Chapter 2 - The Duke at the Village Inn
Julian Blackwood had spent most of his adult life discovering that wealth made honesty remarkably difficult to obtain.
People laughed too quickly at his jokes.
Agreed too eagerly with his opinions.
Changed their posture when he entered a room.
Women who had never met him already knew what color his drawing room was painted, how many estates he owned, and approximately how much money he received every year.
Cordelia Ashworth had looked at his expensive coat, informed him her aunt would make tea unbearable, and abandoned him in a ditch.
Julian had slept poorly.
By morning, he had convinced himself this was because of Thornwood’s financial connection to Sir Percival Vale.
Not because he wanted to see her again.
His solicitor’s letter lay open beside breakfast.
Vale had accumulated debts against three struggling estates over the previous four years. In each case, the owners had borrowed modest sums. Through penalties, altered terms and questionable transfers, those debts had doubled or tripled.
Thornwood was next.
Julian knew Vale.
Everyone in London did.
Sir Percival was charming in the way polished knives were beautiful.
He attended charity dinners.
Sent expensive flowers.
Remembered the names of influential men’s wives.
And somehow always stood near a fortune when its owner died.
Julian folded the papers when his valet entered.
“The carriage wheel has been repaired, Your Grace.”
“Good.”
“We can leave after breakfast.”
“No.”
The valet waited.
Julian drank his coffee.
“We are staying another day.”
The man’s face remained professionally neutral.
“Of course.”
“Do not look pleased with yourself, Harris.”
“I would never presume.”
“You are doing it internally.”
“Very quietly, Your Grace.”
Julian almost smiled.
At Thornwood Manor, Cordelia had not thought about the stranger from the road.
She had thought about him fourteen times.
This irritated her.
Men who appeared unexpectedly in rainstorms belonged in foolish novels purchased by women with more money than sense.
They did not belong in Cordelia’s practical life.
Her practical life involved discovering that Aunt Beatrice had hidden the last jar of preserves because she considered Edmund’s appetite excessive.
Edmund Bell was eight years old.
His mother, Cordelia’s cousin Marian, had died of fever three years earlier.
His father had died before he was born.
Marian’s final request had been simple.
Take care of him.
Cordelia had promised.
Beatrice had agreed only because Marian’s tiny inheritance came with an annual allowance for the child.
The allowance had mysteriously disappeared into household expenses almost immediately.
Edmund did not understand any of that.
He knew only that Cordelia tucked him into bed, taught him geography, repaired his trousers and sat beside him when nightmares came.
He had begun calling her Mama Cordy when he was five.
The name had remained.
“Are we poor today?” Edmund asked over breakfast.
Cordelia nearly dropped her spoon.
Beatrice looked murderous.
“What sort of question is that?”
Edmund shrugged.
“Mrs. Pritchard said poor people eat porridge without sugar.”
Cordelia examined her bowl.
They were eating porridge without sugar.
“We are temporarily economical,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we are too distinguished to waste money on sugar.”
Edmund considered.
“Can I become less distinguished on Sundays?”
Cordelia laughed.
Beatrice did not.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Their maid shuffled through the hall.
Seconds later she returned looking pale.
“There is a gentleman outside.”
Beatrice sighed.
“If it is Mr. Hawkins collecting the butcher’s account, tell him Mrs. Ashworth is indisposed.”
“It is not Mr. Hawkins.”
“Who?”
“The Duke of Ravensworth.”
The spoon slipped from Beatrice’s hand.
It struck the table.
Cordelia stopped breathing.
“Who?”
“The Duke, ma’am.”
Cordelia immediately saw muddy boots.
Gray eyes.
An amused smile.
No.
Surely not.
Beatrice stood so quickly her chair scraped backward.
“Cordelia, go upstairs.”
“What?”
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Your dress.”
Cordelia looked down.
It was the same faded green dress she had repaired yesterday.
“The Duke may survive the sight of a mended seam.”
“You do not understand.”
“I understand perfectly. A wealthy unmarried man has appeared, and you have temporarily rediscovered optimism.”
Beatrice gripped her cane.
“Upstairs.”
The maid reappeared.
“He has already entered.”
Too late.
Footsteps crossed the hall.
A moment later, the man from the rain stood in the breakfast-room doorway.
Dry now.
Immaculate.
Terrifyingly aristocratic.
Cordelia stared.
He looked at her.
Something close to satisfaction crossed his face.
“Miss Ashworth.”
Beatrice turned slowly toward her niece.
“You know the Duke?”
Cordelia wanted the floor to open.
“Not exactly.”
Julian’s mouth twitched.
“She recommended an inn.”
Beatrice’s face changed color.
Edmund whispered, “Is he the muddy man?”
Cordelia closed her eyes.
Julian looked delighted.
“The muddy man?”
“She mentioned you,” Edmund explained.
“Edmund.”
“What? You did.”
Julian stepped farther into the room.
“I am relieved to have made an impression.”
“You did not,” Cordelia replied.
“I was memorable enough to be discussed at breakfast.”
“You were memorable because you ruined expensive boots.”
Beatrice looked between them as if watching her fortune catch fire.
“Your Grace, forgive my niece. She suffers from a regrettable independence of speech.”
“I had noticed.”
His gaze remained on Cordelia.
“And I find it refreshing.”
That silenced Beatrice.
Tea was ordered.
Real tea.
Not the weak leaves Beatrice usually used twice.
Cordelia watched her aunt perform hospitality with the desperation of a military campaign.
The best porcelain appeared.
Preserved cherries appeared.
Sugar appeared.
Edmund stared at the sugar bowl as though God Himself had answered prayer.
Julian noticed.
He noticed everything.
The frayed cuffs of Cordelia’s dress.
The crack running across the ceiling.
The servant warming her hands near the kitchen door.
Beatrice shifting letters beneath her ledger whenever he looked toward them.
Most of all, he noticed how Cordelia quietly pushed half her bread toward Edmund.
After ten minutes of meaningless conversation, Julian set down his cup.
“I came regarding business.”
Beatrice’s smile stiffened.
“What business?”
“Thornwood.”
Cordelia looked up.
Beatrice became perfectly still.
Julian continued.
“My southern property borders yours. A legal review discovered several financial instruments involving this estate.”
“I assure you, our affairs are private.”
“Ordinarily they would be.”
“Then I fail to understand your visit.”
“Sir Percival Vale.”
The name changed the room.
Beatrice’s fingers tightened around her cup.
Cordelia saw it.
“Aunt?”
“Nothing.”
Julian watched her carefully.
“Miss Ashworth, are you familiar with him?”
“No.”
Beatrice interrupted.
“There is no reason she should be.”
Julian leaned back.
“That is interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because according to documents filed last month, Miss Ashworth is named as a secondary guarantor on one of Thornwood’s obligations.”
Cordelia stared at him.
“I am what?”
Beatrice stood.
“This conversation is over.”
Cordelia did not move.
“Aunt Beatrice.”
“Cordelia.”
“What has my name been placed on?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“If my name is on it, it concerns me.”
Edmund looked frightened.
Cordelia softened her voice.
“Edmund, would you go find Mrs. Pritchard?”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
He left reluctantly.
Cordelia waited until the door closed.
Then she faced her aunt.
“What did you sign?”
Beatrice’s composure cracked.
“We needed money.”
“How much?”
“It does not matter.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Julian reached into his coat and removed a folded copy.
“The original loan was eight hundred pounds.”
Cordelia almost laughed from shock.
Thornwood did not possess eighty.
“Current amount claimed is three thousand four hundred.”
Cordelia turned white.
“That is impossible.”
“Not if the interest clauses are enforced.”
Beatrice struck her cane against the floor.
“I had no choice.”
“You used my name?”
“You are part of this family.”
“That does not give you ownership of my signature.”
“I did what was required to keep a roof over you.”
Cordelia felt the old accusation forming before Beatrice spoke it.
Food.
Coal.
Shelter.
Debt disguised as love.
Julian rose.
“Mrs. Ashworth, I suggest you provide me every document involving Vale.”
“You have no authority here.”
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“But he is attempting to acquire property bordering mine through terms my solicitor believes may be fraudulent.”
Beatrice hesitated.
Cordelia saw fear.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
“What else?” Cordelia asked quietly.
Her aunt looked away.
“Aunt Beatrice.”
“There is nothing else.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
Then the front door opened again.
A man’s cheerful voice sounded in the hall.
“Beatrice! I trust I am not too early.”
Every trace of color left Beatrice’s face.
Julian turned toward the doorway.
Cordelia watched a handsome gentleman in his forties enter wearing a burgundy coat and a smile polished by years of practice.
He stopped when he saw Julian.
His smile faltered.
“Ravensworth.”
Julian’s face became cold.
“Vale.”
Sir Percival recovered quickly.
Then his attention moved to Cordelia.
He smiled again.
This time it was intimate.
Possessive.
“Miss Ashworth,” he said.
“You are lovelier than Beatrice promised.”
Cordelia looked at her aunt.
Promised?
Sir Percival approached and lifted Cordelia’s hand before she could withdraw it.
“We shall have much to discuss.”
Cordelia pulled free.
“I doubt that.”
Percival laughed.
“Oh, my dear.”
His gaze shifted toward Beatrice.
“Has she not told you?”
Nobody moved.
“Told me what?”
Percival smiled.
May you like
“Why, about our arrangement.”
And suddenly Cordelia understood that Thornwood’s debt was not the worst thing Aunt Beatrice had concealed.
