“Dash it, man!” Morris became irate, slapping the palm of his hand over the table, and splashing Julian’s spilled soup. He wiped his hand on a kerchief with disgust. “Do yourself a favor and don’t drag this out, eh? Won’t bring you anything but ills.”
“Or what?” Julian challenged. “Already you have attempted to thwart me at every turn, ever since the incident six years ago. I wouldn’t sell then, and I won’t sell now! Now I have truly found myself an avenue, and you seek to block it. Nay, not even block. You seek to take it. To rename my street and build your own apartments. I have already secured far more holdings in this venture than you, and this rate will continue to do so.”
“All I ask of you is to hear our price.” Morris growled.
“Two soups, two breads,” said the tavern keeper, not even acknowledging Julian’s presence any longer.
With any luck they’ve spat in it, Julian thought.
Morris waited for the tavern keeper to clear away from them, and then slid a folded piece of paper across the table.
“What’s this?” Julian asked, playing dumb.
“The offer,” Morris said, exacerbated. “Just take a look.”
Julian peered at him strangely, picking up the piece of paper. He then held the soup bowl to his mouth with his other hand and drank down most of it with great gulps. When it was near to empty, he set the bowl down with a thud, a few drops of broth flying out to land near the Setons who were watching appalled at Julian’s barbarous demeanor. Then Julian sank the piece of paper into the remaining soup, letting it swell and begin its disintegration between bits of carrot and potato.
“I have a counter offer for you, gentlemen,” Julian spat, rising quickly so that his rounded stomach bumped against the table, sending splashes of soup towards the Setons. “Stop this incurable chase of my fortunes or be run out of the wool market altogether! Stick to what you know, what made you rich, don’t dabble your nose where it doesn’t belong! I shall continue my endeavours so long as it suits me, and neither of you shall see me any different!” Julian went to leave hurriedly, attempting to stick them with the bill for his meal, but Lawrence shouted out after him.
“And what of these endeavours, Mr. Bastable? What of your bride to be? What has become of your driver?” The words shook Julian to his core. He did not turn to answer, instead, he ran from the room, hurrying to find Randolph and the carriage away from there.
How did he know about the driver? Julian clawed at his hair as he climbed into the coach. How did he know about any of it? It was no good, no good at all. They would have to go, those Setons. They would not see him to the gallows, no sir. They would be the ones to pay. Through all the abstract thoughts of hate and revenge, one idea kept slamming Julian in the nose. How did he know about that night? Who had he been talking to?
Chapter 15
Neil paced his porch, scuffing the heels of his heavy boots against the flagstone, making petite splashing noises in the tiny puddles. The day was low and overcast, muffling sounds of life through the countryside.
Birds, those that were left, made up their great V’s to arc southward, and Neil wondered where they would reside that winter.
“Anywhere but here.” He smiled up at the passing flock. He noticed one of the swallows perched on his railing, pecking innocently at one of the flower boxes hanging over the rail. “You’re going to miss the boat!” Neil called at it. “Stubborn little creature.”
As if to answer him, the bird flapped its wings and launched after the group of migratory relatives, not once looking back to where he had come from.
“There you are.” Neil watched the birds fly away. “Find yourself someplace warm.”
“Your Grace.” Thomas walked onto the elevated patio. “It seems the Rustin’s coach is coming up the drive.”
“Ah.” cracked an ironic smile. “Our loving neighbors.”
The Rustin family lived on the neighboring estate of Tamworth, which of course was some miles away, yet every year they came calling for the first fox hunt of October. Every year Neil shook his head from behind his desk and sent Thomas off to tell them a variety of excuses, but this year was different. This year Neil had been feeling elated after his discovery of cold cider and fennel when the letter arrived by messenger, and for some reason, he still could not sort, he had agreed to the outing. Now the Rustin’s coach rattled up his drive with a string of fine riding horses tied off behind them and walking gently in the late autumn drizzle.
“Shall I see them in, Your Grace?” Thomas asked.
“Come, come, I must be present.” Neil sighed, letting the rain strike his face a moment longer. “Let us see to our guests’ visit, as short-lived as it may be.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said. Neil went to walk through the large double doors, and Thomas helped him to slip off one of his heavier housecoats now damp with the morning rain.
Neil marched through his house towards the parlour, preparing as if he were again going into battle. He did not much care for the Rustins, despite them being good enough people. They were rather loud, he thought, and often crass in their humor. Still, it was somewhat expected of him to entertain the occasional nobleman.
“Who is coming up the drive, Neil?” Phyllis called from the adjacent sitting room. She could see the coach and horses winding up the long path.
“It is the Rustins, Grandmother,” Neil called back, checking his appearance in a hanging mirror. He did not especially care about what these people thought of him, but he realized the necessity of not appearing a complete shut-in.
“Oh!” Phyllis exclaimed. “The Rustins! How lovely! It has been too long since they called. Emily! Emily! Help me get dressed!”
“You are already dressed, Your Grace,” Ruth said gently.
“In this?” Phyllis shrilled, horror seeping through her voice. “I cannot be expected to entertain in this!”
Neil caught Emily’s eye through the doorway as she and Ruth began helping Phyllis to her feet, fussing over her outfit. Sorry about that, he tried to say. She gave him a shy smile in return, and he felt himself turning away with haste to avoid any further eye contact. Why does she make me so nervous?
“Hello in the house!” Neil heard from outside. It was Lord Tamworth’s boisterous voice booming out through the driveway. “Is anybody home?”
“Here we go, Thomas,” Neil said to his valet, giving him a slight shake of his head. “Brace yourself.”
Thomas gave his master a wry smile and replied, “Hold fast, Your Grace, hold fast.”
“Aye, sir.” Neil smiled back. “To the last man.”
They went together through the front doors and received the gaggle of Rustins, crawling out of their carriage. David Rustin, the Earl of Tamworth, was a stout fellow with a bright, jolly face, accentuated by his rounded cheeks that seemed to hold his eyes just where they needed to be. He was not all that tall, but his frame was clearly set in its place, and one could imagine that he would be near impossible to topple over.
“Duke!” he called out, the first to clamber down. “A joy to see you on this fine day!”
“And you, Lord Tamworth,” Neil called down. “I trust the journey was nothing too difficult?”
“Never a hurdle seen,” Lord Tamworth said back, turning to help his wife down. “Of course, you remember my wife, Isabel?”
“Countess.” Neil nodded. “It is a joy to see you again.”
“Such a gentleman you are,” she scoffed at jokingly. “How good to see you, Your Grace. It has been some time!”
“It has,” Neil said, warmly welcoming them up the steps. He stopped then to see the Rustin children climb out of the coach. It cannot be, he thought. How they have grown. They must be sixteen or seventeen. Perhaps older. How long has it been?
“Of course, the children are much older than you may remember,” Lord Tamworth laughed. “Come, Frederick, Evelyn, you remember His Grace the Duke of Rutland?”
“Your Grace,” Evelyn curtsied while Neil
took her hand, bowing his head respectfully. She was strikingly beautiful and had clearly gone to great lengths to appear more so. Neil felt the now familiar anxiety rising within him. No doubt this would later be a topic of conversation - one he would like to avoid.
“Your Grace,” Frederick said, and Neil extended his hand to the young man. He was dressed in the uniform of an officer in the army, and Neil noticed his rank of captain. A whole regiment, Neil thought, under this boy’s command. He would be a Lord someday, and everything about him screamed that he knew it, and full well looked forward to it. Who could blame him? Neil thought. He had been just the same.
“A military man,” Neil said, Reaching for the handshake. “Well done, captain.” Neil knew that his father had clearly purchased the commission and that the war was over, but there was something nice about seeing the uniform again.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Frederick beamed.
“Well come on, let’s not stand about in the gloom all day,” Neil said. “Thomas, show our guests inside. Mr. Marton, prepare the necessary horses, and see the others sheltered.”
They situated themselves in one of the sitting rooms while Thomas brought them tea and a light breakfast. It would be their second breakfast of the day, but the Rustin clan had traveled miles, and the men were about to embark on an exhausting hunt, although the Countess didn’t mind because she was ever so fond of food.
Then Kaitlin came running in, Betsey chasing after he as always. Betsey was red in the face, clearly embarrassed by the lack of control she had over the child, especially in front of guests.
Luckily for Betsey, everyone in the room, including the Duke, utterly adored little Kaitlin, for it was difficult not to.
“Why hello sweet thing,” the Countess said, likely remembering when her own children who not so long ago were also that playful, joyous age. “You are going to make a splendid little lady, aren’t you now?”
Kaitlin looked up at the jolly woman and shrugged innocently. Neil was initially slightly embarrassed with his daughter’s abrupt entry, but quickly overcame it; Phyllis was not physically present to mock him or Kaitlin, so what did he care? He was the Duke of Rutland, after all. Hopefully, Grandmother has a few more outfits to try on, Neil thought.
The Countess gave Evelyn a look from the side of her eyes and nodded at Kaitlin. Evelyn took her cue from her mother and stood up gracefully, straightening her clothes, and went over to Kaitlin, who was seemingly mesmerized by the Countess’s big blue eyes.
“Hello there,” Evelyn said, crouching down. “Tell me, do you play the piano?”
“Mr. Eddington says I can,” Kaitlin said, looking into the friendly face of the young lady.
Evelyn smiled at the sweet child. “Well I am sure he is correct,” she said. “Come, let us play something together. We can be friends, you and I,” and she took Kaitlin’s little hand and started walking with her to the piano.
Mr. Marton came into the room then and said, “Beg pardon, Your Grace, the horses are ready.”
“Splendid!” Lord Tamworth exclaimed. “That is our call! We shall leave you ladies here in your own good company,” he got to his feet with a surprising lurch, setting aside his tea. “Ready, Frederick?”
“Yes, Father,” Frederick said, excitement showing in his cheeks.
“Countess, My Lady,” Neil bowed his head to both women in the room, then smiled between Betsey and Thomas. “Take good care of them, will you?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said.
As they left the room, the elegant twinkle of piano keys began to float around the manor, and Neil could faintly hear Kaitlin’s instructional tone saying: “No, no, you put your hand here.” He gave a blink and a quick grin.
The trio accompanied Mr. Marton to the horses, which had been equipped with sturdy leather riding saddles and a long barrel rifle lashed to the saddlebags.
“I say,” Lord Tamworth said upon examining the weapons. “These are rifles, are they not?”
“They are.” Neil fussed with his horse’s straps.
“We have brought our shotguns,” Lord Tamworth said.
“It is up to you to use them or not,” Neil said. “But I was a military man. I’ll never own a smooth bore again, not after I saw what a rifle can do in Portugal.”
“Well said!” Frederick laughed out. “Well said indeed! Did you see much action in Portugal? Were you attached to Wellington’s army?”
“I was,” Neil said, his complexion darkening for a brief thought. “But enough of that. We have a fox to catch, do we not?”
“We do!” Lord Tamworth said, shooting Frederick a look as if to say, Leave it alone, lad. Do nothing to irritate him.
They mounted up as Mr. Marton got the hounds ready, and Thomas brought them out a tray with three glasses of brandy.
“Gentlemen.” Neil toasted. “Today’s fox, the first of the season.”
“Today’s fox!” Lord Tamworth echoed, and they drank down the brandy.
Then they were off into the frosting fields, the hounds barking wildly, dashing across the fields lain fallow, and the horses charging off behind them.
What a thrill! Neil thought. How long had it been since he had done any sort of hunting? Worse than that, how long had it been since he had done any sort of riding? Striking out over the land he felt alive, renewed, similar to how he felt the night of the fire.
“Ha.” He grinned from ear to ear as he raced to the front, just behind the hounds. They went over the hills and between the trees, launching over little brooks and splashing through puddles that had yet to freeze over.
The hounds had a scent, and they chased it viciously, their tails wagging at a high angle. There were perhaps ten of them, and Mr. Marton encouraged their progress.
The hunt went on for some time, and they chased the elusive fox all through the wood until finally, the scent seemed to vanish.
They all came together, panting from the exhilaration in a glen. The hounds walked back and forth, whining, sniffing the earth, and occasionally barking out at a tree.
“They have lost it.” Lord Tamworth wiped his red face with a kerchief.
“He must have gone to ground.” Mr. Marton wrangled up the dog pack. The foot followers trailed on behind, wading through the woods with their shotguns.
“Bloody quick beast.” Frederick said, took a drink of water.
“Find us a new scent, Mr. Marton,” Neil called out.
“Right away, Your Grace,” Mr. Marton panted, driving the hounds onward with some of the hunting party.
“You are quite the rider, Rutland,” Lord Tamworth said, taking the water from his son. “Yet we have not seen you on the hunt for some time. Where have you been hiding?”
“I have not been hiding, sir,” Neil said. “Just resting my feet.”
“I have heard that you are entering again into business,” Lord Tamworth said. “The wool trade?”
“You heard correctly,” Neil said. “Although from where, I have not a clue.”
“It is a topic of conversation in the financial district,” Lord Tamworth said. “There is talk of the wool market changing. Some new face, a Mr. Bastable. He is the man you do business with, correct?”
“You are,” Neil said. “What of him?”
“He is an odd one, to be sure.”
“He is,” Neil agreed. “Yet he had brought himself up from nothing, and I can respect that greatly. Enough at least, to give him a chance.”
“Fair enough,” Lord Tamworth said. “But does this mean you will again be entering society? You have not been seen in the House of Lords for some years.”
“I was considering it,” Neil said, “although I have always hated those seats and building the parliamentary schedule around balls and events at Almack’s has always struck me as pointless.”
“They are uncomfortable,” Lord Tamworth agreed. “But there is greatness in the Season, and it shall be starting soon enough. Evelyn is terribly excited about it.”
&nb
sp; “You’re taking her with you to London?”
“It seems wherever I go these days, the whole family follows,” Lord Tamworth said. “My wife is keen on finding her a husband, and soon. No rush, I say, but you know how women are, eh?” He gave Neil a playful look.
“No, I don’t,” Neil commented flatly in reply. There he goes about women. No doubt he would get to marriage eventually. It was only a matter of time, Neil thought, bitterly. Then the hounds began to howl again, some ways off. “We have a mark!” he said and quickly rushed off in pursuit.
They set off on the chase, whooping wildly in excitement. Finally, they came to it; the dogs had caught and killed the fox in a small grove of aspen trees.
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 9