Page 42 of Dukes for Dessert

The home itself hailed from the eighteenth century, built in the French style, kept well by the current landlord, if he rarely visited it. Mr. Fleming’s father had purchased it about forty years ago when the line of the family who’d originally owned it died out. The Flemings, senior and junior, had spent much to restore and modernize the estate.

So had said the stationmaster, who regarded the house and grounds with much pride. The master wasn’t a bad sort, he said, even if he preferred Town living to country.

“Glorious.” Uncle Lucas gazed about in admiration as they trudged through a side gate from the lane to a vast front garden. “I had no idea David lived in such splendor.”

A park with straight walks through greenery spread before them, spring bulb flowers emerging in symmetrical beds. Daffodils, tulips, and irises brushed bright yellow, orange, red, and purple through the green. The walks were pressed clay, stripes of burnt orange leading through the flowering splendor.

The house, in the style of a French chateau, was long and low, with three stories in its center wing, the top floor studded with dormer windows in a mansard roof. Two single-story wings flanked the main one, and a shallow flight of steps rose to a front terrace and a double-door entry.

Though the house was formal, Sophie found it inviting. Its soft golden stone shone in the afternoon sunshine, and French windows lined the ground floor. The entire scene suggested ladies and gentlemen moving casually about, strolling onto the terrace to enjoy a view of the garden, or back inside to warmth and a cup of hot tea.

“Have you never visited?” Sophie asked as she and Uncle Lucas made their leisurely way through the garden.

“Never had call to. I’m so pleased he’s invited us now.”

Sophie halted. Uncle walked onward for several yards before he realized she’d stopped, and glanced back in surprise.

“I did not realize you thought Mr. Fleming had invited us,” Sophie said awkwardly. “He did not.”

“No?” Uncle Lucas gazed across the garden as though expecting David to pop up from behind a box hedge and explain. “Then why have we come?”

Sophie’s face went hot. “Lady Eleanor arranged it. I asked her to.”

Uncle frowned in perplexity. “I am not certain I understand. Why not simply ask David to show you his house? It is open every third Thursday to the world, anyway.”

“Because …” Sophie was no longer certain, and she fumbled for an explanation. “He might have said no, and I wanted … I wanted to see where he comes from. Learn more about him.”

Uncle studied her, understanding in his eyes. “My dear, the man you see with us in Shropshire is Mr. Fleming. He does not change when he moves from place to place. I admit that some people do, but David has never been duplicitous. At least, not to his friends.”

Sophie drew a breath, enjoying the clean air scented with flowers. “I am pleased to hear it, but … I suppose I wish to understand him. He is a puzzling man.”

“True, but we did not have to change trains three times and ride halfway across England so you can understand him. But, as we are here, we might as well make the best of it. Come along.” He lifted the valise, which he had rested on the path while he spoke, and trudged toward the front door.

Sophie fell into step with him and studied the house as they approached it. “It is not where I imagined he’d live.”

“His father purchased the estate.” Uncle Lucas spoke breathily as they walked. “He was even more decadent than David—David learned his feigned lazy manner from him. David’s father bought it for David’s mother, but she died when David was quite young. His father then began to live a most extravagant and lavish lifestyle, collecting expensive artworks and hosting gatherings that became famous, if not infamous. Some said, uncharitably, that he celebrated his wife’s death, but from what David has told me, the man was grieving. Trying to run away from his pain. He died falling from a racehorse in a steeplechase, leaving David alone as a very young man and quite rich.”

Sophie’s steps slowed as she listened. David must have grown up watching his father cover his deep feelings with self-indulgence and dissipation. This explained some of David’s sardonic manner, the pain that lingered in his eyes. His father must not have known what to do with a small boy except teach him to be as extravagant as he was.

Uncle Lucas had already mounted the steps to the front door, and Sophie hurried to catch up.

“Perhaps we should not,” she said quickly. “We are intruding. I am satisfying my own curiosity, is all.”

“That is true.” Uncle sounded cheerful. “But I am curious myself, and I do not wish to trudge the two miles back to the village. The house is here, David has told me it has a caretaker, we are his friends, and they at least might let us sit down for a few minutes.”

Sophie could not argue with his logic. The spring day had turned warm and a rest would be welcome.

The door opened when Uncle rang the bell, revealing a tall footman who looked down his haughty nose at the dusty travelers.

“Good afternoon,” Uncle said brightly. “I am Dr. Pierson, and this is my niece. We are great friends of Mr. Fleming.” Uncle beamed at the footman who, to Sophie’s surprise, softened.

“Ah, yes. Her Grace of Kilmorgan sent word. Please enter, sir. Madam.”

Sophie prepared to follow her uncle inside when hoofbeats sounded behind them.

Up the side path, well out of the way of the more formal garden, galloped a horse and rider. The horse halted, and the rider, dressed in a sleek black suit complete with top hat, slid from the saddle, tossing reins to a groom who’d materialized to meet them.

The rider strode toward the house, head down, paying no attention to the visitors. He hopped over the railing onto the terrace without bothering with stairs, still not noticing his guests until he found them blocking the front door.