Page 13 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER TWELVE
MEG PINWELL
Meg set the book on grain production down on the bed beside her. “I don’t care about family portraits, Clara, for heaven’s sake. I want to know what you meant when you said you advised the Duke of Earnhurst to concentrate repairs on his garden and his follies so his wedding guests won’t suspect the rest of the house is falling apart.”
“That’s not precisely what I said, but I take your meaning.” Aunt Clara nodded, though she continued pacing back and forth to the window. “He asked for my opinion. I said he could close off part of the house, citing renovations, but the outdoors and common areas needed to be restored, especially for an outdoor wedding. That makes sense, don’t you think?”
“Did you forget that you were talking about my wedding?” Meg grated, lowering her voice further on the chance that one of the few remaining servants might take that moment to walk past her doorway. “That I would be one of the guests he means to fool about this wreck?”
“Yes, well, that didn’t—”
“Did you also forget that you’re advising him on how to hide all the flaws which abound here so he can better impress my parents?” Meg pursued. “To impress me so that I marry him before I know the truth? Aside from all that, there isn’t going to be a wedding here in six weeks, because I am not going to marry that man.” She jabbed her finger toward the doorway. “Has he confessed yet that he’s after my money?”
Clara’s cheeks reddened. “No. He said his bride’s wealth hadn’t really occurred to him.”
“Oh, I’m sure it hasn’t. What a li—”
“And I can’t very well tell him there isn’t going to be a wedding, Meg, and you know it. I’m a holidaying earl’s daughter who doesn’t know anything about Lady Margaret Pinwell or the Duke of Earnhurst other than what I’ve read.”
“I know that.” Meg took another bite of the delicious turkey sandwich one of the footmen had brought up for her earlier. She was quite certain it was the best sandwich she’d ever tasted. “But you don’t need to aid him in carrying out his schemes. For heaven’s sake, Auntie.”
“We chatted about numerous things. If I only asked about the wedding, he would either get suspicious or think I was setting my cap at him. Nor can I discuss apple trees but clamp a hand over my mouth every time he mentions the word ‘wedding.’”
What Clara said made sense, but the idea that her own aunt was essentially helping Earnhurst lie about both his character and his property was enough to make her want to throw things. Everything but the sandwich and the lemonade which had accompanied it, that was. “Rather than helping him,” she said with a slow, steadying breath, “I would appreciate it if you would spend more time learning about his faults and shortcomings. The more recent, the better.”
“Shortcomings. Yes,” Clara muttered, as if she needed to be reminded of their modified mission here.
Meg didn’t worry that Earnhurst might be attempting to charm her aunt or something, because that was ridiculous. Clara couldn’t be charmed out of her logic. As for herself, she didn’t find him at all charming—or understand why anyone would declare him to be dashing. He looked more like a soldier than a pirate.
She sighed. Clara had become her only set of eyes and ears in all of this, except for what she could coax out of James the butler. Surely Clara understood that her opinion and observations needed to be reliable.
“He does contradict himself quite often,” Meg’s aunt commented. “It’s almost as if he’s two different people—the one who allowed this mess to happen, and the one who’s attempting to set everything right again.”
“Mentally unsound is good. Very good.” No one could possibly expect her to go through with a marriage to a madman, regardless of all the other reasons she had to break the agreement. “Hand me my journal so I can make a note of that. The more madness you observe, the better. Be certain to inform me so I may document it all.”
Clara ignored her request and instead grabbed Meg’s hand. “You can do that in a moment. Listen to me, Meg. As I was trying to tell you, I saw the Duke of Earnhurst’s portrait today.”
“What of it? Was he hunchbacked or cross-eyed? Father never mentioned anything odd. He quite liked the old duke—which is why I’m in such a mess to begin with.”
“You should come see the portrait. Immediately.”
“I don’t need to see it, Clara. And I’m bedridden, if you’ll recall.”
“You must lean on me, and I will take you there. The portrait hall isn’t far.”
Meg looked at her aunt. “Did you spend too much time in the sun today? You’re acting very odd. Why do I need to see the portrait of a man who’s been dead for a year? Other than to curse him for telling Papa that he was looking for a bride for his son, of course.”
“I… I don’t want to say anything that might push you to have any particular thoughts,” Clara answered. “But I believe it is imperative. Just come with me. I will help you walk. You can use my parasol for balance.”
Before Meg could reply to that, Clara hurried out of the room, then returned a moment later with her silly purple parasol, which Clara had purchased at the last moment to complement her silly purple gown and hat. “Come on.” Pulling Meg’s dressing robe off the foot of the bed, she held it out. “His Grace is closeted with his correspondence, so we won’t run into him. We should go now.”
“I’m beginning to be alarmed, Clara.” With her aunt’s help Meg shrugged into the robe and scooted to the edge of the bed.
“Don’t be alarmed. Just be quick. And observant.”
“Let me send for James, at least. He toted me about quite easily yesterday. I rather enjoyed it. He’s quite muscley for being so lean.”
“N—” Clara closed her mouth over the rest of the word. “You know, I’ll see if the butler is available,” she said a heartbeat later. “Don’t stand up without me.”
She vanished through the door. Meg tied the robe shut over her night rail, and tentatively touched her right big toe to the wooden floor. Pain shot from her foot up to her knee, and she gasped. No, she wasn’t going anywhere without assistance, dash it all. She hated feeling so helpless, especially when compared with Clara Bosley, the most self-sufficient woman she’d ever met.
“You haven’t finished the grain book already, have you?” James asked, stepping into the room with Clara on his heels.
“It’s been riveting thus far, but not yet.” Meg grinned, but her smile and good humor faltered as she caught sight of her aunt staring at the butler as if he had snakes in his dark brown hair. “My employer wishes me to see the portrait of the former Duke of Earnhurst,” she went on, when Clara didn’t move. “I would be obliged if you would transport me to the portrait hall. I tried putting my foot down, but then I uttered a very unladylike curse. Under my breath, of course.”
James glanced over his shoulder at the fake Lady Sophronia Frumple. “You wish your companion to see a dead man’s portrait?”
Clara blinked, then waved her hand imperiously. “I wish her to join me in the portrait hall. My reasons are none of your concern.”
Meg nearly chastised her aunt for being so rude, but the rudeness did serve to make Clara seem very regal. And as a companion, she couldn’t very well say anything in rebuke, anyway. Not in public, at least. “Do you mind?”
Offering a shrug, James stepped forward, placed her right arm across his shoulder, and swung her into his arms. At least she was ready to be lifted into the air this time, and she avoided squeaking or doing anything else she considered idiotic. “Thank you,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “She was quite adamant. I don’t know what sort of bee she’s gotten in her bonnet.”
“You’ve saved me from hammering, and you’ve saved at least a dozen nails from suffering irreparable damage at my hands,” he commented as they left the room. “I’d call us even, Mabel.”
“I’d forgotten that Lady Sophronia said something about workmen and the stairs. Has the duke finally decided to have them repaired?”
“Yes. This very afternoon. I have no idea what prompted his sudden desire to do something productive.”
She met his gaze before he looked forward again, his light eyes amused. “Did you say something to him? I don’t want to be accused of complaining or being ungracious.”
“I may have said something. But your name did not pass my lips, Mabel. As you said, it is a matter of safety.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
“Is your mistress frequently… odd?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Clara said from behind them. “I may be mad, but there is a method to it.”
When Clara began quoting Shakespeare, something was definitely afoot. Meg stifled her frown. It was difficult, remembering to act like a servant, do as she was told, not ask too many questions. Especially when she’d only meant to wear the disguise for a few hours. But here they were, walking down the Duke of Earnhurst’s absurdly long portrait gallery and taking in the sight of all his dead relatives.
“Up here,” her aunt said, moving around them to take the lead.
“Did you know him?” James asked, slowing his approach. “I understand he was fairly reclusive over his last half a decade. Ill, they say.”
“No, I didn’t know him. Do you, Mabel?” Clara pointed.
Still keeping her expression neutral despite her growing alarm over the idea that Clara might have bumped her head on a tree branch or something, Meg looked at the painting. Dark brown hair, light gray eyes, a slight curve to his mouth that had her thinking he must have had a sense of humor… “I’m sorry, my lady, what am I supposed to see?”
“I can’t tell you that. You either see it, or you don’t. But do take our present company into account.”
Of course she had to keep James in mind, because he was the reason she simply couldn’t shake Clara and tell her to go have a lie down. “Do you see anything?” she whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear.
“I don’t believe I can answer that question, either,” he whispered back. “You are becoming somewhat heavy, though. How long do we stand here?”
So, her handsome rescuer didn’t think she was as light as a feather any longer. Meg lifted an eyebrow, turning her head to look at him. “Six minutes,” she improvised, a grin tugging at her lips.
He, however, didn’t look terribly amused. Rather, his gaze was on the portrait. His gray-eyed gaze. Beneath disheveled dark brown hair. And a quite perfect Roman nose, just like the portrait’s. Good heavens.
“James,” she murmured, “I must ask you a question, and you must promise to be perfectly honest with me.”
His gaze slid to her face. “Very well.”
“Is the reason you’re here, the reason the duke hired you, because you are the old duke’s…” Oh, she hesitated even to think the words, much less say them. “… the former Duke of Earnhurst’s, that is, illegitimate son?”