Mad About the Duke (18 page)

Elinor leaned over and added, “Just last night she was longing for her own wicked baron.”

Lucy grinned. “You don't say! Minerva, I am quite thrilled to see my influence wearing off on you.” She reached for the teapot and began to pour herself a cup.

“A wicked baron, indeed! I am longing for no such thing. I only said that about Mr. St. Maur because I finally got a good look at him this afternoon,” the first Lady Standon declared. “And he has the cut of a gentleman about him. How unfortunate he isn't titled and excessively rich.”

“I haven't that good fortune,” Elinor said.

“Oh, you never know,” Lucy mused as she blew on her cup of tea.

“I swear he looks rather like that rakish devil who used to cause all those scandals about ten years ago.” Minerva tapped her lips with her fingers. “What was his name?” She looked over at Lucy, who shrugged off the question and started to pour a cup for Elinor.

Minerva's brows furrowed as she continued to ponder her question. “Oh, goodness, now I remember, doesn't he look like he could pass for that mad fellow, oh, what was his name? Oh, yes, it's Lord Joh—”

Whatever name she'd been saying, Elinor didn't hear, for just then, Lucy managed to slop the tea over the tray and into Minerva's lap.

The lady bolted upright. “Lucy! Whatever is wrong with you?”

“Oh, dear,” Lucy exclaimed. “I should never be allowed to pour. Here, let me help you.” She caught Minerva by the elbow and steered her from the room, leaving Elinor to wonder if her friends had suddenly gone mad.

 

Out in the hall and well out of earshot, Lucy gave Minerva a good shake. “You nearly ruined everything in there!”

“Whatever do you mean? If that pot had been at a proper temperature, you would have scalded me!”

“Minerva, forget the tea. I am talking about Mr. St. Maur!”

“What about the man? I was just going to say he looked like he could pass for Mad Jack Tremont's brother.”

“He could, Minerva,” Lucy said in a bare whisper. “Because he is Mad Jack's brother. Mr. St. Maur is the Duke of Parkerton.”

J
ames found himself being ushered into a large room on the second floor of Avenbury's London residence.

Since Avenbury normally resided in the country, it truly was a matter of chance that he was here in Town. The staff gaped at James as he followed the butler up the stairs—for apparently Avenbury didn't get many guests.

Having met the previous duke—a stern, unforgiving fellow who'd considered his rank and privilege as much the same as others breathed air—James wasn't too sure what to expect of the current title holder.

The butler showed him into a well-appointed room, announcing him with a loud voice, “Your Grace, may I present the Duke of Parkerton.”

James entered and bowed low. “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you.”

“And you as well, Your Grace,” Avenbury replied.

As James rose and looked up at the fellow ap
proaching him, it was evident this Avenbury had the old duke's coloring and solemn expression, which hardly boded well for what he planned.

He had hoped for an Avenbury with a taste for adventure.

“That is all, Higgins,” Avenbury said, waving his hand at the butler.

The overly attentive servant cast one more look of suspicion at James before bowing and taking his leave.

“How is it, Your Grace, that we have not met before?” Avenbury asked as he crossed the room.

“An oversight,” James replied. “I met your father once when I was a much younger man.”

Avenbury nodded and came closer, peering up at James. “Parkerton, is that truly a black eye you are sporting?”

“It is,” James said with some measure of pride.

The duke whistled. “However did—”

“The Earl of Clifton. It was a matter of honor. He planted a right good facer on me in the middle of White's.”

“Go on!” Avenbury exclaimed. “I've never heard of such!”

“Neither had I,” James admitted.

“Does it hurt?”

“It did,” James said. “But I was out cold for the first part.”

Avenbury shook his head in wonder. “I shall endeavor never to run afoul of the Earl of Clifton.”

“Wise decision.” James glanced around the elegant room and spied the books piled up on the table. “Been to the lending library, I see.”

Avenbury groaned. “That's all Gramshaw's doing. Says London is meant to be educational. That is why I asked you to come now, for Gramshaw takes Sunday
afternoons to find more books for me. I would much rather take a ride in the park than spend my afternoon reading the
Odyssey
.”

“On such a fine day, I don't blame you,” James agreed.

“Gramshaw is bothersome to no end,” Avenbury confided, waving James over to a wide window seat that looked out toward the park. “He's my tutor, you know.”

“Yes, I surmised,” James said, remembering his own tutor, a strict fellow who'd sounded much like this Gramshaw. But then again, he and Avenbury had much in common, having come into their titles at a young age, though James hadn't been as young as Avenbury—who was all of eleven.

“He even refused to grant your request for this visit,” the boy confessed.

“He did?” James said, recalling the looks from the servants. No wonder they'd gaped at him when he'd arrived. “Why ever—”

“Muttered something about madness and inappropriate influence.” The boy paused. “No offense meant, Your Grace.”

“None taken,” James told him. Ah, the Tremont name. That was the real curse on his family.

Avenbury leaned over. “After I saw your note on his desk, I pinched it later and answered it myself. Bribed one of the pot lads to take my answer to your residence.” He paused and glanced at James. “I've never met another duke.”

James didn't know whether to chastise the lad or congratulate him on his ingenuity, but those last words, spoken with sincerity and a bright curiosity, sparked something inside him.

He understood what it was to be so isolated.

After all, he'd spent his entire life so.

“Why we come to London, I know not,” the boy complained, kicking his feet out in front of him restlessly. “Gramshaw will not let me out of the house—not for anything that would be fun—except on Fridays for a walk in the park that is dead dull. Nothing but edifying trips to the lending library, to the Houses of Parliament, so I could view my future seat. Yet when I asked to go see the Elgin Marbles, Gramshaw refused. Says they are scandalous.” The boy paused and glanced over at James. “Are they?”

“You will find them quite edifying in about five years.”

The boy shot a glance at him, then continued, “I even tried ordering him to take me to see the elephant in the Tower, but still he refused. My uncle's orders.”

“It is a terrible burden to be so encumbered with the obligations of a title,” James told him. “When I was your age, my father kept me under lock and key for fear I would run wild. And all I ever wanted to do was go fishing.”

The boy leaned back and sighed. “Fishing! I love fishing.” Avenbury glanced at him. “I went once, you know.”

“I did not know. However did you manage it?”

“One of the maids felt sorry for me and she snuck me out of the house so I could go with her brother and his friends. Oh, they are a most excellent lot.”

“Village lads?”

The boy nodded.

“Boon companions, those,” James confided. “My brothers had any number of friends from among the village lads. I always envied them.”

Avenbury nodded. “They took me fishing, and I got wet and dirty and caught four fish. Well, three. But I would have caught a fourth if Gramshaw hadn't discovered me.”

“I too enjoy fishing,” James told him. “I have an excellent trout pond on my estate. You must come fish it.”

“Can I?”

“Yes, and you needn't bring Gramshaw with you.”

“My uncle says I have to take him with me everywhere. Him and Billes, he's one of the footmen.”

“Then bring them,” James told him, “and we shall lock them in my dungeon while we go fishing.”

The boy laughed, long and hard, as did James. It was an infectious sound, rather like when Elinor laughed.

“So, Your Grace,” the boy began.

“Call me Parkerton,” James told him.

“And you must call me Avenbury,” the boy said.

“Agreed.”

“What is it that you need, Parkerton, because I am certain your visit has a purpose.”

James liked this lad more and more. Smart and ingenious. He'd be an excellent leader one day. “I come on behalf of a lady,” he told him.

“A lady? I don't know any ladies. Other than my mother, and she is never about.”

“Yes, well, this is where it gets a bit complicated. You see, I must ask you to keep our conversation in confidence.”

“Not tell Gramshaw or anyone else?”

“Exactly.”

The lad puffed up with every bit of ducal importance he possessed. “I am honored.”

“As I said, I came here on behalf of a lady. She has engaged me to help her find a husband.”

“You?”

“Yes, me, only she doesn't know that I am Parkerton. I fear it is rather confusing.”

“Do tell,” the boy said, settling in, his eyes alight.

So James related the entire story—minus the part about kissing Elinor—and at the end, Avenbury shook his head. “Why ever would you agree to find Lady Standon a husband?”

“I thought it might be a lark. And as you well know, larks are few and far between for our sort.”

The boy nodded solemnly.

“I've never had a lark before,” James confided.

“Never?”

“Never,” James said, shaking his head woefully. “At least not before I got punched.” He tapped his eye. “I believe it has given me a new outlook.”

“May I see it closer?”

James nodded; the boy got up on his knees and crawled across the window seat so he could peer intently at James's eye.

He whistled again—something he must have picked up on his outing with the village lads. “Glorious colors, Parkerton. Just spanking glorious!” He sat back down. “I've never been punched. I want to take boxing lessons, but Gramshaw says I am too young.”

“No! That is high-handed of him,” James said.

“Yes, so I told him, but he wasn't inclined to listen. Muttered something about how my uncle pays his bills.”

“Well, the next time he says something to that effect, remind him that one day you will pay the bills. All of them, including your uncle's. That will
straighten out old Gramshaw—if he knows what is good for him.”

The boy grinned. “Parkerton, I like you.”

“And I you, Avenbury. If I'd have had a son, I would have wanted him to be just like you.”

“Would you let him fish?”

“Every day. Once his lessons were done.”

“Then I will help you with your Lady Standon.”

“Oh, she isn't my Lady Standon,” James said, but it wasn't the truth. She was his.

And even Avenbury, at the rare age of eleven, had enough sense to see what a bouncer it was. “She's pretty, I'd wager. And nice to boot.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you wouldn't be here if she wasn't.” He sat back.

“She's the loveliest creature in London,” James admitted.

“Then I will help you, so you can marry her and have a son.”

James stammered a bit. “I don't intend to—”

“But of course you do, Parkerton. No man would go to these lengths for a woman he didn't love. She's your Penelope. Your Patience.”

James opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. First Sammy and Rusty, and now Avenbury! How was it they could so easily see what he couldn't even admit? Not even to himself—even as in his mind's eye he saw her once again dressed in that glorious costume, and how he'd been unable to resist her, how he'd been drawn to her, would have crossed oceans to find her.

So Parkerton and Avenbury put their heads together and made their plans to meet Lady Standon in the park on Friday.

“Some day, Avenbury,” James told him, “you shall be a force to be reckoned with. A man I shall be proud to call my friend.”

The boy beamed. “I'm glad of it, Parkerton. But I would beg a favor in return.”

“Anything.”

“When you come to the park, will you bring a kite?”

 

When the Duke of Parkerton came home and asked Winston to procure him the makings for a kite—a good one, with an ample length of string—and send a note to Lady Standon that he would be picking her up for their picnic on Tuesday precisely at eleven, his secretary went straight off to the kitchens, where he found Mrs. Oxton serving up a quick tea for Richards and Cantley and some of the others before they began their harried rush to serve supper.

“We are done for,” Winston announced.

They all knew what he meant.

The duke had finally gone round the bend.

But Mrs. Oxton, who'd known the duke since he was in small pants, wasn't about to give up just yet.

“What is it, Mr. Winston? What has he done now?” She set a plate down for him and bid him to take a place at the table. “It can't be worthy of all this.” She shot a significant glance at the rest of the staff, seated as they were at the lesser tables.

Winston leaned in and whispered, “He asked me to get him the materials to make a kite.”

“A kite?” Richards repeated.

“Yes, a kite,” Winston nodded as if that should be enough to call them all to gather their pitchforks and buckets of tar. But when they didn't rise in rebellion, he added, “He wants to make a kite. I fear he means to go fly it with
that woman
.”

Now none of them needed to question whom he meant, for Lady Standon was known in the house as “that woman.”

She who was about to destroy their well-managed household.

Not once in the twenty some years since the previous duchess had died had Parkerton shown the least interest in marriage.

Who knew what sort of changes, trials and tribulations would lay ahead if the Duke of Parkerton decided, horrors upon horrors, to actually take a new wife?

And a kite-flying one, at that!

“Then I'm to send her this note of his.” Winston paused. “He wrote it in his own hand.”

“Oh, saints preserve us,” Mrs. Oxton exclaimed, crossing herself as if the devil himself had come to the door asking for a cuppa. She then turned to Cantley, who, up until now, had kept his opinions to himself, and gave him nothing short of a look that said the man could sit upon the fence no longer.

The butler, the de facto head of the staff, let out a deep, resigned sigh and reached across the table. He took the folded note from Winston's shaking grasp and walked it across the kitchen to the fireplace.

The housekeeper rose up. “Mr. Cantley, dinna you think we should at least read it before you—”

“Madame, I am about to commit the most grievous sin of my unblemished service to this family, I will not compound it by adding another.” With that, he consigned the folded bit to the smoldering coals.

One of the maids gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stop the protest that nearly followed.

For if the duke's actions were madness, Cantley had just committed nothing less than treason.

He turned, his stern expression falling on each of them, one by one, binding them together as it were. If he was going down, they had best remember they would all fall with him.

“As far as either of you are concerned,” he said to Michaels and Fawley, the footmen who usually ran the duke's errands, “you gave it to one of the lads and it was delivered.”

“But gar, Mr. Cantley, how can I—,” Fawley began.

Cantley's great brows rose in unison. It was a terrifying sight. “It was delivered. Who is to say what happened to it once it reached Lady Standon's? That establishment, so I've learned of late, is run in a most shameful manner. So if His Grace's note were to go astray, it could hardly be
our
doing.”