Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  He did the same now, adding, “Yes, Jenkins?”

  The butler approached the duke’s desk with the small silver salver he vaguely remembered seeing used during Jared’s father’s time as duke.

  “Shall I add this card to the others?”

  “If you would.” He’d wait until Edward joined him to look at the growing pile of calling cards.

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Jenkins.”

  The butler turned to go, prompting Jared to add, “You’ve been the glue that has kept this household together, Jenkins.”

  The butler’s eyes showed a depth of emotion Jared hadn’t seen before. “It has been an honor to serve the Dukes of Wyndmere.”

  Jared nodded and thought to reassure their loyal retainer he’d intended to do all in his power to remove the stigma the fifth duke’s reign had caused. But he knew his father would never have sought to do such with one of the servants. He hesitated.

  But he was not his father. He was his own man, one not raised with an eye on the dukedom and therefore not instructed in the duties expected. He’d been schooled by the same tutors as his elder and younger brothers but had been spared the lessons entailing all things related to the dukedom.

  Instead, he’d worked tirelessly alongside the tenant farmers at both of the family’s country estates—Wyndmere Hall in the northwest of England on the largest lake in the district: Windermere, and Lippincott Manor in the south in Sussex.

  Jenkins cleared his throat, breaking through Jared’s reverie. “Is that all, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.” He looked at his butler. “Thank you.”

  Jenkins bowed and left as quietly as he’d entered.

  Raised voices and bustling just outside his study had him wondering what could be the matter now. Instead of following along with his gut instinct to get up and see for himself, he waited. No one knocked on the closed door to his study. Therefore, either their butler or ever efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Wigglesworth, had handled the matter.

  How long would it take to grow accustomed to letting others—their butler, housekeeper, valet, and all manner of upper and lower servants—do for him? Thankfully, the staff at his London residence was nowhere near half the number at the country estates. When his father was alive, the number of servants had been daunting—absolutely daunting—but Oliver had dispatched with quite a number of them.

  Jared was thankful he did not have to deal with the day-to-day running of any of the households ensconced in the dukedom. That thought alone had a knot forming at the base of his skull.

  As had been his father’s custom, he’d brought key servants to London: their butler Jenkins, housekeeper Mrs. Wigglesworth, and cook Mrs. O’Toole. And when ready to retire to either of their estates—save the crumbling tower in Cornwall—he would insist they travel with him. They had plenty of servants to step into the breach should it be necessary.

  The more he thought of the number of servants in his employ, he wondered if he would be required to know any or all of them by name? He couldn’t recall knowing more than the handful he’d come in contact with while enjoying free rein at either of their estates…most of them in the stables and the kitchens.

  Should he ask Jenkins? The knot pulled taut and he had pain searing through his head.

  He closed his eyes and imagined setting the overwhelming task ahead of him next to his open appointment book on the walnut desk any number of dukes had sat behind. With a deep sigh, he opened his eyes. Pushing to his feet, he walked to the window, amazed the street was nearly vacant. Where had everyone gone? The street had been bustling with activity just an hour ago…or had more time passed than he’d realized?

  A knock sounded on the door. “Enter.”

  “Are you ready for our appointment?” His brother didn’t wait for Jared to speak, he simply swept into the room and stood to the side of the now open door, motioning for Mrs. Wigglesworth and two young housemaids to enter.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wigglesworth,” Edward said.

  Jared noted his brother staring at the taller of the two maids. He cleared his throat to draw his brother’s attention back to him and away from what could bode ill for the maid, and his brother, should his brother follow through with the look of intent Jared did not misinterpret.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Wigglesworth curtseyed and motioned for her charges to set their trays on the narrow table off to the side. “Shall I serve?”

  “No need, thank you.”

  Jared checked his initial reaction to help the young women struggling with the weight of the food-laden trays. A glance in his brother’s direction, and the barely perceptible nod, had him relaxing. He was still behaving as expected.

  “If there is anything else…”

  “I’ll not hesitate to ring. Thank you.” He was learning not to be superfluous in his treatment of the household staff, or his brother would hand him another list of how-a-duke-should-act. Edward had found the list and more squirreled away among Oliver’s things at Wyndmere Hall.

  He’d been diligently trying to follow along but was bloody tired of it. If he ignored those duties listed, he would have to rely more heavily on his brother until he had the right of it and could act without questioning his every thought, word, or move.

  The memory of his brother, Oliver, erupting with anger at the servant unfortunate enough to have bobbled a decanter of French brandy had him check his thoughts, striving to pay attention to what his brother was saying.

  “…are we in agreement?”

  Jared stared at his brother until his brother threw his hands in the air. “I cannot help you if you aren’t going to listen.”

  His lips twitched, but he conquered the need to smile at his brother’s serious expression. “Indeed.”

  Edward narrowed his gaze and waited for Jared to ask him to repeat himself. At which time, he raised his eyes to the ceiling then proceeded to count to twenty—aloud. For the invaluable service his brother provided as the liaison as it were between himself and the household staff for one—society for another, he would maintain his silence and follow his brother’s advice.

  “Sorry,” Jared apologized. “You were saying?”

  Edward stared at him for long moments before acquiescing. “Shall we eat? Mrs. O’Toole has prepared a meal you should find to your liking.”

  Jared joined his brother at the side table, shocked at the array of food. “All of my favorites at once? What happened to the cold meal you mentioned earlier?”

  Edward shrugged. “Mrs. Wigglesworth and Mrs. O’Toole were horrified at the thought.”

  Jared stared at the tray. “I don’t have to share?”

  Edward’s lips twitched. “’Pon my word, Brother, you are the duke. No need to share.”

  When they’d settled opposite one another at the small table and chairs he’d only just noticed had been set up for their meal, he asked, “Did you arrange for the furniture as well as the meal?”

  “Would you have thought to do so?”

  Jared realized he would not have. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  His brother dug in with gusto, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t a care, when Jared suspected there was much more than lending his societal aid and advice to the new duke on his brother’s mind.

  Jared ate slowly, sampling a bit of everything, marveling that his appetite had returned.

  “You seem to be enjoying your meal.”

  “Immensely. We’ve only been in residence for a month, and I confess I haven’t been interested in what is being served at our meals.”

  “If you have any preferences,” his brother said, “all you have to do is let Mrs. Wigglesworth know.”

  “I see.”

  “She’ll relay those preferences to Mrs. O’Toole,” Edward reminded him. “I mentioned you hadn’t had an appetite as of late. Mrs. Wigglesworth and Mrs. O’Toole conspired together over the menu. I daresay neither have forgotten your favorites.”

&nb
sp; Jared sipped the last of his tea in a delicate china cup he’d been afraid he’d break and would not have used if left to his own awkward devices. Blotting his mouth with the linen napkin embroidered with the ducal crest, he wondered when he would grow accustomed to it all. The confines of a city he’d rather not step foot in seemed to close in on him the longer he stayed.

  Everything in the ducal town house on Grosvenor’s Square reeked of wealth and consequence.

  He thanked the Lord every night for helping him to restore the first and beseeched the Lord every morning for His aid fully restoring the second.

  “Mayhap we should postpone the rest of our meeting,” his brother suggested.

  Jared snapped back to attention. “My fault entirely. I was letting my mind wander on thoughts best set aside for another time.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Last evening, you did mention something about a pugilistic club…” he held on to the rest of what he wanted to say, hoping his brother would pick up the conversational thread.

  Edward grinned and Jared relaxed. “Gentleman Jackson’s. Top notch establishment located on Bond Street. All the rage.”

  “What, exactly, does one do there?” Jared wanted to know.

  Edward chuckled. “Learn the rules required in the fine art of pummeling one another…pugilisticly, of course.”

  Jared inclined his head. “Ah…rules, of course.”

  His brother studied him for a moment before adding, “If you’d rather, there is another option.”

  “Another pugilist’s establishment?”

  “Angelo’s Fencing Academy.”

  Jared nodded. “I’ve missed the opportunity to do something physical. Stomping about the fields, planting crops, riding. Driving a carriage in the heart of this city—handling prime horseflesh that move in fits and starts with too many people, too many carriages—is not the same as galloping across an open meadow.”

  He sighed deeply. “I haven’t been able to spend as much time in the country as I’d like. There’s nothing like a ride across the open fields, wooded parks or a healthful few miles walking around the lakes.”

  “You’ve had to change your entire existence,” Edward acknowledged. “It is not easy.”

  Jared sighed. They both have had to as of late. He wondered if his brother realized he was now the second son in line to inherit the dukedom should anything happen to Jared. He would save that thought for another time. “Anything worthwhile and all that,” he said at last.

  “Something physical should do the trick and set your humors to rights. Which shall it be? Boxing or fencing?”

  Jared glanced at the clock on the wall. “Do we have time for both?”

  His brother chuckled and rose to his feet. “Doubtful. Where shall we start?”

  “I’ve been known to bloody a nose or two in my time,” Jared said slowly. “Why don’t we start there.”

  “Fighting with the local lads in the village of Wyndmere is not quite the same as learning John Jackson’s style of boxing, the rules, and then practicing what you’ve been taught.”

  “With Jackson?”

  “Mayhap one of his assistants. However,” his brother said, “a note of caution to remind you, a duke should be above reproach—no fighting dirty.”

  “I’d never—” Jared began only to be interrupted by his brother.

  “I recall that time on the village green with Rodney—”

  “The blacksmith’s oldest.” Jared slowly smiled. “Purely emotional decision at the time…a young lady’s honor was involved.”

  “Fortunately, we shall be indoors—no dirt in sight for you to kick into your opponent’s eyes.”

  Edward opened the door to the study and motioned to one of the footmen stationed in the entryway. “His Grace and I are finished,” he told the servant. “Have someone advise Mrs. Wigglesworth.”

  The footman bowed and went in search of the housekeeper. Jared watched him leave and heard footsteps off to the side of the staircase.

  “Do you need the carriage brought around, Your Grace?” Jenkins inquired.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t you have afternoon appointments?” Edward asked.

  “Er…yes.” He slid a glance toward his brother, amending his directive. “Thank you, Jenkins.” Jared wasn’t sure why his brother wanted it to appear as if they needed to take the carriage. Driving the phaeton through the crowded London streets was preferable to being driven in the ducal carriage. Above all, he preferred riding a horse—his favorite mode—or his own two feet thank you…to being driven.

  Rather than question at this point, especially after the near disaster he’d created the previous evening at the Hollisters’ ball, the duke kept his thoughts to himself. They rode in the town coach…or was it called a state coach? Dashed if he could remember or would ask. Hard to go about in town without being noticed with the Wyndmere crest boldly painted on the doors. Would he ever grow accustomed to the pomp and circumstance?

  Although the elegance and comfort of the interior of the coach were of the finest, it was closed—one more thing he was ill at ease with. He preferred an open equipage, when forced to ride in one. He sighed, realizing his favorite mode of transport would have to wait until he was once more in residence at Wyndmere Hall or Lippincott Manor—or even Cornwall, as it appeared he would be in London for the foreseeable future.

  The carriage pulled to a stop and before Jared had shifted toward the door, it opened. One of the footmen held it open, while he and his brother alighted. About to thank the servant, he paused when his brother touched his arm, distracting him.

  Edward’s nod indicated they should proceed to the door of the establishment at 13 Bond Street—Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy. Jared inclined his head at the footman—still such a bother having to change so much of his personality. The way he spoke to all and sundry, and the ducal attire he was supposed to now don, had him struggling with feeling ill-at-ease from the moment he opened his eyes until he closed them again at night.

  His brother leaned close and whispered, “You’ll enjoy this, Jared. Buck up.”

  “One would hope.” Dashed difficult this type of behavior—so foreign to him, yet now expected.

  “Your Grace, your lordship,” the gentleman himself—John Jackson, greeted Jared and his brother.

  “A pleasure,” Jared replied.

  “I received word you would be attending this afternoon and have arranged a separate room.”

  Jared looked at his brother and then Jackson. Rather than contradict, he acquiesced. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and to your instruction.”

  With a brief glance at the few patrons gathered, who’d paused in their exercise, he followed behind Jackson.

  “Thought it might be best, all things considered,” his brother informed him.

  The room they entered was off to the side, with a wide opening—no door. “This room is reserved for personages, such as yourself, Your Grace,” Jackson told him. Motioning to one of the servants stationed in the hallway, he said, “For this first instruction, would you prefer to remove just your coat and your cravat?”

  “My brother, the duke,” Edward said, “has been boxing for years.”

  Gentleman Jackson smiled. “Bare-knuckle fighting in the country?”

  Edward and the duke nodded.

  “We do things a bit differently here,” Jackson advised. “Primarily, we remove our coats and cravats, although some gentlemen prefer to remove their waistcoat as well.”

  While they removed their top hats, gloves, frockcoats, and cravats, Jackson was interrupted a few times with questions from those in his employ, all of which he held off answering until after Jared’s instruction.

  Form was discussed while Jackson observed Jared’s stance.

  “My brother is used to having someone familiar as a target,” Edward interjected.

  Jackson nodded. “Care to take my place? It would be easier to instruct while I observe.”
<
br />   Edward took his place facing his brother. “Ready?”

  Jared smiled and felt at ease for the first time since they’d stepped down from the carriage. “Ready.”

  “Keep your guard up, Your Grace,” Jackson instructed.

  “Watch the bend in your knees, your lordship,” he said, looking to Edward.

  “Left jab, Your Grace!” Jackson said, as Jared lifted his arm to throw a punch.

  Edward leaned to the side, avoiding his brother’s strong jab. “Excellent move, your lordship,” Jackson told him.

  “Your guard, Your Grace,” he warned.

  Jared paused for a moment. Distracted by Jackson’s instruction, his brother’s right cross connected solidly with Jared’s nose.

  Pain exploded, radiating from the bridge of his nose outward. His cheekbones went numb and his eyes watered as blood gushed out of his broken nose.

  “Your Grace!”

  “Jared!”

  He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but his brother’s punch had his vision blurring. He felt himself being helped into a chair.

  “Head back, Your Grace,” he heard a deep voice instruct.

  Was it Jackson? He sounded so far away.

  “Here, use this to stanch the blood.”

  “Devil take it, Jared,” his brother rasped. “Why did you look away?”

  “Cold compress!” he heard the same deep voice call out.

  Jared thought to answer his brother’s question, but the pain had him in its grip. He raised his free hand which was immediately gripped tightly.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard his brother say. “You would have avoided the strike if you hadn’t dropped your guard.”

  Jared wasn’t paying attention to his brother. Is my nose pushed all to one side—like the blacksmith’s son all those years ago? I’d been the one to land that blow. This time, I’m on the receiving end of such a blow. Good God it ached.

  A blessed coolness replaced the sodden cloth. Out of the corners of his eyes, he noted the wet was crimson. “Broken,” he rasped.

  “Aye, Brother,” Edward agreed. “You’ll be sporting two black eyes for a fortnight.”

  Jared needed to know. “Is my nose flat against my face?”