How to Tame Your Duke, page 6
“Ha-ha. What splendid manners you’ve got, Grimsby. Mr. Grimsby, that is.” He winked. “I mean, of course, that hideous mug of Pater’s, the one that makes children scream in terror and angels faint away. For twelve years now, since he returned home from whatever godforsaken adventure blew his face apart and took his hand for good measure, he hasn’t left Yorkshire, hasn’t received visitors, hasn’t attended a single event of a social nature. And do you know why?”
“It’s no business of mine, your lordship,” said Emilie, ears straining for more.
“Of course it’s not, but I’ll bet you’re desperate to know, aren’t you? You might think it’s pride—that’s what I used to think, and I daresay that’s something to do with it. But as time dragged on, and I began to acquire a bit of wisdom”—here Freddie gave a worldly sixteen-year-old shrug—“I began to realize it was nothing more than sheer bullheaded stubbornness. He’d begun by not going out, and by God he wasn’t going to change his mind midstream. And then my mother bolted . . .”
“Lord Silverton, really. These are hardly confidences for a stranger.” Emilie ventured another sip of coffee. How strange; she was feeling rather dizzy.
“Rot. Someone’s got to tell you, so you don’t go about making awkward remarks. Nobody likes an awkward remark, Mr. Grimsby.” Freddie grinned. “I was only four years old at the time, so I hardly remember anything, only that she was quite remarkably beautiful. Or perhaps I don’t even remember that; it’s just what people have said. Oh, the duchess, she was beautiful, she was legendary. Well, they put it about that she’d gone abroad for her health, but the fact is she bolted, pure and simple. And if there were any possibility of changing Pater’s mind about entering society again, it died right there. Cake?”
“No, thank you.” Emilie set her cup aside. The clouds had blown in, deadening the sunlight that had spilled so cheerfully through the window at nine o’clock, and the room was turning chilly. She rose and went to the coal scuttle. Clearly the schoolroom was not in much use. The lemony scent of a recent scrubbing could not quite disguise the mustiness, the old-wood smell of a space unaccustomed to human habitation. “She is still alive, however?” Emilie heard herself ask, as she tossed a few pieces of black coal atop the sizzling pile in the grate.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. You’d have to ask Pater.” Freddie’s voice was thick with additional cake.
“Of course I shan’t ask your father. It’s not my concern.”
“I don’t personally care one way or the other, really. I daresay she’s not losing sleep over me and Pater, wherever she is.”
Emilie sat back down and straightened her lapels. “Then she is a fool.”
“I do wonder what she was like, though.” Freddie leaned back and drained the last of his coffee. “They were most spectacularly in love at first, I’m told. Honeymoon in Italy, though as I was born nine months after the wedding I don’t suppose they saw much of the sights, if you see what I mean. Then Pater’s regiment was called up, and that was that.”
Beneath her whiskers, Emilie’s cheeks burned. “That will be quite enough, your lordship.”
“Indeed.”
The single word boomed through the air like a cannon shot. Emilie jumped, spilled her coffee, and whipped around.
The Duke of Ashland filled the open doorway, his hand on the latch, his white hair glowing above his masked face.
* * *
The taut room snapped into panic at Ashland’s appearance, like a platoon caught malingering by a sergeant. A useful skill, this ability to move and observe without being perceived. He owed Olympia that, at least.
Freddie leapt to his feet; his chair toppled to the floor behind him. “Sir!”
On the other side of the table, Mr. Grimsby set down his coffee cup and rose. His fingers curled around the edge of the table: shaking, probably. Poor fellow. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, in his gruff little voice.
Ashland stalked into the room, closing the door behind him with a decisive click of the latch. The sound helped to quell the sick feeling in his chest.
They were most spectacularly in love at first.
“I see your studies are proceeding apace, Frederick,” he said.
Freddie picked up his chair, righted it, and sat down. “Oh, don’t be cross and sack poor Mr. Grimsby, Pater. Was only making conversation over coffee. I assure you, he was putting me through my paces at a smart clip a few minutes ago.”
“No doubt.” Ashland angled his body over the table and ran over the papers and books clustered about the coffee tray. He picked up a sheet. “Are these your Latin conjugations, Frederick?”
She bolted, pure and simple.
Ashland locked his fingers to keep them from crushing the paper.
“Hideous, I know. I’ve already been broken to bits by Mr. Grimsby. On the other hand, he’s quite impressed by my maths.”
“He should be.” Ashland laid the paper back on the table. “Well, Mr. Grimsby? What’s your assessment?”
Grimsby’s face still glowed pink beneath that startling bush of wheat-colored whiskers. He cleared his throat. “Lord Silverton is immensely clever, Your Grace, as I suspected, but he will need to study with a great deal more discipline over the coming months. He’s not yet sixteen, and his education has been haphazard at best; meanwhile, he will be competing for places against older public schoolboys who have been drilled in Latin every day for the past eight or ten years. I suppose his name will help him slide through . . .”
“I say,” Freddie muttered.
“. . . but I doubt his lordship wishes the lucky accident of his birth to nudge out some better-qualified young man from the chance for advancement.” Grimsby’s eyes gleamed as he said this, as if he actually cared about the fate of that deserving schoolboy shunted aside for the son of a duke.
Ashland raised his eyebrows. “Well phrased, Mr. Grimsby. Frederick? Do you agree?”
“When you put it that way,” Freddie said sulkily. “I’m not a complete rotter, after all.”
“I believe Mr. Grimsby is quite right. Britain’s great strength is her ability to discover and encourage boys of exceptional ability and allow them to better their condition in life through hard work and application to duty. Nowhere else in Europe can a talented boy of little or no social connection advance himself to prominence, and the result on the Continent is stagnation, decadence, and tyranny.” Ashland tapped his finger against the topmost book in Grimsby’s stack, a neatly bound edition of Newton’s Principia.
“I say, Pater,” Freddie grumbled. “That’s coming it rather thick.”
Grimsby’s face had flushed to an even more furious shade of red. “That is not altogether the case, your lordship. I would not go so far as to say tyranny.”
“Tyranny and disorder,” Ashland said. “Take the recent case of this principality in Germany, this Holstein-Schweinwald. A trifling, backward state, to be sure; quite second-rate and of very little interest to the world at large . . .”
“Backward!”
“Yet even there, an absolute ruler, a despot, attempts to rearrange the succession to suit his own interests, to prevent the natural growth of a democratic form of law . . .”
“Was it fair, Your Grace, that the succession must die out because the prince’s children happened to be girls instead of boys? Britain herself, and by extension half the world, is ruled by a woman.” Grimsby’s voice shook with passion.
“Your views are admirable, Mr. Grimsby, but I beg leave to remind you that Great Britain is ruled by her people, as you well know. Queen Victoria, God bless and keep her, has only a ceremonial role in governing our country. But we are not here to discuss political theory, after all. We are here to discuss Lord Silverton’s application to his studies, and his duty to earn his place at university by merit alone.” Ashland picked up the book and gave it a little slap.
Grimsby dropped his eyes to the papers in front of him. He squared them neatly. “We are quite in agreement on that point, Your Grace. I shall do my best to ensure that his lordship is prepared.”
“Very good.” Ashland took a chair, the sturdiest available, and drew it out from the table so that his right side would be shadowed from the window. The adjustment was so instinctive, he hardly noticed he made it. “Carry on, then,” he said, with a wave. “Simply pretend I’m not here.”
Grimsby’s large blue eyes blinked slowly behind his spectacles. “Your Grace?”
“I have arranged my schedule to allow an hour or two of quiet observation.” Ashland smiled benignly at them both.
“Pater, it’s not possible. You’re about as easy to ignore as a bull elephant.”
Ashland fingered the edge of his empty cuff. His stump was aching more than usual this morning; perhaps the weather was changing, winter was coming on. “Nevertheless,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pater . . .”
“Your lordship’s father is perfectly welcome to stay and observe,” said Mr. Grimsby. “He is, after all, paying for your instruction.”
Ashland folded his arms and studied Grimsby. He had always considered himself a decent judge of character, with a few glaring exceptions, but he could not quite make out the young man. He had a certain freshness about him, a dewy innocence. His fair hair gleamed beneath a layer of sleek pomade; his skin still radiated surprise at Ashland’s unexpected entrance. Were it not for those whiskers, curling luxuriously about the young man’s jaw, he might have seemed like a youth, hardly older than Freddie himself.
And his eyes. Ashland angled his head, watching the two of them. Grimsby was explaining some point of Latin conjugation to Freddie’s bored and sloping body, and his blue eyes narrowed with seriousness, causing a few lines to invade the skin between his eyebrows. An old soul, Ashland’s mother would have said, nodding her head. Old and wise.
Again, Ashland thought of Grimsby in the taproom last night, brandishing his chicken leg, face ablaze with determination.
Grimsby, straightening his lapels a moment ago, as Ashland observed them noiselessly from the doorway. Speaking in his sturdy voice: Then she is a fool.
An older fellow, Freddie’s last tutor. Seventy at least, with thinning hair and a querulous tone, complaining about Frederick’s lack of attention here and Frederick’s lack of discipline there. I cannot be expected and these conditions and that sort of thing.
Ashland adjusted his arms at his chest, keeping his empty cuff hidden, relieving the slight pressure on the stump from his opposite forearm. Grimsby’s voice was low, a bit gruff, almost intentionally so, as if he were making up for his lack of years with a manufactured resonance. Determination, patience, intelligence. This young man was nothing like the other tutors, who had left after two days, a week, three weeks, fed up with Freddie’s quicksilver brilliance and the incessant howling bleakness of the landscape.
Which begged the question: Why had Olympia sent Grimsby to Ashland Abbey, instead of putting the young fellow to use himself?
Olympia, after all, did nothing without reason.
Ashland rose abruptly. “Thank you, Mr. Grimsby,” he said. “I shall leave the two of you in peace.”
He walked from the room and back down the stairs to his private study. He had a great deal of estate business to work through before venturing out tonight.
FIVE
By afternoon, Freddie’s restless body was nearly bursting through the walls of the schoolroom, and Emilie, sensing opportunity, prescribed a spell of outdoor exercise. A message was sent down to the stables, and in short order they were trotting from the stable courtyard, wrapped up against the weather in coats and woolen caps.
“You ride well,” said Freddie, sounding rather shocked.
“Of course I ride well. I’ve ridden nearly every day of my life.” Emilie kept her head rigid as she said this, but the remark warmed her innards. True, she had begun riding horses nearly as early as she could walk, but she’d only ridden astride for those two preparatory months at the Duke of Olympia’s remote Devon estate. Even now, the leather felt odd and rather chafing along her inner thighs, though she liked the intimate feel of the horse’s body moving between them. She felt closer, more connected to the animal’s mind and motion.
“Well, it’s a good thing,” Freddie said. He motioned with his riding crop at the swilling grass around them. “Riding’s about the only thing doing around here, without going into town.”
“Where’s town?”
Freddie pointed. “About four miles in that direction. You come to a track, after a bit. Then there’s the Anvil, which of course you know from last night’s doings, and then the railway station, which you know as well, and then there’s the town proper.” He sighed. “Not much to that, either. Dull factory, turning out crockery, and not even any discontented workers to liven things up since Pater took it over a decade ago. Everybody’s so happy, you’d think they were piping in opiates to the factory floor.”
“And that’s all? The factory?”
“No, no. Surely you’ve heard of the Ashland Spa Hotel? No? Dashed fine hot springs, which Pater’s turned into a proper health resort, a mile or so out of town. Then there’s shops, smiths, that sort of thing. Burghers strolling about like sheep.” Freddie stifled a yawn into his sleeve. The chestnut gelding beneath him jigged with surprise. “Hardly a decent-looking girl among them, of course. I daresay it’s the wind that does it.”
Ashland Spa. A proper hotel, a mile or so out of town.
Clouds were scudding by, each one darker than the next. Emilie glanced up at the sky and back down to the beaten grass before her. “Do you mind if we ride in? I confess I’ve rather a curiosity.”
“Ah! Surveying the territory for your weekly half day, eh?”
“Something like that.” Emilie kept her voice even.
“Tally-ho, then.” Freddie nudged his chestnut to the left.
Freddie was right; the town was unremarkable, an English village turned factory burg, the jumble of old half-timbered buildings at its heart surrounded by orderly rows of identical two-over-two workers’ houses with well-kept gardens the approximate size of pocket handkerchiefs. A packet of rain hit Emilie’s cheek just as they trotted through the outskirts. Freddie slowed his horse to a walk and peered at the sky. “Blast,” he said. “We can turn back, if you like. Stop at the Anvil and wait it out.”
“Surely you’re made of sturdier stuff than that, your lordship.” Emilie tucked the brim of her cap downward.
“Hell. You’re that sort, are you?” Freddie hunched his bony shoulders and heaved a melancholy sigh.
Well, she was, after all. Emilie never had gone in much for the pomp and circumstance of her earlier life, which Stefanie found such fun and which Luisa performed with such stately grace. Emilie had always preferred curling up in an alcove with a book, or else riding across the soggy fields of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof on her horse. The worse the weather, the better: On a fine day the villagers would be out, bowing and scraping at her approach, and she’d have to straighten her back and nod regally, and her thoughts would fall back into conventional lines. No more adventure and scandal running riot in her head.
Emilie peered out into the gathering drizzle, at the townspeople pulling out umbrellas or else dashing for cover, and without warning, the Duke of Ashland’s words echoed back in her head. An absolute ruler, a despot, attempts to rearrange the succession to suit his own interests, to prevent the natural growth of a democratic form of law . . .
Easy for an Englishman to say, of course. Nobody in Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof had ever thought of democratic rule. What would the villagers do with the vote, if they had it? Papa had ruled so benignly, so benevolently. The poor had been taken care of. The wealthy had paid their taxes. The middling classes had prospered and sent their sons to school. The winds of change blowing over much of Europe had left the little principality untouched.
The assassin’s bullet had come out of the blue, a shock to Emilie’s own heart.
Her fingers went cold under her gloves. She pushed the thought away, as she usually did, but she could not push away its physical effects. The horse sensed her agitation, the clenching of her hands about the reins, and tossed his head.
They hadn’t let her see Papa’s body, when they brought it back. Luisa had gone in, white-faced, and confirmed the death of their father. And Peter, of course. Poor dear Peter, childhood friend, heir to the neighboring province of Baden-Cherrypit. Stefanie had snuck in later, before they had prepared the bodies, and said that Peter had been struck in the neck, and that his dead flesh was as white as a sheet. Had bled out, probably, into the fallen October leaves of the Schweinwald.
The horse jigged; Emilie cursed and put him right. “I say, Grimsby,” called Freddie, forgetting the Mr. in his damp distress, “what are you about? Can’t we turn back and have a pint at the Anvil instead?”
“I’ve a great curiosity to see this spa of yours,” Emilie said, over her shoulder.
“Bother the bloody spa!”
Emilie kept riding, down the high street, taking careful note of the post office at the corner of Baker’s Lane. A hostelry stood nearby; that might be of use.
But the spa, the hotel, with a variety of visitors coming and going! A place where strangers were expected and welcome, where private rooms might be had; a place easily found and yet outside of the main part of town.
It seemed ideal.
The rain began to pound her hat in earnest.
“Look here, Grimsby!” Freddie was growing petulant. “You can’t mean to go on in this! It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, we’ll be missing our tea, and in a moment my coat will have bloody well soaked through!”
“You must learn fortitude, Lord Silverton.”
“I have plenty of damned fortitude, Grimsby!”
“Mr. Grimsby,” said Emilie, “and your language is reprehensible in a boy of your years. I must ask you to exercise a little more ingenuity.”
“How’s this for ingenuity, Mr. Grimsby: We’re missing our lessons.”
