Page 11 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Edmonds hesitated, his professional demeanor momentarily disrupted with apprehension. “I cannot say with certainty, Your Grace. His Grace often attends to various matters upon returning to the estate.”

The evasive response confirmed Beatrice’s suspicion that her husband’s behavior was not entirely characteristic. She wondered how often the Duke stormed away from carriages mid-journey, leaving bewildered passengers to finish their travels alone.

“I see,” she murmured, choosing not to press further. “Then perhaps you might introduce me to the housekeeper? I would like to familiarize myself with the staff as quickly as possible.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Mrs. Fairchild is most eager to make your acquaintance. I’ll send for her once we’re in your chambers, Your Grace.”

The Duchess’s suite proved to be a series of interconnected chambers decorated in shades of pale blue and silver, the furnishings both elegant and surprisingly comfortable. A sitting room led to a spacious bedchamber dominated by a magnificent four-poster bed, beyond which lay a dressing room where her belongings were already unpacked and meticulously organized by invisible hands during her journey.

Mrs. Fairchild, the housekeeper, appeared moments after Beatrice had completed her initial inspection of the chambers. She was a woman of middling years with keen eyes and a practical manner.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” she inquired, her gaze sweeping the chambers.

“Everything appears most comfortable, thank you,” Beatrice replied. “Nevertheless, I am eager to become better acquainted with my new home. Might it be possible to tour the main rooms?”

“It would be my pleasure to show you the estate, Your Grace.”

The tour commenced immediately, with Mrs. Fairchild leading Beatrice through a dizzying progression of drawing rooms, galleries, and studies, each appointed with the elegant opulence befitting a ducal residence.

The housekeeper proved a knowledgeable guide, recounting snippets of history associated with various rooms and furnishings without lapsing into tedious detail.

“The library is particularly renowned,” Mrs. Fairchild remarked as they entered a magnificent chamber where the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes. “The third Duke was an avid collector of rare manuscripts, and each successive generation has contributed to the collection.”

Beatrice moved toward the nearest shelf, unable to resist the allure of such literary wealth. Her fingers hovered over the spine of an elegantly bound volume of Shakespearean sonnets.

“You are welcome to borrow any volume that interests you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fairchild added, noting her interest. “His Grace is rarely here during the day, and when he is, he tends to confine his reading to his study.”

The comment, delivered with no apparent motive beyond information, gave Beatrice her first insight into her husband’s habits. She filed the knowledge away carefully, building a mental portrait of the enigmatic man to whom she was now bound.

As the tour continued through the labyrinthine corridors of Stagmore Manor, Beatrice maintained a stream of questions about the household’s organization, the number of servants, and the estate’s operations—information she deemed essential to her new position.

The housekeeper answered each inquiry to the best of her ability, her initial reserve gradually thawing in the face of Beatrice’s evident interest and intelligence.

It was during their tour of the gardens, as the twilight deepened around them, that Beatrice spotted the structure partially obscured by a copse of yew trees.

Unlike the classical follies that adorned many gardens of her peers, like temples of Apollo or Diana, miniature Greek ruins, or fanciful grottos, this building appeared almost austere, its stone walls unadorned by decorative elements.

“What is that building?” she inquired, gesturing toward the structure.

A momentary tension crossed Mrs. Fairchild’s features. “That is merely the garden folly, Your Grace. It dates from the late Duke’s time.”

“How unusual,” Beatrice observed, noting the housekeeper’s discomfort. “This one seems almost utilitarian in nature.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” The elderly housekeeper began walking at a brisker pace, steering them away from the mysterious building. “The rose garden is particularly lovely in the evening light. The Duchess… that is, the late Duchess, was most fond of the white varieties that bloom along this path.”

The deflection was so obvious that Beatrice nearly smiled, her curiosity thoroughly piqued by what was clearly a sensitive subject. She allowed the housekeeper to steer their conversation toward safer topics, resolving to investigate the folly at a more opportune moment.

By the time they returned to the manor, night had fallen, and the windows were glowing against the darkness. Mrs. Fairchild escorted Beatrice to the smaller of the dining rooms, where a solitary place had been set at one end of a table that could comfortably seat twelve people.

“Will His Grace be joining me for dinner?” Beatrice inquired, though she already suspected the answer.

Before Mrs. Fairchild could reply, a footman entered, bowing. “A message for Her Grace, Ma’am. From His Grace’s valet.”

Beatrice took the folded note and broke the seal. The writing was brisk, efficient.

Matters require my attention this evening. Do not wait up.

She read it twice before setting it aside.