The Dream of a Duchess Page 8

  The vicar moved to take her hand, bestowing a kiss on the back of it. “Miss Fitzwilliam. Let me be the first to say how sorry I am you are having a poor morning,” he offered, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Why, you look as if you’ve just received word of a death in the family.”

  Pulling the shawl from her shoulders, Constance held it in front of her stained gown and wondered how to respond. “Something like that,” she murmured.

  She had half a mind to make the man continue to wait whilst she went up to her bedchamber to change gowns, but decided she didn’t want him left by himself downstairs. Not that he would have made off with any of the silver—Christ! He was a vicar—but she couldn’t help but think he would begin snooping through the drawer of the escritoire if given half a chance. Then she wondered how long the man had been left unattended while Simmons searched for her.

  He’s probably been through all the drawers in the parlor and was on his way to find some more in another room, Constance thought with a sigh.

  “We missed you at Sunday services. I do hope you were not ill,” the vicar said, his head angled as if he almost hoped she would claim she was.

  Constance stiffened, trying her best to hide a flash of annoyance. “Thank you for your concern. I was quite well, but one of the mares was foaling at the time. I elected to be with her until such time as I could ensure she and her filly would survive.”

  This last had the vicar’s eyes widening. “I would have thought your groom could see to a horse,” he responded, the words said as if he were scolding her.

  Bristling, Constance had half a mind to ask the vicar to take his leave. “But then the groom wouldn’t have been in attendance at your service,” Constance countered, rather glad to see the look of utter confusion that seemed to settle over the man’s features as he tried to weigh the significance of one absence over the other.

  Uncomfortable with holding the conversation in the hall, she waved a hand toward the parlor at the same moment she noticed the maid coming from the kitchen with a tea tray. “Will you join me for tea?” A spot of tea would at least make the vicar’s visit more tolerable.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Cruthers replied as he stepped aside and allowed Constance to precede him into the parlor. The vicar gave a nod to the maid before he followed, settling into an upholstered chair once Constance had taken a seat in the middle of the settee. She had spread out her shawl so it covered her lap and hung down to hide the grass stains.

  “My lady’s maid says you have come with news,” Constance prompted, hoping the man didn’t plan to stay long. She poured a cup of tea and added sugar before offering it to the vicar.

  “Why, yes,” he answered, apparently surprised by her words. “My esteemed colleague in Cocking has informed me there is a young woman among his flock who is in need of a... a friend,” he hedged.

  Constance paused in stirring her tea, her attempt to withhold a sour expression from appearing having failed. This wasn’t the first time the vicar had prevailed upon her to befriend some young woman. Just the year before, an unmarried girl from Chichester had been sent to live with an aunt only a mile from Fair Downs. She had visited the girl on several occasions, and despite their lack of common interests, they enjoyed several afternoons of tea and conversation. Once the pregnant servant finally agreed to marry the footman responsible, though, Constance never saw her again.

  “Oh?” she managed, not particularly interested. “And who might this one be?”

  The vicar helped himself to a Dutch biscuit. “A girl of quality, it seems. She has recently moved into Huntinghurst, in fact. A ward of the Duke of Huntington,” he explained before nibbling the edge of the biscuit. His furrowed brows made him look as if he had never tasted spiced shortbread before. Probably has only ever eaten English shortbread, Constance thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  Intrigued by the mention of a ward of the Duke of Huntington, though, Constance angled her head. “I wasn’t aware the duke had any family,” she murmured, her brows furrowing when she remembered talk of his late duchess. The petite, blonde woman, who had been in possession of a complexion so pale she had probably never set foot out of doors, had died in childbirth. The baby boy died, as well, leaving the duke in a state of melancholy in which some claimed he still suffered.

  Constance knew the couple had been childhood friends—her cousin, David, had mentioned it in a letter when he wrote that their marriage had been arranged long ago and was apparently a happy one. That Jane Ludlow would die in childbirth was no surprise, though. None of her older sisters had survived the childbed.

  “Oh, I don’t believe she is his family member,” Mr. Cruthers corrected her.

  Several guesses as to whom the girl might be came to mind, but Constance did her best to wait for the vicar to provide more information before she jumped to any unsavory conclusions. When he didn’t offer more information, though, she was forced to ask, “If not a family member, then how is it she became his ward?”

  At this, Mr. Cruthers stiffened. “Why, I was hoping you might discover the information when you meet her,” he replied. “My colleague assures me she is of utmost quality. A daughter of the ton—an orphan—with no place else to live. Since you are so closely related to an earl, I immediately thought of you and mentioned your close proximity—”

  “Close proximity?” Constance interrupted. “Huntinghurst must be... six miles away,” she argued, remembering the duke’s country estate was somewhere between Cocking and Singleton.

  “True, but you are a woman with horses. Surely you could make the trip in an hour in your gig,” he countered.

  Constance stared at the vicar is disbelief. Yes, she could make the trip in an hour, probably less if she simply rode one of her mares. Simmons would have to come along, though, and her lady’s maid wasn’t an accomplished horsewoman.

  Far from it.

  Which meant she would have to drive the gig.

  “Is there some other reason besides my relation to Lord Norwick that has you requesting that I ... I befriend this girl?” she wondered, deliberately using the word ‘girl’ since she had decided the duke wouldn’t be housing a woman—unless said woman was his mistress. Propriety wouldn’t allow it.

  When the vicar’s eyes darted sideways, Constance realized there was a reason even before he finally said, “She spends all her time in the stables.”

  Her brows arching up in surprise at this bit of information, Constance gave a shake of her head. “You say that as if it is a flaw in her character.”

  He took a breath and held it a moment. “Well, my colleague is of the opinion it is,” he replied, immediately wincing when he realized his words would annoy his hostess.

  Straightening on the settee, Constance regarded the vicar with a steely gaze. “Should you see your colleague in the next day or so, please inform him that I shall be paying a call on this girl. I shan’t be disabusing her of the idea that it’s unseemly to spend too much time in the stables, however,” she warned. “Besides. What else is a girl to do with her days out here in the country?”

  She meant her question to be rhetorical, of course, but the vicar’s eyes widened before he blinked. “Why, embroidery, of course. Painting. Drawing. Learning French. Playing the piano-forté.”

  It was Constance’s turn to blink. The man had a point. It just didn’t seem to apply to her or apparently to the young woman who was sequestered at Huntinghurst.

  “Nevertheless, a woman who knows horseflesh and who can ride should be considered a valuable asset to any marriage-minded man,” she stated as she got to her feet.

  Caught off-guard, the vicar struggled to stand. “I was not familiar with that mandate, my lady,” he managed when Constance made it clear their time in the parlor was over by making her way to the door.

  “Well, now you are, Mr. Cruthers. Good day, and thank you for coming,” she countered as she held out her hand but not in a manner that would allow him to kiss the back of it.

/>   The vicar shook it rather lightly. “Good day,” he replied as he bowed.

  He took his leave of Fair Downs, rather disappointed he wasn’t granted the time to state his true intentions for making the call in the first place. He had hoped he might propose marriage and secure a positive response from the headstrong woman. Now that he gave it some more thought, though, he realized the two of them would probably never suit for the very reason that Constance Fitzwilliam seemed intent on putting her horses first. Since there were six of them in the stables at Fair Downs, that would mean he would end up in seventh place in her affections. And seventh place was a few pegs too low for his taste.

  Chapter 12

  An Earl Pays a Call on a Vicar

  A half-hour later

  Elijah Cruthers eyed the glossy black coach parked in front of his vicarage and wondered who might be paying a call. He directed his horse to the mews that served most in Boxgrove and dismounted, relieved when a stableboy raced up to take the reins.

  “You weren’t gone long,” the boy commented, making conversation in the hopes of gaining a shilling from the vicar.

  His attention directed to his house, Elijah shook his head. He absently pulled a farthing from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it to the stableboy. “No, unfortunately,” he murmured before taking his leave of the mews. Seems he wouldn’t be making plans to wed in a month.

  The stableboy regarded the farthing a moment before watching the despondent vicar head off. “Your visitor looks like quite the gentleman,” he called out.

  Elijah paused and finally turned around. “Did you recognize him?”

  Shaking his head, the boy said, “Only that he’s been here ’afore. A day or two ago.”

  The vicar nodded and hurried to his house, realizing his visitor could be only one man.

  David Norwick. At least, that’s the name the gentleman had used when introducing himself. The name was even on the calling card the man had given him on his first visit. Even so, Elijah had reason to suspect the name was really an alias, as if the gentleman didn’t want his true identity known. He was the one who had sent him on the very errand from which he was just now returning.

  Had the man spied on him? Followed him to Fair Downs and watched as he made his call on Miss Constance Fitzwilliam?

  Frowning, Elijah had just stepped through his front door when his housekeeper hurried up to him.

  “He’s here again. That gentleman,” she said, her eyes wide but her voice kept to a hoarse whisper. “He’s even wearing a silver waistcoat,” she added as she stepped aside. “So elegant.”

  The vicar nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of the man’s waistcoat. Their visitor was obviously a man of some means. “I couldn’t help but notice the coach parked out front,” he answered with an arched brow.

  Taken aback by this bit of information, the housekeeper dared a glance out the front window and gasped. “He’s got to be a rather wealthy gentleman,” she murmured. “Don’t you suppose?”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Fletcher. Whether he is or he isn’t, I rather imagine I shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he commented, an expectant look on his face. When the housekeeper didn’t immediately reply, he added, “What have you done with Mr. Norwick?”

  The housekeeper blinked. “Oh! I put him in your study,” she replied. “Then I took in some tea.”

  Elijah nodded. “Very good. Now let’s see what I can do for him.” He wasn’t about to say something about already having done something for the visitor—for a rather hefty tip. Even though Mrs. Fletcher hadn’t been working the day the gentleman first paid a call, she had obviously learned about it from someone in the small village.

  The vicar opened the study door and stepped through, relieved to find his visitor gazing out the study window. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Norwick,” he said as he gave a short bow and made his way to his desk.

  “Quite all right, Mr. Cruthers. I was headed back to the capital and thought I would inquire as to whether or not you might have had a chance to see to that matter we discussed yesterday.”

  The vicar gave a nod, still wondering if he’d been followed to Fair Downs. “Just returned from paying a call on Miss Fitzwilliam, in fact,” he replied. “Although she seemed a bit... suspicious when I made the request, she assured me she would pay a call on the young lady at Huntinghurst.”

  David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick, took a quick breath, relieved to hear that his cousin hadn’t rebuffed the vicar. He would have paid a call on Constance and made the request she befriend Lady Isabella himself, but then he would have had to explain his interest in the young woman. He rather doubted he could avoid telling Constance the truth—that he was Isabella’s father—but he still hadn’t wed Clarinda, and he didn’t want her learning about Isabella by way of gossip or an anonymous letter.

  He wasn’t ashamed of what had happened with Arabella Brotherton all those years ago. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, it seemed. He had spent the past nineteen years hoping Craythorne might succumb to an early death by illness, or lose his life in a duel, or suffer a coronary whilst riding one of his damned horses so that David could claim Arabella as his wife.

  Her untimely death had shocked David to his very core. Sure he would die of a broken heart, he was prepared to simply remain unmarried and allow his twin brother to inherit and marry his intended.

  But he didn’t die. Even after a week spent downing the contents of every bottle of spirits in Norwick House. Even after a week of wishing he could join Arabella in death, although he supposed that was mostly due to the hangover he experienced when he had finally finished off all the liquor.

  His brother had been the one to insist he sober up and return to Parliament. When Daniel’s words weren’t enough, his right fist to David’s jaw had done the trick, the sharp pain permeating his addled brain.

  Jesus, Davy. Your damned jaw ’bout broke my hand, Daniel had complained.

  He hadn’t responded to his brother’s words—at least, not verbally—but his head had cleared for the moment when he realized life would go on. That he had a daughter—one tangible result of his love for Arabella Brotherton—and, therefore, a reason to live. An earl to visit—time hadn’t lessened his desire for vengeance, and initial reports from Basingstoke only mentioned that the untimely death of the Countess of Craythorne was due to an ‘unfortunate accident’.

  Duty called. There were the entertainments of the Season to enjoy—balls, soirées, and musicales. Sessions of Parliament to attend. A future wife to court. Heirs to sire.

  David’s attempt to pay a call on Maxwell Tolson, Earl of Craythorne, had been met with news that the earl wasn’t at Craythorne Castle and had not been for over a week. He’s quite bereft at the loss of his countess, the butler said in a quiet voice. And now his daughter. She went for a ride and never returned. We fear she has died, as well.

  Although he had been tempted to assure the man that Lady Isabella was still alive, David kept mum and instead pressed the butler for more information on the cause of death. She fell and hit her head, my lord, the butler responded. It is said she died instantly.

  When David paid a call on the coroner in Basingstoke, the man merely shrugged. Terrible accident, he agreed.

  Any evidence of strangulation? David asked carefully.

  The coroner frowned. Can’t say if there was or wasn’t. I never saw the body.

  When the coroner couldn’t provide information as to whom might have seen the body—whom might have prepared Arabella’s body for burial—he gave another shrug. I was in Portsmouth at the time.

  Frustrated, David made his way southwest to a coaching inn in Chichester, intending to pay a call on his cousin. The idea of recruiting the vicar to approach Cousin Connie came to him when he overheard the man mention his avocation during his luncheon at the coaching inn. He followed the vicar to his small cottage and made his acquaintance a few hours later.

  “Are you unwell, Mr. Norwick?”

&nbs
p; The sound of the vicar’s voice brought David out of his reverie with a start. “I apologize. Something you said had me woolgathering,” he claimed. He sighed. “You say she seemed suspicious?” he repeated.

  The vicar took a seat and poured more tea into the earl’s cup before he poured one for himself. “She has reason to be. The last time I asked her to pay a call on a lonely young woman, it was because the chit was... well, she was in the family way, but she wasn’t yet married, you see. Then the young man who was responsible appeared and married her the next day. Poof, and they were gone back to the home where they were both servants. With nary a fare-thee-well, I might add.”

  David gave a nod. He rather wished Arabella had hidden somewhere so that he might have married her. Craythorne would have been furious, but...

  He shook the thought from his head. No more living in the past. No more regrets, he thought as he regarded Mr. Cruthers for a moment. “I rather imagine Miss Fitzwilliam wasn’t too happy to lose a new friend.”

  “Probably not,” the vicar agreed, not bothering to mention that Miss Fitzwilliam was actually rather annoyed by the whole affair. “But I told her what you said about the horses. That seemed to get her curiosity up. I rather imagine she’ll be paying a call at the duke’s estate in the next day or so.”

  The earl finished his tea, contemplating this bit of news. “I do appreciate your help in this matter,” David said as he moved to stand up. He paused at the vicar’s next words, though.

  “I fear my arrival occurred at a rather awkward time, however.”