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

Chapter two

The Duke

N igel yawned. He was tired of not being tired.

He had always favoured lazing about till the late hours of the afternoon, but somehow, that luxury could be better savoured when one had enjoyed some sort of gaiety the night before.

The problem with rusticating here in Derbyshire was that there was nothing to do.

The Audeleys’ home contained a medium-sized library, but he was so unused to reading in the past several years that opening a book seemed daunting.

The Audeleys’ home held a pianoforte with a large chest of sheet music, but he was so out of practice that it was painful to hear his own clumsy efforts.

The Audeleys’ home boasted the largest rose garden in this part of Derbyshire, but he had no use for walking unless he had a companion with which to converse.

And besides the coachman John and the gardener Archie, there was no one at all to talk to.

It had been benevolent of Mrs. Audeley to let him stay at her empty house—especially since London was too hot to hold him at present—but he did not know how much more of his own company he could take without going mad.

One part of him was glad there was no one of consequence around, for he was beginning to feel smelly and unkempt.

He had only packed a trunk for a week-long journey, and now he was running out of clean shirts, resurrecting rumpled cravats, and wondering why he had thought he could do without a valet on this trip.

He briefly contemplated sending a message up to London and requesting that Simpson post to Derbyshire with all haste.

But he could not shake the niggling worry that word of his whereabouts might leak out.

If Solomon Digby was watching his house in London, his spies might follow his valet Simpson back to Derbyshire.

Then Nigel would have more to worry about than unwashed linens.

No, Nigel must send no letters that might be traced back to him—neither to Simpson, nor to Lady Maltrousse, nor to any of his other gaiety-loving friends back in London.

And he must keep his identity mum in this dull Derbyshire neighbourhood—which would add even further to the interminable dullness.

Meandering about the house, Nigel poked his head into the kitchen. “What are we having for dinner tonight, John?”

“Eggs, yer grace,” grunted the coachman. “And ham.”

“Excellent,” said Nigel, “my favourite. And no need for ‘yer grace,’ I must remind you.” It was the exact same meal that they had enjoyed for the whole of Nigel’s stay.

But John could hardly be blamed. He was a coachman, not a cook, and he was doing his best to provide board for the gentleman who had been foisted on the skeleton household.

Besides the gardener and the coachman, there was only Mrs. Garrick who stopped by daily to empty the chamber pots, dust the furniture, and scour the dishes.

Nigel looked down at his sad shirtfront, stained from previous wear. Slowly, a brilliant idea crept upon him. “Do you think the lady who comes in to do the washing up could launder my clothes as well?”

“Don’t see why not, yer gr—sir,” said John. He nodded at the spotty faced young man sitting agape on the wooden bench by the kitchen table. “She be Archie’s mother.”

“Excellent,” said Nigel again, not quite sure that he was using that word to the highest level of its lexical potential.

“Normally, my valet handles my laundry, but I am without his expertise at present.” In truth, Simpson’s expertise was quite extraordinary.

Nigel had inherited him from his brother, the previous duke, who had in turn received him from the clever Lady Maltrousse.

Simpson seemed to understand the need to uphold the Warrenton standard of modish masculinity.

Archie dropped the spoon that had been travelling toward his open mouth.

It fell on the wooden table with a clatter.

Nigel averted his eyes. He had already noticed that the youthful gardener looked utterly stupefied whenever he was in the exalted presence of a guest, and he did not want to add to the lad’s awkwardness.

“Yer grace,” the young man managed to gasp, like a fish on land taking his dying breath.

“Er, yes, what is it?”

“Might you be needin’ a valet while yer stayin’ here?” The boy’s fingers began to drum on the table with nervous energy. “I could help wi’ that.”

Nigel paused. This unprepossessing creature was not exactly the model of a metropolitan gentleman’s gentleman.

Simpson would be horrified if Nigel let the lad brush his coats or iron his cravats.

But Nigel was no longer in London, and when one was in the country, one had to make shift as best one could.

“Very well, you can attempt it.” Nigel looked down at the scuffed toes of his once-proud Hessians. “But you must stop calling me ‘yer grace,’ and your first task will be to put some shine back into my boots.”

“Yes, yer g-good sir!” said Archie, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a bottle at sea.

John gave a snort. “But don’t you be forgettin’ the rose garden while you’re playin’ valet, Archie, or Mr. Audeley’ll have somethin’ t’say to you when he gets back.”

The youth began to assert his ability to do both jobs at once. As Nigel listened, he felt something rub against his leg. Zounds! What was that?

A white cat with black patches on its back and face was acquainting itself, quite affectionately, with his boot. Throughout the past week at Audeley House, Nigel had never caught sight of the creature. “John,” he interrupted. “Do the Audeleys keep a cat?”

“A cat? No, sir. The Audeleys don’t own any such creatures.

” John lumbered around the corner of the kitchen table and saw the interloper.

“Come here, you scamp. It’s back out into the rain for you.

” The coachman reached down and tried to seize the feline, but it darted behind Nigel’s legs.

John paused, clearly unsure whether to risk mauling their exalted guest in the attempt to seize the intruder.

Nigel bent down and held out a friendly hand. The cat nuzzled against it. Within seconds, Nigel had picked up the cat and was rubbing its rounded head between the ears. “I think this cat would like to stay for dinner.”

John gave him a puzzled look. “An’ do ye want it to? ”

“Of course. Set an extra plate, if you please.”

Ignoring the look of confusion that passed between John and Archie, Nigel exited the kitchen and made his way to the parlour, still holding the trespassing feline. A cat might not be as good as a human companion, but at least it would give him somebody to talk to.

By the following afternoon, Nigel was beginning to appreciate just why lonely spinsters kept a cat. The creature alternated between resting calmly on his lap and darting wildly about the room amusing him with its antics. It had none of the annoying slobber or loud barking of a dog.

It soothed and settled Nigel to have another presence in the room, so that he could speak aloud without feeling like a candidate for an asylum.

He loved a cheerful chat, even though he had to keep up both ends of it.

In younger days, he used to drop in at the Society of Eccentrics for some captivating conversation, but he had all but given that up after his rise to the dukedom two years ago.

After all, if he was ever to come out of his brother’s shadow, he needed to take the ton by storm, not waste time dabbling in science, history, philosophy, and philanthropy.

But he missed those days when one could talk deeply about the variety of life instead of desperately stroking the vanity of others.

“How many new stars do you think they’ve discovered since I’ve been in Derbyshire?” Nigel asked the cat.

The cat cocked her head and meowed.

“Twenty! That’s rather optimistic. Have you been to the Kew Observatory then?”

The cat meowed again .

When he tired of discussing astronomy with the cat, Nigel found a ball of string from a workbag Mrs. Audeley had left in the parlour.

He twirled the end about for the cat’s enjoyment until John came to the parlour and cleared his throat.

“The neighbour Miss Morrison is here, sir. She’s askin’ about her cat. ”

Nigel’s spirits sunk. He might have known this furry amusement belonged to some local spinster. What a pity that he would have to surrender it and return to his state of listless boredom.

“Show her in,” he said in a resigned voice. Head bent, he began to roll up the ball of string.

“I was not aware that the Audeleys had a houseguest,” said a low, feminine voice.

Nigel looked up and saw a slender woman in a loose brown walking dress.

It was not the sort of gown any of his London acquaintances would ever think of wearing—in public, in private, or in any circumstance outside of indentured servitude.

But despite the unfashionableness of her gown, the woman had a lithe build, a firm stride, and sun-browned skin.

Her face was not beautiful, but it was striking, and even more so since Nigel had not set eyes on any woman in the last week besides his new laundress, Mrs. Garrick.

From beneath an unadorned chip bonnet, her clear grey eyes were assessing him thoughtfully.

This was not the aged spinster he had been expecting.

Nigel rose from his seat, dropping the ball of string to the floor. The cat sprung upon it with virulent vigour. “Nigel Lymington, at your service.” He flashed the woman a scintillating smile and held out a hand with practiced grace.

“Pleased to meet you,” said the lady, ignoring his outstretched hand. It might have been her matter-of-fact tone, but to Nigel’s ear, she sounded anything but pleased. “I am Belinda Morrison.”