Page 22 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BASIL GOODFREY

“I’m not wearing a cravat today, Goodfrey,” His Grace the actual Duke of Earnhurst said, tossing the strip of material back at the valet.

Basil Goodfrey, accustomed to having things thrown in his direction, caught it and clutched it against his chest. “I beg you to reconsider, Your Grace. Today you are playing a butler, but there are those here who will never see you as a duke if you don’t maintain a certain degree of haughtiness.”

“My haughtiness is not dictated by a piece of cloth around my neck,” the duke commented, buttoning his own waistcoat like some sort of medieval barbarian. “And I will destroy it laboring out in the garden, anyway. Aside from that, it’s too bloody hot to wear one out there.”

Goodfrey wanted to weep. Of course a cravat affected one’s bearing. His Grace had been stooping to all sorts of nonsense since he’d decided to play butler. Carting servants about in his arms, or pushing them in rolling chairs. Playing cards with other servants. Being mostly sober, for God’s sake. “As I’ve been reminding you for two days, Your Grace, dukes do not garden. I daresay a duke should never do anything in public that requires the removal of a cravat, or any other piece of clothing but a glove, and that only for slapping people.”

“I am perfecting my disguise. To repeat, I am not presently a duke. I am a butler. A butler who gardens. Now go away and help Riniken dress.”

“But you’ve only been a duke for three hundred seventy-six days. And for the first three hundred sixty-five days, I had to see you garbed in the drabbest of colors, with no thought to position or… fashion. For the past six days I’ve had to endure you garbed like a madman, wearing shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, coatless, your hair in disarray and, if I may, in need of a trim. In short, I have had five days during which I was able to dress you according to your station and your title. And do you have any idea how rare it is for a valet to rise to the dresser of a duke? It’s extremely rare! This is unacceptable.”

The duke glanced at his coat, hung carelessly over the back of the one chair in his tomb of a room, then headed for the door all of two steps away, leaving the covering behind. “Rare as it is, you should be grateful for the opportunity to practice on Riniken. You can have all the mistakes and false steps eliminated before we return to London and I return to myself.”

Goodfrey supposed some valets would have welcomed just that sort of opportunity, a chance to practice dressing a duke before stepping up to do it in actuality. But after having been in the Marquis of Duffy’s employ for seven years, he knew how the man dressed. He knew the colors James Clay preferred, which ostentations he disdained, and on which lapel he wore a pin. He’d trained for seven years knowing that one day the marquis would be elevated to dukedom. And now that it was finally here, years before he’d expected, he was being denied his opportunity to shine. “I have been practicing, nonstop, for seven years, Your Grace.”

“Goodfrey. Go away, dammit.”

There were times when Goodfrey thought that was his name. “Goodfrey Go Away Dammit” had been shouted at him more times than he could count. He could tolerate it from his employer, but that blasted man of business had taken to doing the same thing. Shaking his head, he opened the butler’s door and left the servants’ area of the house for the upstairs master bedchamber.

The companion’s door stood open, as it did most of the time, and he slowed as he approached it. When both ladies were present, the conversations were, on the whole, quite entertaining, if a bit nonsensical.

“—nearly dumped me on my head going down the stairs yesterday,” the injured one was saying.

“I doubt many servants train in the safe carrying of women,” the other one said with an admirable amount of dry sarcasm.

“James seems to have mastered it.”

“James is occupied in the garden these days.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. It’s annoying. Not that I miss him or anything, and I am happy to be helping you inspect books from the library, but I do enjoy his conversation.”

“And his handsome appearance.”

“Speaking of which, whyever did the duke shave off his mustache? I thought removing it would be an improvement, but if anything, I find him more off-putting now. I used to be able to imagine that he might be smiling behind that thing. Now I have no illusions to grasp for.”

The lady cleared her throat. “Men’s minds are often indecipherable, my dear. If you would attempt a conversation with him, though, I think you would find that he is not as stern as you imagine.”

“I don’t need to imagine anything,” the injured one retorted. “I know what he’s done. No, I much prefer James.”

“Dearest, need I remind you that James is a butler? An illegitimate one who was only hired here due to his bloodline?”

“I know, I know,” the younger one said with a sigh. “Perhaps both of us need a reminder of our situation. I’ll go first. Margaret, you’re betrothed to a duke.”

“My turn? Clara, you have an entire boatload of neglected causes waiting for you in London.”

“Oh, me again,” the companion said. “I like a butler. Yes, I’m aware that I could never wed him. It’s just… He… When I’m with him, the world seems a warmer, softer place. But I also feel like he’s been avoiding me, the past two days. I told him the kisses didn’t offend me, and he seemed amiable afterward, but—”

A chair scooted across the floor. “The what ?” Lady Sophronia hissed.

“Oh, I knew you would react like that. Never mind.”

“I cannot ‘never mind.’ What if the duke had seen you? What if—”

“Stop it. We’ll be gone from here soon, and we can forget all of it ever happened.”

“Be careful, my dear. When we reach London, you won’t want anyone knowing you kissed a butler. Especially if you mean to find yourself a husband. No peer will tolerate going where a servant has already been.”

“He’s been to my lips. Nothing else. Now please go find the other footman, Timothy, to help me downstairs. I’m not risking Randall again.”

One hand over his chest and the other over his mouth, Goodfrey reversed course, retreating halfway down the hallway, before he shook himself, turned around, and moved forward again. The strategy had saved him from accusations of eavesdropping many a time, and he’d rather perfected it if he said so himself. Which he did. The lady emerged, looking up and down the hallway, and he nodded at her. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Goodfrey,” she said, and continued on with her almost comically imperious walk.

Good heavens. Margaret. Lady Sophronia Frumple had been called another name by her friend, and that name was “Margaret.” And Mabel was actually Clara. Goodfrey nearly forgot to breathe. Oh, the enormity of this!

Speeding into a run, he made for the servants’ stairs, practically flew down them, and found the duke eating in the kitchen like a common servant. “Your… James! I need a word with you, if you please.”

“You just left. Go away.”

“On my honor, I require a private word with you.”

Grumbling, His Grace rose from the bench and headed for the kitchen door. “Outside,” he said, and gestured for Goodfrey to precede him.

Goodfrey hardly knew what to say, what to reveal first, how even to deliver the news. It could be an error, he supposed, and Margaret could be a different Margaret, but he didn’t know of any other chit by that name and of that approximate age who was presently betrothed to a duke.

“What?” the duke asked, stepping away from the house.

“I… That is, I overheard something I think you need to know about.”

“If Elliott Riniken is attempting to fire you, you may ignore him. I’m the only one permitted to send you packing.”

“It’s not that, Your Grace. I haven’t yet seen Mr. Riniken this morning.”

“He’s to breakfast with Lady Sophronia. You need to go make him civilized.”

“But that’s just it, Your Grace! I don’t think—” He lowered his voice and moved closer. “I don’t think that Lady Sophronia is Lady Sophronia.”

The duke’s brows dove together. “What? Stop speaking in riddles, dammit.”

Basil took a hard breath. “I passed by the companion’s door, and I happened to overhear a conversation,” he explained.

“Eavesdropping? Well done, Goodfrey. What did you discover?”

“The companion, Mabel, called her employer ‘Margaret,’ and reminded her that she was betrothed to a duke. And then this Margaret called the companion ‘Clara,’ and said she had cause to be in London.”

His Grace took a step backward. “No, that’s not…”

“Or was it that she had a cause in London? I can’t remember that part, because my heart nearly leapt out of my chest when I heard that the lady was Margaret, engaged to a duke. Do you know of any other Margarets engaged to dukes?”

“That makes no sense,” Earnhurst snapped, his complexion turning gray at his temples and all the way down his face.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Your Grace. We don’t want you expiring from an apoplexy.”

“I am not having an apoplexy. I’m telling you that you misheard the ladies.”

“But I didn’t. I’m certain of that. Her door was open. It was quite clear.”

“What else did they say, then?”

“The maid, Clara, I suppose, said that she liked the butler, which is you, I believe, and that she kissed you. That made Lady Sophronia upset, because Mabel is meant to find a husband in London and shouldn’t risk her reputation that way. Oh, and Randall nearly dumped Mabel—Clara—down the stairs yesterday when he carried her down to the library and Lady Sophronia—Margaret—is looking for Timothy to carry Mabel downstairs this morning.”

In the years he’d served James Clay, Goodfrey had seen him in more than one questionable situation, in questionable company, and doing questionable things. Never, though, had he seen the duke speechless. Until this moment.

“I…” His Grace began, started toward the door, stopped, and turned around again. “Lady Sophronia is Lady Margaret?” he muttered, a hand going up to his chest. “This is—I—”

“What should we do?” Goodfrey prompted, before his employer could begin spinning so fast he dug a hole in the ground.

“‘We’? We are doing nothing. I am going to find Riniken. And you’re coming with me.”

That was something, but pointing that out would likely earn him an ear boxing, or worse, so Goodfrey only nodded and stayed on the duke’s heels as he returned to the house, pounded up the back stairs, and strode up the hallway so quickly that the loyal valet had to trot to keep up with him.

After several days of strategically listening to the ladies’ conversations, he’d begun to wonder whether they were a pair of lady criminals here to rob the house. Now though, the twists and turns were nearly enough to send him screaming into the countryside. Thank goodness he was too civilized for that. The moment they reached the master bedchamber, the duke curled his fist and beat on the door.

“Enter.”

The man of business was already awake, then. He always was, though, one of those former military men who continued to rise at dawn long past the time they were required to do so. It was deuced annoying. Proper gentlemen slept in.

“Elliott,” the duke said, stepping quickly into the room and grabbing Goodfrey by the arm to shove him inside, as well, before he shut the door with a thud and locked it. “We may have a problem.”

They did have a problem, because Mr. Riniken was once again wearing one of his plain, cheaply-made coats. Another selection of new garments had arrived from the village yesterday, so Goodfrey knew the man had the means to look like a duke, and yet he refused to dress like one.

“Another one? What is it this time?” Mr. Riniken asked, sending Basil a sideways glance. “I’m meeting with an architect this morning after breakfast, and I don’t wish to be viewed as an incompetent idiot. Hence my dressing more practically. Step away from the wardrobe.”

Ignoring the man, Basil moved past him to dig into the shelves of clothes. “Two new coats and waistcoats arrived yesterday. Any of your new attire is far more appropriate for your role of supervising workers than… that.” He gestured at the plain brown coat, brown waistcoat, and brown pants Riniken wore. “You look like a tree. A tree without a squirrel in its branches, now that you’ve rid yourself of that monstrosity beneath your nose thank all the angels in heaven, but a tree nonetheless.”

“Do you insult James like this?”

“Constantly,” His Grace commented. “Shut up, Goodfrey. Tell Riniken what you overheard this morning.”

He couldn’t very well shut up and speak, but he had strayed somewhat off topic. Setting the scene once more for his eavesdropping, he repeated what he’d told the duke, this time adding the other bits of conversation in before anyone could ask him what else he’d heard.

The man of business’s mouth opened and closed several times, rather like a fish trying to breathe air. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. Just take a moment,” the duke, altogether more familiar with mischief, urged.

“You mean to say that Lady Sophie Frumple is Lady Margaret Pinwell?” Mr. Riniken finally sputtered. He sat down hard in the dressing chair.

“So it seems.” The duke’s expression had been growing grim mer and grimmer, and abruptly he picked up a teacup and hurled it into the wall, shattering it. “I can’t even blame either chit for the farce, because we’ve done the same blasted thing,” he growled. “But at least we thought them strangers. They knew they were coming to see the man she agreed to marry.”

“They did seem surprised to find the duke in residence,” Mr. Riniken mused, looking down at his hands for a moment. “Perhaps she only meant to view and assess Earnhurst Castle, and your—our—presence surprised her. Then her maid—friend, I suppose?—falling down the stairs kept them here.”

His Grace began swearing again. “I should have realized. Sophronia Frumple? Mabel Gooster? They were far too horrible to be real names, especially together. No two acquaintances could be that unfortunate.”

“Goodfrey. You’re absolutely certain that is what you heard? Those names, and that Margaret is the uninjured one, and she is betrothed to a duke?”

“Yes, Mr. Riniken. I am. On my soul, I swear it.”

The two men, duke and man of business, looked at each other. Finally, Mr. Riniken cleared his throat. “We need to tell her who you really are, James.”

“Why should I? She’s lying about her identity, too.”

“But you’re—”

“Do not tell me we’re betrothed,” His Grace snapped back, jabbing a finger at the man of business. “She came here under false pretenses. We only thought we were bamboozling two nosy women.”

“Nevertheless, you need to at least become acquainted with her, unless you mean to break the engagement.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m tempted. Who is this Clara she dragged along with her, anyway?”

It was still about the other young lady, then, though why His Grace was so fond of a woman who was no better than a servant, Goodfrey had no idea. He danced with, chatted with, flirted with, and regularly bedded the most eligible women in London. A servant. As a duke’s valet, he wasn’t certain he could live with the shame of it.

“James.” The man of business closed his eyes for a moment, and Goodfrey took a half step backward. If fisticuffs were about to erupt, he was not going to be a part of it.

“What if I don’t want to become acquainted with her, Elliott?”

“I… Perhaps we can do this without playing our hand. They think you’re my illegitimate half brother. What if—”

“I beg your pardon?” Goodfrey broke in. Good heavens. A bastard now? And a butler? Oh, the horror.

“Yes, I’m a bastard,” the duke commented. “What is it, Elliott?”

“I’m going to faint,” Goodfrey stated, sitting in the nearest chair. Of course, they ignored him.

“I could tell her I’m paving your way into Society,” Riniken said. “Have her sit with us over some tea, and the two of you could chat. It would all be proper, with a chaperone, and she wouldn’t know that we’ve discovered her secret.”

“Except for the fact that I’m your butler, which doesn’t place me anywhere near Society, but I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else. What of Mabel, though? Or Clara, rather, which is thankfully a more palatable name?”

“She’s not a part of this. You and Lady Margaret are the ones who matter. And honestly, James, she’s lovely.”

“You would just step back, then? I know you’ve become fond of her. So, color me skeptical at your magnanimity.”

“She’s been a lady from the beginning, while I have only been pretending to be a gentleman. I may admire her… greatly, but nothing was ever going to come of it.”

“Yes, but she thinks you’re the duke! That you’re me! She likes the man she thinks she’s supposed to wed, even though he’s not and she isn’t. I’d wager ten quid you shaved off your mustache for her benefit. What the devil do we do about that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, my boy.”

“Well, I have no idea how she could believe for a single minute that you are the Duke of Earnhurst in the first place, because I would never allow His Grace to dress in such a careless manner,” Goodfrey pointed out. “Perhaps she’s guessed who you truly are. I certainly would have known which of you is the duke.”

“I need a drink,” His Grace muttered, heading for the liquor tantalus.

“Pour one for me, if you will,” Mr. Riniken put in.

“I could use one, myself,” Basil muttered, but as usual, no one listened to him.