The Duke's Dilemma (3 page)

Not waiting to be assisted from the saddle she flung
herself down and turned to throw the reins to a stable boy. The yard was
deserted, the cobbles upswept and the stable block empty. Where was everyone?
Puzzled she called out, receiving no response.

The clatter of her retainers arriving was
welcome. James could take care of the horses and Tom could accompany her. This
was decidedly odd - first the barred gates and now the abandoned yard. The
sooner she got inside and saw for herself what was going on the better.

‘Tom, come with me. I must get indoors before I
freeze to death.’

‘I’m not sure we should go any further, miss.
It’s right strange the yard being empty and all. Where’s everyone gone? They
can’t have left or someone would have seen them.’ He glanced around nervously.
‘I don’t like this. Something’s not right. Best we go back to the inn.’

‘No, Tom, certainly not. I’ve no idea where
everyone is but I intend to find out and I won’t do that standing around here
in sodden clothes.’

She set off at a run with her skirts flapping
uncomfortably around her water filled boots. The flagged path led from the
stable block, past the outbuildings used as laundry and dairy, along the barn
and up to the rear of the enormous building. She knew at once that something
was amiss. The shutters were closed on the upstairs windows and no smoke was
belching from the chimneys. The place was as uninhabited as the stables.

‘My aunt’s obviously away from home. However, I
must gain entrance. I know where the key to the scullery door is hidden. God
willing it will still be there and we can get in. I can find clothes to change
into and you can kindle the kitchen range and boil a kettle.’

Her priority was to get warm – she would worry
about the mysterious disappearance of her aunt and her staff when that was
accomplished.

Chapter Three

The key was hanging in the laundry outbuilding
where Hester had sent Tom to look and she stamped her feet as he unlocked it.
Shivering she stumbled inside the house glad to get out of bitter November
wind.

‘Good heavens! It’s almost as cold inside as
out. Tom, go to the kitchens and light the range. I’ll use the back stairs to
my apartment and hope by the time I return there will be a hot drink awaiting
me.’

She headed for the servant’s staircase clutching
her heavy skirts in one hand and a hastily illuminated candlestick in the
other. The winding steps led directly to the first floor upon which the main
bedrooms were all located.

Knowing her way about the house made it easier
for her to arrive at the correct door without getting lost in the rabbit warren
of passages. She felt sorry for any staff that had to negotiate them carrying
trays and brimming chamber pots.

She emerged, a little warmer from her exertions
in the wide carpeted corridor that ran the length of the building. Crossing
quickly to the door of her chambers she entered eager to find dry clothes. How
strange to enter the room with the shutters closed; the shrouded furniture made
the familiar sitting room look strange. Good gracious! The
holland
covers were on! This meant her aunt had definitely not been expecting her.
Whatever was going on? Why had she been sent the letter?

Deciding it would be better to leave this
question unanswered until she was dry she hurried into her dressing room. Mercifully
this was slightly warmer, it only had one outside wall and a small window.
Stripping off her clothes she stood naked on a square of linen taken from the
shelf and rubbed herself dry. Then she wound her dripping hair in another towel
and twisted it on top of her head in a makeshift turban.

Stretching out she removed clean undergarments
from a pile glad she had had the foresight to keep several changes of raiment
here. They might be out dated but they were warm and serviceable; unless she
needed new clothes she was content to wear what she already owned. Following
the latest fashions was not for her.

She’d recently replenished her wardrobe ready
for the coming season having promised both Aunt Agatha and Birdie she would,
just this once, parade around with the
ton
in the remote possibility she might meet someone with whom she could
contemplate spending the rest of her life.

Relieved her teeth had stopped clattering and
her hands were no longer blue, in chemise and petticoats she stepped smartly across
to the closet and opened the doors. She chose a warm
woollen
gown, high-necked and long-sleeved from the shelf. Its saving grace was the
colour - a rich russet which complemented her curls. Snatching up a warm
cashmere shawl from a shelf she spread it around her shoulders and immediately
felt better. All she had to do now was find stockings and slippers and she
would be ready to go and investigate.

She decided to retrace her steps as the
distance was shorter than going down the main staircase and across the enormous
parquet entrance hall. She picked up the candle and left through the door in
her dressing room. She paused momentarily at the bottom to release her skirts
before pushing open the door. She froze. There were strangers outside. Her hand
remained in midair, inches away from the door. She held her breath, praying she
wouldn’t be discovered.

*

Ralph stiffened, his eyes narrowed, aware of
something a civilian would not have detected. His years serving as an officer
in Wellington’s army had honed his senses to a fine degree. His quick reflexes
and keen hearing had saved himself and his men from certain death on several
occasions in the past. He gestured to Robin, his ex-sergeant major, to continue
talking as though nothing untoward was happening. The man took his cue as he
always did.

‘Well, the thing is, your grace, I can’t think
where Miss Culley can be. She certainly isn’t here and neither are any of her
staff.’

By this time Ralph was standing beside the
servants’ stairs. He could see the door was open a fraction. Someone was
lurking behind it and that someone was about to receive an unpleasant surprise.

His arms shot out, one hand on the door and
flinging it wide whilst the other reached in and grabbed the intruder by the
throat, throwing him across the passageway where he crashed unconscious to the
floor.

He realized as soon as he’d released his grip
that he’d made a dreadful mistake. The intruder wasn’t a man but a lovely young
woman with wavy golden hair and she lay spread-eagled on the floor, possibly
fatally injured by his foolhardy actions.

Devil take it! What have I done?’ In one stride
he was across the corridor and dropped to his knees beside her. Expertly he ran
his hands down her limbs to check for breaks, relieved to find they were intact.
She was so still, so cold, for a heart stopping moment he thought he had broken
her neck.

Gently he slid his hands along her shoulders,
cradling her head between his calloused fingers. He traced the vertebra,
checking each was in place, and as he did so he became aware his hands were not
around a copse, there was a slow, but rhythmic, pulse beneath his fingers.

‘Thank God! She’s alive. And her neck’s not
broken. She’s unconscious but I pray, not seriously injured.’

His exclamation still hung in the air when he
heard a roar of rage from further down the corridor. Too late he glanced up to
see himself staring down the barrel of a pistol held by a man with murder in
his eyes. Not for the first time he was looking death in the face. He knew
better than to move a muscle. He merely raised his eyes to hold the stranger’s
attention.

‘The young lady’s not seriously harmed, merely
unconscious.’

Robin was rigid beside him and the matter hung
in the balance. He could hardly protest his innocence for he had thrown the
girl against the wall himself. He swallowed, maybe this time his luck
had
run out. He knew for certainty that
if this lovely young woman had been his love,
he
would not hesitate to kill the man who had caused her harm.

He dropped his hands and spoke again, his tone
unthreatening. ‘May I stand up? If I’m to meet my Maker, I would prefer to do
it upright and not on my knees.’
 
His
prosaic speech seemed to register with his assailant; he saw the man’s fury
abating.

‘What happened here? How’s Miss Frobisher injured?
I heard her crash against the wall, she didn’t get there by tripping that’s for
sure.’

Ralph’s stomach clenched and its contents
threaten to return. Could matters get any worse? This was not some stranger he
had injured but a young woman who had as much right as he to be wandering about
here.

‘God! What a bloody awful catastrophe! Look,
could you put that pistol down, you’re making me nervous. If you don’t intend
to shoot me, allow me to introduce myself.’

The pistol was lowered, but held ready, as the
man waited for an explanation.

Ralph half bowed. ‘I’m Ralph Sinclair that was,
now Lord Colebrook, the Duke of Waverley. I believe this must be Hester
Frobisher, my distant cousin, Miss Agatha Culley is my great aunt as well as
hers.’

*

Hester became aware of voices speaking above
her. She felt as though she had been thrown from her horse and her head hurt
abominably. For a moment she kept her eyes closed trying to make sense of the
world. She was obviously lying on the floor; she could feel the cold of
uncarpeted boards seeping through her clothes.

 
Should
she risk a peep? If she glanced through her lashes whoever was there might not
realize she was awake. She had been attacked so it would be well to continue to
feign unconsciousness. All she could see were a pair of riding boots, extremely
large ones. Whoever owned these must be a prodigiously tall gentleman. Slowly
her head cleared and she was aware the wearer of the boots was talking. What he
said slowly filtered into her muddled senses.

Quite forgetting she was supposed to be unaware
she attempted to sit upright, but the effort proved too much and her head spun.
She sunk back clutching her forehead, unable to hold back the gasp of pain.

Instantly Waverly was at her side and without
asking permission slipped his arms under her knees and shoulders and lifted her
easily. She was too sick and dizzy to protest. She was outraged the man who had
caused her hurt was now acting as her
saviour
. She
remembered quite clearly the moment of terror as a grip of iron had circled her
neck and thrown her head first into the wall. This man was a brute, almost a
murderer. Perhaps he had done away with Aunt Agatha. These were her last
coherent thoughts before a whirling blackness enveloped her for a second time.

*

Ralph decided it would be too cumbersome to
attempt the narrow stairs the servants used whilst carrying an unconscious girl
so he turned and bounded back down the corridor, out into the grand hall, and
took the wide oak stairs two at a time. He remembered from previous visits
which apartment Miss Frobisher used. His great aunt had indicated their
whereabouts and told him about the girl, although until today he had never had
the pleasure of making her acquaintance. If he had known how beautiful she was
he might have been less reluctant to meet her.

He smiled grimly; he had hardly endeared
himself to her by his monstrous treatment. He shouldered his way into her
private sitting room. God, it was cold as ice everywhere in this barracks of a
house.

‘Robin, go downstairs and find something to
light a fire in her bedroom. I’m sure between you, you can rustle up something
to burn. If you can’t find any fuel, use a chair.’

He supposed he shouldn’t be entering a lady’s
bedchamber but needs must. He was uncomfortably aware the man with the pistol
was shadowing him, a hand’s breadth from his shoulder at all times; obviously a
retainer of some sort, he didn’t trust him as far as he could spit.

‘Quick man, check if the bed is damp. If it is
I’ll wrap her in that comforter and rest her on the daybed in front of the
fire.’ The man didn’t argue, just stepped round him.

 
‘The
bed’s no good, your grace.’ Ralph watched him remove the comforter holding it
to his cheek. ‘This will do, I’ll fetch that
chaise-longue
over. I reckon there’s enough kindling to start the
fire and some coal left in the scuttle.’ The man’s expression lightened a
trifle as he added. ‘And if there isn’t, I’ll smash a chair or two, shall I?’

Ralph stood patiently holding the girl with her
face resting against his shoulder; he couldn’t help noticing the length of her
lashes and the way they curled enticingly at the ends. What colour had her eyes
been? He’d only glimpsed them for a second before she’d collapsed. He rather
thought they were a mixture of green and brown, like his own, a perfect
complement to her hair, which lay in abundant tresses around her shoulders. It
was only then he became aware that her hair was wet.

‘Why’s Miss Frobisher’s hair wet?’

The man, scrabbling away with the tinderbox in
the fender, answered without looking up from his task . ‘She fell in the river
on the way over here, your grace.’

Everything about this trip was baffling. Ralph
shook his head. First the urgent summons to come to Neddingfield Hall, then the
barred gates, the lack of accommodation at the Jug and Bottle, and finally
discovering an unknown relative playing hide and go seek on the stairs.

Where the hell was Aunt Agatha? The place was
under covers and there were no signs of recent occupation in the kitchen
either. He hadn’t had time to search more than the downstairs rooms. He would
need to examine his aunt’s chambers and discover what kind of clothes she had
taken with her as it was possible this might give him a clue to her
whereabouts. However, it didn’t give him the slightest inkling why he’d been
summoned to this place when his relative was absent.

He heard the welcome sound of crackling in the
grate. ‘Good man. Now drag the daybed over. Shall I lay Miss Frobisher down and
help you?’

‘I can manage, sir.’

Five minutes later Ralph was able to deposit
his burden, mummified in the warm comforter, on to the makeshift bed in front
of the
meagre
fire. He looked round for something
else to burn and on discovering two wicker laundry baskets in the dressing room
he smashed them and piled them in the grate. Soon the room was warm and Ralph
felt it safe to leave the injured girl in the charge of her manservant.

‘You didn’t give me your name, how am I to
address you?’

The man nodded briefly. ‘I’m Tom Clark, your
grace. I’m Miss Frobisher’s man of business, so to speak.’

‘Very well, Clark, I’ll leave you to attend
your mistress. Where’s her maid servant, her companion?’ His wits were
wandering, his needle sharp intellect not functioning. ‘Presumably Miss
Frobisher’s companion, the one she was travelling with, is back at the
hostelry? Is there someone I can send to fetch her here?’