Mad About the Duke (19 page)

There was general agreement on that bit of logic.

Winston heaved a sigh as Cantley sat back down. “We've still got one more problem.”

No one, save Mrs. Oxton, was brave enough to ask, “What is that, Mr. Winston?” She refilled his cup and offered him an encouraging smile.

Serious, solemn and somber, the duke's personal secretary, whom the footmen liked to say had been most likely born in his simple cravat and black suit, a schedule in hand, turned to his compatriots, his features bleak with agony.

“What is required to make a kite?”

 

As it was, the Duke of Parkerton's staff found themselves lined up Tuesday morning as he ran down his checklist for this impromptu picnic of his. Much to their trial and consternation, the duke had insisted on overseeing every detail.

“Father's traveling chairs and tables?” he asked.

“Fawley has taken them ahead, Your Grace,” Cantley told him.

“And he knows to—”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Cantley cut in, losing his legendary patience. “He will have the Summer House arranged exactly as you asked.”

“And he'll not—”

“Reveal your identity. Certainly not, Your Grace. He is not wearing his livery and is using a hired wagon. Just as you requested.”

“Yes, excellent!” James said, looking up from his list at the man who was coming down the stairs like one condemned. “Oh, yes, Winston, there you are. Was my note delivered to Lady Standon?”

Winston looked ready to throw himself into the Thames.

The poor secretary had been all but cut out of the planning, a grave insult to the very efficient man's pride.

They were all on edge, unused as they were to having His Grace looking over their shoulders. And none of them, like Arabella had done, could take to their rooms and refuse to partake in this folly.

Cantley shot the fellow a stern glance, which was enough to nudge the man into answering in a shaky, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent, then she'll be ready and all will be in perfect order.” The duke went over his list yet another time, pausing about a third of the way down. “And the basket? Is it packed as I asked?”

There was a huffy sigh from Mrs. Oxton, who waved one of the kitchen lads forward. The poor boy staggered up to the door, where James reached over and took the basket from him, relieving him of his burden.

For a moment, none of the staff breathed. Whatever was the duke doing? Helping one of the kitchen lads?

Oh, this was far worse than any of them had thought.

But then the duke fell further into the mire.

He opened up Mrs. Oxton's masterpiece and began to inspect it—as if the good lady couldn't pack a basket to his liking.

One of the maids turned away, for she couldn't fathom that the housekeeper wouldn't box the duke's ears for such impertinence.

“Yes, yes, it all seems in order,” he said in his own distracted fashion. “Ham, mincemeat pie, cheese, and apple tarts.” He glanced up. “Is the cheese French?”

“It is exactly as you directed, Your Grace,” the lady said through clenched teeth.

“Nothing too fancy, too fine?” he queried. “It cannot look as if it came from our kitchens.”

“It is exactly as you asked, Your Grace,” Mrs. Oxton told him. “Right down to the salt cellars.”

He eyed it again before flipping the lid closed. “Excellent. I knew you could all rise to the challenge.” He turned, and before the footman could reach for the door, the duke opened it himself and dashed down the steps like a school lad.

Richards followed. “Your Grace! Your Grace! Aren't you forgetting something?”

The duke turned from where he was stowing his prized basket in the back of Jack's curricle.

“Yes?”

Richards nodded to his hand. “Your signet ring, Your Grace.”

James flinched. “Good God! How could I forget? She'd find me out for certain if I forgot to take that
off.” He pulled off his glove and tugged off his ring, handing the intricate piece to his valet. “Keep it safe, Richards.”

“Upon my life, Your Grace,” the man said, bowing deeply.

Then James bounded up to the seat and took up the reins, letting the horses have their head.

Just then Jack came dashing down the steps. “Demmit! Is that my carriage? Did that mad fool brother of mine take my carriage again? Without asking, no less!” But Jack was too late, for the duke was off. “I don't care that he is Parkerton, I'm going to call him out for this.”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Oxton had turned to Cantley and broken out in a fit of weeping. The usually stalwart butler enfolded the woman into his arms and patted her on the back. “There, there, Agatha. We'll see our way through this. We will.”

“I wouldn't be so sure, Cantley,” Jack advised. “He's bound and determined to have the perfect picnic.”

“We shall see how perfect it turns out, Lord John,” the butler said. “We shall see.”

Jack turned to leave, then paused and glanced over at the butler. “Cantley, what mischief have you devised?”

Cantley set aside the still distraught Mrs. Oxton. “Mischief, Lord John?” the man answered in his most regal butler tones. “I haven't the vaguest notion what you mean.” Then he paused and said with a slight bit of smile, “But let me express my sincere apologies beforehand for the loss of your carriage.”

 

Elinor hadn't heard a word from Mr. St. Maur. Not about his report on Avenbury, nor a word on their
picnic. Not that she had really thought much about it.

Well, not overly much.

Fine. She'd been watching the door like a wretchedly miserable hawk. And while her sister had had no doubts that Tuesday would dawn bright and sunny, with Mr. St. Maur arriving with a well-packed basket and the perfect day all planned, Elinor had held a handful of doubts.

So when the doorbell rang at eleven, Elinor's startled gaze bounded up from her desk and then over at the settee, where Tia sat bundled in a coverlet.

For while it might be St. Maur, it was just as likely to be Lord Lewis, who'd come by the day before demanding his rights and threatening to return with a summons and a Bow Street runner to enforce them.

That was until the sight of Thomas-William had sent him scurrying down the street.

The bell jangled again, and this time, Tia sat up, looking considerably better. She'd awoken with a megrim and complaints of a stomach ailment, but she had forsaken her bed, preferring to have the company of Elinor and Minerva here in the parlor.

“'Tis Mr. St. Maur come for our picnic!” she exclaimed. Then, as if remembering her state of affairs, she lapsed back onto the couch. “How unfortunate I cannot go!” she said, her hand flung dramatically over her forehead.

“I doubt it is Mr. St. Maur,” Elinor told her as the bell jangled yet a third time.

Wherever was Mrs. Hutchinson? Or Thomas-William. Or even their supposed butler, Mr. Mudgett—who was never to be found. Didn't any of the servants in this house know how to open a door?

Apparently not, as the bell rang a fourth time.

“He is anxious to be off,” Tia remarked.

“How are you so certain it is St. Maur?” Elinor said, rising to get the door herself, smoothing her skirt as she went. “There has been no note, no invitation, save your blackmail.”

“You expected him as much as I did,” Tia said in all confidence.

Elinor poked her nose in the air and lied. “I did not.”

Her sister laughed. “Then why are you wearing your wool gown and have on your padded petticoat? You wouldn't have worn them unless you expected him to take you out.”

“I did not expect him,” Elinor said, though she could feel the telltale pink of a blush to be so caught out.

“You are just as certain it is St. Maur as I am,” her sister said, folding her arms over her chest. “Besides, he wouldn't break his promise to me.”

“Well, he must, for you certainly aren't well enough to be jostled about the countryside in the cold.” With that said, Elinor went to the door and found that Mrs. Hutchinson had managed to get there before her and had admitted none other than St. Maur.

He filled the foyer with his presence, for here he was, dressed for driving, in a tall beaver, a caped coat—a simple one, not the fussy layers of a Corinthian, gloves in hand and dark breeches, finished with glossy boots.

He cut an elegant figure, but it was his face that held her attention, the mischievous light in his blue eyes and the curve of his strong lips that sent her blood racing.

He glanced over at her and his features brightened even more. “Excellent, you are nearly ready.”

“Ready?” she said, feigning innocence. Really, a
man with such connections should at the very least understand some of the obligations of Society—as in sending around a note.

But even that dereliction in manners didn't stop her heart from pattering solidly in her chest. Gads, why ever did he have to be so handsome?

“You are ready, are you not?” he asked.

“Ready?” she managed, again.

“Yes, for our picnic. My note said I'd be here at eleven, and it is”—he glanced inside the parlor toward the mantel clock—“eleven.” Then he spied Tia on the settee, once again reclined in her long-suffering pose. “Ho, there, minx! What is this?”

“I fear, Mr. St. Maur, I will not be able to go.” Tia paused and sunk deeper into the couch. “I am indisposed.”

“How unfortunate, as I found the most delectable apple tarts for our picnic.”

“You did?” she said, rising up, and then, remembering her ailments, falling back down, moaning a bit.

Minerva shook her head and went back to her embroidery, completely unmoved by the younger girl's performance.

“As you can see my sister is not well,” Elinor told him. “So I fear we must cancel. I would have sent a note around, but I had no idea you meant to—”

“I most certainly meant to. I promised,” he said, slanting a grin at Tia. “And I did send a note around.”

“You did?” Elinor shook her head. “I fear it never arrived.”

Or it had and Mrs. Hutchinson had mistaken it for a dun from the greengrocer and used it to kindle the stove in the kitchen as she was apt to do with such missives—or any missive, for that matter.

“But you appear ready, Lady Standon,” he said. “And as it is, my daughter was unable to come. A mysterious ailment as well,” he said with a pointed glance at Tia. “Besides, it seems a terrible waste of apple tarts and French cheese to cancel our outing because of others' misfortunes. Don't you agree?”

Tia appeared unfazed by his skepticism. “I agree, Mr. St. Maur. Elinor, you must go. You cannot be the cause of Mr. St. Maur having to cancel his picnic, especially when he's gone to so much trouble and expense on my account.”

“Your sister is right. I would be heartbroken to have to cancel our outing.” St. Maur folded his hands behind his back and would have looked completely woeful if it had not been for the sparkle in his eyes.

Our outing.
As in the two of them.

“You would like to spend the afternoon in the country, wouldn't you, Lady Standon?”

“Yes, but—”

“And your dogs would delight in a good ramble, would they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I don't see any problem at all. You just need your cloak and hat and we can be off.” He held his hand out to her and grinned.

Just like that. Running off with Mr. St. Maur.
Elinor's heart thudded in her chest.

“Sir, this is hardly proper—” Elinor glanced at Minerva for support, but her friend just sat there. Minerva, of all people! A lady who lived her life for propriety hadn't anything to say about this very improper proposal of his? “That is to say, we cannot just go without—”

“Without what?” he said, completely missing the point.

“Without a chaperone,” she whispered.

He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “I do believe I can act properly, but if you fear you cannot…”

Elinor yanked back from him. Oh, bother the impossible man! For here he was, grinning at her. As if he thought himself a morsel too sweet to resist.

“Of all the—,” she sputtered.

“Of all the what?” he continued to say ever so softly, his warm breath teasing her ear, her neck, her every sense. “I mean to keep my word. But if you are afraid that you cannot keep yours—”

Oh, the audacity of the man to imply that she was incapable of restraining herself.

Which she could. Which she would.

She must.

“Just so we are clear on the matter,” she said, setting her shoulders and tucking her nose in the air.

“Very clear, my lady,” he chuckled. “Now are we going or not? I would very much like your opinion on the renovations.”

“Oh, do go, Elinor,” Tia urged. “For I hate to think of Mr. St. Maur going to such trouble for me, and you know how much you love the country.”

“Yes, I've gone to all this trouble for your sister, and if you refuse, it would all be for naught.” He sighed and once again feigned that woebegone look of a lad. A roguish, fully grown one, who chose this moment to wink saucily at her, as if he knew the conflict fluttering about in her breast.

Elinor shivered. He hadn't done all this for Tia, he'd done it for her. And she would go with him, if only to prove that his teasing glances did nothing for her.

For they didn't.

But Mr. St. Maur? That was another matter. The man was quite stealing her heart.

 

James had to admit that he'd never really understood the appeal of a picnic—all the fuss to do what? Eat one's nuncheon while perched on the ground? Foolishness when there was a perfectly good table in one's house, but today, he realized why it delighted so many.

It had to do with the company.

As they left the environs of London and crossed into the countryside, the buildings giving way to stone fences and rolling hills, he drew a deep breath of the crisp fresh air.