Page 9 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER EIGHT

MEG PINWELL

“Of course you should join him,” Meg said, sitting as straight up on the bed as she could in order to reach the topmost of the green buttons running up Clara’s back. “Every bit of information you can gather about how badly Earnhurst needs my dowry money, and how far the new duke has allowed the estate to crumble, will be ammunition if Mama and Papa balk at agreeing to break this marriage agreement.” She gave a shudder that was only a little bit exaggerated. If this was how he treated his home, she could only imagine how he would treat his wife. “And if you keep him occupied, he won’t come by and chat with me.” Of course, she didn’t know why a duke would want to come chat with a lady’s companion anyway, but she absolutely did not want him remembering her face.

“I am happy to be your spy,” Clara said, standing when Meg patted her on the shoulder, “but the idea of leaving you here to expire of boredom doesn’t please me at all. And if you were… you, having a butler keep you company would be horribly scandalous. I didn’t agree to this to help ruin you.”

“I’m not me. As far as the duke and the butler and everyone else know, I’m a lady’s companion. A servant, or very close to being one. And James is quite pleasant on the eyes. I won’t mind him calling on me at all.” She grinned.

“Meg.”

“Yes, I know. At the moment I’m still betrothed to his employer. And he’s a butler. I’m not an idiot.” She looked down at her swollen foot. “Not generally.”

“No, you are not. And neither am I. And I’m loath to pass up an opportunity to view the countryside with a man who wants me to express my opinion.” Meg’s aunt chuckled. “That is a rare opportunity.”

“Yes, unless the Pirate is living up to his reputation and is more interested in you than your opinion.”

Clara blushed furiously. That surprised Meg; in her aunt’s eyes, men received far too much attention and respect for far too little reason. Aside from that, the duke—her duke, for the moment, even if she fully intended to break off the marriage agreement—was very stern and off-putting. Not the sort of man one blushed about.

“Clara?”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said briskly. “The thought that he might be looking at me never crossed my mind until you said that. I suppose I shall have to be prepared to rebuff him.” She grimaced. “You truly think he doesn’t want my opinion?”

“I think he only wants you to find good things about which to compliment him, but I sincerely hope he isn’t that foolish. You’re brilliant, after all.”

“I suppose I’m going with His Grace, then. If you’re certain you don’t mind.”

“I’m certain. And I’m the one who had all those lessons about propriety, while you got to learn to throw knives and fence.” Not that she particularly wanted to throw knives, herself. “I know what I’m doing. My door will be open, other servants will be about, and I daresay that evil cook is alone in the kitchen with the butler or a footman from time to time all day long, and no one worries over her reputation. It shall be the same with me.”

“That’s true, but it’s also true that Mrs. Carvey is actually a cook.”

And there it was. Meg gave a faux gasp. “Clara Bosley! Are you saying her reputation matters less than mine, and Mabel’s matters less than Meg’s, because of our social status?”

“Oh, hush. You’re my family and my friend, and I worry about you. Especially because you’re injured, which we didn’t plan for at all.”

Meg grinned. “No, we didn’t. And I know you worry about me, and I love you all the more for it. But I’ll be fine. I’m prepared to send this James fellow to and fro so much that he won’t have time to ruin me even if he should wish to do so.” Even if being ravished by the handsome butler of the man she found too horrid to marry sounded very much like the plot of one of those torrid, romantic books she adored.

“Logical again, my dear. Well done.”

“Thank you.” Meg sank back on the very generous pile of pillows propping her nearly upright on the bed. “And I am looking forward to questioning James—delicately, of course—about his employer. Who knows a man better than his servants? Well, not this one, since he’s only been here a few days, but I’ll have him introduce me to Earnhurst’s valet. A valet would definitely know of any otherwise-hidden faults in his employer’s character.”

Truthfully, in a half hour of seeing and listening to the duke she’d already heard everything she cared to know about him, but as she’d trapped herself and Clara here for another thirteen days, she meant to make use of the time. At the end of it she intended to have a very thorough, well-considered report to hand her parents.

“A good plan.”

“Just be careful with him, Clara,” Meg cautioned. “ We don’t mean to discuss this holiday in London, but Earnhurst is infamous there. Who knows what he might say about his houseguests.”

“He can wag his tongue about Lady Sophronia Frumple and Miss Mabel Gooster as much as he pleases. No one will know who they are because they don’t exist. He’s unlikely to ever run across me at a soiree because I detest them, and with any luck he won’t have noticed you at all.”

Given the relatively small size of the haut ton, she was likely to encounter Earnhurst at some Society event or other, and he would notice her then—she would have refused to marry him, after all. But the odds that the duke would pay enough attention to Mabel here to be able to recognize her in Mayfair were infinitesimal. Thank goodness for Clara’s logic, or Meg might have begun panicking already.

But it was far more likely anyway that rather than speaking to her, Earnhurst would be so insulted by the end of their betrothal that he would refuse to acknowledge her existence. That would fit the character of the man she’d read about, and the one who’d led them on a tour yesterday while declaring himself to be a hundred different awful things.

“Go. Learn all you can,” she repeated, waving her aunt toward the door. “I have water and two very thin slices of bread to keep me company until James arrives.” Her plain fare was another matter entirely, but looking at it from Mabel’s point of view, she didn’t think the companion would utter a complaint. She was being fed, after all, even if it could only be called food in the sense that she could chew and swallow it.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Clara picked up her parasol and reticule. “I promise; I shall be very grand and nosy.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t forget, Meg, you promised your parents a letter every day, as did I. We’ll get Wilson to go down to Remiton to post them to your maid, since we can’t very well ask the duke to do it. Nelly will then slip them in with the rest of the house’s correspondence.”

“Oh, yes. Today I’ll write them about the lovely day we experienced in Dorset and Hampshire as we rode through yesterday. And today we’re looking forward to seeing Basingstoke.”

Her aunt left the door open as she headed downstairs for her tour of the thousand-acre property. Whether Earnhurst had meant his invitation sincerely and did want someone else’s opinion, or whether he wanted to see Lady Sophronia in private to try to seduce her as he’d apparently done every other single lady in London, Clara was certainly more than a match for him. Ha. Every rake should be required to spend time chatting with Clara Bosley; Meg could think of no one more capable of toppling them off their high horses and illustrating the fact that it was only through luck and custom that men had been deemed the superior sex.

Meg looked toward the pair of windows on the far side of the room. If the garden and grounds had been prettier, she might have hopped over to take in the view, but firstly, nothing at Earnhurst tempted her, and secondly, her time would be much better spent resting her ankle so they could depart without delay.

And that meant she was supposed to spend the morning napping or something, but she’d been in bed for nearly a day now, and sleeping was terribly boring. She folded her arms over her chest. What the devil had she been thinking, anyway? Spying on a man she’d never met in order to confirm that she didn’t wish to marry him—after spending a year waiting for one piece of correspondence, one visit, one expression of… anything from James Clay, Duke of Earnhurst?

It had been a question that answered itself, and as Clara had pointed out, what she’d been looking for here was a new excuse to break the engagement. One she hadn’t known about for a year when she’d gone along with it. She merely hadn’t expected the excuse to be so very obvious, and the man a self-admitted blackguard. “A horror,” she muttered to herself.

A knock sounded at the open door. “You weren’t referring to me, I hope,” James the butler drawled, strolling into the room.

“Not at all,” she said, smiling. Self-reflection rarely ended well for her, and any interruption was welcome. Particularly one with gray eyes that gazed directly at her. Servants didn’t do that, generally, but as far as anyone else at Earnhurst knew, she was a servant herself. Perhaps they did stare at each other all the time and she’d just never noticed. “I’m annoyed with myself over the inconvenience I’ve caused Lady Sophronia.”

“Ah. She didn’t look all that inconvenienced when she hopped into the curricle a minute ago.”

“That’s not a proper thing for a butler to say about his betters.”

The handsome butler narrowed one eye. “I’m new,” he stated.

“So I’ve heard.” She considered for a moment. “I’m rather new to my position, as well,” she improvised. After all, if he asked her for advice, she was likely to sound dreadfully ignorant. “I think Lady Sophronia just wanted company for her travels.”

“She likes you. I cannot say the same for my employer.” Without being asked, he sat in the chair Clara had pulled up beside the bed earlier. “Shall we gossip? Servants love to gossip, don’t we?”

Meg lifted both eyebrows, surprised that her opportunity for questions had come so easily. “I will admit to a great deal of curiosity about the Duke of Earnhurst. The new duke, of course. One hears—and reads—all sorts of things about him.”

Grinning, James crossed his arms over his chest much as she had. “You tell me what you’ve heard, and I’ll tell you if it’s true or not.”

“Very well. Is it true he missed his own father’s funeral because he was playing faro?”

His left eye twitched. “You don’t mess about, do you?”

“Oh, I have a list of questions. That was only the first. Do you wish to skip over it?”

“I don’t suppose the order matters.” He stood again and walked over to her dressing table. “You don’t have any whiskey in here, do you?”

“What? No. You cannot imbibe while you’re on duty, anyway.” Silly man. “That very nearly got you in trouble, yesterday.”

Facing her again, he tilted his head. “I can imbibe while on duty. I just can’t be caught at it. It was your arrival that got me into trouble, not my drinking.”

“So you were drunk yesterday when I said you smelled like a wine cellar.”

“Indeed, I was. And yet, I performed my duties perfectly, carrying you heroically to the bed here and setting you down safely.”

Meg snorted. “And fixing my dress. Thank you for that, as well. The fall knocked the air out of me. First I was flying, and then before I could even begin to enjoy that, straight back to the ground again.”

James nodded, grinning. “It was spectacularly done. And I admire that you didn’t flail about or shriek afterward. Most women of my acquaintance would have been… less composed.” He wandered back over to the bed. “What do you have here to drink?”

How many women did a butler know? “A glass of water. There’s an extra slice of bread there if you want it.”

Sitting again, he reached over and took it off her plate. “Thank you. And yes, Earnhurst was playing faro during his father’s funeral. He was also exceedingly intoxicated and, from what I heard, in a very foul mood. They never saw eye-to-eye, you know, the old duke and the new one. I imagine he felt… seeing the duke put into the ground was unfair to the old bore. An argument only works if both sides contribute, you know.”

That hadn’t occurred to her. “You mean he felt like he’d cheated to win?”

“Something like that. I imagine so, anyway.” The bread, lightly toasted to remove every bit of moisture or taste, crunched a little as he took a bite. Scowling, he looked down at it. “No butter, even? What are you, a Puritan?” A few dry crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke.

“It’s not my idea. That devil of a cook says plain fare aids healing. Lady Sophronia said they partook of venison last night. I don’t know about you, but I dined on a weak onion broth and more bread and I dreamed about roast venison.”

The butler laughed. “I stole the leftovers. It’s a devil of an annoyance, having to stand and watch folk eat, especially when you haven’t had anything but an apple and some cheese beforehand.”

Vance, the Brundon Hall butler, did smile on occasion, but only if directly spoken to by her father or mother. In all other instances he might be mistaken for a moving statue, unsmiling and silent as he went about his duties. As for laughing, well, she’d never seen or heard the like from a butler. Meg grinned back at James. “Cheese? What a braggart you are.”

He looked at her for a moment. “I’ll fetch you some,” he announced, standing again. “I’m not afraid of Mrs. Carvey.”

“I’m not, either. I simply can’t get to her to make my thoughts known.” As he reached the doorway, something else occurred to her. “I know you can’t spend the day with me, but I would very much appreciate if you would bring a book with you when you return with my pilfered cheese.”

Facing her again, the butler sketched a careless, elegant bow. “Any preference?”

Meg sat back again. “Surprise me.”

“Ha! You may regret that.”

The sound of his footsteps faded as he headed for the stairs, and the house fell back into silence again. Whenever she thought of her own home at Brundon Hall, the sounds were a part of the memories, intertwined and inseparable as the smells; the chatter of servants, doors opening and closing, the whoosh of sheets being aired and the clicking of hearths being cleaned. Just… sounds, the ones that made Brundon feel like home.

This house, even with its grander name, had none of those sounds. Earnhurst Castle might have a loftier title, but it had lost its ability to be called a home—at least as far as she was concerned. She looked toward the door again.

As unfortunately as her own visit had begun, Clara was obviously having a grand time pretending to be an earl’s daughter. Meg only wished she could witness more of her performance. In fact, Clara’s flamboyance had almost begun to make her think that she, an actual earl’s daughter, might have made better use of the privilege. Or at least had a bit more fun with it. It was quite possible she wasn’t nearly imperious enough.

At least she’d had a moment of fun in her conversation with the butler, a thing she’d never expected. From what Clara had said and what she’d already observed, he wasn’t a very good butler, or at least he was a very green one, but he’d rescued her from the stairs, he’d chatted with her and said very amusing things, and he’d answered her first question about Earnhurst. The answer had surprised her. An odd way to show grief, but at least she could understand that it might have been an expression of that emotion.

Even better than the gossip, though, James had promised her cheese. And a book, though she had no idea what he would select. Oh, did he read, though? Was it odd that she read? She hadn’t even considered that a companion was possibly supposed to be illiterate. Had she made a mistake? If this unraveled, she’d never be able to show her face in London, no matter the circumstances. And she’d certainly never be able to look the Duke of Earnhurst in the eye anywhere.