Page 6 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER FIVE

CLARA BOSLEY

“Why are things continuing to get worse?” Meg asked, craning her neck to look over at the dressing table. “This is a man’s bedchamber? I can’t recline in a man’s bedchamber.”

“As long as he’s not in it, I believe your reputation will be fine. And I’m here, as well,” Clara said dryly, more curious than concerned. Then again, propriety and being a proper, demure woman had never concerned her much. The latter two especially were far more trouble than they were worth.

“Whose bedchamber could it be, though? The duke didn’t say anything about other visitors.”

Clara walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the oak doors. Sitting about and asking questions when answers were present was silly. The room was definitely occupied, and if her assessment of the duke’s wardrobe was correct, it was occupied by him. Plain coats, a selection of good-quality white shirts, trousers and breeches that looked more practical than fashionable, and some mid-quality ironed cravats.

“This is Earnhurst’s bedchamber,” she stated, facing Meg again. “I’d wager on it.”

“But this isn’t the master bedchamber,” her niece protested, taking in the view from the bed again and scrunching up her face. “It can’t be. It’s not grand enough.”

“Perhaps his actual bedchamber ceiling has collapsed or something.” That made sense, given the condition of the rest of the manor. “In which case, he’s given you, more or less a servant, his bed. That speaks well of him. Even if it’s only been proffered for the time it takes for the doctor to wrap up your ankle.”

“I don’t want to be in his bed, even if he has no idea who I am.”

Clara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push all the nonsense out of her mind. She did like solving puzzles, and she was perfectly aware that while generally the eight years that stood between her age and Meg’s seemed no time at all, there were moments when she felt much, much older.

She certainly knew her own faults, one of which was occasionally attempting to make knots out of perfectly straight strings. And the Duke of Earnhurst had been a confusion of tangles since before he’d opened his mouth. This unexpected gesture only added to the mystery. “I understand your objections, Meg, but you’re injured.”

“But you’re giving him credit for being gentlemanly!”

“I am looking for the logic behind his actions. If he’s already been pushed out of the master bedchamber due to circumstances and now he’s given this one up to you without hesitation, that is a mark of good character. In anyone.” And it better fit with the man who’d stood before her than any of his ramblings about being drunk. Because he hadn’t looked drunk. He’d looked… solid. Steady. A straightforward man with a straightforward mustache. At this moment her foremost question was why anyone had decided to call him the Pirate, of all things.

Meg snorted, shaking her out of her silly meanderings. “I’d like to remind you that these circumstances were created by his own negligence,” her niece said. “And his charity depends on whether there are any other usable beds to be had. If this is the only habitable bedchamber, he really had no choice, did he?”

“He thinks you a servant, Meg. His Grace might have had you flung upon a couch, I suppose, or out the front door, but my point was that he saw you deposited on the closest serviceable bed, no matter to whom it might belong.”

“Auntie, I know you scoff at the fortuity of birth creating a gentleman here and a fishmonger there, but isn’t being gentlemanly what a gentleman is supposed to do? Don’t praise him for merely staying between the lines. He’s certainly failed in every other possible arena—and that’s after only thirty minutes of conversation and a tour of this disaster. The sooner we leave, the better.”

Well, Clara couldn’t fault Meg for that logic. And she herself had no reason to support either folly or tradition. “You’re correct, of course,” Clara said aloud, trying to shake off the strange… wistfulness that had enveloped her since their arrival. She was the cynic. Meg was the hopeful one. “I’m just… I suppose I expected to be the one pointing out new Earnhurst’s many character flaws. Now that we’ve met him and he’s pointed them all out himself, well, I might as well have stayed home.”

“You are supremely necessary to me and my failing courage.”

Clara smiled. “Thank you for that. But we’re finished here, aren’t we? It’s truly time to leave and to find you someone else.” She sighed. “I hate giving up on a mystery before it’s entirely solved. And yes, I did enjoy being Lady Sophronia for a few hours. With a little more time, I think I could turn her into a force to be reckoned with.”

“Ha. You already are, Auntie.”

Aside from her fun with Sophronia, she’d wanted to discuss new Earnhurst’s unexpected military background with the man. From his much-discussed antics in London, she would never have thought him once a soldier. That spoke well of him, too—unless he’d made it up. Hmm. Why would he go to that risk, though?

A knock sounded at the door. Swiftly she shut the wardrobe and walked over to pull the door open. “Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head. Lady Sophronia needed to be present for a few more minutes, at least, until they could return to the inn for their things and be on their way.

The duke inclined his head, his dark brown eyes meeting hers in a way that felt… earnest. Honest. Not at all the clever-tongued rogue that gossip painted him to be. “Lady Sophronia, Miss Mabel, this is Dr. Grimsby.” He entered the room and stepped aside to make way for a short, stout man and his large leather bag.

“My lady,” the older man said, bowing.

“Doctor. Please see to my companion. I worry she’s broken her ankle.”

“Of course.” Hefting his satchel, he approached the bed. “The duke there says he thinks it’s a sprain, and the man does know his injuries, but I’ll take a look.”

Clara lifted an eyebrow. In her experience, dukes knew nothing about wounds and injuries, but if Earnhurst actually did, it seemed he could indeed have the battle experience he’d claimed. She hoped his assessment was correct; a broken leg would keep Meg from dancing this Season as surely as being forced into full mourning for a man she’d never met had done last year, and her niece certainly didn’t deserve that. She might have done her own assessment, but with a doctor on his way, her poking and prodding at Meg’s injury seemed both mean and redundant.

Meg stayed propped up on her elbows, watching the physician like a hawk as he carefully bent her ankle this way and that. “It’s not broken, is it?” her niece asked. “I’ve just wrenched it by being an idiot.”

Dr. Grimsby gave a brief grin. “I wish more of my patients would admit to their own part in causing their injuries, Miss. It’s not broken. But I’ll have to ask you to remove your stocking so I can take a better look at the bruising.”

“Oh, dear. Lady Sophronia, will you assist me again?” Meg asked.

“Certainly. Gentlemen, turn your backs, if you please.”

With most of her attention on the duke’s broad back, Meg rolled down her stocking as far as she could, at which point Clara took over, carefully sliding it past the swollen ankle and off over her niece’s toes. The injury looked supremely painful, already red and purple and swollen down to her toes and halfway up to her knee.

“Good heavens,” she exclaimed, wincing in sympathy. “We should have put a cold poultice on this ages ago.”

The doctor returned to the bed. “That is exactly what I will prescribe, my lady. The colder the better, half an hour on, and the same amount of time off. Keep it elevated, use a cane if you must walk, and otherwise make every effort to remain completely off it for the next week, and mostly off it for the week after that. And no carriage travel that lasts for longer than thirty minutes for the entire fortnight, unless you are able to lie on the seat with your foot in the air, Miss Mabel.”

“A fortnight!” Meg exclaimed, blanching again.

Damnation. Clara squeezed her eyes shut. Josephine and Gregory would be furious at the visit to Earnhurst and at the subterfuge, and at, well, everything. They would blame her for it, of course, and they would have to be informed; she and Meg didn’t have enough ready money to pay for a fortnight at the Falconers Inn. They’d expected to be at Earnhurst for an afternoon and to be in London two leisurely days after that.

Clara took a breath, opening her eyes again. She was an earl’s daughter today, a grand lady who was accustomed to being fawned over, and getting whatever it was she wanted. Like Meg, but horribly exaggerated and lofty. “Don’t worry your head, Mabel,” she soothed, patting her niece’s hand before she turned to face the duke. “This accident was the fault of your awful stairs. You merely said it was weak in spots—not that it had begun to collapse. I insist that you see my companion cared for and with a bed for the next fortnight.”

“I—”

“And I’ll be needing suitable quarters for myself, of course,” she interrupted. “I do not travel without my companion.” Clara thought for a moment. “Especially as I am without a maid. I had to hand the silly thing her papers last week, so I’ve been relying entirely on Mabel.” There. At least that explained her maidless situation. Well done, Clara.

The Duke of Earnhurst blinked. “If you’ll allow me a few moments, I will see to it,” he said a moment later, though his expression didn’t seem as polite as it had been.

“Excellent,” she said, turning away so he wouldn’t see the abrupt relief on her face. “Is there anything else, Doctor?”

The physician looked from her to the duke. “I think I’ve said all I need to say. If Your Grace would be kind enough to walk me out?”

“Certainly, Dr. Grimsby.”

Once the two women were alone again, Clara collapsed into a chair. “Oh, my,” she breathed, fanning her face with one hand.

“That was… spectacular,” Meg stated. “I almost thought you were Mama, for a moment.”

“Please. She would have had Dr. Grimsby sleeping on the floor beside you for the duration of your convalescence. But you know we can’t afford to stay at the inn until your ankle is healed. I didn’t budget for an extended stay in the country.”

Meg grimaced. “We could stay there, but I appreciate you not putting either of us in the position of surrendering to my mother and father yet and admitting to this fiasco.” She sank back on the bed. “I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into so much trouble, Auntie.”

“Never mind that. You know by now I don’t allow myself to be dragged into anything. I chose to have this adventure with you. I wanted to do so. I only wish I’d been fast enough to grab you before you fell.”

“I’m quite stubborn about fleeing, apparently. And now I’m the reason we have to remain. Irony, thy name is Mabel Gooster.” Pulling one of the two pillows from behind her head, Meg held it up. “Will you elevate my foot, please, my lady?”

Clara took the pillow from her and gingerly lifted her niece’s foot to place it atop the fluffy thing. “Ah, that. Our assumed characters will be staying on, it seems. Now I’m wishing I’d chosen a more meaningful name for myself. ‘Independence,’ perhaps. Or ‘Dragon.’ And I’m afraid you are stuck with being Miss Mabel Gooster for the next fortnight.”

Meg chuckled. “‘Lady Sophronia Dragon.’ I do adore that.” Her expression lowering, she gazed at Clara for a moment. “You know you’ll no doubt have to dine with Earnhurst this evening,” she said, in the same tone that someone might use to announce that a beloved pet had expired. “Perhaps every evening.”

An unfamiliar course of shivers ran up Clara’s spine. Not even Meg, apparently, had any faith that she could carry herself like an actual lady for an entire evening. “You mean I’ll have to behave myself and not discuss the elevation of Society as a whole which would occur upon women being given the bloody right to vote? I shall do my utmost.”

Navigating all of this was going to be a unique experience, to say the least. And it was the first time she could recall being grateful for her brother-in-law’s extended and snobbish family of lords and ladies, and her own sister’s swiftly adopted aristocratic ways. Even growing up as a member of the landed gentry had seemed altogether too high-handed, and now she was an earl’s daughter. Good heavens.

Clapping her hands together, she turned for the door. “Will you be all right here alone for a few minutes while I send Wilson back to the inn for our trunks?”

“Of course. You’ll have to swear him to secrecy all over again if he’s to lodge at the stable with the duke’s grooms. And if by chance you discover that new Earnhurst is secretly a gallant and gentlemanly fellow and not a blackguard and a drunk who doesn’t give a crack if his guests fall to their deaths, please do inform me. It would be good to know we’re not lodging with an ogre, I suppose, as counter as that is to our reasons for coming here.”

“You shall be the first I tell.”

“Oh, and a book would be a lovely diversion.”

“A shame you didn’t bring the women of property book with you.”

“Yes, because that wouldn’t be suspicious at all, Clara.”

As she reached the main staircase, Clara noted once again how very quiet the house seemed. There should have been dozens of servants about, things clattering, brooms sweeping, at least one additional bedchamber being opened, et cetera. Instead, silence. Oh, except for the sound of two men conversing in a hushed tone in the foyer as she reached the staircase. She started to lean over the remaining railing to eavesdrop, then realized that would be putting her life in danger.

Instead, she cleared her throat, moved as close as she could to the wall, and descended the stairs. The duke came into view, one arm outstretched as he pointed a finger at the door. In front of him stood the butler, his finger jabbed directly at the Duke of Earnhurst. Well, that was irregular.

“I hope you’re discussing the immediate repair of that staircase,” she said, pointing her finger behind her. “Mabel—or I—might have been killed!”

The new duke lowered his arm. “We are, indeed, my lady,” he stated. “James here was just reminding me of that and the many other equally urgent tasks ahead of us.”

Clara lifted an eyebrow at the butler. He had to be six feet tall, well-built, almost ridiculously handsome with his wavy brown hair and light gray eyes, and he couldn’t possibly have been older than thirty—very young indeed to have become the butler of such a high-status manor. “Thank you for carrying my companion to safety,” she said. “And she was correct; you do smell like a wine cellar.”

The butler inclined his head. “As I said, it was the result of a spill. I’ll go at once and change.” Straightening, he eyed the duke. “Your Grace.”

He made as if to head for the stairs behind her, then turned an abrupt circle and walked toward the back of the house, where the kitchen and the servants’ quarters would be. This James must have been a very new employee indeed, if he couldn’t remember where he was quartered.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Carvey the cook to fetch some ice from the cold room in the cellar and prepare a poultice,” Earnhurst said as he returned his attention to her. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Yes. If you would, please summon my driver, Wilson. I’ll have him return to the Falconers Inn for Mabel’s and my luggage. May I assume he will be permitted to room with your stable staff? And I trust a suitable room is being prepared for me?”

Just saying such lofty things made her want to giggle, and she looked down for a moment while she attempted to stop herself from smiling. Generally, she didn’t condone ordering people about, but when it was her telling a duke what to do, well, that was a different kettle of fish entirely.

“I… Yes, of course. We are somewhat short staffed, but of course you will have a bedchamber. Do you wish to be near your companion, or in the east wing?”

“Near Mabel, if you please. Her mother was a dear friend, and I feel somewhat responsible for her, the poor thing. She’s like a sister to me.” That sounded reasonable, anyway.

“You look to be nearly the same age,” the duke commented. “How is it that her mother was so dear to you?”

Clara felt a muscle beneath her eye twitch. How did one explain that she and Meg were closer in age than she and her own sister, Josephine? “Her mother practically raised me,” she said, as that was only a slight exaggeration. Josephine was fifteen years her elder, and Jo had enjoyed ordering her about on every possible occasion. “Mabel and I are quite close.”

“I thought so, given your reaction to her injury.” He looked at her for a moment. “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “perhaps I might show you to the morning room while someone fetches your driver? And I’ll have tea and sandwiches set out, if you’ll be kind enough to wait while we open a room for you.”

“Certainly.” She was famished, after all. Meg probably was, as well, but she wasn’t quite sure how one would go about asking for a servant to be fed. At home she frequently dined with Mary, her housekeeper, something which she knew Josephine frowned upon, but she and Mary enjoyed it. That, though, was neither here nor there. “I’m actually not at all dismayed to remain in the country a bit longer. I do enjoy it here—despite the misfortune which has caused the delay.”

Yes, she needed to be a lady who didn’t spend much time in London. It would explain why she didn’t know the duke already, and why he would never see her again after this fortnight. She hadn’t discussed it with Meg, but it seemed as solid a plan as any they’d concocted since they’d left Brundon Hall.

“You are a very kind young lady,” Earnhurst said, sketching a shallow bow. “This way to the morning room, if you please.”