I nodded again.
He crouched and put the deer in his sights. I held my breath. He pulled the trigger. The animal fell to the ground. The rest of the deer scattered.
"Nice shot," I said. I was a city boy. I didn't particularly like seeing my dinner killed. It was much more impersonal to buy meat already butchered at the market. Better yet, to get a fully cooked meal at a restaurant.
"The game supports the estate. We put meat on His Grace's table year round. Venison, pheasant, quail, even fish of various kinds." Bird gave me a look, challenging me to disagree.
I nodded again. Why should I make changes? The game could feed the staff in my absence. My long planned absences.
He relaxed somewhat and stood. I stood with him. When he faced me full-on, he reminded me of someone. But I couldn't think whom. We all get that feeling from time to time. He probably reminded me of some character actor on TV.
"Bird, sir," he said, introducing himself.
"I guess you call me duke." I wasn't certain.
He grinned. "Yes, sir."
"Have you been the gamekeeper here long?" I hadn't had time to study all the staff history and résumés.
"Since I was a young man. Like my father before me and his before him. There have been Birds taking care of the wildlife here as long as there have been Feldhems ruling.
"My family history here goes back almost seven hundred years. Since before there were surnames. Where do you think we got the name Bird? My ancestor was John of the birds, in charge of the fowl on the land. Then it just became family name of Bird.
"Those of us who weren't gamekeepers mostly worked on the estate in some way. One of my great, great, however many great-grandfathers helped build the grand staircase in the great hall. No, we Birds are tied to the land." He eyed me cautiously. "I hope you'll come to love it like we do. The old duke, he sure did for certain. Loved that old man. He was always good to my family. We miss him.
"Now me, I have my son, who'll be coming to work beside me when he graduates university. He's studying biology and wildlife management, same as I did. Compliments of the late duke, who insisted on paying all of his expenses. Claimed it was an investment in the future of the estate, nothing more. His way of covering his kindness." Bird beamed with pride. "You'll have no worries about the game being properly managed."
"Excellent." I smiled and nodded toward the pasture, not certain the Dead Duke was covering anything. "What do we do now? About the doe?"
"It has to be gutted and hung to drain and cure. I have the truck just there." He pointed to the road. "I'll haul the doe back to the castle to clean and hang." He gave me a pointed look, like he was testing me.
"I'll give you a hand." I wasn't exactly eager.
He smiled. "That's good of you, sir."
I was suddenly grateful for Gibson's wardrobe suggestion. "You liked the late duke?" I said, dubious. His description didn't match the cunning, conniving old bastard I didn't know or love.
"Oh, he was a good one. My grandfather was his gamekeeper when the old duke was a young man. My grandfather couldn't praise him enough. He turned the estate around. Saved it, he did. The old duke's father was a gambler and a big spender. Had no regard or sense of responsibility for the people who should have been like family to him.
"My grandfather said of course it was tragic the way he died on the Titanic. The duchess, too. Though she wasn't so much better. But his early death saved Witham House. The trustee who managed it for the baby duke was a good man. He did his best and saw to it the young duke had a proper upbringing.
"The late duke was one of a kind. Like a grandfather to me and mine. No, I don't have a bad word to say about the old duke. Not one. He was the best of men. Without him, my family wouldn't still be here, where we belong."
Haley
Riggins left early to meet with Mr. Bird, the gamekeeper. Leaving me to sleep a little later and fend for myself. Very embarrassingly, I had to text Gibson to ask where the kitchen was, and what about breakfast? Crazy that in my own temporary home, I felt shy about going to the kitchen and grabbing a bite to eat. And, truthfully, had no idea where it was. I assumed it was fully stocked, at least if dinner last night was any indication.
Instead of directing me to the kitchen, Gibson brought up a breakfast tray. "Oh, it's no trouble, ma'am," he said to me. "I'm used to it. I brought the old duke all of his meals on trays for years. He was very sharp to the end. But not so steady on his feet." He shook his head sadly. "His body gave out well before his mind."
I sensed a deep affection for the Dead Duke. Which was completely surprising to me.
After breakfast, Gibson gave me a tour of the house. Which, I had to say, was at least as good as, and probably better, than Beth's tour of Wareswood. And, of course, Witham House outshone Wareswood in every way.
Gibson was exceptionally knowledgeable about everything from architecture to furniture and artwork. He could have been a historian. He was also witty and funny. I liked him. But although he was pleasant and respectful, I sensed he was wary of me. I hadn't yet proved myself. As far as he knew, I could turn out to be the most evil of duchesses.
And I was American, an interloper in his land. It was quite possible he'd been hoping Lady Rose would be the new duchess. I had to earn his confidence.
He showed me the kitchen first, so I could thank the cook. I was usually very light on breakfast—a bowl of cold cereal, a cup of coffee. A pastry if I was feeling indulgent and decadent. Many mornings when I worked at the bakery I skipped breakfast and just grabbed something on my morning break. Most times, one of our mishaps.
Our head cook was actually a chef, a five-star chef who preferred the quiet life on the estate to fame in the city. We must have paid well. He'd worked for the Dead Duke for many years, preparing a diet heavy on restrictions. He'd introduced himself last night at dinner.
He seemed pleased to be working for younger people who could eat anything. We had a pleasant discussion about it. He didn't come in until the afternoon to prepare dinner. Occasionally he came in to make lunch.
He had several assistants who prepared breakfast and lunch. One for weekdays and one on the weekends, and a few extras as needed, or if one of the regulars was out sick or on vacation. Alice, the weekday breakfast cook, was in. I introduced myself.
"My! If you don't look like the late duke's first duchess, Helen. At least like her likeness."
I laughed. "I've heard that before. I love the tea I had yesterday when we arrived and again this morning," I said, trying to make conversation. "I'm usually a coffee girl. I'm from Seattle. What else could I be? We're known for our coffee addiction. But I think I'm already becoming addicted to the tea. What kind is it?"
Alice was a plump, friendly woman in her late fifties, I guessed. "Oh, that!" She looked pleased. "That's the late duke's special blend. We call it Duke Witham. Like Earl Grey, only better. Though not a classic. Yet. It's a recipe that's been in the family for years.
"I'm glad you like it. Shows you're one of us. I'll write down that it's a favorite of yours and make sure you get it as often as you like."
I liked Alice, too. But once again, I sensed some reserve in her. She was withholding her judgment, maybe, and her confidence and loyalty, until she knew me better. She showed me around the kitchen. Finally, I timidly asked about getting myself a snack. And my own breakfast sometimes.
"Raid the larder anytime, ma'am, surely!" She nodded. "Just let me know if you use the last of anything so I can reorder."
That was a relief. Wait! Wasn't I mistress of this place, not her?
"The kitchen is lovely. I'd like to be able to come in and bake sometimes, too. I love baking. I went to pastry school and worked in a bakery until very recently." Maybe I shouldn't have admitted that. But didn't everyone know? It had been all over the news.
"Anytime, ma'am." Alice seemed genuine.
After chatting with Alice in our reasonably cozy kitchen for a while longer—cozy only because I was comfortable
in large commercial kitchens—Gibson continued our tour.
"Are there any pictures of Helen, the late duchess?" I asked Gibson. "And the dead, I mean, late duke. Maybe as a young man? Or, at least, a younger man. If so, I'd like to see them. I'm dying of curiosity about the late duke."
"Oh, there are pictures of all of his duchesses, ma'am. Remember, there were three. But I daresay Helen was his favorite. His one true love. It's rather obvious when you see the portrait gallery. And yes, there are portraits, and photographs.
"I think you'll find the late duke was a spectacular man in his prime. Tall and handsome. With movie-star-like charisma. He had it right up to the end. That air of command. Presence, I might say.
"But kind and compassionate. Always looking after his own. And his own extended to the staff and the people of the village. No, the late duke was a man to be emulated."
Gibson glanced at me with a questioning look. "We're hoping the new duke will live up to his predecessor's reputation, if I may say so." He looked almost embarrassed. As if he'd overstepped. "My apologies, ma'am. You seem so familiar, as if we've known you for years, that I forgot myself and spoke out of turn."
I was pleased I seemed familiar. I wanted the staff to feel comfortable with me.
"No. You're fine." I smiled at him. "The new duke is tall and handsome," I said with a smile. "I think so, at least. Since I didn't know the late duke, I have no idea how he compares otherwise. But Riggins treats his employees very well, from what I know. Everyone wants to work at Flashionista. It has a great reputation for being employee-friendly and having generous benefits. Riggins is an astute businessman. Like the late duke."
Gibson nodded. "The duke's portrait is in the upper guard chamber. I'm surprised you didn't notice it when you came in, ma'am. We walked past it on the way to the bedroom corridor."
"Mmmmm," I said, trying to remember. "I may have. But I wouldn't have known it was him. I was so overwhelmed with everything, I was looking but not seeing." I laughed.
"Yes, of course. How would you?" Gibson said, leading the way. "The portraits of the duchesses are in the gallery hall, along with another portrait of the duke from later in life. A portrait of the first duchess and the late duke together hangs in the great hall in a position of honor. His personal favorite photograph of the duchess and him hangs in his study. But, as you requested, first we'll meet the young duke."
"Great! I'd like that. I'm totally curious about him." I paused. "I wish I could have known him."
"You would have loved him, I'm sure. As we all did. This way." Gibson led me to the upper guard chamber.
A reception room, it was as magnificent as the staircase and all done in matching white Carrara marble, like the staircase as well. It was also done in the Italian Renaissance style with a stucco ceiling and terrazzo floor. Marble statues stood at the far wall. The artwork was all family portraits, some of them done by famous masters. The frieze paintings depicted famous battles from the district's history.
Now that I wasn't tired and was looking for it, the Dead Duke's portrait was obvious. Gibson had been polite to agree that I wouldn't have known it was the Dead Duke. That was obviously laughable. He was the only duke dressed in the much more modern fashion of the 1930s. Dark suit with strong shoulders, two buttons buttoned. Vest. Diagonal striped tie. Starched white shirt, just the collar and one cuff showing. High-waisted, pleated slacks, one hand tucked dashingly in his pocket, pushing back part of the suit coat in an "I'm so sexy" pose. White kerchief in his pocket. The other arm rested on a decorative pedestal. His hand was casual and relaxed. He wore a signet ring with the ducal seal prominently on his pinkie.
He was looking down and to the side, the whites of his eyes stark and visible. Though he wasn't looking out at the viewer, his eyes were arresting. His lush, dark hair was parted on the side, slicked back over itself on top—slicked back on the side, too. He had a thin, closely cropped, elegant moustache. Very Clark Gable-esque. And equally handsome.
He was stunning. Best yet, one corner of his mouth was turned up in a fun-loving, audaciously sexy smirk. He looked like he was toying with the world and the world really was his oyster. Oh. My. Goodness. He was hot. Classic movie star gorgeous.
"That's the Dead Duke?" I forgot myself as I stared at him, trying not to let my jaw drop.
Gibson grinned. "Quite the ladies' man, wasn't he? You can see how Helen must have felt when she first saw him. He had the charm to match, ma'am. Right up to the end."
I shook my head and grinned at Gibson. "After seeing this, I hate to imagine him old and crippled."
Gibson nodded. "Old age does us all in."
"You should have set me straight earlier. I must have been really tired to miss this picture. And there's no way I shouldn't have been able to tell it was him just from his style of dress.
"Tell me about him, Gibson. I want to know everything. Let's start with his favorite room. Will you show me that?" I was eager to gain Gibson's confidence. As the Dead Duke's butler, it was likely he knew something about the late duke's business. Maybe he knew something about Sid's twin. But I had to proceed cautiously.
"Oh, he loved the library. And his study, of course. I'll show you both. After the gallery and the great hall, ma'am. We don't want to forget about the duchesses."
The gallery was a long hallway hung with portrait paintings through the ages. One side of the hall was windows. Gibson explained about the special glass of the windows that protected the paintings from aging prematurely and lit them to full advantage. And the security in place at the castle to prevent break-ins and burglaries. Riggins, I took it, had hired extra security to keep the paparazzi away as well. I had been insulated from it, but I was sure a media storm was raging about our wedding. With the light streaming in, the gallery was absolutely stunning. Really, I was running out of adjectives to describe the rooms of the castle.
Gibson led me to the far end of the gallery and stopped in front of a trio of portraits of women. One was clearly from the 1970s. She was a classic beauty of a woman. And clearly much younger than the Dead Duke. One from the 1950s, also a striking woman. He had good taste. But a man of his looks, power, status, title, and charm could have anyone he wanted, couldn't he?
The last one was from the 1930s. You could tell the era just by the fashions the women wore.
"That's the third duchess," Gibson said. "That's the second." He paused and looked at me. "And that one is Helen. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. Viewing it must be like looking in a mirror. You look just like her.
"I never knew her, obviously, but, if you don't mind me saying so, you look so much like her picture you gave us all rather a shock. Of course, we'd seen your pictures in the tabloids and everywhere. But in person, the resemblance is even more striking. It's clear you're her great-niece."
I nodded. "Yes, I am."
In my possibly biased opinion, Helen was the least beautiful of the duchesses. Even my bias couldn't overcome the truth. People must have wondered what he'd seen in her, and whispered that, looks-wise, they were mismatched. He had to have married her just for her money. What do you call the male version of a gold digger? An opportunist?
Despite this, if you saw the paintings, you were caught by Helen's magnetism. It was potent; it jumped off the canvas.
"It's obvious now why the duke was partial to you and wanted you to be mistress of his dukedom. He was a sentimental, romantic man."
I studied the portrait of Helen. It was a better picture than the one at Wareswood. Since I looked so obviously like her, it would be vain of me to say she was beautiful. Clearly, I wasn't beautiful. But, again, she had a presence that was obvious in the picture, just like the Dead Duke did. Charisma and personality can make up for a large deficit in the looks department. I could see how they could make a striking couple.
"It's a nice painting," I said, deliberately understating my opinion of it.
"Oh, yes. Valuable, too. Done by one of the famous painters of the day. Not as valuable as
the van Dycks, or some of the others, obviously. Might be one day. She was a beautiful woman."
His pronouncement startled me. If he was trying to get on my good side, I wasn't easily flattered.
"Think so?" I squinted, trying to see it. "Not beautiful, I don't think. Not like the other duchesses. But there's something about her. She has a spark. You can see it in the look in her eyes."
"I beg to differ, ma'am. In my opinion, she far outshines the later duchesses. We'll have to agree to disagree. Would you like to see the great hall?"
The great hall was a great, cavernous, arched room that stood on the site of the original great hall and felt like a cathedral to me.
"It's easy to imagine one of the medieval dukes meting out justice here," I said, looking around, glad that I wasn't at the mercy of an unforgiving feudal lord.
Gibson nodded. "I would agree. These days, we only use it for receptions and charity events, of course. This way." He led me directly to the portrait of the Dead Duke and duchess.
What Gibson had said earlier was immediately clear. The painting was almost scandalous in its sensuality. Although they were fully clothed and sedately posed, the way the Dead Duke looked at Helen—well, it was something out of a great romance.
His fingers possessively clutched her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress. His eyes sparkled, evocative of lust and desire. Full of love and heat, and directed in their full intensity at Helen. There was that smirk, that quirk of one corner of his sensuous, full lips, again. He was just as handsome, if not more so, than he was in the painting in the upper guard's chamber.
Viewing it, I felt like I'd walked in on a private moment and should quietly back out.
"Oh." I swallowed hard and turned to Gibson, who was also staring at it in wonder. "I see what you mean. I take it there are no pictures of him looking at the other duchesses like that?"
Chapter 7
The Temporary Duchess: A Jet City Billionaire Serial Romance (The Billionaire Duke Series Book 3) Page 8