Page 18 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter thirteen

Letter

F or the next several days, Nigel had ample opportunity to amend his flippant speech.

Belinda Morrison let him trail behind her as she inspected roof repairs, discussed the spring planting, and examined pregnant sheep.

Sometimes she wore trousers, sometimes a serviceable brown gown.

Nigel could not decide which he preferred as both were too loose-fitting for her slender figure.

What he would like to see her in was a gauzy muslin morning dress, with a low neckline and a set of stays to lift—he stopped himself.

Apparently, it was not only his deeds and speech that needed amending, but also his thoughts.

“Does your family raise sheep in Lincolnshire?” she asked, catching him in the middle of his improper musings.

“Er, yes, I believe so,” said Nigel. He remembered seeing woolly bundles dotting the fields outside his brother’s manor house when he had visited. But he had spent no time in Lincolnshire since receiving his inheritance. No doubt those woolly bundles belonged to him now .

“What month do you breed them?”

“Breed them?” echoed Nigel, appalled to discover that Miss Morrison had just put him to the blush. Apparently, his thoughts about lady’s undergarments had been entirely innocuous compared to Miss Morrison’s earthy conversation.

She placed her arms akimbo and stared over the drystone wall at her flock in the wet meadow.

“Mr. Brownlee is determined that October is the right month for the rams, but I think November is better for our Derbyshire climate—it lets the weather get warmer for the lambs when they come. We lose less of them.”

Nigel could see the corner of her lip twitching as she talked.

She was enjoying discomfiting him with her straightforward speech.

“I’m afraid I’m more acquainted with the rhythms of the London season than the agricultural season.

I know the exact time to order new waistcoats and the best place to find a beaver or Hessians. ”

“Ah, but the London season does nothing but waste money. A season of successful farming gains it.”

“And have all your seasons been successful?”

“Not at first,” she admitted, “but I have put by a tidy sum each of the last few years.” Her lips no longer seemed ready to slip into a smile, and her chin set itself into a firm angle. “For Charlie, when he comes back.”

“Of course,” said Nigel smoothly. Their time in the hayloft had been very informative concerning the lady’s regard for her long-lost brother.

Nigel had a niggling sense that Harold Brownlee was probably right and that “full fathom five her brother lay,” but he had no intention of voicing his doubts.

The continued visits to the muddy Morrison farm took their toll on Nigel’s wardrobe, but before the end of the week he was delighted to see a large trunk containing additional clothing delivered from the posting inn. His valet Simpson had followed his instructions.

The communication that followed the day afterwards, however, was less of a delight. John came into the parlour while Nigel was playing the pianoforte and cleared his throat, in deference to the music. “A letter for you, yer grace.”

Nigel’s fingers froze on the keys. He would have reminded John that it was plain Mr. Lymington, but he soon saw that the direction on the letter had no qualms about announcing his title. It was made out, quite ostentatiously, to the Duke of Warrenton.

Thunder and turf! No doubt Mr. Coleman who received the post bag at the Jester’s Arms was already gossiping to his wife about Upper Cross’ prestigious visitor. Nigel wondered if he would ever be able to take his dinner at the “haunted” inn again.

He gave John a nod of thanks, moved from the pianoforte toward the window for better light, and then broke the seal on the letter. Inside, the tone was less formal, the flirtatious scribbles of a lady that Nigel knew far better than he ought.

Nigel,

Where have you been, your gorgeous grace?

There’s been no word from you for weeks, and I’ve been forced to exercise my wiles on your valet to find your location.

I learn from Simpson that you’ve been rusticating in rural Derbyshire, cast out from Paradise like Our First Parents.

Can it be? Why, in heaven’s name, would you exile yourself from Mayfair so rashly, you sly creature?

I know you are punting up the River Tick, but things are bound to look up.

You are a duke, my dearest, and dukes can always stave off disaster by virtue of their title.

If your odious niece continues to prove recalcitrant in sharing her inheritance, I will find you a pigeon of your own to pluck.

There will be heiresses aplenty in town after the New Year.

Come home again as soon as you can. I daresay you may indulge your desire to rusticate with a countrified Christmas—I intend to watch the roaring Yule log at a country house party as well.

But if you are not back by the end of December, I shall come to fetch you myself.

I have so many delicious on-dits to tell you, and I won’t have my most amusing pet missing the season.

With Love,

Callista

Nigel swallowed. He had forgotten how forceful Lady Maltrousse could be.

She had been a friend of his late brother’s…

a very close friend. When Nigel had become duke two years ago, she had taken him on as her protege, introducing him to the wonders of wine, women, song, and speculation.

It was she who had encouraged him to seduce “that countrified little widow Mrs. Audeley," and it was she who had helped him run up all sorts of debt until he was ready to buckle under the weight of it.

There was a strange sort of magnetism about Lady Maltrousse. To be singled out by her was an infamous and intoxicating honour. Nigel was both dismayed to learn that she knew of his whereabouts and relieved to discover that she had not forgotten his existence.

That thrill was soon tempered by the wish that she had .

As enticing as his life in London had been, he was not sure that he wanted to return to it.

And while Lady Maltrousse might know that he was punting up the River Tick, she did not know about the greatest of his problems on that sordid stream—a problem named Solomon Digby.

Simpson knew, however. And Simpson, to mince no words, was a traitor .

Nigel’s note had specifically told his valet to send his trunk to Upper Cross under the name “Mr. Lymington” and to tell his location to no one.

If Lady Maltrousse could track his whereabouts through his valet, then Solomon Digby could too.

All it would take was a handful of shillings, and Nigel would be trussed up like a pigeon by Digby’s minions.

His venal valet needed to be sacked. For all of Archie Garrick’s bumbling, Nigel much preferred a spotty-faced fellow that he could trust to a sophisticated valet with an itching palm.

And thank God for Rose Audeley, soon to be Lady Kendall—a far better woman than Callista Fernley would ever be.

Thank God that Mrs. Audeley had lent him refuge in Derbyshire from the worst of his mistakes.

He wished he had never succumbed to Callista’s flattery in the first place and the lure of belonging to her wild and witty set of lords and ladies .

He certainly did not want Callista coming to Derbyshire to fetch him.

Later, he must dash off a quick letter to her, something bland enough not to waken her suspicions that he was defecting from her coterie, but also something strong enough to keep her from flitting to his side.

But, in the meantime, he had no desire to have her poisonous letter peeking at him, tempting him to return to his old life.

Taking the letter to the fireplace, Nigel tossed it in with a quick flick of the wrist. If only he could incinerate the rest of the incriminating ties that bound him to London.

At least he had a fresh suit of clothing to wear to the Morrisons’ when he visited later this afternoon.

Aunt Lucy had made sure to let him know that her niece would be “at home” today, in the parlour rather than in the fields.

Apparently, it was an arrangement they had—that Bel must keep her company indoors at least twice a week.

Nigel resumed his piano playing, his pace more frenetic and less forgiving than before.

Then, when the sun reached its zenith, he retired to his room, wrote a quick note to Lady Maltrousse, and allowed Archie to attire him in a coat of mulberry superfine and a black waistcoat clocked with gold.

Callista had told him that waistcoat brought out the sparkle in his dark eyes—confound it!

He almost bade Archie change his clothes for something else but then turned about face one more time and resumed his original plan.

There was no point in letting Lady Maltrousse have such power over his choices.

“Are ye goin’ to the Morrison house again, yer g-guh-mister Lymington?” asked Archie. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down at the heady pleasure of dressing a duke in his finest town togs .

“Just so,” said Nigel, wondering if his valet had an ulterior motive in asking.

“Might’nt I come along?” Archie looked at him hopefully. “I could sit in the kitchen while y’take yer tea. All quiet-like with…whoever else is there.”

“Dear me,” said Nigel, inspecting his valet’s face for signs of subtlety. “I can only suppose some nubile female with whom you wish to fraternise tends the fireside kettle in the kitchen there.”

Archie blushed, his face a uniform colour for once. “Very well,” said Nigel, taking pity on him. “You may accompany me. We’ll take the carriage today instead of walking. No use ruining a fresh pair of pantaloons if we run across a wagon driver who likes to souse pedestrians with mud puddles.”