Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion Read online

  “His eyesight is failing him, my lord, although he is too stubborn to admit it. The delicate filigree work he undertakes can only add additional strain and make the situation worse.”

  Amos looked towards Zach, seated at the head of the table, and they exchanged a loaded glance. Neither of them particularly liked or trusted Palmer, although if pressed, neither could have said why. He was supposed to be neutral when it came to the competition between the two villages, but Amos had always suspected he leaned in favour of Compton.

  “If his eyesight is failing,” Amos said, leaning back in his chair and fixing Palmer with a steady gaze, “what possible reason could he have for continuing with his labours? I cannot persuade myself he is short of blunt and he is definitely approaching the age where retirement must seem attractive.”

  “He takes prodigious pride in his work, Amos,” the dowager said. “Since he enjoys our patronage, perhaps he is reluctant to let us down.”

  “I have business in Shawford tomorrow, Mother,” Amos replied. “I shall call upon Chesney and assess the situation for myself.”

  Palmer frowned, presumably because that was not the response he had expected, and it did not meet with his approval. Wisely, he did not attempt to dissuade Amos from his purpose.

  “Thank you, Amos,” the dowager replied. “That would put my mind at rest. I would not wish to offend him, but nor would I wish him to feel under any obligation to this family.”

  Chapter Two

  Cristobel Brooke wiped perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. Her back ached from the amount of time she had spent crouched over her work bench. She was desperate to move her cramped muscles, but couldn’t afford that luxury until she had completed her task. She leaned further forward, peered through the magnifying glass attached to the leather band circling her forehead and bit her lip as she carefully applied the soldering iron to the delicate filigree necklace she had almost completed. This was the difficult part. Too much solder and the silver would run, causing ugly blobs. Too little and the gemstones would fall out.

  “There, that should do it,” she said aloud, feeling a great sense of satisfaction at a job expertly done, though she did say so herself.

  She put her solder iron aside and picked up tweezers. She used them to carefully remove excess chips of solder before applying flux solution to the wire arches with a brush and placing the necklace aside to cool. The sapphires, embedded between tiny seed pearls, made an unusual and highly attractive arrangement that would, hopefully, be remarked upon, leading to further commissions for her uncle’s establishment. Crista thought of Lady Middleton, about whose rather fat neck her masterpiece was destined to reside, and sighed. Hardly the best showcase for her talents.

  “Beggars cannot be choosers,” she muttered, placing both hands on the small of her back and finally indulging in luxurious backwards stretch. She sighed with pleasure when her muscles unknotted themselves.

  “Talking to yourself again, Miss Brooke.”

  Crista abruptly sat upright, heart pounding but the rest of her freezing at the sound of the indolent voice she had grown to despise. She was perfectly sure speaking to herself was a far better alternative than conversing with the owner of that voice but saw little profit in antagonising the man unnecessarily by saying as much.

  “I did not hear you come in,” she replied, without looking round.

  “I have been watching you for some time and enjoying the view.”

  She felt his gaze rove insolently over her body. Clad in the tight-fitting breeches and the man’s shirt she wore when working, Crista felt disadvantaged. Her face heated with anger, as it always did when she was in the man’s presence. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to give him the set down he so richly deserved. It would be unwise to display any signs of weakness in front of him. He wouldn’t hesitate to exploit any chinks in her armour for his own purposes, and she refused to play into his hands. Instead she ignored him and, still with her back to him, reached for a velvet display case in which to place her now cooled creation.

  “You were engrossed in what you were doing.” His boots rang out on the stone floor as he moved closer and peered over her shoulder at the completed necklace. He stood much closer to her than was necessary. Crista felt his coat brush against her back and his breath, hot and heavy, peppering her face.

  “Magnificent,” he said softly. “You have excelled yourself.”

  “I have done my job.”

  “Such a shame no credit will find its way to your door.”

  She removed the leather band from her forehead, where it was starting to chaff, and tossed it aside. “I do not do this for personal acclaim, Mr. Reece, as you well know.”

  He was still too close for comfort, and so Crista stood up and packed away her equipment.

  “I fail to understand why we cannot be friends.” He watched her intently as she moved around the workroom, his penetrating stare causing her to shiver. It felt as though he could see right through her. She found it as unnerving as his ridiculous suggestion that they be friends. Odious man! Friends did not coerce one another into acting against their consciences. “I could do a very great deal to enhance your reputation, if only you would be nice to me.”

  “Release my uncle and me from our obligation, and I am sure we can enjoy a very congenial friendship,” she replied, crossing her fingers behind her back. She would see herself in the workhouse before she ever befriended this callous popinjay. Besides, she knew very well what he really required from her, and it had little to do with friendship.

  “Alas, my hands are tied.” He sounded convincingly regretful. “Were it up to me then…”

  Voices coming from the shop caught the attention of them both. Crista’s uncle was speaking with a customer in very deferential terms.

  “Hello, what do we have here?” Reece moved towards the door and placed an ear against it. He listened for a moment, and then scowled. “One of the Sheridan clan, unless I mistake the matter. What the devil does he want?”

  “The duke’s family always calls upon my uncle for their jewellery requirements.”

  “We thought to have put a stop to that.” Reece eyed Crista with suspicion. “I do not trust your uncle any more than I trust you. I had best go out there and keep a watchful eye on him.”

  “Do you think you should?” she asked capriciously. “Whatever would your masters say?”

  He grasped her arm so tightly it brought tears to her eyes. “Just so we’re clear, I am in charge here, and I make my own decisions.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Crista was tempted to point out that Reece, so out of place in her uncle’s shop, would raise speculation. She refrained from doing so, thinking perhaps that would not be such a very bad thing, although she could not have said why precisely. At least it would rid her of Reece’s loathsome company, and give her an opportunity to eavesdrop. Her uncle was sometimes secretive about their commissions for fear of placing too much burden upon Crista. Poor Uncle Charles. She felt for him excessively. He possessed the fierce Chesney pride that made it a torment to admit to being anything other than completely self-sufficient which, up until now, he had been for his entire life. Crista ought to know because she inherited the same trait. She had yet to decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

  Reece had the temerity to place his grubby hands on her waist to move her aside. She had an aversion to being touched generally, even by people whom she admired. Reece most certainly did not rank amongst that select group. Startled by his action, her instinct was to grab her still cooling soldering iron and brand him with it. He chuckled, as though reading her mind, and swaggered into the shop before she could act upon that increasingly compelling impulse. She expelled a frustrated breath, promising herself that when the time was right she would have her revenge upon Reece and the people he worked for. There was only so much humiliation she and her uncle could be expected to withstand, and Crista’s patience−not one of her stron
g points−was fast reaching its limit.

  Fortuitously, Reece left the door between the work room and shop slightly ajar, affording Crista a glimpse of her uncle’s aristocratic visitor. My goodness, what a fine sight to behold, she thought, suppressing a gasp of admiration. The tiredness left her limbs as she observed him. Even Reece prowling around the shop like a strutting peacock failed to annoy her, as it usually would have. Instead, her eyes were all for his lordship. Which one was he, she wondered, moistening lips that suddenly seemed inexplicably dry.

  She had seen each of the four brothers in the village at different times but couldn’t tell them apart. All of them were tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and dark-eyed. The duke stood a few inches taller than his brothers, as though being first born had afforded him that right. She hadn’t spoken to any of them. Indeed, she had no wish to draw attention to herself, and every reason to fade into the background. Even so, the sight of those brothers, the sound of their educated voices, spontaneous laughter and the charm and elegance evidenced in their mannerisms, had left a mark on her. She came away from those sightings understanding what had not previously been obvious to her. The Sheridan family did not follow the example she had seen set by other aristocrats who put themselves above their company, expecting all and sundry to behave with deference. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Sheridans appeared to be as comfortable with farmers and fishermen as they probably were with their equals. Crista now understood why the villagers took such fierce pride in claiming them as their own.

  “Certainly we can do something special for her grace this year, Lord Amos,” her uncle said.

  Ah, so he was Lord Amos Sheridan, the second son. Crista had heard he was the sibling responsible for the horse stud at Winchester Park. It was a great success. Well, of course it was! Everything that family touched turned to the equivalent of the precious metal Crista spent her days working with. When she had time to herself, she often walked on the common land between the village and Winchester Park and observed one or more of their lordships charging across it on horseback. Lord Amos was the most familiar sight, but she had never seen him at such close quarters before. His large frame filled her uncle’s establishment with an inundation of masculine power and smooth formidability that made Crista feel inexplicably warm.

  Something stirred deep inside her—some dormant feeling that curled through her body and settled pleasurably in her abdomen—as she continued to observe him. She was angered by a reaction over which she appeared to have no control. Through no fault of her own, enough of the control she had once exerted over her own activities had already been wrested away from her. She did not require handsome gentlemen with charming smiles, sophistication, and poise stalking her thoughts. Even so, there was something about Lord Amos she reacted to, in spite of her best endeavours to remain immune. Yea gods, she must be more tired than she realised since such whimsical fancies did not usually have any place in Crista’s world.

  “That is remarkably good of you, Chesney,” Lord Amos replied amiably. “But, excuse me, I heard tell your eyesight is not what it once was. Are you perfectly sure the strain wouldn’t be too much for you?”

  How extraordinary, Crista thought, that he should know of her uncle’s malady and seem genuinely concerned about it.

  “Your lordship is remarkably well informed.”

  Lord Amos shrugged those impossibly broad shoulders. “It’s a small village.”

  “However, I would ask you not to listen to rumours put about by establishments in Compton, for I am persuaded that is where this whimsy must have originated.” Lord Amos raised a brow, but said nothing. “I am perfectly able to be of service to your lordship. I can no longer do the close, intricate work, it is true, but I have a very able assistant who more than adequately serves me in that respect.”

  “An assistant?” Reece blurted out, his face like thunder.

  “You?” Lord Amos turned towards Reece and raised both brows this time, as though he couldn’t quite believe such a dandy would be prepared to get his hands dirty. Ah, so there was more to his lordship than a handsome face and easy manners.

  “I have that honour.” Reece recovered quickly and executed an elegant bow.

  “Hmm, I see.”

  But when it became apparent Lord Amos did not appear to care too much for what he saw, Crista warmed to him a little more.

  “Well, Lord Amos, I am sure we can meet your request for something out of the ordinary to mark the occasion.”

  “Stop fishing for compliments, Chesney. All of your work is out of the ordinary, and well you know it.”

  Uncle Charles inclined his head. “Your lordship does me great honour.”

  “On the contrary, I speak as I find. However, as I was saying, her grace turns sixty this year. The duke’s commission for an additional piece of silver to add to her growing collection will not change, but I am charged by the duke to seek your advice on something more personal. A gift from her children to mark the occasion.”

  “Perhaps a special suite of jewellery? A necklace, earrings and bracelet in gold or platinum, with ruby and diamond settings.”

  “I’m listening.”

  So was Crista. As her creative mind whirled with possibilities, her excitement grew. Her uncle ought to have warned her he intended such a suggestion, since it was she who would have to design and make the jewellery. Had she been aware, she could have prepared some sketches. But that was not why he had sprung the suggestion on Lord Amos, she was sure of that. Her wily old relation was up to something.

  “Would you like me to draw up some suggestions for your consideration?”

  “Hmm, the duke will need to be involved in the decision.” Lord Amos rubbed his chin. “How quickly can you have something to show us? We do not have the luxury of time on our side, for which I must take the blame. I ought to have spoken to you about this matter long before now.”

  “A week should suffice, my lord.”

  “A week? But that will only leave you with a week to make the pieces, once we agree upon them. Will that be sufficient time?”

  “The planning often takes longer than the execution. Besides, for you, my lord, anything is possible.”

  But only if we forget all our other commissions, Crista thought. Obviously, they would do so, but still, if anything went wrong with the pieces for the duchess there would be no time to correct the mistakes.

  “Very well then, a week it is. I believe her grace intends to visit Winchester on Tuesday of next week. That expedition will keep her occupied for the entire day. Would it be convenient for you and your assistant to call at the Park during the morning?”

  Crista clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a nervous laugh from escaping. Reece, Uncle Charles’s supposed assistant, didn’t have the first idea about jewellery design and construction. Intimidation and thuggery was more his forte.

  “We would be honoured, my lord.”

  “Very well then, Chesney,” Lord Amos replied with great good nature. “We shall look forward to seeing you then. Reece,” he added with far less warmth, nodding abruptly to that individual as he headed for the door.

  “Good day to you, my lord,” Uncle Charles replied, opening the door for him and standing back to allow his visitor to don his hat and leave the establishment.

  When Lord Amos was safely out of the way, Crista pushed through the door from the workroom.

  “A suite of jewellery, Uncle,” she said mildly.

  “What the devil do you think you’re playing at, Chesney?” Reece asked at the same time. “You said nothing to me about a special commission.”

  “I did not know his lordship would make the request,” Uncle Charles replied, turning sideways to wink at Crista. “Remaining in favour with the duke is vital to the success of my business. I could not pass up such an opportunity.”

  “You do not have time for special commissions,” Reece said, scowling. “The work you undertake for my masters must take priority.”

  “Not at th
e expense of my relationship with Winchester Park,” Uncle Charles replied with determination. “If I lose that connection I will go out of business, and since I refuse to become part of your infamous deception by accepting payment for what you force us to do, I must earn a living somehow.”

  “That connection to Winchester Park is assured. You already enjoy the duke’s patronage.”

  “At the duke’s discretion. It could be withdrawn at any time.”

  And would be, Crista thought, if any of the Sheridan family even suspected what she and her uncle had been compelled by Reece and his masters to do for them. She shuddered. Not only would the Chesney name be thoroughly disgraced, but Compton village would ensure that everyone who was anyone within the district heard all the particulars of their spectacular fall from grace.

  That simply could not be permitted to happen.

  “Don’t think to play me for a fool,” Reece said, grabbing her uncle’s lapels and pulling him hard against his own body. Uncle Charles, who did not enjoy the best of health, gasped for breath. Crista was infuriated.

  “Let him be, you despicable brute!” she cried, looking around frantically for a weapon.

  Reece emitted a rough snarl and pushed Uncle Charles forcibly away from him again. He stumbled, his glasses slipped down his nose, and only Crista’s quick thinking in grasping his flailing arm prevented her uncle from falling to the floor. Crista helped him to a chair and fetched him a glass of water.

  “I know you are accustomed to getting your way through brute force,” Crista said to Reece, sending him a damning glance. “But that will not serve on this occasion. If my uncle suffers from your rough handling then he will be unable to work, which means I will not be able to work either.”

  Reece seemed infuriated by her disdain. “I can always think of ways to keep you gainfully employed, m’dear.” He leered at her, his gaze insolently resting on her thighs, visible in her tight-fitting breeches. “Never lose sight of that fact.”