Duncan’s stomach clenched. This was what he had feared. Roadblocks to the truth manned by powerful men.
“I was informed of your thoughts, Greenville,” Lord Riverstone said. “I started looking into it. I fear it is even worse than you know. Moldy hay, spoiled grains, cannons that blow up after only a few shots. Rifles that don’t work. The clothing is the worst of it. Boots that fall apart after one day’s march.”
Duncan growled under his breath. “How about Red coats in which the dye was never set. The first rain and the men looked like a pink circus troop. Not exactly intimidating.”
Lord Riverstone winced as he looked on sympathetically.
Duncan shook his head. “Why is this allowed?”
Riverstone shrugged his shoulders. “There is no one source for all the problems. No one department to point to. I know the Prime Minister is aware, but I believe he fears upsetting his political support. Something he can not afford when we are so close to winning this thing.
“We won’t win with cannons that blow up,” Duncan grumbled.
“Let us look into it,” Ian told him. “it is going to take time.”
“There is no time,” Duncan said through gritted teeth. “Good men are dying because of this incompetence. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“The problem,” Riverstone said, “is that we can’t find out why. It is impossible to trace any one shipment to a particular merchant or factory. They each point the finger at another supplier. The record-keeping is atrocious. The inspectors swear the goods were as they should be when they accepted delivery.”
“Of course, they do,” Brock snapped. “What are they to do? Say otherwise, - Yes we knew the supplies were no good but accepted them anyway – And ignore the extra gold in my pockets.”
“They need to be strung up from the nearest yardarm if you ask me,” Jack said. “A few bodies hanging high would set an excellent example.”
The five men settled into quiet contemplation as they each tried to develop a solution that would work.
After a long moment, Lord Riverstone leaned over and asked, “So, I am told that you are Miss Winslow’s guardian. And that if necessary, you are the man I should talk to.”
Duncan grimaced as he fought with himself. Every part of his soul believed he should put this man off. Not for Miss Winslow’s good, but for his own. A fact that made him feel ashamed of himself. Miss Winslow, Emily, deserved happiness.
“Correct,” he told him. “But my aunt, Lady Denton, is the person you will have to win over. While Miss Winslow has a mind of her own, she follows Lady Denton’s advice in most matters.”
Lord Riverstone smiled, obviously pleased with the suggestion.
A sudden sadness filled Duncan when he realized that this man might very well find happiness with a loving wife. A fact that he knew only too well that he would never know. After all, what wife would enjoy being married to a crippled grump? A man who woke most nights fighting terrors. Ghouls and ghosts. Decisions that ate at him, failures, and regrets. It would not make for a restful, peaceful life for any woman unfortunate enough to find herself sharing his marriage bed.
Besides, Emily was too young and his ward. The realization made him scowl as he tried to understand why he was even entertaining such a stupid thought.
No, he would never burden a wife with himself. No woman deserved such a punishment. Especially not young Miss Winslow.
Chapter Ten
Emily sighed internally as she glanced across the parlor at the Major. The man had barely spoken two words to her over the last three days. Ever since the dinner hosted by Her Grace, the Duchess of Bedford.
She had found it remarkable. Just think, she, Emily Winslow had been invited to a Duchess’ table. And everyone had been so kind. Welcoming her, as if she belonged. The thought of her mother, smiling and nodding her approval, refused to leave her mind.
That thought led to her contemplating the Major once more. The man seemed sour with a constant frown. Oh, how she wished she could soothe his tortured soul. Something, anything to relieve the burdens he carried.
It wasn’t just his wounds. Not just the physical ones. No, something ate at him. Something deep inside.
While some color had returned, he still looked pale. She wondered if there was any chance of a recurrence. The thought sent a shiver to her stomach. Which of course made her think of waking in his bed and in his arms.
Emily bit the inside of her cheek to stop from blushing, forcing herself to think of other things. Corporal Jones had said the attacks were spaced about six months apart. But that had been in Spain. What if the English weather made things worse?
Then there was his injured arm to worry about. She had watched him at the Duchess’ dinner and how he had struggled. It had pulled at her insides to see him so frustrated. He had hidden it well, but she knew him now. The twitch at his temple was a dead giveaway that he was perturbed bordering on anger.
Upon their return home, she had made it a point of finding the cook and suggesting a change in menu. Things the Major could eat one-handed. At least until he regained control of his arm. Of course, the man would ever refuse assistance and would be furious to learn she had interfered.
She continued to bite the inside of her cheek as she wondered if he noticed that none of the meals required the use of a knife. Had Lady Denton? Was that why he scowled at her half the time?
Emily turned to watch as Lady Denton pulled the thread through her needlepoint then glanced up and smiled to her.
“Lizzy seems to be working out well,” she said to Emily. “Don’t you think?”
Emily cringed inside. She felt so guilty. Imagine, her sharing a Lady’s maid. It really was so ridiculous. She had been perfectly willing to help Lady Denton, dressing, her hair. The chambermaids had done the cleaning and mending. But now. Lizzy had taken over everything. Although, not the responsibility of a Lady’s companion, the change left Emily feeling a little empty, as if she had nothing to contribute.
“Who?” the Major asked as he turned the page of his paper.
“Lizzy,” Lady Denton said as she patted the back of her hair, “Our new Lady’s maid. She really is rather good don’t you think?”
The Major grunted as he continued to frown then quickly turned to look at Emily. She knew instantly that he was confirming that there had been no change to her hairstyle.
Only after he was satisfied did he return to reading the paper. But within a few minutes, he was fidgeting, adjusting the sling tied around his neck. It must be becoming rather tiresome, she realized. A man like the Major would hate being encumbered.
“Blast,” he growled as he stood up and tried to pull the sling up and over his head, But Corporal Jones had tied it too short. The arm held securely to the Major’s chest.
“Here,” Emily said as she jumped up and rushed to his side before thinking things through. “Let me untie it.”
He frowned for a moment then turned his back to her so that she could reach the knot.
“Scoot down, My Lord,” Emily told him as she fought with the knot. The man was so tall it was hard to get a purchase.
He bent at the knee so she could better reach him. “This is wrong, My Lord. You should keep it on.”
The Major scoffed, but kept quiet while he waited for her to free him. As she stood there, she caught a hint of sandalwood and paused to take it in. Her eyes closed as she bathed in being this near to him. This … personal … it was intoxicating.
Luckily, Lady Denton coughed absently, pushing Emily back into reality. She quickly glanced over to confirm her ladyship was not frowning at her for taking so long or standing so close to the Major. Instead, the older woman was focused on her needlepoint as if it had become the most critical piece of work in the nation.
Emily’s fingers fumbled with the silk knot until at last, she was able to pull it apart and let the sling fall away.
“Perhaps I should stick it in my vest, like Napoleon,” the Major said as he cradled the injure
d arm with his good one and nodded thank you to her.
“No, never,” she gasped.
The Major laughed. “If Jones had let them take it, I could have pinned the sleeve like Nelson. Rather dashing I am told.”
Stepping back, she frowned at him. “You are dashing enough. No need to sacrifice an arm.”
Emily cringed internally and stepped back even further, suddenly terrified of what she had said. The Major smiled down at her.
“You think I am dashing?”
Lady Denton scoffed from her couch, “Duncan, you are a British Lord, a wounded war hero, and passably handsome. That is what dashing means, boy.”
The Major continued to stare at her then sighed and tried to lift his injured arm.
Emily watched as his forehead creased with concentration and a small bead of sweat formed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he was able to swing his arm several inches forward before he slumped in defeat.
“That is very good My Lord,” Emily said encouragingly. “Especially for the first time.”
He frowned at her then scowled down at his arm. “That is a week’s effort Miss Winslow. A week of Corporal Jones stretching and pulling and the damn thing’s still like a wet noodle.”
“Duncan, language,” Lady Denton scolded as she stared at him, obviously disappointed.
The Major froze for a moment then bowed slightly. “My apologies, Miss Winslow. I forget that I am no longer on an Army parade ground.”
Emily smiled her acceptance of his apology. “Never fear My Lord. After all, I am the daughter of an Army Sergeant. Papa was known to forget at times.”
“Well, I have higher expectations,” Lady Denton said as she returned to her needlework. “And I would have you remember that, Duncan.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“You must continue with your exercises,” Emily said to him gently. “It is the only way. I promise you will make it strong again.”
His brow furrowed with doubt.
“Does it hurt a great deal, My Lord?” she asked as a strong protectiveness filled her. He needed to push himself but she despised seeing him in pain. The competing imperatives fought with each other as she continued to watch him for any sign of distress.
“Actually,” he said. “Like a … yes, it hurts. Especially when it hangs like this. The sling does help but I refuse to use it any longer. It makes me feel like a wounded duck with a broken wing.”
Emily studied him for a moment then took his hand in hers and said, “Perhaps your pocket.” Gently she slid his hand into his coat pocket. “It will support the weight without having to use the sling.” Her fingers tingled where they touch him but she pushed aside the feeling to focus on him
He frowned as he looked down at his arm and slowly nodded. “It will work. At least until someone reaches out to shake my hand.”
Lady Denton shook her head, “You are a British Lord. Ignore them. They will feel as if they have made a social mistake and place the blame upon themselves.”
“God, Aunt, you can be harsh.”
The older woman shrugged her shoulders. “Years of training. And don’t ever you forget it.”
Emily continued to watch him closely as he began to pace. Testing to see if the hand in the pocket trick would work. She memorized the set of his wide shoulders, the furrows in his brow, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. All so that she would have something to compare to in the future. A way to measure success.
He had obtained an entirely new wardrobe and the clothes fit much better than that tattered red uniform. Yet, somehow, he looked out of place in these clothes. Not the Major she remembered.
No, he isn’t the same man, she reminded herself. Not on the outside, and not on the inside.
As he turned to return towards her, he smiled slightly then froze when the parlor door opened without a knock. Jarvis, the butler stood there with a sealed paper in his hand, his brow narrowed with concern.
“A rider, My Lord,” the butler said, “From King’s Dale.”
Emily froze, even Lady Denton looked up, suddenly very worried. The use of a rider vice the post could only mean bad news.
The Major frowned as he took the sealed envelope and tried to open it with one hand. “Here,” he said in frustration as he thrust the envelope into Emily’s hands.
Her fingers shaking, she split the seal and slowly unfolded the letter to give back to him.
He shook his head and nodded for her to read it. Emily took a deep breath and focused on the contents. “Sir, there has been an accident …” Emily gasped as her hand covered her mouth in shock.
“What is it?” the Major demanded.
“Your Brother … The Duke,” Emily managed to say. “He is dead.”
Chapter Eleven
Duncan Greenville, His Grace, the Duke of Richmond looked down at the grave and ground his teeth in frustration. God, his brother had really done it this time, leaving him once again to pick up the pieces.
A gut-churning pain wrenched at his stomach. John, his older brother. Gone.
The misty rain continued to fall. The service was long over, the friends and family had retired to the warmth of the manor. It was just him and his brother.
“Damn you, John,” he mumbled under his breath. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Remember?”
The new Duke took a long breath and forced the anger back down. Life could be so damn unfair. Who dies while fishing? Only his brother. The man had slipped on a wet stone, fallen, hit his head, and drowned in six inches of stream.
So many men, and now John. When would it ever cease? Another life ending in its prime.
A deep sorrow filled him as he coughed to choke back a moan of despair. Now what? It was as if the burdens would never stop. His men needed him back at the front. But Prinny would never allow him to return. Not now. He preferred having his Duke’s close.
Not to mention as a Duke, they’d never let him stay a Major. They’d want to make him a useless general if they let him return at all. Wesley wouldn’t be pleased to have a new Flag officer foisted upon him.
And what of his inquiries? He must continue to push. In fact, his new position might help by giving him access to the corridors of power.
But it was the responsibilities of the title that bothered him the most. Perhaps because he never wanted them. The meetings, the politics of parliament, the agents, and secretaries all demanding attention.
Sighing heavily, he rolled his sore shoulder as he laughed to himself. Would he be known as the one-armed Duke? Taking a deep breath, he turned to leave but halted when he saw Miss Winslow at the graveyard gate. Dressed in black, holding an umbrella against the dripping rain.
Even in drab mourning clothes, the woman looked fresh, pure, new. As if she alone stood outside of all the misery and pain in his life. The one thing that wasn’t corrupted.
Her brow wrinkled with concern as she stared at him. Why was she waiting for him? he wondered.
“You should come in, Your Grace,” she said. “You don’t want to catch a chill.”
The words ‘Your Grace’ surprised him, especially from her. Something he would have to get used to. It had always been his father then John. It seemed wrong somehow to be called by a title.
“Are they still there?” he asked her as he looked up to the big manor house. John’s house, King’s Dale. A house filled with people he barely knew.
The young woman nodded with an understanding look. “I don’t believe they will leave until they have had an opportunity to express their condolences personally.”
His shoulders slumped in defeat. He couldn’t avoid it. And every time someone stuck out their hand to offer their sorrow for his loss. He would be unable to return the gesture. One more minor thing to ruin a perfectly abysmal day.
“Aunt Martha?”
Miss Winslow winced as her eyes became concerned. “She has retired to her room. Lizzy is with her. It has hit her hard, Your Grace, your brother’s death.” The girl paused for a moment then g
rimaced, “The Doctor has given her laudanum.”
The Duke cringed internally as he pulled the gate open. It made sense, John’s sudden death had brought home the sense of mortality to all of them. The slightest slip and it could all be gone in an instant. It did shine a light on what was important.
Catching a hint of lavender that calmed his soul, he took the umbrella from her. Nodding to the house, he held the umbrella above them both as they made their way from the family’s plot across the drive and to the big gray slate house.
“And you, Miss Winslow, what are your thoughts on the change in my … situation?”
She smiled sadly up at him. “In all honesty, Your Grace, I will always think of you as the Major.”
He smiled, an honest answer. “Oh, if only it were so. Perhaps you could talk to the Prince Regent for me. Convince him to make an exception.”
Her smile broadened. “Me, talking to the Prince Regent about you? I believe you will have to find another champion, Your Grace.”
The new Duke laughed as they continued to walk up the path, he found it strange that there was no sense of awkwardness. Any other pretty young woman and he’d be worried about appearances. About being trapped in a compromising situation. As would she. There would be an undercurrent of unspoken hopes and expectations. More on her part obviously. He was titled, now. He was a target more than anything.
But Miss Winslow wasn’t like that. He need not fear her manipulation. It was a comforting thought.
“Has Aunt Martha decreed how long the mourning period will last?” he asked her. As in all matters of social etiquette, Aunt Martha’s rulings were law.
“Six weeks, Your Grace.”
Acceptable, he thought. It simply meant wearing all black, not attending parties, those type of things. But it would not stop him from conducting business. And if he could do that, then he could continue to pursue his inquiries with regards to supplies for the front.
“I’m sorry that your season must be put on hold. Although we will return to London next week, neither Aunt Martha nor myself will be able to escort you.”
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