Dying For A Duke Read online

  A touch of guilt slid into her eyes and she bit her lip for a moment. It was the most distracting sight and Benedict stood, rapt, watching the fine white teeth bite that full lower lip until she let it go again leaving her mouth reddened. “Is that what I do?” she asked, frowning.

  He tore his eyes away from her lips. “You know damn well it is,” he snorted, though not unkindly and drew her onto the next exhibit.

  She was an interesting companion, he had to acknowledge that much as he showed her the Civil War collection and a series of crossbows, longbows and claymores. She seemed to share his fascination with history and the idea that these weapons had been carried by men like him, perhaps his own flesh and blood. Men who had fought and perhaps died for what they believed in with sword in hand. He brought her back to some of the smaller display cases and a piece he particularly admired.

  It was a dagger, though a very ornate one. “This is one of my favourite pieces,” he admitted. “It’s a Landsknecht dagger,” he said, watching with interest as she bent to get a closer view.

  “Ah, Ben, now don’t tell me you’re boring poor Phoebe with all this dreary history.”

  Benedict stiffened and found himself annoyed by the arrival of his cousin Oliver. Though in the country Oliver was still dressed in dashing style and made Benedict feel a tad dowdy in the less formal attire he preferred when at Grizedale.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Benedict replied, feeling suddenly constrained and wondering if he had misjudged Phoebe’s enthusiasm. He was rewarded by a hand on his arm.

  “Oh please go on, Ben,” she asked, her blue eyes lively with interest. “It’s been the most fascinating morning, truly.”

  Somehow he found he could overlook her too familiar use of his name and didn’t remark upon it in the light of such genuine interest. He cleared his throat.

  “Er ... very well then. Well like I said, this is a Landsknecht dagger. The Landsknecht were rather dashing mercenaries first formed in the fifteenth century. If you note the dagger is embellished with what is known as puff and slash wire work. They were noted for being rather flamboyant you see and the wire work was supposed to echo the fantastically puffed and slashed costumes of the era.”

  “How incredible,” Phoebe said, clearly delighted. “To think of these dashing young men having weapons made to go with their outfits!”

  Benedict chuckled and nodded. “It appears men can be every bit as frivolous as women. Not that we needed any proof,” he added in an undertone, raising one eyebrow at Oliver.

  “Well I say,” Oliver said with a huff. “There’s no need to pick on me because I said your weapon collection was dull!”

  Their attention was taken as Harold and Wilfred Spalding entered the hall and sauntered over to where they were gathered. Benedict noted Phoebe’s face lost any sense of amusement and found himself moving to stand beside her.

  They came and stared down at the antique dagger and Wilfred seemed particularly struck by it. “A beautiful thing,” he murmured. “Beautiful and deadly, an intriguing combination.” He glanced up at Phoebe with a covetous look in his eyes and Benedict saw her step farther away from him. There was something about the man that made him want throw him out the house. As it wasn’t his right to do so, however, he contented himself with glaring at him.

  “Must be worth a fortune, eh, Wilfred?” Harold said, staring at it with the same kind of expression that Wilfred had looked upon Phoebe with. “All that gold.”

  “Don’t start spending your inheritance just yet, old boy,” Oliver murmured in an undertone. “Rather vulgar.”

  Harold flushed and looked at Oliver with indignation blazing in his eyes. “Well it will be mine, at all accounts. The old boy’s bound to fall off the perch soon, and then I’ll be head of the family,” he sneered.

  There was an unpleasant silence that stretched across the expanse of the armoury. Benedict clenched his fists and denied himself the singular pleasure of boxing the fool’s ears with great difficulty. How dare he speak such a way about Sylvester.

  “Well then, Cousin Phoebe,” Harold said, stepping away from the cabinet. “How do you like the armoury? More history in this old place than you can shake a stick at you know.”

  “I’ve enjoyed looking at it very much,” Phoebe said though her smile had become rather brittle. “Benedict is very knowledgeable,” she added.

  Harold made a disparaging noise. “Yes, anyone would think he was the heir the fuss he makes about the place.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Benedict growled, and stepped closer to Harold who blanched. “I’ve a mind to take you outside and teach you some manners for that remark.”

  He was suddenly aware of a hand gripping his arm and looked down to find Phoebe’s slim fingers wrapped around his wrist.

  “Come on, Harry,” Wilfred said with smirk. “We’d best go before the brute lays you out cold.”

  If Harold objected to this slight to his masculinity it wasn’t apparent as he did nothing but stalk away in high dudgeon in his friend’s wake.

  “Such a little charmer, our Harold,” Oliver said, shaking his head.

  “I beg your pardon,” Benedict said to Phoebe, as remorse for his behaviour flooded him. “I should not have let him goad me, particularly not in front of you. “I do apologise.”

  “What on earth for?” Phoebe said looking revolted. “I’m only sorry you didn’t plant him a facer. I would have.”

  Benedict gaped at her for a moment and then laughed- there was really no other answer.

  Chapter 7

  I am – yet what I am, none cares or knows:

  My friends forsake me like a memory lost:

  I am the self-consumer of my woes – John Clare

  Phoebe spent the afternoon investigating the old house by herself and whiled away a pleasant hour strolling about the grand corridors and inventing ghost stories. The portraits of many generations of the family looked down at her, some more benignly than others. Many of them shared that sharp green-eyed gaze that seemed particular to the Rutland bloodline, though there were few who had the force of that emerald green nor the strength of character that seemed so obvious in both Sylvester and Benedict.

  She smiled to herself as she looked out of the window at the lovely park lands designed by Capability Brown. It had been a revelation to see Benedict talking with such passion about the history behind the items in the armoury. She’d know there was passion within him, had sensed it from their first meeting. But he’d buried it far away and tried to forget it, along with the ability to laugh and smile and be a little foolish.

  Her step-papa had told her that Benedict’s father was a great character, full of fun and merry as a grig. In fact it sounded much like they were two of a kind, though the late Earl had been more susceptible to dice than petticoats. She imagined that this was at the heart of it. That the burden of responsibility had fallen too heavily on Benedict’s young shoulders and he’d carried it as best he could. But he’d lost a part of himself in the process, becoming too staid, too conservative and far too judgemental.

  It wasn’t too late though, she was sure of it. There had been a few moments this morning when he’d looked at her with something less than disapproval and the sensation had been ... most enjoyable. She determined to make him do it again as soon as possible. Providing he wasn’t so provoking as to make her lose her temper again.

  She found now that she had come upon a pretty little saloon all decorated in yellow and gold, and was drawn in to investigate. It wasn’t a large room but bright and very cheerful and Phoebe thought she might return to sit and read a book here later. It had a very pleasant ambiance. Hearing a slight cough she turned in surprise to see that the Butler, Keane was in the room already.

  “I didn’t want to startle you, miss,” he said, apologetically but she laughed and shook her head.

  “Not at all. Am I disturbing you though?”

  “Oh no, miss,” he replied, smiling at her. “Only, his grace had lost a book
he was reading and as he often sits in here in the mornings, it seemed the place to begin my search.”

  “Have you found it?”

  Keane held out a small leather-bound volume in his gloved hand. “I have, thank you, miss.”

  Phoebe nodded and then realised that here might be a source of information about Benedict. “Have you been with the family a long time?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” the man replied, looking really very proud at the fact. He was quite a handsome man she noted. Tall and well made, his nose had been broken at some point but this seemed to give him a more interesting aspect. He appeared precise in every aspect and she suspected he was the very model of an efficient butler. “Man and boy in fact,” he added. “My father was a footman here you see and I was born on the estate. I’ve been butler to the duke for ... well now, it must be more than twenty five years. I only wish it could be much more.”

  He looked suddenly ill at ease, as though he didn’t ought to have spoken so.

  “If you don’t mind my noting it, miss, there is something about you that loosens the tongue.” There was laughter in his eyes and Phoebe returned it with a slight huff.

  “Well, whatever it is I need more of it, I shall never get any gossip this way, shall I?” She chuckled. She grew serious though, turning to a question that seemed pertinent. “You ... wouldn’t continue here once Sylvester passes?”

  Keane’s face darkened perceptibly and she wondered at the depth of feeling she saw there. “It wouldn’t feel right, miss.”

  She nodded her understanding, aware that she had touched a nerve, and tried to lighten the mood by asking about the subject she was truly interested in.

  “I imagine Benedict must have spent a lot of time here as a boy. He and Sylvester seem very close.”

  “Oh yes, miss,” Keane replied, and she saw approval in his face now. “Lord Rothay, now there’s a fine gentleman and the spit of his uncle at the same age you know.” He paused, his mind’s eye drifted off to a place in the past. “Though he’s a much more ... sober character now,” he added, with what Phoebe thought was admirable tact. “Not like when he was a boy though.”

  “Oh?” Phoebe demanded, grabbing onto this piece of information with delight. “Was he very naughty?”

  “Naughty?” Keane repeated, his eyes wide. “He was a blessed nuisance.” He snapped his mouth shut and gave her a reproachful look. “Now, miss, you’ve done it again and I never gossip.”

  “Oh,” she huffed, bitterly disappointed. “Just as it was getting interesting.”

  “Well it isn’t my place to speak of his lordship so,” he said, a gentle rebuff that was softened further by the twinkle in his eyes. “Though if I was wishful of hearing tales of the young man, I should go and speak with his mother, myself,” he added with a grin. “She’s always happy to talk about her son and his devilry. Quite misses it too, if you ask me. Reminds her of his late father. Ah, now there was a character ...”

  He coughed suddenly and gave her an old-fashioned look.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I’d best get this back to his Grace before you get me into trouble.”

  “You’re no fun, Keane,” she said, pouting, and then laughed as he winked at her on his way out.

  She lingered in the pretty room for a while before giving into the lure of the gardens. The weather had grown rather warmer today and soft cottony clouds scudded in a deep blue sky. The breeze plucked at her muslin skirts with a playful touch and she took a breath, pleased to be out in the open.

  “Taking a stroll, Cuz?” sounded a voice from behind her.

  She turned and smiled to see Oliver’s friendly face as he walked towards her. He looked as dashing as ever, very much a man of fashion, and she couldn’t help but admire the picture he made standing in front of the great house.

  “I am, though you know perfectly well that I am not your cousin,” she replied with a reproving smile.

  “I know it. Ben was only too quick to make the point.”

  “I bet he was,” she replied laughing. “I’m afraid I teased him rather about it.”

  He stopped beside her, his blue eyes frank and admiring. “About time someone teased Ben in my opinion,” he replied, looking at her with warmth. “Though I’m more than happy to stand in if you feel the need to tease someone else.”

  Phoebe raised an eyebrow at him, finding she wasn’t entirely displeased by his flirtatious manner. Of course he was the kind of man to flirt with any attractive female who fell into his path, but she didn’t mind that. He seemed fun and light-hearted and those were characteristics she could value. “Oh, but you are only too aware of your short comings I think, Cousin Oliver,” she said, lowering her voice to sound rather more sombre. “So there’s no fun in it, you see.” She spread her hands in a resigned manner and Oliver laughed at her in delight.

  “Lordy, now I see how you can put Ben in such a stew! My short comings! Well of all the nerve,” he replied, his eyes dancing with merriment.

  “Well now you did invite me to tease you,” she said, wagging her finger at him.

  “I did too,” he agreed, strolling along the gravelled path with her. He paused and held out his arm. “I hear the rose garden is just coming into bloom,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall we go and inspect it?”

  Phoebe glanced up at him, well aware that he meant to continue their flirtation. As handsome as he was, she wasn’t interested in him. Benedict had caught her attention and in her eyes Oliver didn’t compare. But he was well-mannered, pleasant company and she knew well enough how to keep a flirt at bay, and she didn’t want to offend him. “Why not,” she replied, smiling at him, and allowed him to lead her into the gardens.

  By the time they returned to the house, arm in arm and with Phoebe laughing heartily over something Oliver had said, they found they were being observed.

  “Oh dear, now we’re for it,” whispered Oliver to her as Miss Pinchbeck’s disapproving countenance watched them approach the house. “What does Benedict see in her?” he demanded

  “I’m sure I couldn’t comment,” Phoebe replied, her lips twitching with amusement.

  “Dashed sure you could,” Oliver said with a rumble of laughter.

  “Oh stop,” she scolded him, looking away from his amused expression. “You’ll start me laughing and she’ll know we’re talking about her.”

  To Phoebe’s relief Miss Pinchbeck did not wait their arrival but went into the house. Her escape was short lived, however, as the lady wasted no time in drawing her aside after lunch.

  “I feel duty bound to give you a word of warning,” she said, having asked Phoebe to step into the drawing room with her for a moment.

  “Really?” Phoebe replied, with a little laugh. “How very thrilling.”

  Miss Pinchbeck walked to the window, one hand clasped in the other in front of her, her face cool and devoid of emotion. She was dressed once again in a lovely but severely cut gown in a sour, pale green. Phoebe thought it didn’t suit her colouring but made her look rather sallow.

  “It is no laughing matter, Miss Skeffington-Fox, and I would not interfere if it wasn’t for the rather ... unfortunate circumstances of your upbringing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Phoebe replied, as fury blazed to light. How dare she! “My unfortunate upbringing, of course,” she repeated with a smile and a slight inclination of her head.

  “As you are, as Lord Rothay said himself, in need of a guiding hand.”

  “Did he indeed,” she replied, a dangerous note in her voice.

  Well of all the odious ... Phoebe gritted her teeth and decided his lordship would be receiving a few choice words about discussing her with his fiancée.

  “So I feel it my duty to give you some advice, that walking the gardens alone with a man is not at all proper. Particularly not one with the reputation of Lord Bradshaw.” She turned back and looked at Phoebe, her expression one of supercilious contempt. “I don’t doubt things were different when you spent your days follo
wing the army camp, my dear. But here in England people will make judgements about your behaviour, and I’m afraid no gentleman would ever wish to marry you if you insist on making a spectacle of yourself.”

  At this point Miss Pinchbeck illustrated her words by waving her hand in a general direction at Phoebe’s person.

  Phoebe clamped her jaw shut. It would be only too easy to engage in a satisfying row that would vent her spleen, but Miss Pinchbeck deserved so much more. So instead she simply got to her feet and gave her a benign smile. “Thank you so much for your advice, Miss Pinchbeck. I assure you I will put it to excellent use.”

  She noted the surprise in the woman’s eyes and smiled inwardly. She had obviously been expecting Phoebe to make a scene and would then have run to tell Benedict how she had thrown all of her well-meaning advice back in her face. Well Phoebe had met Miss Pinchbeck’s kind before and had her measure. It didn’t dilute her fury, however, and she strode away in a white rage and headed for the library. Perhaps an hour or two lost in a good book would calm her nerves and stop her from returning to wring dear Theodora’s blasted neck.

  Entering the library she closed the door behind her and took a deep breath to steady herself before heading for the shelves. It was a vast and well-stocked room with shelves that ran floor to ceiling and a number of comfortable chairs in which to curl up in peace. Except fate had decided peace was something Phoebe wasn’t going to experience today.

  “Well, well, Cousin Phoebe, what a delight.”

  Phoebe turned with a startled shriek as the voice had sounded in her ear. To her dismay she found herself face to face with Harold. But far worse than that was the fact that he had clearly been drinking and had a gleam in his eyes that she did not in the least approve of.

  “Harold,” she said, trying to move away from him and finding herself cornered. “You gave me a fright.”