Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  “Do you expect me to pay for the sins of my—” she paused to clear her throat, and continued, “the duke?”

  He sat back, watching her closely as he sipped from his cup.

  She felt distinctly uncomfortable given the directness of his light gray gaze.

  When he finished his tea, he held out his cup for more. “If you don’t mind,” he said.

  Lady Hampton refilled his cup and set it on the table in front of him.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said, watching her closely, as if waiting for a reaction.

  “A poor choice of words, my lord.”

  The light of amusement in his eyes was more than disturbing. “Forgive me, Lady Hampton, I meant no insult.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his apology and waited for him to continue.

  “I need your assistance bringing about the ruination of the Duke of Wyndmere.”

  “Oliver’s dead.”

  “Long live the new duke.”

  “He didn’t have anything to do with your…our…”

  “The sixth duke is a blood relative, Lady Hampton. Vengeance must be mine.”

  She stared at him for long moments before smiling. “Won’t you join me for a light supper, milord?”

  His eyes gleamed. “It would give me great pleasure.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Your Grace,” Jenkins bowed and waited for the duke to acknowledge him.

  The duke hated to be interrupted, but knew if he didn’t answer his butler, the man would stand for an hour in the same spot until he did. He’d watched his older brother treat Jenkins in such a manner, vowing to change it someday if he could. He never thought he’d have the opportunity.

  “Yes, what is it Jenkins?”

  “Someone to see you.”

  He had no desire to accept callers until his hideous injury had healed completely. Truth be told, he didn’t give a fig what anyone thought, but knew his father had been circumspect in all things. Appearances mattered when one was a duke. Then again, so did one’s duty. Blast, he could not have it both ways.

  His face was no longer swollen. If he stared at the end of his nose, crossing his eyes, he noted the sunburst of color had softened to a rather ghastly shade of yellowish-green. He thought of Lady Persephone and smiled. His nose was the exact shade of the ballgown she’d worn to the Hollisters’ ball a fortnight ago.

  “I am not receiving callers—”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Jenkins intoned, “it’s Captain Coventry.”

  “Ah,” his London man-of-affairs. “Send him in and summon Mrs. Wigglesworth.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Dash it all! Would he ever get used to being Your Graced? His sigh was long and deep. He thought not.

  A few moments later, Jenkins announced his man-of-affairs and Coventry strode into the room. “Your Grace,” he bowed. “I have news that could not wait.”

  The duke stood and walked around his massive desk, holding out his hand. When Coventry stared at his hand and shook his head, the duke reared back.

  “I mean no offense, Your Grace,” Coventry said. “Is it common practice for a duke to offer his hand to a former captain in the Royal Navy?”

  The duke smiled. “Damned if I know. We used to greet one another that way.”

  Coventry’s slight smile drew the duke’s attention to the man’s black eye patch and matching sling that cradled the former naval officer’s useless arm. Jared admired the man for his service to their country and accepting his sacrifice—the loss of an eye and use of one arm, as his duty.

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  “Should you be asking a person of my station that question?”

  The duke threw back his head and laughed. Good God, he hadn’t laughed since before his brother’s funeral. “Your wit is sharp enough to slice a man to ribbons.”

  Coventry grinned. “Aye, but you are not most men.”

  The duke motioned for the man to sit and ended up acquiescing, sitting before Coventry. “Now, what news have you?”

  A knock on the door to his study had them both turning toward the sound.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, Jenkins said you wanted to see me.”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Wigglesworth,” the duke replied. “Be so good as to bring tea for Captain Coventry and me.”

  “At once, Your Grace.”

  When she closed the door behind her, Coventry chuckled. “Thought she might refuse for a moment there.”

  Jared shook his head. “She’s been with the family all my life. Used to let us call her Mrs. Wiggy when we were children.” Now why had he said that?

  Instead of calling attention to the fact their conversation had taken a more personal turn to what it would have been a few years earlier before he’d stepped into his brother’s shoes, Coventry merely nodded, remaining silent.

  “Does the news have anything to do with my brother?”

  The man sitting across from him eased back into the leather chair. Keeping his gaze level with the duke’s, he answered, “It may, and it may not.”

  “Bloody difficult answer. Whatever it is brought you here today instead of sending a message around.”

  “Not the kind of thing one would want to commit to paper—messages have a way of being diverted into the wrong hands.”

  Jared squared his shoulders, bracing himself for whatever his man-of-affairs had to say. “Let’s have it, Coventry.”

  “I have it on good authority—” he began when a knock sounded on the door to the study a second time.

  Mrs. Wigglesworth entered, followed by one servant bearing the tea tray and another laden with sandwiches, tarts, scones, and cakes.

  Jared stared at the Ormolu clock on the wall and then his housekeeper. “I have to ask, Mrs. Wigglesworth, how did you prepare the tea so quickly?”

  She beamed at him. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He shook his head at her. “Are you refusing to answer my question?”

  She laid out the light repast she’d prepared for the duke and his man-of-affairs. “There now, shall I pour?”

  “Mrs. Wigglesworth!”

  She turned to stare at him. “Your Grace? Have I done something wrong?”

  Jared saw the worry furrowing her brow and sought to ease her distress. This was the woman who’d hugged them when they were small, fed them tea and currant cakes. Bathed their faces when they were ill…and on too many other occasions to recall.

  “Not a thing, Mrs. Wiggy.”

  Her round face flushed, but he couldn’t tell if it was delight or embarrassment.

  He cleared his throat. “A compliment, then, Mrs. Wigglesworth, for the great care and attention you demonstrate on every occasion. If you don’t mind, please do pour.”

  With an economy of movement, his housekeeper served them tea and filled two plates each—one with sandwiches, one with sweets.

  She curtseyed and quit the room, but not before he noticed a sheen of moisture in her light brown eyes. He’d speak with her and Jenkins later. Something was amiss in his household. It was his duty to get to the bottom of it. His father always knew what was happening in their household…whether it be their London residence, or one of their country estates. No matter how trivial the matter seemed to Jared and his brothers, their father took care to handle matters swiftly and with a fair mind.

  “A bit of intrigue under this roof as well?” Coventry asked. “And not just how the ever-efficient Mrs. Wigglesworth had the tea prepared so promptly.”

  “I intend to get the bottom of both questions,” the duke replied. He paused to sip from his cup and set it on the table. “Now then, to your news.”

  Coventry set his tea aside and locked gazes with the duke. “There’s been talk of your brother—”

  The duke interrupted, saying, “I’ve already spoken to the earl about his penchant for following in Oliver’s footsteps.”

  Coventry waited for the duke to finish before contin
uing. “This has to do with the fifth duke.”

  Jared froze with a berry tart to his lips. He set it back on the plate, put it on the table and stared. “The dead one?”

  Coventry’s lips twitched at the question, but he did not smile. “Aye.”

  “What could anyone possibly gain by discussing Oliver?”

  “That remains to be seen, Your Grace.”

  “Dash it all, Coventry! You’ve called me by my given name for a decade.”

  “That was then…” Coventry began.

  “When we are closeted together as we are, cease Your Gracing me.”

  Coventry couldn’t hold back his smile this time. “As you wish.”

  The duke picked up the tart from his dish and, without preamble, tossed it in his mouth, chewed and sighed. “Thank God, you and I can act as we used to. Being a duke is bloody inconvenient. So many rules, protocol.”

  When he was reaching for another tart, Coventry agreed. “I was surprised you’d engaged me as your man-of-affairs.”

  Jared lifted his teacup carefully from the saucer and sipped. “Would you have come to London otherwise?”

  Coventry shrugged. “Mayhap we should discuss your brother first.”

  Unease settled upon his shoulders, pressing down on him. Jared agreed. “Tell me what you have heard and where.”

  “I was at White’s earlier and heard mention of one of your brother’s…er—”

  “Conquests?”

  Coventry nodded. “Apparently when the fifth duke’s attentions were diverted elsewhere, the lady threw herself from the tower room of their country estate.”

  Jared sat back. “This is the third lady, the third tale in a sennight, Coventry.” The duke rose and walked to the long narrow table off to the side. “Whiskey?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Jared poured a small measure into the crystal glass and drank it down in one swallow. He carefully set the glass next to the decanter and walked back to his seat. “Do you credit this tale as well?”

  “I’ve been investigating the veracity. By all counts, the sad event did occur.”

  “The lady’s name?” Jared asked.

  “Lady Hollingford. Apparently, a raven-haired beauty, accounted as one of last Season’s Incomparables.”

  “Married before the Season ended?” Jared needed to keep his frustration in check.

  “Aye.”

  “Her first Season?”

  “Aye.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Your father, great man that he was, always sought to remind me men are responsible for their own actions, not the actions of others.”

  Jared lifted his weary gaze to that of his longtime friend and advisor. “You no doubt disagreed.”

  Coventry didn’t say anything for long moments. “I never disagreed with your father,” he told Jared. “But I did point out those of us in service to the Crown are especially responsible for the actions of others.”

  Jared had to ask, “What was my father’s response?”

  Coventry stared past Jared as if he’d returned to that long-ago conversation. “I had the right of it and was a smart lad and would do well as part of his staff.”

  Jared knew Coventry wasn’t a lad when his father had hired him on. He’d been in the Royal Navy and wounded at the Battle of Trafalgar ten years earlier. His father had met Coventry during one of the fourth duke’s many trips to the infirmaries—his father sought to change the conditions facing those wounded in the military after they’d returned.

  His father had been so taken with the young seaman’s bravery and service, in light of his devastating injuries, he’d sent the man to Wyndmere Hall to recover. Jared remembered his father summoning him to his study and explaining what he expected of his second son.

  You will read to Gordon, Captain Coventry, while he regains his strength. When he does, you will see he exercises one of the horses in our stables—twice daily. And do not go anywhere without Coventry. Understood?

  Jared understood the first part of what his father asked, but not the second. Knowing better than to argue, he waited to ask Coventry why he was receiving such restrictions to his formerly unencumbered activities. He would not dare ask his father.

  “No one ever questioned my father.”

  Coventry inclined his head in agreement. “He was the duke.”

  “Owing to my brother’s behavior while holding on to that much exalted title, it would appear not all dukes were deserving of such preferential treatment.”

  “Aye,” Coventry said. “How would you like this matter handled?”

  Jared thought about what he’d learned. Would his father have acted swiftly, routing out the person and demanding the information he sought? Or would his father have craftily extracted the answers using other means?

  “Obviously you’ve had to handle such matters before, when father was alive and my brother was frequenting gaming hells, stews, and such instead of taking over management of Wyndmere Hall and our other estates as my father requested.”

  “I’ve watched you work alongside the tenant farmers at Wyndmere Hall, tending to their fields, digging irrigation trenches for those fields, adding new thatching to their homes,” Coventry said in a low voice. “But I’d never seen the fifth duke do anything other than seek to appease his appetites—which were varied and given to excess.”

  Jared didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t been cut from the same cloth as his older brother. They were alike in looks alone. As were all of the Lippincotts—dark wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. His father’s pointed stare could drill holes through a man’s heart, if the man were not careful to follow the letter of his father’s law.

  He missed his father quite dreadfully.

  “My brother was raised to follow father’s footsteps and assume the mantle of duke when our father died. He was treated with deference by our servants and tenant farmers all his life. But never once did he stop to give aid or solace when it was so obviously needed.”

  “But you did,” his friend reminded him.

  “I enjoyed digging trenches and climbing ladders to lay thatch.”

  “I did, as well,” Coventry said, “before my father bought a commission for me in the Royal Navy.”

  “You never left my side once you were back on your feet.”

  “It was my job,” Coventry said.

  “Aye,” the duke agreed, “to keep me from following down the path Oliver took to ruination. But it wasn’t your job to befriend me and handle the staid side of the estate’s management while I had all of the fun.”

  “As I was unable to aid you planting fields or climbing up on those ladders, it behooved me to keep track of what your tenants needed by recording it for you.”

  Jared knew there was more to it. “You more than repaid Father for hiring you on.”

  “Taking me in.”

  Jared met Coventry’s gaze. “You always did as he asked—without question and gave back more than was expected of you.”

  Coventry looked away and Jared allowed his friend to regain his composure before speaking.

  “I greatly admired your father,” Coventry said. “He treated me as if I had worth and wasn’t another broken sailor home from battle…one to be pitied before being tossed aside.”

  “I intend to carry on what my father started, campaigning for military reforms in the House of Lords.”

  Coventry nodded. “As I said before, you do your father proud.”

  “We’ve strayed from our topic of what brought you here today,” Jared reminded him. “What would you have me do?”

  Coventry told him, “Watch your back.”

  Jared needed to take a more active part in the matter. “And?”

  “That is what your father would have me do.”

  “Ah, but I am not my father, now am I?”

  Coventry’s lips twitched again as he fought not to smile. “No. You are not.”

  “What action will you be taking?” Jared asked, hoping to get more
of an answer from his man-of-affairs.

  “As you know, I have three men working with me.”

  Jared nodded.

  “I may require a few more.”

  “Whatever you need,” he told his friend. “Whatever it takes to protect my family.”

  “If I may be so bold…” Coventry began.

  “Of course.”

  “Lady Phoebe would benefit from a companion, as she is too old to require a governess, and you have yet to choose a wife.”

  Jared nearly choked on the scone he’d just taken a bite of. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  Coventry rose to his feet. “Not necessary, Your Grace.”

  “Bloody hell, are we back to that again?”

  The sound of footsteps crossing the entryway to answer the front door had them both realizing they were. Jared rose. “Hire as many men as you deem necessary. Would anyone currently on my staff do?”

  Coventry paused to consider the idea. “With your permission I’d like to interview a few of your footmen.”

  Jared nodded.

  This time, when Jared held out his hand, Coventry took it in the one he still had use of, grasping it firmly. “You are a credit to the family name.”

  Jared felt one of the knots in his chest loosen. “I aim to restore the good name my father engendered.”

  “I have no doubt you will succeed—with or without my assistance.”

  “I would rather have your help in this matter.”

  “You shall. I’ll send word around tomorrow as to the additions to your investigative staff. Will you be attending the Chellenham ball?”

  “I had intended to, before the debacle at Gentleman Jackson’s.”

  “I chanced to overhead your father admonishing your brother after they’d attended a ball together that there is more to a woman than the cut of her gown—or the way she fills it out.”

  They were both chuckling as Jared opened his study door. “Jenkins.” He hadn’t expected to see his butler there.

  “Your pardon, Your Grace.” He handed Jared a calling card. “Lady Farnsworth would like to speak to you.”

  Accepting the card, he inclined his head. “Have her seated in the front salon.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  He waited until he’d heard Jenkins escort Lady Farnsworth into the salon before leaving the study, walking his friend to the front door and seeing him off. “I shall expect to hear from you on the morrow.”