The Duke's Holiday (7 page)

“He’s a baron.” Hiram’s brows wiggled comically.

“An insolvent, silly baron with a fishwife of a mother
– ”

“Your
aunt
–”

“Who hates me,” she groaned. In truth she was hardly
surprised by Hiram’s suggestion. Marriage to her cousin would be an easy
solution to most of her problems, for at least then she and the girls would not
be homeless, if it came to being tossed out of Rylestone. And they could still
live nearby, at Benwick Grange.

 
But it was
quite impossible.

“Besides which, Alice is in love with him,” she murmured.

Hiram sighed. “There is that. It would be helpful if the
lad figured that one out and started courting the correct lass.”

“He’s never been the brightest half penny, has he?”

Hiram chuckled. They sat in companionable silence while
Hiram tapped the end of his pipe and loaded it with fresh tobacco.

“Well, and what’s the third choice?” she demanded.

“Yer auntie.”

“Lady Emily?” she sniffed. Wesley’s odious mother. Pompous,
arrogant windbag who had always despised her sister’s family.

“She has a responsibility to ye, whether she likes it or
not. Ye should go to her. Yer a lady, Astrid, and so are yer sisters. The
missus and I would take ye all in if it come to that, but I think ye and I both
know that ain’t what best.”

“I’m not a lady,” she argued, though, ironically, it was
the exact opposite of what she had argued last night. “I mean … you know what I
mean.”

Hiram shook his head. “Ye’re educated, lass, and got blue
in yer veins. Ye know that means something, much ye try and pretend ye’re one
of us.”

“But I am one of you!” she cried.

Hiram just stared at her with a faintly wistful expression
and puffed on his pipe. “An idealist, just like yer da.”

“Hardly,” she snorted.

He leaned forward, and his countenance hardened. He took
his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at her. “Yer da was allowed his funny
ways because of his last name, lass. Don’t think it’s any different with you.
The way ye run the business, the way ye act and dress and spout your opinions.
The lads listen to ye and put up with yer ways because ye’re a Honeywell, and
the last of the lot at that. If ye weren’t, do ye know what ye’d be called?”

“A common tart, I suppose,” she retorted.

Hiram’s brow darkened. “Nay, worse than that,” he said in a
low voice. “And so ye see ye ain’t one of us and never will be. You’ll go to
Lady Emily, and have her do right by ye, find some fine gentleman for you and
yer sisters to marry. And don’t tell me she won’t, if only to get rid of the
lot of ye. I think she’d wrestle the moon if it meant keeping ye from marrying
her son.”

She stood up, quite at the end of her tether. “Thank you
very much for ruining my morning.”

Hiram inclined his head as if accepting a compliment.

“I see you’re going to be no help.”

“I’ll always help ye lass, but only if ye start helping
yerself.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to do,” she bit off in
exasperation.

She scowled at him for a moment longer, turned on her heel,
and left the room.

“Please refrain from murdering the Duke, lass,” Hiram
called. “I wouldn’t want to see ye hanged.”

“They’re more likely to throw me a parade,” she retorted.

“I can’t wait to meet him. Oh, and lass?”

“What?”

“If ye see that weasel Roddy around abouts, send him here,
won’t ye?”

“Certainly.”

Astrid stalked out of the granary and began tearing down
the path leading back to the Hall, fuming. Of course, he had the good sense to
give her the dose of cold, hard reality that she needed, but she did not want
to listen to him. She did not want to acknowledge that things were so hopeless.
That she must face the fact – fact?
Fact
?
– that she was going to lose Rylestone Hall. That she was going to have
to give up the reins of the estate, the farm, the brewery. It was just too
horrifying to accept.

Marriage? To Wesley? Unconscionable. And the mere thought
of turning to Aunt Emily for anything, even a table scrap, left her innards in
knots.

But Hiram was, of course, right. He was always right. The
Honeywells were gentry, and no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise,
the country they lived in was defined by class hierarchies.

She had Antonia and Ardyce to think of. And even Alice, if
Wesley didn’t come to his senses and realize he was in love with the girl.

What were they going
to do?

She picked up a stick alongside the path and began
thwacking the weeds off to the sides in angry, bitter strokes.

At least Hiram had left unspoken the other alternative that
was even more unpalatable, which was marriage to Mr. Lightfoot. He had
proposed, and she had rejected him now,
twice
.
She was certain he had written to the Duke in retaliation for her continued
stubbornness. Mr. Lightfoot couldn’t grasp how she could possibly refuse his
suit.

Aside from the fact that she loathed him.

Aside from the fact that he had cheated her father in order
to start his company.

Aside from the fact that he wanted to marry her only
because of some vendetta he still carried against her family. Either that or he
was just insane, as Astrid had long suspected.

Mr. Lightfoot assumed because he was rich that she would
follow along with his schemes. He was rather like the Duke in that regard.

Although where Mr. Lightfoot was portly and starting to go
bald, the Duke of Montford was as fit as they came and possessed of a splendid
head of hair that was the precise color of chestnuts bathed in an early morning
dew …

Astrid stumbled to a stop and stomped her foot on the
ground.

She would
not
compare Montford’s hair to chestnuts. Or his eyes to stormy seas.

And she would
not
imagine any part of his anatomy covered in early morning dew.

She slapped the stick as hard as she could against an old
oak tree, and the stick shattered.

“Psst. Pssssst!”

She spun around, trying to locate the sound.

“Miss Astrid!” came an anxious whisper from behind a
neighboring beech tree.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

A head poked around the tree tentatively, reminding Astrid
of a turtle. Stevenage – or Roddy, as he was called now, pushed up his
bent spectacles on his nose and peered up and down the path.

“It’s me, Roddy. Is … er …
he’s
not with you, is he?”

“Who, His Bloody Grace? No.”

Roddy winced, as if afraid her colorful appellation was in
danger of being overheard by the despot in question.

“Mr. McConnell is looking for you,” she said.

“I was on my way. Just wanted to avoid … well, running into
him
.”

“You’ll have to face him some time, Roddy, as you still
technically work for him.”

Roddy looked abashed and nervous, and Astrid sighed in
resignation. It had taken the Duke all of twelve hours to undo the past two
weeks’ worth of progress with Roderick Stevenage. The poor man had been wound
up tighter than an e string on a violin right before it snapped when he’d first
arrived at Rylestone. He’d talked exclusively about crazy things like terms of
contract and property laws and inventories, made lists ten pages long, and
jumped every time he saw Aunt Anabel’s wig. He’d been distraught when all the laborious
reports he sent to the Duke received no response and began to accuse them of
all manner of perfidy (which, of course, was quite accurate).

After Ant and Art ruined most of the man’s extremely morose
wardrobe by cutting them up to use as costumes in their production of
Agamemnon
, Astrid thought the man was
going to spontaneously combust. But the men down at the brewery forced some
brew down his throat, Flora took a shine to him, and Roddy had begun to emerge,
shocking them all.

Roddy liked ale. Roddy
loved
Flora. Roddy, in fact, planned on never returning to London or his employer.

“I know,” Roddy replied bleakly. “I just can’t believe His
Grace has come here.”

“Can you not?”

Roddy gave her a dry look. “I know the Duke better than
most. He despises traveling. So that means he must be
extremely
put out at your family to have made the journey.” His
face paled. “Oh, and
me.
He must be
put out at
me
!”

“I think he thought we had murdered you, which is why he
came.”

“Murdered …” Roddy looked baffled.

She decided to enlighten the poor man. “Roddy, you must
know I intercepted every report you sent to the Duke, and every letter he wrote
to you. He must have been very worried not to hear from you.”

The Stevenage of a week ago would have keeled over at this
news, but the Roddy of the present moment looked startled for a moment before
allowing a slow, appreciative grin to spread across his face. “I guess I must
have known it all along, Miss Astrid. You’re a canny piece of work.”

She returned his grin. “Thank you, Mr. Stevenage. But after
yesterday, I would have to agree that he is now officially put out with you.
But don’t worry, we won’t let him hurt you.”

Roddy looked despondent. “Oh, he’d not hurt me. I mean, he
would not physically harm me, he’s not like that.”

“That’s good to know.”

“But to see the disappointment on his face, the disapproval
… oh, Miss Astrid! Did I tell you about the time His Grace made a roomful of
ladies weep by just looking at them? He is quite the master of the cutting
look.”

“It is only if you care what he thinks that such looks
could affect you.”

Roddy sighed miserably, his shoulders sagging. “That’s just
it, Miss Astrid, I do care what he thinks.”

“What? Still? But you are so happy here, Roddy. You’re not
thinking of returning?” Meaning,
you
aren’t thinking of turning traitor on us now, are you
?

“Of course not. Flora and I … well …” Roddy cleared his
throat and blushed, suddenly bashful. “Well, quite frankly, Flora’s the best
thing that’s ever happened to me. That and coming here. It’s like … I don’t
know. For the first time in my life I am actually living. And it feels
wonderful. Oh, I’d not go back, Miss Astrid, not for all the tea in China.” His
expression grew wistful. “But I can’t help but feeling … Miss Astrid, I’ve
known the Duke since he was in leading strings. My father was his father’s
man-of-affairs, and my grandfather was his grandfather’s man-of-affairs …”

“Family loyalty. I understand.”

Roddy shook his head. “No, it’s more than that.” Roddy
looked on the verge of saying more, but then seemed to think better of it.
“Anyway, I suppose my business with His Grace is my business, and I shall have
to face up to it eventually. I’ll not burden you with it.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“I don’t know what
you’re
going to do.”

“Neither do I, but something shall come to me. Look how
well I handled you.”

Roddy chuckled at this then grew sober, more sober than
she’d seen him in a week. “Don’t think you can do the same with Montford. You
thought
I
was a stuffed shirt.” He
exhaled deeply. “His Grace is the most remote man to walk the earth.”

This struck a chord in Astrid. Not so much what Roddy had
said – she had garnered as much from two seconds of the Duke’s frosty
company – but the way he had said it, with such deep, nearly tender
despair. She realized in that moment that Roddy loved the Duke. Something she
would have not thought humanly possible for anyone. She had thought Roddy
feared the Duke, held him in awe, but she would have never guessed the truth.

“And it’s not his fault,” Roddy continued, reading her
thoughts. “The way he is … well, you’ll think me ridiculous for saying it, but
he deserves our pity.”

She snorted. “Pity! What? By all accounts he is the
richest, most powerful man in the kingdom. Pity him indeed.”

“He did not choose to be who he is, you know. He was but
four when he inherited the title after the tragedy.”

Astrid did
not
want to be interested in Roddy’s revelations, but she was. Very interested.
“What tragedy?” she couldn’t help but prompt.

“Why, the accident that took his parents’ lives. A carriage
accident.” Roddy shivered. “Very gruesome. Killed everyone except for His
Grace. They were on their way northward to a summer estate in Scotland. No one
found them for two days. My father was one of the party that came upon the wreckage.
He found the child in …” Roddy trailed off, his eyes unfocusing, his features
bunching up into a grimace of revulsion. After a long pause, he seemed to come
back to himself. He shrugged his shoulders as if attempting to dislodge an
unwelcome memory. “Well, suffice to say the boy was in very bad condition. We
all thought he would go the way of his parents, and that it wouldn’t have been
such a bad thing in the end, if you know what I mean.”

Astrid didn’t know what he meant at all, but the tale had
left a hollow feeling in her gut. Clearly, the accident had been an unspeakable
horror, and for the child to have been left alive on his own for two days … with
the corpses of his parents…

Astrid shivered, despite the morning’s unseasonable warmth.

Roddy looked suddenly thoughtful, as if he’d just realized
something. “I suppose that is why he doesn’t like to travel,” he said, more to
himself than her.

“Well, yes, I suppose that would do it,” she murmured.

“But it’s a fine thing he survived, though I wouldn’t wish
his upbringing on my worst enemy. Not that he
had
an upbringing. He was Montford before he could read, and he’s
been Montford ever since. And he’ll crush you, Miss Astrid, if you try to play
fast and loose with him.”

Astrid bristled, coming back to her senses. “I’ve already
done so. He doesn’t frighten me.”