Page 18 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ELLIOTT RINIKEN

Back in the old days when Richard Clay, the Duke of Earnhurst, had been in full possession of his health, he’d offered Sergeant Elliott Riniken employment—not as a servant, but as his man of business. A set of eyes, answerable only to the duke, to oversee the vast Earnhurst properties and investments and business ventures.

Previous to those days, Elliott had done three things of which he was proud: He’d joined the army as a private at the age of sixteen, he’d been promoted and rewarded for his adeptness with strategy and his fearlessness in battle, and he’d saved his commander’s life by stepping in front of him as His Grace the general bent down to free his boot from where it had become wedged in a grouping of rocks. The ball had gone into Elliott’s left knee and lodged there, knocking him backward onto his general and nearly costing him his leg.

By then he and Richard had become friends, a comradeship founded on mutual trust and respect. When he’d seen that damned Gurkha, his rifle just peeking up over the rise, Elliott hadn’t thought twice. He hadn’t even thought once. He’d just moved between the rifle and Richard.

That had been fifteen years ago, when he’d been just a bit younger than James Clay was now. In fact, James, a headstrong and supremely mischievous lad nothing at all like his father, had been sent off to Cambridge within a few months of Elliott’s arrival at Earnhurst, and part of him had always wondered if that had been the basis for James’s… anger, and for the lack of response to his subsequent suggestions, requests, and pleas over the past few years.

What a wild, unmanageable young man James had been. The downside, Elliott supposed, of having an absent father, a deceased mother, and a long string of tutors happy to take Earnhurst’s wages, but less enthusiastic about, or capable of, schooling a boy smarter than themselves. His strong suspicion that James blamed him for the lad’s removal to Cambridge, that he perhaps felt his father had chosen someone else to be his son, was also the reason Elliott had put up with James’s dismissals and insults for as long as he had.

Even now, when he’d been temporarily promoted to the position of duke, James had found a way to cast him in a poor light—and that was aside from the wreckage of Earnhurst that had already done a sterling job all on its own. All the same, he looked forward to informing His Grace that he’d been heading for a sticky end before being rescued by his heroic half brother.

“Good heavens,” Lady Sophronia muttered from the bookcase behind him.

Elliott shook himself. Reminiscing over old wounds wasn’t like him, especially when there were present wounds aplenty that needed tending. “What’s amiss?” he asked, turning around.

The earl’s daughter held a thin book in her hands, opened to the approximate middle. “This is Irene, ” she breathed.

“Yes. Samuel Johnson’s play. A bit heavy-handed with its morality lessons.”

“But the printer’s date is 1741.”

“I believe so.”

“The… Johnson attempted to have Irene printed before it had been performed on stage, but no printer would accommodate him. It didn’t appear in print until 1749, after it debuted at Drury Lane.” Her words came quickly, the pitch rising with her obvious excitement. “And when it was printed, it was under the title Mahomet and Irene. ” She carefully turned another page. “Oh, my,” she whispered, as if worried a regular breath would cause the pages to turn to dust. “There are handwritten notes.”

“I believe Edward Clay—my grandfather—was acquainted with Dr. Johnson,” Elliott said, noting that while the horror of the estate had seemed merely a problem to be solved with a dab of logic and a dash of determination, her hands shook as she held the book. “That in your hands, I think, was the result of a gift to Dr. Johnson. As I recall the tale, my grandfather paid to have a dozen folios printed in 1741, back when Dr. Johnson was still revising the text of the play. In exchange the good doctor gifted one back to His Grace, together with some of his notes.”

“Oh, my. Quickly, take it from me before I drop it or drool on it or something dreadful.” She held it out.

Grinning, he lifted it out of her hands. “So, this is a book you would recommend be put behind glass, I take it?”

“Yes! It’s priceless, Your Grace. It cannot remain in the damp air here for another moment.”

“I concur.” Technically, he wasn’t supposed to see to anything without the new duke first ordering it, but damn it all, this was a small, miniscule thing compared to the entirety of troubles on the estate. “Let’s set it aside on the back table there, see what else we can find, and relocate the treasures you’ve already uncovered to my study. Thus far, that room has proven to be quite sturdy and dry.”

She nodded. “I can’t wait to find more. This is very exciting, you know.”

Carefully placing the book on the end table, he returned to the shelves. “I have been acquainted with several ladies in my life,” he said, leaving out that they’d either been after the old duke or his son, or the guests at occasional parties in London before James had commandeered Clay House, “and I don’t think a single one of them has set foot in the house’s library, much less recognized the difference between a rare book and a fashion gazette. You are a rare treasure yourself, Lady Sophronia.”

Lady Sophronia lifted an eyebrow as she turned to look at him, her green eyes assessing. Without even realizing it he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, the stance of a soldier awaiting a dressing-down. “I happen to be acquainted with a handful of keen-minded women,” she stated. “Most women have been taught that pretending stupidity or naivete is preferable to taking attention away from men—or worse, contradicting men—who cannot tolerate being outshone.”

For a wild, mad moment Elliott wanted to kiss her on the mouth. Right there, in the library. Exerting some of his well-honed iron will, he held himself in check, nodding instead. “I worded my compliment badly. What I should have said is that though I have known a number of women, you are the first of my acquaintance who is unafraid to show her intelligence. And that makes you a rare and precious find indeed, my lady.”

Slowly her shoulders lowered, a smile curving her mouth. “Well. In that case, you may call me Sophie.”

Elliott swept a bow. “Sophie it is, then.” He wanted to return the favor, tell her to call him Elliott, but that wouldn’t do. Nor did he want her calling him by the actual James’s name, simple though it would be. He wasn’t James. “Earnhurst, if you please. I’m attempting to become accustomed to it.” And that, at least, was the truth.

They spent the morning digging through bookcases, finding treasures, as Sophie put it, like a pair of giddy, rum-soaked pirates. It came down to moving some forty-seven books to the study, which did indeed seem like a very small violation of the old duke’s orders. His new Grace had requested that the library be repaired, after all.

“My goodness,” Sophie said, setting a first edition of Robinson Crusoe with the rest of the treasures. “I need to take off these gloves and get a strong drink.”

With a laugh, Elliott gestured her to the door. “Meet me in the study then, if you will. I presume whiskey will do?”

“It will do nicely, Earnhurst. I’ll be but a moment.”

He shed his own gloves, then went down to the kitchen to collect a clean pair of glasses. Of course, he was aware that proper women didn’t drink whiskey, and particularly not in the presence of men, but little about Lady Sophie Frumple seemed typical. And by God he enjoyed that. An ally, a well-read ally who knew battlefield jargon and didn’t shy from any sort of discussion—at least not so far—was something he hadn’t enjoyed since Richard’s illness. For this ally to be a lovely lady with a hearty laugh, well, that fell into the category of utterly unexpected.

Elliott walked into the study. An unopened letter marred the neat stacks of bills and correspondence and estate battle plans. It had altogether missed the shallow wooden box meant for new correspondence, and in fact had nearly missed the desk entirely. He picked it up. The outside of the paper was blank but for his name, which meant a hand delivery. Logic said it would be one of the tradesmen in Remiton asking for an early payment of the Earnhurst bill, but instinct already had him frowning.

He broke the plain wax seal and unfolded it. “‘Mr. Riniken,’” he read, “‘on Thursday, you will put ten thousand pounds in a satchel and have it delivered to the Falconers Inn to be held for a John Smith. The next day you may collect the satchel, which will contain the incriminating ledger, from the same location.’”

Elliott left the study again. “James!”

A moment later Timothy appeared from the direction of the foyer. “James is out, Your Grace.”

“Out where?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace. He said he was taking Mabel for a walk. He had Robert craft her a wheeled chair.”

At least James was doing as he’d been requested. Holding up the letter, Elliott nodded. “Very well. Did you take receipt of this letter? You or Randall?”

The footman shook his head. “No, Your Grace. That would’ve been James, I think. He was in the foyer earlier.”

The butler was supposed to be in the foyer, but that, he supposed, was beside the point. “Very well. Thank you.”

He would have to get a description of whoever had delivered the letter from James later. Then he would ask James, again, to alert the local constabulary and have Jasper Burshin, or John Smith or whoever he was pretending to be, taken into custody.

It did figure that yet another man associated with Earnhurst Castle was currently pretending to be someone other than who he was. In this instance, however, and whichever name he borrowed, Jasper Burshin was a damned thief. A greedy one who was threatening to do more damage than he’d already caused. That couldn’t stand. “Have James find me the moment he returns, if you please.”

“I’ll see to it, Your Grace.”

If this had happened at any other time, or at least after the wedding had been managed, he would have ridden to Dorchester and sworn out a statement himself, whatever James wanted to do. A single theft might be despicable, but it could also have been a simple crime of opportunity. This, though, signaled trouble. This was a man who’d gotten away with thievery, acquired a taste for it, and meant to do it again. And quite possibly again after that.

Blowing out his breath, Elliott headed back to the study. As annoying as the blackguard was, at this moment Jasper Burshin was another line on a long list of annoyances. Well above that was the fact that James was doing as he’d been asked and entertaining the companion, when he never did as he’d been asked.

That was unsettling enough, but in addition, Mabel Gooster was a pretty young lady whom Lady Sophie adored and wouldn’t wish to see ruined by someone nicknamed the Pirate. Blast it all. Even when James was doing as asked, chaos and ruin reared their heads.

And then who knew what catastrophe might land on them. The young man was engaged to be married. Who thought… Oh. He’d done it himself, hadn’t he? He and Sophie shouldn’t have been in the library by themselves, either. For a man who prided himself on being gentlemanly, he’d walked that one right into the hedgerow. He could blame it on thinking of her as a new friend whose company he enjoyed—except that he also thought about kissing her. And more.

And now he’d invited her to the much more intimate duke’s study for a drink. Dash it. Turning around again, he went to find Hannah, the only maid left in the house. “I need you to be a chaperone,” he said, finding her in the drawing room, dusting.

She straightened, wiping her hands off on her apron. “Very well. As long as you tell James that I’m not neglecting my duties.”

James the temporary butler was neglecting his duties, so he hardly seemed likely to punish someone for momentarily walking away from theirs. “I will,” he said, wondering if Hannah actually thought James Clay the butler and himself the duke. She hadn’t even blinked when he’d explained the situation to the staff, and he’d noted her lost in her own thoughts before, to the point that she forgot what she was doing.

“Very well, then. I’m a chaperone, now. I was a lady’s maid, earlier. By sunset I’ll be a nanny or a shop girl, I reckon.”

“If you have any mending to do, you may bring it with you. Join Lady Sophie and myself in the study in five minutes, if you will.”

She bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

When he reached his study again, Sophie stood in the doorway. “It occurs to me that we are being improper,” she said, her color high and her chin raised. “Your wonderful book collection flummoxed me out of all reason.”

Considering that she had a grin on her face, Elliott didn’t think she felt offended, at least. “It escaped me as well, I’m afraid. I’ve asked Hannah to bring some mending and join us. Is that acceptable?”

“It is. Thank you, Earnhurst.”

She looked at him, and he wondered what she saw. A man of some one-and-forty years, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting in the sun, a faint scar across the left side of his chin from a saber attack, his hair a neat, close-cut dark brown, and a hard jaw that would probably welcome a beard to soften it—which he’d resisted because a beard to him smacked of laziness. The mustache wasn’t fashionable, but after twenty years he was accustomed to it. And a mustache, a good one, required care and precision. A mustache wasn’t lazy.

He wasn’t tall nor short, he remained fit with his regimen of walking and riding as much of the property as his knee would tolerate, and he was broad-shouldered due to luck rather than anything he’d done. How anyone could mistake him for James Clay, “the Pirate,” he had no idea, but Lady Sophie had done so—and despite his protests over James’s behavior, part of him liked that anyone thought him a handsome, devil-may-care rake.

“You’re most welcome,” he said, when he realized a response seemed to be expected. “As I said, I am attempting to be a better man.” This time he meant it not just on the actual duke’s behalf, but on his own. He’d been stern and annoyed for more than half a decade, and in mourning on top of the rest for the past year. His irritation hadn’t served him well, however, and he tried to learn from his mistakes.

“I am seeing definite progress.” She continued to gaze at him, then lifted on her toes, swinging her arms behind her back, and decided the paintings in the hallway required her attention.

“I’m here, Your Grace,” Hannah announced as she appeared from a side door, a large bundle of material in her arms.

“What in the world is that?”

“I’m mending a set of sheets. You said to bring my mending.”

“I thought it would be a pair of socks or something. Not a schooner’s sails. Never mind, though. Come sit behind the desk.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! It ain’t proper for a maid to sit there.”

“And yet I have asked you to do so. I will sit beside Sophie—Lady Sophronia—and there is only one other seat in the room. Yours.”

“’Sakes. As you say, then.” Hefting the armload of sheets, Hannah edged into the room sideways and gingerly made her way around the stacks of books that presently lined three of the walls. It wasn’t the most comfortable of settings, but it was where the whiskey bottle he’d hidden from James lay.

Retrieving the bottle from behind the stack of law books where he’d stashed it, he motioned Sophie to one of the chairs and settled into the opposite one. “Now. Tell me about your father, if you would, and I shall tell you about mine.”

While Hannah mended the enormous pile of bed linen, Elliott and Sophie drank whiskey and shared tales that bore a surprising similarity in theme, if not in arenas of battle. Her father, the Earl of Hollister, had served in the New York area during the American War of Independence, while Elliott and the old duke had spent most of their time in the army in India and its surrounds.

“Oh, the stories he had about the winters there,” she said, taking another swallow of whiskey. “Apparently, outside of the Scottish Highlands, we have no idea how cold and horrid winters can be.”

“I’ve heard the same. I’d expected Nepal to be frozen, con sidering its proximity to the Himalayas, but it was actually quite pleasant. The weather, that is. The Gorkhali army, not so much.”

“Did it trouble you to be fighting to decide which party got to strip Nepal of its riches?” she asked, leaning one elbow on the desktop. “You have to admit, neither the East India Company nor the House of Gorkha had the best interests of the Nepalese people in mind.”

“The… My father and I had several conversations about that very thing,” Elliott returned, hoping his stumbles over how to address Richard hadn’t caught this sharp woman’s attention. “In the end, he decided it was time to retire from the army, and he returned to England. I joined him.”

“Good for him,” Sophie declared, tipping her glass at the air and taking another drink. “And for you. My father privately admitted to having a great deal of sympathy for the Americans. Who can fault a people for wishing to govern themselves?”

He joined her in toasting the late duke. His stories, from which he mostly had to either eliminate himself or somehow twist so the duke’s son could be present, seemed a bit muddled even to him. Lady Sophronia didn’t seem to have noticed, but he needed to be more careful, damn it all. James was too young to have participated in any but the most recent of battles, and aside from that, he was well-known to have resided nearly full time in London for the past six or so years. Mathematically that left very little time for foreign military service, which he’d stupidly already claimed to have.

“When did you injure your knee?” she asked, with the timing of a playwright.

“France,” he lied, since Bonaparte lined up more favorably for James and his age than Nepal or India did. “Hardly had time to do more than stand at attention before I got hit. Damned shame.”

She put a hand on his sleeve. “Do not say that. If you had been killed, what would your father have done? My goodness, I still can’t believe either of you served at all. A duke, and a marquis on his way to becoming a duke. The amount of power and property you wield, the people whose lives and livelihoods depend on you… I mean to say,” she went on, her cheeks growing pink, “that I do not doubt your courage or your conviction. It’s valiant. But I also believe your single life could have more impact here rather than buried in some field in France or India.”

And he and Richard had had that same conversation before, as well. “Thank you,” he said, for a moment wishing Hannah would accidentally drop the sheet over herself so he could kiss Sophie without her reputation being harmed. “My father was convinced he should face the same challenges as anyone not born of privilege. And now that I’m here, I mean to do as much good as I can.”

“You are a fine man,” Sophie declared, toasting him.

He clinked his glass against hers. “You are a fine woman.”

“Perhaps it’s providence that brought me here, then, to see what help I can offer you in restoring Earnhurst to its former glory.”

Providence was a good word for it. He doubted James would agree, but someone had to take charge. It couldn’t be him, but perhaps he could use Sophie to shame James into action. It had apparently worked with the stairs, already. He’d set her on the garden, next. And the fact that as pretend duke he needed to continue to dance attendance on her person, well, he had no complaints at all about that. Even if he also had to contend with a younger, illegitimate brother and a potential blackmailer.

A soft snore caught his attention, and he shifted to see Hannah slouched in the duke’s chair. Needle and thread in one hand, her head tipped backward and her mouth hanging open, the maid emitted another rumbling snore, louder this time. More providence, that. A very long time ago Elliott had learned to make note of every change in the weather or the attention of the enemy, and to just as swiftly take advantage of the most opportune moments.

Leaning forward over his nearly empty glass, he touched his mouth to Sophie’s. He felt her surprise and swiftly retreated, an apology for his idiocy already on his lips. As he drew back, though, Sophie pursued him, her mouth soft and warm against his. Like taking a match to gunpowder it was, bright and sudden and full of sparks.

Abruptly she pulled back as well, her cheeks bright red. “I—”

“I apologize,” he interrupted. “I shouldn’t have taken such liberties.” He cleared his throat, trying to give himself a moment to rally his thoughts, when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her again. “I’ll take my leave, my lady.”

“No.”

Elliott arched his brows. “No?”

“I am not some fainting flower, you know. Of course, we must not do this again, for, oh, so many reasons, but I am enjoying both our conversation and the whiskey. I see no reason why we should flee each other’s presence.”

For a moment he simply looked at her, her golden hair, her sharp green eyes, and her expressive face, and for the first time he regretted being Mr. Elliott Riniken, former soldier, man of business, and a commoner. “You’re not offended?”

“No, I’m not. Your mustache scratches, though.”

That was her only objection? Not his tendency to stare at her or the dozen or so years between them, but his stiff, old-fashioned mustache. Good God. Of course, she was an earl’s daughter and thought him a duke, which made a… connection between them perfectly acceptable. Except for his—James’s—betrothal, of course.

“I… We are momentarily thrown together by circumstance and too much whiskey,” she went on, lifting her glass. “This was a mad moment. Now. Tell me more of your experiences in France.”

Her understanding and insight about soldiering had caused this madness in the first place. “Let us chat about your fondness for books, instead.”

Sophie blinked, then nodded. “Very well. I am quite fond of them, though.” A smile curved her mouth, and he released the breath he’d been holding. He hadn’t ruined this… whatever it was, at least. It would be both easier and safer if he had, but however many more twists and lies it might entail, he wasn’t ready yet to give Lady Sophie Frumple up. Not to someone else’s obligations. Not today.