Page 12 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELLIOTT RINIKEN
Elliott glanced at Lady Sophronia as they left the line of oak trees bordering the road and turned up the drive to the house. In the year since Richard had died, he couldn’t remember spending a morning as… satisfying as this one. No, not satisfying. Hopeful. Warm, and not just from the sunlight against which Lady Sophronia had forgotten to use her parasol.
Despite his familiarity with the property, she’d given him a few things to consider. And she’d been direct with her questions and her opinions, couching them in logic rather than anger and cynicism, or an attempt to be submissive or overly polite. And she was supremely pleasant on his eyes, a rose in full bloom when he’d been surrounded by bare twigs and brambles for what felt like ages.
She’d looked at the battleground on which he’d been waging a hopeless war for the past six years, and she could see a victory. A series of successful maneuvers, anyway. And the idea that he could win, or at least not lose, by pushing James to make the visible parts of the estate look acceptable and deal with the rest later, felt both clever and a bit like cheating. The castle’s reputation would stand, though, and the Earnhurst title wouldn’t be dragged through the mud, and that could be a victory.
“Thank you for showing me about, Your Grace,” she commented, standing up, one hand gripping the back of the seat, to view the reed-filled pond from the drive. He could add “fearless” to her description as well, then. “I hope I was helpful. I’d feel horrid if all I did was cost you a day while you humored me by making me feel useful.”
“I haven’t wasted anything,” he said, smiling up at her. “You have a clever, logical bent to you, my lady. I appreciate it.”
“As do you, Your Grace. The rumors swirling about you never mentioned that. The logic, that is. Everyone says you’re clever.”
Blast it. Was he being too sensible? Too logical? James Clay was a clever man, but thus far he’d been content to use his wits for wagering and horse races and women. Even more worrisome, there would never be any rumors that James Clay had served in the military, because he hadn’t. His father had forbidden it. But Elliott Riniken had served, and he’d admitted to it without hesitation when Sophronia had begun chatting about knives, and now he couldn’t take it back. Nor did he wish to, even if that one truth could send the entire house of cards tumbling to the ground. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and he happened to be proud of his service.
She seemed to appreciate it as well, and he appreciated that about her. And he liked her forthright manner. Sophronia thought him a duke, and she addressed him as one, but the way she said “Your Grace” made it feel like… his name, he supposed. No groveling, no undue reverence, no sycophantic oozing. She addressed him as an equal. And damn if he didn’t enjoy that.
He was accustomed to those with titles being condescending, making it clear they were only doing as he suggested because his employer was the Duke of Earnhurst. He’d had authority only because Richard Clay had lent it to him. To have actual custody of it for a time, to be the one wielding the power of a dukedom, felt heady. Perhaps it was a good thing that the servants here knew the truth, because otherwise he might become swellheaded—or even consider doing something as outrageous as seeing to the estate’s repairs himself. And that would never do.
It was a dangerous appeal. And not just because of the power the Duke of Earnhurst commanded. On top of everything else, he—the Earnhurst “he,” not the actual he—was an engaged man. He—though not the actual he—was spoken for. Therefore, an enjoyable chat with the pretty, practical lady was the beginning, middle, and end of it. Even if it had been better than a year since he’d smiled this much. And longer since he’d felt so hopeful. So alive. Being one-and-forty didn’t make him dead, for God’s sake. He had things he still wanted in his life, things that had nothing to do with Earnhurst. And while she was younger than he, he would put her somewhere in her late twenties—a woman, as he’d noted, in full bloom.
Saint Michael’s armor, this was getting confusing. And he still had a fortnight in front of him to manage it. And to not abandon his sense and reason over a lady he’d met a day ago, of all things.
“The house does look fine from a distance,” his companion said as she sat again, giving him a smile no doubt meant to keep him from despair.
Hearing someone else’s honest opinion of the wreck had made him wonder—not for the first time—if he should have stepped in despite Richard’s orders to the contrary. According to Lady Sophronia, when something was obviously awry, then whoever had the means and ability to correct it should do so. Since he’d had and still maintained authority to utilize Earnhurst’s wealth as he chose, he could have done something. But the thing he’d chosen to do was to honor Richard’s wishes.
“What’s this?” Sophronia asked, and Elliott looked up from gazing at the horse’s ears—and pulled the curricle to a halt so quickly her parasol tumbled off the seat and to the ground.
“I…” Men in simple coats and trousers or no coats at all, some with straw hats on their heads, marched to and from the house’s main entry. They carried wood, saws, hammers, and rope with them, while a trio of wagons laden with more wood blocked the end of the drive.
As he watched, a pair of men emerged from the house, a large section of stair railing held between them. They tossed the mahogany into the back of one of the carts with much less care than it warranted and returned to the house with fresh lumber.
“Is this for the stairs?” Lady Sophronia asked, clapping her hands. “You’re a sneaky one, Your Grace. I was most worried about the stairs, and you never said you’d already arranged to repair them. I am relieved, and I know Mabel will be, as well.”
“Surprise,” he muttered, putting a smile over his own astonishment. It could be that James had finally decided to take command, or it could be that the duke had decided to fill the foyer with faro tables. Elliott had no idea which it would be as he climbed to the ground, careful as always of his bad knee, and walked around to offer a hand to his guest. “Let’s have a look, shall we? Peter, return the curricle to the stable, if you will.”
The young stable boy doffed his hat and clambered from the tiger’s perch into the driver’s seat of the carriage. “With pleasure, Your Grace.”
Retrieving the parasol, Elliott handed it to Sophronia and offered his arm. Men doffed their hats and bowed as they passed; someone had informed them that the man who regularly visited the village of Remiton with his ledgers and queries was playing a duke these days, then. Thank goodness for that, at least.
Just inside the door he stopped again. James Clay—the actual duke—squatted on the landing halfway up the stairs and hammered a rail into place. Nearly the entire length of the curved staircase had new railings, in fact, and several levels had new stairs. Good God. He thought he’d seen everything, that nothing could surprise him any longer. But the sight of James Clay offering a literal hand to help repair Earnhurst nearly put him on the floor in a dead faint.
“That’s very… practical looking,” Sophronia said, eyeing the square-edged thing that had once been a graceful, curved staircase.
“Yes, it’s ghastly, isn’t it?” he muttered, taking it all in. No elegant, rounded railings, no deep brown polished mahogany, and no precisely measured balusters. Raw wood, uneven edges, and imperfect, over-nailed joints. But solid. He could see that from the doorway. No one would be falling through that unless they descended the stairs on an elephant.
“There you are, Your Grace,” James said, straightening. “You said ‘at once,’ and this is what we’ve managed. At least your guests will be safe while we wait for your master carpenter to arrive from London. As you ordered.”
That was it, then. This wasn’t about James finally assuming the burden of Earnhurst; this was James going behind his back to do something they hadn’t even discussed in more than vague terms. Not that it mattered. Something was getting done. Something James had arranged.
Elliott nodded. “Thank you, James. May we ascend?”
The faux butler bent his head to confer with one of the workmen. “It’s safe, Your Grace,” he said, straightening again. “Feel free to shove at anything you wish.”
Elliott wanted to shove James with his coiled fist, but he settled for taking a hard breath. Right reasons or wrong reasons, at least something had happened. And that was rather miraculous. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing Sophronia toward the stairs.
Her smile warmed his heart, even though he’d had nothing to do with any of it. James was bloody clever, and he should have remembered that. He’d have to watch his flank more carefully, since now it seemed the son of his dearest friend had also turned devious. Well, that should make things more interesting.
“You have a master carpenter?” Sophronia asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
“I have several skilled carpenters with whom I prefer to deal,” he responded, though he hadn’t had cause to contact any of them in half a decade.
“Of course you do. That was silly of me.” She chuckled, her cheeks darkening. “In my defense, our neighbors in Devon aren’t much for renovating, and I’ve never spent time in London.”
Elliott nearly replied that he avoided London as much as possible himself, but he was James now, and James lived there practically year round, so he nodded instead. “It has its attractions,” he muttered. “But come look at the east wing drawing room ceiling. There’s some lovely plasterwork there, but I worry it can’t be saved. I thought you might have an idea how to do so.”
They made their way down the long portrait hall to the drawing room. Halfway down the length of the wide hallway with its scattering of windows on one side, Lady Sophronia stopped. “Who is this?” she asked, pointing at the large portrait which took the most prominent, center spot on the wall.
Elliott turned around, looking up at the painting. “That would be my father. The previous Duke of Earnhurst. In his prime, of course.”
“Of course. He was quite handsome.”
Richard Clay had been a handsome man, tall and fit, with inquisitive gray eyes, a head of wavy dark brown hair, and one of those noses the Romans had idealized. In the portrait he had a faint smile on his face, something which he’d lacked his last few years. In fact, he looked to be nearly the same age that James was now. That was something else the new duke would have to do—sit for an official portrait, preferably before the portrait hall collapsed and erased all his ancestry. “Yes,” he replied, and gestured her forward. “Shall we?”
“I…” She stared at the portrait for another moment, then blinked and faced him again. “Certainly.”
They viewed the drawing room, and Sophronia agreed that the plasterwork couldn’t be saved. He’d already known that, but it was nice to have his opinion confirmed. The whole day had been like that, actually; she’d pointed out some aesthetics that he’d missed, which made sense given her breeding, but on the whole their opinions had been very much in harmony.
When he couldn’t conjure a logical reason to drag her through the entirety of the ratty garden or to view all the leaking rooms again, Elliott walked Sophronia to the open door of her companion’s bedchamber. “Thank you for indulging me today, my lady.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I enjoy solving problems, and I definitely enjoy giving my opinion on matters.” She grinned, the expression lighting her face and making her green eyes dance.
He caught himself gazing at her for a long moment before he recovered himself. “I’m glad you think it isn’t too late for Earnhurst. You’ve given me some… hope, Lady Sophronia.”
She dipped a curtsy, her cheeks growing pink. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Yes, yes, he was the duke today. He kept forgetting that, kept forgetting that in her eyes he was the one as responsible for making the mess as he was for cleaning it up. “I hope you’ll join me for dinner again this evening.”
Her left eye twitched. “I had thought to dine with my companion this evening, Your Grace.”
Damn. He’d pressed too hard. He’d enjoyed her company, wanted more of it, and been ham-fisted about it. Not that he meant to woo her or something, of course. Idiot. “Ah. I keep noting your kindness. I cannot fault you for continuing to be so.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet at breakfast, then? I generally rise early. Between six and seven, to be more precise.”
Elliott nodded, his previous good humor returning in a rush. Not a rebuff, then. Just a genuinely warmhearted gesture on her part, to spend part of her evening with her companion. “I’m awake by first light, myself. A splendid time of morning. I shall see you then.” He sketched a shallow bow and turned on his heel.
It was a pleasant change to have an ally present. A practical, pretty ally who didn’t shy away from giving her opinion when a fellow asked for it. Perhaps he should arrange for her to talk to James. A chat with the faux butler about how irresponsible the duke had been, and how urgent it was for the duke to take action. No one liked to hear themselves disparaged, even if they were pretending to be someone else. And if anyone could catch James’s attention, it would be an attractive woman—if James didn’t use the opportunity to seduce her instead of listen to her, that was.
Elliott frowned. No. Seduction couldn’t be allowed. Not when James was making arrangements for his own wedding. Coupled with the mess that was Earnhurst, an additional scandal would be insurmountable.
That was that, then. James and Lady Sophronia needed to stay as far apart from each other as possible. For the sake of everyone’s reputation, of course. And he and James were going to have to have another discussion about the younger man’s already-engaged status, where the new duke would insult him and he would remind the young man about propriety and responsibility. And to avoid seducing any guests—and Lady Sophronia in particular—on the eve of his wedding.
Elliott collected the stack of mail from the side table and retreated to his borrowed master bedchamber. Before James’s arrival the generous room had been adorned with a suit of armor, a selection of swords and halberds, a pair of axes and a pike, and a half dozen of the old duke’s hunting trophies, but now those spots stood bare. More proof that James could make some improvements, when they troubled his sleep, at least. Or when they could make the pretend duke look as if he didn’t know what was afoot beneath his own roof.
He went through the correspondence, approving the payment of bills for things which he and James had already discussed. A letter addressed to him came up next, and he unfolded it.
A neat, unfamiliar hand asked after his health, and then the author claimed to have in his possession an accounts ledger that would prove His Grace had been underpaying his share of government taxes for years. In exchange for custody of that book, the writer wanted ten thousand quid. Instructions would follow. The letter was unsigned.
Elliott sat back. Logically the author could be any number of people, but the immediate odds favored one Jasper Burshin, who’d already made off with several thousand pounds of the duke’s money and twisted the duke’s accounts into a mess that the banks were still attempting to straighten out.
He turned the letter over again. Addressed to him, rather than to the current duke, so Burshin either knew or had guessed that Elliott still had bank account authorization. What Burshin didn’t know, however, was that Elliott had no intention of spending a shilling, even to avoid nasty rumors.
“Over my dead body,” he muttered aloud, tossing the letter into a drawer. Burning it would have been satisfying, but with the current state of the house, he might accidentally set Earnhurst Castle on fire, and that would leave him with even more work to do.