Confessions of a Duchess

Laura looked at the pool of water that was dripping steadily from his shirt onto the slate of the path. “Surely that will cause conjecture if anyone sees you?”

“Not as much as the sight of me walking back to the Morris Clown Inn dressed in your grandfather’s Georgian fashions, I imagine,” Dexter said.

“My grandfather was quite the beau,” Laura said. “You might find that you start a new style. Not that that is likely to appeal to you, I suppose, Mr. Anstruther. Fashion is far too shallow an interest for one of your serious nature, is it not? Or have you changed in that respect, as well?”

Dexter was almost drawn into replying to that. He admitted ruefully to himself that he was finding it hard to resist Laura’s provocation. She had a way of getting under his skin unmatched by anyone else he had ever met.

She looked exquisite, he thought, standing there in damp disarray. Others overlooked Laura because her beauty was not of the obvious variety that society admired. Her appeal for him lay in the fine, direct gaze of those hazel eyes and the rich creaminess of a skin that was sprinkled with endearing freckles. It was in the soft curl of that honey-chestnut-colored hair and the upward turn of her lips, as though she was always on the edge of a smile. The fact that she was not in the first flush of youth and had a tracery of fine lines about her eyes only enhanced her beauty for him because it added character…Dexter caught himself up before he got too carried away. There was no point in standing here catching a chill whilst he rhapsodized about Laura’s outward beauty. It was not a fair guide to the woman beneath, whom he had discovered was actually a calculating and manipulative whore.

“On second thoughts, I will accept your offer of a change of clothing, thank you,” he said, following her into the stone flagged hallway of The Old Palace. “The breeze is chilly today and there is no sense in taking cold. One must be practical.”

“Of course,” Laura said. “I know that you pride yourself on your practicality, Mr. Anstruther.”

The house was silent, the floors muffled in ancient rugs, the walls smothered in equally dark and old tapestries on which were depicted a variety of bloodthirsty war and hunting scenes. A huge suit of medieval armor dominated one corner. From the wall above the fireplace glared a bad-tempered stag’s head whilst a moth-eaten stuffed fox prowled the stone windowsill. There was a child’s rocking horse in one corner and a rather beautiful porcelain-faced doll sitting in a small chair.

“I see that your grandfather had martial tastes as well as sartorial ones,” Dexter said, looking at the shields hanging rather precariously from the walls.

Laura shook her head. “No, that was my grandmother. She rode to hounds every day and could shoot a longbow. She said that one of them had to think about more than the cut of their clothes.” She pointed to two portraits hanging on the far wall. “There they are.”

The late Lord Asthall looked every inch the eighteenth-century dandy, Dexter thought. He had hazel eyes and black hair, a pronounced nose and strong chin, and his expression was arrogant and amoral. His features were also vaguely familiar. Dexter’s paternal family had come from Yorkshire several generations back and there had been a rumor in the family that there was bastard Asthall blood in the line somewhere. Certainly Dexter’s brother Roly and his father’s so-called “ward” Caro had the same coloring. Dexter reflected ruefully that that was probably where his father had got his libertine tendencies from, as well. Lord Asthall looked a complete cad. Still, Lady Asthall was, quite frankly, a fearsome Amazon of a woman in her archery dress, so perhaps they had been well matched.

“Were they happy together?” he asked.

“I do not believe so. My grandfather was a terrible rake,” Laura said, confirming Dexter’s suspicions. “I am surprised that Grandmama did not shoot him with her bow and arrow.”

“And does your daughter inherit the same sporting prowess as her great-grandmother?” Dexter asked.

Laura paused. There was a rather odd silence. Looking at her, Dexter thought she looked pinched and cold, as though he were trespassing on a subject she did not want to discuss.

“Hattie is still very young.” Laura spoke stiffly. “She can sit a small pony if I walk beside her and she loves her rocking horse, so perhaps one day she will be a rider.”

There was another silence. Dexter could hear the loud hum of a bumblebee trapped against the windowpane and the rush of the river over the weir. He felt a little disquieted to think of Laura rattling around in this ancient place all on her own with her small daughter, but then there did not seem much of value to steal here. It seemed that his speculation about Charles Cole leaving Laura with no money had been close to the mark. She was penniless, alone and unprotected. He was disturbed at how uneasy the thought made him.

The door at the end of the dark corridor opened and a butler shuffled forward into the patch of sunlight that was making patterns through the diamond windowpanes.

“Your grace! I did not hear the bell.”

Dexter was shocked to recognize Carrington, the butler from Cole Court. Four years ago the man had been vigorous and healthy. Now he looked old and broken. He stooped. His hands shook and his voice was a whisper. Dexter doubted that he could hold a tray, let alone announce visitors.

“It does not matter, Carrington,” Laura spoke softly. “Please could you show Mr. Anstruther down to the warming room whilst I find some dry clothing for him? We have had a small mishap.”

The butler’s gaze darted from one to the other like a furtive rabbit. “An accident? Oh, madam—”

“There is nothing to cause distress,” Laura interrupted firmly. “It was no more than a fall in the river. If you would be so good…”

The butler nodded and drew himself up with a sad echo of his former authority. “This way, sir, if you please.”

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