Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  “She’s nearly the same age as Father would have been,” Jared said. “We may have to hire on someone to share in her duties.”

  “Never say you’re planning to retire her?”

  “Were you not listening?”

  “Been a long day,” Edward admitted, “with far too many people too ready to hand out advice and orders.”

  “The only one you have to listen to is—”

  Before Jared could say it, his brother was chuckling, “You. I’ve heard that from you before, Brother…many times, in fact. Shall I begin with the first time I can recall? I believe you were ten, and I was but four years old.”

  Jared remembered quite clearly, despite the blow to his face and jarring of his brainbox. “I was charged with watching you while our governess fetched a bite for us to eat. You were chasing after a stray dog, about to cut through the corral where a number of horses were grazing.”

  Edward sighed. “I never remember the part about the horses. I only remember that little black and white spotted dog fleeing from me. I wanted to play with him.”

  “One couldn’t help but realize your intent,” Jared said. “You were shouting it as you ran.” He remembered the immobilizing fear as he gave chase, hoping against all odds he would catch his brother in time.

  “Did you know I prayed you would fall?” Jared asked. “I’m sure I muddled it up a bit, but God must have heard the bits and pieces of my request.”

  This time, Edward laughed out loud. “You reached me before I slipped under the bottom fence railing, but not before my feet slid and then stuck in an overly large pile of horse droppings. Did you pray for that, too, Brother?”

  “Not in so many words, but it did the trick.”

  Edward sighed. “I suppose I shall concede the first instance you commanded me to listen to you. Shall we move on to the second?”

  Jared started to reply, but his brother cut him off. “Not now, I was jesting and am famished.” A noise outside the door had him rushing to open it. “We aren’t to starve then, Jared.”

  His brother motioned for the footman to enter and place the tray on the table nearest the window. The glow from the streetlamps shone through where the curtains had not been tightly drawn across the window.

  “Thank you,” Jared said.

  The footman paused to ask, “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”

  His brother cleared his throat, and Jared answered, “Not at present.”

  When they were alone, Jared studied the tray from where he sat and groaned. “No meat? No bread? Am I to have thin beef broth and weak tea to fortify me?”

  Edward didn’t hesitate to inform him. “Dr. McIntyre’s orders.”

  “But it’s my blasted face that’s injured, not my stomach.”

  “As he told us, we cannot take a chance as you are the new Duke of Wyndmere.”

  Jared frowned at his brother first, the small cup of soup second. “Bloody inconvenient.”

  “Do you need my assistance or are you able to manage the cup on your own?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  His brother chuckled. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “That would put a capper on this hellish day, having my younger brother spoon feeding me broth from a cup.”

  “I would if you needed me to. You fed me that time I twisted my wrist falling off the fence rail.”

  “You seemed to have an obsession with the horse corral from a very young age. Whatever possessed you to walk along the top railing?”

  Edward shrugged. “Can’t say that I remember, that was nearly twenty years ago.”

  Jared stared at his cup. “Any chance you misheard Dr. McIntyre’s instructions as to what I may eat?”

  Edward shook his head and watched his brother sip from the cup. “I wish our roles had been reversed.”

  Jared gaped at him. “You want to be the duke?”

  “Good God, no! I wish you’d broken my nose.”

  Jared’s gaze met his brother’s gaze. “I wish I had, too.”

  Chapter Six

  “Lady Phyllida and Lady Cressida,” the Farnsworth butler intoned.

  Lady Farnsworth glanced at her daughter before answering, “Please, show them in, Crompton.”

  “There you are, Persephone!” Phyllida exclaimed.

  “You shall never credit what we’ve just learned,” Cressida added.

  Persephone rose to her feet and motioned for her dear friends to be seated on the pair of olive-green watermarked moiré upholstered lady’s chairs.

  When they were seated, she turned to her mother. “May I ring for tea?”

  Her mother nodded, apparently pleased with Persephone’s behavior this morning…so far.

  When she rang, one of the maids answered the summons. “Please bring tea for our guests.”

  “At once, Lady Persephone.” She curtseyed and hurried out of the room.

  Phyllida shifted to the edge of her chair and confided, “It’s about the duke!”

  “Truly,” Cressida added. “There was mention of a contretemps in this morning’s Post.”

  Persephone was about to ask for more details, when her mother spoke. “I do not think it seemly for the three of you to be discussing the duke or his affairs.”

  Before Persephone could contradict her mother, Mrs. Peele, their housekeeper, knocked on the open door.

  “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Peele.”

  Their stout housekeeper swept into the room, motioning for the serving maid to place the tea tray in the middle of the low mahogany table in front of Lady Farnsworth. “Seeing as it’s Lady Persephone’s special guests, the Ladies Phyllida and Cressida,” Mrs. Peele said, “I asked Cook to add a few of her specialties: bergamot tea cakes and lavender biscuits.”

  “You and Mrs. Hughes take such good care of us,” Lady Farnsworth said with a soft smile.

  “Everything looks delightful,” Persephone added.

  “And delicious,” Phyllida and Cressida said at the same time.

  Mrs. Peele beamed. “Shall I pour for your ladyship?”

  “Thank you, no,” Lady Farnsworth said. “We’re going to have a bit of a coz—just the four of us. Would you mind closing the door behind you?”

  Still smiling, Mrs. Peele nodded. “Just ring if you need the tea or pastries freshened.”

  Lady Farnsworth nodded. “We shall.”

  When the door softly closed, Lady Farnsworth filled the first bone-china teacup. “Persephone, be a dear and pass this to Lady Cressida with one of the linen napkins.”

  Persephone did as she was bade, then again thrice more, until everyone had a cup of tea in front of them along with a starched linen napkin across their laps.

  “Now then, ladies, which sweet treat would you care to start with?”

  When everyone had been served and half of the teapot emptied, Lady Farnsworth reopened the earlier conversation. “I am not one to share on dits nor discuss them, however, in light of the fact whatever you’ve come to share with us was printed in the morning Post—which I did not as yet read, I’ve reconsidered.”

  Persephone held back the sigh of relief sweeping up from her toes. She was dying to know why the duke’s name was in the paper.

  Phyllida once more scooted to the very edge of her chair. “As I was telling you, His Grace was involved in a contretemps at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy…with his brother, Earl Lippincott!”

  “He suffered a broken nose, two black eyes and a possible head injury,” Cressida added.

  Persephone had no idea how to respond.

  Her mother did. “The poor duke. Was there an explanation? Witnesses to the altercation?”

  “None,” Phyllida answered, keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard.

  “As far as was mentioned in the Post,” Cressida said.

  “Mother, did you—”

  Lady Farnsworth interrupted, “We should send a message around to His Grace, wishing him a speedy recovery.”

  Persephone wanted t
o ask if her mother had already sent the promised message about his untoward actions from the ball the night before, but didn’t, knowing her mother would not wish to discuss such in front of her friends.

  “I’ll leave you ladies to your visit, shall I?”

  Persephone rose with her mother and hugged her. If she held on a bit too tightly, her mother wouldn’t mention it now…but later, when it was just the two of them, she might.

  “What else have you heard?” Persephone asked the moment the door to the front parlor closed.

  “I overheard one of the footmen—” Cressida started to say.

  Phyllida interrupted her friend, asking, “The tallish one with the dark eyes?”

  Persephone shook her head at her friends. “Someone please just tell me what else you’ve heard.”

  “There was a prodigious amount of blood—in one of the back rooms,” Cressida whispered. “The duke had been badly injured.”

  “How, exactly, was he injured?” Persephone demanded.

  “There was no mention of it in the Post,” Phyllida said in a low voice. “But one of our servants returned with the news it was the duke’s own brother—Earl Lippincott, who broke his nose and gave him two black eyes.”

  “And concussed him,” Cressida added.

  Persephone sat back in her chair. Was it true? How could they verify such a Banbury tale? “Did either of your parents discuss this with you?”

  “Not at all,” Cressida and Phyllida assured her.

  “I borrowed the morning paper after Father finished reading it,” Cressida said.

  “And read it cover to cover,” Phyllida added, “just in case there was an additional mention either of our fathers missed.”

  Persephone hurt for the duke. “So much happening to His Grace and in just two days’ time.” She paused, wondering if there was a socially acceptable message or greeting one could send such a lofty personage without intimating one had closer ties than proper to said person.

  She set the thought aside for later, wishing her mother were still present so she could ask her. “You’re quite certain about what you’ve both heard?”

  Persephone’s friends shared a glance before responding. “Is there a specific reason you’re asking, Persephone?” Phyllida asked.

  “Yes,” Cressida said. “Something you wish to confide with your very dearest friends?”

  If Persephone hadn’t been overcome with the horror of the duke’s recent injuries—she would have rallied and refuted such an idea. But the description reminded her quite distinctly of the horrific sight of the local farrier being struck in the face as he bent to shoe one of their horses. The sound of bone cracking, the blood…good Lord, so much blood!

  “Persephone?” Cressida called to her.

  “Where’s your hartshorn, Cressida?” Phyllida demanded.

  “A moment,” she said, opening her reticule and handing it to Phyllida.

  Phyllida waved it under their friend’s nose.

  Persephone promptly straightened in her chair and blinked. “What?” Seeing the small vial in her friend’s hands, she sighed. “I was caught up in a memory,” she explained.

  “Of the duke?” Cressida wanted to know.

  She shook her head. “The farrier in Sussex…struck in the face by one of Father’s high-spirited horses when I was young.”

  “The face?” Phyllida asked.

  “The horse smashed his nose flat. Horrible sight, so much blood.”

  “Sounds like a ghastly memory, dearest,” Phyllida soothed. “Do you need the teapot freshened?”

  Persephone looked at her friends and reached out to grasp their hands. “No, but thank you for asking. I am sorry for letting a similar memory pull me from your company.”

  “Do you think they were arguing over a woman?” Cressida wanted to know.

  Persephone was aghast at the question. “Whatever makes you ask?”

  “Well, they were together. And after all we’ve heard of the elder brother—the fifth duke, what’s to say the two younger brothers cannot abide one another’s company?”

  Suddenly feeling as if their discussion had crossed a line into distinctly personal territory, Persephone suggested, “Perhaps we should speak of something else.”

  The sound of someone clearing their throat had the three looking guiltily toward the drawing room doorway.

  Persephone jumped to her feet. “Mother, we did not hear you enter.”

  “Or you wouldn’t have been discussing the duke in such a manner?”

  Caught in her mother’s crosshairs, she stared at her slippered feet. “We were just speaking of possible causes for the contretemps. Nothing more.”

  “And you three have no intention of repeating anything you’ve discussed—with anyone?” Lady Farnsworth asked.

  “Not a word, Mother,” Persephone promised.

  “Never, Lady Farnsworth,” Cressida stated emphatically.

  Phyllida crossed her heart. “You have my word, Lady Farnsworth.”

  “See to it you do not add to the duke’s considerable headache with your preposterous suggestions, adding yet one more angle to the on dit no doubt circulating through the ton this morning.”

  Three hours later, Ladies Cressida and Phyllida were overheard sharing their view on the unfortunate contretemps—as the incident at Gentleman Jackson’s establishment was being touted—as they shopped for ribbons and sundries on Bond Street.

  Chapter Seven

  “Milady?”

  Lady Hampton glanced toward her butler and then stared back into the flames licking the dry stack of wood in the library’s fireplace.

  “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “But milady—”

  “Unless you hold the key to bringing about the downfall of the present Duke of Wyndmere, I am not to be disturbed.”

  “Mayhap I can be of service,” a deep voice rumbled.

  Lady Hampton’s head snapped around. “Reginald, who is this person and why is he in my husband’s library?”

  “Hollingford at your service, Lady Hampton.”

  His bow was deep, his deference pleasing enough that she acquiesced.

  Her butler glared at the man. “I told you I’d see if her ladyship was receiving. Shall I remove him?”

  She stared into the pale eyes of the tall, well-dressed gentleman with the thin face and hawkish nose and wondered for a brief moment if he was there for an ill purpose. Mayhap to do her harm.

  A flash of memory sliced through her—good God, so much blood—she’d lost her lover and her husband a breath apart. What other harm could possibly affect her? She’d lost her position in society, tainted by the amorous attentions of the Fifth Duke of Wyndmere who had the unbridled gall to get shot in the back leaving her boudoir. Her husband reloaded his pistol, placed it to his temple and fired.

  She’d been reduced to a pariah, living off what little allowance her husband’s estate could produce. Sequestered in the country. She detested the brilliant sun, the clean fresh air, endless rolling green hills. The smell…she shuddered inwardly…she detested sheep almost as much as her surroundings.

  But the pittance from the estate had been her salvation and the only way to keep from ending up on Fleet Street. She decided whatever his attentions, noble or ill, she would hear the man out.

  Slipping the tips of her fingers beneath the plump pillow on her lap, she traced the outline of the dagger she kept at the ready. One could never be too careful after she’d been threatened by one of her husband’s more adamant debt collectors.

  “Don’t just stand there, take Mr. Hollingford’s hat and gloves.”

  “Your ladyship…it’s Viscount Hollingford.”

  “Take the viscount’s hat and gloves at once, Reginald.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.”

  The tall gentleman removed his hat and gloves and handed them to her butler.

  “Have tea prepared at once.”

  Her butler bowed and backed out of the room.


  “Not that I’m not delighted by the promise of the diversion of your visit, but why have you come?”

  “I understand you may have a quest similar to my own, Lady Hampton.”

  “And what might that be?” she asked.

  “We have a connection I wish to explore further.”

  “And I repeat, what quest?”

  “You lost your husband because of the Duke of Wyndmere.”

  She waited for him to continue, wondering where this conversation would lead. When he simply watched her, she prompted, “And?”

  “I lost my wife.”

  “To the duke?”

  He nodded.

  She was confused. “The Sixth—”

  “Fifth,” he corrected, waiting a beat before continuing. “I know the details of how your husband died. Mayhap you’d like to hear the details concerning my wife?”

  She shifted in her seat when her butler returned with the tea tray. “Set it on the table over there.” She waved at her servant and then ignored him until he asked if she wanted him to pour.

  “I do not,” she answered, through clenched teeth. “That is all.”

  When he finally left the room, closing the door behind him, she released the breath she held. “Finally. Now, where were we?”

  “I was going to tell you about my wife.”

  “I knew Oliver…er…the former Duke of Wyndmere was a bit heartless, but I never took him for a murderer. It must have been an accident.”

  “It was no accident, I assure you.”

  She poured their tea while her mind raced to consider all of the possible angles but could not come up with a reason for Oliver to have killed the viscount’s wife. She handed him his cup and reached for hers.

  “When the duke’s attentions were diverted from my wife,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “to you, my wife fell into a deep decline.”

  She had no idea what to say, how to respond without giving away more than she felt the viscount needed to know. Did the viscount blame her? “I do not see—”

  “She flung herself from the tower room,” he told her. “Broke every bone in her body.”