Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion Page 9

  “What did the father do to make a living?” Nate asked.

  “She didn’t say, and I thought it better not to ask.”

  “It is refreshingly unusual to meet a female who does not wish to talk one’s ear off about herself and her family,” Vince remarked, elegantly sprawled in his chair as he topped up his own glass and sent the decanter on its way to Zach.

  “I have an uncomfortable feeling about the whole matter,” Zach said. “Keep me informed, Amos.”

  “That I will.”

  “Shall I meet Miss Brooke at the garden party?” Nate asked.

  “She hadn’t planned to attend,” Amos replied. “I persuaded her otherwise.”

  Vince shared an amused glance with Zach. “His powers of persuasion being legendary.”

  “I have my moments.” Amos stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “It will be interesting to see if Reece attends. If he is what he says he is, then he will have every reason to want to be here, but I’ll be willing to wager ten guineas we don’t see him.”

  “You won’t get any takers around this table,” Zach said, pushing his chair back and standing up.

  The rest of them stood also and went their different ways. In Nate’s case, that would almost certainly be to the Crown. Amos suppressed a grin, wondering why he had bothered to send Maynard when Nate could have served him just as well, except Maynard was more likely to keep his mind on the business in hand.

  ***

  Crista managed to slip up the stairs without encountering her uncle, who would have asked her awkward questions about her ripped gown and grazed forehead. She gasped when she looked in the glass and saw her dishevelled hair, her forehead caked in dried blood, her eyes sparkling unnaturally bright. She looked wild, but actually felt alive, truly alive and desirable, all because she had spent ten minutes in conversation with an elegant gentleman who wanted nothing from her. That, in Crista’s recent experience, was high unusual.

  Except, of course, Lord Amos did want something from her. He had decided to take an interest in her affairs, perhaps because he suspected all was not as it ought to be in her uncle’s establishment. The desire to confide in him, to relieve herself of the burden that weighed heavier by the day, grew ever more tempting.

  But she could not do it. The only way to ensure she did not give way to temptation was to keep out of his way. She did not anticipate seeing him again until the garden party in five days’ time, and that event would be too crowded for him to single her out. She didn’t take seriously his offer to show her his stud, of which he seemed justifiably proud. If he did happen to recall the invitation, she would think of an excuse. She simply did not trust herself to be alone with him, and not just because he was so curious about her circumstances. It was her feelings for him that concerned her. She was ashamed of her acute awareness of him, of the fierce longing that had gripped her when he sat beside her with the purest of intentions. The intelligence and elusive warmth in his eyes as he settled his gaze upon her had the most disconcerting affect upon her. She, who had seen quite enough of the destructive power of one-sided love, ought to know better than to fall for his lethal charm.

  But she had. Against her better judgement and all common sense, she had formed an attachment towards Lord Amos and, short of telling him the truth about her circumstances, there seemed little she could do about it. She flashed a quixotic smile, aware the shameful truth would see him leave her life with a speed that defied gravity.

  Crista quickly washed away the blood on her brow, changed her gown and brushed her hair over her injury, leaving it loose so the graze would not show. She closed her eyes for an expressive moment, waited for her racing heart to slow to a more regular beat, and left her chamber.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” Her uncle looked up from his chair beside the fire, a book open on his lap, and smiled at her. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Yes, thank you. You were quite right. It was just what I needed, and I feel quite revived. It is a lovely evening.”

  Uncle Charles peered at her from over his glasses. “You certainly look a great deal better. You have some colour and…” He peered more closely. Crista endured his scrutiny, wondering what he saw there, glad for once for his short-sightedness. “Well, there is something different about you.”

  Kate called out their meal was ready, saving Crista from the trouble of formulating a reply.

  “Good. I am sharp-set,” she said, taking her uncle’s arm and walking with him to the small table beneath the window.

  She and her uncle ate in near silence. Crista had too much to think about to instigate a conversation, and her uncle seemed unnaturally quiet. He got tired so easily nowadays, and ought to be allowed to retire and live out his remaining days in peace and comfort. She hated what Reece and, by association, her father had forced him to become. An honourable man, she could see shame daily eating away at him. If they escaped this situation without being thrown in gaol, Crista knew her uncle’s richly deserved retirement would be plagued by unwelcome recollections of their narrow escape from disgrace. No, in his eyes they were disgraced, even if they were fortunate enough not to be apprehended. She knew that very well because she felt the exact same way.

  Her uncle caught her watching him and smiled. But the smile did not reach his eyes. He looked shrunken and defeated, a thousand times removed from the tall, upright, cheerful man she had known and loved her entire life. She blamed Reece for the transformation. But most of all, she blamed herself.

  She ought to put aside her personal feelings for Lord Amos and put her uncle’s welfare first. With all the power and influence at his disposal, he would be able to help her. But why would he? He would be disgusted and think her weak for falling in with the villains who now controlled her. His first allegiance was to his family, as evidenced by their recent conversation. The only time he had seemed severe during the course of it was when he said the duke would not tolerate ne’er-do-wells in the district. He had been referring, she thought, to pick-pockets, or men who prayed on helpless women. God alone knew what his reaction would be if he learned what Reece had brought upon Shawford.

  No, she definitely could not tell him.

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning all three brothers accepted Zach’s invitation to ride with him towards the furthest reach of the estate. It did not require them all to examine the dairy herd of Friesian cattle Zach was so proud of, but it was a fine morning, and none of them had anything better to do. Such moments of fraternal compatibility were rare, and though none of them would dream of admitting how much they enjoyed one another’s company, it was nevertheless a fact. Zach’s dogs, with their long legs, rangy bodies, and lolling tongues, loped along beside the horses, deviating off every so often in pursuit of rabbits.

  “The herd is looking good,” Amos said, leaning on the pummel of his saddle as he cast an eye over them.

  “I’m thinking of cross-breeding for meat,” Zach replied. “What do you all think?”

  “You could do worse than speak to Lady St. John,” Vince replied, sharing a grin between his brothers when Zach scowled. “She has two first class Hereford bulls on her estate.”

  “You think Herefords and Friesians would produce decent beef cattle?”

  Zach and Vince fell into an animated conversation on the matter. Amos had little to contribute. He knew a great deal more about horses than he did cattle. He drank in the view of the rolling Hampshire countryside, one he would never tire of, and counted his blessings. The verdant fields dotted with livestock and wooded slopes with trees in full leaf was all part of the Sheridan estate as far as the eye could see. Zach prided himself on being fair to his tenants and workers, treating them well, but even so, it seemed unjust that one family should own so much.

  Not that they really owned the land, he thought. They were merely custodians for the next generation. Amos snorted, wondering why his thoughts had veered in that direction. Was he turning into a lily-livered liberal or was th
e state of political unrest that had plagued England since the end of the war affecting him? The Sheridan estate might look as though it ran without a hitch. As a general rule it did, he reminded himself, but only because the four of them were fully occupied with various aspects of its management, ensuring its smooth-running. Not a day went by when problems of one sort or another didn’t vie for Zach’s arbitration. Quite apart from that, it was nothing short of a juggling act, keeping the residents of Compton and Shawford from one another’s throats.

  “What news did Maynard bring you from the Crown?” Zach asked Amos as they turned back towards the house, walking their horses side by side.

  “Reece has been at the Crown for a month. He claims to be a merchant looking for a market for his produce.”

  “Not a jeweller then?”

  “No, but that’s hardly a surprise.”

  “What are his products?” Vince asked.

  “No one knows, but he hasn’t made himself popular at the Crown. He struts about the place as though he was a person of consequence, but isn’t fooling anyone. Martha washes his linens. She says they aren’t top drawer. It’s as if he’s trying to put on an act.”

  “What? He hasn’t asked all and sundry in the taproom for advice on whom to contact about his merchandise?” Zach scowled. “That’s the first place merchants in the know would think to enquire.”

  “Precisely.” Amos removed one hand from the reins and scratched his chin.

  “A month is a long time to do nothing but swagger about and annoy people,” Zach said. “Especially if he has business interests to pursue. What the devil is he up to? And why did Chesney pretend he’s his assistant?”

  Nate shrugged. “Why not call Chesney up to the house and ask him?”

  “No!” Amos shook his head decisively. “This situation calls for tact, not a heavy hand. Chesney claimed the rogue was his assistant for a reason.”

  “Well, of course he did,” Vince said. “And that reason obviously involves your Miss Brooke.”

  “Chesney and Miss Brooke are afraid of Reece,” Amos said. “We need to find out more about Reece before I confront either one of them.”

  “How shall you do that?” Vince asked.

  “To begin with, I shall set Martha to work her charm on him.”

  “The devil you will!” Nate’s scowl caused his brothers to laugh.

  “Fear not,” Amos said. “She doesn’t like the man, I gather, but he keeps trying to win her favour. Martha knows how to flirt and extract information from her customers without compromising her…er, honour.”

  Nate continued to glower at nothing in particular. “Do you want me to ask her?”

  “No, I shall call at the Crown and talk to her later myself,” Amos replied. “I think it might be as well to have a couple of men follow Reece, if your offer still stands, Zach.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your concern is for Miss Brooke, Amos,” Zach said, sounding unusually serious. “Mine is for maintaining the status quo between Shawford and Compton. I shall leave you to decide what to do about the situation with Chesney, but if it looks as though it might have an effect upon local politics, then I shall have to intercede.”

  “Ah, the joys of being a duke,” Nate said teasingly.

  “Little brother, you have no idea.”

  “Nor do I wish to find out.”

  “Me neither,” Amos agreed with alacrity. “Speaking of which, hurry up, do your duty and get leg-shackled, Zach. Being your heir apparent holds no appeal for me.”

  “Ungrateful coves!”

  Grinning, Zach pushed his horse into a canter. The others followed his example, and they raced neck and neck all the way back to the stables.

  ***

  Crista was up at first light, determined to make up for the time she had not spent in the workshop the previous evening. She was equally determined to banish all thoughts of Lord Amos from her head. He had helped her, she had thanked him, and that was an end to the matter. There was no reason why their paths need cross again. She ignored the dull ache this realisation caused her, reminding herself she had far greater concerns to focus upon.

  Her uncle was in the shop, attending to a customer, when the back door opened and the representative of those concerns walked in. Crista tensed, but did not look up, and concentrated on the complicated filigree she was constructing.

  “Good morning,” Reece said politely.

  Crista could not believe his audacity. He had tried to brutally assault her the previous evening. Crista still felt cold all over whenever she allowed her mind to dwell upon what could have happened. But this morning he was behaving as though nothing untoward had occurred. She remained stubbornly silent, until he moved in front of her, blocking her light.

  “I cannot see what I am doing if you stand there.”

  “I could think of no other way of gaining your attention.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” She dealt him a chilling glance before immediately returning her attention to her work. “You disgust me.”

  “You seem to forget you work for my masters.”

  “I am unlikely ever to forget that misfortune.” She carefully heated her filigree arches from a distance so the solder didn’t blow off the wire. “But since you raised the matter, who are your masters? Whose tune do you dance to? I would like to know who to blame for my circumstances, aside from you.”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  “Because you do not know?”

  “Because you certainly do not need to.”

  It was as Crista thought. He didn’t know himself. Damnation. That did not help her in the least. If she fell on her sword, metaphorically speaking, and disgraced her own reputation as well as her uncle’s, she could take Reece down with her. But he would be replaced, and the operation moved elsewhere with some other helpless craftsman coerced into doing their bidding. No, she needed to know who the brains behind the operation was so she could destroy him also.

  “You could be well paid for your work,” Reece said. “If only you were not so stubborn.”

  “We have had this discussion before. I am not a criminal and want no monetary gain for being forced to act like one.”

  “The streets are full of people with fine principles.” A mirthless chuckle rumbled in Reece’s throat. “However, it is for you to decide whether or not you wish to be paid. Regardless, you will do as you are told, or the consequences don’t bear thinking about.”

  He was strutting about, emphasising his point by banging his cane on the floor, sounding a little desperate. She chanced a glance at him and was surprised by what she saw. He was no longer quite so well-groomed and looked as though he had not slept well. Perhaps he had seen Lord Amos ride to her rescue. Now that she considered the matter, she was sure he must have. Why had that thought not occurred to her before now? Because her mind had been taken up with Lord Amos and the most extraordinary feelings he engendered within her, of course. Still, it gave her considerable satisfaction to imagine Reece must be worried about what she had or had not said to his lordship. Perhaps she had found a tiny chink in his armour.

  “I will do as I see fit.” Crista tossed her head. “My advice is not to push me too far, or you might discover I push back harder than you might suppose.”

  “And I would strongly advise you not to rebel against the people I represent.” There was a hard edge to Reece’s voice. “They are powerful, ruthless, and will act swiftly against those who seek to dissent. Think of what happened to your father.”

  “I have agreed to work for you.” Crista put her soldering iron aside and treated him to her most disdainful assault glare. “But I think it only fair to warn you, if you lay so much as one finger on me ever again, or try anything like the despicable attack you orchestrated last night, I will have my revenge.” Her hand hovered over the still hot soldering iron. “Do we understand one another?”

  When his eyes narrowed and his face turned pu
ce with rage, Crista wondered if she had pushed him beyond his endurance in much the same way as he had driven her. She received her answer when he took a step towards her and raised his cane.

  “That is precisely the reaction I would expect from a bully and tyrant,” Crista said, quelling her anxiety and imbuing her tone with a wealth of disdain. “I dare say it makes you feel invincible to beat members of the weaker sex.”

  She was rewarded by an intensified glower and a tense, oppressive silence. He continued to wave his cane about, and she thought he would actually strike her with it. Part of her hoped he would, then she could retaliate, and this arrangement between them would come to an end, leaving the pieces to fall where they may. Crista was almost beyond caring. She was doing this for her sister’s sake, but the ungrateful child had not once contacted Crista to see how she was bearing up. She deserved whatever fate befell her, but her uncle most decidedly did not, so she must not allow her temper to overcome common sense.

  At the last moment, Reece lowered the stick, breathing heavily, his eyes still shimmering with rage. “God save me from opinionated females,” he muttered fervently.

  “If you don’t care for my society,” she replied in a sweetly sarcastic tone, “that situation can easily be remedied.”

  “That it can. Don’t imagine you can’t outgrow your usefulness.”

  “My, my, are you reduced to threating me?” She folded her arms across her torso and sent him a teasing smile designed to antagonise. “How disheartening to be so out of control.”

  “I have an engagement,” he said abruptly.

  “Then don’t let me detain you.”

  “Have a care, Miss Brooke,” he said, pulling open the door connecting to the shop and disappearing through it.

  “Or what?” Crista said to his departing back. “You need me, and you know it.”

  All the fight drained out of her when the door closed behind him. She fell back onto her stool, leaned her elbows on the workbench and dropped her head into her hands, close to tears of despair. Dear God, she couldn’t take much more of this. Really, she could not. Why were they so determined to use her? It was a rhetorical question. Of course she knew why. Even so, there had to be other jewellers who would willingly participate in their scheme and accept the payment she stubbornly refused to take. A willing worker was worth ten pressed into service, surely?