A Crime of Manners

A CRIME OF MANNERS

Rosemary Stevens

Chapter One

Giles Vayne, the eighth Duke of Winterton, dismissed his valet and prepared to retire for the night. Climbing into his massive four-poster bed, he was about to blow out the candle when he heard his deceased father’s voice.

“You must marry. Produce an heir. Your duty. A suitable gel. Honor to Vayne.”

“Devil take that bird,” the duke muttered as he threw the bedclothes back and crossed the room. He picked up a cover and angrily threw it over the large birdcage standing in the corner, effectively stopping the parrot before the bird could deliver himself of the rest of the oft-repeated lecture.

The occupant of the cage let out a loud squawk of protest at this Turkish treatment but shortly settled down to rest. A gray bird with red tail feathers, the parrot was an adept mimic who had lived with the previous duke for ten years. He could expound at length in the old duke’s voice on that man’s favorite subject: what Giles owed his family name.

The duke, weary, but now too agitated to sleep, poured himself a brandy from the tray left by Tyler, his valet. He wondered, not for the first time, if any other man was plagued with parental dictates from beyond the grave by a member of the avian family.

His father, a controlling, hardened aristocrat, had died the previous March in a fox-hunting accident, leaving the dukedom to his only son. According to the terms of the seventh Duke of Winterton’s will, Giles was to take especial care of his beloved pet, Sir Polly Grey—the “Sir” was only a courtesy title, the old duke having knighted the bird himself.

For reasons that had become all too clear to Giles, the parrot was to be given houseroom in his bedchamber until the event of Giles’s marriage.

Practically speaking, there was no way for this edict to be enforced, but Giles was a loyal son and, what’s more, had a strong sense of duty. Sir Polly Grey, therefore, resided with Giles in London at the duke’s town house in Park Lane, or as such was the case at present, the ducal estate, Perrywood, in Sussex.

His father would have been pleased to see the effect the bird’s repeated nagging was having on Giles.

In his nightshirt, the duke sat with his brandy by the glowing fire, and considered the matter. The Season would begin in one month. He should at least look over this year’s crop of hopefuls, he mused. He knew what was due his name, and it was time, perhaps past time, at the great age of two and thirty, to set up his nursery.

He ran a long-fingered hand through his dark hair. While any rich duke was reputedly attractive, Giles’s easy elegance, strong air of command, and pleasing, if austere, countenance would draw the ladies whatever his position in Society.

Just then, a look of disdain marred his handsome face. What an odious task laid before him, he thought cynically. How could he possibly agree to

leg-shackle himself to one of the simpering young misses who, hoping to acquire his title and fortune, used every wile and ploy imaginable to draw themselves to his attention? He much preferred the jaded charms of the sophisticated ladies of the ton or the demireps, who could satisfy his baser needs without unwanted entanglements.

Unfortunately, he believed Sir Polly Grey was right. He must go to London and find a beautiful girl of impeccable family, one with a fortune that could be added to his own; a miss who excelled in all the ladylike accomplishments, capable of gracing his table and bearing him fine sons. If she didn’t bore him to death first.

The thoughts of breeding turned the duke’s mind to a different crop of eligibles. The new foals at Squire Lanford’s. Everyone knew the squire bred superb Thoroughbreds to be trained for racing at Newmarket. As a member of the Jockey Club, the organization that governed the horse-racing society known as the Turf, the duke had a keen interest in horseflesh. Perhaps he would allow himself the diversion of breaking his journey to London at the squire’s.

His mind set, the duke returned to his bed.

On the other side of the room, Sir Polly Grey let out a satisfied cluck and fell asleep.

* * * *

Three days later, at Squire Lanford’s estate in the village of Hamilton Cross, Miss Henrietta Lanford went about her morning duties. She was clad in a drab round gown, her dark brown hair pulled back and held with a fraying ribbon.

She entered the hot kitchen in the back of the house and inhaled the spicy aromas.

Engaged in mixing a pudding, Cook, a grey-

haired woman in a large mobcap, eyed Henrietta fondly. “Did ye enjoy the rolls on yer breakfast tray, Miss Lanford?” Mrs. Battersby asked, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

Mrs. Battersby had been Cook at Squire Lanford’s for as long as Henrietta could remember. “You know very well I did,” Henrietta replied in mock reproach, her hands on her hips. “It was quite unkind of you to place three of my favorites within temptation’s reach. I shall grow fat.”

“Faugh,” Mrs. Battersby snorted, straightening her apron over her own ample girth. “’Tis a wonder you don’t perish away to nothing, so little you eat.”

The two women spent an amicable hour together planning the week’s menus. At nineteen, the squire’s daughter already possessed four years of experience in overseeing the domestic aspects of running her family home. Her mother showed no interest in such things.

Both of Henrietta’s parents were horse-mad. When the midwife presented Mrs. Lanford with her baby daughter, the squire’s wife found herself somewhat surprised and confused about what to do with an infant, her knowledge of the young confined to that of the breed with four legs.

Henrietta was brought up by her governess, Biddles, who’d left the Lanford home last year to take care of her sickly mother. Being of an overly romantical nature, as ill-favored spinsters are apt to be, she’d left behind an extensive supply of Minerva Press novels, hoping the books would provide Henrietta with a much different view of men than the one her horse-mad father and the dull local boys presented.

Henrietta was ordinarily a practical girl with a clever mind and a good nature. Biddles would have

been shocked to see a dreamy side of the young lady’s personality emerge after spending a winter of long evenings curled up with those novels. For Henrietta increasingly spent her time dreaming of falling in love.

This morning was no exception. After dealing with Cook, Henrietta threw a heavy, hooded cloak over her gown, protected her hands with a pair of woolen gloves, and took herself off to her beloved garden. Armed with shears and workbasket, she could daydream the morning away.

The freezing winter was turning into a frigid spring. She shivered in the crisp air, sniffing appreciatively at the not unpleasing smell of wood smoke and damp earth. Henrietta soon forgot the cold as she cleared away dead twigs and leaves. She was lost in her favorite fantasy.

In her imagination, he would be tall, dark-haired, and ride a large, white horse. She pictured herself strolling through a meadow on a sunny summer day, wearing a flowing pale gown of gossamer material. Her infuriatingly straight hair curled around her head like a halo. He would come charging through the woods into the meadow and rein his horse to a sudden stop at the sight of her beauty. Swinging down from his saddle, he would say he was a Prince from a Faraway Land. He’d beg her to tell him the name of the maiden standing before him who had captured his heart. The Fantasy Henrietta would coo a seductive reply, upon which the raven-haired god would be so overcome, he would ...

“Miss Lanford, Miss Lanford! Ain’t ye hearing me then?” The little housemaid tugged impatiently at Henrietta’s sleeve.

“What?” The Practical Henrietta blinked. “Oh, Megan, whatever is it?”

“I been trying to tell ye but couldn’t get ye to mind. Cook’s all in a lather as we’ve an unexpected guest for luncheon.”

Henrietta stared at the red-haired maid in confusion. “A guest? Pray, who could it be?”

“I’m not rightly sure, miss. Alls I know is that Cook said I was to find ye right away. She said ye should be present at table.”

The news of the Duke of Winterton’s arrival had spread through the house with alarming speed. It wasn’t often that members of the
haute ton
lingered for a meal at the squire’s once they concluded their business. Not that the squire and his wife were in any way toad eaters. They simply had no conversation at all other than horse talk, which could be wearing to even the most devoted of Newmarket followers.

Her curiosity aroused, Henrietta entered the house through the kitchen, handing Megan her cloak and gloves. Having no time to waste, she hurriedly washed her hands and barely glanced at her untidy reflection in the looking glass she passed in the hall. It seemed her parents and their guest were already seated in the small dining room.

Henrietta checked as she crossed the threshold into the room, staring fixedly at the stranger rising to stand at his place at the table. Here he was at last! The hero of her daydream come to life.

Tall, with an athletic build, he was immaculately dressed. The snug fit of his blue morning coat must have been his tailor’s proudest moment. His buff pantaloons had the effect of leaving little to the imagination, while at the same time allowing that imagination to roam. He wore his black hair longer

than the current fashion dictated, and his eyes were a cool gray.

Never, outside her imagination, had Henrietta seen a more impressive, handsome man. Discomposed, she blushed. As he mockingly returned her stare, her gaze dropped to the carpet and she moved toward her chair.

The duke stood by his place, his cultivated air of boredom masking his surprise. The Lanfords had made no mention of a daughter during the morning’s inspection of the squire’s foals.

He saw a petite young girl in an unappealing gown. Confined at the neck, her dark hair fell in a straight mass down her back. Across her forehead were longish strands of hair which she brushed to one side in what he recognized was a nervous gesture. He caught a glimpse of large blue eyes and a small mouth before the color rose in her cheeks and she lowered her head.

The thought crossed his mind to be on his guard in case the Lanfords were using this opportunity to throw their daughter at his head. He’d certainly had every trick played on him by matchmaking mamas since he’d come of age.

Squire and Mrs. Lanford were taken aback as well at their daughter’s presence. So wrapped up were they in the world of the Turf, they often forgot her existence.

The stocky squire was the first to recover and effected the introductions.

The duke responded to Henrietta’s curtsy with a brief bow and sat down, hardly waiting for her to be seated.

Granite-faced Mrs. Lanford smiled at the duke, revealing a mouth full of large teeth. She resumed the conversation, saying with conviction, “I do not

hold by the popular belief of trainers, your grace, who keep horses in overheated stables without any fresh air.”

“Indeed.” Squire Lanford took the reins of the conversation. “I have an article published in the
Sporting Magazine
detailing my abhorrence of the practices of some trainers. Purges, sweats...”

Nodding to a servant holding a plate of cold meats, Henrietta heard her father’s voice drone on. She was used to turning her mind off once he got started on the subject of his precious horses. She had heard all his theories before, and could recite most by rote.

She toyed with her food, all the while covertly studying the duke from under her lashes. Biting her lip in vexation, she found herself wishing desperately that she were wearing her best gown.

Henrietta’s knowledge of fashions was limited to the few fashion plates that occasionally circulated in the village. Still, she did not need the current issue of
La Belle Assemblée
to know the picture she presented at the moment was not the first impression she would have wished to make.

The duke’s attention, however, appeared taken up by his host. As the minutes went by, Henrietta found herself becoming cross with him for not including her in the conversation. She remained silent, though, knowing it would be most improper for her to speak to the duke without his first addressing her.

The Practical Henrietta’s mind lectured that Papa was hardly letting the duke speak a word, so how was he to show any interest, polite as it could only be, in herself?

The Fantasy Henrietta began weaving a rosy dream in which the handsome duke saw beyond

her countrified appearance and gazed longingly into her eyes. Miss Lanford, he would say, I am blinded by your beauty. Come away with me and be my duchess.

It was at the straining point in these ruminations that the duke did, indeed, turn to Henrietta.

“Do you share your parents’ love of horses, Miss Lanford?” he asked in a tone of complete indifference.

Giles could hardly have chosen a worse opening remark, innocent as its intention may have been, if he tried.

Over the years, Henrietta had resented her mother and father’s preoccupation with their stables. In time, with Biddles’ affection and guidance, she’d accepted her situation and come to realize her parents loved her in their way. Deep inside, though, she really didn’t think much of herself. And she’d certainly never acquired her family’s obsession with horseflesh.