Page 4 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER THREE
ELLIOTT RINIKEN
Elliott Riniken finished the list of unfilled household, stable, and garden staff maintenance positions and sat back, stretching. Thirty-seven staff had been excessive even for a house of this size, but as Richard Clay had become less mobile and more dependent on having someone nearly constantly by his side, the additional hirings had made sense.
A young, robust Duke of Earnhurst was now in residence, however. The stables would be full and guests arriving for extended visits, His Grace would be active in church and other local charities, and he would be meeting with local merchants and farmers on a regular basis. Given all of that, Elliott had reckoned between twenty-five and thirty full-time staff would serve. The house easily had capacity for that many, and with room for ten grooms and stable boys above the stables themselves, it seemed a reasonable, comfortable number.
Resisting the urge to sigh yet again, Elliott pulled over another sheet of paper and dipped the pen into the inkwell. The ink itself was thick and inexcusably clotted, and while he could ride down to the village for a new bottle in twenty minutes or so, he’d resisted doing so for the past year.
He’d watched the entirety of the slow decline of Earnhurst Castle from close by, in fact, and had done nothing about it. Yes, he’d nearly had to tie himself to a chair daily to avoid taking action, but Richard Clay had made it quite clear: James Clay needed to step in and see to his present and future responsibilities. In the previous duke’s thinking, if his son couldn’t or wouldn’t do his duty, his properties and the people who lived on them would be in peril.
And now that had happened. After months spent begging James in writing to come see to Earnhurst well before and after Richard’s death, Elliott had begun to have doubts that the younger man could even dress himself, much less take over a dukedom.
On the next piece of paper, he detailed specific damages and wear to the house that needed immediate or eventual attention, including the windows, the loosening balustrade of the main staircase and its warped steps, the leak in the west wing drawing room ceiling, the collapse of the music room ceiling, the creeping mold in the library, and the poor condition of the roof in general.
After that were the recommended repairs, where he noted that the entire interior of the house needed to be painted, as did the exterior. The large garden was an impenetrable tangle of leaves and vines, while inside the wallpaper and curtains were badly outdated, replacement furniture and carpets were needed for the rooms where the ceiling had leaked, and the list went on and on.
A third paper listed tenant farmers, their average crop yield and rent, the shops and businesses and craftsmen located in the village of Remiton, on Earnhurst property, and other miscellaneous details about the property that the new duke needed to know and likely didn’t. He could say he was being magnanimous, attempting to help the new duke step into his position, but it didn’t take much insight to come to the realization that he didn’t wish the old duke’s legacy tarnished by the incalculable missteps James Clay was set to make—if he made any steps at all, that was.
At least with each subject on its own piece of paper, His Grace would have a more difficult time destroying all of them. Hmm. Elliott pulled more papers from the desk drawer and began making copies of everything. He wasn’t a complete fool, after all. His wishes for Earnhurst weren’t compatible with James’s. Not at the moment. Or perhaps ever.
“Your Grace,” James Clay said abruptly, shoving open the door and strolling into the study, “allow me to introduce Lady Sophronia, daughter of the Earl of Hollister. Lady Sophronia, James Clay, the damned Duke of Earnhurst. She and the other chit are here to see the estate, and I thought you, the duke, would make for a better guide than I, the butler, possibly could. Your Grace.”
With that, the Duke of Earnhurst bowed and left the room.
Elliott stared after him. What the devil? It took him a good handful of seconds to notice the pair of women eyeing him as if he had a horn growing out of his forehead. He stood. Right. This morning he seemed to be a duke. Unexpected or not, at least he wouldn’t embarrass the title. “Lady Sophronia. My apologies, but we are not open to visitors at this time,” he said, though why the actual duke couldn’t have gotten rid of them the same way, he had no idea. A question for later. One of many.
The tall lady wearing a purple gown topped by a giant purple bonnet over slightly disheveled ringlets of light-colored hair curtsied, followed a moment later by her dark-haired companion in her more modest dress and straw bonnet, both of them still staring at him intently. He felt like staring, himself. And possibly fleeing.
James Clay was a master at avoiding responsibility, but this was something else. And as the recipient of a temporarily pawned-off dukedom, Elliott wondered just what sort of comical figure he cut. A man of business, yes. A former soldier, yes. But a duke? How did one even pretend such a thing?
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the better-dressed lady said with a bright smile that showed too many teeth to be sincere. “We of course didn’t mean to disturb you. The newspapers all put you still in London, and as I happened to be passing this way, I couldn’t resist. Earnhurst’s beauty is renowned.”
“I was in London until three days ago,” he lied, ignoring the flattery that firstly didn’t apply to him, and secondly, hadn’t applied to Earnhurst for at least the last four or five years. “And I’m afraid you won’t find my home at its finest. I’ve been very neglectful, it seems,” he explained, glancing toward the open door and hoping His actual Grace might be listening. “No doubt part of my general aversion to duty.”
“I… don’t know how to respond to that,” Lady Sophronia said, her smile faltering as she glanced at her companion. The black-haired woman simply looked dismayed.
Yes, his reply had been a bit much, however long he’d had those words bottled up in his chest. Elliott shrugged. “I’m here in Dorset now, however,” he said, relenting, “so I suppose I must do something about the state of my, well, estate.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” the lady offered with another smile that looked more like a grimace. “I have to say, we found the front drive rather… uneven. I nearly bounced to the floor, and my coach is quite well-sprung.”
The expression wrinkled her nose in a rather charming manner. Beneath her giant purple bonnet, her hair was too blond to be brown, and too brown to be blond. In a horse the color would be called chestnut, but Elliott didn’t think a word existed to describe it in a lady. Caramel, perhaps. Or amber gold. Her eyes were green and met his squarely, and that surprised him. Most aristocrats ignored the duke’s man of business. And he’d previously observed that most people didn’t attempt to stare down a duke. Not the Duke of Earnhurst, at least.
Why was she frowning, though? Ah, yes. She’d been complaining about the carriage drive. “Yes,” he said aloud. “I’ll add the drive to the list of necessary repairs. Thank you for reminding me. We’re to hold a wedding here in six weeks, and we can’t have guests breaking their necks or carriages breaking their axles.”
In fact, returning Earnhurst to its proper condition in time for the wedding had ostensibly been the reason James Clay had finally left London for Dorset, so at least his explanations weren’t entirely fictional. This lady was here for a tour, though, not a potful of gossip she could spoon out to her peers in London—though she would undoubtedly have her utensils ready if the occasion arose.
Still, his reluctance to supply any gossip didn’t erase the fact that James Clay had been driving him to madness for half a decade. It had taken him threatening to leave his position by week’s end to drag the new duke out of London. And that threat had only worked because there was also an impending wedding hanging over the new Earnhurst. Those monumental undertakings were the reason the new duke’s threats to sack him lacked bite; they both knew that without Elliott Riniken there, Earnhurst would never be rendered palatable in time.
“I’d heard a wedding was in the offing. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask for his opinion of the bride-to-be. Lady Margaret Pinwell was a name on an agreement that he meant to see honored in Richard Clay’s absence, whatever Richard’s son thought of it all.
Lady Sophronia continued gazing at him as if she expected him to respond with more information. “We of course don’t mean to take you from your duties, Your Grace,” she said, her large bonnet bobbing again, “but would it be possible for me to take just a quick tour of the house? We were told at the Falconers Inn that Earnhurst is open for visitors most of the year.”
“I’ll have to inform the Falconers’ innkeeper that he is mistaken.” In the past, the house had welcomed visitors nearly all the year round, and the grounds had been widely praised by all. They’d closed upon the duke’s death, but as the official mourning period had ended, he could see why the innkeeper had responded as he had.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Sophronia said, looking mournful. “I’m actually making a tour of the great country houses between my home in Devon and my destination in London. Yesterday was Somerset. Earnhurst was to be the jewel in my visiting crown.”
The last thing he needed was something to distract him from the required hounding of the Duke of Earnhurst. Six weeks was a damnably short time to restore a ruin, and if James’s bride-to-be and her family saw the estate as it was now, they would cry off the agreement. That would mean neither he nor James Clay had fulfilled Richard Clay, the Duke of Earnhurst’s, last wishes—and that couldn’t—wouldn’t—be allowed to happen. “I—”
“We don’t require an escort,” Lady Sophronia went on, “though I’m certain Your Grace would have insights to share that we could never learn on our own.”
The younger woman shifted, her expression oddly uncomfortable. “Lady Sophronia, if he doesn’t wish us here, perhaps we shouldn’t trouble him further. The—”
“Nonsense,” he heard himself say. The actual Duke of Earnhurst had declined to be bothered. He had also appeared to be drunk. James, however, wasn’t the duke for the next hour or so, and he’d declared it so himself. Perhaps Elliott could voice a mild criticism or two in the younger man’s hearing that would finally light a fire under his arse. If not, well, it would keep him from having an apoplexy if he could express his frustration about a few things aloud. Allow some steam out of the boiling pot, as it were. “Of course I’ll show you about. It would be my pleasure to do so.”
“Oh, splendid!”
“Let’s begin with the upstairs and work our way back down. This way, my lady.”
“Certainly,” Lady Sophronia agreed, and put a hand over his proffered forearm.
She had a firm grip, which he appreciated. While he didn’t have much occasion to formally escort ladies of the ton, he’d seen women slip and fall simply because they were too delicate to hang on properly to a gentleman in their company. That was what a damned escort was for, for God’s sake. “Might I ask your family name?” he queried. “I’m not familiar with the Earl of Hollister.”
She lifted an eyebrow, an artful move that made her look quizzical, amused, and slightly skeptical all at the same time. That was a look, there. He nearly complimented her on it, until he remembered that James no doubt received looks like that all the time.
“I have spent most of my time recently in London, though,” he went on, acknowledging to himself that his acquaintance with the haut ton began and ended with those aristocrats whom Richard Clay had invited to visit Earnhurst Castle. “Is it possible your father has not?”
“My father does prefer the country,” Lady Sophronia conceded, her expression easing. “My family name is Frumple.”
Oh, good God. “Lady Sophronia Frumple,” he said aloud. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I, yours.” The young lady behind her bumped into her employer as they paused at the foot of the main staircase, and she jumped a little. “If I may, this is my companion, Mabel Gooster.”
Another unfortunate name. “Miss Mabel,” he said, inclining his head and fairly certain that dukes did not generally acknowledge servants or staff of other households. Well, he was pretending to be a duke for an hour so he could perhaps gauge what the reaction of James’s peers to the sight of the house in its present condition might be, use that as ammunition against James, and then be rid of the pretty young ladies in time for afternoon tea.
They climbed the stairs, and he glanced at the earl’s daughter again. “Keep to the wall,” he advised. “The railing is beginning to loosen in spots.”
“How is it that Earnhurst has a wobbly balustrade?” Lady Sophronia asked, extending an imperious finger to nudge the dusty mahogany. It gave slightly. “You must have, what, a thousand acres here? And an income most men would envy.”
“Indeed we—I—do, Lady Sophronia. A thousand acres exactly. Was that a guess, or have you been looking into the estate?”
The lady snorted in a very unimperious way. “As I said, I’m touring all the grand houses in the area. According to rumor, this is one of the finest, not just in Dorsetshire, but in all of England.”
“Three or four years ago, it was,” Elliott said, his brow furrowing as he reflected that it was longer ago than that. It would still have been a jewel if James had bothered to reconcile with his father, to come home and set things right, to do as he’d repeatedly been asked—and then ordered.
Even after inheriting all of this, the new Duke of Earnhurst had favored playing cards over reviewing entreaties, and had walked right up to the edge of propriety by attending small dinners and card parties rather than observing the required customary strict mourning dictated by the death of a parent.
In fact, why the devil was he working so hard to protect the new duke’s reputation? It was Richard Clay to whom he owed his allegiance. Not his damned scapegrace of a son. “My… father’s illness was graver than I realized,” Elliott went on, catching sight of the duke lugging a chair through the foyer. Hmm. He must have lost a wager to one of the footmen. “I should have returned home and seen to things, but alas, I’m a frivolous fellow. Some might even call me a villain.”
“You shouldn’t view yourself so harshly,” Lady Sophronia said, accompanying him toward the upstairs ballroom. “We all mourn in our own way. And you’re here now.”
“So I am. We’ll see if I can be bothered to set things right or not.”
“Is that in doubt?” Lifting an eyebrow again, the expression less amused this time, the lady sent another glance at her companion. “This can’t be satisfactory to you. Not with a marriage in the offing.”
“It’s all distractions, keeping me away from my very fine life in London. I do like my drink, you know, and there’s no finding a good game of cards here. The countryside is positively uncivilized.” Below them, he thought he heard James cursing. Good. “In fact, I’m inebriated at this very moment. I’m a complete blackguard, really.”
“Your Grace, you shouldn’t say—”
“Over there is the billiards room, and that’s the music room,” he interrupted. “The first of three upstairs sitting rooms is on the right, and this one has a view of the pond and both follies on the far bank. The sight used to be awe-inspiring.” He caught sight of the young miss in the yellow gown opening the door to the music room. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The roof ha—”
“The roof has gone,” she finished, her cheeks growing pale. “And the pianoforte is ruined.” She pulled the door closed again. “My lady, perhaps we should—”
“Surely you’ve been jesting, Your Grace,” her employer interrupted. “The repairs must be made.”
“Yes, one would think I ought to have accomplished something by now, wouldn’t one?”
The actual Duke of Earnhurst cleared his throat from the top of the stairs. Ah, he’d followed them up. Pride could be very predictable. And useful. “Your Grace,” His Grace said, “should I take over the tour for you? You being inebriated and all.”
Elliott waved him away, even as he admitted to himself that he was being petty. Sometimes once a man had taken all he could, something had to give way. Even if that something was his hold on his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous, James. It’s good to have an appreciative audience. I’m warming to the subject.”
“His Grace exaggerates, of course,” James said, turning to the ladies with a forced smile that still managed to look pleasant.
Indeed, James Clay always looked pleasant. Tall, handsome, charming—according to rumor the new duke had always been welcome at every house and soiree in Mayfair and every unmarried woman’s bedchamber. To his late father’s despair, the Pirate lived up to his roguish nickname and looked every inch a damned well-favored gentleman while behaving completely contrary to one. “Do I exaggerate?” Elliott asked mildly. “Please, enlighten me.”
“Yes. His Grace has had a great deal of responsibility placed on his shoulders all at once, and little instruction as to his future duties.”
“Yes, but I’ve known for better than five years that Earnhurst was being neglected. Anyone with any sense of responsibility whatsoever would have come to see to his duties well before now, and yet I remained in London, drinking and wagering. I’m an inveterate gambler, Lady Sophronia.”
The actual duke’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Your Grace,” James Clay insisted. “If—”
“I’m going to be ill,” the younger woman, Mabel Gooster, blurted.
Lady Sophronia immediately released Elliott’s arm and whirled around to face her companion. “Dear? What—”
“I need to leave.” One hand over her mouth, the woman reversed course. She ran for the stairs, her employer on her heels.
“Meg—Megrim, Mabel?” Lady Sophronia called, hiking her skirts in her haste to follow. James dodged out of the women’s way rather like a matador avoiding a charge by bulls.
It didn’t seem proper for a man, even a supposedly inebriated duke, to remain behind when a young lady was in distress, however, so Elliott Riniken strode after them as quickly as he could with that damned ball still in his knee. Evidently, he would now have to add “clean up vomit from the stairs” to his list of suggested tasks for the duke to direct.
At the top of the stairs, Mabel clutched the railing—which chose that moment to give way. She tottered for a moment, flinging herself backward, away from the edge, and then tripped and rolled down the half dozen steps to sprawl on the landing on her face—her plain yellow dress flung up over her head, her bonnet hanging off one ear, and one shoe tumbling down the remainder of the stairs without her.
“Oh, no!” Lady Sophronia screeched, cautiously following her companion down.
What the devil? The banister had been loose, but for God’s sake. As he hurried down, James, moving more quickly, made his way past Elliott, past Lady Sophronia, and stepped around the young companion to crouch with his head level to the prostrate woman’s. “Are you alive?” he asked, reaching out to flip her gown back down where it belonged with more care than Elliott might have expected. No doubt he had a great deal of experience with women’s clothing being in disarray, however.
The young lady lifted her head to look at him, and the duke pushed her bonnet back from her eyes. “I think I’ve hurt my foot,” she said.
“Help her up!” Lady Sophronia demanded, beginning to shove up her sleeves and then abruptly stopping to flap her hands like a distressed bird.
“Don’t move her,” Elliott countermanded, picking his way past the purple woman.
As he got closer, he could see the girl’s right foot twisted and wedged between two of the remaining rails. It was probably fortunate that the stairs had caught her up. Otherwise, she might have fallen headfirst all the way down to the foyer.
“I’m not moving her,” James stated, his words only slurring a little. “But clearly she can’t remain on the landing. People will trip over her.”
Elliott squatted behind her. “I apologize, Miss Mabel, but I’m going to have to take hold of your foot. It’s wedged between two rails.”
“Please do,” she said, lowering her head to her folded arms. “I have no wish to remain on the landing and be tripped over.”
Shifting to avoid looming over her, Elliott took hold of her foot and ankle. Both already looked swollen, he noted, as he carefully guided her foot sideways and then encouraged her to bend her knee so he could free her. “I’m no doctor,” he said, “but I believe your ankle to be sprained.” He looked up, meeting James’s gaze. Well, the new duke bore the responsibility for this mess, as well, so he would have to bear the consequences. “James, send Timothy out to the stable and have him ask Robert to fetch Dr. Grimsby.”
“Yes, at once!” Lady Sophronia seconded, waving a hand at James as she leaned over her employee. “Can you hear me, my dear?”
“I hurt my ankle, not my ears,” the companion said, sending a frown at her employer. She must have caught Elliott’s expression, because she winced. “My lady,” she added belatedly. “I apologize. It must be the horrible pain I’m in.”
“Of course, Mabel. Don’t think twice about it. Please, help her up, Your Grace. And see her to a bed.”
Elliott’s knee twinged at the mere thought of standing up again, much less carrying the young lady. “I—”
“I’ll see to it, Your Grace,” James interrupted, either unexpectedly thoughtful or unable to resist carrying young women about. “You’re inebriated.” With little discernable effort he flipped the young lady onto her back and swept her up into his arms.
She squeaked. “Please, sir! A warning before you fling me about like a rag doll would be appreciated.”
The actual Duke of Earnhurst glanced down at her. “Duly noted, Miss Mabel. Mabel what?”
“Gooster.”
“The hell you say.”
“I do say. Are you drunk, as well?” she asked, sliding her arms around his neck as they ascended the stairs once more. “You smell like wine.”
“Do I? I must have spilled some on myself down in the cellar while I was wrestling a bottle away from His Grace.”
Lady Sophronia seemed genuinely distraught over her companion’s injury, so Elliott ignored the dig to offer his arm again. “We’ll send for the doctor immediately, my lady,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “James, not that room. The green bedchamber. Second one down on the right.” It was the room he’d been using, but he didn’t want to have to listen to Lady Sophronia express her dismay at sheet-covered furniture and dusty mantels and the general muddle of the other, unused rooms. God knew they’d made a poor-enough impression already, and he’d helped with that. Damnation.
“Who is that fellow?” Sophronia asked, lowering her voice as she indicated James in front of them. “He was quite rude when he admitted us to your home. In fact, he nearly slammed the door on us. And he smells of liquor, while you do not.”
She was an astute one. They were lucky she hadn’t already seen through this nonsense. None of the aristocracy would tolerate a commoner pretending to be a duke, no matter the circumstances. If the girl’s ankle was only bruised they could be on their way with no one the wiser, but it was near enough to a disaster that it shook him a little. “Ah. That is… James… Riniken, my butler,” he decided. “He’s new.”
James set Miss Mabel down on the bed, still using more care than Elliott expected given his haphazard approach to everything else at Earnhurst Castle. “Right. Off to see to fetching the doctor, Your Grace,” he said, giving Elliott a sideways glance as he straightened.
Good. Evidently the duke also realized he’d placed them in a precarious position. “Send Timothy to Robert in the stable,” Elliott reminded him.
“I’ll go to the stable myself, Your Grace. Quicker that way.”
That, and James more than likely didn’t know which footman was which, but Elliott didn’t say that aloud as the duke headed out of the room for the stairs. “Miss Mabel, we should remove your shoe,” he said, approaching the bed. “I am willing to do it, or I will instruct Lady Sophronia in doing so, if you deem that more appropriate, my lady.”
“Lady Sophronia, would you see to it please?” The younger woman raised up on her elbows to look down at her feet. “It hurts quite a bit. Oh, and I’ve lost my other shoe.”
“It’s down in the foyer, where I’m very glad you didn’t end up, as well.” The lady sank down on the end of the bed. “Oh, dear, your ankle is swollen! Your entire foot is. I may not be able to remove the shoe.”
Elliott cleared his throat. “It must be done, I’m afraid. I have some experience in these matters.” The companion’s ankle was already turning black and blue, a sure sign of at least a bad sprain.
Lady Sophronia grasped the brown walking shoe and tried to slide it off her companion’s heel. When the younger woman gasped, the older one clucked her tongue sympathetically and shifted her hands. Whoever they were, this Lady Sophronia seemed a gener ous, caring soul. The devil knew he’d seen companions and maids sacked for having a temporary facial blemish, and yet here this lady sat, tending her own servant’s injury.
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” the lady said, sitting back. “Your Grace, do you have a knife?”
“You are not cutting off my foot,” Mabel protested, sitting up straight.
“I’m cutting off your shoe.” Sophronia held out a hand to Elliott. “Your Grace?” she prompted again.
He didn’t know whether dukes, as a rule, carried knives on their persons. Richard Clay had, but the previous Earnhurst had been a general in the army. As for himself, well, he’d served as a sergeant for years, and a duke for less than an hour. Elliott reached into his boot and slid out the short, curved blade from its concealed sheath. “Have a care,” he said, placing the hilt into Lady Sophronia’s palm. “It’s sharp.”
“I should hope so,” she commented. Deftly she sliced the strap off the shoe, and then down both sides of the foot. In a moment she had the thing off and dropped to the floor.
“Oh, that feels much better,” Miss Mabel commented, sinking back flat with a groan. “I’ll be fine now, I’m certain.”
Sophronia deftly flipped the knife in her hand to offer it back to Elliott, hilt first. “A fine blade,” she commented. “Gurkhan, yes?”
Surprised that she had the slightest idea of the weapon’s origins, he nodded, sliding it back into its curved sheath. “Yes. A kukri.”
“You’ve been to Nepal, then.”
The lady knew her knives and their geography. And how to handle a blade. Hmm. “And India, and wherever a battle seemed most likely in the offing.”
She lifted both eyebrows. “And you a duke? That seems dangerous.”
Damn. He shouldn’t have admitted to that. “Having the world settled benefits dukes, as well,” he said, quoting one of the old duke’s favorite sayings.
“So it does. My father was a military man. Th—”
“My lady,” the companion interrupted. “Might I have a private word with you?”
Elliott shook himself. “Ah. I’ll be downstairs, awaiting Dr. Grimsby.” And wondering to himself why a lady who knew a Gurkha knife on sight and who tended injuries without hesitation would wear such an elaborate gown for a daytime tour of a supposedly empty house.