Page 5 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

O ne of the horses Richard had bought for himself and Baxter in Canterbury, for an eye wateringly exorbitant sum even for a soon-to-be duke, threw a shoe on the third day of their journey to Hampshire.

The road they’d been following being little more than a potholed, stony track, he was forced to detour into the nearest village in search of a farrier’s shop.

With evening falling, and no doubt his dinner awaiting him at home, the man was just packing up and not at all happy to be asked to put a set of shoes on the beast of someone he’d never set eyes on before.

Begrudgingly, and for a princely sum, he offered to do the two front shoes only, as it was a front shoe that had been lost and the other one looked not only worn thin but had also begun to make that clattery sound that is a precursor to true looseness.

Richard had to be satisfied with that and cross his fingers that the back shoes would not decide to part company with the sorry horse’s hooves before he reached his destination.

So it was already quite late when the farrier took the coins he’d demanded and stowed them away in the pocket of his trews, and Richard and Baxter could mount up and continue on their way again.

They had a long distance left to cover, on already tired horses, and Richard was determined to make this their last day in the saddle.

As riflemen, they weren’t accustomed to riding everywhere, and Baxter, not a great horseman and ever one to give voice to his woes, was already complaining of having a sore behind and being made permanently bandy-legged.

As a consequence of this determination, harnessed to the increasingly slow gait of the horses and the worry their footwear might give up the ghost, Richard and his trusty manservant didn’t arrive at the gates of Stourbridge Park until well after midnight.

However, it was early September, and the night was balmy with just a light breeze stirring the trees beside the road as they approached the wrought iron gates into the Park.

These were set between twin, sandstone gatehouses, the occupiers of which would perforce be sound asleep at this time of night.

Richard leaned over in the saddle and slid back the well-oiled latch, pulling one side of the gates open wide enough to allow him to nudge his horse through the gap, and Baxter, less accustomed to the skill of mounted gate opening, followed.

Having been brought up in the country, Richard knew better than to leave the gates open, and took care to slide the latch back into place with as little noise as possible.

No need to waken the family living in the gatehouse.

A high wall surrounded the wide acres of the Home Park they were entering for most of the perimeter, with the intention of keeping in the large herd of red deer.

It wouldn’t do at all to go letting them out onto the farmland where they could wreak untold damage on the crops.

His first act as duke must not be to antagonize his tenants.

He was pleased to observe that the driveway was in far better condition than the public highway had been as Baxter brought his horse up beside him once more.

A childhood spent playing in the Park ensured that he knew it would take some time to traverse the long drive up to where Stourbridge Castle sat, like a particularly fat spider at the center of its web.

As a boy he’d always had to walk it, and now, with his horse so tired, he might as well do the same and stretch his aching legs.

Three days of unaccustomed riding had produced a similar effect on him as it had on Baxter.

Walking would give them both some much needed relief.

“Not much longer now,” he said to his unfortunate servant, who’d been trying to adjust his position on his horse for some time now, to no effect.

Neither of the saddles they’d purchased with their mounts had proved to be even a little comfortable.

“We could probably get off and walk these unfortunate animals the last bit.”

Baxter was off his horse in a trice. “About bloody time too. I’ll not be able to sit down for a week after this. Bloody horses. Now I know why I joined the Rifle Brigade.”

Richard, too, slid down from the saddle and hooked the reins over his horse’s head.

Did it give as hearty a sigh of relief as Baxter had?

It wasn’t such a bad horse, really, just that it hadn’t been well looked after prior to sale, nor well-schooled.

A bit of work might turn it into a tolerable hack.

Enough for him, at any rate. He harbored no pretensions about his horse-riding skills.

However, he’d learned their care from a master horseman and had taken a look at both horses’ teeth before handing over his money.

Both were probably only eight or nine years of age and probably ex-coach horses.

Young enough to be changed. He’d also run his hands down their legs and found them unblemished, which was unusual.

He probably wouldn’t have bought either of them, though, had not the thought of taking the stagecoach firstly into London, then out again along the Great West Road been so repugnant.

That would have included not just traveling with strangers he might not have liked, but also several nights in busy, noisy inns between what would probably have been damp sheets.

Riding home had seemed as if it would be both quicker and a more pleasant experience.

If it hadn’t been for the lost shoe.

The woodland they were walking through began to thin, and the sweeping curves of the open parkland he remembered came into view, bathed in gentle moonlight, and here and there dotted with the stately cedars his great-grandfather had caused to be planted over a century ago.

There was no doubting the magnificence of the place, even in the dark. And now, unexpectedly, it was all his.

“Blimey, Major,” Baxter muttered from close by his side, forgetting yet again that Richard was no longer a major but a Your Grace .

“Bit posh this place, isn’t it? And you was a boy here and never thought to tell me?

I’d’ve had more standing amongst the other soldier-servants if I could’ve boasted about where my officer hailed from. ” But he didn’t sound at all resentful.

Richard chuckled. “It wasn’t a part of my life I wanted to remember, old friend.

I thought I’d left it all behind and would never have to see it again.

But the winds of fate have blown me back to it, if a little against my will.

” He smiled. “But at least my tormentor won’t be here.

I suppose I owe him thanks for having died and left it to me. ”

Baxter snorted. “No thanks owed to that bastard, from what you’ve told me, Major. I wouldn’t be feeling in no way grateful, if I was you. Best thing he could’ve done was turning up his toes.”

Richard shrugged. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

Who would have thought Marcus, who as far as he knew had always been strong and healthy, would die before he even turned forty?

And without an heir. He frowned. But with a wife.

Perhaps they hadn’t been married long. It was always possible she was actually with child even now, and that child, if it were a boy, might dislodge him in the blink of an eye from what he’d grudgingly begin to acknowledge might be his inheritance.

His inheritance. Not for a single moment in his childhood, nor since, had he ever considered what it might be like if fate carried off Marcus.

More than a few times he’d wished a sticky end on his cousin, although his thoughts had gone no further than considering the relief of being free of his incessant bullying.

The bullying that had sent him to his grandmother to beg her to intercede with his uncle, the duke, and persuade him to purchase his unwanted nuisance of a nephew a commission.

Which had been the means by which he’d escaped Marcus’s clutches, as his uncle had been more than glad to see the back of him.

Now, he was returning from the army which he’d expected to have been his life until he was too old to fight and had perhaps become a general, in order to step into Marcus’s shoes.

And not only that, but he was stepping into something that promised to have the makings of a scandal.

Because, as Lieutenant General Wellesley had said, his cousin’s wife was suspected of not being blameless in the death of her husband. And it was up to him to exonerate her.

How much of this was true, or just plain speculation on the part of gossips, Richard had no idea, but he intended to find out. But one thing he could be sure of was that there must be a reason behind the rumor. Marcus could not have died peacefully in his bed.

He was also more than curious about the sort of woman who had attached herself in marriage to a man like Marcus.

She must have known what she would be getting, so she had to be similar to him, surely.

And even if she were quite innocent of the gossip surrounding her, she would have to be paid off in some way.

There was no way he wanted his hated cousin’s cast-off wife brooding over Stourbridge Castle.

Especially not if he were to do as he’d been commanded—find a wife and get himself an heir.

The presence of the previous chatelaine was a big no to that.

There was going to be a lot for him to sort out even before he could think of finding that blasted theoretical wife.

The looming bulk of the castle came into view on the slight rise above the lake. Richard allowed his horse to halt for a rest, as he stared across the shadowy parkland at his new home. His old home, in fact, if you could ever have called it that.

“Bloody hell,” Baxter said, exhaling in a low whistle. “It’s even bigger than I thought it would be.”