Page 21 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER TWENTY
ELLIOTT RINIKEN
“And what should I do with these?” Goodfrey asked, holding the pair of Wellington boots in his fingertips as far away from himself as his arms could reach.
“They’re work boots,” Elliott answered. “Just knock the dirt off and set them by the fireplace.”
“You only have the one pair,” the valet countered, looking over at him as if he’d sprouted a second head.
“Yes.”
“These are not your work boots, then. They are your dressing-for-dinner, going-for-a-proper-walk, dancing, and walking-about-in-the-mud boots. That is not acceptable.”
“What the devil is the difference between a proper walk and walking about in the mud?”
“A proper walk is done to be seen by others. Walking about in the mud is only done if it can’t be avoided, which would put it in the category of a necessity. Necessity shoes don’t go out in public.”
“Goodfrey, just go. I’m tired.” And he would never grow accustomed to someone else folding his clothes and polishing his buttons or whatever else it was that Goodfrey did for James Clay.
“Humph. I will attempt to clean them. I advise you to be kinder to them until you’re able to obtain another pair.”
“I promise nothing. Go see if His Grace needs a cravat ironed or something, will you?”
“I have already ironed them. Though why I bother, since he’s spent two entire days out of doors and sweating, I have no idea. Before we came here, His Grace was a civilized man, you know. Proper walks only, and proper attire for boxing and fencing and riding. And no… toiling in the dirt. I don’t understand what’s happened to him, and I don’t like it.”
Elliott didn’t respond to that, because he didn’t understand what was happening, either. Not only had James Clay spent most of the day yesterday digging up weeds, but afterward he’d ridden Faro into Remiton and recruited most of the men who’d repaired the staircase to now help him repair and replant the garden. A week ago, James would have chewed off his own foot rather than take responsibility for the home his father had cherished so greatly.
Whatever the hell had happened, he hoped it continued. “I know you demand perfection of yourself,” he said, pulling off his coat and starting to fold it before he caught the valet glaring at him. “Here,” Elliott said, handing it over. “Put it in the wardrobe and go away.”
“I only remain because of my sense of duty.” Goodfrey sniffed, effortlessly folding the coat and placing it on a shelf.
Elliott sent a longing glance at the ridiculously comfortable, ridiculously enormous bed. Later. His day wasn’t ended, yet. “And I appreciate your ethic. Now leave. Good night.”
“Yes, good night to you. I’ll be up for another hour, scrubbing dirt off these… things.”
Once the valet departed, shutting the door firmly behind himself, Elliott stepped into the pair of slippers Goodfrey had insisted he purchase, checked his pocket watch, and headed down to the study.
Sophie’s door was open but the companion’s was shut; no doubt they were chatting about the mad state of Earnhurst. Thank goodness Sophie, at least, continued to see the charm despite the mess. Not only that, but she rolled up her sleeves without complaint to aid in separating the mildew from the literature.
While he hadn’t met all that many titled women, she was nothing like the ones of the old duke’s acquaintance. In general, they sat and chatted and fluttered fans and eyelashes and complained about the heat or the cold, or why Lord So-and-So hadn’t noticed them, or how to make Lord So-and-So notice them. He’d never wanted to kiss any of them, and that was for bloody certain.
He had wanted to kiss Sophie, and he’d done so. And while he was the furthest thing from a virgin a man could possibly be, he’d felt… mesmerized. Swept away by an unexpected warm spring rain. He’d been so… captivated that even after they’d declared their intention never to kiss again, he’d shaved because his whiskers had scratched her. And now he needed to be even more careful in his interactions with her. After a single, short conversation with James, the duke had realized Elliott’s fondness for her—which meant he wasn’t being discreet enough. For God’s sake, he didn’t want even Sophie to know how much he was coming to admire her. Not when everything he said and did was a damned lie.
Thank God James had reminded him that the Duke of Earnhurst was engaged, and that he, for at least the time being, was the duke. It gave him an excuse if he should require one, a way to distance himself from Sophie if that became necessary, and a way to do so without insulting her. Hopefully.
He was one-and-forty. He shouldn’t feel moonstruck in the presence of a lady. But he did. Yes, he could claim that his chats with her, their similar interests, and her own knowledge of military history and terminology, reminded him of the conversations between comrades-in-arms, reminiscing. Except that it wasn’t the same at all. She was a lovely, brilliant lady with fire in her soul, who happened to be a magnitude higher in social rank than himself.
Trying to shake her out of his thoughts, he reached the study and took one of the facing seats, granting the chair behind the desk to its rightful owner. Sophie wasn’t likely to be about, the companion couldn’t venture downstairs without aid, and the rest of the staff knew the truth about the so-called butler and the so-called duke, so he could shed his costume tonight.
Of course, the lot of them, and Earnhurst Castle itself, had already proven that if something could go wrong here, it would do so—and at the worst possible moment and in the most cataclysmic way. He’d begun to think his memories of the property back when Richard had been in command and everything went as smoothly as water, had merely been dreams.
“Really?” James said, stepping into the room and closing it with one foot. “Though I suppose it has come to the point that every move either of us makes has strategy behind it. Or so I keep thinking.”
Setting two wine glasses and a bottle on the desk, he walked around to sit behind the giant piece of carved mahogany. Elliott watched him open the bottle and pour. He’d kept up with the gossip pages and the other rumors that came west from London, and for the last half a decade he’d considered James an over-indulged, resentful drunk that people called charming because he had good looks and money. The idea that there was method to the new duke’s madness, that he’d spun about his reputation intentionally and that the vindictiveness he felt toward the old duke also extended to Elliott himself, had left him baffled.
If he couldn’t figure the young man out, couldn’t find a way to see the house and grounds made acceptable in time for the wedding, if he somehow failed to see James married, he would have to admit to himself that he’d failed Richard—the man and his legacy.
“I would like to see any plans or drawings that show the original layout of the garden,” James said, taking a swallow of the blood-red wine. “Do you know where I might find those?”
“In that vase there,” Elliott said, pointing at the large, squat vase in the back corner. “The house plans have the blue edging, and the garden is the green one.”
Turning, James removed both sets of drawings from their resting place and set them on the desk, unrolling them and holding them flat with the wine glasses and bottle. “Garden first, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly.” Did James have opinions about the house, as well? If he was dreaming this, Elliott hoped he didn’t awaken until the secret to finishing the renovations was revealed.
“The fountain. It used to have water, and the cupid would spit it into the basin. Or did he pee into it? I can’t remember.”
“He spat.”
“Oh, good. One less thing to offend my future wife. How do I get the water back to it?”
“According to this,” Elliott said, putting his finger on a set of parallel lines at the top of the garden drawing, “the pipes feeding the cupid fountain are here, beneath the center path and leading out to the pond. They’ll need to be dug up and replaced, unless you want to risk flooding the head of the garden.”
Across from him, the Duke of Earnhurst pulled a notepad from one pocket and dipped the desk pen into the globby ink to make a note in it. “I’m not going to worry about water, then. I’ll have the cupid repaired and set back on its pedestal, but the fountain can be waterless unless we suddenly find an additional fortnight to get everything accomplished. Perhaps I’ll have some potted plants set in it. Blue flowers to represent water. That makes me poetical, I believe.”
“A good compromise. I would advise you not to plant any trees adjacent to the pipes in the meantime, however.”
“What the devil is wrong with this pen?” Glaring at it, James tossed it into the wastebasket and pulled a pencil from the top drawer.
“It’s the ink, I believe.”
James glanced up at him. “You needed my permission to purchase a new bottle of ink?”
“Not strictly speaking. I use it to remind me of the other things you haven’t given permission for.”
“Ah.” Looking down again, James made another note. “I’m not placing any trees over the pipes. I am putting a tree over here, with a bench on either side of the trunk. Shade in the morning, or shade in the afternoon. I believe I may be brilliant as well as poetical.”
Snorting, Elliott started to pick up his glass of wine, then changed his mind. He’d enjoyed a fair bit of drinking the other day with Sophie, but James was tricky, and definitely more adversarial. Any interaction required full use of all his faculties. “When I conversed with Sophie about the best site for the wedding, we both noted that the garden makes the most sense given the state of the house, but the follies are in clear view from there.” He cleared his throat. “They should either be hidden behind a line of trees or repaired.”
“I’m tearing them down.” Making another note, James downed half his own glass. “Fake ruins. When I was little I thought they were real, you know. That ancient Greeks had built a temple to Athena overlooking our pond, while directly beside it the Romans had constructed a one-room villa with a pretty tile floor and half a roof. I used to imagine the two sides fighting over bricks and stones. There was even a Trojan horse, as I recall. I, of course, played the part of Ulysses when the battles became heated.”
“There were Romans hereabout,” Elliott offered. “And your father was fond of th—”
“A gazebo would serve just as well as a viewing point,” James cut in. “And it would have seats, and quite possibly a stone table for a picnic. And no Latin quotes celebrating war and death.”
While his first instinct was to argue that the follies had been in place long enough to make them part of the tradition of the estate, Elliott kept his mouth shut. It had been only a day since James had declared his intention to renovate the exterior of the manor, and he hadn’t fled or declared that he’d changed his mind. And if he wanted a gazebo rather than a pair of dangerously dilapidated ruins, then so be it.
Elliott stood to reach over the desk, opening the top right-hand drawer and pulling out a handful of correspondence which he set atop the building plans. “As long as you’re here and we’re not engaging in fisticuffs, these require a response from you.”
“Not more blackmailers, I hope.”
“No. And it was kind of Burshin, I suppose, to give me time to go to Dorchester, withdraw the funds from the bank, and find a satchel.”
James tilted his head. “But you haven’t left the property.”
“No, I haven’t. He gave me time to do so, is all I said. I have a strong belief that one should not give money to a man who’s already robbed you.”
“Good.”
“You do have an opinion about him, then.”
“I do. I wanted to see what yours would be.”
Feeling as if he’d passed some sort of test, Elliott lifted the short stack of letters and cleared his throat. “Now. You’ve been invited to dine with Lord and Lady Somner at Somner Abbey on Saturday,” he said, “your solicitors in London need your signature on this bank statement, and someone calling herself the White Rose has sent you a lewd poem.”
“A poem? Is it any good?” James asked, still writing notes.
“I stopped reading after the first stanza, which featured a series of… anatomical descriptions rhyming with ‘sturdy lock.’”
“Burn it, for God’s sake. I don’t even remember which chit called herself the White Rose. I received so many damned calling cards while I was wearing black that I had to have Loomer shovel them out of the foyer at Clay House. And once I was out of mourning, they began lining up outside my front door and climbing the walls to get to my bedchamber.”
“And you objected to this?” Elliott grimaced. “I mean to say, they do call you the Pirate.”
“I dressed as a pirate for a masked ball once. Once. The wags went mad over it because I danced with Lady Vivian Carding who then eloped the next night with Lord Shandley, and suddenly I’m the Pirate, stealing women’s virtues left and right and forcing them into quick marriages.”
“So you didn’t do that?”
James grinned lazily. “I don’t recall ever stealing any chit’s virtue, but there are ladies who’ve already given theirs away. I’m not a monk.”
“Why the sudden influx of women, though? You were marriageable before, as the Marquis of Duffy. Why the change once you became the Duke of Earnhurst?”
James shrugged. “That Pirate nickname put a bit of distance between me and the actual virtuous women looking for a husband, thankfully, and I believe I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in marrying. But once I became the duke, well, neither my reputation nor my interests mattered as much as my title or the money that came with it. People really are very poor judges of character when there’s a generous income attached.”
“Your father would have appreciated hearing this, you know,” Elliott said, then immediately regretted the words when James’s jaw clenched. “He did have a sense of humor, and often wondered what your thoughts were on particular topics.”
“In your company, perhaps he had a sense of humor. Not in mine. He believed every bit of gossip about me, and threatened every other week to cut me off and name you as his heir. Hell, you practically lived in his pocket as it was. So, forgive me if I don’t care whether my thoughts on my reputation might have secretly amused Richard Clay.”
“That…” Elliott closed his mouth. He had no idea what to say to that, anyway. In the army he’d been ready for anything, any attack, from any direction, any bit of news that could change the tide of battle without warning. This, though, surprised him. “Richard never said anything to me about cutting you off,” he finally ventured. “And certainly not in my favor. We were friends. He felt grateful that I saved his life, and I was grateful that he gave me employment once the ball in my leg put an end to my military career. That was it.”
“Mm-hmm. If I hadn’t burned all his correspondence, I could prove it to you.” James smoothed one hand over the drawing. “Now. If I—”
“I mean to say, I do believe he threatened to cut you out of your inheritance, but he never meant it. Your mother’s death, him leaving the service in disgust, it made him bitter. He took it out on you, I think. And he regretted it, almost the moment he realized he hadn’t… done well by you. You’re rather headstrong yourself, you know, and—”
“Stop,” James ordered, and Elliott clamped his mouth shut. “When Lady Sophronia and Mabel decided I must be the duke’s bastard son, it occurred to me that that was precisely what I am. Not the favored one, but the one who never met expectations and who could never do anything to win the duke’s favor. You were the favorite child, Riniken. I’m beginning to understand that perhaps that wasn’t your fault, but don’t defend him to me.”
Elliott tilted his head, taking a moment to consider whether the next bit he wanted to say would improve matters or ruin them irrevocably. But he wanted to say something, damn it all. “Did you hear what you just said?”
“I’m finished with this discussion.” James jabbed a finger at the drawing again. “An outdoor wed—”
“You called me the favorite child,” Elliott interrupted. “Me.”
“Yes, well, you had all his affection, didn’t you?”
“No, I did not. You have your version of my life, but it doesn’t match with mine. Every conversation Richard and I had inevitably turned to you. You can’t imagine the time he took or the efforts he made, the lengths he went to, all for the sake of trying to figure you out. And when he sent you to Cambridge and then Oxford because you demanded to be away from here, you didn’t write to him, ever. Not even to answer his correspondence. He thought he’d destroyed his relationship with you because of his own lack of patience.”
“And?”
“And? And I heard about it every day. He wondered how you were faring. He wrote your professors and read me their letters, describing you as a charming, brilliant disaster. When you left Oxford and took over Clay House in London, he wrote the servants when you still wouldn’t answer his letters. He wrote his friends. Your friends. He wanted to be a part of your life, and blamed himself that he wasn’t.”
“Y—”
“I heard constantly about your life, your triumphs, your misadventures, while I watched you never make a single effort to respond to a clearly desperate man. In the evenings we drank and talked endlessly about battles where he’d been the victor, including the one where I nearly lost my leg and ended my career of choice, so that he could remind himself that he wasn’t a complete failure. You weren’t the poor bastard son, James. I was.”
James looked at him. “That is not—”
“Why do you think I’ve been trying, despite your insults, to get you back here and mend things for more than half a decade? If not your relationship with your father, then at least the estate? Because that was the one thing he asked of me. The one thing. And stupid as it was, I found myself badly wanting to please him for giving me a second career, a home, and a friendship.” Elliott drank down his entire glass of wine. “I’m one-and-forty, James. I’m a competent, intelligent man who’s faced death on numerous occasions. And here I sit, taking on a dead man’s quest to have his son forgive him because I could never take his son’s place.”
James stood up, stalked around the desk, and left the study, slamming the door closed behind him.
Elliott blew out his breath. Damnation. He’d done it this time, because for once he hadn’t been able to bite his tongue. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself, and reached over to fill his glass to the brim.
The door opened again. James walked in, shutting it behind him, and resumed his seat behind the desk. He held a new quill in his fingers, Elliott noted belatedly, and dipped it in the thick ink to sign his name on the bank statement. “I can’t accept the invitation from Lord and Lady Somner until after our guests depart,” the duke said, pulling a piece of paper from one of the drawers. “I can’t imagine what would happen if either chit here saw me dressed as a duke. I’ll write and ask if we might schedule something in a fortnight or so. I’m thinking the poem from the White Rose was a last effort to catch my attention, and as I am engaged, I’m ignoring it.”
“I… That makes sense.”
“So, you think I should have an outdoor wedding, then? That could serve. I’d thought perhaps we might make use of the old chapel in Remiton, but it’s miniscule, is it not?”
“Yes, it could barely seat twenty-five, I would say.”
“I would love for the wedding to be that small. I suppose we could manage that, and then invite the rest of the country to the party afterward, but that sets their arses all back here at Earnhurst.” James thunked his head against the desktop.
“Invite the fewest people you can politically and socially get away with, and we’ll make ready precisely that many rooms. The rest we will say are being renovated.”
“Do you think my bride-to-be is some dim-headed wreck?” James asked, his voice muffled against the desk. “Or is she a precise, matronly iron woman, ready to take the reins of the household and pummel me into submission? With a name like Margaret Pinwell, it could be either.”
“I don’t think your father would do that to you, especially not since he expected to be about for you to argue with over his decree.”
James looked up again. “But he never saw her, did he? Did you?”
“No. Her father wrote to say she was too overcome to attend the funeral. I doubted that, but I could understand her reluctance. Lord Brundon did say she was lovely and warmhearted, loyal to her friends, sunny and funny.”
“That makes her sound like a dog. Was there any mention of a cold, wet nose?”
Elliott looked at the man seated across from him. “If you mean to escape the wedding, there’s no reason to rush the repairs here.”
“What kind of blackguard ignores his betrothed for a year, finally sends word to his affianced that their wedding is to be in six weeks, waits another week, and then breaks the entire agreement? I mean, if I wanted to escape this, I should have done it a year ago. Now I’ll look like a scoundrel, or worse, a lazy scoundrel.”
Clearing his throat, Elliott sipped at his overfull glass. They’d done something remarkable and unexpected tonight, he and James, and he certainly didn’t want to ruin it. But speaking his mind had worked once. Perhaps it would again. “If this sudden reluctance of yours has anything to do with a certain lady’s companion, I—”
“Bollocks. A duke, especially a new duke of questionable reputation, does not marry a lady’s companion. And whatever I may… want of her, I’m not some country bumpkin seeing my first skirt. I’ve managed a plentitude of entanglements in the past without losing my heart or my mind. And I’ve certainly lost neither today, if that’s what you’re implying.”
If Elliott did suspect such a thing, he wouldn’t say it aloud. “I only wonder… Well, you said you didn’t have anyone in mind, but we weren’t precisely civil then. Was there someone else you would have preferred to wed, if not for your father’s agreement?”
“That was my first question to myself after I received his letter, and I couldn’t come up with a single damned name.” James sighed, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Mabel’s not quite a servant, but she’s near enough one in Mayfair’s eyes. If I was actually a butler… But I’m not. Not even to her, any longer. I’m a butler, a ruined gambler, and a duke’s by-blow. Good God, I’m a horror.” He visibly shook himself. “But is it odd that there’s something appealing about a woman who freely insults me, delivers her opinions without hesitation, hasn’t tried to set her cap at me, and who hasn’t flooded me with poetry that rhymes with ‘lock’?”
With a chuckle, Elliott emptied half his glass. This had been a momentous evening, after all. “Your bride-to-be hasn’t attempted to write you poetry either.”
“That’s true. And that is appealing. Of course, it worries me at the same time, wondering what sort of wreck she could be. Mabel Gooster of the unfortunate name is, at the least, an attractive young woman with a sharp mind.”
“Perhaps Lady Margaret is much admired in Devon, and is relieved to be betrothed to a man who hasn’t been in pursuit of her money or her beauty.”
“I hope to the devil you have the right of it, Elliott.” James straightened. “Let’s get back to it, shall we?”
“While we’re being civil,” Elliott commented, feeling more optimistic than he had in years, “might I convince you to take Goodfrey back? I think he might have been previously employed as a torturer.”
James snorted. “I’ve told him to get away from me so many times, I believe his full name may be ‘Goodfrey Go Away Dammit.’ And no, I won’t take him back. I’m rather enjoying having him only worry over my cravats these days. I can nearly tie one myself.”
“I’ve been able to do that for years.”
“Then consider it a holiday. I know I am.”