The Dream of a Duchess Read online

  David blinked. “Oh?” He sat back down.

  “Seems her favorite horse died this morning. Twins...” He shook his head. “Something Favorite?” he offered as a possible name.

  The earl’s eyes widened. “Twins’ Second Favorite,” he murmured, the memory of the colt’s birth suddenly in his mind’s eye. He and Daniel had watched the foaling, and they had both declared the horse to be their second favorite of all that had been born that year at Fair Downs. Their first favorite, a consummate racer, was now well past his prime and had been put out to pasture at Norwick Park. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Realizing his visitor must have known more about Miss Fitzwilliam than he first let on, Elijah said, “Perhaps you could do me the favor of... recommending me to Miss Fitzwilliam?” If Miss Fitzwilliam held this Mr. Norwick in high regard, then perhaps a good word would have him moved up a few pegs in her estimation. At the earl’s sudden frown, he added, “I went there today to do your bidding and to ask if I might court her, you see, after I had secured her assurances she would see to the young lady at Huntinghurst. But the death of the horse had her in a most melancholy state.”

  No doubt, David almost said. “You would be wise to consider someone else to be your wife, Mr. Cruthers,” he warned suddenly.

  “Oh?” the vicar responded as he straightened in his chair, one eyebrow arching up in question. For once, the man appeared as if he might have a backbone.

  “I rather doubt Miss Fitzwilliam will ever agree to be anyone’s wife. Unless you are a man with a stable full of horses, trust me when I tell you this, she would not make a suitable wife for you.” And with that, David Fitzwilliam stood up, bowed, and took his leave of the vicarage.

  Elijah Cruthers was left staring at the tea tray, wondering how it could be a woman would love horses more than him.

  Chapter 13

  A Visit to Huntinghurst

  The next day

  “How early do you suppose a daughter of the ton would be up and about?” Constance wondered from where she sat in the small breakfast parlor at Fair Downs. Although the morning sun had just begun to light the cheery room, it was still rather early in the morning. Instead of wearing her usual riding habit—she frequently exercised one of the horses just after breakfast—she had chosen to wear a sprigged muslim gown in a pale blue. A darker blue redingote and matching hat would make for an appropriate ensemble she could wear to pay a call at Huntinghurst.

  Simmons helped herself to another rasher of bacon and joined her mistress at the table. Although she usually had breakfast with the other servants of Fair Downs in a small room off the kitchen, Constance had requested her company on this day. “I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know,” she replied. Not ever having worked in service in an aristocrat’s home, she was unfamiliar with the schedules. “Why ever do you ask?”

  Constance considered how much to tell her maid. “The day looks as if it will be a fair day for a drive. I’m thinking of paying a call at Huntinghurst.” She waited a moment, wondering how Simmons would react. Sometimes the lady’s maid behaved in a most timid manner, afraid of everything and everyone.

  “Huntinghurst?” Simmons repeated, her eyes widening in shock. “Doesn’t a duke live there?”

  “Sometimes,” Constance replied, quite sure he was there during the hunting season. As for this time of year, she had no idea. Now that Huntington’s ward lived there, perhaps the duke would be there more often.

  The more she thought about the young woman who was apparently Huntington’s ward, though, the more curious she became. If Mr. Cruthers hadn’t mentioned the chit’s propensity for spending time in the stables, she wouldn’t have considered paying a call. “I need someone to ride with me, either in the gig or on horseback.”

  Realizing her mistress was offering to take her along as opposed to the stableboy, Simmons’ face lit up. “May I join you? It’s been an age since we went to Chichester,” she said with some excitement.

  Constance resisted the urge to remind her lady’s maid they probably wouldn’t be stopping in the largest town in the immediate area. “Then I’ll have Jenkins hitch up the gig. Can you be ready to go in an hour? I shouldn’t want to arrive too early in the morning.” She probably shouldn’t even plan to be at the front door of Huntinghurst before one o’clock in the afternoon, since morning callers in London were said to arrive about that time.

  Why ever call them ‘morning calls’ when they occurred after twelve o’clock? she wondered.

  Constance was about to answer her own question with a thought as to when aristocrats might enjoy a luncheon, but Simmons was nearly bouncing in her chair.

  “Oh, yes, my lady,” Simmons assured her, a smile splitting her face. She suddenly sobered. “You’ve said nothing of his visit yesterday, but may I inquire as to what happened with Mr. Cruthers?”

  Taking a drink of her coffee and wincing at how weak it tasted—cook was probably running low again—Constance considered how to respond. She really didn’t want to tell the servant about the odd conversation, but she could share at least one important bit of information. “Well, he did not ask to court me, if that’s what you were expecting,” she replied, about to add, Thank the gods, before she thought better of it.

  Her eyes rounding in disbelief, Simmons suddenly blinked several times. “I... I was so sure,” she murmured. “It’s just that, you’re...” She stopped and stared at her plate.

  “I’m what?” Constance wondered.

  Her lady’s maid seemed to slump in her seat. “Not getting any younger,” she whispered. “You’ll be considered on the shelf in just a few years...”

  “I’ll reach my majority in just a few years, at which point I can claim my inheritance,” Constance corrected her, one eyebrow arching up with her claim. “If I marry, my inheritance becomes my dowry, and I will have no claim to it at all.”

  Simmons stared at her mistress in shock. “Don’t you want to be married?”

  The younger woman allowed a sigh, not quite sure what she wanted just then. One thing was certain, though. She didn’t wish to be courted by Mr. Cruthers. And given most of Boxgrove’s residents were the Benedictine monks who lived at the local monastery, she rather doubted she would be courted by anyone else. It was time she consider living the life of an independent woman for the rest of her life.

  After all, hadn’t she already been doing so?

  “It’s not a matter of what I want or don’t want,” Constance finally answered. “But a matter of availability. Should a man ever wish to marry me, it will be because he appreciates my horse sense.”

  And he’ll have to have some, too.

  The lady’s maid allowed a sigh that made her position on the matter quite clear, but then she also knew the funds to continue running Fair Downs might run out before Constance could claim her inheritance.

  Despite her mistress’ late mother having hid money throughout Fair Downs in an effort to keep it from being gambled away, it was becoming harder to find the meager treasure. “I’ll tell Jenkins about our need for the gig, and then I’ll change into livery,” Simmons said as she stood up, gave a quick curtsy, and took her leave of the breakfast parlor.

  Less than an hour later, the two were climbing onto the bench of the small gig. Mr. Jenkins turned over the reins to Constance with a reminder that the black shire didn’t require the use of a crop, and that he would be taking the wagon to Chichester to pick up the household’s latest order of provisions.

  Simmons carried a basket filled with bread, cheese, apples, and a bottle of ale. Her sewing basket dangled from one arm. In the event she would be left with nothing else to do while Constance paid the call at Huntinghurst, she could spend the time repairing clothing. The lady’s maid sincerely hoped she might meet a maid or two at the manor house—or even a footman, for that matter—but she wasn’t counting on it. How many servants would even be on staff at a hunting lodge?

  Daring a glance at her chronometer, Constance
was relieved when it was just a bit past eleven when the shire pulled into the semi-circular drive in front of Huntinghurst. If what the vicar had said was true about the duke’s ward, then the girl would certainly be up and about by now.

  The manor was far larger than she expected—she had always thought it was supposed to be a hunting lodge—and she nearly had the gig making a U-turn before they reached the imposing Ardingly sandstone structure.

  Although most manor houses appeared to grow straight out of the ground with little in the way of landscaping at their base, Huntinghurst obviously employed a full-time gardener. The row of Palladian windows along the ground floor were set off by square-cut boxwoods, and spiral topiaries flanked the front door. In front of the boxwoods, newly-bloomed red tulips decorated the entire length of the house. A row of tiny white flowers provided a contrasting edge at the base of the tulips.

  “It’s three stories tall,” Simmons remarked, her mouth left open after she made the statement. “There must be hundreds of flowers.”

  “I’ll bet it has wings out the back,” Constance remarked as she pulled the shire to a halt just shy of the front door. If so, there was most certainly a garden out back—kitchen gardens, if nothing else—and probably a pond. She was about to consider the possibility of a folly, but before she could secure the reins, the front door opened, and a butler stepped out.

  “Good morning,” the man said with a bow before offering a hand to assist them.

  “Good morning,” Constance said as she stepped down from the gig, giving her skirts a quick shake. “I do hope I am not too early to pay a call.”

  Peters paused just as he was about to assist Simmons from the conveyance. “If you’re here to see the duke, my lady, I’m afraid His Grace is not in residence,” he replied, his manner a bit guarded.

  Constance angled her head, rather relieved to hear it. “I’m actually here to pay a call on his ward. Is she in residence, perhaps? I am Miss Fitzwilliam from Fair Downs.”

  The butler seemed rather surprised, his brows furrowing as if he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He motioned them toward the front door before saying, “Lady Isabella is in residence, but she’s not exactly in right now.”

  Arching a brow, Constance had to suppress the urge to grin. Butlers could be ever so confusing. “So, she is out?”

  Sighing, the butler nodded. “Out at the stables.”

  Constance allowed the grin. “Do you suppose I might be allowed to join her there? And would there be somewhere my lady’s maid could wait whilst I visit with Lady Isabella?” At least she had a name for the ward—and she was fairly sure the girl was an aristocrat’s daughter given how the butler referred to her as ‘Lady Isabella’ as opposed to ‘Miss Isabella’.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind, my lady?”

  The butler seemed ever so surprised by her request. Surprised, and was that a bit pleased? she wondered. Was Mr. Cruthers’ colleague correct in his supposition that the ward didn’t have regular callers? “Not at all, seeing as how I’ve made the trip from Boxgrove, Mr...?”

  “Peters,” the servant replied with a nod. “I’ll escort you there and have the stableboy see to your horse,” he said as he turned and led them into the house. “Your lady’s maid is welcome to stay in the servant’s dining room.”

  Apparently overhearing the butler, a footman suddenly hurried off down the hall, and Constance wondered if he was off to fetch the stableboy. No other maids or footmen were apparent from where they stood in what might have been the vestibule—had it not been such a large and open space. Her gaze had her taking in the rich paneling—what little of it she could see. There were so many paintings hung on the walls, hardly any of the woodwork showed!

  Constance did her best not to boggle at the sight of the painted ceiling or the chandelier that looked as if it could hold a hundred candles or more. Straight ahead, a wide staircase led up to a landing where the stairs split and went off in opposite directions. Above the landing, a huge window did little to provide light for the stairs. The glass seemed to have discolored, or perhaps it had been made unclear on purpose.

  “This way,” Peters said as he led them down the hall to the left before turning again to the right.

  As they passed a few open doors on their way to what seemed to be the center of the house, Constance dared a glance toward what appeared to be a salon filled with floral upholstered furniture—a bit of a surprise for a hunting lodge, she considered. The odors of vanilla and vellum wafted from another room—the library, no doubt—while another room looked as if it might be a study.

  Although she had spent a good deal of her youth at Norwick Park, the country estate of the Norwick earldom, that property had nothing on Huntinghurst when it came to marble floors, paneled walls, and painted ceilings. The artwork on display—huge paintings and marble busts mounted on fluted columns—lined the hall through which the butler led them.

  When Constance realized she hadn’t seen a single animal’s head mounted on any of the walls, she decided Huntinghurst wasn’t a hunting lodge at all but rather a country estate.

  Peters paused when a housemaid appeared from one of the rooms, murmuring instructions that soon had Simmons leaving their company with the maid.

  Upon exiting another large door, Constance nearly stopped in her tracks. Her guess about the house having wings was confirmed when she realized they were exiting close to where the east wing jutted out from the main house. A crushed granite path, parallel to the east wing, led south. A quick glance to the right showed another set of doors near the west wing along with a matching path.

  As for gardens, there seemed to be several of them tucked into the three-sided courtyard. The kitchen garden ran the length of the east wing, that structure apparently providing protection from the elements. Another long garden ran the length of the west wing, a riot of color already on display despite the time of the year. Climbing vines laden with bright green leaves and pink blossoms nearly hid the lower story of the stone walls from view.

  Constance’s attention was captured by what lay ahead, though, for the most colorful garden was the farthest from the main part of the house. A parterre design of clipped boxwoods surrounded a series of evenly spaced clusters of flowers. The six wedge shapes formed by the boxwoods pointed to a small marble fountain in the center.

  The crushed granite path took them past the garden as it veered to the left. Once the path cleared the east wing, the crushed granite was replaced with a series of what appeared to be freshly installed flagstones that led directly to the stables.

  Constance couldn’t help but feel a bit of envy at seeing the large structure. Built of the same Ardingly sandstone as the main house, it looked as if it could house at least two-dozen horses.

  “Tell me, Mr. Peters. Is Lady Isabella expected to live here at Huntinghurst very long?”

  The butler seemed to stiffen as he walked, as if her question triggered a warning. “I’ve not been apprised of the long-term plans for the young lady,” he replied carefully. “However, she was introduced to me as His Grace’s ward.”

  Constance considered the answer. Certainly a ward wouldn’t yet be one-and-twenty. “I only ask because I was hoping she and I could become riding partners. I don’t have one, you see, and...” Her words were cut off when a loud curse suddenly emanated from the stables.

  A curse voiced by a female.

  A most unladylike curse.

  Peters pretended he didn’t hear the shout of ‘you hellion!’ and continued. Meanwhile, Constance had stopped in her tracks and was now hurrying to catch up to the servant, half-tempted to ask if a woman was berating a man or a beast.

  When she peeked around the open door to the stables and paid witness to a dark-haired woman tugging on the bridle of a yearling, she knew immediately who the hellion was.

  “Lady Isabella, may I present Miss Constance Fitzwilliam? She has come to pay a call,” Peters announced from where he stood just inside the entrance. He turned and gave thei
r visitor an arched brow. “I’ll have tea brought to the parlor,” he said before giving a bow and taking his leave of the stables.

  “Oh,” Isabella said as all the air seemed to go out of her. Curiosity had the yearling giving up his fight with Isabella, and he now walked of his own volition to join their guest.

  Constance stared at the horse, stunned at how much he looked like Twins Second Favorite must have looked, back when the racer had been but a yearling.

  “I apologize. I’m sure I must have sounded like a shrew just then,” Isabella said as she came alongside the horse. “It’s very good to meet you, Miss Fitzwilliam,” she said as she held out her right hand.

  When Constance finally tore her gaze from the yearling, she quickly accepted the hand and shook it. She angled her head to one side before dipping a curtsy. “My lady, it’s so kind of you to receive me,” she managed, not adding that the ward didn’t seem to have much of a choice. The butler could have had her wait in the vestibule and made the trip to the stables without her. But then she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to pay witness to the well-designed interior of the stables.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Isabella said as she glanced back and forth between the horse and Constance.

  “I think I am seeing him right now,” Constance whispered. She gave her head a shake. “I have reason to believe he looks just like Twins Second Favorite did at that age. And he’s probably just as stubborn.”

  “Hermés is that,” Isabella agreed. “Although he seems fascinated by you,” she added as she continued to watch the two. “Who is Twins Second Favorite?”

  Constance lifted a gloved hand to the horse’s head and very gently slid it up to where a white diamond interrupted the rich brown coloring of the bay. “He was a racer, although not as fast as his brother, Twins Favorite. Twins is still alive—he has at least another year or two left in him I should think. He lives at Norwick Park. But after that...” She allowed the sentence to trail off as she gave her head a shake.