Page 22 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Eleven

He stared at her. “What has the Duke done to you to make you hate him so? If you’re going to accuse a man of something like this, you’d better have a reason.” His words were clipped.

She shook her head. There was bitterness in her voice. “I suppose this is the moment when I ought to tell you that I grew up on His Grace’s land. What a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? My father was the village schoolmaster. We were evicted in the middle of winter because he couldn’t pay the rent. Father was ill, you see—too ill to work. Some of the villagers tried to collect the money and pay for us, but it wasn’t enough.”

She looked down at the lake, her expression hardening. “The steward came with his men in the dead of night and tossed us out like rubbish. He warned the villagers that anyone who dared to take us in would also face eviction. Per the Duke’s orders.” Her voice faltered for a moment, but she continued. “We didn’t know where to go. Father was already feverish. He died that very same night on the road in the middle of a snowstorm.”

She bent to pick up another stone, missing the look of horror that crossed his face. He passed a hand over his face, his voice a whisper. “Good God.”

Emily didn’t stop. “The vicar of a nearby village was kind enough to bury him, even though we weren’t part of his parish. He and his wife took me and my sister in and gave us the shelter and hospitality we were denied here.” Her eyes darkened as she looked across the lake. “So you see, I have every right to call him the demon that he is. Greed, power, money—whatever it is that drives him—he ruined three lives that winter. So yes, I have every right to call him every name under the sun. Including murderer.”

He said nothing.

Realising how bitter she sounded, Emily forced a brittle laugh. “But don’t worry, we survived, my sister and I.” Her lips curled, but the movement felt hollow. “We managed to stay out of the workhouse. Barely. But we did.” Her chest tightened, the familiar burn of old resentment rising. “His Grace will now pay bitterly for what he did to us.”

There was an expression on his face that she couldn’t interpret. “How?”

Emily raised an eyebrow as if it were obvious. “By marrying my sister. That’s the least he can do.”

He merely stared at her, his jaw tightening.

Emily tried to shake off the gravity of the conversation by forcing a lighter tone. “I suppose it is bad manners to speak ill of your employer. After all, he pays your wages. How did we end up talking about something as morose as my past? I’d rather you forgot everything I said.”

She bent down and carefully balanced the stones she’d collected. She stepped back to inspect her handiwork. “A cairn. It’s a tribute to the spirits of nature. Make a wish. Who knows, it might come true.”

He hesitated, then bent down to pick up a stone and carefully placed it on top of the pile.

“He’s not as bad as you think,” he said in a clipped voice.

Emily tilted her head to study him. “The Devil Duke? You would defend him, of course, loyal retainer that you are. He’s lucky to have you in his employ.”

A sudden, cool breeze swept through and Emily wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “We should return before our absence is noted.”

He nodded firmly, and they turned back towards the path.

“George.”

He looked at her, but his face was unreadable.

“Thank you.” She gave him a shy smile.

He blinked. “For what?”

“For giving me crumpets instead of making me do hard labour in the stables. And—” Her voice softened. “I am sorry I misjudged you, thinking the worst of you, that you intended to blackmail me.” She searched his face. “You will keep our secret, won’t you? That I'm not a lady, I mean.”

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a brief nod.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She felt a weight lifted from her shoulders.

His Grace was in a towering black mood.

He had refused to appear for luncheon, tea, or supper. A tray of roast beef had been sent back to the kitchen untouched, leaving the cook utterly devastated. “What a disgrace!” he moaned. “Never in all my years has anything like this ‘appened to me. My career is ruined!”

“It’s best to avoid His Grace altogether,” the butler admonished the servants below stairs. “Approach him at your own peril. If you cannot avoid an encounter, turn to the wall, freeze and pretend to be a ceramic urn.”

“What’s set him off now?” a footman whispered to the valet.

“He dismissed his steward.” The valet, Simonson, wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

“Again?”

He nodded curtly.

“It’s the fourth this year.”

Another nod.

“For what reason?”

“Incompetence. The books are in a shocking mess, and Johnson had made a minor miscalculation. Fatal. His Grace flew into a rage, asking if everyone was out to deceive him, and when poor Johnson admitted it was an inadvertent mistake, His Grace demanded to know if anyone in this country could still manage sums. Dismissed him on the spot with no references.” Simonson leaned forward to add, “With that terrible, icy, quiet voice of his.”

The footman shuddered. “The voice of nightmares.”

“My sentiment exactly. The problem is, since no one else he trusts is left to do the work, I am now expected to help sort out the accounts.” He sighed. “But my head for figures isn’t any better than Johnson’s. I fear I’m doomed to the same end.”

“What about the secretary? Isn’t that his domain?”

Simonson shrugged. “He’s suddenly been sent to Oxfordshire on some errand, with the threat of dismissal if he doesn’t perform his duties to His Grace’s satisfaction. If you ask me, His Grace doesn’t seem to trust that secretary all that much either.”

“Poor sod. Well, after that shocking scandal a few years ago, who can blame His Grace?” another footman chimed in. “When he had to dismiss the entire old staff just because a single corrupt steward.”

“I don’t blame him, of course. It’s why I have this job now, and I must say I’ve always found His Grace fair and reasonable to deal with,” Simonson said, and the others nodded in agreement.

The cook, Monsieur Henri, shook his head decisively. “If you ask me, I’d put my hand in the fire that the real ‘eart of the problem lies elsewhere.”

Several of the other servants gathered around him. “What do you mean?”

“ Cherchez la femme !”

“Eh?”

“That’s French,” Simonson translated. “It means ‘the cause is a woman’. No doubt about it. He spent a whole evening staring gloomily into the empty fireplace, sighing and drinking a whole decanter of brandy. When he finished one decanter, he asked for another. The man was blue-devilled. ”

“It’s true,” Netty, a red-haired housemaid, chimed in. “I went into the study, not seeing him at first, to light the fire in the fireplace. He almost bit my head off. I nearly burst into tears, for I was sure he’d dismiss me. Then, as I was about to leave the room to pack my things, he told me to stop. I was shaking in my boots, I tell you. But do you know what he did instead?”

“What?” All the maids leaned in to listen.

“He looked up, stared at me, and said, ‘Netty’—he actually knew my name, can you believe it?—‘Netty, you’re a woman, aren’t you?”

The housemaids gasped. “Good heavens!”

“I tell you, I almost fainted with shock. So I said, trembling in my shoes, ‘I believe I am, Your Grace’. Then he said, ‘Excellent. Tell me, Netty’—he said my name twice—‘what is it that women like best when you need to get back in their good graces?’ I swear he asked me that. So I said carefully, ‘That depends on the woman, Your Grace.’”

“Excellent answer,” the valet said, nodding in agreement. “Very diplomatic.”

“His Grace didn’t think so, though. He wasn’t pleased at all and frowned at me. You know that terrible frown that makes him look like the devil himself?” She shuddered.

The others nodded in agreement.

“So I stuttered on, ‘Ladies of the ton might be more difficult to please than simple housemaids, Your Grace.’—Which he didn’t like overly much, either. So I added, ‘But at heart we’re all the same: girls who appreciate a token of affection when it’s given with sincerity.’ Then he said, ‘Token of affection. You mean the usual thing. Flowers, chocolates, jewellery and the like.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it has to be sincere, from the heart. It does not have to be something material. Often a simple gesture or a word of apology is worth more than an expensive piece of jewellery.’ And do you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He thanked me,” Netty said triumphantly. “Very sincerely, too. He said he didn’t mean to frighten me and sent me on my way. I tell you, I am shocked, absolutely shocked! I have never been so pleased in my life.”

“Ooh!” said the housemaids in unison. “He must be in love!”

“I think so too,” said the servant. “All the signs point in that direction. But who could she be?”

“I know!” The second footman snapped his fingers. “I know exactly who it is. There is only one lady in question.”

A loud voice cleared its throat from behind the group. It was the butler. “If you are all done gossiping, may I suggest we return to our duties. Netty.” The butler motioned to the maid with his finger. “You are to take a dozen red roses to Lady Lydia.”

“That’s the one!” one footman whispered to the other. “She’s a goddess. And roses are for love. Shall we bet on it?”

“And violets for Lady Poppy,” the butler added. “At once.”

“Say, for how much longer do you want me to pretend to be you?” Chippendale crossed his legs and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculately polished Hessian boots. “I admit, it’s been diverting to slip into your skin for a while, but it’s becoming deuced tedious being ‘Your Graced’ the entire afternoon by Lady Lydia. Always makes me want to look over my shoulder to see whether you’re looming over me. And let us not ignore the fact that by the time she rejoins the rest of the company—which should be now, for supper, her ankle having almost healed—the truth of our little charade will have been revealed, even though it was an honest misunderstanding to begin with and we never meant to deceive her on purpose. Her sister has mistaken us, and for some reason beyond my comprehension, you steadfastly refuse to set her straight.”

Wolferton gave him a quick look. “Do you fancy her?”

Chippendale spluttered. “What, me? Lady Lydia? What on earth gives you that notion?”

“Your tendency to be rather protective of Lady Lydia. Or Cecily White, as she is really called.” Wolferton pulled the cravat he’d been struggling to tie from his neck and threw it onto the growing pile of ties on the floor. “Remember, they are fortune-hunting impostors. Whatever face she shows you, don’t fall for the mirage, however beguiling it may be.”

Chippendale straightened in his chair. “Eh? Are you sure you’re not speaking for yourself? You’ve fallen head over heels for this woman. I’ve never seen you in such a state.” Chippendale shook his head in mock disbelief.

Wolferton opened his mouth to make a scathing retort, only to close it again as the door opened. His valet, Simonson, entered, carrying another starched and immaculately pressed tie. He did not move a muscle when he saw the pile of ruined ties on the floor.

Wolferton snatched up the offered tie and, with an impatient movement, threw it round his neck.

“One can hardly bear to look at this,” Chippendale shuddered. “If you’d only allow me or your valet to help... ” He threw up his hands in frustration. “You’re doing it all wrong. You need to slip the broad end through the knot. That is, if you’re going for the Oriental.”

“I’m going for the Mathematical,” Wolferton growled, tugging at the tie in frustration before tossing it aside with a muttered curse.

Chippendale sighed and rose. “Come here. I cannot in good conscience watch you slaughter another innocent, perfectly laundered tie. They’ve done nothing to deserve such cruel treatment.” He picked up another fresh tie and approached the Duke.

Then he froze. “The deuce?” He leaned forward and squinted at it. “What’s that? ‘Peacock of Pomp’? What does that mean?”

“What are you talking about, man?” Wolferton snapped.

Chippendale pointed to the tie. “That’s what it says. Is it a fashion statement? Blimey, if it is, I must hasten to have something similar embroidered on mine! It is quite a unique touch, I must say.”

Wolferton stared at the skilful script embroidered on the silk. “Simonson!” he barked. “Explain this.”

Simonson paled. “Good heavens. I don’t have the faintest idea. How on earth did this happen? Who did this? I am completely baffled. A million pardons.” Simonson looked as if he were about to cry.

Chippendale burst out into delighted laughter. “It seems that someone is playing a trick on you, old friend. I wonder who it could be? He or she must be an expert with a needle. It is quite a masterpiece. I’d wager a thousand guineas, it’s a ‘she’.” He grinned delightedly at the Duke. “While there’s nothing new about womenfolk chasing you, this is quite an original take. I wonder who she could be?” He took the cravat and read the inscription again. “But, my friend, she seems to bear a grudge, because that doesn’t sound like a compliment at all, does it?”

“Nonsense,” Wolferton tore the cravat from his hand. “I had it specially commissioned at, er, Weston’s.” He cleared his throat and attempted to tie it.

“So, so. Indeed, you did. A special commission at Weston’s, of course. Here, let me.” Chippendale took the cravat from him. “I didn’t know they did such things. I must hurry and have something similar done to my cravats. What epithet do you think would fit?”

“Pompous fool,” muttered Wolferton.

Chippendale chuckled. “Tell me, Simonson,” he said, throwing one end of the tie over the other and tying it with sure, quick movements. “Is it my imagination, or does His Grace seem unusually nervous today?”

“It appears so, my lord,” Simonson confirmed, earning a scowl from the Duke.

“Then I did not imagine it.” Chippendale expertly tied the knot. “He will deny it until his deathbed, but we now have hard evidence that the cause must be a woman.”

Wolferton snorted.

Simonson agreed. “No doubt His Grace’s nervousness is due to all the ladies waiting for him downstairs,” Simonson added loyally.

“True, true. The mere thought of the horde of ladies trying to drag you to the altar would make anyone nervous.” He gave the tie a final tug and stepped back. “There. That looks good. The ‘Peacock of Pomp’ is on full display. What do you think, Simonson? He looks dashing, our duke, doesn’t he?”

“He looks most splendid.” Simonson wiped his glistening forehead with his handkerchief.

“What an excellent valet you have, Wolferton. If you ever need another job, you can come to me, Simonson,” Chippendale said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, my lord, I shall bear that in mind,” Simonson said as he made a hasty retreat to avoid the wrathful gaze of his employer.

Chippendale clapped Wolferton on the shoulder. “It’s a pity you don’t make more of an effort to preen yourself, because it suits you well, my friend. All dressed in the latest fashion, a veritable nonpareil. But I dare say you feel more at home in your stable boy’s clothes than at the height of elegance.”

Wolferton grimaced, but said nothing.

“Come, let us face the music. She won’t eat you, my friend,” he added sotto voce as they headed for the door.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” muttered Wolferton darkly.

It was shockingly ill-mannered of His Grace, some of the guests whispered, to be so conspicuously absent; to invite them to his country party and then never show his face, leaving them to be entertained by his three elderly aunts.

Emily did not mind, for she found the aunts amusing. They’d clearly taken a liking to Cissy, after a footman had carried her into the blue drawing room, and fussed over her, which meant that Emily was unobserved and free to do whatever she wanted.

“To abandon one’s guests is most discourteous,” sniffed Lady Willowthorpe. Her three daughters, the Three Pastels, as Emily nicknamed them, sat side by side in pink, blue and green pastel dresses, looking equally disappointed.

“It’s been three days since we arrived and he hasn’t even made an appearance to greet us,” Lady Blakely complained. “At this rate, a fortnight will pass and we will have to leave without even having seen His Grace.”

“Wolferton is no doubt a busy man,” Hamish put in. “He has three estates to manage, and I hear there has been trouble with his secretary. Or was it the steward? Or both. Either way, I think it speaks well for him that he takes his responsibilities seriously. You can’t say that about everyone.”

They’d been playing spillikins, cards, jackstraws and riddles since tea. Emily had been somewhat distracted, replaying in her mind the conversation she’d had with George.

After changing for dinner, they reassembled in the blue drawing room to await the gong for dinner.

Lord Hamish would lead her to the supper room. He stood before her, splendidly dressed in blue, with padded shoulders, chatting amiably.For the tenth time, at least, Emily thought it was a pity that the man was already married.

The door opened and His Grace entered—followed by George, the coachman.

“Wolferton. At last. I thought we’d never see your face while we lived under your roof,” Lord Willowthorpe drawled.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and rose to greet the men, surrounding them.

Emily looked at George in surprise. What was he doing here? She was not normally a stickler for etiquette, but she found it rather odd that a coachman should mingle with the guests of the house. He was well dressed too; she noticed.

Gone were the baggy jacket and the stained leather breeches. He wore dark grey evening breeches that ended just below the knee, a dark tailcoat and a neatly tied cravat. His hair was fashionably styled, revealing a tall, proud forehead.

Emily looked at him uneasily. George cut a dapper figure outside his coachman’s outfit. Almost dashing, one might say.He looked very different from the coachman she’d known. In fact, he looked like a different person altogether. And he behaved differently too, playing with a quizzing glass in one hand as he nodded loftily at Lord Willowthorpe.

“Willowthorpe. Lady Willowthorpe. It is a pleasure.” He said it in such a bored drawl that one could infer he meant the opposite.

Emily's jaw dropped.

Lady Willowthorpe led her three giggling daughters forward, and he merely raised an eyebrow at them, causing them to blush and giggle even more.

“Wolferton—” Lady Dalrymple rose and stepped forward “—it’s about time. You have been shockingly neglectful of your guests. It is really quite unforgivable when we have such charming company. You have met Lady Poppy and Lady Lydia. Lady Lydia’s ankle is healing nicely and we’re all enriched by having her presence with us tonight.”

It dawned on Emily that she’d made a terrible, terrible mistake as she met the Duke’s amber eyes.