Page 20 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter fifteen

Warning

B el had a suspicion that the Duke of Warrenton would no longer call on them so freely now that his identity was being bruited about the neighbourhood.

And she was right. He not only missed divine services on the third Sunday in Advent, but he also refrained from stopping by the Morrison manor house the following four days.

When the rain abated mid-afternoon, Jer took Aunt Lucy and Jenny in the cart to the grocer’s while Bel lingered at home.

For once, she felt her usual indefatigable industry waning.

Listless, she leafed through the pages of Curtis’s Botanical Magazine, wishing that the plants it described were less ornamental and more practical.

Gyles Audeley might enjoy a strictly decorative use of his land, but Bel was determined to turn a profit with every acre.

It was the least she could do for Charlie.

A knock on the door brought her to her feet. Since Jenny was out, she would answer it herself. Perhaps it was Mr. Lymington—the duke— at last.

“Miss Morrison!” said the vicar in surprise, and Bel felt a pang of disappointment.

“Yes, I live here.”

“Of course,” said the vicar, a line appearing between his brows, “but I expected your maid to answer the door.” He paused. “Might I come in?”

“I am not receiving today.”

“It’s not in the way of a social call,” said the vicar. “It’s something more urgent.”

Reluctantly, Bel allowed Mr. Townsend inside.

She motioned for him to join her in the parlour but kept the parlour door wide open for propriety’s sake—a silly precaution since no one else was about in the house.

At least Magpie was home. Bel lifted the feline chaperone up into her lap on the sofa and beckoned for the vicar to take the chair opposite.

Once seated, Mr. Townsend cleared his throat. “I imagine you have heard the news about the stranger in the neighbourhood.”

Bel could not resist pretending ignorance. “Do you mean the Audeleys’ houseguest or yourself?”

“I mean the Duke of Warrenton,” said Mr. Townsend severely.

“Ah, that.”

“Yes, that. How grossly he has deceived us all. And now, I see he has shown his true colours and omitted to attend divine services yesterday.”

“Why should he come to church to be stared at?” Without fully understanding the feelings in her own breast, Bel yielded to an undeniable urge to defend the duke.

Mr. Townsend was about to answer, but a violent inhalation indicated that a speck of dust or dander had entered his nasal cavities. He continued to inhale spasmodically until he let out a great sneeze. That sneeze was followed by two more, a short pause, and then another set of three.

Finally, the vicar regained his equanimity and began to resume the conversation.

“No doubt he hid his identity so that he could come as a wolf among sheep in this parish. But now that I’ve heard his name, his London reputation is well-known to me.

I regret to tell you this, Miss Morrison, but the Duke of Warrenton is the worst kind of rake. ”

Bel folded her hands primly on her lap. “He already confessed as much to me.”

The vicar’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Confessed as much? So, you already know about his immoral ways? I wonder that you did not send him about his business right away. At the Jester’s Arms, you seemed to be encouraging his attentions.”

“Some might consider that my business and not yours.” Bel had never spoken thus to a man of the cloth before, but her blood was up, and she could not abide his pomposity.

The vicar put a hand over his mouth as a strangled gasp slipped out. He tried—and failed—to halt another bout of sneezing.

Bel glared at him. If he could not enter her parlour without falling into paroxysms, then it was irresponsible of him to enter the parlour altogether. But the vicar assigned blame in other places.

“If you would simply remove the cat, Miss Morrison,” he gasped in between sneezes, “our conversation could continue without interruption.”

“I don’t believe Magpie is interrupting anything.” Bel tried to keep her fingers from tightening into claws as she stroked the cat’s soft back. “And perhaps it would be better if this conversation did come to an end.”

A sound from the window caught the ears of both. It was a carriage pulling into view. Bel almost snorted audibly. How ironic. Their neighbour from Audeley House who had been in absentia for the last several days had chosen this moment to arrive.

Mr. Townsend rose to his feet, his sharp blue eyes recognising the passenger now disembarking from the carriage.

“No wonder you are eager for this conversation to be over. I warn you, Miss Morrison, you are treading a dangerous path. If you continue to consort with this man, it will be your reputation that suffers. As your spiritual advi—”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” said Bel, inconveniencing Magpie by rising from her chair as well.

She had no patience for Mr. Townsend attempting to use spiritual authority to circumscribe her actions.

If it had been Mr. Davies, installed as vicar in Upper Cross since before her own birth, she might have listened.

But for a stranger who had no claim to either years or experience to lecture her was unpardonable.

“I will thank you for your advice and bid you good day, Mr. Townsend.”

Mr. Townsend’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders pulled back stiffly.

“I hope that Mr. Brownlee is right about you and that your lack of prudence is not an incurable defect. No doubt the lack of male leadership in this house is largely to account for it.” He bowed himself out of the room before Bel could respond to that astonishing statement. “Good day, Miss Morrison.”

Nigel had kept to himself for nearly a week, incensed at Simpson for revealing his whereabouts, miffed with Lady Maltrousse for refusing to leave him in peace, and mildly irritated with the curiosity his title had awakened in Upper Cross.

As he wallowed in frustration on the Audeley House pianoforte, the sounds of arpeggios and chords had filled the air with his restive spirit.

A few times, he had seen Magpie roaming the rose gardens outside the windows. He had considered setting out a dish of meat to entice the friendly feline inside, but he recalled how vexed Miss Morrison would be if he subverted her cat’s affections any further.

His own affections were subverted beyond remedy.

After spending so much time in the company of Bel Morrison, he now felt the lack of her keenly.

The sensation was different from anything he had ever encountered.

Even when he had been on the hunt for his latest conquest, he had not felt this continual dull ache.

He had become a master at distraction over the last two years, but there was no distraction that could stop him from meditating on Miss Morrison’s low voice, muddy trousers, and bright eyes.

Finally, after no further communication had been received from London and after no minions of Solomon Digby had wandered down the lane bearing cudgels, Nigel decided that enough was enough.

He would call on Miss Morrison once again.

Unwilling to encounter more curiosity from the village folk, he ordered John to bring round the carriage and set him down at the Morrison house during calling hours.

As Nigel approached on the path, he saw Mr. Townsend exiting the house. But before he could get out a word of greeting, he felt the vicar push past him. Clearly, the fellow was not himself. Perhaps some contretemps had occurred ?

There was no servant at the open door, so Nigel let himself in and, removing his own greatcoat and beaver, set them on the table in the entrance hall. Then, knocking on the door of the parlour, he heard a low voice saying, “Come in.”

Magpie, seeing him enter, lifted a curious head. Within seconds, the cat had vacated Miss Morrison’s lap and was nuzzling against his leg.

“To what do I owe the honour, your grace?” Miss Morrison made no move to rise from her chair. Her eyes were flashing like the sparks in a forge, and Nigel could sense that she was filled with some strong emotion.

“I believe the honour is all mine,” said Nigel gently.

He looked around the room, hoping to find Aunt Lucy ensconced in the window seat, but the parlour was empty except for the woman in front of him.

He swallowed. A lady alone. It was exactly the situation he would have most hoped for in London.

But not here. Not with Miss Morrison. It was not prudent to call on her today—both for her sake and his own.

“I see Miss Lucy is out…perhaps I should come by another day.”

“Oh, the damage is done already,” said Miss Morrison, rising from her seat. “Now that you’ve arrived in plain daylight, everyone will know about it. Mr. Townsend will proclaim to the world that I have disregarded his advice and continue to receive calls from a London rake.”

Nigel froze. “I told you my reputation was…questionable.”

“According to the vicar, not only questionable but notorious. According to him, you are quite the ‘duke about town.’”

“Er…yes, I’m afraid I was.” The key word there being was.

He had been a self-absorbed Lothario with Lady Maltrousse and her set and the worst of all blackguards to his niece Louisa.

But no longer. That way of life was in the past. Or at least, he hoped it was in the past. He still needed to put his new resolve to the test, and that test could not be performed until he encountered temptation once again.

Miss Morrison breathed in deeply through her nose, and Nigel could not tell whether she was more irritated with Mr. Townsend or with him. “Why don’t you go back to London where you belong?”

“Because I can’t,” replied Nigel evenly. “If I do, I’m likely to have my legs broken and my ears cut off.” Once again, the black-and-white cat began to nuzzle the legs in question and audibly purr its regard for them.

She stared. “What on earth does that mean?”

Nigel reached down a hand to scratch Magpie between the ears.

“I know it sounds like a Drury Lane theatrical, but it’s all too true.

I took some money from a fellow named Solomon Digby, in exchange for a promise I could not perform.

The money is spent. Digby is angry. And of necessity, I must remain incognito until I scrape together some funds to repay him with interest.”

“Surely a duke has plenty of funds to pay his obligations?”

“ This duke does not.” Nigel held out his hands as he shrugged. Should he explain it all to her? Should he put himself into an even worse light?

He sighed. There was something about Miss Morrison that required nothing less than the truth.

“My brother ran the estate into the ground through poor management. And foolishly, I put in no effort to revitalise it when it came into my hands. As matters stand, the income from the Lincolnshire estate is barely enough to support the expenses incurred by my London residence and staff. ”

He paused, watching with bated breath as the light from the window caught the dozen different shades of brown in Miss Morrison’s hair.

She stomped her foot. “Then leave London and turn your attention to rescuing your estate. Or are you unwilling to put your responsibilities ahead of your selfish pleasures?”

Nigel gave her a self-deprecating half-smile. “As usual, the sensible Miss Morrison hits upon the crux of the matter. I don’t want to go to Lincolnshire. And what’s more, I don’t know the first thing about running an estate.”

“I daresay your steward could inform you.”

Nigel took a deep breath. He did not want his steward to inform him. If he had to take lessons on estate management from anyone, he would far prefer that they came from a straightforward Derbyshire lass near Upper Cross.

“In any case,” continued Miss Morrison, “it seems more prudent to spend your time in honest toil in Lincolnshire than in dishonourable hiding in Derbyshire. You’ll never be able to repay this Mr. Digby if you remain here.”

“I’m sure you're right, but I’ve discovered Derbyshire has attractions that Lincolnshire does not.” His dark gaze gave a gleam of appreciation. Despite her plain, practical dress. Despite her refusal to make any concession to fashion. Despite her straightforward way of raking him over the coals.

She arched an eyebrow, that delightfully cynical left eyebrow which Nigel had come to anticipate and enjoy. “Your grace, pray don’t insult my intelligence by giving me a compliment. I daresay you’ve enjoyed the company of dozens of ladies far more sophisticated and beautiful than me.”

“As you wish,” said Nigel. “I will refrain.” He reached out a hand, and surprisingly, she let him take her fingers and bow over them. “But since I have enjoyed the company of dozens of ladies, when I do give you a compliment, you must admit that I know what I’m talking about.”

She let him hold her fingers for half a moment before she pulled away her hand.

“I intend to stay for the Boxing Day ball,” said Nigel.

“How kind of you to condescend to our small gathering.”

“I suspect the condescension will be more yours than mine if you agree to sully your reputation even further…and stand up with me in the ballroom.

Miss Morrison’s grey eyes flashed. “Trying to fill your dance card already, your grace?”

“Yes,” said Nigel promptly. Hopefully. Desperately.

“I’ll think on it,” she said quietly.

Nigel forced a smile and made his farewells. At least, she had not said no.