The Desperate Duke

by Sheri Cobb South

  He found her at once, for the entire household knew that Miss Daphne had taken to spending her leisure hours standing solitary guard over the foot bridge, leaning against its stone parapet and dropping flower petals one by one into the water below. It was commonly supposed (by all except her fond parent) that Sir Valerian was responsible for Miss Daphne’s sudden inertia, his abrupt departure from the vicinity having destroyed the poor girl’s last hope of matrimony.

  In fact, the rare occasions when Sir Valerian crossed Daphne’s mind were the only thoughts capable of bringing a smile to her face. For she could not help picturing the aspiring Member of Parliament as she had last seen him, cowering on his knees and turning purple in the face, all because of the swift and simple movement Theo Tisdale had taught her. And just as suddenly, her smiles would give way to tears. She would never see him again, never be able to tell him of this exchange or how very successful his lessons had proven.

  I like mushrooms . . . They’d been standing in this very spot when he had spoken those words, and she had interpreted that simple statement as so much more. It had seemed a declaration, of sorts, and she had treasured it as such. But now it appeared that Mr. Tisdale had never intended it that way. No, he’d only been being kind, only trying to comfort her after Kitty Dandridge had snubbed her at church. As she, like a sentimental fool, had been so desperate for love that she had pinned all her romantic hopes on nothing more than a young man’s expression of fondness for edible fungi.

  I wish he had never come, she thought with sudden fierceness, flinging the denuded flower stem into the water whence it disappeared beneath the bridge, swept downstream on its long journey to the sea. She wished she might go with it and escape the recollection of her own folly. I wish I had never met him.

  But even as her brain formed the thought, she knew it for a lie. The few weeks he had lived at the boardinghouse had been the happiest of her life, a brief glimpse of sunshine in an otherwise dull and gray existence. It was not his fault that the dull now seemed so much duller, the gray so very much grayer. She would treasure the memory of those golden days in her heart, and someday, when she was an old maid and a generation of villagers yet unborn would point to her and whisper pityingly behind their hands that “They say she was once a beauty, you know,” he would still be there, forever young, forever golden. Forever hers.

  “Miss Daphne! Miss Daphne!” The kitchen boy’s breathless cries interrupted her thoughts, and she dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  “Yes, Timmy? What is it?”

  “Your ma wants you. She says the”—he screwed up his face in concentration, trying to remember the name—“the Duke of Reddington wants a word with you.”

  “The Duke of—” she echoed, turning quite pale. “Are you quite certain that was the name?”

  His head bobbed up and down emphatically. “I’m certain sure. I memorized it special.”

  Of course that was the name, she chided herself. How many other dukes are likely to turn up inquiring after you?

  “I beg your pardon, Timmy; of course you did. Run ahead and tell Mama and the duke” —her voice shook slightly on the word— “that I shall be there directly.”

  As soon as the boy had gone, she stripped off her apron and draped it over the parapet, then pinched her cheeks to give them color and put a hand to her hair to make sure her chignon was still reasonably intact. Clearly, the dance was done and it was now time to pay the piper.

  Surely it could not be so very bad, she told herself. The Brundys had not been angry at her entering their house under false pretenses; on the contrary, when she had seen them at church the following Sunday, Lady Helen Brundy had been all that was amiable, even expressing her hope that Daphne and her mother would come to tea one day. It would not have done, of course. Quite aside from the fact that the endless litany of chores left the Drinkard ladies with no time for social niceties, her mother was too conscious of their precarious position in society to jeopardize it by fraternizing with a mill owner, no matter how wealthy he might be. Still, if the Brundys were not offended by her gaining access to their home under false pretenses, then surely the duke could not be so very displeased at having unwittingly lent his name to the cause.

  “Oh, my dearest girl!” cried her mother, meeting her with open arms and enveloping her in a slightly floury (for it was baking day) embrace. “Never in my wildest dreams did I ever—but you must not keep his grace waiting. I’ve put him in your father’s study. You must go to him at once!”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Daphne in a hollow voice, noting her mother’s brimming eyes with a growing sense of dread. Apparently the duke was beyond displeased, beyond even offended. He must be livid, if he had brought her mother to such a state; under less dire circumstances, Mama would be over the moon at having a duke beneath her roof. With a last, nervous pat to her hair, Daphne crossed the hall to the study, then took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  The sight that met her eyes deprived her of speech. There stood Mr. Tisdale, the light from the tall windows turning his hair to gold. Of the Duke of Reddington there was no sign; it seemed somehow absurd to think that such a personage might have felt the need to excuse himself to the necessary, but even dukes were human, Daphne supposed. In any case, his absence allowed her a moment alone with Theo. Strangely, she was no longer afraid, now that she did not have to face the duke’s wrath alone.

  “Theo!” she exclaimed in an undervoice, softly closing the door behind her. “The duke—does he know it was you who—”

  “No—that is—yes, he—he knew it all along.” He crossed the room to where she still stood just inside the door. “In fact, the Duke of Reddington is—well—he’s me.”

  Daphne could only stare at him as the significance of these simple words became clear. Her stunned brain began to register the details she had missed before in the shock and, yes, joy of seeing him again: the double-breasted tailcoat of Bath superfine; the striped satin waistcoat; the tasseled Hessian boots, polished to such a sheen that they might have served, in a pinch, for a looking glass. Even his golden curls, which she had noticed, were no longer entirely familiar, having been fashionably cropped and brushed until they shone.

  In short, he looked every inch a duke, while she was dusted with flour and dressed in her oldest gown, and she had believed she’d found in him a kindred spirit whose circumstances were no better than her own, while all the time he had been—he had been—

  The next time a man does something you don’t like . . .

  She snatched up her flour-sprinkled skirts and jerked her knee up, just as he had once taught her in this very room.

  Theo jumped out of range with a yelp. “Daphne, you little hellcat! What the—”

  “How dare you?” she demanded, hopping after him on one foot while she tried without success to make contact with her other knee. “How dare you come here and—and laugh at me—at all of us—”

  “I never laughed at you,” he assured her gently, taking her by the shoulders but holding her at arm’s length, just in case. “How could I?”

  “Still, you might have told me,” she said, wiping away angry tears with her sleeve. “I told you all about Papa, and about how things stood with Mama and me, but still you said nothing.”

  “But I did,” he insisted. “I told you I was a gentleman who’d temporarily fallen on hard times.”

  “You admitted it after I guessed it on my own,” she retorted. “It’s not at all the same thing.”

  “But—but, dash it,” Theo protested. “After hearing what happened to you, what your father had done, how could I look you in the face after admitting that I’d been no better? D’you think I was proud of the fact that I’d managed to run myself to grass within days of coming into the title?”

  She blinked at him. “You did? But—how?”

  He shoved his hand through his hair, disarranging the modish curls. “I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times. Part of it—most of it,
I suppose—was cowardice, pure and simple.”

  “Cowardice?” Daphne echoed, picturing once more the image of Theo going off to face an angry mob without so much as a stout stick to defend himself. “You are the bravest man I’ve ever known! What you did at the mill that night—”

  “Oh, that,” he said, dismissing it with an impatient gesture. “That wasn’t bravery; it was simple necessity. I had to do something, and so—but this was different. Suddenly all the responsibility of the dukedom was mine, and there would be no more running to Papa to extricate me when I found myself in difficulties. Then, too, I had a longstanding pact with some of my old friends from Oxford days, to celebrate whenever one of us came unto his title—all at the new peer’s expense, of course—and I had to hold up my end of the bargain. We played cards at White’s, and I lost—one always does, when one most needs to win. Finally, there was a—a woman who expected me to marry her, although I never gave her the least reason to think—anyway, it was necessary to—well, to buy her off. Compensation for breaking her heart, she said, although I could give you another name for it.”

  “And this lady found money an acceptable substitute for your affections?” Daphne asked, indignant on his behalf.

  “To be perfectly honest, it was jewelry, not money. And although she was a woman, she was certainly not a lady.”

  “Oh,” Daphne said in a small voice.

  “Anyway,” Theo continued, “it wasn’t until after all this that I discovered I couldn’t touch my inheritance until Papa’s will had been probated.”

  “And so you came to work at the mill.”

  He shook his head. “Not at once. My brother-in-law is my father’s executor, and although he said he couldn’t legally give me an advance against Papa’s estate, he did offer to lend me the money, under one condition: he wouldn’t charge any interest on the loan, but I would work at the mill until I could pay it back out of my inheritance.” He snapped his fingers in sudden realization. “Dash it! I knew there was something I forgot to do while I was in London!”

  “Your brother-in-law,” Daphne said thoughtfully. “He must be—”

  “Ethan—that is, Sir Ethan Brundy, who owns the mill. His wife, Lady Helen, is my sister.”

  Of course she is, Daphne thought, recalling the poised beauty with the honey-colored hair—a shade or two darker than her brother’s, although the green eyes were the very same. She could only wonder why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  “It seems rather harsh of him, treating a member of his wife’s family in such a way.”

  “So I thought at the time—and don’t think I didn’t let him know it! In fact, it wasn’t until I’d exhausted all other avenues that I agreed to such a scheme. But looking back, I can see it was all for the best—yes, and I suspect he knew it, too, and that was what he was doing all along! I hope to be a better duke—a better man—for having known Ben, and Tom, and all the men at the mill. And you and your mother and your boarders, too.” He grinned suddenly, and Daphne’s heart did strange and wonderful things in response. “Especially Mrs. Jennings. I took her son’s wedding clothes back to London with me, and had my valet clean and brush them before bringing them back to her. She knew who I was all along, can you believe it? She had been acquainted with my mother in her youth, and I’m said to bear a strong likeness to her. My mother, that is, not Mrs. Jennings.”

  “I’ve always suspected Mrs. Jennings is sharper than she lets on,” Daphne said, smiling bravely. Here it was, then, the reason for his unexpected return. It was nothing to do with the Duke of Reddington, nothing to do with her, at all. “It was kind of you to have the clothes cleaned for her, and to deliver them yourself. And to—to seek me out to say goodbye. I was worried about you that night, and I—I had wondered, when you left without a word.”

  She held out her hand to him, but Theo, staring at her in stunned disbelief, made no move to take it. “You can’t think I asked to speak privately with you for such a reason as that!”

  “Then—what—?”

  He did not answer at once, but fumbled in the breast pocket of his elegant coat. Having found what he sought, he withdrew a small velvet box and opened its hinged lid. In one graceful movement, he sank to one knee and offered the box to her. “Daphne Drinkard, will you do me the honor of bestowing upon me your hand in marriage?”

  She caught a glimpse of bright green peridots—two in his eyes, and one in the box he held, set in a ring of chased gold—before pressing her hands to her face. “No, Theo—your grace—you must not!”

  “Oh? Why mustn’t I? And why, for that matter, am I suddenly ‘your grace’ when I was ‘Theo’ only a few moments ago? I expect a good reason, mind you, and no missish airs!”

  He succeeded in persuading her to uncover her face, but although she choked back a reluctant laugh, she shook her head. “Surely you must see that it was different before—”

  “Oh, I’ll not argue with you there. It was certainly different—and a deuced sight more uncomfortable! But I can’t regret it, for if Ethan hadn’t insisted on putting me to work in that curst mill of his, I would very likely never have met you.”

  “But—but you might marry anyone!”

  “Believe me, I’m well aware of that.” The bitterness in his voice robbed the words of any arrogance. “The Duke of Reddington can have his pick of females eager for him to drop the handkerchief in their direction. And if their matrimonial hopes should be dashed, well, there’s no heartbreak so severe that a sufficient outlay of cash won’t heal. But you”—he rose to his feet and drew her to him with one arm about her waist while his other hand tipped her chin up, forcing her to look him in the face—“you loved me when I was Mr. Tisdale, a poor gentleman fallen on hard times and forced to earn his bread by working in a cotton mill. At least, I thought you did.”

  “I did,” she whispered, and although he still held her chin captive, her gaze slid away to stare with great intensity at the knot in his liberally starched cravat. “Even when I knew it must break Mama’s heart.”

  “I can assure you that when I asked your mother for permission to pay my addresses to you, she appeared to be in no immediate danger of heartbreak.”

  She gave a little gurgle of laughter, considering her mother’s reaction to “Mr. Tisdale’s” presence in the light of this new revelation. “I can just imagine! But Theo, much as I might want to—much as I do want to—I can’t marry you. I can’t go off and leave Mama to run the boardinghouse all alone!”

  “She need not run the boardinghouse at all if she doesn’t choose to.”

  She shook her head. “It is very kind of you, but she would never turn her boarders out. It is only that she doesn’t have enough staff as it is, and without me there to help—”

  “I only meant that she could live in the dower house, if she wants to be close to you. Surely there’s no shortage of impoverished gentlewomen who would welcome a roof over their heads and a reasonably genteel position.”

  Daphne dimpled at him. “In other words, another mushroom in need of a good wine sauce.”

  “Just so,” he said, grinning back at her. “But if your mother prefers to remain in her own home, you can be sure that she will have all the staff she desires, and enough housekeeping money that she won’t have to ration the tea. And although I have no desire to encourage drunkenness, I think I can guarantee that she and her boarders will be able to have more than half a glass of wine a day. I might even be able to promise Mr. Nethercote a glass of port every evening. Although I’d best speak up when I tell him so, or he’ll think I’m offering to lance a wart.”

  “Only Mr. Nethercote?” asked Daphne, confused by the deliberate omission of the boardinghouse’s only other male resident. “Not Mr. Nutley?”

  “I think Mr. Nutley will be much happier as vicar of a rural parish. The Dukes of Reddington have several modest livings in their gift, one of which is vacant at the moment. I had thought to offer it to him.” In a more serious tone, he added, “No one should b
e punished forever for foolish mistakes they committed when they were young. Do you think, perhaps, that you could forgive me for mine? Daphne, I do love you so.”

  “Oh, Theo!” Her voice choked on a sob as she flung her arms around him.

  “Am I to take that as a ‘yes’?” he asked, emerging at last from a kiss that left them both panting and breathless.

  “Yes,” she confessed shyly. “Only—Theo, I don’t know anything about being a duchess!”

  “I don’t know anything about being a duke, either,” he admitted with a shrug. “What do you say we figure it out together?”

  And so they did.

  Epilogue

  The gardener Adam and his wife

  Smile at the claims of long descent.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, Lady Clara Vere de Vere

  JULY 2018

  Reddington Hall, Devon

  “And here we have something of a mystery,” pronounced the tour guide (“Katherine,” according to the name tag pinned to her starched white blouse), her high-heeled shoes clicking against the marble-tiled floor as she crossed the room to indicate a framed piece of needlework hanging over the mantel. “If you look carefully, you can see faint brown flecks in the fabric. Family legend claims that the ninth duke wove the fabric himself, having fallen into financial difficulties and been forced to seek employment at a cotton mill, and that those specks are the places where his fingers bled, he being unaccustomed to physical labor.”

  Phones came out and cameras snapped, and Jill, an attractive young woman in her mid-twenties with curling brown hair and large, deceptively somber brown eyes, spoke for the group by asking, “But you don’t believe it?”