The Duke's Holiday (10 page)

Wesley apparently missed the Duke’s sarcasm, because he
continued brightly: “Some have gone so far as to suggest fitting out ships at
sea with steam engines, but I don’t know if I agree on the physics of such an
idea.”

“Sounds outlandish,” the Duke agreed.

“One day the world’s going to be powered by steam, mark my
words,” Wesley said, riding high on his soapbox. “It is why I am investing in
it.”

Her heart sank. “Oh no, Wes … I mean Anthony. Do you
really
think that wise?”

Wesley looked annoyed by her superior tone, but she didn’t
care. Someone had to be the voice of reason. He was always plunging what little
funds he had into ridiculous schemes like this. Steam engines indeed.

“Of course,” Wesley huffed.

“But have you seen an actual engine that works?” she
pressed.

Wesley paused, his expression falling. “Well, no, but some
have come terribly close. The problem is combustion, you see.”

No, she didn’t see.

Astrid sighed and sank back into her chair as Wesley began
to explain in detail the inner mechanics of steam-powered locomotion. He wasn’t
usually quite so voluble, but the Duke’s presence had made him nervous and
disinclined to pause for breath, lest the Duke question him regarding his
identity.

Thankfully, they were all saved from dying of utter boredom
when a loud thunk, followed by a howl, sounded outside the window.

The Duke looked pained and squeezed the bridge of his nose
with his fingers. “What now, I wonder,” she heard him mutter.

A moment later, Flora appeared at the door, gracing them
with a very agitated bow. She avoided looking at the Duke as she said, “Miss
Astrid, I think you might want to come out in the yard with me.”

She followed behind Flora down the corridor, through the
servant’s entrance, and down into the stable yard. Wesley, Alice and the Duke
trailed behind.

Petunia was loose once more and in high dudgeon, squealing
and running about the yard with Ant and Art trailing behind, laughing and
chanting in Greek. The object of Petunia’s pursuit appeared to be a stick
insect covered in mud, squealing in much the same manner as the pig.

It was Coombes.

At last the beleaguered valet managed to hoist himself upon
a barrel and shoo the pig with his hands.

She laughed and hazarded a look back at the Duke. She was
surprised to find a hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. It quickly
disappeared when he discovered her staring at him. He cleared his throat and
resumed his usual stern expression. “Coombes, what is going on here?” he
bellowed.

“That … that
beast
… those … those …
heathen
children…!”
Coombes spluttered, pointing in the direction of the pig and the girls, who
were disappearing around the stables into the garden. “I’ll not stand for it,
Your Grace. This is … this is beyond the pale,” Coombes continued. “I demand
that we return to London immediately.”

The Duke’s jaw twitched worryingly. “
You
demand?”

Coombes paled beneath the mud staining his cheeks, his
courage waning. Then he seemed to recover a bit of nerve, taking a deep breath
and puffing out his chest. “I … I’ll not remain another moment in this … this
pit
.”

“I would hardly call Rylestone Hall a pit, sirrah,” Astrid
retorted.

“You’re right. It’s a mad house,” Coombes intoned. He
stepped off the barrel, lost his balance on the way down, and slipped into the
mud. He flailed about for several seconds, then finally regained his feet. His
dignity now completely in shreds, he faced his employer with a furious
expression. “I’m returning to London, Your Grace.”

“Wonderful. The mail coach departs this afternoon in the
village,” Astrid replied breezily.

The Duke stepped towards Coombes, who took a step backwards
when he saw the icy look on his employer’s face. “If you leave, Coombes, I
shall be most displeased,” the Duke warned.

Petunia chose at that moment to reenter the yard. Squealing
at the top of her lungs, she lunged straight for Coombes, who yelped and
climbed back upon the barrel.

“I don’t care,” Coombes cried over his shoulder. “Nothing
could make me stay another moment in this Bedlam.”

“Coombes, I’ll have your head if you leave me here,” the
Duke cried, raising a fist, a hint of panic seeping through the cracks of his
icy displeasure.

Coombes mumbled something that sounded distinctly like “I
don’t give a rat’s arse,” as he attempted to pull his leg out of the way of
Petunia’s snout.

Then the barrel toppled over, sending Coombes sprawling
once more. He scrambled to his feet and began running towards the kitchens,
Petunia on his heels.

The Duke made as if to follow his valet, stopped at the
edge of a mud slick, and cursed.

Astrid giggled behind her hand until the Duke spun around
and glowered at her. She broke off and tried to glower back. “Your valet is all
that is sensible. You should return with him, you know. How will you ever survive
without him?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he muttered. His glance
moved from her and pinned Wesley in its sight. Her cousin froze like a startled
deer. “You.
Mister Honeywell.
I
suggest you attempt to bring your family under control. A man who allows his
females to run riot is a disgrace to his sex.”

“Now see here…” Wesley began.

“I did not come here to be mowed down by pigs and
bluestockings,” the Duke said, flashing a significant glance in Astrid’s
direction. “I want to see the books to this damnable pile. I want straight
answers to my questions. If these blessed events occur, I shall reconsider
razing this pile of stones and everyone in it.”

“Now
see here
…”
Wesley attempted again.

The Duke growled at Wesley and stalked towards the castle
without another word. Horrid, horrid man.

Wesley followed him with his eyes, then turned back to
Astrid and Alice, his brow furrowed. “I say, he’s rather upset, isn’t he?”

“I think he was born that way,” Astrid said.

“Raze Rylestone,” Wesley said speculatively. “Do you think
he’s serious?”

“I think he’s never anything
but
serious.”

“Well, that will never do.” He stared up at the North
Tower, which was looking suspiciously drunk. “Don’t think the Hall could
survive a razing. Mebbe you should just show him the books.”

Astrid and Alice exchanged panicked glances. “Absolutely
not,” they said in unison.

“Look here,” Wesley said petulantly, “what’s wrong with
you? How do you expect to keep this up? The longer this goes on, the worse
things are going to get. Where are the books? And what are you two hiding?”

“Nothing. You’re not trying to bring us under control, are
you?” Astrid countered.

Wesley snorted. “Someone needs to.” Seeing he would get
nothing from Astrid, he turned on Alice. “You’ve always been a steady sort, Alice.
A real brick. You must see it shall be impossible to fob off on Montford. Where
are the books?”

Alice’s face flooded with color around the moment Wesley
called her a brick. Then the color intensified until her face was scarlet, and
not with pleasure. She was livid.

Astrid took an involuntary step backwards. She had never
seen her mild-natured sister look so … terrifying. So very like … well,
herself
in a temper. But she hardly
blamed Alice. If a man she loved had called
her
a brick, she’d have put her fist through his mouth.

“I don’t know where the books are,
Sir Wesley
,” Alice said in a too-calm voice.

Astrid wanted to cheer her sister.

Wesley studied Alice’s countenance in mounting puzzlement.
“Alice,” he began placatingly. “Be a good girl…”

Alice snapped, stomping her boot in the earth and clenching
her fists. “Don’t Alice me in that condescending tone. And don’t ever call me a
b-b-brick again. Idiot man. Idiot blind man! I don’t know where the books are,
and even if I did, I’d not tell you. You’re no better than the Duke, thinking
you know what’s best, trying to manage us. Well, I’ll tell you something, Sir Wesley
Benwick. We don’t need managing. You and Montford will
manage
us right out of our home. Astrid’s right. All men are
m-morons!”

With another stomp of her foot and a toss of her chin,
Alice strode back towards the castle.

Wesley stared after her, eyes wide.

“What did I do?” he murmured. “What did I say? Gads,
Astrid, what’s gotten into
her
?”

Astrid sighed and patted Wesley’s arm. “Oh, Wesley, you
really are an idiot.”

AN
HOUR later, Astrid and Alice turned over the last bale of hay in the loft above
the stables to no avail.

“It’s gone,” Alice cried, pulling straw from her hair. Her
face was still flushed from her sharp exchange with Wesley, her pale blue eyes
glistening with pent-up emotion. She hadn’t talked or met Astrid’s eyes since
the encounter, other than to mumble out the location of the estate book. Astrid
had thought it best to commandeer the book in case Alice compromised its
whereabouts. But it seemed she was too late, for the book was missing. They’d
turned over the entire stable from top to floor without coming across it.

Alice’s hands were trembling and her chin quivered, sure
signs she was a breath or two away from tears. Astrid had never seen Alice so
worked up. Wesley’s arrival and dunder-headed behavior seemed to have pushed
her into near-hysteria. But Astrid did not have time to deal with a hysterical
sister. She felt near tears herself, and, as was becoming usual, angry. At the
Duke. At Wesley. At herself, for being so stupid as to entrust the book to scatterbrained
Alice.

“How can it be gone?” Astrid cried, falling back onto the
hay. “Are you quite sure you hid it here?”

Alice turned away from Astrid and busied herself with sorting
through a box of old horse tack. “I’m certain.”

Astrid blew the stray hair out of her eyes and rubbed her
temples. “This can’t end well. Devil take it, Alice, are you very certain?
Because you do have a tendency to forget…”

“
Quite certain,”
Alice bit out, her voice breaking at the end. She threw down an old brush with
uncharacteristic violence, and her shoulders began to shake.

Astrid stared at her sister’s back, at a loss for words. Of
course she knew very well what the problem was. Wesley. He had picked a most
inopportune time to visit. And he couldn’t see his own nose for his face when
it came to Alice. Neither could Alice, it seemed.

But the last thing she needed right now was to sort out her
sister’s wounded feelings. She tsked impatiently. “You know, he isn’t worth all
of this emotional upheaval,” Astrid remarked, which only made Alice’s shoulders
shake harder. “You said yourself he’s an idiot. I don’t know why you insist on
being infatuated with him.”

“I’m not infatuated with him,” Alice sniffed. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”

“
Wes-ley
. You’re
infatuated with him and have been since you were both in nappies. Althought
why, I don’t know. He’s a widgeon.”

“He’s
not
a
widgeon.”

“He is. He’s not good enough for you,” Astrid retorted. She
began picking out the straw from Alice’s coiffure, hoping to put a short end to
this conversation and get on to the business at hand. “Look at you, darling, you’re
the most beautiful girl in three counties. Everyone agrees. You could have your
pick of eligible young men.”

Alice stiffened and threw Astrid’s arm away. She stalked
across the hayloft and rounded on Astrid, tears soaking her face, a mix of
incredulity and fury contorting her normally placid features. “Do I really have
my pick, Astrid?” Alice said venomously.

Astrid crossed her arms in a defensive posture, completely
caught off balance by her sister’s display of temper. “Of course you do.”

“How old am I?”

“What does that have to do…”

“How
old
am I?”
Alice repeated impatiently.

“Twenty or so.”

“
Three
and
Twenty.”

“And?”

“And?
And
? Heaven
on earth, Astrid, sometimes I think you are as dunder-headed as Aunt Anabel!
Three and twenty is on-the-shelf.”

“
I’m
twenty six,”
she mumbled, a bit miffed.

“Precisely my point. Do you know any gentlewoman my age or
yours who is not married?”

“There is Katrina Evans…”

“Besides Katrina Evans!” Alice bit off, clenching her
fists. Katrina Evans was the daughter of a baronet in the next county, whose
nose had a wart on it the size of Yorkshire and a nose roughly double the size
of the entire British Isles. “I am three and twenty and have received not one
offer of marriage. Not one.”

“We aren’t exactly at the center of the world. Gentlemen
are low on the ground…”

“There are plenty of respectable men about. Even Miss Bourke
has had at least three offers, one from a baronet.”

“Miss Evans’ brother, might I remind you, who inherited the
family nose.”

“
Not
the point,”
Alice said through her teeth.

Astrid held her ground. “I should hardly think you
interested in anyone who has the bad judgment to court Miss Bourke. You are
miles above her in every regard.”

“In what way, precisely?”

Astrid was incredulous. Did she really need to explain why
Miss Bourke, a first-rate bully with blonde curls, was loathsome? “She’s the
brain of a peahen and the character of a snake, to begin with.”

“Mayhap, but she’s the fortune and respectability to make
her character very pleasing indeed.”

Astrid gasped. “What exactly are you saying, Alice? We may
not be rich, but we are ten times above the likes of Miss Bourke in breeding
and station. Our mother was an Earl’s daughter.”