On the Duke's Authority (Ducal Encounters series 4 Book 3) Read online

  ‘Well now, that sounds like the ideal solution, always assuming the duke doesn’t warn us off his property.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll do that, sir, not if you’re a friend of his brother’s. From across the water, you’ll be.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll be recognising an honest Irish brogue, so you will,’ Doran said, exaggerating the accent in question and raising his tankard to the landlord. ‘Good man. Will you take a nip of something with us, just to ward off the cold?’

  ‘Mighty civil of you, sir.’ The landlord poured all three of them a dram. ‘Your very good health.’

  ‘Sláinte,’ Doran replied, tipping the contents of his glass down his throat. ‘Now then, Tyler, I think we should take another tankard until we’ve completely thawed out and then see if we can find our way to Winchester Park before it gets full dark.’

  ‘We could stay here for the night,’ Tyler said, glancing at the barmaid and then up at the ceiling in the hopeful expectation of divine intervention—or perhaps intervention of a more devilish variety.

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure, man? Two more tankards please, my lovely.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ the barmaid replied, winking at Doran. ‘And if you change your mind about staying, you don’t need to be lonely, nor cold neither. Not a handsome young fella like you.’

  Doran responded with an easy-going laugh. ‘Well now, and they say the English don’t know how to be hospitable.’

  The woman leaned over the bar and her full breasts almost spilled out of her bodice. ‘Oh, we know how to make a visitor feel at home here at the Crown. Ain’t never had any complaints yet.’

  Doran chuckled. ‘I’m perfectly sure you haven’t.’

  Half an hour later Doran had extricated himself from the barmaid’s clutches and he and a still mildly protesting Tyler resumed their journey.

  ‘Don’t see what difference a night’s delay would have made,’ Tyler groused. ‘Besides, it ain’t like you to turn down an invitation for a bit of a tumble.’

  ‘A man can have too much of a good thing, Tyler.’

  ‘Can he?’ Tyler sniffed. ‘Wouldn’t know myself. Damn, I think I’m going down with a cold.’

  ‘Right,’ Doran said, showing little sympathy as he followed fresh tracks in the snow towards what had to be the common. ‘This must be the way. Keep your eyes peeled. There’s a turn off to Winchester Park after a couple of miles. Wouldn’t do to miss it.’

  The heavy snow blurred their vision and they almost did miss the branch in the track. An adventurer by heart, Doran was determined not to be put off by the weather, but did wonder if he should have listened to Tyler and stayed overnight at the tavern. His tenacity—some would call it Gaelic stubbornness—paid off when the gatehouse to Winchester Park emerged from its snowy shroud just ahead of them, drifts beginning to pile up against its walls. A porter, bundled up against the cold with just the tip of his red nose visible above a thick muffler, came out of his lodge to ask them their business. Doran gave his name, explained that he was a guest of Lord Vincent’s, and the man waved them through.

  ‘I was told you might arrive today,’ the porter said, scratching his head at the ways of the gentry. ‘You were lucky to get through.’ The man tipped his head back to peer at the cascading snow and darkening sky. ‘It’ll get worse before it gets better, I’m thinking.’

  ‘You see,’ Doran said as he encouraged his team forward. ‘If we hadn’t pressed ahead, we’d have been stuck in that tavern for days and that pretty lass would have worn me out.’

  Tyler sniffed. ‘Reckon there might be worse ways to go. Anyway, I don’t care where we are, just so long as we can get out of this perishing weather and I can nurse my sore throat.’

  ‘Are you no longer up to the job?’ Doran asked mischievously. ‘Is it time for me to pension you off?’

  ‘Most likely, but you’d never manage without me. You’re too soft-hearted and the world and his wife would take advantage of your good nature if you didn’t have me to protect yer interests.’

  ‘You keep telling yourself that.’ Doran blinked as the duke’s mansion emerged through the blizzard, huge and solidly reassuring with the welcoming sight of smoke pouring from several of its chimney stacks.

  ‘Blimey,’ Tyler said as the carriage followed ruts in the snow that were rapidly being filled in, trusting to luck that they led to the stables.

  Doran’s instincts didn’t fail him. He halted his tired team and a couple of grooms came to take charge of the conveyance.

  ‘Take that side door there, sir,’ one of them told Doran. ‘It’s the quickest way into the house.’

  Doran and Tyler were happy to comply. A footman met them as they opened it. Doran gave his name, explaining that Lord Vincent was expecting him at Stoneleigh Manor but that he’d been advised to come here instead.

  ‘Of course, sir. We are glad that you managed to get through in this weather.’ The footman took Doran’s greatcoat, hat and gloves. Doran rubbed his hands together, causing his fingers to tingle as feeling was gradually restored to them. ‘Be so good as to follow me. Someone will bring your bags in and show your man to your room.’

  ‘He’ll need something for his sore throat, or I’ll never hear the end of how I nearly killed him in this weather.’

  The footman smiled. ‘We have a very well stocked stillroom, sir. I am sure something can be found that will help him.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Tyler lingered, waiting to accompany the luggage upstairs while Doran followed the footman into what was obviously the main ground floor corridor of the huge house. Doran, accustomed to luxury himself, decided that his own dwelling was a hovel by comparison. Everywhere he looked there were priceless works of art, tasteful antiques, exquisite furniture and ornaments, all displayed discerningly rather than ostentatiously. Never usually short of self-confidence, Doran felt momentarily uncertain and wondered if it had been wise to accept Vince’s invitation. Vince was a fine chap with no airs and graces about him. He had assured Doran that his brother the duke was equally down to earth, but if this was the way he lived, Doran already had his doubts.

  A stately butler appeared when they reached a large entrance vestibule with a magnificently wide staircase curving up on either side of it, coming together on a long, wide gallery above his head. He glanced at the polished banisters, imagining that any children in the house would find them irresistible.

  ‘I am Faraday, sir,’ the butler said, inclining his head. ‘The family is expecting you, if you will be so good as to follow me.’

  Doran assured him that he would, and walked with Faraday towards ornately carved high-reaching double doors, from behind which lively conversation emanated.

  ‘Mr Conroy, your grace,’ Faraday intoned as he opened the doors and stood back to let Doran walk through them.

  Several heads turned to look at him. The two men who stood each side of Vince looked so much like him that they could only be the duke and one of his brothers. There were several ladies present, but Doran only had time to take in their considerable beauty and inquisitive expressions before Vince strode up to him, hand outstretched.

  ‘My dear chap, how the devil did you get through in this blizzard?’

  ‘Ah well now, a little inclement weather has never deterred me,’ Doran replied, bending to make a fuss of two dogs that barked at his entrance then wagged their tails and trotted across the room to inspect his outstretched hand. They clearly belonged to the duke, as evidenced by their obedient response when he clicked his fingers and they returned to their places in front of the fire. He wondered at such a great man having dogs of anything other than the finest pedigree—these two were definitely not purebred Collies—and liked him more for it. ‘A pretty barmaid told me to head straight across the common.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve met Martha,’ Vince said, sharing an amused glance with his brothers. His reaction caused the lady whom he assumed was the duchess to tut and smile simultaneously.

  ‘Seems
there’s an overturned carriage blocking the road to Compton, so…’

  ‘Oh! I do hope Max is all right.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sara,’ Nia said reassuringly. ‘I very much doubt if he was in the conveyance.’

  ‘Well at least you got here unscathed, Doran,’ Vince said. ‘Zach, this is Doran Conroy, about whom you’ve heard so much. Doran, my brothers. Zach, Duke of Winchester, and Amos.’

  ‘Welcome to my home,’ the duke said in an amiable tone that immediately quelled the worst of Doran’s fears. Lord Amos seemed equally unassuming and told Doran he was glad to see him as he shook his hand.

  Nia stood and kissed Doran’s cheek. ‘Glad you made it in one piece,’ she said. ‘This is Frankie, Zach’s duchess, and Sara, Vince’s cousin Max’s wife. We are rather a large clan, I’m afraid, and it will take you a while to remember who’s who.’

  Doran bowed to the ladies and expressed his gratitude to the duchess for extending her hospitality to a stranger.

  ‘No friend of Vince’s is a stranger in this house,’ she graciously assured him as she resumed her seat.

  ‘And this is Lady Leona Marlowe,’ Nia said, indicating the final lady in the room. ‘She too is here sheltering from the conditions. You have something in common. Leona was just going to tell us about her husband’s property in Ireland.’

  ‘Marlowe.’ Doran frowned and, almost unheard of for him, he felt his temper swell. ‘It’s your family that is challenging my right to remove the timber growing on my own land,’ he said accusingly.

  *

  Leona had been struck by Mr Conroy’s rakish good looks and easy manner the moment he walked into the duchess’s drawing room. But his bold accusation turned her admiration to indignation.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said politely. ‘I think you must be labouring under some sort of misapprehension. My husband has been dead for over a year and I have not set foot on our Irish property during that time.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but your lawyers have not been idle.’

  Leona’s chest swelled with outrage. First the Yarises attempting to swindle her, and now this admittedly compelling Irishman. Did she have a sign on her back? Vulnerable widow, ripe for exploitation.

  ‘Sit down, Conroy, and explain yourself,’ the duke said in a mild tone that nevertheless brooked no argument. ‘Lady Marlowe is under considerable pressure following her bereavement. I will not have her discomposed further by groundless accusations.’

  ‘Bereavement?’ Mr Conroy’s head shot up. Although she herself had just mentioned George’s demise, he clearly hadn’t absorbed her words, since he appeared genuinely surprised to learn of her widowed status. Leona sensed his anger diminishing. ‘My condolences, ma’am,’ he said politely. ‘And my apologies for my unseemly behaviour.’ He looked towards the duke, who accepted Mr Conroy’s ill-mannered outburst with a nod. ‘Despite our proximity in Ireland your husband did not often visit his property,’ he continued, ‘and news is slow to reach us. I had not heard.’

  Leona acknowledged his sympathies with an inclination of her head. Much of the antagonism drained out of her in the face of Mr Conroy’s pristine manners and natural empathy. The Irish, she knew, might be quick to speak their mind, but they were superstitious and great respecters of the dignity due to the bereaved. Reddish brown hair fell across green eyes as he lowered his head, filling her with an irrational desire to push it back into place. He really was a most engaging gentleman, but it wouldn’t do to lose focus. Despite his mixed reaction, he might still very well be attempting to dupe her, although she had yet to decide what a total stranger could hope to achieve by such a risky endeavour. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m surprised that news of Marlowe’s death hadn’t reached you,’ the duke said, a note of suspicion entering his voice. ‘Ireland isn’t exactly the back of beyond. Marlowe died over a year ago and his death was reported in the newspapers.’

  ‘I have just returned from America,’ Mr Conroy explained, ‘where British news is slow to get through, if it does at all. I was there researching potential markets for my timber trade, which is what I wanted to discuss with you, your grace. I wrote to Vince about the possibility in the vaguest of terms and then returned to all these extraordinary claims from Marlowe’s legal people. I apologise if I was impolite,’ he said, turning to Leona once again. ‘It was the shock of finding you here—and something of a coincidence too, you must agree.’

  ‘No apologies necessary, Mr Conroy, but I can assure you that I know absolutely nothing about any such developments regarding our Irish estate, and have certainly not asked my solicitors to contact you. Indeed, I was not even aware of the names of our neighbours until you enlightened me just now. I have visited several times in the past, but if you were there when I was our paths didn’t cross.’ I would have remembered.

  ‘There now,’ he said with an easy smile. ‘At least we are now acquainted, and I am glad about that.’

  ‘It seems that your husband’s aunt has been very active,’ the duke said pensively, addressing Leona. ‘More so than you realised. Shall you mind Conroy knowing about your affairs? It seems you and he could have an enemy in common.’

  ‘By all means,’ she replied.

  ‘Well then, in a nutshell, Conroy, her late husband’s cousin and his ambitious mother are claiming that Marlowe’s estate should pass to him as his only male heir.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He sent Leona a considering look. ‘I take it that is not the case.’

  ‘Most emphatically not,’ Leona assured him.

  ‘I will spare you the details for now,’ the duke said, taking effortless control, ‘other than to tell you that Yaris, the cousin, is a solicitor and Marlowe’s will has mysteriously disappeared.’ Mr Conroy raised both brows. ‘Instead, please have the goodness to explain the difficulties that Lady Marlowe’s relatives are attempting to create for you.’

  Before he could do so, the door opened and a windswept and dishevelled gentleman walked through it. His boots were splattered with wet mud, his clothing torn in places and equally dirty.

  ‘Max!’ Mrs Sheridan jumped to her feet and embraced the man who was obviously her husband. ‘Whatever has happened to you? Are you hurt? How did you manage to get through? We heard there was an accident blocking the road. I was so worried…’

  Max held up a hand to cut off his wife’s anxious litany of questions. ‘I am unharmed, and I apologise for appearing in your drawing room in such a state, Frankie.’ The duchess waved his apology aside, apparently as intrigued as everyone else. ‘I helped to right the overturned carriage. It happened just outside my window so I could hardly ignore it. Happily, no one was hurt. The horses had a shock and I…’ He glanced down at his shabby attire and gave a rueful shrug, ‘well, at least my tailor will benefit.’

  ‘A happy outcome for all involved,’ Frankie said, smiling.

  The duke turned to a sideboard and poured generous measures of whisky, the first of which he handed to the man who had just joined them. ‘Medicinal,’ he said, winking at his duchess.

  ‘Of course it is,’ she replied, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Conroy, this is my cousin, Sara’s husband Max.’ The gentlemen shook hands as the duke made the introduction. ‘Max, Conroy is a friend of Vince’s from Ireland and we have just discovered that coincidentally he is also a neighbour of Lady Marlowe’s, who is a friend of Frankie’s.’

  Leona stood and curtsied, a little overwhelmed by the similarity between all the Sheridan males. It seemed that even gentlemen of their standing were sufficiently compassionate to help when accidents occurred. She felt reassured by their consideration for those less fortunate than themselves, and glad that either instinct or desperation had made her decide to come here.

  ‘It’s a very great pleasure,’ Max replied, bowing over her hand.

  ‘Max is a solicitor,’ the duke explained, ‘and he is probably the very person you both need to resolve your respective problems. Sorry, Max,’ he added with a r
ueful smile. ‘I know you are not on duty, but needs must.’

  ‘I will help however I can,’ he replied without hesitation, ‘just as soon as I have made myself a little more presentable. I would prefer to discuss your problems without leaving mud and melted snow all over your furniture, Frankie.’

  He drained his medicinal whisky, left them for a few brief moments, and returned with his hair in place and his dirty clothing replaced by more presentable garments. Presumably rooms and changes of clothing were kept here for members of the family. He took a chair beside his wife and smiled at her as he squeezed her hand. Her concern was apparent and she couldn’t seem to stop looking at him, oblivious to everyone else in the room, as though she was searching for injuries he was attempting to conceal from her.

  When all the gentlemen had replenished glasses in their hands, the duke succinctly outlined Leona’s problems, drawing scowls from both Max Sheridan and Mr Conroy.

  ‘I now understand why you suggested Marlowe’s cousin was responsible for my difficulties,’ Mr Conroy said in a speculative manner.

  ‘The floor is yours, Conroy,’ the duke said, sitting beside the fire, casually tugging at one of his dog’s ears. ‘What’s all this about timber and a dispute with Marlowe’s legal people?’

  ‘Our estates adjoin, mine and Marlowe’s.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful and isolated spot in County Wicklow,’ Leona said. ‘I love it there, but George’s duties for the government meant that we didn’t visit often or stay as long as I would have liked to. I just adore the area and might well settle there if I can resolve my problems and be left in peace to enjoy the estate.’