The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T he man seemed to be in a state of shock. Which did not remotely excuse his general attitude or bad behaviour. Nor the surroundings in which they were located—he had not lied when he said the locals they’d passed had been dubious about the manor. The constant talk of its dilapidated condition, or rumoured haunting, seemed entirely possible now that Elsie had waded into its midst. The dark, foreboding furniture was ancient, at least a hundred years old, black in most cases and worn. There was even a layer of dust and cobwebs covering most of the hangings and drapes. In the myths she’d read about Tintagel, it had been romantic, chivalric, but this wasn’t… She wouldn’t be surprised if a ghoul eased itself out from behind a curtain rather than a knight.

And as for her host…

Beneath the heavy discarded hat, there was an equally unruly wave of black hair, not to mention the dark clothes the new duke wore, added to this image. All in all, it was rather hard not to see that he fit neatly in with the sinister and bleak surroundings.

Still, Elsie tried to think brightly, her host could in some ways argue that he had rescued her from the thunderstorm less than an hour ago. And despite his grumbling, His Grace had taken the dog up onto the horse with them. Nonetheless, he was not very gracious about this interaction—a rescue poorly done was hardly a proper rescue. Elsie, who had been raised on the tales of how her parents met, involving a crashed carriage, strangers compelled together through dramatic circumstances, and a vast shining moon high above, had always thought a wayside interlude terribly romantic, but now she was less sure. Besides, this accursed man was far too intimidating and grizzled to remotely sit within that category. Whilst he wasn’t as elderly as Margot has said, Elsie had been looking forward to meeting the elderly lord…

Elsie had tried earlier, drawing closer, eager to see if there was any warmth or sadness in the man. Instead, she was met with a ferocious look that made her think of a wild animal. Nor did he appear pleased about his newfound title.

Even from the murky shadows he stood in, she could make out the distaste that seemed to strike him. Which was bizarre—most men on such a discovery would be delighted to learn they were now a duke.

Should she be suspicious? Or even scared? Part of Elsie was, but not for the reason that she doubted him. For this new duke to be guilty of murder, the man would have had to rush from London with more haste and speed than she had. Whilst Elsie thought it might be possible physically, she could see that this new duke was shocked by the news. Either he was a very fine actor, or he had not been to London in the last week and certainly hadn’t murdered his uncle.

“Why did he send you?”

“The lawyer, Mr. Holt?”

“No, my uncle.” He seemed to struggle with the word, as if it sat uneasily on his tongue.

Deciding enough was enough of her lingering near to him, but also growing uncomfortable staring up into his face, Elsie moved across to a nearby armchair and sank into it. “He didn’t. I barely knew the man… His Grace, I should say.”

“Then why are you here?” his hand was drumming impatiently on the mantelpiece, and Elsie suddenly felt terribly weary as the last few hours crept upon her. Shouldn’t a proper host suggest they talk again once she was dry and rested in the light of the morning? The weight of her dress sat on her, damp and heavy. She should change or risk a cold. Hadn’t she proved who she was by giving him Mr. Holt’s letter?

“I must admit. Miss Keating, I’m somewhat confused by your presence here. Are you perhaps related to Mr. Holt?”

“No,” Elsie said. It would have been easier if she could have claimed to have been.

The idea of explaining how Margot was in fact the illegitimate daughter of this man’s uncle and, therefore, his cousin but also that Margot was Elsie’s sister, suddenly seemed a great deal too complicated. Nothing was going to plan.

He was supposed to invite her to retire. His housekeeper was supposed to show her to a delightful and comfortable chamber. She was meant to dry herself and discard her wet clothes, curl up in a warmed bed and sleep despite the fact she was clearly in a haunted manor house.

He was meant to read the letter, and in the daylight—well, everything would somehow be easier. A picture appeared before her of how it was meant to be, and none of that would be possible currently. It struck her that poor Margot was actually related to this man and hoped to win him over… That was going to be a challenge. The idea that this man had a good nature to appeal to was an absurd idea.

When Elsie lifted her tired eyes up to the new duke, she saw no sympathy there. No patient kindness or common courtesy that a majority of people treated Elsie with. It rankled. Since he was supposed to be a gentleman—why didn’t he act like one?

“I would appreciate a cup of tea,” she said. “And if it would not be too much trouble, some food. It has been a long and arduous journey.”

“No one compelled you to come down here.”

“No,” she agreed, annoyance was mounting within her, an emotion Elsie was not used to feeling. Generally, she found herself and others to be agreeable. People often said what a pleasing temperament she had. It seemed that this host was determined to disabuse her of this temperament. “But circumstances being what they are, I am here, nonetheless.”

“That hardly answers my question.”

“Ring the bell for tea and give me one of those sandwiches, then I would be happy to explain all.”

For a moment, Elsie wondered if the man would refuse. He was gazing at her in the manner of some looming predatory hawk in no mood to agree. But then to her surprise, he sighed and moved forward to the rope bell. His movements were awkward, and for the first time, Elsie saw him walk and he seemed stiff and uncomfortable. She wondered whether he might have been injured when helping her and the dog today, and a wave of guilt lapped up within her.

Minutes ticked by, and when the door to the library opened, a rather severe-looking woman in her late fifties entered. She was dressed in a plain gown of navy and wore a bob cap of clean white. Her sharp eyes moved from the duke down to Elsie, who gave her a friendly smile.

“Mrs. Clarke, thank you for coming. We require some more refreshments, both tea and if the cook can be woken, then more sandwiches. I suspect”—he glanced outside at the unrelenting blackness of the night— “that some rooms must be prepared for two servants, and a guest room for Miss Keating as well.”

For a moment, the housekeeper did not move. Her eyes were blank as they took in Miss Keating, utterly unable to account for her presence in the library. The silence stretched awkwardly until there was almost a texture to how uncomfortable all three of them were. At least that was how Elsie felt, and she could not vouch for the inscrutable duke.

Finally, Mrs. Clarke spoke, a creeping note of uncertainty to her voice, “Miss Keating?”

“That is right,” the duke said. “She is down from London.”

The housekeeper finally showed some emotion, surprise darting over her face. “London?”

“That is right,” Elsie cut in, starting to feel annoyed at the housekeeper’s reaction. “I brought His Grace’s letters from the London lawyers. The previous posts had not been responded to.”

“We had received none,” the new duke said, his voice quiet. “As you must have noticed, we are somewhat cut off down here. Post when it arrives—if it arrives, it is seldom prompt.”

“You have a newly delivered letter right there.” Elsie pointed towards the still unopened envelope clasped in the duke’s hand. “It is from Mr. Holt, who details the death of the former duke. And commands you to come to London. Most quickly. Time is of the essence.”

She felt it was too early to explain about Elsie’s sister. The priority was getting him ready. It was what Margot needed, wanted. A supportive relative who would ensure she was given her annuity, as well as protection and respect as the supposed “goddaughter” of the late duke. Dubious though Elsie might be about the generosity or good nature of the duke’s heir, surely, he could not refuse a relative or a request from his late uncle. At least she was hoping that was the case. Distantly, she felt a looming threat that Margot and she would end up back home as spinsters forever, or worse, up with Grandmother Keating.

To this outburst there was a slight shuffling of the housekeeper’s feet, but Elsie paid her no mind, her attention entirely focused on the noble before her. His face was unreadable, but when her eyes dropped to his large hands, she saw they were tense, a muscle flexing in his right hand.

Before the new duke could speak, there was a small cough and Mrs. Clarke said, “I will get that all arranged for your guests, Your Grace.”

The sound of the door closing was the only sign that the two of them were now alone again. It was then she caught the muttered curse from the duke. Elsie wondered if he had a ridiculous aristocratic name too. It must be a family tradition. And if so, what might the new duke’s name be? How she wished she could ask. Nothing too flowery, he was too austere for that, so it would not suit him. In appearance, he was much like a wild man with his beard.

“I wish you had kept that particular piece of news to yourself,” he said, interrupting Elsie’s wandering thoughts. He walked forward and to her surprise reached for a globe, which when opened revealed it contained a bottle of what looked like whisky. He extracted the bottle and then offered her a glass.

Now he was away from the shadows, and the blaze of the fire illuminating him a touch more clearly, Elsie made out the jut of his nose better, and the shape of his brows. She studied him. He was not quite so wild, and with a neat haircut and a visit from a valet, perhaps he would actually be a good companion to protect her elder sister in Town. “Well?” he prompted.

It was clear he did not know enough good manners to know that a gentleman did not offer young ladies glasses of whisky. Although Elsie was hardly conforming to the rigid rules that had dictated her life for the last five years—perhaps she was not really a lady anymore. The idea should have worried her, but instead she found herself smiling at the thought.

“Yes.” She moved forward, curious to taste the masculine drink her father declared was hearty, although he was not a heavy drinker. After tonight’s storm and this particular interaction, restoration sounded heavenly. “Thank you.”

He poured her a generous glass and one for himself as well.

She took a hearty sip. It burnt as it slid down her throat, hot, sweet, and intense. When Elsie lowered her glass, she found it had brought a slight smile to her lips. Her companion however did not look remotely restored, if anything he appeared even more strained than before, and just as inclined to silence as ever.

“You do not trust your household staff?” She asked, returning to his wish that she kept quiet about his newly inherited dukedom. It struck her as odd, surely someone in his position should have been well aware he was the heir. Wasn’t it the dream of a great deal of young men, that a relative die and leave them a fabulous estate? It certainly had been Elsie’s impression of the bucks she met in Edinburgh, each of them eager to escape the drudgery of their lot whether in the army, navy, or church.

But this did not seem to be the case for the towering and grim-faced man before her. No, he gave her an exasperated look, one which creased his black brows and thinned his lips. “I did not say I did not trust. Merely that…” He trailed off, as if he was not sure how to explain something so obvious to someone as dense as her. “The very walls have ears.”

To such silliness Elsie could not help but giggle. He was being absurd. To her response he moved away back to the shadows, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his own drink, seemingly set on ignoring her.

Tension built through the eerily quiet room. Elsie wondered whether she and the dog should ease their way out, but as she finished her whisky, newfound confidence surged through her body, and she thought she would try again.

“You know there would have been no need had you read the letter I gave you. Everything should be neatly laid out before you by Mr. Holt.”

“Do you, Miss Keating, always have an answer for everything?”

Elsie knew all too well this remark was meant to render her mute, to put her in her place, so she paused, pretending to give it proper consideration, before replying, “I do try to answer any questions or issues posed to me. But as the middle sibling, I often find it is my brother or sister who reply more quickly. ”

“That I find hard to imagine.”

“Your Grace does not know me well enough to make such assertions on my character.” She hoped he took her quick reply in a friendly manner, but when the duke turned around, he did not seem to know the meaning of the word friendly. Or even cordial. No, instead there was what looked to her to be an awkward, almost sinister smile on his face, but she was probably being fanciful.

Before he could speak, there was a knock, and gratefully, Elsie moved away from the duke. Being near to him, even though they were separated by several feet made her feel acutely aware of her breathing, the dampness of her dress, how she was not herself. Yet the blasted man felt comfortable making judgements of her character.

In the doorway was the housekeeper, she nodded at Elsie. “Your room is prepared. I took the liberty of sending up some food. Your servants are likewise taken care of.”

Before Elsie could speak, the duke called out from behind her, “Has my sister gone to bed yet, Mrs. Clarke?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Rather than the cold cuts in her chamber, perhaps our guest would like to freshen up and then meet the family, whose tidings she has rushed down to impart most urgently.” The duke had drawn closer, and Elsie could sense rather than see the press of him not far from her.

It felt like a test, although Elsie was not sure why. What barrier or issue would there be in informing the duke’s sister of his new title? Surely the young lady would be thrilled. If she were old enough, it would mean a Season in London and a dowry.

“I should be delighted.” Elsie straightened her back and looked around at the duke. “I will escort my rescued pet to my chamber, freshen up and be ready I am sure before the food.”

“This way, miss.” The housekeeper opened the door wider, and Elsie clicked her fingers at the hound, hopeful it would work. Thankfully after the third click, the dog raised his head, and seeing Elsie was about to leave, let out a pitiful whine, and dashed after her, his floppy ears bouncing up and down.

Then they were free of the library and in the wake of Mrs. Clarke, who moved with agility through the dark hallways, a single lantern to guide the way. She was not talkative, and after several minutes Elsie could stand it no more.

“Does the manor normally sound so?”

“The storm has made it worse.” They reached the staircase, and Mrs. Clarke set off, with Elsie following close behind her. “Darkness normally would not fall this early.”

“Most unseasonal,” Elsie guessed.

“It changes,” came the unhelpful reply. The housekeeper was so sure-footed despite the darkness, that Elsie’s concentration was rooted chiefly on not slipping over, then forming an adequate response. “Here you are, miss.”

The housekeeper opened a chamber door, ushered Elsie inside, nodded at her guest and then left.

Inside the bedroom, there was a lit fire and several burning candles to illuminate the old-fashioned bed in one corner. Ancient dark furniture dotted throughout the room matched the aesthetics of the bed frame, and finally, the room was hung with heavy, rich tapestries that looked, even from where Elsie stood, as if they would be moth eaten. It was gloomy and lonely, and from somewhere deep in the manor house, she could hear the noise of what sounded like someone yelling but at a great distance from her. Were it not for the dog at her heels and her promise to her sister, Elsie would have been tempted to run down to the stable and back out in the storm.