Читать книгу The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M - Raven McAllan - Страница 11

Chapter Two

‘Ohh, Miss Mary did you see that? Bang up pair. Eh, and fancy that, me brother with the reins. Who’d’y reckon that was with him? Some toff a visitin’? Coo er, me ma won’t ‘alf be pleased. Me brother and a prime ‘un. But she’ll be wonderin’ who ‘e is, eh?’

‘Try not to drop your letters, Cissy. You’ll need them as a teacher.’ Lady Mary McCoy smiled at young Cissy Meadows who jigged from one foot to another, making her blonde curls dance and her apron and skirts fly out around her sturdy legs.

‘Yes Miss.’ Cissy grinned. ‘I’ll put them in me pocket. But who is he?’

Mary shook her head at the smart retort. ‘I don’t know.’ She would like to know the answer to that question as well. Even the short sharp look he’d given her had felt as if he’d stripped her naked and liked what he saw. That glance was not the sort of perusal a gentleman, or an aristocrat, would give someone unknown, of his own class. It was one reserved for a woman he intended to amuse himself with. If he decided to make his admiration known to her, she’d have a hard time not to slap him down and give him a piece of her mind. But slap she’d have to. There was no way she’d let on who she really was – and no way, as Miss Mary Lynch, would she be anything but someone to dally with for an aristocrat. And the so-called toff was definitely that, there was no mistaking it. Having been married to an elderly peer for several years Mary knew a title when she saw one and she had no inclination to know one close up and personal again, whatever the reason. Hence her use of her godmother’s surname.

A figure in the door of the school caught her eye and she beckoned to the dozen or so schoolchildren still running around in the late summer sunshine. ‘Miss Grey is about to ring the bell. Time to go in.’

‘And cakes,’ the irrepressible Cissy sang as she rushed to the door, slowed down and straightened herself to walk decorously inside.

Mary chuckled.

Peggy Grey shook her head in mock disapproval. ‘That young lady will end up being the power behind the throne or being transported… and then she’d only end up running the colonies!’

Mary had to agree. ‘She’s lively and enthusiastic. She’ll make a good teacher.’

‘So would you.’

Mary laughed and shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m happy with my few hours. It… it grounds me, I think. And on that note, I better carry on before they get their cakes. I need to be away before then, I have several things to do when I leave.’ She didn’t, unless you counted weeding her lettuces yet again and deciding on which novel to read next.

Good grief, has my life come to this? Where’s the excitement, the gaiety? The most excitement she had was her weekly visit to the ladies who taught her to tat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to a man other than the baker, the vicar or her servants, let alone a man of her own class. It was her own choice, she accepted that. Nevertheless, she was uneasily aware that her year of grace given to her by her brother before he insisted she rejoined her rightful place in the ton was half over and she still hadn’t decided how to go about that. It was a simple choice, she thought. Return to the ton as the widow of Lord Horace McCoy and all the inherent problems that brought – rakes who saw her as easy prey, impoverished peers with an eye on her fortune – or return to the ton under the aegis of her brother and his wife. Who would still expect her to use her title and marry, but hopefully scare the worst of the suitors away.

Nether options appealed.

Mary wasn’t sure she wanted to marry again. She’d loved her husband and married him in the face of family objections almost as soon as she was out, and never lived to regret it. Their marriage had been unusual, she accepted that. Most marriages in the ton were not love matches but made for what each could person bring to the union. Generally a dowry and heirs.

It had not been like that for her. But Horry – Horace – had died after only five years of marriage, and here she was, only just two and twenty years of age, and a wealthy widow. It was not, she decided, an enviable situation.

‘Miss Mary?’ It was Cissy who tugged on her sleeve. ‘Are you ready? Cos it’ll be cake time soon and we wants to show you how much we’ve got better at our letters.’

Mary mentally shook herself. She loved the way the children had called her, ‘Miss’, and this had filtered into the community. Miss Mary, widow, she was known as, and as that she was happy to stay, even if it was a muddled title. ‘Of course, let’s get on.’

Once she was seated on a ladder back chair with two dozen children in front of her – she’d listened to the others before their break – Mary forgot all about her life, the mystery man and the un-weeded lettuces. These hours were precious. She became engrossed, and when Miss Grey entered the room and cleared her throat it took several seconds for the person next to her to register. Mary looked up at the clock on the wall at the back of the room and groaned. She’d been so involved with the children she hadn’t kept track of the time and it was over thirty minutes past the hour she usually left.

Cake time, in fact. A situation brought home to her when the gentleman – and oh he was a gentleman, be him in country clothes or not – held a basket aloft and the children cheered.

Mary stood up and curtseyed without making eye contact. ‘I’ll be off. I’ll see you next week, children.’

The chorus of “yes miss, thank you miss, see you then miss,” reassured her. No one here linked her to her family, which was how she wanted it.

‘You’re not about to leave on my account, I hope,’ said the tall, dark and really impossibly handsome man who crowded her, even though he stood several yards away. He spoke suavely, and still had that intense look in his eyes. That insulting look which stripped her naked and showed Mary he thought of her as someone with whom he could play fast and loose.

She shook her head, and ached to add, “you don’t figure large enough in my life.” Of course she didn’t, and responded lamely with… ‘Not at all, sir, I should be long gone.’

‘This is the Duke of Welland,’ Peggy Grey said quietly. A gasp ran through the assembled children, which echoed in Mary’s mind.

That was all she needed. Mary had heard all about him and his ways. No wonder he had looked at her in such a way. She made the mistake of glancing at his face. The admiration and challenge in his eyes hit her with the force of a runaway carriage. He didn’t intend to let her run and hide easily. She curtseyed and did her best to ignore the humour in his eyes. Obviously he knew he’d unsettled her, and did not care one jot. She gave a curtsey to the perfect degree of deference. ‘Please excuse me, Your Grace. Please excuse me.’ She didn’t exactly run from the classroom, not quite, but his soft laughter made her want to.

Mary was halfway home before she realised she’d left her basket and her hat behind. They’d have to stay in the teacher’s room until the following week. She had no intention of returning for them that day, or any day soon.

Brody, the new Duke of Welland. She’d heard of him of course, who hadn’t. Even before she came out, her fellow pupils – at the exclusive school in Bath her papa had sent her to – spoke of his exploits in hushed whispers and giggles. One girl swore he winked at her and she swooned, another girl said he had propositioned her sister who had to be sent to Leamington Spa to recover. As his antics grew more outrageous so did the alleged meetings between schoolgirls and the rake. Not that most people believed them, although Mary thought most secretly wished it had been them on the receiving end of his attention. Strangely, by the time she’d left school and begun her brief time enjoying the delights of her first season, he wasn’t around and no one seemed to have any idea where he was.

As far as she knew, whilst she and Horry were in the north of England this Duke’s father has been alive; he’d died not long before her beloved husband. But the duke hadn’t appeared back in Britain until recently, and to Mary’s knowledge this was the first time he’d been to the school.

Suddenly, fiercely, she missed Horry and his common sense.

If anyone had questioned her why she fell in love with a man forty years her senior, at the first ball she attended, she couldn’t answer. She just did, and in a bold manner so unlike her usual self had let him know it, in no uncertain fashion. It was her husband who held back and said it wouldn’t be fair on her to be tied to someone so much older, and Mary who pushed. People might comment that things like that didn’t happen, and before she met Horry, she would have agreed.

Now she knew they did, but was under no illusions that it was the norm, and was sceptical she’d ever fall in love again. Horry was a hard act to follow and to be honest she didn’t feel so inclined. He had fulfilled her every need. Now, her life might be mundane but it suited her better than to be pestered and courted for her money, not her mind or personality. All she had to do was persuade her brother of that fact.

Luckily, the Grange was hers, but Desmond, her brother, was her guardian until she was twenty-five. Another three years to go. Why Horry had insisted on that, she had no idea, but it was a fact she had to cope with.

Desmond was a good brother and Patience, his wife, the perfect sister-in-law. But neither of them could comprehend that she might not want to be wed again. In both Desmond and Patience’s opinion, a woman needed a man to keep her safe and provide the children. A woman’s role was to bear said children, and support her husband however he wanted. Even if that meant staying in the background. However, to Mary, a woman needed a man for all those purposes plus some definite other reasons, many involving the pleasures of the flesh. An open and clear view of life had shown her marriage wasn’t necessary for that to be accomplished. Not that she’d actually found anyone she’d want to indulge with, but it was there in the back of her mind.

A vision of the duke flashed through her mind and she shook her head with a wry laugh. He was one person not to tangle with. Instead, she judged he was the very sort of person Horry had warned her about. They’d known it was on the cards that Mary would outlive her husband, and he’d been assiduous in his efforts to ensure she was as savvy as possible and alert to all things that could affect her wellbeing.

So far it had worked. Now Mary wasn’t so sure. She walked briskly up the short drive to her home and let herself into the peaceful house. She loved it, it was her sanctuary. From the snug parlour to the more formal drawing room and elegant dining room, every room reflected Mary’s taste. When she’d arrived several months before, the house hadn’t been lived in for years, and although it was clean and tidy, it was also tired. As if it was waiting for her to wake it up once more.

With the help of Mr and Mrs Niven, the husband and wife team who had been caretaker and housekeeper to Horace for years, and Nettie, a local girl hired as a housemaid, the house was now warm, homely, and loved. Before she’d moved, Mary had decided to call herself Mrs Lynch, and just be a villager. Then once settled, and she was comfortable, she began to involve herself with village life.

Now she took her turn on the church flower rota, did her stint at the school and was an active member of the ladies’ club. To some, her life must be seen as tedious and uninteresting in the extreme, but to Mary it was what she wanted and needed. Or had been, until one look from a pair of dark eyes reminded her of all she was missing.

Damn him. Mary kicked off her shoes, replaced them with an old pair of half boots suitable for gardening, and wandered into the kitchen. At this time of the day, the Nivens were in their cottage and wouldn’t return for another hour or so, when it was time to prepare for and cook dinner. Plus, Mary trusted Nettie was at home chatting to her mother and hopefully enjoying her free afternoons.

Mary went into the pantry and selected a ripe peach. It would hold her until dinnertime. She bit into the soft flesh and as juice dripped down her chin and the sweet scent assailed her senses, she sighed in ecstasy. They might only have a tiny hot house but it provided an abundance of fruit and vegetables, more than enough for her to have plenty to share. Mary made a mental note to take some of the bounty the following day to the elderly lady who was helping her to overcome the intricacies of tatting.

For now though she’d enjoy the fruit, and then go and weed her lettuces.

Sadly it didn’t put the duke out of her mind. It might have only been a brief meeting but she sensed his interest in her, or, she thought with a silent laugh, her bosom. It had obviously been an effort for him to look elsewhere. Well Horry had said it was a particularly splendid specimen, and presumably he knew such things. Her nipples tightened under her serviceable gown as she remembered the duke’s probing look and the way his eyes glowed.

Mary sat back on her knees and sighed. Why on earth was she hankering after a man who had stared at her in such an audacious way? If only she could give him a piece of her mind. Not that she’d have the chance. She understood he was not a man to pit her wits against – she would surely lose. He might want her, but no duke – or as in this case, also lord of the manor – would, in Mrs Niven’s vernacular, play in his own yard

Did the Grange count as that? She had no idea, but whilst he thought of her as a maiden, she was fairly sure she was safe. Even when he discovered she had been married. Mary was under no illusions that that titbit of information wouldn’t fall into his lap sooner, rather than later, but surely he would assume she was not in his orbit?

He might set up a mistress in town, but out here he’d be careful whom he dallied with. Especially one as young as she, who to all intents and purposes was a grieving widow. Oh she’d grieved and would always miss Horry, but as he’d told her on more than one occasion, they had enjoyed good times and all good times came to an end. Horry had instructed her not to go into black, and she’d compromised with navy, greys and purples and now more lilacs, pale greys and soft blues.

None of which negated the fact that her body stirred when she thought of him. The Duke.

Mary glanced down at the so-called weed in her hand and realised it was a lettuce. One she’d planted out not a week earlier to create a late salad crop.

Perhaps it was time to tidy up and forget about the annoying man. He’d had his fun, got her flustered and would now no doubt have forgotten her. Just one more village lady.

What would the duke think if he knew the meek and quiet Miss Mary Lynch was in face Lady Mary McCoy, widow of Lord Horace McCoy and one of the richest women in the country?

She wasn’t going to consider that.

****

Brody took his leave of the children, congratulated Miss Grey on her success with the school, then retrieved his empty basket and made his way outside to where Ronald patiently walked the horses.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. I assure you, I tried for at least ten minutes to depart,’ Brody said as he climbed aboard the curricle and took the reins. ‘Your sister is incredibly persistent once she gets the bit between her teeth. She is most insistent that if any child has a perfect attendance record at the end of this session they should be taken up in my phaeton and tooled around the lanes to end up at the castle thence to enjoy cakes and lemonade.’

‘M’lord,’ Ronald sounded mortified. ‘She’s a pest. I hope you gave her what for.’

Brody laughed. ‘I gave her my word “t’would be thus”.’ He waited until they began the steep haul up the escarpment. ‘For such an impassioned and reasoned plea, she deserves the treat anyway. Who is this Miss Mary?’ He hoped he sounded only mildly interested. It wouldn’t do to show more than that.

Ronald glanced at him, not a whit perturbed, it seemed, by the abrupt change of subject. ‘All I know is what I told you earlier. She’s well liked, involves herself in village affairs, and puts herself out to be helpful but not encroach.’

‘She sounds like a veritable paragon,’ Brody said, somewhat disgruntled by Ronald’s glowing description. She didn’t seem the sort of woman to enjoy a casual coupling. Such a pity, Brody was convinced that fine bosom needed more attention.

And the rest of her would bear to be inspected as well. God almighty I cannot think like that so close to home. He returned his attention to what Ronald was saying.

‘Oh no my lord, no paragon, just a lady.’ The way Ronald spoke made Brody certain the mystery lady was no “Lady”, for which he was thankful. He wanted no truck with young “ladies”, be they earnest and full of good works or not. Somehow, in his past, once they fastened their eyes on him he became their next mission. He had no intention of that happening again. Any interactions would be on his terms.

‘They do says she’s got the Grange fine and dandy again,’ Ronald continued as the horses strained to crest the top of the hill and turn along the lane towards the castle. ‘Not that it was a ruin, but like most of us around here allus – always –’ he corrected himself with a bashful grin, ‘– said, it was waiting for something. Young Cissy dotes on her.’

‘Seemingly this Miss Mary was just that.’ Brody changed the direction of the curricle to head along the rutted and little used back drive that headed in the directions of the stables. ‘The person needed.’

After one particularly deep rut Brody swore. He made a note to see the head groundsman with regards to its upkeep. The dozen or so yards from the lane to the gates were almost unusable. ‘A veritable treasure.’ God he sounded crabby. Brody was about to say something – anything – to make amends when Ronald spoke.

‘She is that. My Su… well, I mean, Susan, says Miss Mary brought new life into the village what with helping out where needed but never doing more than expected like. Not like that Lady Potter who used to live over Calden way. Nose in the air, lady bountiful, she thought she was. It’s fair to say your ma gave her short shrift. Now your ma, a real lady she is, it shines through her.’ He jumped down from the curricle and began to push open the gates. It wasn’t an easy job; it was obvious this route was rarely used.

Brody nodded and decided now wasn’t the time to say his mother was plain Miss Pearson, the youngest daughter of a mere Honourable when she met his father. It wasn’t a love match, he knew that. His parents had generally gone their own ways, but he assumed they had liked and respected each other. Plus, as far as he knew, stayed faithful.

As far as he knew.

Would he be content with a marriage like that? Even though Brody was sceptical about love – he thought it a mere tidying up of words to make lust more acceptable – he thought not. He enjoyed variety, and although he stayed faithful to whoever he had an arrangement with, for the duration – however long that might be – he had never declared it to be forever.

Just as Brody thought he might need to go and help Ronald, the youth managed to push the gates ajar far enough for him to get the curricle through. ‘Leave them open, they look ready to fall apart. I’ll get someone to go and speak to the blacksmith later. Is it still Williams?’

Ronald ran back to join Brody. ‘His son. Old Mr Williams sits in the forge and directs things. Or complains things aren’t what they used to be.’

It sounded familiar. ‘Tis ever thus.’

He pondered that thought, along with the knotty problem of how to give his prick relief in a willing body and not by his own hands, as he thanked Ronald, gave into his entreaty to let him sort the horses and equipage out, and slowly made his way indoors.

It was several hours later before Brody was able to sit in his study and try to make sense of the various ledgers pertaining to the affairs of the estate. Some were straightforward, others less so. In the end he rang the bell for Boleyn.

When the man entered he waved to a seat facing the desk. ‘These ledgers.’

Boleyn blinked as he sat down, very primly on the edge of an upright chair. ‘Yes, My Lord?’

‘Who decided to set them out like this? In fact let’s go back to basics. Who decided what was important and what not?’

Boleyn hesitated. ‘Ah…’

‘Ah nothing, spit it out,’ Brody said as he curbed his impatience with difficulty. He wasn’t asking the man to explain the royal debt. Now that would be difficult, if not nigh on impossible. ‘As far as I can see everything that has been addressed has been done so properly and I can find no discrepancies. But, oh hell, not to put too fine a point on it, some areas have been ignored and others over addressed. And we’re not making as much profit as I expected. Who chose what direction to go in and why?’

Boleyn sat up straight. ‘My Lord – Your Grace, i… it’s not for me to say.’

‘Rubbish, if you don’t, who will?’ Brody leaned forward. ‘Boleyn, this matters to me. I might have been absent, that couldn’t be helped.’ Well some of it couldn’t, he wasn’t sure about the rest. ‘Now I’m back and contrary to popular idea, more than ready to be involved in my estates.’ He emphasised the word ‘my’ on purpose, to show he was in earnest.

‘The factors or estate managers, they’re scared the status quo will be upset and their lives turned upside down.’ Boleyn said. ‘It doesn’t make for a peaceful existence.’

‘Which,’ Brody said slowly, ‘I suppose in theory they could be because dammit, man, I am no longer an absentee landlord. Whatever the circumstances, and however they feel, they need to take heed of that and accept I want to know what’s going on. Both on my lands and how it affects those people who work for me and rely on me for their livelihoods. I’m not an ogre and no heads will roll.’ He paused and forced himself to calm down. ‘Well, not unless they deserve to. So for the love of god, tell me, who chose what to concentrate on?’

Boleyn sighed. ‘Once your papa could no longer concentrate, a lot of it fell to your mama, who of course took advice from each estate manager. Whom, I suppose, all had the areas they favoured. For instance, Graham up in Scotland concentrated on the grouse and Oliver in Leicestershire the coverts and the hunting.’

‘Hmm. And here?’

‘Here I endeavoured to drop hints to your mama so at least the crops were rotated and harvested, the animals well tended, and the castle and cottages kept in good condition. Henning, your factor here, was the one with the least room to manoeuvre.’

Brody began to wonder if the reiterations that all his estates were in proper order and well kept were wishful thinking on his mother’s part and fudging on his employees’. ‘I think you better tell me the all.’

Boleyn fidgeted. ‘I’m your majordomo, Your Grace, not the person who is au fait with the workings of the Dukedom.’

‘I’m not so sure about that; I think your role may just have changed. Now share what you do know with me.’ Brody sat back and played with his pen. ‘Consider yourself my right-hand man. We’ll sort out a proper title and remuneration later.’

Boleyn opened his eyes wide, and the pleasure in them was there for Brody to see. ‘Then, Your Grace, I’ll endeavour not to let you down.’ Boleyn sighed. ‘I think they are all earnest in their belief they do what’s right and needed, but sometimes things get missed or passed over because it’s not important to them, personally, or to your mother.’

Brody sat back in his chair. It was as he thought. ‘Like the back drive to the stables?’

Boleyn relaxed. ‘Exactly so.’

‘Then it looks like we have work on our hands. I’ll need to meet each manager in turn and then, I suspect, visit my estates and see first-hand what I deem important and they don’t. Consider yourself promoted to my secretary-cum-majordomo, how does that sound?’

Boleyn looked alarmed. ‘Thank you, it sounds more than I ever thought possible. I will endeavour not to let you down. Your visits would be perfect. They will put the fear of god into each and every manager, Your Grace. Your mama very much let them get on with things.’

Evidently.

‘I,’ Brody said implacably, ‘am not my mama.’

That thought was uppermost in Brody’s mind, as he dismissed Boleyn. He sat for a moment and then picked up the ledgers pertaining to the castle and its surrounding lands and walked to the door. As he reached it and put his hand on the latch, Brody paused and retraced his steps. For a moment he hesitated, deep in thought, and then took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet that held his supply of spirits. With it in one hand and the ledgers in the other, he made his way out of the house and across the courtyard to the estate offices. It was as good a time as any to start showing he was back and intending to take up the reins of responsibility.

He opened the door to the office without knocking.

The man who sat with a ledger in his hands didn’t look up.

‘It’s polite to knock,’ he said shortly.

‘It’s polite to see who has entered,’ Brody replied equably, although he let a hint of authority enter his tone. He pushed the door shut with enough force to make it slam loudly.

Henning, his factor, looked up and his mouth dropped open. ‘M…my Lord, I mean, Your Grace, I didn’t realise it was you.’ “And what are you doing here,” his tone implied.

‘Why would you?’ Brody asked cheerfully as he put his parcel onto the desk with a clink and a thud. He thought it might be a good idea to make sure every employee knew he was happy still to be called ‘my lord’. This double naming made him dizzy. ‘After all, I’ve been conspicuous in my absence.’ He picked up a chair from the side of the room and put it down in front of the desk. ‘Worry no more. I’m ready to take the helm.’

Henning looked aghast. ‘Your Grace?’

‘I’ve slacked long enough,” Brody continued in the same breezy and insouciant tone of voice, and hoped the expression “if looks could kill” was just that – an expression, and not a statement of fact.

‘Ah well, we all knew you needed time to recover, Your Grace, and it was my pleasure to run the estate as your parents wished.’

That was as may be but…

‘And now, Henning you can run it as I wish,’ Brody said quietly, but emphatically. ‘Plus tell me of the things you wanted to do and did not, and the things you personally think do not need doing. I’m sure there must be both.’ His tone invited confidences. ‘Even after you have run the estate to the such high standards you have achieved, there must still be areas you want to work on, or choose not to. I’m sure you had your reasons, but as I don’t know them, some decisions make no sense to me.’ He paused. ‘The back drive for instance?’

Henning blanched and swallowed several times. ‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed. ‘The back drive.’ The factor shook his head and firmed his lips.

‘Well?’ Brody waited. He wouldn’t push until he had to, but he would find out how the man worked. ‘The back drive.’

Henning fiddled with the quill on his inkstand, lined up three ledgers level with the edge of the desk and finally stood up to go to the shelves, which ran the length of the wall opposite the window. He lifted one red leather-bound tome and moved it from hand to hand.

‘My lord, do you know the finer details of your father’s illness?’ Henning asked just before the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory. ‘It is relevant, I assure you.’

Whatever Brody thought the man might say, it wasn’t that. ‘Originally, pneumonia, though how I have no idea,’ he replied. ‘I was told he had always been less than robust, though I can’t say I’d ever noticed. Then he died several years later after once more succumbing to the illness from riding in a storm.’

Henning sighed. He looked so concerned Brody passed the parcel with the brandy over to him. ‘Pour us a glass each, for, if it’s as worrying as your demeanour suggests, I feel it is likely we will need it.’

His factor nodded, produced two glasses – clean and reasonably shiny – poured two generous measures out and handed one to Brody, before he himself took good mouthful and swallowed appreciatively.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. It is, I hesitate to say, worrying – but definitely not something I felt should be kept from you. Your mother, however, was adamant you need not be informed. That telling you the details would upset you and not help you at all. I had assumed now you were home and, er, improving health wise, she would have imparted it all to you.’

‘No.’ Improving health wise? I wonder what ailed me? ‘Oh and Henning? For the record, there was nothing wrong with me other than having to think and speak in a foreign language for many years, and learn how to once more behave in polite society once I returned to these shores.’ And mourn my love. ‘I was tired, true, but oh so pleased to be home,’ Brody continued. ‘Especially when I fled London, and believe me, fled is not too strong a word for how I got away. Hounded until I was scared to relieve myself in case a debutante hid behind the commode, jumped out and said I compromised her.’ Brody shuddered as he remembered that and other close shaves. ‘Then I arrived here to be shown by my mama and my employees that my input was not needed. Well, I’m sorry, but needed or not, now you have it. All of you.’ He lifted his glass and drank deeply. For once the smooth as silk cognac failed to do the trick and calm him.

Henning put his glass down on the desk in front of him. ‘If you mean that, Your Grace, then I am truly grateful. I do need your input, but we were all told in no uncertain terms not to bother you.’

‘Now you know differently. Therefore let’s start with my father’s illness and subsequent demise.’

‘Be prepared to be annoyed,’ Henning said and Brody grinned. The man was unbending by the minute, and now looked around Brody’s age, not ten years older.

‘Not amazed or unhappy?’

Henning raised his shoulders. ‘I don’t know to be honest.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I do know is this. As was his usual routine, the duke rode out one day and was caught in a vicious hailstorm. We all thought he recovered well, but he wasn’t strong after that and the second time it proved fatal. He… oh dear, I don’t like to say this, it seems disloyal.’ The man blushed. ‘Oh my, I mean,’ he stopped speaking and lapsed into an agitated silence.

Brody took pity on him. ‘I understand your feelings but I need to know. My father is dead, my mother will not talk about it, and my staff seem to think me uninterested in my heritage. None of which is helping my return to head the house of Welland. Therefore, Henning, I throw myself at your mercy and beg you to tell me what you know.’

Henning dipped his head. ‘Sadly little more than that, Your Grace. He returned from that ride and succumbed to the fever. No one thought he would take such a risk again, but he did. That was…’ his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

‘But he did? And that was the ride that killed him?’ Brody asked.

‘So it seems, your grace. As before, it was a lowering sky and snow was hinted. Even so, his lordship insisted on going out alone. He’d been in to see me earlier and was his normal self, and made no mention of having to go anywhere. However, it seems he told your mother he needed to ride – no explanation why or to where, although she did say to the coroner she asked him and he replied it was just a ride to shake the cobwebs away. As he often did that, although not usually in such weather, she had no reason to argue with him. This is, you understand, hearsay?’

Brody nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘He made his way to the stables, dismissed the groom who went to attend him, saddled a young and green stallion, and rode away. It wasn’t until he failed to return for dinner that the alarm was raised and a search instigated.’ Henning took another sip of brandy.

‘We found him around midnight, crawling along the back drive. It was assumed his horse had caught its foot in a rabbit hole and he was thrown. After a subsequent hunt we found the horse next to one such hole, already dead. Your father was brought home on a hurdle, but died three days later from an inflammation of the lungs without any explanation for his ride. After that we carried on much as normal until, well, now.’

‘Which will be the new normal.’ Brody paused to formulate his thoughts. Henning might think his father wouldn’t take silly risks but Brody knew his parent had been wild in his younger days, To try out a young horse in less than perfect weather would be something he’d do without thinking twice. ‘Is that why the gates on the back drive are shut and that route unused?’

‘Exactly, Your Grace.’

Brody made up his mind. ‘No longer. It’s the shortest way to the village.’ And Miss Mary. Now why should that thought pop into his mind? There was as much chance of anything happening there as him becoming the next king. ‘Can you see that the drive is levelled and the gates repaired?”

Henning brightened. ‘Certainly. While you’re here?” He looked somewhat hesitant about continuing.

‘Spit it out.’ Brody advised him. ‘I don’t bite.’ Not innocent employees anyway. Less than innocent and willing ladies, all the time. Damned if that thought didn’t perk his pego up. He willed his erection to go away. Having just achieved a working rapport with Henning he didn’t want to lose it. Luckily the desk was between them.

‘We used to have a dance after the harvest was done. It’s not been held these past few years, but now it would give everyone the chance to meet you again. People understood your mama didn’t want to be bothered whilst your papa was ill, but now, if you do indeed mean to take up the reins, why not start with this?’

It made sense. Brody stood up and clapped the other man on the back. ‘An excellent idea. I’ll get word to my mother and siblings that it will be… hmm, around the last week in September? That’s…’ he did rapid calculations, ‘…four weeks if we hold it on the first Saturday in October. Then it won’t clash with anything the church does.’ He remembered enough of years past to know how important the religious festivals were. ‘Can you arrange that? I’ll speak to cook.’ If she is off the sherry. He thought rapidly. ‘I suspect my first task should be to write to Mama. If I can work out where she is at the moment. I’ve lost track.’

‘Mallow.’ Henning’s eyes twinkled. ‘At Lady Fernley’s. I have a list.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘My Lord, I’ve been sending her weekly updates on what we, we, not you, are doing.’

Brody laughed. Poor Henning. ‘Let’s face it; my bit would scarcely cover two lines of script. Eating, riding, sleeping. Just existing. No more though, and I’ll take over the epistles. It would be best to come from me that her input can decrease now.’

And cease. He still had to discover why she chose to shut him out.