Discouraging the Duke, page 4
“He wants you to retrieve a portrait. He didn’t say which one. Only that you would know the one he spoke of.”
Surprise flickered across the butler’s face. “He asked for it?”
“He did,” she confirmed. “I have no idea which portrait or where it is located. Can you retrieve it for me?”
“Wait here,” he commanded.
The butler disappeared and was gone a good quarter-hour. When he returned, she saw the item he carried was covered with a cloth.
“Are you certain he wanted this?” Sevill asked, doubt in his voice.
“All I know is that His Grace asked for it and knew you were the one who could locate it.”
“It is just that . . . well, it is of his boys.”
Understanding dawned within her. Though no one ever spoke of young Anthony, the duke must have wanted to once more see a picture of the child he had lost so long ago before he passed.
“I will take it to him,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it, Mr. Sevill. His Grace will be most appreciative, I am sure.”
Emery returned to the duke’s rooms, the covered painting in hand. She dismissed Addy and returned to the duke’s side.
“Your Grace, I have what you asked for. Mr. Sevill located it.”
“Good.” His voice, usually so strong, sounded feeble and faint.
She withdrew the cloth from the frame and sat, placing the picture in her lap so the old man could view it at eye level. A smile crossed the duke’s face as he gazed upon it. Though curious, she knew she could look upon it after he did.
“My . . . boys,” he rasped, reaching out a hand, his fingers touching the canvas.
She sensed another presence and saw that Sevill had slipped into the room. He came to stand on the other side of the bed, his gaze turning to the picture.
“Send for my boy,” the duke said, his voice quavering with emotion.
“I have sent for him, Your Grace. A week ago,” Sevill said, unable to mask the sadness in his eyes.
“Then go for him in person,” His Grace said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I need Ralph here.”
“Of course, Your Grace. And Her Grace?” Sevill asked.
“She can go to Hell.”
The vehemence in the duke’s words struck Emery, almost if he had landed a blow to her belly. She wondered what had passed between the pair that had left them so estranged. Then the duke began coughing again. She propped the portrait against the wall, once again helping Winslow. Sevill stayed, too, and finally the fit finished. The duke collapsed against the pillows, exhausted.
“Do as he said,” she told the butler. “Leave for London immediately. I fear the end is near. His heir should be here. Don’t come back unless he accompanies you,” she said sternly.
For once, the butler didn’t argue. He nodded solemnly and left the room.
Emery watched her patient for a few minutes and when she was convinced he was sleeping deeply, she rose and moved to view the portrait. Turning it so that it faced her, she sucked in a sharp breath.
Three boys were pictured together. Not the two she had expected.
She recognized the marquess immediately. His face hadn’t changed much since the artist had completed his work years ago. The youngest of the three looked to be about six, meaning this portrait had been commissioned shortly before Anthony Notley’s untimely death.
Her eyes were drawn to the unknown boy, who had to be ten or eleven. He had golden brown hair that seemed kissed by a summer sun. His sky blue eyes were those of his mother’s. He looked as though he had been told to take the portrait sitting seriously, yet a glint of mischief shone in his eyes.
Who was this boy—a son no one ever spoke of?
She had come to Wildwood ten years ago. This Notley boy would have been a couple of years older than she was if she was right about the timeframe of the painting. Had he been at school? Had some terrible tragedy also befallen him? How awful for His Grace to lose not one but two sons. Perhaps that is why the duchess avoided Wildwood, not wanting any memories of the two boys she had lost.
Yet if this boy was a Notley—and dead—then wouldn’t he be buried in the family plot, next to Anthony?
Her curiosity grew, wondering if Winslow had called for the painting in order to see the sons he had lost and would soon be joining. She could understand the portrait being hidden, especially if it caused the duke and duchess so much hurt to view it.
Placing it against the wall again, she remained by the duke’s side another hour. A low moan came from him and he opened his eyes. They were filled with pain—and something else she couldn’t identify.
“I couldn’t help but look at your sons, Your Grace. They were handsome boys.”
His face softened. “Ralph,” he said softly. “My heir.”
“Yes, I saw the marquess. A very distinguished lad. As were the others.”
The duke frowned. “Anthony. Gone . . . so many years now.”
She placed a hand over his. “I have seen his grave in the churchyard. I know you must miss him.” Emery hesitated and then said, “And your other son. The middle one. He, too, was quite handsome.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “He is dead to me. He ruined everything.”
Suddenly, Winslow clawed at his chest, wheezing. His face grew a bright red. Emery pulled the cord and a footman rushed into the room after two minutes. By then, it was too late for a doctor to help. The Duke of Winslow had taken his last breath and was finally at peace.
“Bring my mother,” she told the servant. “His Grace has passed. Arrangements will need to be made. Summon the doctor and the vicar.”
“Yes, Miss Jenson,” the footman said, quickly exiting.
Emery glanced back at the still body on the bed and then her gaze turned to the portrait of three young Notleys.
Who was the middle boy—and what had happened to him?
Chapter Four
Emery couldn’t stand the new Duke of Winslow.
And he’d only been at Wildwood a week.
She grit her teeth thinking about how arrogant and overbearing Ralph Notley could be. He had shown up with his mother in tow. She was as unpleasant as Emery remembered, finding fault with everything from the temperature of her tea to how far the curtains had been drawn. The next day, a party of five rowdy gentlemen showed up, all friends of the new Duke of Winslow. They had accompanied the new duke to the funeral, where the former duke was buried next to his son, Anthony, and then the guests had stayed for a week, drinking and carousing far into the night. Emery did her best to avoid them, knowing what they would have on their minds. She had never been kissed and wasn’t about to experience her first kiss forced upon her by a drunken lord.
Today, she and Papa had an appointment with Winslow. His friends had left yesterday and she supposed he was ready to settle down and see about the business of the estate. Fortunately, she had come across her father going over the books, a dazed look on his face. He told her he was trying to balance accounts.
And didn’t remember how.
Tamping down her fear, Emery had sent him back to their cottage, telling him he looked tired and was probably in need of a nap. That the numbers would make sense to him once he had gotten some rest. Then she had spent the rest of that afternoon and all the next day sorting through the mess he had made, reworking columns of numbers and adding things correctly. She left the pages she corrected inside the ledger, merely drawing a large X through them and initialing beside it. She didn’t want His Grace to think she had tampered with the books in any way. She doubted he would take the time to study them. He seemed more the type to skim them. If that.
Fortunately, she was the one who paid the bills at the estate and so no merchants had gone without their funds. Emery worried, though, about her father’s rapid decline. That was why she would sit in on his meeting today with the new duke. Hopefully, she could cover for Papa and answer the His Grace’s questions. If the duke suspected Papa’s mind had grown weak, he would sack him immediately. That would mean losing the cottage, which was attached to the position of steward. She prayed that wouldn’t come to pass and that her mother would also be able to retain her position as housekeeper.
Entering the office, she found her father seated behind the desk, staring into space as he often did these days. Emery’s heart went out to him. Papa had always been such an intelligent man, well versed in a good number of topics. As a viscount’s son, he had received an excellent education. Being a fourth son, however, he had to make his way in the world the best he could. He had attained the position of steward for the Earl of Raydon just before he turned forty. Having secure employment, he had then married the local doctor’s daughter. Emery arrived a few years later and when she was twelve, Papa had accepted the position as steward at Wildwood, a far larger estate. When the duke’s housekeeper had passed away unexpectedly a short time after their arrival, Papa had suggested Mama for the position. Winslow had agreed, having come to trust his estate manager implicitly.
These had been good years at Wildwood. The estate had become home to Emery. Leaving it would be difficult. It would be up to her to help hide Papa’s deficiencies and answer the duke’s questions. She had already overheard Winslow tell the duchess that he didn’t plan to stay in the country with the London Season in full swing so Emery knew today’s appointment might be the only time the duke spoke with Papa.
She watched her father a moment. He did not recognize her presence. It pained her to see how he had seemingly grown old overnight. His graying hair now had an abundance of white in it. His lined face continually looked weary. His posture, once tall and proud, now was slumped.
“Papa,” she called softly.
He turned and smiled. “Hello, Emery. Have you balanced the ledgers?”
“Yes, I have, Papa. Do you remember His Grace is coming to meet with us regarding the estate?”
He frowned. “I thought he was very ill.”
She swallowed. He had already forgotten the old duke had recently died.
“Remember, Papa, that His Grace passed away. We went to his funeral last week,” she reminded gently.
“Oh. Oh, that is quite right. His Grace is dead. The son is here. I remember now.” Papa frowned. “His friends are quite ill-mannered.”
She chuckled. “They are, indeed. You should keep that to yourself, though.”
“Of course. I would never say that to His Grace. It is not my place to judge his companions or their behavior.”
They waited a quarter-hour. After half an hour passed and still no duke, Emery rang for a footman.
When Thomas appeared, she asked, “Do you know where His Grace is? He was to discuss estate business with my father and has not kept his appointment.”
Thomas’ mouth twitched. “His Grace only awakened a few minutes ago, Miss Jenson. He called for hot water. It could be some time before he remembers this meeting.”
“I see. Thomas, would you let His Grace’s valet know to send His Grace our way when he is presentable?”
The footman bit back a smile. “Yes, Miss Jenson.”
She got to work, allowing her father to flip through the pages of a book as she did. After another hour, the door opened.
The Duke of Winslow staggered in, a bottle in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.
Her gut tightened. He may have bathed but he still looked disheveled. While dressed in the manner of a city gentleman more than a country one, his cravat was askew. His face sported yesterday’s whiskers. His hair stuck up in the air.
And he reeked of the brandy.
He weaved his way across the office, falling into a chair. Tilting the glass to his lips, he drained it and poured another.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said and Papa echoed her words.
Emery wanted to slap the man for a litany of things but kept her face neutral.
“What can we do for you today, Your Grace?” Papa asked politely.
The duke flicked his eyes to her. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
She steeled herself. “I am Miss Jenson. My father is your estate manager and my mother is your housekeeper. I aid them both in their work.”
His eyes looked her slowly up and down, causing her cheeks to heat in embarrassment. If he was a servant, she would slap him and give him a piece of her mind. Instead, because he was a peer and her parents’ employer, she sat mute.
“Tell me about the estate,” the duke said, his eyes still raking over her.
Papa began to speak and Winslow cut him off. “I want her to tell me. Let’s see what a female actually knows.”
Emery thought this a blessing in disguise. It would save Papa from stumbling through any explanation and show His Grace that she did pull her weight at Wildwood.
She began talking about the upcoming planting and harvest and watched as his eyes glazed over. He emptied his glass and refilled it from the bottle he still held.
Finally, he interrupted her. “This is boring. Tell me how much Wildwood makes each year. And how much I receive from the other estates—if you know.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
Emery threw numbers at him. Numbers were her friends and she knew them backward and forward. When she finished, the duke grunted.
And poured himself a final glass of brandy.
The bottle now empty, he let it drop to the floor and said, “You do know quite a bit.”
It was probably the closest she would ever come to a compliment from him. She bowed her head slightly, not trusting her tongue, which wished to dress him down for being drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“I don’t plan to spend much time here,” he said, his words slurring. “I suppose I should see something of the place before I leave for town.”
“Did you grow up here, Your Grace?” she asked politely.
“I did. I never liked it here. Take me out now.”
“Take you . . . where, Your Grace?”
He frowned at her. “I said I wanted to see the estate. You do ride, don’t you, Miss Jenson?”
“I do. Perhaps you might wish to ride the estate when you can get an earlier start,” she smoothly suggested, knowing he had no business being on a horse in his inebriated condition.
His eyes narrowed. “I want to see it now.” He stood, letting the tumbler fall from his fingers. It landed on the carpet with a soft thunk.
“Very well,” she said, marching briskly out of the room and straight to the stables. She had a riding habit but knew this man didn’t have the patience to allow her time to change into it. She would have to make do. As it was, she doubted they would be out for long. If he made it a quarter-mile from the house without falling off his horse, it would be a miracle.
Mr. Harris, the head groom, met her, glancing over her shoulder. “You wish to ride, Miss Jenson?”
The duke arrived. “She does. We do. Fetch horses for us both.”
The groom looked at her uncertainly. Emery nodded slightly.
“Would you like Zeus, Miss?” he asked, knowing the mount was her favorite in the stables.
“Zeus?” the duke asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. The horses are all named after Greek gods. Zeus is the most spirited and hardest to control. He likes no one but Miss Jenson on his back.”
“He will prefer me,” Winslow proclaimed. “Saddle him. Give her something else.”
Worry creased the groom’s face. “Yes, Your Grace.” Harris hurried away.
“Zeus can be a handful, Your Grace,” she cautioned.
He glared at her. “If you can handle him, so can I. I can ride any beast and bring it to heel.” He paused and leered at her. “I would like to ride you.”
Her face flamed at his crass comment. Although two and twenty, she had little idea what went on between a man and a woman and sensed he knew that. What she did know was that a gentleman would never speak to her this way.
Winslow was definitely no gentleman, despite the title he now claimed.
“We can have fun together, Miss Jenson. I can show you things. Many things.”
“I am not interested in fun, Your Grace,” she said primly.
He roared with laughter.
Thankfully, their horses arrived. As usual, Zeus snorted and huffed. She stepped to the horse, his nostrils flaring and murmured to him softly as she stroked his neck, calming him.
The duke stepped toward her and said, “Would you like to stroke me that way, Miss Jenson?”
Horrified, she stepped back and quickly went to Ares, a groom helping her to mount. She took up the reins as she tried to gather her wits about her. She had drawn the duke’s attention in a terrible way and had no idea how to stop his advances. Fortunately, he had said he wouldn’t remain at Wildwood for long. If she could avoid him for a day or two, he would be gone and forget about her. Thank goodness she lived away from the house in the cottage with her parents. If she’d had a room in the main house, she knew she wouldn’t be safe from this lecherous drunk.
Turning, she saw Winslow had been helped into the saddle and asked, “Where would you like to see first, Your Grace?”
He grunted.
“I will show you the fields then.”
Emery nudged her horse and Ares responded, taking off at a slow trot. The duke joined her, riding by her side. She could tell, though, that he struggled to keep Zeus under control. She wondered if she could suggest they trade mounts but couldn’t think of any reason why they should that Winslow would accept.
She showed the duke the fields where various crops had been planted and then took him by the rows of his tenants’ cottages.
“I remember a bluff,” he said. “It overlooked a good deal of land.”
“I know where that is,” she replied. “Follow me.”
She kept Ares at a steady canter, knowing if she sped up that Zeus might think the duke was giving the horse his head and take off at a raging gallop.
They reached the area and Winslow dismounted. He looked at her expectantly and she slid from the saddle, worried about how she would get up again without assistance, especially in the gown she wore. She didn’t want him having any excuse to put his hands on her. The thought of that made her uncomfortable and might give him a reason to try and take liberties with her.
