The Duke's Holiday (17 page)

Well, she did have a brain, but it was reserved solely for
formulating snide remarks.

The Duke would never countenance such a blatant attempt at
matchmaking. Would he?

The thought of Montford in thrall to Davina was utterly
inconceivable, but nevertheless, Astrid’s heart shriveled just contemplating
it.

She didn’t like the Duke, she reminded herself as she
sipped her tea. She loathed him, so what should she mind if her Aunt and cousin
importuned him? Why indeed? It would be infinitely amusing to see how he
reacted to Davina over one of Monsieur Roualt’s creations.

Infinitely. Amusing.

And even if he were taken in by Davina’s simpering,
dull-witted conversation, she would not be in the least bothered. In fact, it
would be no less than he deserved for falling for such a twit. “I think, Aunt,
that that is a wonderful idea,” she said at last.

Aunt Emily and Davina both looked surprised by her
agreement.

Davina even had sense enough to look a little suspicious as
well, leading Astrid to speculate that the girl was not as empty-headed as she
appeared.

Astrid smiled graciously and set down her cup. She rose. “You
will need to go back to the grange to prepare for the night,” she said.

Aunt Emily and Davina, who had not finished half of their
tea, rose as well. “Of course,” Aunt Emily said.

“We shall not keep you then.”

It was a dismissal.

Aunt Emily frowned, but said nothing, probably thinking it
wise to leave while she apparently had the upper hand.

“Until tonight, Aunt, Davina,” Astrid said, still smiling
stiffly.

“Yes, well, we
should
be going anyway,” Aunt Emily said, wanting the last word.

Astrid and Alice escorted their relations outside to their
waiting barouche and waved them off. Astrid’s smile immediately faded when the
barouche was out of sight.

“Well,
that
was
interesting,” Alice said. “Did you see the look on her face when she figured
out who the Duke was?”

“It was a moment I shall treasure for the rest of my days.”

“You were devilish clever in getting rid of them,” Alice
continued.

“I have my uses. Now if you’ll excuse me, Alice, I think
I’ll change.”

Alice placed a hand on her arm, looking concerned. “Are you
all right?”

Astrid could not forget Alice’s harsh words from the day
before. She winced from her sister’s concern. “I shall be fine. I always am,”
she said, pulling her arm away.

“Astrid,” Alice started, looking contrite.

“We have much to do,” Astrid said, evading another
argument. Or a round of apologies. “You heard our Lady Aunt. We cannot allow
the Duke to believe that all of Yorkshire is without manners or sense.”

“Are you actually going to go through with this dinner
party?”

“What choice do I have? And maybe Aunt Emily can succeed in
scaring away the Duke. God knows I have tried and failed.”

“Aunt Emily won’t, but Davina might.”

“Yes. Let’s hope one of her bows strangles the Duke over
the soup course.”

Alice giggled, and they went inside on each other’s arms in
awkward silence.

Things were not repaired between her and her sister, but
Astrid hadn’t the strength to undertake such an endeavor, nor the desire. She
had not forgiven Alice her harsh words, though they were probably well deserved.
She would sort things out later, she assured herself, as she mounted the stairs
alone to her room, waving off Alice’s offer to help her out of her habit.

She wanted to be alone. It was not yet noon, but the day
was already shaping up to be ten times worse than the day before. Poor Cyril.

When she reached her room, she locked the door and threw
herself across the bed.

She cried herself to sleep.

IN WHICH
ALLIANCES ARE MADE AND VILLAINS ARE REVEALED

THE
SCOTSMAN found Montford in the castle’s library, reordering one of the shelves
in alphabetical order. Montford had managed to gather as many volumes of poetry
as he could find strewn about the room, and had carved out a space on one of
the shelves to accommodate the collection. He decided to file them by author,
like his own library. Most would have thought his occupation quite beneath his
station and not a little peculiar, but Montford found the work soothing. There
was nothing like putting something in its proper place to calm his frayed
nerves.

And his nerves were very frayed at the moment.

Mr. McConnell must have stood behind him watching for
several minutes, for he had to clear his throat before Montford noticed he was
no longer alone. He turned around and attempted to hide the latest volume of
Essex smut behind his back.

Mr. McConnell looked puzzled by his action, and pulled the
pipe out of his mouth. “Duke.”

“Mr. McConnell.”

He set down the book and motioned for McConnell to have a
seat. The Scot took him up on his suggestion and eased himself into a chair
gingerly, sighing in relief as he did so. He looked quite worn out.

“Did you find anything in the wood?”

“Aye. Shell casing, bit of powder. It were a rifle what
killed the poor creature.”

“No sign of the perpetrator?”

“The perpe-
what
?”

“The shooter,” Montford clarified through clenched teeth.

“Nay.”

Montford waited for an elaboration, but none came.
McConnell, it seemed, didn’t mince words.

“And you’ve no idea who might have done it, Mr. McConnell?”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes, but he shook his head.

Montford crossed his arms and gave the Scot his best ducal
glare. “You’ve some idea, do you not?”

“Nay.”

“Shall we call in the constable? Maybe he would have a
different opinion on the matter. Someone tried to kill me, McConnell. It is a
hanging offense, need I remind you?”

McConnell puffed on his pipe and looked quite unconcerned
by Montford’s threat. “I’m the constable ‘round these parts, Your Grace.”

“
That’s
hardly
reassuring.”

McConnell looked at Montford as if he’d have no problem
wiping the floor with his face, Duke or not. Montford believed the man could
probably succeed. Montford was a large man, well over six feet, but next to
McConnell, he felt rather petite. The Scot had the shoulders of an ox. “I’m the
constable, and the estate manager, as a matter o’ fact. I’ve known Miss Astrid
since she were a wee bairn, an’ if you think I’ll help ye to put her in danger
of a neck stretching, you’ve got another thing comin’,” McConnell said,
punctuating his speech with a jab of his pipe.

“You think Miss Honeywell had something to do with this?” Montford
asked, incredulous.

Mr. McConnell looked alarmed. “Nay, nay. I dunna think so.
But
ye
do.”

“I most certainly do not. Miss Honeywell is many things,
but she is no murderer.”

Mr. McConnell looked taken aback. “Oh. Well then.”

“Yes,
well then
.
I don’t think Miss Honeywell is behind it, but she does inspire a certain
amount of
 
… devotion in her
followers. Perhaps one of them decided to do me in.”

“No one what works under me or her,” Mr. McConnell said,
affronted by the very notion.

Montford sighed, feeling as if he were pushing a boulder up
a very steep hill. “The shot did not come from the heavens, Mr. McConnell. I
don’t think I have yet done anything so villainous that the gods would wish to
smite me from on high.”

McConnell’s eyes narrowed. “Ye ain’t be one of them
papists, are ye?”

Good God, where had
that
come from? “I am not a Roman Catholic,” he found himself saying. He was not
exactly intimidated by McConnell, but he was treading very carefully.

“Twaddle about gods and smiting. Sounds papist to me.”

“I would point out that papists are monotheistic.”

Mr. McConnell looked as if Montford had spoken in Greek.
Montford sighed. He supposed he had. “I am
not
a papist,” he repeated.

“What are ye, then, C of E?”

“What business is … I suppose I am.”

“Ye
suppose
?
What? Ye dunna ken what alter ye worship at?”

“I do not attend chapel…”

 
McConnell
jerked to his feet, and the pipe nearly fell out of his mouth. The movement was
so sudden that Montford involuntarily leaned back, just in case McConnell
decided to swing his large ham hock of an arm in the direction of his face.
“It’s worse, then. Ye be one of them nonbelievers.”

Montford bristled. Brawn aside, this was simply too much.
“Mr. McConnell, it is none of your concern what altar I worship at.”

“It is when ye bring yer fast, unholy ways into this
house.”

“You shall remember who you are addressing, Mr. McConnell.”

Mr. McConnell didn’t look inclined to do so.

Montford wondered if
anyone
within a thirty-mile radius had any regard for his title besides himself.
Montford couldn’t very well throw the constable at the man for his insolence,
since Mr. McConnell
was
the
constable. But he had had lesser men horsewhipped for such cheek.

No, he hadn’t. But he’d considered it on occasion.

He was considering it now, but he had a sneaking suspicion
McConnell would turn the horsewhip on
him
.

He decided to try a different tack. Mollification. It went
against his nature, but he’d found himself mollifying several times during the
space of the last forty-eight hours, to some effect.

“Mr. McConnell, I was raised in the Church, and do attend
on occasion.” Weddings (reluctantly), and funerals (reluctantly, unless he had
disliked the deceased). “But I’ll not lie to you –” Yes, he would,
“—and tell you I am religious, because I’m not. I’m indifferent.”

Mr. McConnell considered Montford’s statement and did not
find it entirely lacking.

“Dunna ken if it’s worse or no. Dunna ken if I believe ye.
Ye’ve a good deal o’ anger in ye …”

“
I
have anger!”
he burst out. “You’re the one who was yelling at me!”

“I weren’t yellin’,” Mr. McConnell said, sticking his pipe
back in his mouth and daring Montford to contradict him.

Montford clutched his head, which was a mistake, because he
hit the bandage over his right temple. He winced and tried to rein in his
temper. “Mr. McConnell,” he said evenly. “May we get back to the matter at
hand.”

“Certainly, Yer Grace. What were the matter at hand again?”

“For the love of … is there something in the water here
that makes everyone talk in circles?”

McConnell grinned and puffed on his pipe.

“What do you suggest we do about this shooting?”

Mr. McConnell scratched his neck. “Dunno. Not much to be
done. ‘Twould solve everyone’s problem if ye were to depart.”

“Would it indeed?”

“Solve
yer
problem, at least,” he muttered into his pipe.

“I’ll not construe that as a threat. I want the shooter
found and crucified. I do not care to be shot at, Mr. McConnell.”

“Course not.”

“There shall be a thorough investigation.”

“Aye, there will be an accountin’,” McConnell said grimly,
“dinna worry about that. Cyril was a goer, an’ he didna deserve such an end.
I’ll catch the piker what done him in an string ‘im up by his ballocks for
fashing poor Miss Astrid.”

McConnell was certainly getting into the spirit of things. Montford
cleared his throat, thankful he was not on the receiving end of McConnell’s Old
Testament justice. “Well, then, since I see you’re on the job, I’ll leave you
to it. I’m departing for London tomorrow, and you can send word there if you
find our man.”

McConnell nodded, as if he’d expected this. “Scared ye off,
did she?”

“What?”

“Miss Astrid. Scared ye off. Reckon ye’ll high-tail it back
to Lunnon an send some stuffed shirts down in yer stead to finish her off.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

McConnell crossed his beefy arms over his chest and studied
Montford for a long, tense moment. “I’m gonna speak my mind to ye, Yer Grace,
an’ yer gonna listen. Ken?”

Montford blinked. As if the man hadn’t already. “Please, by
all means, Mr. McConnell. Proceed.”

“I dunna care what a piece of paper says, this is the
Honeywell’s place, an t’would be criminal to toss them out like yesterday’s
dish water.”

“I am not going to toss them out,” he grit out.

“Nay?” McConnell said, looking surprised.

“Nay. You people have the mistaken idea I am some sort of
ogre. It is plain to see I cannot merely ask the Honeywells to vacate the
premises.”

McConnell’s stern expression faded as if it never was. He
beamed at Montford as if they were now old friends. “Well, then, I dinna know
ye had such sense, lad. I mean, Yer Grace.”

Montford rolled his eyes. “No need to start groveling
now
, Mr. McConnell. Sit down, if you
please, and do something with your pipe before I yank it out of your mouth and
shove it down your throat.”

McConnell laughed and did as Montford ordered. “I’m
beginning to like ye, lad.”

“How lovely,” he said dryly.

“Despite ye bein Indifferent.”

Montford ground his teeth together and forced himself back
to the main point of this interview. “I am not going to kick them out, but to
my mind, there are some issues that need to be addressed. I own this property,
in case anyone has forgotten, and I cannot in good conscience let it continue
to be run at the behest of Miss Honeywell.”

Surprisingly, McConnell did not protest.

“I am willing to let the Honeywells remain at Rylestone
Hall, but the management shall have to change.”

At this, McConnell opened his mouth to say something, but
Montford raised his hand. “I don’t want to replace you, Mr. McConnell. If you
are indeed the estate manager-cum-constable, then I have to congratulate you on
running the estate so well, despite Miss Honeywell’s interference.”

“She weren’t an interference. A couple of odd notions, here
and there, but nothing to do real harm.”

“Besides cheating me?”

McConnell looked chagrined. “She dinna do anything foolish,
did she? She likes to fancy herself a bit of a Robin Hood, spread the wealth
around to those more … ah, deservin’ than yerself.”

“
No one
is more
deserving than myself.”

“Of course not.” McConnell averred drily. “Yer not to be
sending her to the gaol for a bit of cookin’ of the books?”

“McConnell, she threw the books in a vat of grease and
fried them. But I’ll not send her to the gaol. Good God, who would protect the
other inmates?”

“Or the guards,” McConnell added in a fond tone. “She’s a
canny one, that.”

“She’s a menace. A hoyden. A danger to herself and others.”

McConnell’s smile dimmed. “Dunna go too far, Your Grace.
She’s a good lass, and has tried her best with what God provided her.”

“Be that as it may, she needs to be reined in.”

McConnell sat back in his seat and surveyed Montford. “Aye.
An’ are ye the man to do that?”

At some point, around the time Miss Honeywell was brought
up, the conversation had become unhinged. He was not quite sure what McConnell
was asking, but the way he asked it was implicating. It was the kind of
question a father might ask when attempting to intimidate his daughter’s
suitor.

Montford was alarmed at the idea that McConnell seemed to
hold that he was interested in Miss Honeywell.
In that way
.

Which he most certainly wasn’t – notwithstanding
their encounter of the day before in this very same room. His eyes wandered
over to the ladder, where he had nearly kissed her, then the spot on the floor
where he had run his hands up her legs and…

Couples had been married for less than that. He would have
been
obliged
to marry her, had she
been a London lady. Thank hell she wasn’t. And thank hell no one had seen them
together, for even if she was not precisely genteel, he didn’t see how he could
have wriggled out of an engagement and kept his honor as a gentleman.

But marriage to Miss Astrid Honeywell?
Her
?

Montford tugged on his cravat. It was suddenly very warm in
the library. Stifling, in fact. “I am not … that is … we are not…”

McConnell arched his brow and looked satisfied by
Montford’s incoherence, as if he had expected no less.

“Mr. McConnell,” he continued when he had collected his
wits, “I am not interested in Miss Honeywell.”

McConnell looked surprised by this statement. “Ne’er
implied ye were.”

“Did you not?”

“No, I didna.” McConnell paused, studied Montford in a
hawkish way that made him want to squirm. “But ‘twould look verra odd for ye to
allow four females to remain here under a roof not their own. Not to mention
how verra difficult it would be to keep Miss Astrid out of yer affairs.”

“I see. And what would you have me do?”

McConnell smiled, as if he had finally coaxed the exact
question from Montford’s lips he had wanted to hear all night. He leaned
forward and replaced the pipe in his mouth. “I’ll tell ye what ye can do, and
it will get ye free and clear of the Honeywell lasses for good.”

That
was
precisely the sort of thing Montford had wanted to hear. He leaned forward,
prepared to take in all the advice the Scot could give him. “I’m all ears, Mr.
McConnell.”

CONTRARY
TO what the Duke of Montford might surmise regarding her reading habits, Miss Honeywell
did not care for gothic novels. She liked academic tomes and, yes, scandalous
verse. She read the occasional light novel of manners, but found gothic novels
incredibly ridiculous. Miss Alice Honeywell, however, devoured gothic novels
like boxes of chocolates, often in one sitting, and always to excess. She
reveled in the same overblown sentiments and absurd, lurid plots that her
sister declared “piffle” and “a waste of typeset”. She knew all the
conventions, could anticipate plot twists and entire speeches from out of the
character’s mouths. She often skimmed ahead in order to read the titillating
parts, and discreetly dogeared the pages upon which these parts were written in
order to reread them at a later date. Which she did. Often.