Page 4 of The Duke and his Muse (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #32)

Graham frowned at the missive in his hand. The author of his son’s favorite books was dead.

“You look put out,” his mother said from her place at the breakfast table beside him.

“The author David Hayward is deceased,” he replied with a sigh.

“The gentleman who wrote the books Daniel enjoys?”

He nodded. The dowager had been in residence soon after receiving his letter informing her of her grandson. The last six weeks had been fraught with concern and tears. On both sides. The Forest Friends books had been one of the few things that seemed to comfort Daniel.

“Oh my, you had so hoped there might be more books forthcoming.”

And he had. The little boy still cried for his mother a few times each day. Graham read to his son nightly as a way to help lessen the grief his poor son must feel with the loss of his mother

“I believe Hayward’s daughter was the illustrator for the books,” he commented. “The illustrator is listed as J. Hayward; his daughter’s Christian name is Jane.

An idea had begun to form in his mind. “Perhaps the lady has an unfinished manuscript lying around or could write a book herself for Daniel.”

“Perhaps,” his mother replied slowly. “What are you thinking, Graham?”

“I’m thinking that the woman lives not too far from Bartlett House near the village of Matford.” He folded the letter and placed it in an inside pocket of his blue superfine jacket. “That is convenient.”

“I know your intention is to help Daniel with his grief, but is a book the best way to do it?”

He rose to his feet. “The only time the child will even look at me is if I’m holding one of those books. I would be his hero if I could present him with another one.”

His mother didn’t look convinced but said no more.

A fortnight later, he arrived in the tiny hamlet of Matford. His grand carriage resulted in a crowd gathering, and his coachman quickly obtained instructions to the cottage of Miss Jane Hayward without divulging who was in the coach.

As he rode toward the young woman’s abode, Graham pulled back the curtain on one of the windows and was struck by the beauty and peacefulness of the house’s setting. Placed near a copse of silver birch trees, the cottage looked to be at one with its pastoral surroundings.

A knock at the door revealed a young maid. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. Is Miss Hayward at home for callers?”

“I’ll see, sir. Your name?”

“Graham Bartlett, Duke of Exeter.”

The young woman’s eyes widened as she stepped back. “Your Grace, do come in. I’ll return in a moment.”

He stepped into the darkened interior.

The maid rushed out of the tiny hall into a doorway on the right. There was a door way to the left, and a staircase ahead of him.

The maid returned quickly, out of breath. “My mistress will see you now, your Grace.”

Graham followed the woman into the room to the right, stooping slightly as his six feet height was too much for the sloping beams over his head.

“Graham Bartlett, Duke of Exeter,” the maid announced as she entered a small room and then stood to one side.

A young woman rose from her place on a slightly shabby stuffed chair and dropped an awkward curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Miss Hayward,” he replied formally as he sat on a surprisingly well-sprung settee and waited for the young woman to regain her seat.

“Bring a tea tray, Maisie,” his hostess said quietly.

Once the maid had departed, he looked down, noticing a cat sniffing at his boots.

“Oliver!” Miss Hayward flushed, leaning forward and snapping her fingers to gain the cat’s attention. “Leave his Grace alone.”

“The cat bothers me not at all,” he replied lightly.

After a few more sniffs of his footwear, the cat wandered off to lie near the cold hearth, apparently having no further interest in the newcomer.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, your Grace?”

Despite using the word ‘honor,’ the young woman’s tone led him to believe she saw the visit as no boon, but as an inconvenience.

“Miss Hayward, when I received your reply to my query about having a book commissioned, I was surprised to see how close your abode was to my estate.” He paused to smile congenially. “Perhaps if I tell you of my conundrum, you could help me.”

The maid entered with a tea tray and placed it on a long, low table in front of her mistress. In addition to the normal tea accoutrements, there was a plate of cinnamon buns, one of his favorite sweets.

“Thank you, Maisie.” The maid departed and Miss Hayward asked him, “Cream and sugar?”

“Neither.”

When the cups were sorted, he took a cinnamon bun and bit into it. Heaven. He adored sweets, a proclivity he shared with his mother.

“What is your conundrum?” the young woman asked him.

He looked at her then, closely. Not pretty exactly, but what some would call handsome. In her early twenties he would guess. Petite with shiny brown hair pulled back from her brow far too severely.

“My son, a very young child, has recently lost his mother.” He paused. “His only comfort seems to be the books your father wrote and which I believe you illustrated. Books that his mother read him every day from his birth.”

“I am so very sorry for your loss, your Grace. I was indeed the illustrator of the Forest Friends series. My father has passed as you know and there are no further books to be published.”

“Perhaps you could write one for my son? As you were the illustrator for the books you must be very familiar with your father’s writing.”

Miss Hayward frowned. “You believe because I can draw that I can write a children’s book? You think that writing a story that captivates a child could be so easy?”

His mind turned to the short stories he’d written for his mother when he was young.

She’d complimented him, encouraged him. His father had not minded his son’s interest as long as he performed well at school and knew that his future was not as a writer but as a duke.

His father had died when Graham was away at Eton.

From that moment on he’d been groomed to take his place as Duke of Exeter. His writing had been put aside.

“Of course not, Miss Hayward. Excuse my presumption.”

The young lady looked taken aback by his calm reply. After receiving the brief letter rejecting his offer from this young woman, he’d known taking the lord of the manor approach would not work on Miss Hayward.

He’d done some research on Miss Hayward, aided by the Duke’s Alliance, and been informed the lady was well provided for by her father’s estate.

She owned the cottage and the land upon which it stood and had a monthly stipend as well.

Her father had left nothing to chance. Graham could not coerce her into helping him by offering her money.

And despite what some may think of him, he would not threaten the woman with his status or position.

Graham took a sip of his tea and the silence lengthened, only broken by the soft purring of the cat in the room. That cat gave him an idea. He’d never known a woman that owned a pet to not be kindhearted. He smiled to himself.

“My son, Daniel, is nearly inconsolable without his mother. The bright spot in my and his day seems to be when I read your father’s books to him.” He looked down at the dainty cup in his large hand, wondering how to proceed.

“You said the boy is very young?” his hostess asked softly.

“Just two years of age.” He cleared his throat, stopping himself from saying too much to a virtual stranger. “My only motive here is to comfort my son in any way I can.”

He looked up then to see the young woman chewing on her lip, her eyes misty.

“My mother is trying her best to help the child with his grief. It is quite sad to see the boy so unhappy.”

“You have all my father’s books?” she asked.

“All five that were published. There is only five?” He placed his tea cup on its matching saucer on the table in front of him.

She nodded. “We had started a new project before he died, only a few pages, really.”

“Might I see it?” he asked, without thinking. He mustn’t look or act too excited by the young woman’s admission.

Miss Hayward looked at him then, assessing. He must have passed whatever test she had in her head as she nodded. She stood up and walked to a tiny writing desk in the corner of the room. Opening the drawer, she pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them to him.

The books her father had written were about some woodland friends, and all followed a pattern of helping a newcomer to the forest. He read the three brief pages her father had written about a lost hedgehog.

Accompanying notes described the hedgehog as shy.

A single drawing was included of a doubtful looking hedgehog, surrounded by the Forest Friends characters of a red fox, young Roe deer, and blackbird.

“This is an excellent premise,” he said into the quiet room.

“Do you think so?” Miss Hayward asked with a quick smile. She sobered and added, “My father thought it would be our best book.”

A plan had entered his mind but he didn’t wish to scare Miss Hayward off. “Would you like to meet my son? And my mother? The duchess also quite enjoys your books.”

The young woman blinked, sitting further back in her chair. Oliver the cat jumped onto her lap and the girl stroked the feline, again biting her lip.

“Daniel is quite shy himself and perhaps could give inspiration for completing the book. I think it is a very good start and would be a wonderful way to honor your father.”

At the quirk of Miss Hayward’s lips, he feared he may have gone too far. She sighed and eventually responded, “I can see no harm in it.”

The woman did not elaborate. He placed her father’s notes on the table next to his teacup and rose to his feet.

“You’ve heard of Bartlett House?”

“I have.”

“If you would like, you could join my family for tea on the morrow. I could send a carriage for you at say, eleven o’clock?” Daniel would have had his nap by the time Miss Hayward arrived at the house after her journey.

“That would suit.” The woman stood up. “I will see you out.”

Miss Heyward followed him from the room and into the entry hall where his hat and coat rested on a bench. He donned his outerwear and nodded to the lady as she curtsied.

“Until tomorrow.”

As he rode back to Bartlett House, Graham wondered how he had accomplished so much without trying. The young woman used words sparingly. She hadn’t seemed cowed by his status. She had seemed affected by the plight of Daniel.

He hadn’t lied when he said the books were comforting to the boy. That and the presence of his nurse. The woman had yet to warm up to Graham and he wasn’t holding his breath. It didn’t matter. If Mrs. Blight’s presence brought Daniel comfort, he could bear her low opinion of him.