Page 46 of Libby's London Merchant
Benedict rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. “What do they come for, Candlow?”
“The hops harvest, Mr. Duke, and that is still six weeks away.” Candlow turned away from the window. “They come to trade for horses, more like steal some. If you have anything of value, do not leave it lying about.”
“I shall not, Candlow,” said the duke, barely able to suppress a smile. “Are Joseph and Libby about yet?”
This apparently was a sore subject to the butler, but he was too well-bred to show his disapproval, beyond the raising of one eyebrow. The duke was forcefully reminded of his own butler.
“They have collected several pans that want mending and have taken them to the gypsies already,” said Candlow. He cleared his throat and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Miss Crabtree retired to her bed again at the news.”
“I do not doubt it,” the duke said as he sat up. “I understand the necessity of a figurehead of Miss Crabtree’s talents, but she is a singularly ineffective chaperone. That reminds me, Candlow. Does not Miss Ames have an abigail to do things for her of the pan-mending variety? Is her maid away on holiday with the others?”
The butler forgot himself enough to smile. “Miss Ames with an abigail? I don’t think so.” He leaned closer in conspiratorial fashion. “Such independence comes from too many years following the army about, I am sure, but the Ames will do as they choose, will they not?”
The duke nodded in solemn agreement. He knew enough about the eccentricities of the titled and wealthy to have augmented Candlow’s text.
And speaking of text...
“Candlow, can you get me my pen, ink, and paper? I have some correspondence that cannot wait.”
Candlow nodded. “With pleasure, Mr. Duke. Miss Ames has been wondering when you would feel good enough to inform your relatives of your mishap.”
His relatives. He had not thought of them in some time, and the matter did deserve some rational contemplation. Mother would not object to Libby. The Ames name was a good one, despite whatever deficiencies—real or imagined—that Mother could dream up. Benedict Nesbitt felt sure that the Ames fortune would more than recompense for the fact that Uncle Ames was only a baronet.
Augusta would be charmed, too, at least until she realized that Libby Ames—no, Lady Nesbitt, Duchess of Knaresborough —was not one to be lead by anyone. By then, Gussie’s opinion would scarcely matter. Libby would have stormed the battlements of society with that beauty, sweet nature, and indescribable charm the good duke himself was rapidly finding indispensable to his happiness.
He spent the better part of the morning at the escritoire in his room, considering what to say to Eustace and discarding mistake after mistake. He finally decided on the simple expediency of the truth, telling Eustace that he had at last found the girl of his dreams and that by the time he received this missive, Eustace would probably want to return a letter of congratulations.
“The truth hurts a bit, Eustace,” he said out loud with some satisfaction as he affixed a wafer to the letter and pocketed it.
Libby and Joseph had not yet returned from their visit to the gypsies, which suited him. He would take the time for a stroll into Holyoke, where he would post the letter himself.
He considered the matter of his leg for a moment, and then decided that a genteel stroll would do it wonders. I could continue to coddle myself, he thought, but to what end? He smiled to himself as he started out, remembering much longer forced marches through terrain more arduous than a Kent neighborhood. And with snipers shooting at me, too, he added to himself. I can rest if I get tired, and not have to worry about death around the next bend in the road.
The walk would be long enough for him to think of his next course of action. I will confess all and throw myself upon her mercy, he decided as he started back from the village, hands in his pockets, the sun warm on his beck. I don’t suppose any woman alive would be disappointed in a duke. She knows that I have dipped too deep in liquor, but it did not seem to disgust her, and besides all that, I am a reformed man. She will laugh when I tell her about Eustace’s harebrained, rum-sodden scheme to scout her out in Kent and see if she was a fit vessel for the Wiltmore aspirations.
His fancies occupied him so fully that he did not hear the doctor’s horse until the animal’s hooves struck a stone beside the path. He started in surprise and then looked up with some amusement.
Dr. Cook was seated correctly atop his mare, his gloved hands poised precisely and capably over the pommel, his eyes closed, his spectacles barely lodged upon his nose. He was sound asleep. Nez thought he snored.
The duke cleared his throat and the doctor’s eyes snapped open. He jerked his head up and watched in dismay as his glasses slid off his nose. He grabbed for them, but Benedict was quicker, catching them in midair and returning them, with a flourish, to their owner.
“Dr. Cook, do you always sleep in the saddle? Surely your father didn’t banish you to the stables for championing us yesterday.’’
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said the doctor. “A paucity of dialogue passed between us last night, but by then he had vented his spleen on the groom and I got only what was left.”
The doctor dismounted, his horse trailing along behind him like a large dog. He rubbed his eyes. “It has been a long night, that is all. One of many long nights. I disremember when I last slept the night through.”
They walked along in silence. The doctor seemed distant, uncommunicative, and the duke rose to the challenge. “Well, I trust the outcome was to your liking.”
“The patient died.”
An awkward silence stretched out along the path the two men followed. The doctor blinked his eyes several times, and the duke saw that he was dangerously close to tears.
“Well,” Nez said heartily, even as he wished he would keep his mouth shut, “I suppose you are better equipped to deal with death than the rest of us.”
“I never deal well with death, particularly when the patient is a child,” the doctor said, slapping the reins in his hands in agitation. “Death of a young one is such an affront to nature. ”
The duke found his attention captured by a lark on the wing as the doctor whipped out a handkerchief, blew his nose, and pocketed it again, his eyes straight ahead, his lips set in a firm line. He sighed then and managed a slight smile. “I brought her into the world three years ago, only to usher her out of it this morning, poor honey. I hope to God I never grow used to such events, Mr. Duke.”
