Duke Darcy's Castle

by Syrie James

  None of that was an acceptable excuse, however, for what she’d done. Even inebriated as she was, her better judgment should have prevailed.

  This morning, she ought to be congratulating herself for landing an assignment which could mean a world of difference to her career. Instead, on her very first evening in this house, she had put the entire project in jeopardy by engaging in a shameless sexual encounter with the duke. Idiot.

  Kathryn covered her face and groaned into her hands. This was all so totally, incredibly mortifying. Yet at the same time—she couldn’t deny it—a tiny part of her was thrilled by the memory. There was no comparison between what had happened in the billiards room to what she’d experienced during her one night with Pierre.

  She’d only chosen Pierre because he’d been convenient and available. What had transpired between them had been educational, but there hadn’t been any sparks.

  Whereas she’d felt sparks from the first moment she’d set eyes on Lord Darcy. Sparks that had turned incendiary when they’d gotten their hands and lips on each other. If things had progressed to their inevitable conclusion . . . which she could only hope and pray they had not . . . she had a feeling the experience would have been . . . incredible.

  A discreet knock sounded at the door. Ivy brought in a tray and quickly departed.

  Pouring out a cup of tea from the small pot, Kathryn took a grateful sip of the warm, fragrant brew. It felt good going down. A few sips later, she heaved a sigh, trying to figure out her next move.

  Obviously, she couldn’t stay here. It would be impossible to work with the duke after their illicit liaison. Despite everything she had done to make this job happen, Kathryn thought gloomily, she had no choice but to hand in her resignation and return to London as soon as possible.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to explain to Mr. Patterson. She would just say that their client, the ninth Duke of Darcy, had passed away. She’d have to pray, however, that Mr. Patterson never, ever found out what had occurred last night. It might put her very job in jeopardy.

  Meanwhile, how on earth was she going to face the tenth Duke of Darcy, who was undoubtedly waiting for her downstairs?

  “It is a dire state of affairs, Darcy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Lance stared at the loan documents on his desk. The sum he owed was enough to crush any man’s soul. “How on earth did Hayward let things get so out of hand?”

  “It wasn’t for want of advice from me, I assure you.” Henry Megowan, the estate’s solicitor, heaved a sigh from the chair opposite.

  Megowan—fair-haired, bespectacled, and sensible—had been Hayward’s best friend since their schooldays at Eton and Oxford, and had often spent holidays at St. Gabriel’s Mount. Although seven years older than Lance, Megowan had always treated him kindly. As the years passed, the age difference had melted away and become irrelevant. Megowan had eventually opened a practice in Penzance and taken over when the Darcys’ former solicitor retired some five years previously.

  “Things have been going downhill for years,” Megowan continued. “Your brother was a good man with a kind heart—too kind. He didn’t have a clue how to invest or manage money, and never turned down a parishioner in need. The more he owed, the more he borrowed. I tried to warn him that he was digging himself into a hole he would never get out of, but he didn’t listen.” Megowan shook his head. “Have you been down to the village lately?”

  “Not since my last visit three years ago.”

  “You’ll find that things have changed a great deal.”

  “Changed how?”

  “There’s been no money to pay for repairs for ages. I’m surprised Avery hasn’t spoken to you about this.”

  Avery was the land steward at St. Gabriel’s Mount. “I did meet with Avery last week. But I was too distracted by funeral arrangements to pay attention to what he said. I seem to recall something about . . . the school roof?”

  Megowan nodded. “It’s bad, Lance. It’s been leaking for years. They have to catch rainwater in buckets. Just about every building in the village has some kind of maintenance issue. And now there’s a problem with the stairs at the quay.”

  “I used the stairs when I took the ferryboat. They were fine.”

  “Not the ferryboat quay. The fishermen’s quay.”

  “Bollocks. My tenants must be ready to storm the castle with knives and pitchforks.”

  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that. But I think you had better do something to appease them, and soon. It doesn’t have to be a financial outlay.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Hayward used to engage with the community on a regular basis. I’d say: take a walk down to the village and say hello. Pay a few calls, listen to people’s problems, assure them that you will try to make things right.”

  “How can I make things right, with this ridiculous loan hanging over my head?”

  “Maybe you can’t. But hopefully a new owner will. You just need to buy yourself some time.”

  The reminder that in three months Lance might lose this place only served to frustrate him further. “There is no guarantee that whoever buys St. Gabriel’s Mount will take any interest in the villagers’ problems. I don’t want schoolchildren catching their death of cold, or fishermen struggling to disembark with their catch. I have some money of my own. It isn’t an enormous sum, but while I’m still here . . . I’m happy to invest, if I can, in these most desperate causes. Get someone out here to bid on the schoolhouse roof, will you? And find out what it will cost to fix the quay steps.”

  “Will do.” Megowan nodded. “That is very generous of you, Darcy. But be advised: it is a drop in the bucket when it comes to healing all the ills in this community.”

  “It is better than nothing, I hope.”

  “Yes. And it will be greatly appreciated.” Megowan leaned forward and paused, then looked Lance in the eye. “Your Grace . . . May I speak frankly?”

  “Isn’t that what I pay you to do?”

  “I don’t mean to criticize. But you have only further complicated matters by hiring this architect you mentioned. Of all times, why on earth you chose to take on such an expense now—”

  “I am aware of how crazy it sounds,” Lance interrupted. “Believe me, I was adamantly opposed to the whole thing from the start. But you were not here yesterday, Megowan. This woman is an unstoppable force. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. And when I saw the kind of work she can do . . .” From his desk drawer, Lance withdrew the sketch Miss Atherton had made and slid it across the desk. “Here’s how she proposes to redo this room.”

  Megowan’s sandy eyebrows lifted as he studied it. “A nautical retreat, eh?”

  “On the spot, she came up with this vision that is not just new and unique and absolutely smashing, but seems to gaze into my very soul.” Lance realized he had invested more passion into the statement than he’d intended.

  Megowan looked at him. “She is talented,” he acknowledged. “But to hire her to renovate the entire castle?”

  “Not the entire castle. Just the interiors of a few rooms. And it’s just drawings, which I will pay for out of my own pocket.”

  “What is the point, when you will probably have to sell St. Gabriel’s Mount before the year is out, and never get to implement them?”

  “The point is: I am intrigued by her. I want to see what else she dreams up.”

  Megowan regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You like this woman. That’s what’s going on here, isn’t it?”

  “What? No! Well, yes. I do . . . like her.” The memory of his encounter with Miss Atherton the night before swept into Lance’s mind. She’d arrived all buttoned up to her chin, the picture of propriety, and then she’d turned out to be such a surprise. In his arms, she’d come alive, become an entirely different woman.

  He couldn’t forget the fire in her eyes whenever their gazes had touched. The way she’d responded to his kisses and had initiated some of her own. He had all but
made love to her on the billiards table. And he’d spent half the night fantasizing about the way that interlude might have concluded, had she not fallen asleep in his arms.

  “Lance?”

  Lance blinked. Megowan was staring at him, as if waiting for him to answer a question. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “I said: Is that the real reason you hired her? Because you’re attracted to her?”

  “Of course not,” Lance replied defensively. “As you saw, she’s a talented woman.”

  Megowan pursed his lips, unconvinced. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Lance. You are behaving just like your brother, throwing good money after bad.”

  “I am nothing like Hayward,” Lance insisted. “This is a sound investment. If I am obliged to sell the castle, the drawings will be of value to a prospective buyer. And if I’m lucky—if I can find a bride with enough money to pay off this damn loan—I won’t have to sell. And some day I might actually be able to renovate this place, after all.”

  Megowan took that in and nodded thoughtfully. “What are you planning in that direction? To find a wife, I mean?”

  “I was thinking of going up to London next week. When it becomes known that the new Duke of Darcy is in town and looking to marry, the ladies will come flocking. Hopefully, one will turn up with the money I require.”

  The picture of that nameless, faceless woman hovered at the edges of Lance’s mind, the prospect so unappealing it made him flinch. He still hated the idea of marrying someone for their money. But he was not the first aristocrat to find himself in this position, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “However,” Lance went on. Now that he’d met Miss Atherton, he preferred to stick around for a while. “It would be rude to leave St. Gabriel’s Mount now, when Miss Atherton’s firm has sent her all this way on invitation from my brother,” he rationalized. “She’s only going to be here for three weeks. I can wait that long before going up to town.” At which point, Miss Atherton would be going that way herself. Perhaps they could even share the same train car.

  “All right. You’re the duke.” Megowan shrugged. “It’s your money—or lack of it. I will say nothing more.”

  “You really ought to meet her.”

  “Meet who?”

  “Miss Atherton. Ten minutes in her presence, and you’ll think me a little less mad.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Megowan insisted.

  “Perhaps not. But it would please me just the same.” Lance checked his calendar. “Are you free Monday evening?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Join us for dinner.”

  “Your wish is my command.” Megowan smiled and stood. “I will contact the tradesmen you mentioned. Meanwhile, remember what I said about calling on the villagers.”

  “I will. See you Monday.”

  They shook hands and Megowan departed. Lance filed the loan documents in a desk drawer, sat back down, and glanced at his pocket watch. It was a quarter past eleven already. What, he wondered, was keeping Miss Atherton?

  She hadn’t appeared at breakfast. He hoped she wasn’t holing herself up in her room, too ashamed to come downstairs after what had happened last night. If she even remembered what had happened. Or was she absent because she wasn’t feeling well? That wouldn’t surprise him.

  Lance had sensed, early on, that she’d had more to drink than she should. For that reason alone, he ought to have kept his distance. Not to mention that they were involved in a business relationship. But in the heat of the moment, he’d gotten carried away. They both had.

  He knew he owed her an apology, and he would give her one. But in truth, Lance could not regret what had taken place. In his mind, they hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. In fact, he looked back on their encounter with real pleasure.

  Were they ever to actually finish what they’d started, he suspected that it would prove incandescent. How he would love to have her entirely naked and writhing beneath him. Or settled on top of him, with those lovely breasts in his . . .

  Hellfire and damnation. His imagination was going to drive him mad.

  A light tap sounded on the study door. “Enter!” Lance commanded, his pulse leaping slightly. Hopefully, the object of his thoughts had finally come downstairs.

  She hadn’t. Mrs. Morgan hobbled into the room. “Your Grace,” she began apologetically. “As Mr. Hammett is away, I am obliged to perform certain of his butlering duties. Even if it gives me no pleasure to do so.”

  “You begin to alarm me, madam. What is it?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” That was all? Lance sat up straighter in his chair. “Who? Miss Atherton?”

  “No, she has not stirred from her room this morning.”

  “Is she unwell?”

  “I could not say. She ordered tea and toast to be sent up. Nothing more.”

  “I see.” Lance fully comprehended the lady’s Spartan breakfast choice. “Pray do not disturb Miss Atherton until she chooses to appear. She . . . had a long journey yesterday.”

  “Very well, Your Grace.”

  “Now who is this visitor?”

  “Miss Kerenza Chenoweth, the village schoolteacher.”

  “Oh! Yes.” Lance had completely forgotten his appointment with the teacher. “Show her in.”

  “Before I do,” Mrs. Morgan insisted, her voice still rife with apology, “there is something I feel I should mention, Your Grace.”

  “Yes?” Lance said, striving for patience.

  “I didn’t want to say anything when you first come home, what with your brother’s passing and the funeral to plan. But I fear Miss Chenoweth will bring it up, and the plain truth is you ought to know about it.”

  “Is this about the schoolhouse roof?” Lance asked. “Because I have just been informed about its condition and I hope to fix it.”

  “It is not that, Your Grace.”

  “Then what is it, Mrs. Morgan?”

  “It is the Children’s Fête.”

  “The Children’s Fête?” Lance repeated, at a loss.

  “Years ago, it was an annual summer tradition for the Duke and Duchess of Darcy to host a party on the grounds below St. Gabriel’s Mount for children from Rosquay and our own village.”

  “Was it? I had no idea.” But even as Lance said that, a childhood memory began to surface of himself participating in a sack race with a crowd of children.

  “I had forgotten all about it myself. But as it happens, the former duke, God rest his soul, decided to resurrect the tradition this summer.”

  Lance tensed with a sense of foreboding. “When is this Children’s Fête supposed to take place, Mrs. Morgan?”

  “In a little over three weeks from today, on the thirty-first of July.”

  “Dear Lord.” This was the last thing Lance needed right now. “Can we cancel it?”

  Mrs. Morgan looked troubled. “I shouldn’t like to think so, Your Grace. Signs have been posted in the village and in Rosquay for months now. Everyone knows about it, and from what I hear, the children are looking forward to it.”

  “How much would something like this cost?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sighed. “Well, if we do this, it will have to be on a strict budget.” Quickly, he added, in what he hoped was a casual tone, “I have a great many expenses just now, you understand. Is this something you can take on and manage, Mrs. Morgan?”

  “I . . . I would rather not, Your Grace,” she stammered. “I have a great many responsibilities of my own, and no experience whatsoever with such things. The last time a Children’s Fête was held here, I was a chambermaid. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Well,” Lance admitted ruefully, “I wouldn’t know where to start, either.”

  “What about the dowager duchess? I believe she and your grandfather hosted the parties in their day. Perhaps she’d be willing to take it on.”

  “An excellent idea, Mrs. Morgan, thank you. I will speak to my grand
mother about it. Now, you may show Miss Chenoweth in.”

  His meeting with the schoolteacher took no more than thirty minutes. A starched-up, tired-looking woman who appeared to be in her late fifties, Miss Chenoweth explained that all their schoolbooks were sadly out of date and gave him a list of books and materials she would be most grateful to acquire for the upcoming year. Lance agreed to comply. Yet another thing that will come out of my personal savings. Which will be bled dry before I know it.

  Miss Chenoweth then brought up the matter of the schoolhouse roof, which she said was endangering the health of every child in the classroom.

  “I will do everything in my power to address the situation,” Lance told her.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Her face was the picture of relief. “By the by,” she added, rising, “my students have been asking about the Children’s Fête. I do hope it will go on as planned?”

  “That remains to be seen, Miss Chenoweth. I am looking for someone to take charge of it. Are you interested?”

  Her eyes widened in dismay. “That has always been the province of the duke and duchess, Your Grace. I would not think of interfering.” Thanking him for his time, she made her excuses and hastily took her leave.

  Kathryn’s heart pounded with anxiety as she arrived at the duke’s study. Thankfully the tea and toast had worked wonders and her headache and stomachache had both eased.

  The door was ajar. She rapped purposefully, hoping to get this meeting over with as quickly as possible and be on her way.

  Upon hearing the duke’s abrupt command, Kathryn entered the room. He sat behind his desk, glancing through paperwork. His black suit pulled across his broad shoulders, emphasizing his muscular frame. His hair looked invitingly tousled. His stubble of beard looked bewitchingly touchable.

  Stop it, Kathryn. This is how you got into trouble in the first place.

  “Miss Atherton. Good morning.” The duke stood, his eyes brightening at the sight of her.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she replied quietly. “Although technically it is only morning for another ten minutes,” she added, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “I apologize for coming down at such a late hour.”