‘Welcome, Rachel my dear.’ A lady who was obviously Deborah Murray, the duke’s sister and Rachel’s oldest friend, ran lightly down the steps and the two of them embraced. Deborah glanced at Brione and a momentary frown creased her brow. Since Brione had yet to open her mouth, she wondered what she had done to cause offence. ‘You have a new maid, I see.’ Brione dutifully bobbed a curtsey, which Lady Murray ignored. ‘Glanville will show her to the servants’ quarters. Come, I am sure you are gasping for a cup of tea after so long on the road.’
‘Actually, Deborah, Brione is my new companion.’
‘Oh, I see. Well…’
‘No, ma’am,’ Brione said firmly, scowling at Rachel. ‘This week, I am your maid.’
‘This way,’ Glanville, who was presumably the butler, told Brione, frowning because she’d had the temerity to contradict her mistress. It was immediately evident to Brione that Lady Murray had no intention of treating her as an equal. That was what Brione wanted, but the rebellious side of her character despised the woman’s impoliteness. She had already decided that Lady Murray was as self-aware as her brother and wondered how Rachel, who didn’t have a pretentious bone in her body, could have taken such a woman as a friend.
Glanville subjected Brione to an exacting scrutiny that was insulting, somehow managing to look down his nose at her at the same time. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Miss Carvell,’ Brione replied, reverting to her maiden name as she followed Glanville into the castle, wondering what answers she would find inside its thick walls.
Chapter Two
‘There’s going to be another fight,’ Adrian Vaughan said as he leaned back in his chair and propped his booted feet on a stool. He sipped at the fine cognac that Troy Erskine had just poured for him. ‘No help for it. Damned irresponsible to let Napoleon escape, if you ask me. Which no one did. Sorry,’ he added, looking away quickly when he noticed Troy’s expression close down. ‘You still think someone on our side helped the little Frog, and it must rankle. But I don’t suppose you’d tell me, even though I’m sure you must have a good idea who it was.’
‘I know as much as you do,’ Troy replied, sipping his own drink and frowning. ‘But I do agree, Napoleon’s going to have to be put in his place once and for all this time.’
‘You’d think we’d have had enough of war on both sides of the Channel. What is it about the little squirt that inspires such loyalty?’
‘Injured French pride, I imagine.’ Troy flapped a hand. ‘Damned if I know.’
‘Should we be here, enjoying ourselves at your sister’s party and looking forward to the race, while the world’s gearing itself up for another war?’
Troy shrugged. He wasn’t ready to tell his former adjutant that he was still working for the government, attempting to discover the identity of the traitor within their ranks. ‘Not much we can do until we’re called back to arms.’
‘Even so.’
‘What are you two complaining about?’ Deborah Murray asked, sailing into the room and waving Vaughan back to his seat when he made to stand. Deborah had taken it upon herself to see them both married off to women whom she deemed suitable. So far, they had resisted all her efforts, and the house party that coincided with the race was the last opportunity she would have for a while to achieve her objective.
This year Troy had compelling reasons to ensure that his officers would be in attendance. One of them was a turncoat, and he had been charged with discovering the traitor’s identity before more damage could be done in the current delicate political climate. Troy ground his jaw in suppressed anger and frustration. Thus far, all his efforts to trap the man had failed and he was now unsure what other stratagems there were left to employ. Rumour had it that Evan Gilliard was the guilty party. Troy hadn’t had much time for the man and didn’t approve of some aspects of his behaviour, but he also found it a little too convenient that the rumours had only begun circulating after his death.
Presumably they had been started by the true culprit.
‘Vaughan and I were attempting to come up with ways to avoid the bevy of beauties you have no doubt lined up for our inspection,’ Troy told her.
‘Oh, that.’ Deborah flapped a hand. ‘You never show any interest, no matter whom I invite, so I don’t see what you have to complain about. You have become adept at avoiding them all. You spend all your time talking about horses and generally do precisely as you please. I am starting to despair of ever seeing either of you settled.’
‘But you have not given up, one assumes,’ Troy said, rolling his eyes.
‘I shall never give up,’ Deborah replied indignantly. ‘I am your big sister, Troy Erskine—and in case you have forgotten, you are a duke with a responsibility to ensure the continuation of the family line.’
Troy laughed and shook his head. ‘If I do ever forget, I can depend upon you to remind me.’
‘You can indeed. And the same applies to you, Adrian. Your family has expectations too.’
Vaughan’s expression closed down. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘They have given up on me, one imagines. I sincerely hope so, anyway.’
She blew air through her lips and appeared to be fighting a smile. Troy thought he sometimes noticed passing regret in Deb’s expression when Troy’s adjutant gently teased her, as he frequently did. But Deb had married Murray; a perfectly decent if unexciting chap, and oh so suitable. Suitability mattered to Deb more than anything else. ‘Why you are so stubborn, the pair of you, is a mystery,’ she said.
‘Unlike this disobliging oaf,’ Vaughan said, grinning as he pointed a finger at Troy, ‘I am not my father’s heir, so I have no expectations resting on my shoulders and can do as I please.’
‘Gloating doesn’t become you,’ Troy said, scowling.
‘Who have you got lined up for us this year?’ Vaughan asked, stretching up his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head. ‘Carriages have been arriving all day, so I assume there are a dozen single females at the very least.’
‘Of course there are. I have gone to considerable trouble to find the prettiest and most obliging girls with impeccable pedigrees, much thanks I get for it.’
‘You make them sound like horses,’ Troy complained.
‘You would take considerably more interest in them if they were.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Vaughan replied on behalf of them both.
‘Stop being difficult. You know as well as I do that these things are important, and I depend upon you to be polite to them all.’
‘Careful.’ A slight note of warning had entered Troy’s tone. ‘I am happy for you to have your annual fun, Deb, but don’t accuse me of being impolite to your guests, because I won’t stand for it.’
‘Impolite is too harsh, I suppose,’ Deborah replied, ‘but you do go out of your way to avoid them, Troy. You cannot deny it.’
‘I have told you more often than I can recall that I will find my own wife in my own time,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘I indulge you with this party and you take advantage because you know my friends will be drawn by the prospect of the race. That’s all fine and good, but don’t press me too hard.’
Deborah used the sound of yet more wheels on gravel as an excuse to look out of the window. ‘Ah, that’s Rachel’s carriage,’ she said. ‘I shall go and greet her in person. It is too long since I last saw her.’
‘I’m surprised Mrs Woodley came,’ Vaughan said, after Deborah had left the room. ‘She was distraught, inconsolable when her husband lost his life.’
‘She and Deb are close friends. I presume that’s what persuaded her to turn out.’
Troy stood up and strolled to the window, watching as a maid garbed in black left the carriage behind her mistress and was whisked away by Glanville to the servants’ entrance. Troy really didn’t understand why his sister felt it so necessary to stand on ceremony. The girl had just travelled a long distance in the company of her mistress, and the world wouldn’t stop turning if she was permitted t
o enter the castle through the front door. It was one of the many areas in which he and Deb would never agree. Deb was such a stickler for maintaining appearances.
The girl glanced towards Troy’s library window as she followed Glanville to the side of the castle. Troy inhaled sharply, thinking her delicate features, even viewed from a distance and partly obscured by the brim of her bonnet, were a thing of quite exquisite beauty. The girl paused and Troy was convinced that she had seen him, even though he stood to one side of the window, out of her direct line of sight. Glanville turned to say something to her and she carried on walking.
‘Come on,’ he said to both Vaughan and his wolfhound, Shadow, who was dozing in front of the fire. ‘Let’s go for a ride before we’re obliged to do the pretty.’
Shadow barked and wagged his tail. Vaughan laughed.
‘You really are feeling doomed, aren’t you?’
Troy didn’t respond, wondering about his unsettled frame of mind, unable to understand it. At thirty, he’d been fending off the unwanted attentions of females for over a decade. But his sixth sense told him that this year things would be different. He tried to shake off his unease, attributing it to his preoccupation with the traitor and his duty to uncover his identity.
As he mounted his spirited black stallion, Omega, whom he was confident would win this year’s race, his thoughts turned to the pretty maid he’d caught a glimpse of. He’d never seen her before, he was sure of at least that much. Hers was not the sort of face a man would easily forget, despite the fact that she was a servant and unlike others of his class, he didn’t take advantage of his domestic help. He hadn’t seen this particular woman at close quarters, but he was convinced that their paths were destined to cross, and when they did the normal rules of conduct wouldn’t apply.
He spurred Omega into a gallop as soon as they cleared the stable yard, wondering if he was losing his senses.
Brione followed Glanville through a series of corridors in which they encountered a large number of servants rushing about their duties; footmen carrying valises, maids toting ewers of hot water. One or two paused to stare open-mouthed at Brione, but at a glower from Glanville they quickly reapplied themselves to their work. In offering to act as Rachel’s maid, Brione hadn’t stopped to consider that she would be exposing herself to the servants in the castle, most of whom would likely report anything untoward directly to the duke. Not that she intended to behave in a manner that would draw attention to herself, and hopefully the servants would be too busy to ply her with questions. Besides, it was already obvious to her that Glanville ran a tight ship, unlikely to allow much time for gossip or idle hands.
‘This is the kitchen,’ Glanville said unnecessarily, leading Brione into a steaming hot room bustling with activity. Several large pots bubbled away on a range, producing tempting aromas. A few heads turned to look at her but no one stopped what they were doing. ‘I will introduce you to the people whom you will need to know when they are less busy. This is the senior servants’ dining parlour,’ he added, indicating a long refectory table visible through the open door to another room. ‘We dine early, before they eat above stairs, so that will be in about two hours’ time. I will have someone show you to your room and to the chamber that Mrs Woodley occupies. You will doubtless be wanting to unpack your mistress’s clothing before it gets creased.’
Brione confirmed that she would and followed the footman who was summoned to show her to her sleeping quarters.
‘Been here before?’ the young man asked, taking the valise containing Brione’s possessions. ‘I’m Joseph, by the way.’
‘Hello, Joseph. Brione Carvell.’
‘It’s a pleasure, miss.’
‘No, I haven’t been here before. I am new to Mrs Woodley’s service. How long have you worked here?’ Brione asked as she followed Joseph through a bewildering array of passages that led to a winding staircase. ‘We appear to be going round in circles,’ she remarked.
‘It’s all turrets in this castle, miss.’
‘Well yes, I suppose it would be.’
‘This is the north turret, which houses all the servants’ quarters. It’s the smallest and has the least appealing views. Not that we get much time to stand about admiring anything; old Glanville makes sure of that. The duke’s library is on the ground floor of the south turret. Now that is something to behold.’
‘I can imagine,’ Brione replied, panting from a climb that hadn’t made Joseph out of breath. Presumably one became accustomed to the steep and uneven steps.
They reached a door which Joseph opened, leading onto a wide corridor.
‘These are the main guest rooms,’ Joseph told her, indicating a series of doors. Windows on the other side of the corridor gave out onto the keep that Rachel had warned her about and Brione gasped at the sight of it.
‘Nice, ain’t it? The duke has an army of gardeners keeping it just so, and they’ve been especially busy this week in the run-up to the party.’
‘So I see.’ Brione paused to admire the view. Climbing plants in full bloom clung to the walls, relieving the stone of its greyness with a riot of colour. There were alcoves with seats, and a tinkling fountain took centre stage. ‘It’s delightful.’
‘I’ve been here for four years now,’ Joseph said in answer to Brione’s earlier question as they started walking again.
‘Is the duke a good master?’
‘The best. He’s fair-minded and even-tempered, for the most part. But it’s his sister, Lady Murray, who runs the house. She uses the race every year in the vain hope of getting the duke to agree to marry one of the females she invites. He hasn’t taken to any of them yet, but we all live in hope. Mr Glanville runs a book, but we’ve learned not to place wagers because he always cleans up—what with the duke being disinclined to marry, that is.’ He paused outside a door as another footman emerged from the room, having just delivered Rachel’s trunk. ‘This is Mrs Woodley’s room.’
Brione peeped into a very pretty chamber with a far-reaching view over rolling green hills that stretched out under warm spring sunshine to a distant line on the horizon that could have been the sea. Rachel’s trunk had been placed on a stand at the end of the bed.
‘It’s charming.’
‘You’ll be able to find it easily enough,’ Joseph assured her, closing the door and leading the way back to the servants’ staircase hidden behind a panel a short distance away. ‘Just come down one flight and turn right.’
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Brione smiled.
‘You’ll soon work out the lie of the land.’ They climbed one more flight in the servants’ turret. ‘This is the female floor,’ he said, nodding towards a closed door. ‘It’s more than my position’s worth to venture in there, but you’re the second on the right. Will you be all right from here?’
‘I’m sure I will be.’ She took the valise that Joseph had carried up for her. ‘Thank you for the guided tour.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Anything else you need, I’m the man to ask.’
Joseph looked as if he would like to linger, but Brione didn’t want to become too friendly with anyone on either side of the green baize door. She was here for a reason that excluded making friends, so she thanked him again and pushed her way through the doorway that Joseph was forbidden to cross. She found her cell-like room easily enough, relieved to have it to herself. It hadn’t previously occurred to her that she might be required to share, but presumably her status as a lady’s maid had some advantages, despite the fact that the space allocated to her was miniscule. There was a single bed pushed against the wall with a tiny window high above it, a small cupboard, a table and nothing else. There was barely room for Brione to turn in a circle.
But it would suffice.
She unpacked quickly, putting away the few items of clothing she’d brought with her. She hid her precious journal containing a record of her painstaking research at the back of a drawer beneath her stockings and slipped h
er book of French poetry beneath her pillow. She disapproved of most things French, but made an exception in the case of Louise Labé, whose unconventional lifestyle and sonnets inspired her.
Brione removed her pelisse and bonnet. A glance in the mirror assured her that her hair had remained anchored in place. She rearranged the white lace cap, winced at the sight of her ugly gown and then retraced her steps. She found Rachel’s room with only one wrong turn, and set to work shaking out Rachel’s many gowns—far too many for one week, surely? —hanging them in the commodious wardrobe. She had almost finished when Rachel joined her.
‘Have they given you anything to drink?’ Rachel asked. ‘You must be parched after the long journey. I should have—’
‘Nonsense!’ Brione had been too nervous to think about her dry throat or empty belly. ‘I will survive.’ She grinned. ‘It will be dinner time in the senior servants’ hall in less than an hour, so don’t concern yourself on my account. I’ve only seen a glimpse of the organisation below stairs but I’m full of admiration. The house runs like clockwork under the gimlet eye of that rather terrifying butler.’
‘I wish you’d let me have you here as my companion,’ Rachel said, flopping down in a chair.
To Desire a Duke: Dangerous Dukes Vol 8 Page 2