Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection

by Scott, Scarlett

He would need to enter the village. There could be no other way to rectify such an issue.

  After seeing Jane initially, he’d spent the rest of the afternoon in his library going over all his ledgers and, indeed, he was not mistaken. A meager percentage of his tenants’ earnings was all that entered his own coffers. It was not noted down, of course, and why would it be, if someone was engaging in foul play, but when he did the sums in his head he could easily see the discrepancy in what was written down and what had been deposited to his bank.

  He had no doubt about the veracity of what Miss Copperweld had told him. Still flummoxed even after going thoroughly through his accounts, a little before dinner he decided to visit his aunt and asked her if she had heard the same mutterings as Miss Copperweld.

  “I have heard something similar, but never anything so severe as half,” she confessed, her eyes meeting his in her mirror. She had just sat down to re-pin her hair, an activity that she liked to do without the help of her maid. “I did not want to worry you. I attributed them to rumor and nothing more. But you must also understand that I am not as privy to Brookfield gossip as Miss Copperweld would be… there are some who simply do not trust me because of who I am, though many people are very welcoming, and I cannot quite blame them.”

  “I wonder what the cause of it all is,” muttered Will.

  “I have faith that you will discover it,” said Jane. “Though I would keep an eye to your steward.”

  “That is what Miss Copperweld said.”

  “Is it?” smirked Jane, deftly pinning a curl into place.

  Will did not reply past smirking back at her, then quit the room.

  Even from such a safe haven as his own bed, the idea of striding into Brookfield under broad daylight filled him with apprehension. Or, more accurately, terror. It was ridiculous because he had faced dire circumstances—cannonballs, bullets, blades, disease—and yet this was what turned his blood cold.

  But he was more confused than ever. Will determined that the earlier he set out tomorrow, the better. He needed to understand what was happening in his village.

  Miss Copperweld had not thrown down a gauntlet, but he was throwing one down for himself.

  You may not be able to woo her, Will, but you can set things right for Brookfield.

  Chapter Eight

  Everyone in the village recognized their duke’s livery, unfortunately. Before the carriage had advanced far into Brookfield, a veritable crowd had gathered, gawking at it, whispering amongst themselves about this almost shocking oddity. Will couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t come into the village for official business in an age. From the partially open window, Will observed the gathering crowd with increasing apprehension, wishing that he could go back on his decision and turn tail to the manor. It was the first time he had ever truly wanted to flee from a battle, as it were.

  He couldn’t.

  Jane and Miss Copperweld sat with him. It would be the height of cowardice to ask that Jensen, his driver, turn back uphill. No, he, Lord Ainsworth, would proceed. That was the plan.

  A glance at Miss Copperweld revealed that there was support and pride in her eyes as well as fear. He thought at first that the fear was for him, but then he stupidly recalled that she had been on the run from this very location—her father might very well be a part of the gaggle.

  If Miss Copperweld could do this, then by Jove, so could he.

  Will’s jaw clenched. If the man dared to show his face, then he was going to be unpleasantly surprised.

  Of course, Will would have to discover which man actually was Mr. Copperweld, but he did not believe Miss Copperweld would be able to remain stoic in the face of her largest fear.

  When they had reached the center of the village, Will instructed Jensen to stop. Acutely aware of his appearance, he glanced briefly at his aunt before he reached for the door.

  Her eyes were warm and encouraging. “I am proud of you, dearest nephew,” she said.

  He answered only with a nod, and both he and Jensen opened the carriage door at the same time. Jensen helped Will out with alacrity, and because he had been with the Ainsworth family since his own youth and had doted on the boys as much as a male servant could, he seemed uncommonly vigilant. None of the gathered villagers were shouting abuses or looked particularly menacing, but they all appeared very piqued.

  It was as though the sun had been waiting for Will all along. He felt its light caress his face, obscuring his vision with its white brightness, and heard people gasp collectively.

  With a wince, he waited for them to shout, for women to scream in fright at his appearance, or for children to cry out in fear of the monster in their midst.

  None of this happened.

  Instead, the crowd stilled and the murmurs became louder, but not shrill. Some began to grow brave and advanced toward him – whether out of anger or curiosity, Will couldn’t tell. Confused and inundated by a flood of emotions, he could only watch them creep along. Simply being around this many people all at once was jarring to him because it had been so long since he had been part of a crowd. But this was also all familiar. It was, after all, home in a way. This was where he’d first nursed people, where he’d first decided to give himself to the healing arts.

  A man more forward in his advances reached the duke first. Will lingered where he was, thinking the man might wish to do him harm but unsure of how to defend himself without inciting a bad reaction en masse. He tried to keep an open stance and mild expression on his face, such as it could be under the circumstances.

  “Lord Ainsworth,” cried the man. He was ginger and reddened from his time under the open skies. If Will had his guess, he was a farmer. “I’m called Callum Young. You may not remember me, but I am full of gratitude. You saved my wife and delivered our twins, Your Grace. Without you, I would have lost my dear Emily.” He cleared his throat and Will felt the prick of tears against his own eyes. “I only wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is horrible that you lost your family after you saved mine, and I want you to you know that you have my condolences.”

  Will was moved by such profuse gratitude and sincerity, even though he was ashamed to admit to himself that he could not summon a memory of Mr. Young. Perhaps if he saw Mrs. Young, that might spur a recollection.

  After Mr. Young had spoken his piece, several more people came forward, declaring their thanks to him. Among these, there was one woman who thanked him for nursing her daughter through an infected cut on her leg. An elderly man who said his wife had passed much more peacefully thanks to the tincture he had prescribed to ease her pain.

  He vaguely remembered him.

  Their actions were most surprising. He didn’t know what to make of it. Had Miss Copperweld heard wrong? Had Jane? Perhaps all really was as it should be.

  Suddenly, a wizened, disappointed voice spoke up from within the throng.

  “Many of us knew you as a kind, compassionate man, Lord Ainsworth, as your father was before you. God rest his soul. Why have you left us to suffer? You impose on us all such a burden! And for what reason?”

  “What do you mean?” Will found his voice, although he could not see who spoke. Whoever he was, he was still obscured by the small sea of faces.

  “Your taxes, Your Grace. They are too high. Much too high. If we did not hold your father in such high esteem, and we did not hope that you would be the same kind of man as he… most of us would have quit the village. Or tried to, if we were able.”

  The slight old man who slipped past the shoulders of the taller and broader villagers was very well known to Will.

  I knew that I remembered his voice!

  His name was Thomas Croft. Croft had been, and was still, the village apothecary. Will had worked with Croft in tending Brookfield’s people before his departure to Salamanca and subsequent return to England. He had learned much about folk remedies, as well as more scientific applications, from the man, who was already elderly when they’d first made each other’s acquaintance. Due to h
is age, suspected Will, Croft was always one to speak frankly and without fear of repercussions. It was not a bad characteristic.

  There was never a time that Will had appreciated his blunt talk more than this very moment. He took a deep breath as though he were about to dive headfirst into very deep, cold water. It’s now or never, he thought. He knew that Jane and Miss Copperweld could hear the entire exchange from the carriage behind him, which Jensen had parked just inside the small, currently crowded village square.

  Will did not want to give the appearance that he anticipated the need for a hasty retreat, but all the same, he did not want to be far from his conveyance.

  Miss Copperweld, of course, had agreed heartily to staying obscured within it.

  “Mr. Croft,” began Will. “That is the very reason I have come.”

  This garnered raised eyebrows and more mumbling, but everyone who had assembled waited for him to continue.

  “Listen to me, all of you. Your liege lord hid when he should never have secluded himself.”

  Croft considered him squarely, looking without any trepidation at his face as though he were searching for the exact young man he had met so many years ago.

  Will could have told him that young man might as well have been dead.

  “With respect, it does seem as though you had reason to.”

  Will did not keep a smile from his face. Croft’s was a succinct summation. “That might be true, but I should have paid better attention to those to whom I hold a responsibility. I let fear and shame get the better of me. But what I am most of all is a physician and, I suppose, a duke. I should have behaved more like both, and not like a coward.”

  “You have suffered much,” was all Croft said.

  Brushing that aside, for he had not come to Brookfield for sympathy or to make excuses, Will said without preamble, “I only heard yesterday that half of all your earnings were being taken from you.”

  He prayed his sincerity was genuine and did not come off like playacting. Thus far, from his vantage point, he could barely spot a few specific expressions of pity and others of wariness.

  No one seemed angry. Yet.

  He pressed on, keeping his voice steady and loud. “I have told my steward to meet me here because I wanted to address as many people as I could publicly. To my knowledge, I was collecting, in most cases, a tenth of your respective incomes, with the bulk of that collective sum being devoted to the upkeep of the village and its surrounding lands.”

  With a sinking heart, however, he could see—since he was now in Brookfield during the day and not under the moonlight—that even that comparatively small amount of money was not being used for its proper purpose. Plaster crumbled, the cobblestones cracked more than they ever should have, and weeds were sprouting through roofs, bright patches of green amidst the dull brown shingles.

  “You lie, Lord Ainsworth!” cried a man in the crowd. “How can you not know the amount that enters your own coffers?”

  An older man with an enormous nose cautioned, “Hold your tongue, Brom Copperweld. You should not speak to the duke in that manner!”

  “Why not? He’s done badly by us. Duke of Sorrow, indeed.”

  The name “Brom Copperweld” struck Will like a blow, and he looked hurriedly in the direction of the belligerent speaker. It was a bear of a man with the ruddy skin and spread, bulbous nose of someone who was dependent on drink. Had Augusta not explained who her father was, Will would never have guessed they were related at all. Even apart from the ill effects of his vice, they had no coloring in common, few shared features.

  Will would have called him out then and there, but a small uproar at the back of the gathered throng caused too much of a distraction.

  Everyone parted after some jostling, and a man was pushed into the open space where Will stood, torn between fury directed at Brom Copperweld and confusion that the villagers were not treating him as the monstrosity he was convinced they saw him as. For they were not moving toward him with menace. They were, the best he could glean, bringing someone to him. Incensed words and noises met his ears.

  “Think he can get away with it…”

  “Mr. Milton…”

  “The steward? My word…”

  “Bag all packed…”

  The man they shoved before him was none other than Milton Benedict, his steward. At the moment, Benedict was nothing more than a shivering bundle of limbs, such was his agitation.

  “What is this?” asked Will.

  A short, stocky lad who was no more than sixteen said, “We caught him sneaking that way with his bags.” He wiped his nose with his hand and grinned. “Think he might have been trying to get away with something, don’t you, Your Grace?”

  Aghast, Will managed to query, “And who are you, then?”

  The lad grinned even more widely and doffed an invisible hat. There was an enormous gap between his teeth. “Silas, Lord Ainsworth. I’m a hostler round the inn. He was trying to steal one of the horses in my care, and that was how we caught him.” The second, dark-featured man who had Benedict in hand seemed to be no more exerted than if he’d been swatting at a fly.

  To be fair, it was easy. Miss Copperweld could have managed it. The steward was, in a word, scrawny, having lived a sedentary life behind a desk consulting his ledgers.

  At once, Will comprehended what had happened. I gave him too much oversight and independence, and he took advantage of it. He flinched. There had been enough opportunities, that was for certain. He did not always work directly with the man, after all. He thought there was no reason to keep such a tight rein.

  He thought back to the day when Benedict had been so disapproving of the way he’d ceded to Jane over Miss Copperweld’s stay. The steward had not been concerned with the established social order.

  He’d been worried that Jane might leverage more influence over Will.

  Will couldn’t personally see what threat she might pose, but to a man who was interested in pilfering coin under an unsuspecting nose, anyone could be viewed as a challenge. It was, reasoned Will, much easier to steal from a man—even a duke—who was isolated and without any external counsel. Benedict had most likely thought that there was a slim chance that the duke might involve his matronly aunt in his financial affairs eventually, seeing as she was his only remaining family and had experience running a household.

  And Benedict had been subtle about it. He had not stolen everything at once. He had whittled away at it for weeks.

  It was not the first time Will had been wrong about something but, hopefully, it would be the last time he misjudged someone’s character so badly.

  Miss Copperweld and Jane had asked the correct question. Did he trust his steward?

  He had placed his trust in the man and until he now stood before his tenants, who were now jeering at Benedict, he foolishly hoped that there was an innocent explanation for all the trouble. A misunderstanding. An unfair rumor.

  Will had simply not thought Benedict capable of such deceit, not because he was convinced the man was a saint, but because the man never struck him as terribly insidious.

  He liked to see the best in people and, more than that, he’d been overwhelmed when he hired Benedict. If there were really any tells as to his true character, he had missed them entirely.

  Now, I know that I have been too naive, thought Will, watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “Speak up, man. Have you been robbing my tenants?” Will’s gaze bored into Benedict until he squirmed. “Not to mention me?”

  The steward launched himself at Will, somehow freeing himself from his captors, worming his way out of their grips.

  Silas was visibly disgusted with the groveling.

  “It was wrong of me, Lord Ainsworth. Terribly wrong,” Benedict blubbered. Will stepped out of his reach, and Silas took the opportunity to dash forward and collar Benedict again.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Why does anyone do anything, Your Grace? I needed the money. We are not all
born to privilege.”

  “You could have done a very wide range of things before resorting to stealing from hardworking people,” observed Will dryly. “I’m not nearly as concerned with myself, although I have to tell you that committing fraud against a duke will be the thing that grabs the magistrate’s attention.”

  The crowd erupted in curses and an angry din.

  A muscled man with a scar through his left eyebrow yelled, “Give him to me, Lord Ainsworth! I’ll see that he’s dealt with!”

  Will was almost tempted, but knew it was not the right way of things.

  An old woman who must have been well past her seventieth year nodded. “Let Quick Peter have him, Your Grace. Look at the state of the square, of the roads. He took coin that was supposed to better Brookfield!”

  Then and there, Will knew he did not want to ask why “Quick Peter” was known as such. Not when he was built like a boulder, had that scar, and such a wicked scowl.

  The gaggle of villagers would have descended upon Benedict in fury, but for Will’s quick intervention.

  “I understand why you are all angry. But this man shall be taken to the courts,” he called over their noise. “It is not for us to decide his fate.” He nodded to Silas meaningfully. “See that he is held captive until the magistrate comes. I will send word. It may take a while for him to arrive, unfortunately.”

  A rotund woman with leathery skin shouted, “Lord Ainsworth, will we have reparations?” She was on tiptoe to see Will, and she met his eyes beseechingly.

  “Indeed, you all shall,” said Will. “And I shall send men to the village to assess and repair what has been neglected.”

  Amidst the surprised but approving mutters, Benedict was taken away, happily dragged by Silas and his unnamed companion.

  However, Will was not finished righting recent wrongs. “Seize Mr. Brom Copperweld, too,” he said coldly. “He is wanted for beating and abusing his daughter on countless occasions.”

  “You cannot have me carted off like a thief,” Copperweld fired back. “I suffer so because my daughter has eloped with a man. How can you accuse me of beating her? Who has come to you with such tales? Who is your witness?” He was nearly spitting with rage. “Ask them, Lord Ainsworth. Ask anyone.” He looked around haughtily at his compatriots, none of whom would meet his eyes, but looked instead at Will. “I have been looking all over for the ungrateful lass for three weeks, now, and seen neither hide nor hair of her.”