Page 18 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

He was very defensive now. “She heard the shot, of course. I hope you aren’t about to suggest she had anything to do with it, because if you are, you don’t know her.

She is a gentle soul who would never harm any living creature.

She doesn’t have it in her to have killed her husband, despite what he put her through.

And if you’ve been listening to the rumors, then you should know them for what they are.

Poppycock. Pure gossip-mongering. An unexpected death like that brings out all the worst in people.

They are more than glad to speculate and spread untrue allegations, particularly about their betters.

They should be locked up for doing so.” His voice had risen throughout his speech and now he clamped his lips together as though indicating that was the end of this line of conversation.

Richard ignored his angry expression. Now they were finally getting somewhere.

Why was he not surprised? That Marcus could ever have made a loving husband was an impossibility.

And Philip had been all too quick to jump to Isabella’s defense when he’d not even suggested Isabella might have played any part in her husband’s death.

Philip was clearly well aware of the rumors and might even suspect they held a grain of truth.

Could that be what he was hiding, or was it something else entirely?

“You said ‘what he put her through’? What do you mean by that?” As if he couldn’t hazard a guess.

Philip pressed his lips together even more firmly and spoke through gritted teeth, glaring down at his clasped hands. “I’ve said enough. You will have to speak to the duchess herself if you wish to know more. And Lady Dora. It’s not my place to talk about that.”

Richard sighed. “You forget. I grew up with Marcus. I know what he was capable of.”

Philip’s eyes rose. They were the gray of a stormy day, and full of anguish. “As do I.”

Good God. Had he witnessed what Marcus had probably done to Isabella? To Dora as well? The cruelties, the bullying, and undoubtedly the violence. The treatment which he, Richard, had blithely abandoned Dora to. Guilt welled up in his heart.

Could Philip’s story be taken as evidence that Isabella was innocent?

Not that Richard saw himself as any kind of a sleuth, but Philip might well be classed as biased in Isabella and Dora’s favor.

Was he as in love with Dora as she was with him?

The expression on his face when he’d said her name suggested he was.

And if so, why had he done nothing to save her from Marcus’s cruelty?

“I will do as you suggest and address my questions to the duchess,” Richard said, rising from his seat.

“But not today. I had a long ride yesterday and another today. I think what I require is a bath, or the ladies will be complaining that I smell, which I undoubtedly do. I shall fetch my manservant in from the stableyard, and he can organize that for me.”

Philip’s face brightened at what must be a point he could help with.

“If you require a valet, Mr. Hopkins, His Grace’s man, has remained here.

He was ever hopeful of a living heir being discovered who would need his services.

” He tapped his fingers on the blotter on his desk.

“We were all told you’d left the castle many years ago to join the army.

I presume you must have taken some finding, as at first the search was carried out amongst the records of deceased officers, hoping to locate someone who was, in turn, your heir.

Mr. Hopkins approached me this morning to enquire whether you would require the services of a valet.

He’s been acting as footman, a little unwillingly as he regards it as a step down, since the duke’s death. ”

Richard nodded. “You may inform him that I have brought my own man with me, whom I am well used to, and who is more than capable of performing a valet’s duties.

” Although this might be a slight exaggeration of Baxter’s mixture of talents.

The thought of being looked after by a man who had served Marcus sent a chill to Richard’s stomach.

He didn’t want anything that had been Marcus’s, if he could help it.

It was bad enough having to inherit his house and fortune.

He gave himself a shake, in the hopes of dispelling the chill. It didn’t work.

“I’ll go out now and retrieve Baxter from the stableyard myself, and at the same time he can call into the kitchen and ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, you said, to send the housemaids to bring hot water to my room for a bath.

” He paused, with a short laugh. “Although this reminds me that I have no idea where I am to sleep.” He paused again, fixing Philip with a quizzical gaze.

“Do I take it I will be accommodated in the room my uncle used to occupy when I was a boy?”

This foxed the still-uneasy Philip. “His Grace slept in the largest bedroom in the west wing. If that is the one his predecessor, the sixth duke, was accustomed to using, then I would say yes, that should be your room now, unless you require a change. I’m afraid I wasn’t here when the sixth duke was still living. ”

“Sounds correct to me,” Richard said, heading towards the door, biting down the feeling of trepidation at having to sleep in Marcus’s bed. “I’ll go up there after I’ve found Baxter.” He paused. “One other thing. Where is Her Grace’s room located? It might be awkward if it adjoins my own.”

Philip’s face gave nothing away. “Her Grace sleeps in the east wing.”

Mulling over that interesting piece of information, as it showed Isabella slept as far away from the ducal apartments as she could get, Richard departed in search of his new quarters.

He was pleased to find nineteen years’ absence had not dimmed his memory of the house, and he found his way with no problem back to the hall and up the stairs to the galleried landing.

With a brief glance in the direction of the east wing, where Isabella might be right now, he headed into the corridor that led to the west wing, and the room he’d never once been in as a boy.

His uncle’s, then his cousin’s, and now his room.

He halted outside the door, for a moment back to being the frightened little boy who’d arrived at Stourbridge all those years ago.

Or even the rebellious, angry youth who’d packed his bags and taken off with nothing in his head except escaping the house that had felt like his prison.

Then he turned the handle and let himself in.

The ostentatiously decorated room before him was dominated by an enormous four-poster bed with opulent covers and hangings, like something out of a gothic novel. Not that he was all that familiar with gothic novels, but he did possess an imagination.

Two long windows proved to open onto a vista of the parkland, revealing in the distance a folly in the style of a Greek temple.

A folly he and Dora had played in as children and pretended was Camelot.

There were going to be good memories to stumble on here, as well as the bad ones.

When Marcus had gone away to school at thirteen, he and Dora’s lives had been transformed. Until the holidays, of course.

Richard stood at the window in silence for a few minutes, staring out at the spread of meadows and woodland, at the cedars his great-grandfather had planted, at the glimmer of the ornamental lake in the distance near the temple.

The lake Marcus had tried to drown him in.

Underfoot, the Persian rug felt thick and soft, but he felt no guilt at walking on it in his dirty boots.

With a wry grin, he went to the bed and threw himself down on it, legs outstretched.

Marcus’s bed. His bed now. Marcus was gone and would never be coming back. All of this was now his.

A tap on the door preceded its opening to reveal Baxter carrying a tin bath. Behind him followed three young maids, each carrying a couple of buckets of hot water. “Here we are, Major,” Baxter said with a conspiratorial grin.

Richard got up. “Ah, that was quick. Thank you all very much.”

Baxter set down the bath by the empty fireplace and the maids, having also set down their buckets, bobbed nervous curtsies to their new lord and master, eyes round as saucers and no doubt bubbling over with curiosity.

Richard gave them a once over. None could have been more than twenty, and all were dressed in gray with starched white aprons and mob caps. But they all had something else in common. They were afraid. Of him.

That Marcus had practiced a reign of terror on him as a boy was without a doubt true, but that he’d never been allowed by his strict father to be rude or cruel to the servants was also true.

Perhaps achieving his inheritance had freed him to give vent to his true nature at last. Each girl kept her eyes lowered as though afraid to look him in the eye.

This had to stop.

Richard sat down again on the edge of the bed and smiled in his most friendly manner.

“I much appreciate you carrying those heavy buckets up the stairs for me, girls. I intend to be a good master to all my servants and to reward good service as it deserves.” One of them dared a peek at him.

“As a consequence, I would like to know all your names. No doubt you’ve already made the acquaintance of my trusty manservant, Albert Baxter.

” He grinned. “Do not be taken in by his charms for he is a scoundrel at heart, although a kind one.” He winked at Baxter. “So, what are you all called?”

The girl who’d dared to peek at him looked up, her eyes wary. “Ethel, Your Grace. And these two are Betsy and Maud.” Not quite so afraid now. Good.

“I trust that you will find me a fair master,” Richard said. “And the water will do me well. You may all go now, back to whatever chores you were about before I disturbed you. I thank you again.”

With more hurried curtsies, the three housemaids hastened away, no doubt to report back about their new master to the servants’ hall.

Baxter tipped the water into the bathtub. “Your cousin must have been a tyrant. Those girls were fairly quaking when I asked ’em to bring up the water for your bath.”

Richard kicked off his boots. “He was, I can assure you. But I never remember seeing the maids afraid of him when we were boys. Not like that. No doubt they thought that, as his cousin, I might be cut from the same cloth.”

“It’s a rum spot you’ve brought me to,” Baxter said, picking up the discarded boots. “Something’s odd about it, I’m not afraid to say. Seems to me like everyone here’s a-walking on eggshells.”

Richard pulled his shirt over his head. “You’re right, of course.

And I can only conjecture it must have more than a little to do with the death of my cousin.

As far as I can see, every person here within the castle walls seems to have had a motive for wanting him dead, from the maids upwards.

I would not be at all surprised to find rumor is correct and he was murdered, but by whom it would be hard to say. ”

Baxter opened the large armoire. It was full of clothes. “If he was the same size as you, though, these should suffice to smarten you up enough to look the part of duke. At least until you can visit a tailor.”

“You want me smart?” Richard took off his breeches and stepped into the bath.

It could have done with more water in it, but at least what was there was still hot.

“I’m a soldier, Baxter, and dressing like a dandy doesn’t come naturally to me.

As you should know.” He grinned. “Unless you wish to transform me into Beau Stourbridge?”

Baxter was rifling through the contents of the armoire, a faint sneer on his face, probably at the array of finery. “I’m sure we can find something a bit plainer that would meet with your approval.” He glanced over. “Your Grace.”

Richard sank down as low as he could into the water, which wasn’t anywhere near enough to be covered. “And you can stop calling me that. I’ve always just been ‘Major’ to you, and I’d like to continue in the same way.”

By the armoire, Baxter grinned as he pulled out a pair of buff-colored breeches and a clean shirt.

“These aren’t too bad, I suppose. He was a bit larger around the waist than you are, but braces will hold these up.

And they’re plain enough. Don’t want to turn you out looking like the fop I saw downstairs in the hallway.

Never seen the like of it. Nor sniffed it. He were wearing perfume.”

Richard chuckled. Baxter must have crossed passed with the fragrant Sir Rupert Wyndham. “I suppose you’ll want a raise in wages now you’re to be my valet. And a new suit of clothes yourself.”

Baxter also chuckled as he laid the clean clothes on the bed. “Wages at all would be a step up. I don’t believe you’ve paid me since we quit Portugal.” He glanced down at his faded Rifle Brigade uniform. “And I have to own to being fond of these duds.”

“We’ll put all of that right tomorrow. And we shall rub along well enough here.

I should warn you that there’s a footman here who was my cousin’s valet, and he can either stay a footman or leave for other employ.

He’s bound not to like you stepping into his shoes, as that’s how he’ll see it, so it might be best if he goes.

I don’t want a man nannying me as if I were a child in petticoats.

You know what I like, and that will do for me.

Something of a change since our army days, but I’m sure it’ll work out. ”

Baxter picked up the boots again. “I’ll get these polished for you.”

Richard laughed. “No need. We’ve always had a boot boy here. You need to learn to delegate a bit yourself, and get him to do them. Like I said, it’s going to be a bit different to the army.”

Having a valet to attend to his every need, not to mention a boy to polish his boots, was going to take some getting used to, as was having the luxury of a bath at his daily disposal.

Perhaps no longer being in the army was going to turn out not to be so bad.

And if he could find out a bit more about Isabella, that would also be good.

Although it didn’t look as though anyone here was going to tell him.

He’d have to get it from the horse’s mouth and ask her.

He’d do that tomorrow. Clearly she liked to ride early every morning.

Well, she’d find she had a companion tomorrow.