so much to say now that everything was changed, with the discovery of the lost treasure. The problem, as ever, was to get free of Aunt Julia.

  As if in answer to Ada’s prayers, Ella stirred at her feet, stretched, and walked over to the window, resting her paws on the sill.

  At the same time, Una exclaimed as a crystal fell apart in her hands. “I didn’t do it,” the young maid exclaimed. “It was already cracked.”

  Ada’s aunt moved down to the far end of the table to examine the piece.

  “Ella needs to go outside,” Ada said. There could be no argument with this necessity. She summoned the dog and clipped the lead to her collar. Ella, well aware of what this action portended, panted happily.

  Ada headed for the doorway, making sure that her route took her close to the duke. “Would you care to come along?” she murmured to him. Softly, facing away from her aunt.

  “No thank you,” he answered in normal tones. “I’ve just come in. I don’t care to go out again.”

  Her aunt heard, and turned, giving them a sharp stare. Everyone else looked at them as well. Ada’s cheeks flamed. It was practically a cut direct. The sympathy on her friends’ faces made the snub
worse. Ada tugged on Ella’s leash and rushed from the room.

  Peter knew he’d offended her. He regretted that. But surely she understood they couldn’t be exchanging whispered messages in front of everyone? They couldn’t be making opportunities to go off alone. They couldn’t have anything he yearned for. She had to go. He nearly groaned aloud.

  “I don’t suppose you have a supply of these stored away,” said Miss Julia Grandison, holding up a broken crystal teardrop.

  “I have no idea,” replied Peter. At that moment, he could not have cared less.

  The older woman pursed her lips. Her blue eyes raked him.

  “There might be a few in the hall cupboard,” said Tess.

  “I never saw any,” said Rose.

  “At the back,” replied the other housemaid. “Up on the top shelf.”

  “Please go and see,” said Miss Grandison.

  Miss Deeping jumped up. “I’ll go.”

  “You would have no idea where to look.” The older woman seemed amused. “And I have the oddest notion that you would not come back.”

  “I’ll try to reach,” said Tess, rising. “I might have to fetch Conway. He’s the one noticed them.”

  “I will come with you.” Miss Grandison moved to join the maid. She was nearly a head taller and no doubt well able to peer onto high shelves. The two went out together.

  Miss Deeping shoved her polishing cloth away. “I detest household management even more than deportment lessons,” she said. “Was there ever anything more irksome? This is like living under the thumb of a tyrant.”

  Miss Moran sighed sympathetically.

  “Miss Grandison seems to me a very proper chaperone,” Peter declared. “Alberdene may look ramshackle in some ways, but I assure you it is not. Sneaking about is…not to be tolerated. I hope you will help me make certain it does not occur.”

  Every occupant of the room stared at him, the maids looking almost as puzzled as the visitors. As well they might, Peter thought. That had sounded stiff and stupid and detestably pompous. Why had he spoken? And where were his wits? But he knew the answer to that. They were outside with Ada, along with his heart.

  “What sort of sneaking did you have in mind?” asked Miss Finch.

  Her green eyes might be pretty, but they could be dauntingly sharp.

  “And whose?” said Miss Deeping. “Not your own, I suppose?”

  Peter froze. Did Miss Ada’s friends know what she’d been doing in the night? Was this girl taunting him? He scanned their faces and decided they did not. And they must not. He had to protect her. The best way to do that right now was to leave, before he let fall any more ridiculous remarks. Peter turned and strode out.

  “Huh,” said Sarah.

  “Young gentlemen don’t usually appreciate chaperones,” said Charlotte.

  Harriet indicated the listening servants with an inclination of her head. They all returned to their task.

  “Do you think he was referring to a particular incident?” murmured Harriet after a bit.

  “It certainly sounded that way to me,” said Charlotte quietly.

  “What has Ada been doing?” asked Sarah.

  Harriet shrugged. “She’s always up to something, though her schemes don’t usually involve unsuitable young men.”

  “Is he really so—” began Sarah. She bit off the sentence at Harriet’s frown. “I promised to help her evade her aunt. I suppose that is sneaking. I didn’t think she’d… You know.”

  “I sincerely hope I do not,” said Harriet.

  “Are we going to tell Ada what he said?” Sarah replied.

  “She’s our friend. He isn’t,” said Charlotte.

  “Right,” said Harriet.

  “I wonder if we should leave,” said Sarah. “There’s a great deal to do, after all, to prepare for the season in London. New dresses. Dancing lessons. Have you seen the waltz?” She sighed.

  Harriet nodded in shared longing.

  “Not yet,” replied Charlotte.

  “You just want to solve the puzzle,” said Harriet.

  “What if I do? There’s no problem if Ada behaves.”

  The three young ladies exchanged a doubtful glance. “When has she ever?” murmured Sarah.

  “Here we are,” said Ada’s aunt, striding in with a handful of chandelier crystals held high. “Success! Why are you just sitting there? We aren’t even half done. Where is Ada?”

  “She took Ella out,” said Sarah.

  “That spoiled dog! Miss Finch, go and bring her back this instant.” The glance that accompanied this command suggested Miss Grandison intended to keep a closer eye on her niece from now on. Or perhaps on all of them.

  * * *

  Peter found his feet carrying him out of the modern wing toward the room his father and sister had filled with their wild hopes. Despite his doubts, a reluctant fascination drew him. They must have been working in there for months, years. When he had thought them shut away in their studies, they had been digging through archives and storerooms, pulling out bits and pieces, pinning their spoils to the walls, excitedly stretching string to mark supposed connections. The knowledge brought pain. Had they never thought to include him?

  But they had. Peter stopped moving as the relevant exchange came back to him more clearly. It had happened at dinner one day near the end of his school holidays. That visit had been full of awkwardness, most particularly his father’s confession that he’d lost two thousand pounds—a vast sum in their position—on an unwise investment. Peter had been looking forward to leaving, even though his school wasn’t much more comfortable.

  His father and his twelve-year-old sister had been practically vibrating with excitement during that meal, exchanging conspiratorial glances and happy smiles. Peter had of course noticed, and resented it. When the servants had gone, Delia pulled a pile of papers from her lap and his father had sat straighter to make a speech. And together they’d presented their new theory—the lost treasure of the Rathbones.

  He’d been flooded with a stripling’s anger, Peter remembered sadly. The idea had seemed a pathetic grasping after straws to make up for his father’s foolish investment, and he’d said so. Only to realize that Delia hadn’t known about that loss. Her stricken gaze had somehow prompted more cutting remarks that he couldn’t recall in detail now. His father had been humiliated. Delia had been crushed. She’d fled from the table. And they’d never mentioned the idea of a treasure again. He’d forgotten all about it.

  He’d cut himself off from them, Peter thought as he started walking again. And they’d retreated into their shared studies. Afterward, no one had made much effort to reach across the gulf that had yawned that night. It had only widened. Now, of course, it was too late. He swallowed that pain.

  In the stub of a corridor, he heard male voices beyond the half-closed door. He hadn’t relocked the room, or the passage between the parts of Alberdene, as was his custom. Now, he discovered that one could be glad to have guests and resent their incursions at the same time.

  Peter pushed through the door and stepped in. The clutter on the walls seemed to loom over him, like waves of paper about to break about his head. Macklin and Tom stood by the desk. The earl was holding one of the notebooks that had been in the drawer. He greeted Peter with a nod. “Tom told me about your find, and I indulged my curiosity. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He could hardly say that he did when most of his other guests had looked their fill. And Macklin was the least intrusive of men. “What do you think?” asked Peter, really wanting to know.

  The earl gestured at the walls. “This represents a great deal of work.”

  “Probably futile.”

  “Do you think so?” The older man looked interested.

  “I don’t think it could be otherwise. Alberdene has no lost treasure. The Rathbones have never had that sort
of luck.” Yet he somehow hoped that the earl would argue with him.

  “It’s not exactly good luck to have it go missing for so long.”

  “And then found in the nick—” Peter bit off the words. Macklin didn’t need to know the extent of his difficulties. Or of his forlorn hopes.

  “Such things do happen,” replied Macklin. “People come upon long-lost hoards. Roman coins and so on.” He tapped the notebook in his hand. “I was looking at this entry.” A folded sheet of paper slipped out of the back of the volume. Macklin caught it and looked. “This appears to be private,” he said. He handed it to Peter.

  Peter recognized his father’s handwriting, the shaky version of his last years. The page held a letter, addressed to him. There was no date.

  “I haven’t been well,” it began. So it had probably been written three years ago, during his father’s last illness. His tremors would account for the slanting lines and scatter of ink blots. Peter’s emotions on seeing them were harder to define. He read on.

  I don’t believe I will live to complete this hunt, which goes on and on until my faith in it wanes. Or my vitality, at least. I won’t lose faith! Yet I grow so tired, so easily. Only Delia’s conviction sustains me. She is a positive Joan of Arc of treasure hunting.

  But I fear she will make this project her life’s work. I’ve pointed out the dangers, suggested that a time will come to declare failure. But as you know she’s a stubborn child. Perhaps spoiled as well. No doubt I am to blame for this, as for so much else.

  My son. I can see you, standing in the midst of our untidy researches, your lip curling in contempt, your frown impatient.

  Peter winced at this picture. He could have disagreed without being so curt, he thought. If only his father hadn’t introduced the idea on the heels of his losses. He turned back to the page.

  The truth is, I yearn to present you with a great pile of gold and jewels, the solution to all our problems, and see the astonishment and relief in your eyes. The joy that might follow. And, dare I say it, respect.