‘What cannot be changed, must be endured and forgiven, eh Jason?’ He gave the horse a pat and left the stables. He might not agree with what had happened, but it was over and he needed to move on.
So do they.
To his loyal-to-the-crown family, evidently the defeat of Napoleon was more important than having the heir at home, learning the ropes. Thus his return to home shores was delayed. Therefore, to his estate managers – most of whom were chosen by his father after he, Brody, had left home – he was as much an unknown factor to them as they to he. That two-sided name made him laugh. Factor be damned. He had no input, no influence and now, sadly, no inclination to be involved.
Brody re-entered the house without seeing a soul, washed and changed and mooched around the ground floor with a brandy in one hand and a scowl on his face. That was not true. They had no inclination to allow him to be involved. It seemed their inclination was to think everything had run smoothly without him so why upset the apple cart?
Because I want to be involved. I am not the callow youth who left here all those years ago. This is my land, my heritage and my chance to protect the future. Brody swallowed his brandy in one long gulp, hiccupped behind his palm and scowled at his majordomo who appeared silently as if by magic. Boleyn couldn’t give him the solution to his conundrum. Not like he did when as a child, Brody bombarded him with questions and the man, then a lowly footman, never failed to give the child an answer he could understand.
Now, because Boleyn had known him since he was in the cradle, he accepted the man’s furrowed brow and silent disapproval as given. Boleyn had disapproved of Brody’s ways well before he headed to the continent and Brody supposed he’d done nothing to change the man’s opinion since he got back.
‘What have I done now?’ Brody asked resignedly. ‘Except empty the brandy bottle before noon.’
Boleyn looked him up and down, and it took all of Brody’s concentration not to fidget. He really did feel like a scrubby schoolboy once more, albeit with a three-day growth on his chin. Boleyn might only be fifteen or so years older than him, but he had the knack of making Brody regress.
‘Or not done?’ Brody added.
‘Too much to mention, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Boleyn said austerely. ‘In other’s, not enough. May I suggest you start to rectify that before all is lost.’
Brody looked at his feet, just to avoid Boleyn’s sorrowful and disappointed expression. It made him appear like a lugubrious bloodhound. Brody sighed, put his glass down on a side table, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. ‘Who, what, and where? How much do I need to grovel?’
Boleyn smiled and his relief was so evident to see, Brody felt like a heel. He knew he’d dragged his feet with regards to insisting he became more involved with the daily workings of his heritage. But with such determined resistance from those who held onto the reins, he’d decided to become more used to civilian life before demanding things change.
Now he wondered just what his servants thought of him. Oh yes, they all knew him in his younger days, when he’d been a rake and a rogue, and enjoyed every moment of it. Then, wagering, wenching, and wine had been his raison d’être. No longer. Of course they didn’t know that and Brody had no idea how he could impart the knowledge, except by example perhaps? If given the chance.
Take it, you are the Duke. Take that chance, don’t wait for it to be given.
Boleyn coughed delicately and Brody realised he’d been wool-gathering again.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised sincerely to the older man. ‘Tell me, plot my day for me. Set me back on the straight and narrow, but…’ he grinned, ‘…give me time off for good behaviour.’
Boleyn’s worried expression cleared and he bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. I vow, I despaired of ever hearing those words from your lips.’
Brody decided not to enquire which of his words met Boleyn’s approval. He’d just bask in the approval while he could.
‘So, my agenda?’ he prompted. Now he was in the right frame of mind, he might as well get a move on, just in case the mood dissipated. Not that he thought it would, but Brody had seen too much to assume anything.
‘Well now.’ Boleyn rested the tips of his fingers on his chin, an expression Brody recognised as Boleyn in pensive mode. ‘A shave first, for, not to put too fine a point on it, you look like a vagrant.’
Brody ran his fingers over his chin. The three-day-old growth was neither fashionable nor sculpted. It was merely facial hair. Untidy, stubbly, facial hair.
‘Point taken. First a shave. Then?’
‘Then you should take up the reins and re-immerse yourself in the estate. If that’s your idea?’
Brody nodded. ‘I’ve wallowed and been sidestepped enough. No more.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Boleyn smiled. ‘If I may suggest a visit to old Mrs Wiggins? She’s in Apple Cottage, since Joe, you remember her son, passed. He was in one of the foot regiments and was lost at Waterloo.’
Brody winced, and nodded. The carnage was all too fresh in his mind. Even though no one knew he was there, he’d been around, and seen more terrible things in one day than anyone would want to see in a lifetime.
‘And Miss Cinderford,’ Boleyn continued. ‘She’s next door. They both have fond memories of you and never fail to ask after you.’
‘Cinders?’ Brody used the nickname for his old nurse. ‘I thought she’d be long gone by now.’
Boleyn shook his head. ‘Hale and hearty. Still walks to church twice on Sundays, takes her turn on the flower rota and teaches the children their scriptures at Sunday school. She’s been looking forward to your return.’ He didn’t add, as he well could, ‘and you’ve been back months and seen no one’. ‘Chef will have some pastries for you to take to the ladies. It’ll save Mrs Loveage a detour when she goes to visit the pensioners on the other side of the river. She tries to get round them all once a week, now your mama is absent.’
Mrs Loveage, his housekeeper – known to Brody’s younger self as Lovey, and at one time an undernursemaid – was another stalwart who wasn’t in the first blush of youth. If Boleyn was trying to make Brody feel guilty, Brody knew fine well the man had more than succeeded. If he ever wed, that activity would fall to his wife. If. A little word with a big meaning.
‘Of course. Now I can help.’
Boleyn looked sceptical and Brody grinned. ‘Well not in everything but when you or she think I’m needed. What else?’
‘Cakes for the school. It’s the monthly treat for those who attend regularly. With cook laid up, Mrs Loveage is charge.’
It was the first Brody had heard of the cook’s illness. Guiltily he wondered what else his staff had kept from him because they thought – mistakenly – he was indifferent.
‘What’s wrong with the cook?’ He needed to know. Dammit she is my responsibility.
‘Cooking sherry.’
What? ‘The cook is addicted to cooking sherry?’
Boleyn shook his head and coughed. ‘Ahem, only for one week in each month, my lord. And we manage.’
Brody digested that somewhat puzzling statement for several seconds before the light dawned. Those damned days when the curse ailed Mercedes so badly that she took to her bed alone. Although he didn’t think the cooking sherry ever went with her. More likely the finest wine and a bottle of port. As ever, the thought of Mercedes hit him hard and sent a searing rush of anguish through him. Brody blocked his painful thoughts off and concentrated on what was being said.
‘Good, so, you were saying about the school children and cakes?’ He changed the subject hastily. He really didn’t want a conversation about a woman’s body at that moment.
‘This month all forty-seven pupils are eligible. Miss Grey is overjoyed with that.’
Brody supposed Miss Grey was the new schoolmistress. He vaguely remembered his mama saying Miss Pettifer, the previous incumbent, had left to take care of her widowed father. He wondered idly whose idea the cakes were but decided it might
be best not to enquire. Just in case it was seen as a criticism. This Duke thing is fraught with pitfalls. He cast his mind back to the elegant lady his body had lusted over all those weeks earlier. He’d never seen her since, even though he’d kept an eye out for her on his sojourns around the area. Was she Miss Grey? Damn, definitely not in my league then. He certainly could not proposition someone who was, to all intents and purposes, in his employ.
‘Cakes then. Excellent.’ Brody had no wish to change anything unless he felt a need to do so. Cakes for attendance seemed a good idea to him. The more children who got an education, the better he – and whatever anyone thought it would be he – could ensure his estates were well maintained and prospered. ‘I’ll shave, change into my riding clothes and boots and meet you back here.’
Boleyn beamed. ‘I told Mrs Loveage you’d soon be chafing at the bit and raring to take up the reins again. Once you recovered.’ His majordomo turned on his heel smartly, and slipped behind the green baize door discreetly located under the imposing staircase.
Recovered from what? Brody pondered the question as he made his way up the stairs two at a time to swap his house shoes for riding boots and a jacket which, although more befitting his status, didn’t set him too far apart from anyone he might meet, and jeopardise his intentions to be a hands-on owner.
Hands-on. He wished.
Damn. That thought reminded him once more of his late mistress, Mercedes. Mercedes of the ‘black as a raven’s wing’ hair and deep blue eyes, which could soften into submission, or flash with anger. Their time together had been brief, tempestuous, and more than enjoyable. Mercedes insisted it was not for ever, she wouldn’t leave and go to England with him. Instead, she said, it would be best they part with affection before he returned to England.
A year or so earlier, Brody had been sent to another part of the country to reconnoitre a way for troops to infiltrate the area. On his return he had found her battered and bleeding, with her hair shaved and carved into her chest the word – in English – ‘traitor’.
She died in his arms, and Brody swore never again would he lose his heart. He’d closed in on himself and done his job with ruthless determination.
It was no wonder he’d taken so long to regroup.
Since then, Brody ruminated, his cock was in danger of forgetting what its mission in life really was, and was in trouble of seizing up through disuse. It had been a lowering realisation that to enjoy delights of the flesh, one needed to be where the ladies were. Sadly where those willing to play could be found, so also could their children or worse, their spouses.
Plus, those debs desperate for a husband, with all the ruthlessness needed to ensnare an eligible man by fair means or foul, appeared from nowhere. Usually it seemed… foul. At a soiree his mother had cajoled him to attend, he had to threaten one lady when she’d followed him into the antechamber of the gentlemen’s smoking room. Unbeknown on his side and with full, snare-intentions on hers. Brody been treated to an eyeful of bosom and a threat to say it was him who coerced her into the room. He had departed via the window, but not before he told her in no uncertain terms who would come off the worse if she tried any such thing. Indisputably, it wouldn’t be him, he’d make sure of that. His ire and determination left one very scared debutant to hightail it out of the chamber and him to go back to the soiree via the ivy and to make his farewells to his hostess. Thence to avoid all such events. For that he gave thanks and left London swiftly, before any more ingenious plots to ensnare him could be put into fruition.
There and then, Brody made his mind up. His body would get its relief via his hands or not at all. Over a month later he’d kept to that and would continue to do so… Until…until what he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t until some forward debutant – or her ambitious mother – got their talons into him. Luckily, in this part of the country he’d get plenty of notice if any such plans seemed likely and would be able to employ avoidance tactics.
Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.
‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’
Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.
‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’
‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’
She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.
‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’
She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.
He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’
She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’
Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.
‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’
‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.
‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’
She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.
‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness up…’ she glanc
ed at Brody.
‘Hester and Hero to my curricle,’ he supplied the answer, and named two horses who had recently arrived. ‘And my apologies, Ronald. Having not been in polite company for so long, indeed I have forgotten my manners.’ It wasn’t, Brody knew, strictly true. He still had a black dog riding on his shoulder and it was unfair to take it out on his loyal staff.
Mrs Loveage stared at him fixedly and then let her eyes flicker to Ronald and back again. Brody frowned. What was she getting at? She sighed and with one final pat of the dough she’d been working she covered it with a cloth and put it to the back of the stove. He glanced at the lad and saw an expression of yearning on his face.
‘If you wish to accompany me, Ronald, I’d be grateful.’
The expression changed to one of incredulity.
The smile Mrs Loveage bestowed on Brody made him understand he’d done the right thing.
Ronald reddened again and bobbed a half bow. ‘Yes um… yes, you sees I’d like to be a tiger or sommat one day. I loves the ‘osses – horses.’
‘Then now’s the chance to show me what you’re capable off. Do you have boots?’ Brody asked as a swift glance at the other man’s work boots told him neither would feel happy with Ronald wearing them.
Ronald’s face dropped. ‘Ah, no. ‘S all I got, m’lord.’
‘Then wait one minute whilst I nip upstairs. I have a pair, which should fit you. And a suitable jacket.’
Ronald gasped, then went white. He swayed, and gulped. ‘M’lord…’ he said weakly.
‘There now…’ Mrs Loveage said complacently, ‘…I knew His Grace would see you right and tight. You stay put, m’lord, and me and Boleyn will sort out what’s needed.’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and nipped out of the room before Brody could pass comment. To his amusement, he heard two sets of footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs. It seemed his staff knew his wardrobe as well as he.
The Duke's Seduction of Lady M Page 2