The Duke's Holiday (18 page)

She knew the hero from the first trite word out of his
mouth, and she could spot a villain even before he entered the scene from some
poorly veiled foreshadowing on the author’s part – usually something to
do with shifting shadows, or thunder rumbling in the distance. And the villains
in her favorite novels were usually afflicted with the following maladies: a) a
case of unrequited love for the heroine, b) insanity or c) some combination of
both. Alice tended to like these brooding, lost souls better than the heroes
and often wished they would succeed in their dastardly schemes.

The villain in question, who was, alas, not the fictional
“Mad Pasha” from Alice’s latest book, and who was currently sitting behind an
oversized mahogany desk in a cavernous office some fifty miles north of
Rylestone Green, was not cast in shadows, nor did thunder rumble in the
distance to alert onlookers to his malevolence. Nor would Alice have liked this
particular villain, as he possessed none of the romantic allure –
brooding eyes, raven’s wing hair, broad shoulders, etc. – common in the
ones from her stories. But he did suffer from the afflictions subscribed to his
kind: he wanted a woman he couldn’t have,
and
he was slightly barmy in his brain box.

Many of his cohorts suspected the former, as they’d watch
him pursue the county hoyden for years, but they subscribed his occasionally
obsessive behaviors to uncommon strength of purpose. It was why Samuel
Lightfoot was such a success, some said, because of his devotion to his work
and his willingness to call a spade a spade.

No one under his employ, even the henchmen he occasionally
called upon to do his dirty work, suspected that he worked twenty-hour days or
shouted imprecations at them or anyone in his proximity because he was cracked
in the head. They just thought he was a bit of an arse.

But a successful, rich arse who kept them employed.

So they minded their manners, even if he didn’t, and
continued about their business.

One of Mr. Lightfoot’s henchmen currently stood at the foot
of the mahogany desk. He was tall and strapping and wore a long green hunting
coat. He was newly hired and greatly concerned for his future at Dunkirk
Brewing Company, as evidenced by the state of the hat mashed between his hands.

Mr. Lightfoot was still sitting behind his desk, which
might have been a good sign, but he had remained silent long after his new
employee had finished his tale, which didn’t bode well. Mr. Lightfoot’s
silences never remained silences for long. Nothing could be heard in the room
but the ticking of an ornate clock over the hearth and the sound of Mr.
Lightfoot’s breathing.

The henchman had the very bad idea to break the
uncomfortable silence with his apologies. “I’m surely sorry, sir. Didna mean to
actually hit ‘em. But like I said, the demmed scope must have been off. I aimed
over his head, just like you told me to –”

“Cease. Speaking. Worm,” Mr. Lightfoot growled, rising to
his feet.

Mr. Lightfoot was a good deal shorter than him and a bit
paunchy, as if he enjoyed a pint or two of his recipe of an evening. The
henchman was certain he could take Mr. Lightfoot in a fair fight. But he
suspected he’d never see a fair fight with Mr. Lightfoot. He didn’t trust the
gleam in the man’s dark eyes. So he backed up a step or two and watched out for
knives or any other flying objects.

“You tell me you nearly succeeded in killing the Duke of
Bloody Montford,” Mr. Lightfoot said quite pleasantly.

“He took a tumble, an’ the horse was done for, but he ain’t
dead,” the henchman assured him. He’d loitered about the castle for a while
until the young popinjay, Sir Wesley, had come and told the story about the
Duke’s spill, before riding up to inform his new employer of the proceedings.
“His Majesty’s hale and hearty and no doubt dustin’ up a storm at the castle.”

“Then I wonder why you feel the need to apologize,” Mr.
Lightfoot said evenly, “when you succeeded in doing the job I assigned. Nothing
I hate more than apologies for doing your job, Mr. Weeks.”

Mr. Weeks crimped his hat brim together end to end and
stared at the brewer in surprise. He’d not thought of it in that way. All he
could think when he saw the Duke tumble down the embankment was that he was a
dead man. He’d nearly wet himself imagining the noose tightening around his
neck. A body did not shoot Dukes.

Mr. Lightfoot began pacing at the foot of his desk, deep in
thought.

“This is better than I could have planned. A shot overhead,
she might not have taken seriously. But this,
this
is hard to overlook. No, it’s better this way. Good work, Mr.
Weeks.”

Mr. Weeks was confused and a bit apprehensive over this
commendation, but he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief that he was
off the hook. “Thank ye, sir.”

“Now, tomorrow I shall attend the Harvest Festival in
Rylestone Green to assess whether Miss Honeywell has changed her mind regarding
my suit,” Mr. Lightfoot continued.

“Will she be knowing you had something to do with the
shooting?”

“I suspect she’ll have an inkling. If not, I shall suggest
it to her on the morrow and warn her that the next time you shall not miss,
should she continue to be difficult.”

“Right.” The henchman’s brow furrowed. “I mean, we ain’t
actually going to kill His Grace?”

Mr. Lightfoot looked annoyed. “Of course not, you fool.
It’s a bluff.”

“Oh.” He scratched the back of his neck, then his backside,
trying to wrap his mind around Mr. Lightfoot’s elaborate scheme. It didn’t make
a bit of sense to him, but then again, he’d never been terribly clever at
puzzles.

Mr. Lightfoot stopped pacing and crossed his arms over his
girth. “And if she doesn’t prove amenable, we’ll move on to our next plan.
She’ll have no choice but to wed me then.”

“Right,” Mr. Weeks said, clearing his throat, full of
doubts now. He’d known Miss Astrid for years and years, and it was hard to
imagine her wed to anyone, especially Mr. Lightfoot. But as Mr. Lightfoot
assured him, she needed a husband. Mr. Weeks couldn’t agree more. Someone
needed to take the wench in hand, for all she was a generous manager. She was a
woman, and ought to know her place. Mr. Lightfoot, of all the men in the
county, seemed quite up to the job. Yet Mr. Weeks wondered, not for the first
time, whether his new employer would be kind. He didn’t like the idea of
handing Miss Astrid over to a villain.

“Remember,” Mr. Lightfoot said in a conciliatory voice,
seeing his henchman’s doubts. “We’re doing this for her own good. She’ll be
rich and well-treated by me.”

“Right,” Mr. Weeks said, not feeling very assured. “For her
own good.”

“And don’t forget your own family, Mr. Weeks. Four wee
ones, and another on the way. When the Duke tosses you out, you’ll find no
better work than with my company.”

“Right,” he said, more firmly now, and feeling quite
assured he was doing the right thing in light of this reminder.

“Good man. That will be all.”

Charlie Weeks nodded, put his crumbled hat back into place,
and left his new employer, resolved to the work ahead, whether he liked it or
not.

Mr. Lightfoot returned to sit behind his desk and
considered what he had just learned. Miss Honeywell wouldn’t dare refuse him
now, he thought grimly. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of
single malt he kept for special occasions and poured himself a hefty dose into
a tumbler. He sat back and sipped the amber liquid, feeling quite satisfied
with himself.

Miss Honeywell would be his wife in a matter of days, one
way or another. He almost hoped she would refuse him tomorrow, just so he would
have the pleasure of seeing the look on her face when he had her trussed and
gagged and on her way to Gretna Green the day after that. He loved a woman with
a bit of fight in her. And, oh, how she would fight him!

Mr. Lightfoot chuckled into his whiskey, aroused by the mere
thought of that strumpet writhing beneath him. He could hardly wait for his
wedding night.

He chuckled again and toasted himself. “Who’s to say I have
to wait?” he muttered. He’d have her long before they reached Scotland. Just to
show her who her lord and master was. That proud bitch had toyed with him for
too long, and it was about time she got what was coming to her.

As he finished his drink and poured himself another, the
sun began to set outside, casting the room into strange shadows. And just in
case the heavens had not made their point, the clear skies began to darken and
the sound of thunder rolled in the distance.

Miss Alice Honeywell would have known exactly what these
signs portended. Indeed, they would have given even the recently departed Mr. Weeks,
possessed of a wife and four and a half babes, significant cause for concern.

IN WHICH
MISS HONEYWELL HOSTS A DINNERPARTY

ASTRID
DECIDED to wear her best frock to the evening’s entertainments not out of any
misplaced notions of pleasing her aunt, but rather because she was not going to
give the old bag the satisfaction of calling her out for not dressing for the
occasion.

The occasion being the chance for Aunt Emily and Davina to lick
the Duke’s bootheels.

Furthermore, she did not want her aunt to think she could
not play the part of a genteel hostess when she put her mind to it. She was
going to be the perfect lady tonight. Contrary to what Aunt Emily might think,
Astrid was not raised in a barn.

In a brewery, maybe, but not a barn.

And if she wished to look her best partly because she knew
Davina was going to look
her
best,
then that was her feminine prerogative. Not that she had anything to worry
about. Davina would doubtless show up in some awful bowed concoction Aunt Emily
chose for the poor, vicious creature.

And not that Astrid cared what certain persons of the male
persuasion might think, either. That was
not
why she was wearing her best dress.

Astrid’s best dress was a simple round gown made of striped
green silk taffeta. One of Alice’s cast-offs that had been hemmed at the ankles
and let out at the bust. It was not in the first height of fashion, but neither
was it too dated. It had capped sleeves and a bit of fichu peeking out of the
bodice. The color and cut suited Astrid, and together with her mother’s pearls
and a pair of Alice’s gloves, she looked quite elegant indeed. Flora had even
managed to tame the riot of her hair into some semblance of order on top of her
head, only a few sprigs escaping their pins and curling over her neck.

She would never be a beauty like Alice, what with her
unfortunate eyes. And hair and freckles and height. But she had never aspired
to beauty.

And in the candlelight, no one could remark upon her eyes
anyway.

Alice accompanied her downstairs, and they greeted their
Aunt and cousins at the door, followed by the vicar, who nearly fell over
himself in his haste to kiss Astrid’s hand and stutter out his greeting. “M-may
I say, Miss H-H-Honeywell, w-what an h-h-honor it is to be invited to d-d-dinner
tonight. Simply an h-honor, and a d-d-delight. Y-you look smashing. Oh, dear,
can I say that?”

The vicar was a stutterer. It made Sunday mornings a true
test of Christian fortitude.

“Of course you may, Mr. Fawkes. It was my intent to look
smashing,” she said, as she led the party into the drawing room.

Aunt Anabel, who was dozing by the fire, perked up a bit
and lifted her cane. When she saw Lady Emily, her eyes widened in alarm, and she
promptly fell back into a suspiciously deep sleep.

Lady Emily arranged herself in the biggest chair in the
room. She made Davina sit on the settee next to her and would not allow Mr.
Robert Benwick, Wesley’s insufferable younger brother, to take the spot next to
his sister. Robert muttered something under his breath and crossed to the
decanter. He swallowed his first port of the evening in one gulp.

Astrid sat next to Davina, just to make her aunt scowl. She
knew her aunt was attempting to manage things so Montford would have to take up
the seat when he arrived, and though she didn’t like the Duke, she liked giving
her aunt any sort of satisfaction even less.

She smiled unpleasantly at her aunt and turned to her
cousin. She only just refrained from shielding her eyeballs against the glare
cast off Davina’s gown. It was hideous, just as she had expected, done up in
some sort of color that hovered between green and purple, and embellished quite
liberally with bows. Bows on her shoulders, bows on her bosom. Bows encircling
her waist and hem.

“How lovely you look tonight, Davina,” she said. “Is that a
new gown?”

Davina smoothed her hands over one of the bows. “It is. I
had it made in London. It’s all the rage.”

Astrid was once more thankful she had never had the honor
of visiting the city. “That color is very … unique.”

“Puce is quite fashionable this Season. Not that
you
would know.”

“Of course not. You are so very lucky to be so fashionable.
That gown is quite … singular. Only you could wear something so … utterly one
of a kind.”

Davina’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected she was being
insulted in some way – which she was – but was uncertain quite how.

“So where is he?” Aunt Emily demanded.

“Where is who, Aunt?”

“You know very well.”

The gentlemen fled
en
masse
to the sideboard at Aunt Emily’s tone.

“You mean His Grace. I do not know what could be keeping him.
Shall I check the garderobes?” she retorted breezily.

Aunt Emily glared at her.

She smiled back. “He is no doubt wishing to make a grand
entrance. You know how Dukes are.”

Davina sighed dreamily next to her, as if she
wished
she knew how Dukes were.

After a few minutes with no sign of the Duke, Aunt Emily
began to fidget. “He’s lost. You should really keep a proper butler, Astrid.
His Grace is not used to having to enter a room unannounced. Nor am I,” she
added.

At that moment, the door pushed open, and Montford strode
into the room, groomed and polished to a high gloss. He wore an evening suit
and waistcost of unrelieved black, his cravat of snowy white linen spilling
gracefully over his collar and pinned with a large black opal. Save for the
small cut above his right eye, he looked even more imposing than he had the
first time Astrid had seen him.

Everyone rose to their feet simultaneously, and dropped
into low bows and curtsies. Even Astrid found herself following her aunt’s lead.

As she rose to her full height, she found the Duke’s dry
gaze settled on her.

Then he came to her side and did the most surprising thing.
He took her hand in his own and kissed her fingertips. “Miss Honeywell, you
look a vision.”

She did not blush. She was too startled to do that. “Thank
you, Your Grace. So do you.”

He arched his brow as if to say, touché, and turned towards
the other ladies.

Aunt Emily simpered – actually simpered! –
under Montford’s scrutiny. “Your Grace, how nice of you to join us at our
little family gathering. We were not properly introduced before …”

“You are Lady Emily. I remember from the gardens,” he said,
giving her a perfunctory bow.

Aunt Emily looked chagrined.

The Duke turned to Davina and did a double take when he saw
her gown. “You must be Miss Davina Benwick,” he said unenthusiastically. He
bowed shortly again, and strode to Alice’s side and took up her hand. He kissed
it as well. “You look stunning, Miss Alice. An absolute picture.”

“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” Alice said haltingly. She threw
Astrid a veiled look of satisfaction.

Aunt Emily’s face was red from the obvious snub. Davina
looked as if she wanted to hide behind her bows. For once, Astrid was immensely
pleased with Montford’s behavior.

“Montford,” Sir Wesley called from the sideboard. “Care for
a tipple?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Honeywell. I rarely indulge,” he said,
moving over to Aunt Anabel.

All the guests, who had not been informed of his recent
adoption, looked puzzled by Montford’s address to Sir Wesley. Sir Wesley
flushed and busied himself with pouring his port.

Unaware of the ripple he’d caused – or perhaps very
aware, Astrid couldn’t be sure which – the Duke reached Aunt Anabel’s
side. The old woman roused herself long enough to recognize her attacker and waved
her cane in his direction. “Young man, if you make love to
my
hand, I’ll thwack you with my cane. Now, make yourself useful
and fetch me a sherry.”

Aunt Emily groaned.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said smoothly, changing his
direction and walking towards the decanter. He fetched a sherry from a visibly
nervous Sir Wesley and returned to Aunt Anabel’s side. After handing her the
glass, he took the seat beside her.

Having recovered from the Duke’s initial slight, Aunt Emily
resumed her seat with stiff dignity. She shot Astrid a quelling look, as if it
were somehow her fault the Duke preferred Aunt Anabel’s company to Davina’s.

Finally before they could grow any more uncomfortable
– except for the Duke, who was looking quite satisfied with himself, and
Aunt Anabel, who wouldn’t care if she was sitting next to the devil himself
– Flora came in and announced dinner.

The Duke offered Aunt Emily his arm, since she was the highest-ranking
female, and Aunt Emily took it with less enthusiasm than she had displayed
earlier in orchestrating this party. She had been caught off guard by the
Duke’s formidable intractability and was doubtless reconfiguring her campaign.
The rest followed behind in awkward silence, Astrid on the arm of Robert, who
clutched his port in his other hand and muttered something about missing
another engagement for “this bloody farce”.

When they were all seated, Aunt Emily glanced first at her
daughter, looking satisfied by her placement next to the Duke. When she saw
Alice, however, on the Duke’s left, her eyes narrowed. They narrowed even
further at the two empty settings near the end.

“You have laid the table for too many, Astrid.”

Astrid smiled. “No, I haven’t. I told Antonia and Ardyce
they could join us. It is so rare you join us at Rylestone Hall that they
wanted to be in attendance. They are so
fond
of you, Aunt.”

Aunt Emily clutched the side of the table and shut her eyes
in silent prayer.

On cue, the two children in question appeared at the door,
looking deceptively innocent in their dresses. They bobbed curtsies to their
aunt and the Duke and made their way to their seats. Everyone seemed relieved
when they were seated without incident.

The first course came out, a
pot-au-feu
, as her Aunt called it. Astrid called it soup, but not
the sort of soup they normally enjoyed at the Hall. It was green, brothy and
very French.

“I have loaned my French chef, Monsieur Roualt, to my
cousins, Your Grace,” Lady Emily began when the course was laid out, seeing
that Davina was having no luck starting a conversation with her partner.

“How kind of you,” the Duke murmured.

Astrid saw Lady Emily surreptitiously nudge her daughter
under the table. Davina jumped and cleared her throat. “Do you have a French
chef, Your Grace?”

The Duke, who was in the middle of his first taste of soup,
paused and lowered his spoon. He turned to Davina. “I do.”

“He must be an excellent chef. Has he any particular
specialties?”

“Ham sandwiches and meat pies,” he said flatly.

Astrid nearly blew her soup out of her nose.

“Oh!” Davina said, startled. “How … er, unusual in a French
chef. I had the pleasure of attending many elegant tables when I was in London
these past months.”

“My daughter made her debut last Season,” Lady Emily
explained.

The Duke returned to his soup.

“I am surprised we did not cross paths at the Devonshire
Ball last month,” Lady Emily continued to name-drop, undeterred.

“I was not in attendance. I see very little of the Season,”
he said shortly.

Davina looked crestfallen.

“His Grace is active in Lords, my dear. He hasn’t the time
for balls,” Wesley chimed in helpfully.

“No, I simply do not like balls. Or routs. Or parties in
general,” the Duke said. “I find society terribly dull.”

Davina looked gutted.

Astrid smiled into her
pot-au-feu
.

Lady Emily stared at the Duke through pursed lips,
immensely displeased by his contrariness.

The vicar, seated across from the Duke, found courage
enough to break the tense silence that had descended over the party. He leaned
forward into his soup bowl. “Such an h-honor, Y-your Grace. It really is
serendipitous, q-quite serendipitous indeed, for I was just remarking to m-m-my
Lady Emily how p-p-pleasant it is to h-have someone of y-y-y-your exalted
station in our little h-hamlet. As you are our landlord, m-m-m-may I welcome
you at church services tomorrow m-m-myself.”

The Duke set aside his spoon and smiled mildly at the
vicar. “Thank you, no. I don’t attend services as a general rule.”

Astrid exchanged knowing glances with Alice. This just kept
getting better and better.

Mr. Fawkes blinked behind his spectacles. “Oh, oh, that is…”

“I am indifferent on matters of religion,” the Duke
announced to the table, as if daring anyone to contradict him.

“I-i-indifferent? Why, h-how …” Mr. Fawkes blanched at the
Duke’s dour expression. “H-how
interesting
.”

“Surely, Your Grace, that is not so,” Aunt Emily said after
a moment from the head of the table with a little laugh of disbelief.

The Duke, having resumed holding his spoon, set it down
once more and turned towards Lady Emily. “What isn’t so?” he asked evenly.

“Why, your being indifferent. Surely you jest.”

“I rarely jest.” He turned to Astrid. “Miss Honeywell, am I
the jesting sort?”

She smiled at him. “You are the least amusing man of my
acquaintance.”

He nodded as if receiving a compliment and took up his
spoon.

Aunt Emily continued to watch the Duke with a mixture of
awe for his station and disgust for his lack of faith. Despite being the most
uncharitable person of Astrid’s acquaintance, Aunt Emily was a devout church
attendee.

Aunt Emily laughed. “But how could someone of your station
be indifferent? What sort of public example do you set? And with all that you
have been blessed with…”

The Duke’s stare intensified, and Astrid was enough
acquainted with him to know he was growing very agitated. “I? Blessed?” He
laughed without humor. “But surely, madam, you do not consider material wealth
to be a sign of God’s grace? Christ was scripted as a pauper, was he not,
vicar?”