The Duke's Disaster

by Grace Burrowes

  The earl had struck the right note, between confiding and condescending—though being referred to as expensive would ever grate on Henny’s nerves. Had Hallowell half a brain, he might have left on some quip, or even a graceful bow.

  “Anselm might take you back,” Hallowell said. “Just you wait and see. He’s married the wrong duchess, and soon everybody will know it.”

  Hallowell marched off, a boy in men’s tailoring.

  “Was he bothering you, kitten?”

  Being called kitten bothered Henny. The scent of the chandeliers bothered her. The weight of her earrings bothered her.

  Henny put her lips to the rim of the cup but did not sip. “Yes, Dickie, he was. Nothing is so vile as a gin-soaked little bully in anticipation of a title. Anselm will probably be forced to call him out.”

  Melmouth emptied the contents of his flask into his punch. “Anselm’s an excellent shot, and I hear he’s besotted with his new bride. Bought her a prime little filly at Tatt’s, has barely been seen in Town since the vows were spoken.”

  Good for you, Anselm. Good for your duchess.

  “If Anselm’s ruralizing with his new duchess, then Hallowell’s lack of couth will likely go unpunished,” Henny said. “Would you mind very much if we left, Dickie?”

  Henny’s feet hurt, her head hurt, her eyes hurt, her earlobes hurt; most of all, her heart hurt. Anselm was deserving of every happiness, but that didn’t mean Henny had to sit about, like a streetwalker on her preferred corner, and troll for custom.

  Melmouth drained half his cup. “Are you inviting me to join you at home, kitten?”

  The question was stone sober, and pathetically hopeful. On stage, the portly tenor and the equally substantial soprano were warbling away at volume in Italian, despite the lady’s supposedly mortal wound.

  Henny was abruptly homesick for the green, windy dales of the West Riding and the bleating of her uncle’s fat, woolly sheep.

  “Dickie, I don’t think I’ll ever invite another man to join me at home.”

  The earl set his punch down unfinished and slicked a hand over his thinning hair. “I’ll have the carriage brought round. Opera has always struck me as so much noise anyway.”

  He took himself off, an aging knight who still had a few turns in the lists left, but Henny wouldn’t allow him to squander them on her.

  She’d done Melmouth a favor, but she’d also made up her mind. When Polite Society went grouse hunting, Henny would leave Town as well. Until then, she’d keep an eye on Hallowell, for a duke besotted with his new bride might not notice a threat skulking about his own garden.

  * * *

  One floor below Thea’s darkened bedroom, the longcase clock in the library let go a single, resonant bong! that reverberated through the house and through her wide-awake body.

  Noah hadn’t come to bed.

  He’d given Thea a particularly enticing kiss in the library before she’d gone up to read the girls their bedtime story. His usual routine took him out to the stables after dinner, there to confer with his grooms, pet his beasts, and walk off some of his supper.

  Thea grabbed a candle, and opened the door between her dressing room and Noah’s, then crossed from his dressing room into his bedroom.

  She didn’t often go into Noah’s bedroom, feeling as if his presence, or at least his permission, was needed to justify such an intrusion. His canopied bed sat in dark, ducal splendor along one wall, raised up three steps for both winter warmth and sheer impressiveness.

  Had a woman at any point shared that bed with Noah? A guest at a previous Wellspring house party perhaps?

  Thea closed the door. She wasn’t allowed to have such thoughts, lest Noah have them about her. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t made any more allusions to her past, but sometimes she caught him looking at her, a question in his eyes.

  Her thoughts careened in another equally foolish direction: maybe Noah had been kicked in the head while visiting the horses, and was even now lying unconscious in True’s stall, overlooked by the grooms.

  Maybe he’d decided to take a late evening ride in the moonlight, and come to grief hours ago.

  Maybe…

  “You are being ridiculous.” Papa’s admonition didn’t quell Thea’s worries now any more than it had when she’d been a girl. She grabbed a dressing gown, scuffed into a pair of old slippers, and made her way to the kitchen. There, she lit a closed lantern and let herself out into the summer night.

  Crickets chirped, an owl hooted far off in the direction of the home wood, and down at the stables, a faint light came from the horse barn.

  The night air didn’t carry any human voices though, so Thea hurried across the gardens, sternly lecturing herself about borrowing trouble.

  No grooms were stirring, but outside Regent’s stall, a lantern hung on a peg. Thea made her way down the aisle, a low murmuring coming to her ears.

  “…not well done at all, to die when we’re still in our prime. Seventeen isn’t that old, not for a fellow who’s enjoyed the best of care all his lazy, shiftless days. My duchess just met you, you filthy beggar. She will think you took her into dislike, when we both know you dote shamelessly on females of any species. Let the mares push you around, you do, which is probably why you’re in such a taking. No biting, unless you’re my duchess, which you decidedly are not.”

  Noah was talking to his reserve mount, a huge black coal barge of a beast named Regent, who could barely turn in a twelve-foot loose box without brushing both walls. Advancing age had seen the gelding demoted to status of second mount, though Noah still rode him regularly.

  “Noah?”

  He left off lecturing his horse, and came to the stall’s half door.

  “Great God Almighty.” He ran a hand through hair that sported a wisp of straw. “My duchess has taken to wandering half-clothed in the dead of night without benefit of escort.”

  “My duke has taken to staying up past his bedtime, leaving me to pine for his company, strange as that notion might be. Is your horse sick?”

  Noah turned to survey the gelding, who stood with his head drooping, the look in the animal’s eye dull and pained.

  “Goddamned colic,” Noah said. “He was listless this morning, which isn’t unusual when it’s hot, but he declined his oats at dinner, and as is predictably the case, in hindsight the grooms recall him kicking at his belly, though at the time, they thought he was grouching at the flies.”

  “You’re worried about him,” Thea said. Noah was a prodigiously competent worrier too.

  “I shouldn’t be. He has gut sounds on both sides, his gums are a perfect, horsey pink, and he isn’t dehydrated.”

  Noah lapsed into silence, studying his horse, while Thea studied her husband.

  “You’re worried sick,” she said, “and the night grows coolish. Let me bring you a jacket.” Let her do anything to help, because Noah—her duke—was alone in the dead of night with a suffering animal.

  Noah looked torn, as if the decision to stay with his horse or escort his wife was too difficult, so Thea kissed his cheek and took her leave. She returned less than ten minutes later, Noah’s oldest riding jacket over her arm, and a tray in her hands laden with a fat ham and cheese sandwich, some hulled strawberries, and a tall glass of lemonade.

  “You can’t neglect yourself to care for him,” she said, balancing the tray to open the half door. Noah sat on a low, three-legged milking stool in one corner, the horse standing with its head down, close enough that Noah could pet and scratch and comfort his ailing beast.

  “You brought food.” This seemed to puzzle Thea’s husband.

  She nudged a pile of clean straw together with her foot, and sank down beside him. “Food is for eating, Noah.”

  “You will get straw in odd places, Wife,” Noah said, shifting off his stool. “Take the throne, there, and let me relieve you of your burden.” He hefted the tray into his lap, sitting cross-legged in the straw. The horse looked vaguely interested in the goings on, but di
dn’t stir so much as a hoof.

  Thus did a duke recall how to impersonate a boy who was worried for an old equine friend.

  “He’s still listening to my voice,” Noah said. “Even though his symptoms aren’t severe, when they aren’t listening anymore, it’s time to clean your gun.”

  “I noticed the pistol on the trunk outside the door. Is he in such bad shape?”

  “Hard to tell with horses,” Noah said between bites of sandwich. “They’re an odd combination of delicacy and power, much like duchesses.” He settled his jacket around Thea’s shoulders. “What possessed you to come haring down here in the dead of night?”

  The stable was dark and quiet, save for the sounds of horses shifting sleepily in stalls thickly bedded with straw. Thea was alone with her husband. She could be honest.

  “I came looking for you because I missed you.”

  “Hmm. Strawberry?” Noah held a ripe berry to Thea’s lips, and she took a bite.

  “You could have had the lads look in on him, Noah.”

  “When a pony has served his boy loyally for all his equine days”—Noah popped the other half of the strawberry into his mouth—“he deserves loyalty in return. These are good.”

  “You’ve had Regent that long?”

  “He was the last gift from my father,” Noah said, stroking the horse’s nose, which had a sprinkling of pale hair. “I was leaving for university at the end of summer, and Papa gave him to me as a yearling, so I might spend the summer getting to know my horse. I spent the next two summers with him, every break and holiday, and we came of age together. When I went up to Town three years later, Regent was the envy of all my fellows. He’s won me some money, and more than once, he saw me home when I was too drunk or tired or befuddled to know where I was going.”

  This recitation had the horse’s interest, as if he understood the content, not simply the affectionate tone of voice.

  “He likes your panegyric,” Thea said. “I’ve always thought horses’ noses were magic, like four-leaf clovers and fairy rings.”

  Noah traced a clover on the gelding’s forehead. “What a fanciful notion.”

  “Their noses are so soft.” Thea stroked her fingers over Regent’s graying muzzle. “Velvet isn’t this soft.”

  “None of that.” Noah tone was stern, but directed at the horse. “He’s making eyes at you, the worthless flirt. He’s the same way with the girls, has no dignity whatsoever around females.”

  “Lucky for him he has you to protect him from his misguided nature. Do you think he’d like some hay?”

  “We tried at supper,” Noah said. “He looked at it and made pathetic eyes at us. The lads left in disgust.”

  Doubtless, the lads had been ordered to leave by a certain shy, tenderhearted, imperious duke.

  “You’ve been sermonizing at the poor beast half the night. Shall we try again?” Thea asked.

  “You try.” Noah rose and took the tray from the stall, coming back with a bundle of fragrant hay.

  “That smells good,” Thea said from her perch on the stool. “Like mown grass.”

  Noah froze and scowled at the hay in his hands as if it were noxious.

  “Bloody hell.” The horse lifted his head at his master’s tone. “It isn’t cured,” Noah spat. “The lads will answer for this.” He tossed the hay into the aisle, and stood in the dim light, fuming, his hands on his hips.

  Vulcan probably looked thus when at his forge: more shadow than light, and ready to hurl lightning bolts.

  “What’s the problem, Noah?”

  “It’s my fault,” Noah said. “We went through this with him years ago. Most horses will eat hay cut last week if you give it to them, but the better practice is to cure fodder for at least a month. Regent must have his cured, or he becomes dyspeptic. I know this about him, and every year I remind the lads. I didn’t do that this year, and now…this.”

  As if to emphasize Noah’s diagnosis, Regent stomped a foot in the direction of his belly.

  “Perishing, blasted, infernal damn.” Noah took a lead rope and halter down from a peg. “He’ll try to drop and roll if we don’t walk him, miserable beast.”

  What followed was hours of walking the gelding, letting him stand around in his stall, offering him water, talking to him, and, Thea was sure, praying for the beast’s recovery. She prayed as well, for the horse, but also for her husband to be spared the misery of having to put his old friend—the last gift from his father—down.

  Eighteen

  Morning came, and the stable hands went about their tasks, mucking, turning in, turning out, raking the aisle, topping up water buckets, and offering oats to the horses in work.

  While Thea remained at her husband’s side, and Regent grew no better.

  The gelding lipped at some hay, took the occasional sip of water, but mostly stood, head down, looking pathetic and worn. Based on the muttered rumblings from the stableboys, the horse hadn’t passed manure for nearly a day, and Thea gathered that was symptomatic of a looming tragedy.

  “Duchess,” Noah said, “you should not be about in dishabille with the fellows on hand. You will distract them, and you need your rest. Up to the house with you.”

  Noah was asking as gently as he could, but Thea did not want to go.

  She’d seen him conferring with his head lad and cleaning his gun in the last hour, and her heart broke for him, and for the very young man who’d first fallen in love with Regent years earlier.

  Thea went to her husband as he stood beside his horse, and put her arms around him. At first he did nothing, but then his lips moved against her temple, and his arms encircled her. For the space of one long, deep breath, he held her, drawing strength, she hoped, from her nearness.

  “I’ll bring you some breakfast,” she said.

  “I’ll manage without,” he replied. “Keep the girls away for a bit, would you? They can see their ponies later this morning.”

  Thea nodded and made for the house, unwilling to let Noah see her cry. Three of the stable hands passed her in the yard, not meeting her gaze—and they were carrying dirty shovels. She stopped in the back hallway, tears streaming down her cheeks, for the horse, for the man, for the boy.

  The girls would be devastated too, even True would likely grieve for his fellow, and poor Harlan—

  Thea changed clothes as quickly as she could, determined that Noah not have to deal with this alone. She was his wife, his duchess, and he’d allowed her to stay beside him the entire night. They’d taken turns, walking the horse, talking to him, and spent hours sitting side by side in that stall, silently fretting when they should have been catnapping.

  She hurried back to Regent’s stall, leaving her hair in a single ratty braid.

  “The girls aren’t awake yet,” she said before Noah could ask, though a gunshot would rouse them, of course.

  He rose off a trunk, a long-barreled pistol in his hand. “I didn’t expect you back.”

  In the stall, a groom was slipping the halter onto Regent’s head. Panic welled in Thea’s heart at the sight of the horse’s weary docility. She moved to the beast’s side, and Noah followed her into the stall.

  “Wife, perhaps you should return to the house.” Noah’s tone was infinitely beseeching, his gaze sad.

  “You’ll put him down?”

  “The lads are done digging, so, yes, it’s time. He isn’t recovering, and he’s in pain.”

  No, Thea wanted to shout. The horse was no worse, his symptoms weren’t severe, and he was Noah’s friend. They couldn’t just shoot him and push him into a cold, dark hole.

  “I’ll take that lead.” She reached toward the groom, who looked first to Noah’s expressionless face, then passed her the rope. “Where do we do this, Anselm?”

  “The back paddock,” Noah said. “Wife…Thea…I won’t ask this of you.”

  He hardly asked anything of anybody, ever.

  “Husband, you are wasting time while this dear beast suffers unnecessarily.”
<
br />   Noah blinked, as if Thea had spoken in some foreign tongue, then he spun on his heel and opened the stall door for her.

  The stableboys watched them pass, two doffing their caps as if a funeral procession were going by.

  Tears formed a hard ball in Thea’s throat. The horse came along meekly, almost as if he knew Noah would relieve his suffering one way or another.

  Noah led them across fields still glistening with dew, to the side of a yawning, ugly hole freshly gouged in the earth.

  “Do you want to say good-bye?” Thea asked.

  “I have nothing more to say,” Noah bit out, then more softly, “He knows I’ll miss him.”

  “Well, I want to say good-bye.”

  Noah looked pained, but nodded, and let Thea lead the horse a few steps away from the grave.

  “You were a good boy, Regent,” she said, stroking his neck. “The best boy. You took good care of your master when his mama and papa were gone, and he’ll always love you, and so will I. You’re going somewhere wonderful now, where your tummy won’t hurt ever, and you can play with all the mares, and they won’t order you about. Don’t be afraid. Be proud of yourself. You were a good boy.”

  Thea was repeating herself, and Noah was looking at her so sadly, she didn’t even try to stop her tears. She leaned over and kissed the horse on his big, soft nose. A long, lingering, smoochy kiss that seemed to provoke a sigh of contentment from the depths of the horse’s body.

  Or something.

  Noah cocked his head and regarded the horse. He did not cock his gun.

  “The ruddy bastard’s farting,” Noah said, wonder in his voice. Thea straightened, even as she perceived the distinctive sound of a horse breaking wind, and breaking wind, and breaking wind.

  Over along the fence, two stables boys stopped walking, one pointed at Regent, and they both smiled sheepishly.

  And still the animal farted.

  And farted.

  Then stopped, and dropped his tail on a sigh.

  “Is he better?” Thea asked as Regent picked up his tail again and let go with a procession of staccato little reprises. The morning air took on a noxious, sulfurous quality.