Page 7 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER SIX

JAMES CLAY

The actual Duke of Earnhurst walked through the kitchen and past the servants’ quarters to the narrow set of servants’ stairs at the back of the house. Making his way upstairs from there, he then had to navigate back to the front of the house, avoiding the hallway where the companion was resting, and tiptoe all the way to the end of the west wing where the master bedchamber was located.

Glancing over his shoulder to make certain no sightseeing women were in the hallway, he shoved open his door, crossed inside, then shut and locked it behind himself. “A damned fortnight,” he muttered, dropping into the chair set beneath the garden window.

As much as he wanted to blame Elliott Riniken for the disaster, even he could see that he’d done it to himself in trying to spite the man of business. Still, Riniken could have told him the news—that their uninvited guests had now been invited to stay on for a fortnight and that he would have to serve as Earnhurst’s butler for that long—without that damned smirk on his face.

Sitting forward, James set his elbows on his knees and ducked his head to drag his fingers through his dark brown hair. When he’d awakened this morning at a fashionably late hour he’d been a duke, even if he’d been much more pleased with his life before the new title had come to him. Back then, no one had dared inform him he smelled like wine—or at least, no one did it twice.

Back then, two attractive women calling on his residence meant a sweaty, satisfying night in bed and probably well into the next day. “Idiot,” he muttered. If, when he’d opened the front door, he’d simply admitted to being the Duke of Earnhurst, he might have said something suitably rude and sent the women on their way.

But now that the pretend duke had guided the women on a tour which had ended in disaster and had then agreed to have them stay for a fortnight, James was a butler who’d been sent to his butler quarters to change out of his ostensibly wine-stained butler clothes. And unless he wanted all of Mayfair declaring him a lunatic when Lady Sophronia arrived in Town and began gossiping, he was going to have to quietly remain a butler for the duration of her stay and then hope never to encounter her in London.

A rap sounded at his door. “Your Grace?”

Well, that wouldn’t do. Rising, he strode to the door and yanked it open. “Get in here, Goodfrey.”

The valet bowed and sidestepped into the bedchamber. Tall and thin, Goodfrey reminded him of an obsequious snake with arms and legs, a man who slithered bonelessly and silently to wherever he happened to be needed.

“Your Grace, I heard the most alarming thing,” the valet said, and for a second James expected to see a forked tongue flick out from between his lips. “That country doctor called that despicable Mr. Riniken ‘Your Grace.’ Can you believe the temerity of the man?”

“Generally, Goodfrey, I enjoy your fawning and unctuousness. And the unfailingly amusing gossip you gather. Today, however, be quiet and find me something plain and black to wear and be quick about it.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

James sat again. The pretty maid, or companion, or whatever she was, had scared the deuce out of him, falling like that. Whatever had set her off, she’d nearly broken her neck in her hurry to leave Earnhurst. She’d utterly ruined the pleasant haze he’d been enjoying, and whatever he smelled like, he felt distinctly sober now.

At least she’d had a sense of humor, despite her unfortunate name. Mabel Gooster. Ha. Most of the women of his acquaintance would have been wringing their hands helplessly and fainting in embarrassment at having their legs exposed. They’d been nicely shaped legs, he recalled, extending beneath her short shift, and it still seemed odd that his first instinct had been to cover her again. Generally, being a gentleman was very nearly the last thing to occur to him. And that hadn’t been the only surprise today. Far from it. For one, this marked the first time he’d ever carried an attractive woman to bed and then left the room to send for someone else to see to her.

James snorted. God, what a tangle. And as usual, he’d made all the knots himself. Standing again, he turned to the window. Just to the right of the weed-riddled formal garden—complete with a cupid that had fallen arrow first off its pedestal—lay the old pond. It had had fish in it years ago, and a well-placed willow tree overhanging one edge and creating a small picnic area where he’d used to pretend to be a hermit or a pirate or an American Indian. And now, a grown man of nine-and-twenty years, he was pretending to be a butler. “If you’d been thinking, James,” he told himself, “you would have said you were a hermit. You’d have to live in a cave, certainly, but you wouldn’t be expected to wear servants’ livery.”

“A hermit’s rags would never suit you, Your Grace,” Goodfrey commented from the depths of the wardrobe. “No one would believe for a moment that a figure of such athleticism and attractiveness as yourself could be a hermit.”

“Well, this figure is going to be a butler for the next fortnight.”

Goodfrey straightened, banging his head on one of the wardrobe’s shelves. “Your Grace?”

Without going into detail, James caught his servant up on the latest nonsense he’d gotten himself into. “So, shirts, plainly-tied cravats, and black coats and trousers. The Earnhurst livery is green, but I do not own a green waistcoat, thank the devil. Perhaps an emerald pin.” He scowled. “No, an emerald won’t do. I’m a servant. Damnation.”

“But Your Grace, you put off your mourning clothes not even a week ago.”

“I’m well aware.”

“That experience was dreadful! The thought of extending it even for a fortnight is torture.”

“If it’s torturous for you, how do you think I feel?” James took a breath. “It’s necessary. As I mentioned, the best I can hope for is that Lady Sophronia leaves here and speaks ill of the state of Earnhurst Castle. The last thing I want is for London to spread tales of how I’m now pretending to be a butler and I’ve lost my mind. Prinny would have me carted off to Bedlam and my money and properties reverted to the Crown. He’s always coveted Earnhurst Castle, anyway.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t have beaten him at Derby.”

“He chose to wager on a short-chested nag. He deserved to lose.” Perhaps his “like gravitates to like” comment after his victory hadn’t been well-considered, but few things he did were well-considered. Today was only another example of that.

Who the devil was Lady Sophronia Frumple, anyway? He’d never heard the name, and since practically every member of the aristocracy at one point or another journeyed to London, he knew nearly everyone. Frumple was a memorable and devilish unfortunate name, to be sure, and he didn’t recall it.

No doubt she was the daughter of some minor title whose income was too negligible for him ever to be able to afford a family holiday to London, much less a formal Season for his offspring. In a sense that was a relief, because someone—especially a female someone—who’d spent any time in Mayfair amid the haut ton would have recognized him. He would have been discovered immediately as the new duke, and not only would his reputation have been further dented, but he would be the one forced to play host for a fortnight when he had a hundred other, better, things to do.

Another knock sounded at his door. “Enter,” he said, then remembered that he was the butler and shot to his feet, striding over to pretend to clear off the dressing table.

“We need to discuss a few things,” Riniken said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him as Goodfrey gave an offended gasp—though James wasn’t certain whether it was because of Riniken’s direct manner, or if it was at the sight of James picking up his own hairbrush.

“I already know what a muddle I’ve made,” James said, and set down his hairbrush again. “Even without you pointing it out. But how the devil was I to know that the maid would fall down the stairs?”

“She’s the companion; not the maid. The relation of a dear friend of Lady Sophronia’s, and so to be treated with respect.”

“Well, I’m the butler and not the duke, so I suppose we may all be whatever we wish today.”

“I still wish to be the valet,” Goodfrey muttered, returning to the wardrobe. “I am still the valet, yes?”

“Yes, Goodfrey. Clothes. Now.”

“Your Grace,” the estate manager said, rocking back on his heels, “you may make light of it, but we are in some trouble here. I don’t see how you can admit your true identity without destroying what remains of your reputation.”

“Yes, I’ve already considered that.”

That stopped the man of business for a moment. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “These ladies stopped by here on their way to London, and the Season is nearly upon us. Learning that a duke is pretending to be a butler would likely be the best bit of gossip they’ve ever imagined, and I cannot think of a reason they would keep the information to themselves. I’m only thankful Lady Sophronia doesn’t seem to have ever been to London before and is more fond of the countryside. You’ll be less likely to cross her path once you return, anyway. After your marriage, that is.”

Thank God for that. He disliked the idea of having to hide from anyone he hadn’t dallied with beforehand. “Good. I’m willing to be James your damned butler for a fortnight in exchange for avoiding a scandal. Another scandal. And congratulations, you can now see to the repair of the estate, Your Grace.” Actually, he hadn’t considered that previously. Responsibility for this mess handed over to the man his father would have preferred inherit it. The one positive turn in all this.

Until Riniken dashed it against the rocks. “No, I cannot see to the repair of the estate. I promised your father that I would advise you and carry out your orders, and I likewise promised him that I would wait for your orders.” He gestured vaguely around them. “And you can see that I have become proficient at waiting for you.”

“Yes, but I’m giving you the dukedom for a fortnight. Don’t tell me you aren’t tempted. Everything you’d like to see accomplished, in your grasp.”

“Not everything.”

Though he had a very good idea that the thing Riniken most wanted to see accomplished was James Clay disappearing, James nodded. “It was worth an attempt. None of this inspires me to action, however. I’m content to go back to Clay House to live, and you can wait for me here in the moldering ruins as long as you please.”

“If not for the wedding, I might consider ceasing my efforts.”

Now, James was tempted to break the agreement with the Earl of Brundon, regardless of how that would reflect on his reputation, the Earnhurst legacy, and whatever else dukes were supposed to care about. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

“Mr. Riniken,” Goodfrey interrupted, “if His Grace is to be a butler, he will need more appropriate buttling clothes. Did Austin leave any wardrobe behind?”

Facing his valet, James pointed at Riniken. “He is James Clay, the Duke of Earnhurst. His Grace. I am James, the butler. You will refer to us at all times in that manner. Is that clear, Goodfrey?”

Goodfrey hefted two black jackets and a pair of black trousers in his arms. “Before I answer that, I wish to extract a promise that you will not sack me later for acting in such a disrespectful manner toward my employer.”

“If I sack you, it’ll be because you infuriated me to the point that it was either that or murder. Not because you followed my orders.”

The valet inclined his head. “I will accept that, Your… James.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting to be struck by lightning.”

Riniken cleared his throat. “I believe Austin left a waistcoat behind, but he was also twice as wide as James here.”

“I’ll take it in, then. I’m more troubled that it’s green.”

James began to long for the wine cellar again. “Was there anything else, Your Grace?” he asked, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

“Yes. Most butlers go by their surnames. After you ambushed me, however, I inadvertently introduced you as James. James Riniken. I presume that you will go by Riniken from now on.”

“I will not.” James lifted an eyebrow, more angered by that suggestion than by the entire buttling business. They were changing positions for a fortnight, but he was not taking on Riniken’s identity. “I’m not going by your bloody name. You said I was new. Perhaps I’m a progressive, and I go by James. Or I don’t have a last name. Or I’m James James.”

Riniken looked as if he’d swallowed a bug. “I don’t recommend you making this mad household any madder, but so be it. I shall refer to you as James, but you’ll have to be James Riniken, since I’ve already informed Lady Sophronia that that is your full name.”

Of course he had. “You don’t have a choice either, James Clay. So, we’ll both be Jameses, I suppose.”

Riniken nodded. “It is a mess, but I’m… Though this wasn’t my doing, I am amenable to continuing with the charade.”

“Anything to protect Earnhurst and my father’s legacy. I know.” James glanced about the master bedchamber. It had been his father’s for some thirty years, and his for three days. He had no connection to it, other than being satisfied that he’d removed the animal heads and pointy war things that had adorned the walls. “You will lodge here, Your Grace. Goodfrey and I will move my things into the servants’ quarters, and he will serve you. And tie my cravats when we can manage it without being caught out.”

“Your Grace! I mean—Oh, this is madness,” Goodfrey moaned.

The man of business flushed. “That isn’t necessary, Your Grace. I will take a room close by here, and no one will be the wiser—as long as you use the servants’ stairway to come and go.”

“I’m not giving the room or my valet to you; I’m lending them to you for a fortnight. The butler would have had his own quarters, and that will do for the time being. It gives us less chance of being caught out at our nonsense, anyway.”

“I… Very well, Your Grace. That is a sound and reasonable tactic, even if the battle itself is very ill conceived.”

“James,” James corrected, inclining his head. “Your Grace.”

“This is not going to end well,” Riniken muttered, starting to bow, stopping himself, and backing to the doorway again.

“I don’t doubt that,” James seconded, somewhat mollified by the realization that at least in the former butler’s quarters he would be closer to the wine cellar. “I suggest you inform the staff. The last thing we need is for one of the footmen to call me ‘Your Grace’ in front of the women.”

“Good God. Yes. I’ll see to it.”

Once Riniken was gone, James had Goodfrey empty the wardrobe of whichever garments would be of use to him in his new quarters. “Transfer the plain, black things, the shirts, and the cravats. Everything else will have to go back into my trunks.”

“And how am I to dress… His Grace? From what I’ve seen of his wardrobe, he would never pass as a duke in Mayfair.”

“Luckily, we’re not in Mayfair. I’d loan him my things, but he’s a bit more broad-chested than I am. You’ll have to make do. Take him down to the tailor in the village and order some new garments. Put it to Earnhurst’s account.”

Riniken was three inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than he was. And nearly twelve years older than the actual current Duke of Earnhurst, but that hadn’t seemed to trouble Lady Sophronia or her companion, he realized belatedly. Perhaps they’d assumed that his years as a wastrel had aged him prematurely and caused him to allow a mustache to sprout on his face.

It was far more likely that becoming the duke is what would age him; just the idea of endless days filled with paperwork and listening to solicitors and squinting over ledgers and accounts and God knew what else had been giving him nightmares for the past year. Living someone else’s idea of a life, in a place he’d detested for more than a decade.

And then there was his marriage, six weeks away and the hands of the clock moving far too quickly for his peace of mind. He should have gone to meet Lady Margaret Pinwell, should have corresponded with her at the least, should have learned whether she was a shrew or a bluestocking or if she had overlarge ears or gaps in her teeth. But he’d done none of those things, asked none of those questions, because the answers didn’t matter.

If Richard Clay had still been alive, this marriage never would have happened. James would have fought him tooth and nail over it. But then the duke had gone and made himself unavailable. Unable to argue his side. And while in life James had disagreed with him over nearly everything that warranted an opinion, the man had left behind two last wishes.

And after not noticing the slide of the old duke’s health and vitality or the fact that his father had been willing to live in a collapsing house rather than go back on his demands that his son take charge of the property, James had decided, from his father’s last letter on, that the very least he could do to honor the old duke was to marry the woman Richard Clay had declared should be his marchioness. Or now, duchess.

After spending seven years in Mayfair and finding no one with whom he cared to spend his years, at least his father had saved him from making one poor choice on his own. Lady Margaret it would be. For better or worse. Probably worse.

“As a point of clarification, when you and I are alone, do I still refer to you as James?” Goodfrey asked.

“I don’t care, Goodfrey. Just don’t be overheard if you feel the need to ‘lordship’ or ‘Your Grace’ me. Now, help me carry my necessaries down to the servants’ quarters.”

“Oh, this is a horror.”

“I’m the one who’ll be wearing a green waistcoat. Don’t expect sympathy.”

Gathering up a large pile of clothing, the valet nodded. “I don’t ask for any. Serving Your Grace is reward enough.”

“Nicely done. Don’t drool on my things.”

Shoving his brush, shaving razor, and a handful of other necessaries into a discarded hatbox, James left his room, took a look up and down the hallway for golden-haired Lady Sophronia, the only woman mobile enough to be stalking about the house, and returned downstairs. The door to the butler’s quarters was locked, so he ordered Goodfrey to find the cook and obtain the key. The valet ceremoniously handed it over to him, bowing as if he was bestowing a knighthood.

“This is a key to a room in my own damned house,” he muttered, grabbing it to open the door and step inside—and stopping so quickly Goodfrey ran into him from behind.

A small, square room with olive green–painted walls, the butler’s quarters featured a narrow, neat bed, a single small wardrobe for his butler attire, and a small table and wooden chair suitable for eating, reading, or morning ablutions. A mirror hung on the back of the door, presumably so the butler could be certain his attire was up to snuff before he joined the rest of the household. No window, no wall sconces for additional light, and nothing on the walls other than an article from the London Times detailing the ton ’s best butlers from five or six years ago. Benjamin Austin’s name was fourth on the list of ten. Huh. Not any longer, since he’d evidently absconded with a good portion of the silverware, but it did demonstrate how much better things had once been here.

James pulled the article off the wall and crumpled it up, tossing it into the small wastebasket in the corner. Its absence didn’t make the room appear any larger. “Damnation,” he muttered, sitting on the chair. The master bedchamber’s bed by itself wouldn’t fit inside the butler’s quarters. And without windows… Well, he was going to confiscate a painting or two to at least pretend he could view something farther than seven feet away, or he’d be carried off to Bedlam by morning.

“It’s larger than my room,” Goodfrey commented, stepping around him to reach the wardrobe.

“I am not drunk enough for this.” James watched the valet exclaim in wounded dismay at the size of the wardrobe as he placed the clothing on various shelves.

At least the wine cellar door lay only feet away from him now. He couldn’t be the duke of the wine cellar, but the butler of the wine cellar—he could damned well do that for a fortnight.