The Duke's Bridle Path

by Burrowes, Grace

  Ada unwrapped a candy for herself, tossing the twist of paper back into the sack. Burnt sugar, smooth stickiness, rich butter coated her tongue. Porter was a wizard.

  A light autumn breeze tickled her cheeks; dry leaves scudded by along the packed-dirt road. For a moment, Ada sucked at the sweet, considering. “All right. Mr. Goddard—is that truly your name?”

  At his lazy nod, she added, “Very well, then. Mr. Goddard. Tell me why you’re here and what you hope to gain.”

  “I’d not hoped to benefit from such frankness.”

  She ignored the curious glances of the villagers passing by along the sleepy high street. “I’m twenty-four years old, wealthy, plain, and cynical. Frankness is my finest attribute.”

  “I should never call you plain.”

  “No. You never should. It would be rude.”

  She was plain, though, and his candied words didn’t change that. Long face, dark brows. Light brown hair and the family’s gray eyes. Wide mouth, rangy figure, small feet. She seemed put together from pieces of entirely different women. It had been amusing, in her only London Season, to watch the portraitist try to turn her into a conventional beauty. In the end, he had slapped laurels on her head and draped her in a toga, declaring her far too rare to have a more usual sort of portrait.

  “I’m a reporter, as you guessed,” he said. “But I’m not seeking a story about your brother.”

  So. He was hungry for more pieces of her family, was he? Since scandal writers had made a meal of her eldest brother’s death, scraps of privacy were all that remained. She could spare no more.

  “Fowler,” she said, “will you walk Equinox and Fitzhugh up the high street and back? They appear impatient.”

  Fowler shot a pitying look at Goddard. “Yes, my lady.”

  As soon as they had retreated a few steps, Ada rounded on Goddard. “So.” She made her voice heavy with disbelief. “You’re not interested in the Duke of Lavelle’s marriage.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Not even though it was to the daughter of our former horse master.” Harriet was a gentleman’s daughter, but that was not how her background had been reported in the press.

  “A matter of complete indifference to me, I assure you.”

  “You came all the way to Berkshire—”

  “It’s not that far. Only a few hours in a mail coach.”

  “—for what, then? To eat candies given you by a stranger?”

  “Unwise of me,” Goddard granted. “I ought to have asked if you’d done something horrible to it.”

  “I didn’t. So what’s the reason you’re following me about?”

  He eyed her. His was the sort of assessing attention that a man might give a horse for sale, not the sort a man gave a woman he found attractive. “It might be for a story about you.”

  The candy caught in her throat. Her stomach rolled. Could he know about Lord Wrotham’s visit to the area? She had only just got the letter two days ago. “I could thwart you, then, simply by leaving your presence.”

  “I’d stay in the inn and haunt you every time you came into Rushworth Green.”

  Ada tapped at her chin, considering. “That would be annoying. I suppose I could bribe you to leave.”

  “What would keep me from returning for another payment?” He grinned. “Not that I would. I’m just mentioning it as a flaw in your plan.”

  He reached for another caramel. She batted his hand away. “I could,” he drawled, “speak to the people in the village. Or the dukedom’s tenants.”

  She looked at him coolly. The Lavelle-gray eyes were a formidable weapon when employed properly. “Is that a threat?”

  “Only if you are threatened by having people talk about you.” He smiled disarmingly. “Look. Lady Ada. I don’t need your help with this, but it would be easier for us both—and more pleasant—if I had it.”

  “And what is ‘this’?”

  “The sort of story that will make my career. And it just might make you happy too.”

  He looked so pleased with himself, but not in a way that raised her hackles. It was a sort of excited surprise, like the contents of his own mind were an unexpected delight.

  By this time, the groom had returned with the two horses. Behind Goddard, Equinox investigated the man’s hat with curious nibbles.

  Fowler coughed. “My lady, would you like me to get the constable?”

  “No need,” Ada decided. “Mr. Goddard hasn’t done anything wrong. Yet.”

  “I would never!” Goddard managed to look wounded. “I’m an honorable man.”

  Tucking the little paper sack under one arm, Ada took out her gloves and pulled them back on. “Because following a woman around is exactly what a gentleman would do?”

  “It is if he intends to write a story about that woman.”

  “Also not what a gentleman would do.” She checked the fit of her gloves, not wanting to look at the reporter again quite yet.

  Goddard traveled with a brother, Porter had mentioned. And Goddard said—though it could be a lie—that he didn’t care about her brother’s marriage. Certainly it was true that he didn’t adopt the sly nudge-wink manner that men often did when the subject of Lord Wrotham, that jilt, came up around Ada.

  She might be able to make use of this visitor, just as he hoped to make use of her.

  Her curiosity was piqued.

  She turned away, letting Fowler hand her into the sidesaddle on Equinox’s back. She took up the reins in one hand, regarded the little sack of candies dubiously—then tossed them down to Colin Goddard.

  “Don’t regard that as a posy or anything of the sort,” she informed him. “I am at home to callers tomorrow from two o’clock to three. You may call then and explain to me what you have in mind.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” When he bowed again, he swept off his hat with all the swagger of a Royalist Cavalier.

  Reporters. She rolled her eyes. “And if I don’t like it, I will call the constable.”

  That brought him up short. “But I haven’t done—”

  “Mr. Goddard. Do you really believe the family of a duke needs a reason to have someone removed from their presence?”

  It was a good parting line. As Ada wheeled Equinox about and set him on the road back to the ducal seat, followed by Fowler on his cob, she wondered if Goddard was watching her ride off.

  She decided she didn’t mind if he was. For the past four years, Lady Ada Ellis had been buffeted by one loss after another.

  Now she just might have a chance to strike back.

  * * *

  Colin wasn’t about to miss the chance to speak with Lady Ada Ellis in a situation other than a few stolen, tense moments in front of a confectioner’s shop. At half one the following day, he left the room he had rented for himself and Samuel at the White Hare, bidding his brother ring for whatever he might need.

  He made his way to Theale Hall on foot, sixty percent to save the hire of a horse and forty percent to survey the grounds of the stately home. One approached the ducal seat by way of the stables, a practical touch that he approved. Of course, these were no mere stables: They were great long rows of ruddy-gold stone with large windows. The frames and muntins were painted a crisp white, as if they belonged to houses. Likely, the Lavelle dukedom’s horses lived better than many Londoners.

  A circular drive connected the stables to the great house itself, a decorative rectangle of the same red-gold stone topped with a city of gables and slates and chimney pots. Unlike a London mansion, though, to which one often had to skip up a flight of marble steps before deigning to knock at the door, this one had a subdued entrance. No steps, just a jut of stone into which a set of rich brown double doors were set. From behind the edge of Theale Hall, a dower house peeked its smaller stone face.

  At five minutes of two, Colin stood before the front door of Theale Hall. He had brushed his hat, donned his best clothing. When the butler opened the door to him, he doffed his hat.

  “Lady Ada
is expecting me,” he said with more certainty than he felt. The lady had been prickly the day before, but not, he hoped, completely set against him.

  The butler showed him not into some frothy parlor all done up in flowers and silks, but into a study. A masculine room, all wooden shelves and ancient oils and beautifully bound volumes. The air was scented with leather and lamp oil and the faint, musty smell of old paper.

  “Lady Ada.” The duke’s sister was seated behind a desk half the size of Colin’s room at the White Hare. “This is where you welcome your social callers?”

  She pulled off a pair of gold spectacles and blinked up at him. “This is where I spend most of the hours I pass indoors.” Blotting a page in a large ledger, she slid it to one side of the desk. “Thank you, Chalmers. We won’t require any refreshment.”

  “We won’t? Are you sure?” Colin asked. “I think I might require something.”

  She leveled at him the sort of look a barmaid offered when her arse had been pinched one time too many.

  “Fine,” he sighed. As the butler left them alone, he dropped into a chair across the desk from her. As he leaned against the back, he groaned a little. Sturdy leather, supple as cloth, with upholstery as comfortable as an embrace. It was a good life, being a duke’s sister. Or simply visiting her for a while.

  She steepled her hands. “I learned a bit more about you, Mr. Goddard. You truly are a writer for hire. And at present, you work for… The Gentleman’s Periodical.” She spoke the words slowly. They were weighty to her, though he didn’t know why.

  “A tone of surprise, Lady Ada? I would not dare lie to someone so formidable.”

  “Formidable? Honestly.” She took up a quill and penknife. “You might as well call me plain and frightening and be done with it.”

  Why she called herself plain, he had no idea. She wasn’t beautiful in the way of painted portraits and marble-carved statues. But she looked like no one else he’d ever seen in the world, and that was surely the opposite of plain.

  “Frightening, I will grant you,” he said with mock sincerity. It didn’t fool her for a second, for she shook her head.

  “An attempt at flattery? How transparent.” Thumb against the end of the quill, she shaved a perfect sliver from its nib. “Do tell me about your work.”

  It saved my life, he could have said. He’d been born to gentry, but his father was too fond of the bottle and the dice. The family lost their land, then their money—and when the influenza swept England in 1803, his parents lost their lives as well. Colin had been fifteen then, his younger brother only ten and troubled by a condition that kept him out of the public eye.

  Boys’ tricks helped them survive for a time, as they eked out a living in the village their father had lately served as clerk. Both bright, the brothers would perform feats of recitation, memory, and mathematics for anyone who would give a coin. Through the new clerk, they sometimes reviewed books and documents from the occasional London publisher. With Samuel’s aid, Colin eventually struck up a correspondence with one—a Botolphus Bright, who published a daily broadsheet—and asked for employment.

  I don’t hire writers. I buy pieces, had replied the editor. What do you have to offer?

  The brothers scrawled a criticism of humorous writing in a tone so dry as to parch his fingers. “I never read anything so ridiculous,” said Bright when offering publication, and that was how the brothers were able to have meat again. They abandoned their village life for London and never looked back.

  That had been ten years before. From the daily broadsheet, Bright had moved up in the world, and he now published the monthly Gentleman’s Periodical of which Lady Ada seemed so fond. It was an upstart publication, aping the established and respected Gentleman’s Magazine in every way except for being established and respected. But it was profitable enough. Bright had never yet hired the Goddard brothers, but Colin was determined that would change. If he played his cards right, the decade of piecework and scrambling for every coin would end in the security of an editorship.

  But there was no way Colin would tell all of that to Lady Ada. “What if I make things up to impress you?”

  “What if you do? I shall probably spot it. I’m not at all bad at telling when someone’s lying.”

  “Really? Let’s test that. At some point before I leave, but only once, I shall tell you a lie.”

  She held up the quill, gave a satisfied nod, and set it and the penknife aside. “That was it right there. You intend to tell me far more than one.”

  “Curses. In that case, there’s at least one more for you to catch.”

  “Lucky me.” She toyed with her spectacles, flipping the stems out, then folding them again. “Very well. So. You work for The Gentleman’s Periodical, a blight on the occupation of writer, a waste of rag for paper, and a shameful end for every bit of ink spilled.”

  “Um.”

  “Instead of on dits, you deal in on-demandes, a spate of posed questions that have nothing to do with reality, but avoid libel because they make no assertions.”

  She was right. It had been one of Colin’s most brilliant ideas about five years before. If one merely asked a question, the answer could be anything. Did the Prince Regent marry a French woman in secret? Does the owner of Tattersalls sell the meat of ill horses to the city’s most expensive butcher shops?

  The questions page was instantly popular. Bright had granted reluctantly it had saved the periodical more than once from financial failure.

  Lady Ada was not an enthusiast, it seemed. Colin could guess why. After the accidental death of her elder brother four years before, the questions page had made a meal of the circumstances of his death. Issue after issue, the public couldn’t get enough of scurrilous suppositions about the death of a duke’s son and heir.

  That was one of the times Colin’s questions had saved the Periodical. Lady Ada’s gray eyes were frosty, as if she were reading this thought right out of his brain. He held himself still, refusing to fidget.

  She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “Were you responsible only for yourself, Mr. Goddard, I should make you eat the most recent issue of The Gentleman’s Periodical, then have you booted out of the house before you finished chewing. But you are not, are you?”

  Colin turned his head, eyeing her aslant. “Where do you get your information?”

  She shrugged, unbending a fraction. “London is only a few hours by mail coach, as you say. Even less time when one sends an express. And when you stay in the White Hare in the village, learning more about you is a matter of giving a half crown to the innkeeper or sending him a haunch of beef.”

  Inwardly, Colin cursed the resourcefulness of the wealthy in general, and Lady Ada Ellis in particular.

  She added, “You are the sole source of care for your younger brother, who is not and never has been well.”

  That was putting it a bit strongly, but it was the way most people thought of Samuel. “Remember how I said you were frightening? That understated the matter.”

  “For the sake of your brother”—she softened—“I will not toss you out on your ear. Family must be cared for.”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Thank you? I think?”

  “Oh, you definitely want to thank me. You are here to catch yourself an editorship, is that right?”

  “I’m here to write,” he said smoothly. Another lie—well, more of a dodge.

  “Tell me, Mr. Goddard, what do you plan to write about? And why must it involve me?”

  “It needn’t, though it’d be better with your help. I have promised my editor half a dozen pieces in a series on how a plain, ordinary sort of person might catch a wealthy spouse.”

  The series was inspired by the recent marriage of a horse master’s daughter to the Duke of Lavelle. Had it happened in London, it would have been the talk of the ton. Instead, their quiet Berkshire nuptials merited only a sniffing mention in the society papers—and a few questions in The Gentleman’s Periodical.

>   That was good. Less competition for Colin. He’d intended to stalk the duke and duchess for scandalous tidbits, but when he arrived in Rushworth Green to find Their Graces abroad for a honeymoon journey, it occurred to him that the duke’s sister could work as well for his purposes.

  “Oh dear.” Lady Ada’s lips pressed together, holding back a smile that fought to escape. “And how am I to help with that? Not to be caught, surely.”

  “I would never presume to that degree. Instead, I thought you could tell me about your brother’s courtship of the former Harriet… Tallboys?”

  “You know quite well it was Talbot,” she said serenely. “And you told me yesterday that you weren’t interested in writing about them.”

  “You weren’t keeping track of my lies then,” he said. “That was a good one. I told it well, didn’t I?”

  She fixed him with a silvery glare. “I’m not a humorless woman, but I don’t think your immorality is as funny as you do. Sorry I can’t be more obliging.”

  The lift of her brows niggled at him, and before he could think better of it, he leaned forward. Too far forward, almost in her face. “Lady. Ada. Ellis. Sister to a duke. You can afford anything you like, and so you need never reckon the cost of morals.”

  She snorted in his face as if she were her long-nosed gelding. “Do I not?”

  “Honor. Ethics. Whatever name you want to put to the notion of taking one’s pay where one can, never knowing where the next coin will come from—but knowing that it will never come at all without the work of one’s mind and one’s hands, and sometimes of one’s body.”

  She swept him with a curious gaze, but said nothing. The word body echoed in the air, making him feel naked. And not the good sort of naked that one became with a lover. This was simply bareness.

  He drew back again. “Pretend I never said any of that, if you wish.”

  “No, I don’t think I will.” She continued watching him, her expression unreadable. “You finally said something that was meaningful to you. Not many people are so frank with me.”