The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T here were few things in life that brought Christopher Fitzsimmons joy anymore. No, his life was chiefly one of anxiety, occasional physical pain, and regret. One small pleasure that remained was riding across the Cornish moors. But this was not why he was out in the storm. He had been meeting with his steward and misjudged the weather on the return journey.

He would admit that perhaps this ride back had been a way of tempting fate—a means of seeking out danger. Kit liked to feel as if he were daring the world to see what else it could do to him.

But this thunderstorm was setting in on him, with a gusto that caused Kit to kick his heels in his mount with more rigour, a muttered curse uttered under his breath. He needed to reach the relative safety of Tintagel Manor. It was too dangerous to stay out here for long, and he did not want his little sister Flora to have to bury him too.

He was angry. Not solely because of the weather, although he acknowledged it simply added to the burning emotion churning inside him with an unpleasant, barely contained fury .

The pathway back towards the manor was slippery, and Kit’s vision was blurred by thick sweeping walls of rain and the occasional sticky leaf that would fly up and hit him in the face. This meant he could not race back in his normal way.

“Whoa,” he called out to his mount, forcing the horse into a more sedate pace. Which was just as well since when he rounded a corner, he found a carriage blocking his return to the manor, and two rather wet, miserable, and slightly hysterical servants, both yelling at each other.

It took several moments to understand what they were shouting about, and where they were headed, and even longer to understand what the maid was telling him, about the sole female who’d headed off into the bleak stretch of moorland.

“She’s out there,” the girl shouted. He briefly caught her London accent before the wind claimed it. She was clinging to the edge of the carriage door, her free hand pointing behind Kit and out onto the moors.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kit could make out the small shape of a woman, huddled down close to an outcrop of rocks and trees. God knew what the madwoman was doing. Perhaps the carriage had dropped something she deemed valuable, and the passenger had gone after it.

“Get back inside,” Kit ordered, before wheeling his horse around and heading out towards the rogue woman. Figuring it was easier for him to get over to the woman than the carriage could. Heavy wind and rain beat down onto his face as his resentment swelled alongside his fear. Off from the beaten track, the terrain was uneven and prone to wet stones, uneven surfaces, and the easy risk that she would fall and disappear amongst the brambles forever.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouted his question as soon as he was close enough to be heard, although he could barely make out a thing about her. Besides the fact she was sprawled on the ground. He had assumed she would be an elderly lady, the sort who needed a young maid to care for her.

But she wasn’t.

Despite the downpour, when the woman righted herself into a sitting position and turned and looked up at him through a cloud of damp hair, and a dripping hat askew, he could see she was far younger than he expected. Clasped in her arms was a lively-looking, chocolate-coloured spaniel.

“Lord above.” She gasped, struggling to her feet, the dog wriggling in her arms. With a contemptuous gaze, Kit took in her damp clothes, which clung to her small frame, and the half-hearted attempt she made to push the hair off her face. “The dog was trapped.”

Without consciously realising what he was about, Kit found himself off his horse, twisting the rein around his hand and moving closer to her. “Give me the blasted animal.”

“Is he yours?” She was staring up at him, her question baffling him, a frown puckering her little face. God, he realised she was tiny. For a wild moment, he could almost believe she was part of the fairy kingdom that his sister had loved as a child. The woman before him better resembled one of the fey people. Or rather like a creature from Arthurian legend so popular in these parts. In a temper at such absurdity, he reached for the dog she held, but she clung on to her rescued hound. “He needs looking after.”

“Well, none of us will get to that if we don’t get out of this storm quickly,” Kit snapped. This time, instead of reaching for the dog, he leant down and grabbed her arm, pulling her forward, so that she was sheltered against the frame of his horse, the rain lashing them in a sideways motion now. “Come back to the carriage.”

“I—” her gaze had turned towards the carriage in the distance, and Kit saw much to his disgust that apparently the driver had had enough waiting, or more likely the horses had spooked, because the vehicle had set off at a rattling pace .

“Get on the horse.” Kit moved closer to his steed before grabbing her around the waist, the squirming dog and the soaking wet clothes all wrapped up in a bundle, and hoisting them onto the saddle. As she spluttered and wriggled there, Kit slotted his foot into the stirrup and climbed up behind her. Hastily, his arms came around the woman’s middle as he reached for the rein.

“What are you doing?” Through the half-light, he could see all too clearly the surprise in her eyes. Great, round orbs looked back into his face, alight with confusion as she watched him.

“Hold on to that dog as I won’t stop if you drop him,” he snapped, feeling her wriggle, but she clasped the hound closer, and at the same time nestled farther into him.

For one brief moment, the movement of her curling up close to him surprised Kit with its intimacy. There was something titillating about the gesture even in the midst of this downpour, although he was sure it was naively intended. Where did that strange idea come from? With a shake of his head, he spurred his horse onwards, after the retreating carriage and towards his manor.

There had at one time been a welcoming appeal to Tintagel Manor and the memories it invoked. In the last four months, this had faded and what remained, was the cold, dreaded aspects of a lonely, far-flung old house, past its prime, its structure old, dated, and better suited to the fourteen hundreds when it was built. Against the raging storm and pounding wind, the faint lights scattered across five or so of the windows looked close to giving up hope of salvation. The stone construction seemingly eager to simply sink into the ground, rather than welcome Kit or his soggy collection of unwanted guests.

“Slow there.” He stopped his horse and scrambled off his seat, away from the confusing feel of the young woman. The thirty minutes of accidentally holding her had not provided any further clarity, nor had it reduced his anger in the slightest. And worse to his mind, the nagging, pleasing sensation of titillation had grown and festered every time she’d shifted. It had been far too long since he’d bedded a woman.

From the left-hand side of the outbuildings emerged several servants, asking worried questions, clasping up the reins and leading the carriage into the shelter. Kit spotted Mrs. Clarke, his housekeeper, and his butler, Peterson, approaching the unwelcome guests.

Kit descended from his horse and headed for the comforts of his home. However once inside, he found he had been followed by the young person and her wet dog.

In the shelter of the hallway, she yanked off her ruined black hat, and finally lowered her hound to the floor. In the light of the dozing fire, Kit could make out a little more of the young woman. She was slim, small, and her hair appeared to be black, although that might have been because it was so wet. As he had suspected, her face was fairy-like with curious eyes that tilted at the edges, a small, pointed nose, a rosebud pout of a mouth, and what looked like it might be tiny freckles that danced over her cheeks. She was exquisite, a pocket Venus as the expression went.

In disgust at his own animal interest, Kit moved away from her, drawing closer to the fire, and pulling off his great coat and throwing it over the nearest stag head to dry. His bad arm was sore, made worse by the ride in the rain, especially since he had the weight of both her and the dog held tight against him for the ride, and he felt the muscle stretch awkwardly as he walked.

Unabashed, the woman followed after him, the dog now at her feet trailing in her wake. “You didn’t answer my question, sir.”

“What was it?” He hadn’t heard her ask a thing, but between the noise of the storm and the sound of the servants, it could have easily been lost outside .

“Where are we?” she asked. Seeing he had removed his coat, she set about loosening her own, tied together with ribbons. “You see we, that is the carriage—I was trying to get to Tintagel Manor.”

“Why would you want to go there?”

“Oh.” She looked rather taken aback by this response as she slowly tried to fold up her damp cape.

“Here, give it here.” Her clothing would hardly dry like that. He snatched the garment out of her hands and hung it over a smaller trophy, where it started to drip. Kit turned back to her, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “No one in their right mind would wish to go to Tintagel Manor. It is not somewhere desirable. You must have heard the rumours about the place?” Kit shifted away as the damned rescued dog propped himself up next to the fireplace, enjoying the warmth.

“Well.” She paused as she removed her gloves and then proceeded to try her best to press at the waves of her hair, letting great drops of water land all around her. The pair of them needed towels, Kit thought, and probably a hot bath and warm meal. Which meant he should ring for the house staff, although something was keeping him from going across and pulling the cord.

The strange elfin girl continued to press and play with her hair, and suddenly a vivid image of this woman slipping those damp articles of clothes off her body as she slid into a tub flashed through his mind and he tried his best to immediately forget that idea. But it continued dancing through his mind, making his pained body all the more aware. “You are correct, a good few people seemed sceptical of our desire to travel down here…”

“You’re here with your husband on business?” That would explain the use of the term our .

“Not exactly.” She shivered, and Kit knew he was being a terrible host. “I mean…” She paused, seeming to remember where they were, as well as the false intimacy they had shared on a horse th at hadn’t actually meant any sort of real knowledge of each other. “We haven’t been introduced.” She strode closer despite the frown that Kit gave her. “I’m Miss Elspeth Keating.” Then she offered him her hand to shake. “I know this cannot be far from Tintagel Manor, the locals said…” She paused as she looked down at her own hand and then slowly lowered it as Kit hadn’t taken hold of her fingers. “Well, is it close to here? Perhaps you could tell me where?”

Elspeth .

He played that name around on his tongue, wondering where that it had come from. Perhaps Irish, he thought, or maybe Scottish. There was a poetry to it, a Gaelic inflection that embedded in his mind the fact she was definitely part fairy or from some Arthurian legend. It galled him to think that it suited her. Mystical, quaint, and alluring.

Now she was staring at him as if he were quite, quite mad, and Kit realised that he was just looking back at her and hadn’t spoken, but he doubted he wanted to know what business she had with him or Tintagel Manor. Whatever it was, the outcome meant she wouldn’t be leaving, and that would be a problem. It wasn’t safe here, not for anyone, and certainly not for an outsider who had no idea of how merciless this place was.

“No one can have business with Tintagel Manor,” came his gruff reply. He turned away and peeled off his inner coat. If he didn’t have guests, he would remove his wet shirt, but he didn’t think that was appropriate. Could he scare her away? “It’s cursed.”

“Yes, that’s what several of the locals said too.” She gave a strange little laugh, but when he looked back at her, she was staring at him with a serious look. “But I don’t have anything to prove such talk.”

“Yet.”

She wrinkled her brow, considering his sceptical remark. “Life is rarely that exciting. I certainly never saw anything that would justify curses, or such outlandish claims. There are enough bad people in the world to explain away the horrors that happen without getting the mystical involved.”

“You clearly haven’t been in Cornwall for long enough.” Kit’s own voice was ribald with cynicism, but he hoped, despite this, the na?ve chit believed him. To his annoyance, Miss Keating looked far from convinced.

He moved to the nearest door, pushed it open, and stepped through to the adjoining library. A grateful wave of warmth greeted him, and he was pleased to see the fire had been lit, and was roaring away, adding heat and a burning golden light to the room. A simple fare set out on the table close to it. This meant he did not need to bother any of the servants.

“Sir, if you could please...” She had followed after him into the library, with her damned wet dog close to her heels. At a second the annoying dog gave a shake and Kit watched as the spaniel sprayed droplets across the carpet.

“Pets should be kept outside.”

“He’s hardly a pet—he’s a rescue. If anything?—”

Kit turned towards her, having reached the sanctuary of the fireplace, but having received no comfort from it. He fixed the intruder with an angry look, to which she gave him an undaunted smile and said, “Can you tell me where Tintagel Manor is? You see, I need to speak to the owner. I do hope it is not far. It is very urgent. One might even say the matter is of life and death.”

“You are not very subtle.” Kit was normally a darn sight more polite. Or he had been at university. At parties. At social events. Now words felt rusty in his throat, and being forced to speak, to talk to this intruder, was not something he desired to continue.

“Well, you’re abrupt, and at risk of being rude,” she replied. “We cannot have everything in life.”

“No indeed.”

“But I will have to know where Tintagel Manor is. The sooner you tell me, the sooner I can be gone from here.” It was clear she would like nothing more than that, to leave him and be gone from this crumbling and ancient site.

Deciding he’d had enough of this silly debate, Kit growled. “Unfortunately, I must inform you that this is, in fact, Tintagel Manor.”

“Oh.” She took a step closer and frowned as she studied him. To his surprise, she said, “No, that won’t do. You’re too young to be Lord Phileas.”

Realisation dawned on Kit that the demanding little madam had presumably been seeking his father. However, since the man was dead, there was very little that could be done to solve that particular issue. In truth, no part of him wished to reveal such details to a stranger. “My age has nothing to do with it. If you are seeking Tintagel Manor and its owner, then that is me.”

“You are Lord Phileas?”

“No,” he finally said. “I am his son. I am in charge here.”

“Oh.” She swayed a little. “And Lord Phileas…”

“Is dead.”

For a moment, a brief one, compassion bloomed in Miss Keating’s eyes, and he saw her hand twitch as if she were about to reach out for him. Then she must have caught a look at his expression because she swallowed and nodded. “I had no idea, my lord.” She bobbed the smallest of curtsies. “This is for you in that case.” She closed the distance between them, drawing up to him, and it struck Kit that she was very slight. In contrast to his own height. He lowered his eyes and saw she was holding out a letter. From the insignia on the envelope, he recognised it as his relative’s, the Duke of Ashmore’s seal.

“His Grace employs women now?” Kit took the letter but did not open it. He had no idea what his uncle might want. The man had not even bothered to attend his own brother’s and sister-in-law’s funeral five months ago, so frankly Kit felt the duke could go hang. He was about to voice this opinion when he saw that sad, soft look on Miss Keating’s face again .

“It is all rather complicated, but I regret to inform you that the Duke is dead. He was…” She trailed off. Clearly, she had more to say, but was suddenly shy or loath to voice too much, which was strange given her previous verboseness. “It will all be detailed in the letter.”

Slowly Kit examined the letter, playing with the edge and pondering whether he should open it. He expected the girl wanted him to show some remorse from his dead uncle, but having never met the man, it was hard to feel too much sadness for the unknown man. From everything his parents had told him of his uncles, who had taken it in turn at being duke, Kit had the impression of idleness, a reckless streak of self-absorption and a casual disregard for the feelings of their female employees, who were regularly taken advantage of. It had not warmed him to his illustrious and titled side of the family. As the son of the fifth son, Kit might be noble, but he was very distantly connected. There had never been any expectation that the main branch of the family would ever reach out to him, or even remember his existence. His uncle had been expected to marry and beget heirs, and kept away from Kit accordingly. None of which, of course, explained this woman’s presence in the library or why she had been sent to the wilds of Cornwall to seek him out.

Come on you fool , the idea danced through his head suddenly clear . She had to be the old man’s mistress. It was the only explanation. Although it still did not ideally fit. That would be why she had darted off from London so quick—keen to find Lord Phineas and declare him the duke. Although why the lawyer had trusted her was beyond Kit, unless she had seduced the solicitor as well.

“I’m quite certain you have a great deal of questions.” Miss Keating seemed flustered, and she pulled at her damp dress in a vague attempt to straighten the folds. “I will do my best to answer whatever questions I can.” She sucked a breath and then added, “You really should read the letter.”

“I know. ”

His answer seemed to annoy her, but she stayed looking up at him. Her face twitched and then she said, “You must see the need for our departure. Immediately. To Town.”

“Our?”

“I will come with you back to London.” She paused and then added, much to Kit’s horror, “Your Grace.”