The Duke's Holiday

by Maggie Fenton

  “Ever so much has happened, Astrid,” Ant said.

  Art nodded solemnly. “The old crow has been here.”

  “Aunt Emily?” she asked, straightening. This was not good.

  Flora came rushing out of the door next, looking relieved to see her, but also completely distraught.

  “Where’ve you got off ter?” Flora demanded. “Yer look a right state. Been worried sick, we have. And where’s Charlie and Himself?”

  “I’ll explain it all later. I hear we have guests.”

  “That ain’t the half of it. Our Roddy is in the drawing room now trying to sort it out.”

  Roddy? “Where is Alice?”

  Flora’s expression darkened, and Astrid began to panic in earnest. “Tell you by and by.” She looked Astrid up and down, then shook her head. “We better take you upstairs and put you to rights.”

  Astrid nodded and directed Ant and Art to help the maids carry up some pails of water to her room. She was going to need the entire contents of the well to scrub the muck off of her. Then she followed Flora inside and up the servant’s staircase to her room.

  Flora began to help peel off her clothes and demanded an accounting from Astrid of her whereabouts the past two days. She provided one in abbreviated form, to Flora’s growing horror.

  At the end of it, all Flora could say was, “Cor!”, her eyes wide, her hands wrenching Astrid’s ruined pelisse.

  “Indeed,” Astrid agreed.

  “Oh, Miss Astrid! That bastard didn’t do nothing, did he?” Flora cried, clasping her by the hand and studying her face.

  “No, he knocked me about a little, but nothing more. Montford came just in time.”

  “Aye, that’s good!” Flora said, her shoulders drooping with relief. “No less than he should of. An where is Himself?”

  “I expect he’ll be along shortly,” she said stiffly, not wanting to think about the Duke’s whereabouts at present or ever again. Fiancée indeed!

  She wanted to throw her boots across the room, but she restrained herself and merely kicked them under her bed. “And no one had any idea what happened to me?” She was almost disappointed. Of course she didn’t want the hue and cry to have been raised. The less people who knew about her disappearance the better. But someone at least could have shown a little concern.

  Flora shook her head and helped Astrid out of her dress, her nose turned up at the state of it. “None, Miss Astrid. By the time we figured out you were nowt comin’ home either, we were already in a tither here at the hall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Miss Alice. Her and that scoundrel cousin of yours ran off together day after the festival, bound for Scotland.” Flora paused. “Surprised you didn’t meet them on the road.”

  Astrid had to sit down. Her head hurt. “Repeat what you just said.”

  Flora took a breath before starting. “Miss Alice and Sir Wesley have made off to Scotland to be married. She left a note and everything. Yer Aunt is in a rare mood, been over here barking out orders. She sent poor Mr. McConnell after them, and a good portion of his men. So you see, by the time I noticed you hadn’t come back from Hawes with Charlie or the Duke, then there weren’t no one to send out to see what were keeping you. But figgered you were in good hands, what with Charlie and Himself for company. Didn’t wager you’d be interfered with by that bastard Lightfoot. Pardon my French, Miss Astrid.”

  Astrid was dumbfounded. Her sister had eloped, the household was in an uproar due to Aunt Emily’s hysterics, and she had been overlooked entirely. She should have been quite happy. Alice and Wesley had finally come to their senses. She only hoped they made it to Gretna before Aunt Emily caught up with them. And Alice’s timing had been impeccable. No one had cared where Astrid was in the ensuing chaos. Alice’s elopement was scandalous enough. If anyone got wind of what had happened to her, she would be ruined, and so would her sisters.

  But still, no one had cared enough to worry for her. She felt horribly alone.

  A sudden, horrifying suspicion occurred to her. “How did you know the Duke was with me?”

  “Wot yer mean? You just tole me!” Flora cried, her face flushing. She stared down at the dress she held pinched between her fingers, as if loath to touch the filth of it, then went over to the fire and tossed it on top.

  “No. You said you didn’t worry about me because you knew Charlie and Montford were with me.”

  Flora tugged out the porcelain hipbath from a closet, then busied herself fetching a length of toweling from an armoire, avoiding Astrid’s eyes. “Well, er, I didn’t. Just sort of … figgered it out.”

  “Did you?”

  Flora spun around, biting her bottom lip. “Oh, Miss Astrid! I confess. It were me and Roddy and Himself’s driver wot put Himself in that wagon bed. It were a lark, I swear. And then when you didn’t come back, we just assumed it were because you and Himself were …” She cleared her throat. “ … reachin’ an unnerstannin’.”

  She should have been furious with Flora for such presumption. She almost yelled at her maid, but the door opened, and Ant and Art and two kitchen maids came in and filled the tub with their buckets of water. By the time they departed, Astrid’s anger had disippated, and she just laughed. It was either that or cry, and she was not turning into a watering pot at this critical hour.

  Flora looked at her as if she had lost her mind, which she probably had. “Well, no matter your intentions, I am very glad you put the Duke in that wagon bed. I’d have had no chance of escaping Lightfoot otherwise.”

  Flora smiled in understanding, then helped Astrid into the tub.

  The water was cool. She’d not had time to bother about heating it. But despite its temperature, it felt wonderful to scrub off the three days’ worth of grit and grime from her skin and smell the clean lavender soap as Flora lathered up her hair.

  For a few minutes, she wanted to forget the chaos surrounding her and relax. She’d not been on a holiday with Montford after all. But it seemed circumstances at Rylestone were not going to give her a moment’s peace. She would have to face those London ladies, though she didn’t know how she was going to bear looking at this Araminta person.

  All this time, he’d been engaged to marry another woman, and he’d never uttered a word about it. The rogue!

  Though he’d made no promises to her, and indeed, she’d wanted no promises from him, she was devastated, and she hated herself for feeling devastated. It made her silly. And weak.

  She sighed and leaned her head against the side of the tub.

  “You’d best hurry, Miss Astrid. Roddy’s downstairs, an’ he’s his hands full with Our Aunt Anabel, who’s insisted on having tea with the ladies. She were well into her story about that French sailor of her’s when last I checked in.”

  Astrid groaned. “Not the French sailor!” That story had once made the vicar cry. And Astrid suspected it would shock even the prurient mind of the author of Le Chevalier L’Amour. But the damage was done. “Just a few more minutes, Flora. I’m quite exhausted.”

  “Aye, no doubt you be,” Flora said, combing out Astrid’s wet hair. “An’ I don’t mean to pry, but you sayin’ you reached no unnerstannin’ with Himself.”

  Astrid bolted up in the tub and turned to Flora, her face flaming. “Flora!”

  Flora shrugged and smiled. “Just thought I’d ask. You didn’t … er, you know … express yer appreciation of Himself going through all that trouble to rescue you?”

  “No!” she lied. “How could you think…”

  “Yer were quite fond of ‘em afore, in the garden.”

  “Flora! You were spying on us!”

  Flora had the grace to look sheepish for half a second.

  “Well, this is just wonderful! No! I have no understanding with Montford. Other than a mutual aversion.”

  Flora pursed her lips, not at all convinced.

  “Besides,” Astrid said, hauling herself from the tub and grabbing up her toweling, “he’s to be married.�
��

  “No!” Flora cried.

  “Yes. In a week. To one of those fine London ladies downstairs.”

  “Oh, Miss Astrid!” Flora exclaimed sympathetically.

  “And I don’t care. Not one bit. The sooner he’s out of my life, the better.”

  And with that, she ordered Flora to her closet to fetch her best dress. Then she thought better of it and pulled open the drawer containing her trousers. She was not going to make this easy on anyone.

  WHEN ASTRID entered the drawing room, her resolve faltered. She’d never seen anyone like the two ladies occupying the couch, staring wide-eyed at Aunt Anabel and her wig over the tops of their teacups. When they noticed her, they stood up and stared wide-eyed at her.

  Astrid’s attention was drawn to the tallest of the pair. She was not as conventionally beautiful as her companion, her aristocratic nose a trifle long, her lips too full, but her idiosyncratic features were arresting, her over-large eyes, the color of emeralds, breathtaking. Her gossamer hair, scraped back into a simple knot, was paler than her alabaster skin, nearly white. She wore a plain, dove-gray gown, almost stark in it simplicity. It was something a governess could have worn, although the fabric was of the finest watered silk Astrid had ever seen. The woman needed no embellishment, however, to draw the eye. She was quite the tallest woman Astrid had ever seen, easily taller than most men, and on that point alone she commanded one’s attention. There was an air of aloofness about her as well, and cold calculation she wore about her like armor.

  The other woman was shorter, fuller of figure, and her hair was a rich honey-blonde, hanging in pretty ringlets about her face. She was almost as lovely as Alice. Her dress was light green satin and tailored in what Astrid could only assume was the latest London fashion, capped-sleeved and high-waisted. Her relation to the other woman was obvious in her eyes. They were also green, but not as sharp or vibrant. The similarities of features ended there, though she held herself with the same stiff dignity.

  Astrid’s heart sank. They were the two coldest females she had ever encountered.

  Aunt Anabel swiveled her head, knocking her wig askance, and smiled broadly at Astrid. “Tea, dear? Look who’s come to visit us! I think one of them is a Duchess or something.”

  Roddy, who had been attempting to disappear into his seat, rose, relief painting his face. “Miss Astrid! Oh, thank heaven you’re … I mean … er …” He coughed. “May I introduce you to our visitors?”

  “Thank won’t be necessary, thank you, Stevenage,” the tall woman said coolly. “I am the Marchioness of Manwaring.” She indicated her companion. “This is my sister, Lady Araminta Carlisle.”

  Astrid regretted her choice of attire as she curtsied awkwardly. So the shorter one was Montford’s intended. She was surprised and relieved, though she didn’t know why. Lady Araminta was beautiful, just like she’d imagined. But the other lady was the one Astrid had almost immediately assumed Montford would pick. For no reason at all, she would have liked that less. Perhaps because the Marchioness seemed to be in possession of a brain.

  “You are Astrid Honeywell,” the Marchioness continued.

  “Yes.”

  They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

  “I believe you are our cousin,” the Marchioness said after a while.

  Astrid was stunned. “What?” she asked, most ungraciously.

  “Your mother, I believe, was a Carlisle. Our late grandfather’s youngest sister. That would make you our second cousin.”

  “Cousin? What’s this about a cousin?” boomed a voice from the doorway.

  The Marchioness stiffened even more, if that were possible. The two gentlemen from the road stood in the doorway. The portly one in his dressing gown – or was it an Arabian robe? – had his fists on his hips and was staring at the Marchioness with great suspicion. The other man – the beautiful peacock – stood slightly behind him. He was also looking at the Marchioness, but his expression was inscrutable.

  Astrid turned back to the Marchioness. The lady was clutching her skirt unconsciously with one hand. She stared not at the speaker, but at the peacock, her expression equally unreadable. The tension in the room was suddenly stretched thin. Astrid did not know the cause, but it was clear to her that her visitors felt a deep antipathy for each other.

  Astrid glanced at Roddy, who gave her a helpless shrug and looked as if he wanted to crawl under a rock.

  “Haloo!” Aunt Anabel said to the gentleman, breaking the stalemate. “Back for some more, eh?” “You there, young man.” She gestured towards the peacock then thrust her cane in the direction of the decanter. “If you wouldn’t mind pouring me a spot of sherry while you’re at it, I’d be most obliged.”

  The peacock – Mr. Sherbrook – looked amused, bowed elegantly, and sauntered to the sideboard.

  Astrid decided to move things along. “My mother was a Carlisle,” she told the Marchioness. “Her family disowned her when she married my father, however. The relation is quite severed.”

  The Marchioness remembered her and frowned at her coolly. “Nonetheless, we are cousins. We are unsevering the relationship.”

  “Indeed,” Astrid replied, equally cool. “To what purpose?”

  “Yes, to what purpose, Aunt Katherine?” the peacock interjected in a drawl, prowling across the room with catlike grace to deliver Aunt Anabel’s sherry, his own drink in his other hand. A dangerous smile lurked on the edge of his lips.

  The Marchioness didn’t flinch, though Astrid thought she rather wanted to.

  Now Astrid was completely at sea. The Marchioness was the peacock’s aunt? It hardly seemed possible. The lady was his contemporary, if not years younger.

  “You are a Carlisle?” she asked Mr. Sherbrook.

  He nearly spat out his port in amusement. “Hardly.”

  “I am married to Mr. Sherbrook’s uncle,” the Marchioness explained, eyeing the peacock with utter disdain. “He is no relation of mine. And my business here has nothing to do with him. Or the Viscount.”

  “The hell it doesn’t!” cried the Viscount. Apparently, he had no compunction of cursing in front of the ladies. Nor of sitting in their company while they were yet standing about. He plopped himself into a seat, looking irate. “Pour me one of them, would you, Sherry?”

  “Pour it yourself,” Mr. Sherbrook murmured sweetly.

  The Viscount glared at him, but made no move to the sideboard.

  Astrid didn’t know what to do. The Marchioness was standing as stiff as a board, unspeaking. Her sister looked acutely uncomfortable next to her. The Viscount was fumbling about his pockets and muttering to himself. Mr. Sherbrook was studying the Marchioness with cold amusement.

  And Aunt Anabel had nodded off into her sherry.

  Astrid threw up her hands. She’d had quite enough. “I don’t know what is going on here, and I do not wish to know. You may wait here for Montford, since you are here to see him. But I shall not waste my time standing around trying to descry your purpose. Pardon my bad manners, but I am tired. And hungry. And in no mood for company.”

  The Marchioness looked vaguely startled. Lady Araminta looked offended – good – and the Viscount’s jaw had dropped.

  Mr. Sherbrook chuckled.

  Astrid scowled at him. She stalked over to the sideboard, poured a glass of port, and thrust it into the Viscount’s fingers. He murmured his thanks, staring at her in astonishment.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to attend to –”

  The sound of a carriage pulling up the front drive brought her out of her temper. She bolted towards the window and peered out to see Lady Emily descending from her barouche.

  “Damnation!” she breathed.

  Lady Araminta’s breath caught.

  Aunt Anabel’s head shot up. “What is it, dear? Are the French invading?”

  “No. Even worse. It’s Aunt Emily.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” Aunt Anabel murmured, putting her sherry to her painted lips and gulp
ing it down in one go.

  “Who’s Aunt Emily?” the Viscount demanded.

  “My aunt!” she cried. She wanted to tear her hair out. Her pulse was racing wildly. She was beginning to hyperventilate. This was very bad indeed. She didn’t think she could take any more. She stared around the room full of strangers and spotted Roddy tip-toeing his way towards the door, making his escape. She didn’t stop him, although she thought him a traitor for abandoning her to these people.

  She felt a hand on her arm. She started and spun around. It was Sherbrook, his beautiful sapphire eyes flickering with concern, though his lips were still quirked with amusement. “You are not looking at all the thing, Miss Honeywell.” He thrust a glass into her hands. “Here’s a bit of dutch courage for you.”

  “Oh, er, thank you,” she said lamely. She sipped the drink and nearly gagged. It was straight whiskey.

  “You’re getting her drunk,” the Marchioness said with utmost disapproval, gliding over to them, and snatching the glass out of Astrid’s hands. “Is that your solution to everything?”

  “Nearly,” Sherbrook replied smoothly, jerking the glass from the Marchioness and thrusting it back at Astrid. “And it’s a fine solution for her.”

  The Marchioness sniffed. “For you, perhaps, not for her.” She took back the glass primly.

  “I know more about Miss Honeywell’s situation than you do,” Sherbrook said in a brittle voice. “She needs the drink.” He tugged the glass from the Marchioness’ hand, but the Marchioness refused to give it up. Their fingers locked on the glass, and a war of wills ensued.

  “This is my cousin, and I’ll not have you corrupt her.”

  “Damnation, woman, I’m not corrupting her. I’m trying to take care of her!” he bit out.

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Astrid cried, jerking the glass from the both of them and tossing back the whiskey. It burned fire down her throat.