Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  “We had an inklin’ ye needed us for more than fillin’ out the impressive uniforms Yer Grace’s footmen have always worn.”

  The duke smiled and told them, “My mother dearly loved lending her good opinion regarding the design of our staff’s uniforms,” the duke admitted. “You are correct. I need you for more than that. I will require each of you to give your word that although you may listen to gossip and innuendo reporting such back to Coventry, no one shall ever partake in any where it concerns my family.”

  As one, the O’Malleys gave their word. The tightest knot in his midsection loosened. “Any questions?”

  The group looked at one another and then the duke, with Patrick answering for them. “No, Yer Grace.”

  A knock on his study door interrupted him. “Yes, Jenkins?”

  His butler stepped into the room. “Urgent message for you, Your Grace.” He handed the duke a sealed envelope.

  “Thank you, Jenkins.”

  When his butler continued to stand at the ready, he asked, “Was there something more?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, the messenger was told to wait for your reply.”

  “Coventry, would you please go over the special duties we discussed with the men?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. Gentlemen, if you would follow me to the rear parlor, we can speak privately there.”

  The duke was mumbling to himself as Jenkins held the door for the group, advising he’d be waiting outside for the duke’s reply.

  Breaking the wax seal, he read the note—twice, before a reaction set in. “Bloody hell!” He read the note again:

  If Your Grace continues to go about in society, acting as if nothing untoward has occurred, then I shall be forced to tell the whole of society of your perfidiousness.

  Lady H.

  “Jenkins!”

  His butler rushed into the duke’s study. “Your Grace?”

  “Where is the messenger?”

  “In the entryway, waiting for your reply.”

  Jared wanted to lash out with the temper raging inside of him. He dare not give in to the dark emotions swirling inside of him when he’d worked so hard to clear the stain blotting his family’s name. To be accused of something now, and only God in heaven knew what it might be, was not to be borne.

  “I will get to the bottom of this.” He strode to the door, Jenkins following in his wake.

  “You there!” The duke walked determinedly toward the thin man in a dark brown coat that had once been of good quality. The duke paused to collect himself and tamp down on his temper.

  The man stood straighter, obviously waiting for the duke’s reply, despite the dark look on the duke’s face.

  “If it please, Your Grace,” the man began in even tones, “I will take your reply to her ladyship at once.”

  Jared was about to demand the messenger tell him who the devil Lady H. was but realized, as always, they were not alone. Good God, he hadn’t been since his brother put paid to his own account. He sighed. “I need to have a word first.”

  The messenger nodded.

  “Show this man to my study, Jenkins. I shall be along directly.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  He watched Jenkins and the messenger walk away. There was something about the state of the man’s dress that indicated he had fallen on hard times, while at the same time suggested he could not possibly be in the lady’s employ. The man would have been dressed more appropriately. He knew at least that much after paying attention to all and sundry about him in the ducal town house.

  Jared sought out Coventry, who was still going over duties with his new footmen. “A matter of import, Coventry,” he said quietly.

  Coventry hesitated. “Shall we begin as we mean to go on, Your Grace?”

  Jared locked gazes with Coventry and realized what his man-of-affairs was hinting at but not saying. “Yes, of course. Patrick and Sean follow me. Coventry if you would—”

  “Stay here and wait for a report from Sean or Patrick,” he finished for the duke, “of course.”

  As they walked to his study, the duke briefly told his footmen a messenger had arrived with an urgent message from a Lady H. whom he did not know. “I wish for one of you to accompany the messenger to ensure my message reaches Lady H.” Whoever the devil she may be, he silently added.

  “Ah, Jenkins,” he said, entering the room. “I see you have anticipated my request and waited.”

  He turned to the messenger, whose gaze darted about the room as if noting routes of escape should such be necessary. “I seem to have a bit of a conundrum, as I have no idea who Lady H. is.” While the messenger digested that bit of information, Jared added, “In order to respond, I must know to whom I am responding.”

  The messenger shook his head. “I cannot tell you.”

  The duke drew in a deep breath in a bid to remain calm. “Cannot or will not?” he ground out.

  The man shifted from foot to foot. “I cannot, Your Grace. I run a messenger service, we do a bit of business now and again in Mayfair, more often than not, in Cheapside.”

  “I see,” the duke said with a quick glance to his footmen to see what they were making of this odd conversation. “Then you do not know who the Lady H. might be.”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “How then were you to deliver my response?” he demanded, finding it harder to control the bubbling acid of his formidable temper.

  “I was to wait at Kings Tavern for the man who’d given me the first message.”

  “Indeed. My footmen, Patrick and Sean, will accompany you with my message to the tavern.”

  The man looked agitated when he rasped, “I won’t get paid if I do not come back with your message—alone.”

  Jared once again noted the well-worn collar and cuffs of the man’s coat. A glance at the man’s boots took him aback. The man had either served in His Majesty’s military—or had stolen them from someone who had. “Where did you get those boots?”

  The man straightened. “My late father, Baronet Wellsley, purchased my commission, saw me outfitted properly with my regiment, Your Grace.”

  “You’d best be telling the truth. What is your name?”

  “Styles, Your Grace. Cannot lie, my face turns bright red.”

  The ease with which the man confessed convinced the duke that the man was telling the truth. “Patrick? Sean? Accompany Styles to the nearest crossroad by Kings Tavern.” Turning back to the messenger he said, “That should ensure you receive full payment for your services.”

  Still, the man hesitated. “What if I’m being observed as I arrive? Your footmen will stand out if they are seen walking toward the tavern with me.”

  He thought about the situation and decided on a bold move. “My men shall don their regular clothing.” He turned toward them. “Agreed?”

  When they nodded, the duke added, “They will go as far as the nearest crossroad and wait for you to leave the tavern. See to it you leave directly after your contact.”

  The man agreed. “Thank you, Your Grace. My father knew the fourth duke—your father. Always told me how he championed those in service to the Crown.”

  Jared nodded. “It was his greatest wish to see all those who’d served England receive the medical care they needed along with the pay they were owed. Thank you for telling me, Styles.”

  “Shall I wait in the entryway while you write your message?”

  The duke nodded, then turned to his men. “Sean, accompany Styles, will you? Patrick, a word?”

  Jared waited for the men to leave before walking over to his desk and penning a quick note. “See that Styles gets this message.” After handing it to Patrick, he penned a second note. “And see that Lady H. receives this message from your hand.”

  “Aye, Yer Grace.”

  After the cousins changed out of their ducal uniforms, the three men left. The duke returned to Coventry, pleased the newly-hired footmen had been apprised of their duties and were stationed at key points guarding the
household.

  “Do you need reinforcements to follow along behind them?” Coventry asked.

  Jared sighed. “Not quite certain, but it would not hurt if you were to make your way over to the Kings Tavern in Cheapside.”

  “At once.”

  “Oh, and Coventry?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “I would hear your report together with Sean and Patrick’s.”

  “Of course.” His longtime friend quit the room, leaving him with his troubled thoughts. Who was Lady H. and what incident was she referring to?

  *

  “We’ll be waitin’ here for ye, Styles,” Patrick told him.

  “I’ll follow along as close behind my contact as I can.” With that, the man loped down the street to the tavern and disappeared inside.

  “Do ye sense more is afoot than he told us?” Sean wanted to know.

  Patrick shrugged. “Well now, we’d best not be tryin’ to guess. We’ll wait and find out.”

  Sean sighed and Patrick added, “The man seemed honest to me. I’m wonderin’ if he only knows half the story…not the whole of it.”

  Sean frowned and stared at the door to the tavern. “Ye might be right.”

  A quarter-hour later, a tall man dressed to the nines strolled out of the front door. From his top hat to his highly polished Hessians, the man reeked of wealth and privilege. Sean nudged, his cousin. “There’s our man.”

  Patrick knew immediately who his cousin meant. “The tall one, with the gold-tipped walkin’ stick.”

  “Aye,” Sean agreed. “Bet he’s got a blade hidden inside it.”

  “Might be good with his fists,” Patrick said. “Are ye ready if we need to fight?”

  Sean grinned in answer.

  A few minutes later, Styles came out of the front door with a panicked look on his face. He looked from the left to the right and then slowly began walking.

  “Doesn’t know where the man is from or where he’s goin’,” Sean said.

  “Aye, but we know which direction the man went in. I’ll follow him and deliver the message the duke entrusted to me.”

  “I’ll be asking our man Styles a few questions,” Sean said. “Meet me back here!” Sean called out, chasing after Styles. “Don’t be waiting if I’m not here when ye return.”

  Patrick nodded. “I’ll be meetin’ ye at the duke’s town house if ye’re not here when I get back.” He waved a hand over his head without breaking his stride. He still had sight of their quarry but needed to catch up else he’d lose him in the crowded streets of London.

  He wasn’t surprised when the man hailed a shiny new well-sprung coach and four. The sleek black carriage was pulled by four perfectly matched dapple grays. From the way the coachman dealt with the reins, they’d been waiting long enough.

  “Should’ve driven around the block a time or two. Poor beasts need to keep movin’, not standin’ still,” Patrick mumbled to himself. “Too dangerous.” He glanced at the crowded streets.

  The man waited for the footman to open the carriage door. He alighted and sat facing front, never acknowledging the man or the duty he performed. Not all the quality did, Patrick admitted. There had been a time or two over the years when he’d received a brief word of thanks for the everyday jobs he’d done.

  Mostly the payment received was to be his employer’s form of thanks. Couldn’t change what was as his ma would remind him.

  He stepped up the pace, keeping the carriage in sight as it wound its way through the streets. For once, Patrick was grateful for the overcrowded town. The carriage slowed down as the driver negotiated a sharp turn and headed back in the direction of Grosvenor Square, but turned onto a side street with well-kept, but smallish homes.

  Once again, the man inside the coach waited for the door to be opened, and his servant to bow.

  “Used to bein’ treated like a bloody king, that one,” Patrick grumbled. It wasn’t often he harbored unkind thoughts. Whenever it happened, he was immediately sorry—and guilty. “’Tis grateful I am to be servin’ a man worthy of his title. Never imagined himself hirin’ on all of me kin.”

  He waited for the man to enter the home, thinking he’d only be waiting for the time it took to deliver a message. Two hours later, the man finally emerged, straightening his cravat and wiping his lips with a pressed linen square.

  “Interestin’.” The man drove off and Patrick wished he and his cousin had been able to stay together, but felt they’d done the right thing splitting up.

  Reaching into his pocket, he stared down at the thick vellum envelope, turned it over to make certain the red wax seal was still in place. Head up, stride purposeful, he walked to the front door and knocked.

  The servant who answered tried to look down his nose at Patrick, but the man was a foot shorter and couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “I’ve an urgent message for her ladyship.” He’d decided not to refer to her as Lady H. until he was shown inside.

  “Her ladyship is not receiving.”

  “I’ve an urgent message for her ladyship,” he repeated, frowning down at the butler.

  The man shifted from foot to foot. Good. He’d made the man nervous. He’d be more apt to deliver the note from the duke.

  The butler opened the door, admitting Patrick. “Wait here.”

  “Aye,” he answered as cheerfully as possible. The man looked over his shoulder and shook his head but kept going toward what must be the salon.

  “I’m not receiving,” the shrill reply could be heard where Patrick stood in the entryway.

  “Lovely,” he muttered, trying to hear the discussion punctuated by sharp words. Before he could decide whether or not to go against what was proper and force his way in to deliver the duke’s message, the butler returned advising her ladyship would see him now.

  He followed the servant, taking note of the fine paintings on the walls, and the furniture gracing the rooms they passed. Though small, the house was well apportioned and filled with costly furniture.

  The servant knocked and the impatient response had Patrick wondering what kind of shrew the man worked for. Grateful yet again to be employed by the Duke of Wyndmere. The shrill reply to enter was anything but welcoming. They entered and he bowed. “Yer ladyship,” he said. “I’ve an urgent message for ye.”

  The woman’s classical beauty commanded Patrick’s full attention. A vision from head to toe, and then he noticed the look of utter disdain belying the perfect curve of her cheek and tilt of her lips.

  Taking his measure from the top of his head to the toes of his boots, she sneered. He felt like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe when she said, “If Viscount Hollingford thinks I’ll change my mind—”

  The way she stared at him as if she had no use for him, as if he were far beneath her notice, unnerved him. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” he interrupted, “but this is from the Duke of Wyndmere.”

  Her hand froze at the base of her throat.

  Patrick had no idea why the mere mention of the duke’s name caused such a reaction, but was glad for it. The woman’s mien had a distinct effect on him. He couldn’t wait to leave.

  “If I may, yer ladyship?” He walked toward her and handed her the note, wax seal side up so the woman could inspect it to see he hadn’t opened it or tampered with it.

  “Wait while I read this,” she bit out. “The duke may require a response.”

  Patrick had no idea what the duke wanted. He hadn’t asked, and duke hadn’t said.

  At her sharply indrawn breath, he shifted from one foot to the other. At the look of sheer terror on the woman’s face, his need to leave trebled. Whatever the duke had written had a definite effect on the woman.

  Unnerved, he asked, “Do ye have a reply, yer ladyship?”

  She rose from the pink and white striped lady’s chair and paced back and forth in front of him. Finally, she stopped. “There is no reply.”

  The butler answered yet another summons from the front do
or, saying quite clearly, “Lady Hampton is not receiving!”

  “Are ye certain ye have no message?” he repeated. The duke needed to know of his discovery—the mysterious lady’s name.

  “Yes,” she said, with her back to him.

  He bowed and took his leave, practically running to get away from the stifling home to step outside where he could draw in a deep breath of much needed air. He’d stopped at the crossroads, but there was no sign of his cousin. As agreed, they’d meet at the duke’s town house.

  *

  Jenkins spotted him at once. “Have you brought news?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “His Grace is in the library.”

  “Thank ye, Jenkins.”

  The older man smiled. “I hope you’ve brought good news.”

  “As do I,” Patrick said, following along behind Jenkins.

  “Patrick has returned, Your Grace.”

  “Show him in, Jenkins.”

  The duke stood and met Patrick halfway. “What news?”

  “We noticed a well-dressed man come out of the tavern before Styles.” The duke listened without asking questions, so Patrick continued. “Styles was lookin’ agitated when he stepped outside—he hadn’t been before. Me cousin and I decided to split company. I’d follow along behind the gent and Sean would be goin’ after Styles.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “I followed the man. He hailed a smart-lookin’ coach and four—beautiful dapple grays, they were,” Patrick added.

  The duke waited and he finished. “I waited until he left…took a bit of time. Two hours at least and the man was straightenin’ his cravat and wipin’ his face with a linen square. I waited out of sight and then knocked on the door and played me part.”

  “And,” the duke urged, impatience sparking in his bright blue eyes.

  “Her ladyship has a shrill voice and treats her butler abominably. She read yer message and her only reaction was a sharply indrawn breath and a look of sheer terror.”

  “No reply?”

  “None, Yer Grace.” Patrick paused before adding, “The butler answered another summons at the front door and quite loudly declared that Lady Hampton was not receivin’. At least now, we be knowin’ her name, Yer Grace.”