Page 11 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER TEN

JAMES CLAY

A wooden spoon thwacked James across the backside with enough force to startle him. “Get away from that, you sneak thief! That is for dinn—”

He turned around, several generous slices of cheese in his hand and another in his mouth. The cook clamped her mouth shut midword and backed away, flinging the spoon away behind her. He chewed and swallowed. “I beg your pardon?” he said mildly.

“I… I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I thought you—that is, I thought you were that blasted Timothy. He’s always snatching bits and bobs meant for dinner. Oh, dear. I’m so sorry! Forgive me, Your Grace.”

At least he’d been mistaken for the younger footman, and not the old scarecrow. “No, madame, I am not the footman. I am the butler,” James stated, and finished wrapping up the chunks of cheddar cheese he’d cut from the wheel in the pantry. “And from now on, whatever food you set out on the dining table you will also provide for our injured guest upstairs.”

“But—Your Grace, she—Fancy fare only slows healing. And she’s hardly more than a servant!”

“I did have the feeling that that was your objection all along, Mrs. Carvey. Unlike the rest of us, at the moment Mabel Gooster is trapped here. Be kind to her.”

Perhaps that had been why in the midst of their conversation he’d decided Mabel would no longer be eating bread and broth and water—she was trapped there. Just as he was trapped there. The servants could leave; hell, better than three-quarters of them had already done so. At any moment Riniken could declare himself finished with all things Earnhurst and flee, as well. While he wouldn’t mind seeing the last of the man of business, James did know Riniken was necessary for the moment. Otherwise the ton would stop calling him the Pirate, which was at least clever, and he’d be known as the Duke of Despair or some other idiocy. Damnation.

The cook continued to stare at him, so he took a half step closer. “That is an order, Mrs. Carvey.”

“I… Yes, Your Grace.”

“James.”

Her face reddened. “James,” she blurted out, like the name choked her.

“Thank you.” Pocketing the cheese, he turned on his heel and headed back to the main part of the house. The library had been his father’s domain, as far as he was concerned, a place that meant seriousness and studiousness and duty and all the other things that had been thrown at him since birth. He’d avoided it since his return, despite Riniken trying to lure him there at least twice.

Mabel Gooster, though, wanted a book. Not any book in particular, but one that would surprise her. He assumed that meant he was to choose a selection that she wouldn’t expect he would make, though he had no idea what that would be since they’d only been acquainted for ten minutes and he’d only become a butler yesterday.

Still, she had a way of conversing that made him grin. She was also a pretty thing, with her raven-wing hair and light blue eyes, and since when had he ever been able to resist a pretty face? The library door stuck, and James shoved it open with his shoulder, then slowed.

A lady’s companion, like a tutor or a governess, wasn’t precisely a servant. She ranked somewhere above the house staff, but below the residents of the household. So, while he did have a rule about dabbling with servants—as in, he didn’t do so—Mabel Gooster didn’t quite fall into that category. Still, he massively outranked her. And one couldn’t seduce a social inferior. One could only take advantage of her. At the same time, for the next fortnight he was a butler, and she would never know any differently.

Certainly, he could at least flirt with her, and perhaps manage a kiss or two while he attempted to reconcile himself with the idea that he would be a married man in a few weeks. And he’d bring her cheese and a book and sit with her, because she’d nearly broken her neck due to his negligence. And because she was pretty and was proving to be clever with words.

The library smelled of mildew, the odor explained by the damp section of floor creeping out from the wall beneath the row of windows and surrounding the three left-hand bookcases. More damage, more repairs, more decisions to make. At least half a hundred books likely ruined, then, and he didn’t even bother looking at them. The last thing he wanted was to make Mabel ill in addition to being injured.

What sort of book would someone be surprised to receive from him? That was a difficult question, because he wasn’t even him now; he was a fellow named James Riniken. At least he’d kept his first name; bloody Elliott Riniken had become James Clay—which was easier to spell, anyway.

Finally, he closed his eyes, turned an approximate circle, reached out, and grabbed the first book his fingers touched. Tucking it under his arm without looking at it, he returned to the hallway, went back up the stairs, and made his way down to the room Mabel occupied.

“Here,” he said, handing her the cloth-wrapped cheese. “I hope you like cheddar.” He dropped into the chair again.

“Is it stolen?” She gave him a conspiratorial grin.

“I have it on good authority that it was meant for dinner tonight.”

With a chuckle she unwrapped it and took a bite. “Oh, cheddar. I do love thee.”

James laughed. “You are very easy to please.”

“You have no idea how hungry I am.”

That annoyed him, and his smile dropped. He never hosted at Clay House in London, preferring to attend soirees and card parties and women elsewhere. But this was his house now, and one of his two guests hadn’t been provided with enough to eat. That was an abysmal start to things. A fifty percent starvation rate. “I’ll see that you get something more interesting for luncheon,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to complain,” she said, her eyes widening a little. “I’m only confiding. As one does, you know.”

Yes, they were staff. She was, at least. As such, she would never conceive of going to her employer, much less the pretend Duke of Earnhurst, to ask for a bit more to eat. And slender as she was, it would only take a few days of being underfed for her to disappear entirely. “I may be new here,” he stated, doing his best to keep his jaw from clenching, “but I am the butler. The head of the household staff. That should be good for something other than counting silverware, I reckon.”

“Then I thank you, James. For the cheese, and for your efforts. Just don’t make things difficult for yourself; I’ll only be here for a fortnight, but this is your home, now.”

Mabel couldn’t possibly know the depth of the truth she’d just spoken, but it struck him with the force of a hammer. His home. It was his, whether he’d decided to ignore it or not. And what a mess it was. What a mess he was.

“I see a book under your arm,” she said when she’d finished the cheese and sipped some water. “Will it surprise me?”

“I have no idea,” he commented, wondering when he’d last sat to watch someone eat. Never, probably. And she nibbled very daintily, like a rabbit with a bit of clover. It was ridiculous—and charming, for some reason. “I closed my eyes and chose one.”

Snorting, she held out her hand. “We’ll both be surprised, then.”

Shaking the weight from his shoulders, he grinned and handed it over. The companion turned it front side up, looked down, and burst into laughter. Intrigued, he leaned forward as she tilted it toward him. “ Grain Production in the Midlands During the Seventeenth Century, ” he read aloud, and sat back again. “Good God. Give it back and I’ll go fetch you a different one.”

She clutched it to her chest. “Oh, no! I mean to read every word of it. And then I’ll be an authority on historical grain production.”

“Only in the Midlands,” he pointed out, another smile tugging at his mouth. Her good humor was damned infectious, and this was by far the most smiling he’d done in the last week. Perhaps in the last year.

“I am definitely surprised. Well done, sir.”

“James, please.”

She dipped her head. “Mabel. I don’t expect you to trap yourself here with me all day, but I do hope you’ll stop by and visit me again. And perhaps bring me another book tomorrow? You must choose it in the same way, of course.”

“Isn’t there anything else you wish?” he asked, abruptly reluctant to leave. That left a day of spinning in circles and loathing the idea of asking Riniken where he should begin—which felt a great deal like losing a battle to the man of business. He detested losing.

“Generally,” she said, still smiling, “I enjoy a stroll or sitting in the garden—when my duties allow me a moment to do so, of course. I’m afraid that is out of the question for the moment, though.” She gestured at her foot. “And I hear there isn’t much to see in the garden, anyway. It’s so sad, don’t you think?”

“‘Sad’?”

“It’s not decades of neglect, clearly. This house, this property, was loved once. But the new duke doesn’t care at all. It’s either that or he’s waiting for his bride-to-be’s money before he can mend anything.”

James wiped away his frown before she could see it. “He’s only been here for four days, you know.”

“Oh, I know. If it were me, though, I would have been out pulling weeds myself on the first day. Or I’d at least have workers repairing the stair railings, because that’s about safety. I worry every time my au—employer says she’s going downstairs.”

“You don’t think much of the duke, do you?”

She shrugged, lowering her gaze to the closed book. “I don’t know him well enough to think anything about him, I suppose. But I believe the evidence of his lack of good character to be all around us. I mean, look at you.”

“Me?” He put a hand to his chest and tried to look innocent.

“Yes. He’s supposedly powerful and wealthy and all that. Why, then, did he hire you? You’ve said you’re new and have no experience being a butler. I have to think that if the duke was what and who he claims to be, every butler in Mayfair and the entire countryside would sell his shoes to be employed here. Something’s not right.”

“Because I’m a horrid butler?”

“Yes. It’s not your fault,” she went on, touching his hand, “but why wasn’t he able to bring on anyone more qualified?”

Whatever he’d been thinking zipped away, his attention ar rested by the way his skin felt warm where she’d touched him. For the devil’s sake, he’d touched and been touched by women before, much more intimately than that. But this was… peculiar. He wanted to take her hand, to see if he felt it again.

“I hope I haven’t injured your feelings,” she said, sitting up straighter. “I suppose most butlers wouldn’t tote injured women about, or steal cheese for them.”

James shook himself. Stop thinking about touching her. He couldn’t argue with her assessment of his butler skills, because firstly, he’d invented himself in a matter of seconds when he’d decided he didn’t want to entertain visitors, and because secondly, she was correct. He was a dismal butler. And he could only be a dismal butler because he’d ignored every request to approve the hiring of an actual butler. He stood up. “I will come and visit you again today, Mabel,” he said, heading for the door. “I promise.”

“I truly didn’t mean to offend you, James,” she said in a hurried voice. “I say silly things far too often for my own good.”

“You haven’t offended me. You have made me realize a few things about the duke, though. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, James. You’re very kind to spend time with me.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Miss Mabel.” And it had been, except for the parts where she’d criticized the duke for his lack of care about Earnhurst. It had all been true, though, and evidently he needed to hear it said.

For a year—actually, for six years—Elliott Riniken had been hounding him about returning to Earnhurst and restoring the estate. In the beginning he’d refused because he’d considered it an underhanded way for the duke to get him to come home and, by extension, apologize. Then had been a year of formal mourning, and he’d used that as another excuse to avoid the journey to Earnhurst. When he’d finally been delivered the choice of either journeying to Dorset or having Riniken leave him high and dry, the mess had seemed overwhelming. Especially when he’d wanted no part of it, anyway.

James paused at the top of the stairs and glared at them. They were a menace, even if he hadn’t realized just how dangerous they were prior to Mabel’s accident. She’d said that the duke didn’t care, and that was precisely how it looked. He supposed the amount he did care had been overset by the amount he wanted to continue not to do as Riniken requested.

At the top of the stairs he set his back against the wall, put one boot against the uppermost section of the banister, and shoved. Hard. With a crack the entire top section of railing broke loose and plummeted to the foyer’s marble floor below.

“God’s sake!” echoed up, and with a curse James moved up along the balcony to a sturdier section so he could look down.

“Who is that? Are you injured?”

“No, Your… James,” the younger footman’s voice came. “It’s Timothy. You just scared the buttons off me.”

“I apologize. When you recover your buttons, have Mrs. Carvey make a sandwich for Miss Mabel, Timothy. Deliver it to her yourself. Along with some fresh fruit. And lemonade.” That sounded like something a young lady would enjoy after a day of bread and water, anyway.

“Right away, Your… Right away.”

One thing accomplished. As Timothy departed for the depths of the house, James descended the stairs to the foyer and then made his way outside to the stables. Only Robert the head groom and Lady Sophronia’s man seemed to be there, which meant the one remaining stable boy must have been out chaperoning Riniken and the lady. “Robert, there’s a blacksmith down in Remiton, is there not?”

The sandy-haired groom set aside the bucket of oats he’d been toting. “Aye. Walter Stokes.”

“Good. Saddle Faro, ride down to the village, and ask Mr. Stokes if he would be kind enough to acquire and send a half dozen or so men up here to repair the stairs before the end of the day. I’ll send for a proper craftsman later, but at the moment I only need to make it safe.” He dug into his pocket and produced five quid, which he handed to the groom. “This is for him.”

“I’ll see to it, James,” Robert said, his left eye narrowing a little. “That’s the proper way to address you, ain’t it?”

James glanced at the visiting groom, standing in a stall and grooming one of the pair of bays who’d pulled the Frumple coach. “It is. Off with you.”

“I’ll need to tell him how much you’re paying the men.”

That, the servants asking questions and not jumping to follow his orders, was new. For the first time he wondered if this back-and-forth conversation, these arguments and requests for clarification, went on all the time, and before had simply occurred behind his back. He preferred it remain there, out of his way and not mucking up his day, but he also found it… interesting.

“Two quid apiece. When the job is finished,” he said.

“That’ll get ’em here faster than I can ride.” With a grin, Robert picked up a saddle and headed for Faro’s stall. “I’m handy with a hammer myself, now that I consider it.”

“Finish in here and come help, then.” James turned to leave, then slowed as he spotted a hay cart stuffed into a corner of the large building and short one wheel. “Though there seem to be a few tasks here that would benefit from your hammering,” he added.

“I can’t make a wheel. I need His Grace’s approval to order a new one.”

“And then you can repair it?”

“Aye. I make training carts for teaching new teams all the time. Or I used to, anyway. Makes no sense to hitch a green team to an expensive carriage when you’re ninety percent certain it’s going to end up in a ditch.”

What had Dr. Grimsby said? That Mabel could take no more than thirty-minute carriage rides, and that her leg needed to be elevated elsewise, or something to that effect. “Can you order small wheels?” he asked, facing the groom again.

“The smaller the wheel the rougher the ride, but aye.”

“How small?”

Robert scowled, then made his hands into a circle about the size of a dinner plate. “This is the smallest I’ve seen. Maybe a bit bigger than this.”

“If you had four of them, could you make a wheeled chair? Something that could be pushed about the house and grounds without going into a ditch?”

Tilting his head, the groom tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ve seen chairs like that. You mean for cripples and such, aye?”

“Yes.”

“I reckon I could do that. I’ll have to get my hands on some of the extra lumber and such from your stair repairs. Between the gardeners’ storage and mine here—and your workers—I reckon I have all the tools and help I’ll need.”

“Do it, then. The faster, the better. Charge it all to the Earnhurst account.” He eyed the man for a moment. “If I approve it, there’s five quid in it for you.”

Grinning, Robert returned to saddling the big bay. “It’ll be the nicest rig you’ve ever set your eyes on, James.”

As he returned to the house, James caught himself smiling. He’d seen to a few things today—things for which, of course, he wouldn’t receive credit. Riniken was the Duke of Earnhurst as far as their guests knew, and even though the man of business had painted the actual duke as a gambler and a lout and a layabout, today he’d been quite… efficient, if he said so himself. The fact that the work he’d done was nothing Elliott Riniken had hounded him over only made it more satisfying.

He snorted at all the tangles they’d already managed to create piling up around them, and only after one full day. If the gossips were going to call the Duke of Earnhurst a madman, at least it would be because he’d gone mad.