The Duke's Seduction of Lady M

by Raven McAllan

  Boleyn relaxed. ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘Then it looks like we have work on our hands. I’ll need to meet each manager in turn and then, I suspect, visit my estates and see first-hand what I deem important and they don’t. Consider yourself promoted to my secretary-cum-majordomo, how does that sound?’

  Boleyn looked alarmed. ‘Thank you, it sounds more than I ever thought possible. I will endeavour not to let you down. Your visits would be perfect. They will put the fear of god into each and every manager, Your Grace. Your mama very much let them get on with things.’

  Evidently.

  ‘I,’ Brody said implacably, ‘am not my mama.’

  That thought was uppermost in Brody’s mind, as he dismissed Boleyn. He sat for a moment and then picked up the ledgers pertaining to the castle and its surrounding lands and walked to the door. As he reached it and put his hand on the latch, Brody paused and retraced his steps. For a moment he hesitated, deep in thought, and then took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet that held his supply of spirits. With it in one hand and the ledgers in the other, he made his way out of the house and across the courtyard to the estate offices. It was as good a time as any to start showing he was back and intending to take up the reins of responsibility.

  He opened the door to the office without knocking.

  The man who sat with a ledger in his hands didn’t look up.

  ‘It’s polite to knock,’ he said shortly.

  ‘It’s polite to see who has entered,’ Brody replied equably, although he let a hint of authority enter his tone. He pushed the door shut with enough force to make it slam loudly.

  Henning, his factor, looked up and his mouth dropped open. ‘M…my Lord, I mean, Your Grace, I didn’t realise it was you.’ “And what are you doing here,” his tone implied.

  ‘Why would you?’ Brody asked cheerfully as he put his parcel onto the desk with a clink and a thud. He thought it might be a good idea to make sure every employee knew he was happy still to be called ‘my lord’. This double naming made him dizzy. ‘After all, I’ve been conspicuous in my absence.’ He picked up a chair from the side of the room and put it down in front of the desk. ‘Worry no more. I’m ready to take the helm.’

  Henning looked aghast. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘I’ve slacked long enough,” Brody continued in the same breezy and insouciant tone of voice, and hoped the expression “if looks could kill” was just that – an expression, and not a statement of fact.

  ‘Ah well, we all knew you needed time to recover, Your Grace, and it was my pleasure to run the estate as your parents wished.’

  That was as may be but…

  ‘And now, Henning you can run it as I wish,’ Brody said quietly, but emphatically. ‘Plus tell me of the things you wanted to do and did not, and the things you personally think do not need doing. I’m sure there must be both.’ His tone invited confidences. ‘Even after you have run the estate to the such high standards you have achieved, there must still be areas you want to work on, or choose not to. I’m sure you had your reasons, but as I don’t know them, some decisions make no sense to me.’ He paused. ‘The back drive for instance?’

  Henning blanched and swallowed several times. ‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed. ‘The back drive.’ The factor shook his head and firmed his lips.

  ‘Well?’ Brody waited. He wouldn’t push until he had to, but he would find out how the man worked. ‘The back drive.’

  Henning fiddled with the quill on his inkstand, lined up three ledgers level with the edge of the desk and finally stood up to go to the shelves, which ran the length of the wall opposite the window. He lifted one red leather-bound tome and moved it from hand to hand.

  ‘My lord, do you know the finer details of your father’s illness?’ Henning asked just before the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory. ‘It is relevant, I assure you.’

  Whatever Brody thought the man might say, it wasn’t that. ‘Originally, pneumonia, though how I have no idea,’ he replied. ‘I was told he had always been less than robust, though I can’t say I’d ever noticed. Then he died several years later after once more succumbing to the illness from riding in a storm.’

  Henning sighed. He looked so concerned Brody passed the parcel with the brandy over to him. ‘Pour us a glass each, for, if it’s as worrying as your demeanour suggests, I feel it is likely we will need it.’

  His factor nodded, produced two glasses – clean and reasonably shiny – poured two generous measures out and handed one to Brody, before he himself took good mouthful and swallowed appreciatively.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. It is, I hesitate to say, worrying – but definitely not something I felt should be kept from you. Your mother, however, was adamant you need not be informed. That telling you the details would upset you and not help you at all. I had assumed now you were home and, er, improving health wise, she would have imparted it all to you.’

  ‘No.’ Improving health wise? I wonder what ailed me? ‘Oh and Henning? For the record, there was nothing wrong with me other than having to think and speak in a foreign language for many years, and learn how to once more behave in polite society once I returned to these shores.’ And mourn my love. ‘I was tired, true, but oh so pleased to be home,’ Brody continued. ‘Especially when I fled London, and believe me, fled is not too strong a word for how I got away. Hounded until I was scared to relieve myself in case a debutante hid behind the commode, jumped out and said I compromised her.’ Brody shuddered as he remembered that and other close shaves. ‘Then I arrived here to be shown by my mama and my employees that my input was not needed. Well, I’m sorry, but needed or not, now you have it. All of you.’ He lifted his glass and drank deeply. For once the smooth as silk cognac failed to do the trick and calm him.

  Henning put his glass down on the desk in front of him. ‘If you mean that, Your Grace, then I am truly grateful. I do need your input, but we were all told in no uncertain terms not to bother you.’

  ‘Now you know differently. Therefore let’s start with my father’s illness and subsequent demise.’

  ‘Be prepared to be annoyed,’ Henning said and Brody grinned. The man was unbending by the minute, and now looked around Brody’s age, not ten years older.

  ‘Not amazed or unhappy?’

  Henning raised his shoulders. ‘I don’t know to be honest.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I do know is this. As was his usual routine, the duke rode out one day and was caught in a vicious hailstorm. We all thought he recovered well, but he wasn’t strong after that and the second time it proved fatal. He… oh dear, I don’t like to say this, it seems disloyal.’ The man blushed. ‘Oh my, I mean,’ he stopped speaking and lapsed into an agitated silence.

  Brody took pity on him. ‘I understand your feelings but I need to know. My father is dead, my mother will not talk about it, and my staff seem to think me uninterested in my heritage. None of which is helping my return to head the house of Welland. Therefore, Henning, I throw myself at your mercy and beg you to tell me what you know.’

  Henning dipped his head. ‘Sadly little more than that, Your Grace. He returned from that ride and succumbed to the fever. No one thought he would take such a risk again, but he did. That was…’ his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

  ‘But he did? And that was the ride that killed him?’ Brody asked.

  ‘So it seems, your grace. As before, it was a lowering sky and snow was hinted. Even so, his lordship insisted on going out alone. He’d been in to see me earlier and was his normal self, and made no mention of having to go anywhere. However, it seems he told your mother he needed to ride – no explanation why or to where, although she did say to the coroner she asked him and he replied it was just a ride to shake the cobwebs away. As he often did that, although not usually in such weather, she had no reason to argue with him. This is, you understand, hearsay?’

  Brody nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He made his way to the stables, dismissed the groom who went to attend him,
saddled a young and green stallion, and rode away. It wasn’t until he failed to return for dinner that the alarm was raised and a search instigated.’ Henning took another sip of brandy.

  ‘We found him around midnight, crawling along the back drive. It was assumed his horse had caught its foot in a rabbit hole and he was thrown. After a subsequent hunt we found the horse next to one such hole, already dead. Your father was brought home on a hurdle, but died three days later from an inflammation of the lungs without any explanation for his ride. After that we carried on much as normal until, well, now.’

  ‘Which will be the new normal.’ Brody paused to formulate his thoughts. Henning might think his father wouldn’t take silly risks but Brody knew his parent had been wild in his younger days, To try out a young horse in less than perfect weather would be something he’d do without thinking twice. ‘Is that why the gates on the back drive are shut and that route unused?’

  ‘Exactly, Your Grace.’

  Brody made up his mind. ‘No longer. It’s the shortest way to the village.’ And Miss Mary. Now why should that thought pop into his mind? There was as much chance of anything happening there as him becoming the next king. ‘Can you see that the drive is levelled and the gates repaired?”

  Henning brightened. ‘Certainly. While you’re here?” He looked somewhat hesitant about continuing.

  ‘Spit it out.’ Brody advised him. ‘I don’t bite.’ Not innocent employees anyway. Less than innocent and willing ladies, all the time. Damned if that thought didn’t perk his pego up. He willed his erection to go away. Having just achieved a working rapport with Henning he didn’t want to lose it. Luckily the desk was between them.

  ‘We used to have a dance after the harvest was done. It’s not been held these past few years, but now it would give everyone the chance to meet you again. People understood your mama didn’t want to be bothered whilst your papa was ill, but now, if you do indeed mean to take up the reins, why not start with this?’

  It made sense. Brody stood up and clapped the other man on the back. ‘An excellent idea. I’ll get word to my mother and siblings that it will be… hmm, around the last week in September? That’s…’ he did rapid calculations, ‘…four weeks if we hold it on the first Saturday in October. Then it won’t clash with anything the church does.’ He remembered enough of years past to know how important the religious festivals were. ‘Can you arrange that? I’ll speak to cook.’ If she is off the sherry. He thought rapidly. ‘I suspect my first task should be to write to Mama. If I can work out where she is at the moment. I’ve lost track.’

  ‘Mallow.’ Henning’s eyes twinkled. ‘At Lady Fernley’s. I have a list.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘My Lord, I’ve been sending her weekly updates on what we, we, not you, are doing.’

  Brody laughed. Poor Henning. ‘Let’s face it; my bit would scarcely cover two lines of script. Eating, riding, sleeping. Just existing. No more though, and I’ll take over the epistles. It would be best to come from me that her input can decrease now.’

  And cease. He still had to discover why she chose to shut him out.

  Chapter Three

  Mary couldn’t remember a night quite so dream-filled since just after Horry had died. Those dreams had been more of the nasty and dark kind, not the frustrating type. Yet in both she woke grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there. However, whereas before she’d woken up bereft, because her husband was never going to be next to her again, the night just passed she had felt more of an ache deep inside. The longing and expectation you experienced as you waited for a lover to fill you.

  She flung back the covers with exasperation and got out of bed. Enough was enough. Her life had changed and it was up to her to take charge of it. She’d chosen not to be part of the ton, not to be hemmed in and confronted on all sides by suitors who thought no more of her than a cup of chocolate in Whites. Instead she’d chosen to be seen as a young widow who was in effect the custodian of the Grange until such times its usage – unspecified as to how – changed. That persona suited her and was close enough to the truth to not make her feel uneasy when people commiserated. It was just some facts she’d supressed. Like a lot of money and her title.

  Why the local had chosen uphold what the school children called her – Miss Mary, not Mrs Mary Lynch – she had no idea but she liked it. She was no longer Lady McCoy – or, she thought with a jolt, the Dowager Lady McCoy – and, unless she went back to her brother with her tail between her legs, would likely never be again. Each time that thought hit her, she became ever more determined that once her year of grace was over, she intended to continue her life how she wanted it. It would be an uphill struggle, she had no doubt of that, but even if she had to stall until she was twenty-five she was determined to do as she desired.

  ‘Right.’ Mary spoke to herself as she dressed in her plain cotton chemise and simple sprigged lilac cotton gown. Old and serviceable, it was a firm favourite of hers and she knew it suited her dark curls, even as it upheld her status of a widow, not totally out of mourning. Or did it? Maybe the colour was too definite?

  So be it. Enough was enough. If she had followed Horry’s diktat, she would have been in colours months ago. However. whilst she lived with Desmond and Patience, the idea had horrified them, and in deference to her hosts and their sensibilities she’d kept to greys and purples. Here in Welland village she’d lightened up a bit, but now she decided her wardrobe needed updating. She’d call on Miss Wishlade, ask for advice, and choose some pretty coloured gowns and outerwear for autumn.

  With that in mind, Mary hummed under her breath and waited as Barlow, her groom, saddled her beloved mare, Darcy, and let him give her a hand into the saddle. As ever she countered his pleas to accompany her, and rode along the drive towards the gates and the lane, which went towards Welland in one direction and the tiny hamlet of Bliston in the other.

  Miss Wishlade lived halfway up the steep hill on the far side of the Welland estate. A spritely widow who said cheerfully she’d stopped counting her age when she reached eighty, a goodly age for anyone, and now kept active by making gowns for the locals and knitting and tatting garments for those she deemed worthy.

  Evidently, she deemed Mary worthy.

  They’d met at church and when Mary had enquired diffidently if Miss Wishlade could remake a grey gown into one more serviceable, Miss Wishlade had looked her up and down, and then nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at ten. Marmalade Cottage over towards Manton way, by Home Farm and don’t be late. I only do plain sewing, mind you, but that fits the bill, admirably.’

  It had been no surprise to Mary to learn Miss Wishlade had been the present Duke’s sisters’ governess for many years, before she retired to the cosy cottage she now resided in. She oozed authority in the nicest way possible.

  Over the months their unlikely friendship had grown, until now it was such that they exchanged weekly visits. One week Mary would send Barlow with the carriage to bring Miss Wishlade to the Grange for lunch, the next Mary would make her way up the escarpment, past the castle and thence to Marmalade Cottage for one of Annie, Miss Wishlade’s companion’s light lunches, or if they ate later, delicious stews or roast dinners. Usually followed by a pudding so filling Mary thought if she fell off her horse she would merely roll down the hill. Hopefully not into the duck pond.

  She took the little used bridle path which meandered below the castle and tackled the hill at a place more suited to pedestrians or horses, but definitely not for carts or carriages. At least it meant she could let Darcy pick her own way between the thistles and poppies, and ignore the meadowlarks and starlings that flew around her. Likewise the hare, which darted across the track and which, with any other horse, could have caused a ruckus. Darcy merely snorted, shook her head, and plodded on.

  It was a perfect morning. The sun wasn’t too hot and was still in the process of burning off the early mist that hung like a net curtain over the fields. The hedgerow was covered with cobwebs, which sparkled and gleamed
like the jewels in a tiara. Tiny creatures darted in and out of the bushes, and somewhere a skylark sang its melodious song. The last of the wheat was nigh on ready to be harvested and the late ripening apple trees she passed ready to drop their fruit.

  Mary sighed in contentment. She loved this time of the year, when the earth gave up its bounty and settled into silence for the long cold winter months ahead. When the barns were full, the haystacks made, and the pantries and larders groaning with the fruits of the people’s labour.

  With the added bonus of not being threatened with the season turning wintry, well not yet, Mary was more than happy. She hummed to herself and Darcy pricked up her ears as if in agreement. ‘All’s good with the world eh, girl?’ Mary tugged gently on Darcy’s ears and directed her to take a track around the edge of the hundred-acre field, still awaiting the ministrations of the harvester. Only a few days to go Mary judged, and then she’d be able to ride straight across the field and not skirt the crop.

  Of course before long, if the winter were severe, she’d be on shanks’ pony, because the ice would make the tracks treacherous for the horse. However she’d face that problem when or if it happened. One thing she was determined about – she’d still be at the Grange, and not in London for the season, whatever anyone said.

  As she approached Marmalade Cottage – so named, Miss Wishlade said, because of the colour of the stone walls – that lady popped out of the door as if she were on a spring. She waved vigorously as Mary drew Darcy to a halt, dismounted, and eventually settled the horse with some oats in the shade of a venerable and fruitless plum tree.

  ‘Such news,’ she said excitedly as she waited for Mary to pick up the saddlebag she’d brought full of garden produce. ‘Brody’s out and about again.’

  ‘Brody?’ Mary asked as casually as she could manage, as she followed her hostess into the trim cottage and put the heavy saddlebag down on the long oak table that dominated the kitchen.

  ‘The Duke,’ Miss Wishlade said impatiently as Annie bustled in, and kissed Mary on the cheek affectionately. ‘He dropped by earlier and invited us to lunch at the castle. Of course I refused, and explained why. He was most interested in the way you have become one of us.’