GypsyDukeEpub (4 page)

"John!" His mother glanced at the door. "The servants might hear you."

"I care not. I have more concern for our people than I have for that man. If he remains in this household, I will have the younger staff removed."

"You cannot. What of their families? They depend on the income."

"I will send them to work in the fields, and bring all the older folk into the manor. 'Tis better to live with a little inconvenience than risk a catastrophe. They may depend on our wages, but we depend on their goodwill. I cannot, in all good conscience, do anything else."

His mother turned from him, but he saw her tears. He knelt before her. "Forgive me. I had no thought for your tender sensibilities."

"I am not some green girl who will faint at the slightest hint of impropriety. My only regret is that the impropriety comes from under our own roof. I was just thinking...You and Kitty are growing up so fast."

John sank in his seat and reached for a sandwich, carefully avoiding his mother's eye. "You have no idea. Only this morning, Mistress Kitty batted her lashes at me and demanded I write her a love note. Do you think her too young to desire such a thing?"

"I could not say. Kitty has always known you would marry. There is perhaps a trifle more familiarity between you than is strictly proper. However, I have the utmost confidence in her and in you to conduct yourselves in a manner that is fitting with your station." She paused for a sip of tea. "Do you not think Kitty amenable?"

"She is most pleasant and thoughtful of others. It is probably all that praying," he reflected drily and looked up. "She cried when I told her father…"

His mother touched his hand.

He straightened and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Well, what does one say in a love letter to a lady of tender years? Though it seems a foolish endeavor, I would hate to disappoint her."

"Your previous comment would do nicely. She is pleasant and thoughtful of others. Then again, anyone could tell her those things." She shook a finger at him. "If she asked specifically for a love letter, you will have to say something more personal."

"How could one be more personal than that?"

"I suggest it might behoove you to read a book of poetry. If you are not so inclined to write your own, then you might copy a few passages and attribute them to Kitty."

"It is acceptable to adopt another man's words for your own?"

"In the case of romantic poetry, it is."

"I cannot do it. She can be happy with my words or she can do without." He thought for a moment. "But I will avail myself of a few examples." He thrust another crumpet in his mouth and stood with determination. If it would make Kitty happy, he could do this. "I'm off to the library, Mother. By the way, I have arranged to ride over the estate with Mr. Timmons this afternoon. There are some tenant houses in need of repairs."

She smiled fondly at him. "An excellent idea."

John perused the collection of love sonnets residing in the tall stacks of the library. Some books were well-worn, while others appeared almost new. He spotted a volume of Shakespeare and reached for it. He'd enjoyed Shakespeare's plays at school.

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate

He shoved the book on the shelf. There had to be something better. He picked up a slender volume, its well-worn cover bearing testimony to much use.

Inside the cover, he recognized his father's handwriting. "To my darling Teresa- As I am ever tongue-tied in your presence, I give you these words as a token of my high esteem. May you find in them the romance your heart desires."

Under the heartfelt words, his father had written page twelve. John turned to it and began reading.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love

Heat rushed to his face, as if he'd interrupted his parents in a private moment, and the book nearly slipped from his hands. How could his father have offered his mother such drivel? Knowing the true nature of the man, he supposed there had to be something about the duke that had attracted his mother.

Hoping for something more suited to Kitty's tender years, John turned the page and was even more affronted.
My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.

He leaned against the bookshelf and sighed. She was much too young for this type of endeavor. He would have to devise something on his own.

Bartholomew stepped into the library as John moved away from the shelves. He slid the volume of poetry in his waistcoat pocket.

"Ah, my young nephew, are you pursuing literary enlightenment?"

John ignored the question and studied his uncle's attire. His neatness had improved; not a wrinkle in sight. No doubt, due to the duke's valet. The man couldn't stand to see good fashion wasted on slovenly fools. However, once again his uncle wore a combination of tawdry colors, a virulent shade of puce and pink for his waistcoat, which was much too fitted for John's taste. How did the man breathe? And, equally tight breeches in a dismal shade of eggplant. His cravat, too, was a sight to behold, such twists and turns. It must take forever to tie.

"Has the solicitor departed then?" John asked.

"Very nearly so. I believe he is paying respects to your dear Mama."

John brushed past him, but his uncle's arm snaked out. "Seymour, are you going somewhere?"

"I have an appointment with the estate manager. You will have to excuse me."

"Excellent." Bartholomew's face brightened. "I had desired an outing and an opportunity to observe the estate. It has been years since I scouted around. I will join you."

"I will be riding."

"I know how to ride, young buck. Don't think you can get rid of me that easily."

John swallowed the rebellious feeling that surged through him. "Why, Uncle, whatever can you mean?"

He turned and climbed the stairs.

"I'll be waiting at the stables," his uncle called after him. "I need to select a suitable mount. I would not advise forcing me to send
someone for you. I'd be sure to take my displeasure out on the servants."

John missed a step as his vision blurred with anger. Could his uncle be such a monster? "I will come down directly…Uncle."

When John reached the cobbled courtyard, his horse stood saddled, and he saw his uncle had chosen his father's favorite stallion, Vanguard, a spirited horse only a strong rider could control. If only the man fell and broke his neck.

Bartholomew, in a dove-grey riding jacket far too pale for a man of his coloring, held a wild gleam in his eye as he swung up over the saddle.

They rode from the manor house with nary a word, careful to maintain a sedate pace in the close confines of the back courtyard. As they approached Mr. Timmons, Bartholomew cast John a sneer. "I knew you'd rush down straightway. You're as weak as your pitiful mother."

Rage surged through John, but he kept it in check. No one denigrated his saint of a mother, not after the hell she'd lived through. He'd bide his time then repay his uncle for every barb. He took several deep breaths, practicing the control his father had forced him to learn. "It will take several days to view all our holdings. I assume you will be content today to follow where the steward leads."

"If the estate is still so large, how is it you and young Robert Westley, not to mention your fetching young fiancée, are able to jaunt about together? Seems to me it would take you hours to meet up."

John hid the frustration he felt each time his uncle referred to Kitty. With face averted, he concentrated on Timmons' approach. The steward rode the outskirts of a field ready for harvest, his head turning from side to side in a habitual study of the crops.

"Not at all, Uncle. Cutting across the estates for a ride is far different from inspecting the holdings. Westley and I use short-cuts."

John reined in a few yards short of Timmons and leaned back in his saddle. It brought his height a good three inches above his uncle, sure to infuriate him.

"There is nothing you have to offer me or this estate, and if you so much as touch any of my people, you will live to regret it."

Bartholomew leaned toward John with a peculiar light in his eyes, which John found chilling. "I find your tone…offensive. Do not force me to take action against you. You would not be comfortable with the results. You might not live through them."

Had his uncle threatened his life?

John's gut reacted as if he'd been kicked by a horse. He felt the need to lean over and wretch but swallowed down the hot bile. Weakness in the face of this adversary would mean defeat, and John had too much to lose.

Timmons brought his horse closer, studying John's face. Did he understand the drama he'd just witnessed? John forced his voice to appear calm. "Uncle, may I introduce you to my estate manager, Mr. Timmons? My uncle is visiting for a short while, Timmons."

Bartholomew's thin lips spread in amusement.

Like any good servant, Timmons appeared oblivious to the undercurrents. He tipped his head in greeting. "How do you do, sir? I can see his lordship in your stance. There's not many can ride that hell-bent stallion."

John moved his horse forward, cutting off his uncle's view of Timmons.

"You said there were some things needing my attention. Shall we?"

The steward led them across the estate for several hours, pointing out repairs needed before the winter cold set in. Several tenants needed thatch replaced on their roofs. The storage barns looked in need of mending, with many ground level boards rotted all the way through from years of damp weather. There were also long stretches of fencing that could be rebuilt. The crumbling blocks of stone, lying almost hidden in the tall autumn grass, were mute evidence of his father's neglect.

Fencing was something his father often ignored as he was on such good terms with his neighbors and knew the stewards from each estate returned wandering stock at shearing time. John felt it more prudent not to allow the problem in the first place. He wanted the fencing repaired. His uncle disagreed.

Several carts and wagons passed from time to time, forcing him to introduce his uncle to the tenants. It disheartened him to pretend his dependents were meeting someone worthy. But he would find a way to warn them all when his uncle wasn't around.

They stopped near a storage facility, and John noted the increased activity. "The fall crops are coming in from the tenants. The gypsies will be here soon."

Mr. Timmons nodded, and Bartholomew rode closer, his face intent. "You expect gypsies?"

John glared. He was aware of how most of the gentry felt about the gypsies, and it had taken years for the people in this community to reach an uneasy truce with them. He didn't want interference from his uncle.

"They are hard workers. In fact, our estate, along with the Newburn and Belfont estates, would be hard-pressed to get the harvest in on time. There are not enough tenants at harvest time, or enough work the rest of the year to warrant additional tenants."

"You are all fools if you think the gypsies such a boon. They steal you blind the moment your back is turned."

Timmons frowned, and John leaned forward, stiffening his spine. "We are well aware of objects the gypsies take. It is their way. When they are in need, they take something. But with our agreement, we lose less, and they help us with the crops, thereby earning hard silver, something they are not accustomed to. We all benefit. And I would rather the Gypsies were somewhere I can keep an eye on them, than off hiding and stealing."

The tense atmosphere transferred to the great stallion, and he reared, tossing his head. Bartholomew raised his crop and struck the horse repeatedly.

John threw out an arm for the reins, and the swinging crop sounded on his arm. He winced, but didn't jerk back. The horse stilled, but his eyes remained wild, and his nostrils flared.

"Vanguard is a fine stallion, unused to abuse. You would not soon find a replacement for him at Tattersalls. I suggest you choose another mount if you are unaccustomed to riding one with such spirit."

Bartholomew leaned forward, his face a mask of hatred. Bushy black brows met over bloodshot black eyes. His red bulbous nose was a prominent reminder of excesses, reinforced by the fetid odor of alcoholic breath and stained yellow teeth. "I can handle any mount, what I will not tolerate is an insolent whelp who dares to think he could instruct me. Take more care for the welfare of your people, boy, for I surely will not." He turned the stallion and rode off.

John heaved a sigh and bent over the neck of his horse, concealing how his uncle's taunts tired him. When he raised his head, Timmons was staring after Bartholomew.

"If you don't mind my asking, what did he mean by that?"

John hesitated a moment. The decision he made now would follow him the rest of his life. Did he trust Mr. Timmons to look after his interests or was the steward too firmly entrenched in his father's way of doing things?

They stared eye-to-eye for an agonizing minute before Timmons dropped his gaze.

"Mr. Timmons, I need your help, but I prefer you keep it between the two of us. What say you?"