Page 30 of Dukes for Dessert

“Or I could be terribly efficient and telegraph Eleanor this evening. Knowing her, she’ll set off at once and arrive by morning.”

Pierson shook his head. “You do like to rush about where angels fear to tread.”

“Always have. But you want your floor recorded for posterity, don’t you? Best to start immediately.”

The appeal to his find clinched matters, as David knew it would. Pierson gave in with a sigh.

“Off you go. Send your wires. I’ll break the news to Sophie.”

He turned and shuffled toward the vicarage, the very picture of a worried guardian.

He worried for no reason, David thought irritably as he turned up the collar of his coat, settled his mud-smeared hat, and took the path to the village and its train station, which housed the telegraph office. Sophie didn’t give a damn about David’s past, nor would she feel any awkwardness about Eleanor. Why should she?

He was correct that Sophie would be very glad to see the back of David Fleming. He knew it in his bones.

Sophie was up early the next morning, washed and dressed, her hair neat, her boots scrubbed free of yesterday’s earth. She paced to the edge of the garden, pretending to take air after breakfast—so what if she timed the walk to coincide with the arrival of the Duchess of Kilmorgan?

Ever since Uncle had come in last evening announcing that David was striding to the village to telegraph the woman, Sophie hadn’t been able to settle herself.

The duchess was one of the best-known hostesses in London. The ladies of the haut ton either adored Eleanor or reviled her, depending on their husbands’ political stances. Laurie had commanded that the duchess be nowhere on Sophie’s guest lists.

Therefore, Sophie did not know what to expect from her. She’d seen Eleanor at art openings and the like, which ladies from different factions attended, as long as they kept to their own sides of the room. The duchess was a red-haired woman who was very stylish though not a slave to fashion. She’d wafted about, unbothered by anyone’s opinions, and Sophie had envied her effortless grace.

Sophie was not surprised David had fallen madly in love with Eleanor. She charmed all who came near her.

Today, this paragon would arrive at the stone vicarage in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere to photograph Uncle’s mosaic. Not because she was a keen observer of archaeology or out of kindness for Uncle Lucas. She was coming because David asked her to.

David had been quite cheerful when he’d returned to the vicarage, missing tea, to Mrs. Corcoran’s annoyance. He’d waved the duchess’s return missive in triumph, his spirits high that she’d agreed to come.

Today. Now.

A plain black coach belonging to the stationmaster turned down the lane and headed for the vicarage and Sophie in the garden.

Sophie had expected a duchess to turn up in an elegant landau emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms, eschewing the ordinary train to travel in elegance. But David had said she’d come by rail, chugging out of London at an ungodly hour.

“No hour is ungodly,” Uncle had chided him gently, and David only grinned.

The coach slowed, the beefy man who doubled as a porter at the station pulling the horses to a halt. He climbed down ponderously, but before he could open the passenger’s door, a lady’s gloved hand reached through the open window and yanked at the handle.

“Ah,” David’s voice came behind Sophie. “There you are, old thing.” He strode down the path, air wafting as he passed, and gallantly reached for the descending lady. “Good of you to rush to our aid.”

A trim foot in a laced-up boot landed on the iron step, followed by a narrow gray tweed skirt that matched a gray jacket buttoned to the duchess’s chin. A wide but plain hat covered a pompadour of red hair, no flowers or feathers or birds that liberally sprinkled women’s hats these days in sight. The duchess had dressed practically for poking about muddy fields, it seemed. Sophie wasn’t certain why the fact irritated her.

As soon as the duchess’s feet touched the ground, she turned back to the carriage and tugged a case from it. “Don’t call me old thing, and do be useful, David. There is much more in the carriage and another cart coming from the station.”

She thrust the case into David’s hands and turned a wide smile on Sophie. “How delightful to meet you, Miss Tierney. I believe I saw you at the Royal Academy presentation last year, but of course, I was instructed to snub you, as your husband and mine are on the opposite ends of the political spectrum. Yours wants Scotland firmly under England’s thumb, and Hart wants all claymores raised until the Stone of Scone returns to Edinburgh. But that should not preclude us from being friends. We ladies have to stick together, no matter what our husbands get up to, do you not think?”

9

The duchess laced her arm through Sophie’s as she spoke, and turned her up the path to the vicarage. Sophie pressed her lips closed against all the questions she wanted to ask and let the duchess more or less march her to the house. Behind them, David threw himself into helping the coachman unload Eleanor’s things, his voice cheerful.

Uncle Lucas appeared on the doorstep. He’d dressed in his clerical collar and one of his best black coats, though his next service wouldn’t be until the morrow.

“Your Grace.” He bowed awkwardly. “Welcome to this humblest of abodes. I hope we can make you comfortable, but I am skeptical about that, really.”

Eleanor stepped inside and took in her surroundings with obvious pleasure. “Nonsense, I prefer small and cozy over large, damp, and draughty any day. Castles such as the one I grew up in are romantic to look at but not to live in, I assure you. And do please dispense with formality. I am Eleanor. If it offends your propriety to address a lady thus, Lady Eleanor will do, though I imagine we will all be shouting at each other by the end of the week without bothering with names.”

Mrs. Corcoran had left her kitchen in time to hear the last of the speech. She curtseyed. “I’ll take you to your chamber, Your Grace. It’s a bit small but I’ve warmed it well.”

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