A Pure Lady for the Broken Duke Read online

  “Is there anything I can do to help with supper?” Jenny asked.

  “You entertain your friend I will get Claudia to peel the potatoes and carrots.”

  Jenny called for Sally to help her mother, and then went back to the sitting room where Helena sat at the desk, writing a note. She looked up when Jenny entered.

  “I am sending this to George. He will be upset if I do not send him a personal message.” She folded the sheet of paper, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and wrote his name on the front.

  “Miss Jenny, your mother says you needed me to deliver a message?” Joseph, the elderly retainer, asked, as he came from the kitchen.

  “I hate to send you out on an errand in this weather, but Miss Helena needs this letter delivered to Rosemary Broadbent’s house as soon as you can.”

  “Not to worry, Miss Jenny. I have my rainwear right at hand.”

  He took the letter and left.

  Jenny held out her hand to her friend. “Come to my room. I have a new book I want to show you. It is a delightful romance that I am certain you will want to read—when I am finished, of course.”

  Laughing they ran to Jenny’s room where they threw themselves on Jenny’s bed. Their stockings felt damp, so they undid and kicked off their shoes. They sprawled across the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and listened as the rain pelted the windows and a cozy fire warmed the room.

  “It seems like we have known each other forever. Do you remember how we met?” Helena asked, drifting into a fading memory.

  Jenny tried to remember and finding it difficult, sat up on her elbows. “Did you come into the shop? Was that it?”

  “No, silly.”

  “The school?”

  “No. Your mother was delivering a large order of pastries for a party my mother was giving. You had come along, and, when I came into the kitchen, you and I started to make a racket, banging pots with wooden spoons and saying it was music.”

  Jenny fell back onto the bed laughing. “I do remember that—but only just. How ever did we become friends? It is so strange for the daughter of an Earl to make friends with a common baker.”

  “That was later at the school. We were in the same class and from then on we were never apart.”

  “Yes… I am so fortunate my parents put such a value on education. All of us have been to school—even though it was a huge burden for them to pay for us to go.”

  “I am sorry to say my father rather frowned on us being friends though,” Helena added sadly.

  “Oh?”

  “Because you were from a working family in the village,” Helena said. “He is rather a stickler for aristocratic traditions.”

  “I am certainly happy you did not think that way.”

  “You know I never would. Now where is that book?” Helena asked, suddenly bouncing off the bed.

  Chapter 2

  Thomas Haddington, the tenth Duke of Pemberton stood at one of the tall windows of his bedchamber, gazing across the expanse of woodland sloping gently toward the river. Pemberton, the family estate, stretched across his view as far as the Thornton hills to the east and all the way to the river on the west. The setting for Pemberton House had always been informal. There were no neatly laid-out formal, French-style gardens—no statues of Greek or Roman origin—nor follies dotted on hillsides reminiscent of classical pavilions.

  At eight-and-twenty years of age, Thomas was an impressive figure. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with confidence and grace. His auburn hair was long but neatly trimmed. His handsome regular features—his penetrating green eyes—and his welcoming smile made him attractive to most women and friendly to most men.

  The Haddington family income partially came from interests in the West Indies. But because of unrest in the region, this income was in jeopardy his uncle, Wilcox Mowbray, the Earl of Denham, said, and he had been urging Thomas to marry money—and soon. There could be no doubt that Thomas loved women—all women. But he kept telling himself he could only marry the perfect woman. And even though he was delighted with their company, he had, as yet, not found the perfect partner. He was absolutely determined not to be pressured by his uncle to marry for money alone.

  Thomas had just come from London where he had engaged in casual dalliances with several notable society women. They were eligible, moneyed, and exactly the sort of woman his uncle had been urging him to find as a wife. But what a pity they do not meet up to my expectations, he thought.

  Every time he began to contemplate marriage, he could not help but go back to that dreadful day. Ever since… He could not bring himself to utter her name. He abruptly turned from the window and tried to distract his thoughts of her by leafing through an atlas on his side table next to the globe.

  “Amanda,” he said aloud and strove again to forget her… but he could not.

  Finally, he charged out of his bed chambers, ran down the grand entrance staircase, and charged to the stables where he had a groom saddle his horse. As soon as he could mount, he galloped across the open fields as fast as he could, burning to erase from his mind that haunting name… Amanda… Amanda.

  Exhausted from lack of sleep since his return from London, coupled with the ferocity of his ride, he threw himself on the bank of the river and tried in vain to find some rest. But to no avail. The singing birds reminded him of the day of his wedding. The gently flowing river made him think of her gentle nature, and the soothing rays of the sun made him think of her warm and comforting smile. A smile meant only for him—or so he thought—until the betrayal.

  But he was not going to allow himself to wallow in the past. What was done was done. Amanda was married to his best friend—his ex-best friend—and that was the end of it. Life must go on.

  He roused himself from his thoughts and walked to where his horse was nibbling at a grassy bank and mounted to return to Pemberton.

  Even in his groggy tiredness, he knew he needed to take charge of his own life and find a way to restore the resources of the estate without the need to marry only for money—his uncle be damned.

  On his ride back, he decided he needed to speak with his Grandmamma, Augusta Mowbray. She was the only other family member still living in Pemberton and he often sought her sympathetic advice on all matters.

  “I thought I saw you going out for a ride,” Grandmamma said, “And the way you furiously rode off, I thought something must be troubling you. Am I right?” she asked with her accustomed sly smile.

  “You know me all too well,” Thomas said, slipping into a chair opposite to where she was sitting by the window counting stitches in her knitting.

  Grandmamma turned to her maid, Sithens, and asked. “I think we will have tea now. You can tell Mr. Willoughby.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sithens curtsied and left Augusta’s chambers.

  Augusta was the mother of both Thomas’s deceased mother and his Uncle Wilcox. His grandfather had been lost at sea many years ago, and Thomas regretted never knowing him.

  His grandmother was in her early seventies and still wore mourning, even though she had lost her husband over thirty years ago. It was clear she had been a great beauty in her day, and she still carried herself as a woman to be reckoned with. She had a cheerful personality and, as a result, she was often consulted by both her son, Wilcox, and her grandson, Thomas.

  “How was your London trip?” she asked, as she pulled on her yarn and turned the knitting to start the next row.

  Thomas sighed, stood, and gazed out of the window. “Not as productive as I would like.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Thomas turned to address his grandmother directly, “I have not discussed this with you yet, but I have only recently learned from Uncle Wilcox that our projected income for the estate this year is drastically compromised.”

  Grandmamma stopped her knitting and looked up at her grandson. “And do you know why that might be?”

  “It seems there has been a great deal of unrest in the West Indies
where we have a lot of our money invested. Apparently, the sugar cane has been affected by blight and the workers are starving. It is a terrible mess.” Thomas ran his hand through his hair.

  “Is there anything we can do about that?” she sensibly asked.

  “We do not directly control any of the production. It seems Uncle Wilcox purchased shares in a corporation that owns a number of various interests in the Indies. The corporation runs the plantations, and we have no say in how they manage the properties.”

  “Why would Wilcox be buying shares using the estate’s money? You are the Duke and should have sole control of our resources.”

  “Well, yes… but I have to say. I have been a little lax in oversight recently.” That set Thomas thinking. “I do not know how long ago he purchased those shares. It may have been while he was my guardian—before I had control of the Pemberton estate. But that is an interesting point, and I must talk to him about that.”

  His Grandmamma pursed her lips. “Your uncle is somewhat of a schemer, Thomas, and I have often had to call him on his little tricks.”

  At that moment Willoughby brought in the tea and set the tray on the table before Augusta.

  “I’ll be mother,” she said. “Thank you, Willoughby.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, then turned and left.

  Grandmamma busied herself pouring the tea, but asked, “Did you ever have an accounting with the solicitors and the bank after you came of age?”

  “I saw no need. Do you think I should?” Thomas asked.

  “I think it might be a good idea. One can never be too careful. And if you do not mind me saying, you have, indeed, been neglectful in your oversight of the estate.” She poured milk and added two sugars as Thomas liked. “All those trips to London for the balls, the parties, the assignations… I am well aware of your various city activities,” she said with a slight smile.

  “How do you know what I get up to in London,” Thomas asked, a little shocked.

  “You forget I came from London and I have maintained many close friends who give me regular reports.”

  “You spy on me?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

  Handing him the cup of tea, she said, “I care for you, Thomas. Do not mistake my caring for spying. I only have your best interests at heart.” Posing her pincers over a plate of scones, she asked, “Scone?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I shall. Current scones are my very favorite, and we have some lovely clotted cream and my very own raspberry jam from my delightful garden.”

  There was a knock at the door and Willoughby reappeared.

  “Your Grace, Mr. George Edgerton has called upon you. Are you in to him?”

  Thomas seemed relieved to discontinue his present conversation. “Most certainly. Show him into the library and I shall join him shortly. And see if he would like some tea.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Grandmamma, we can continue our conversation later,” he said draining his teacup. “I should very much like to see my dear friend.”

  “As you like,” she said. He turned to leave, but she stopped him with, “But be careful, Thomas. I really think you need to spend some time with the estate books. And if necessary, you might want to have a word with the solicitors and your banker.”

  Thomas smiled, “As always, I shall keep your generous and wise advice in mind.”

  Thomas bounded down the stairway to the library on the ground floor. He burst in and found his friend, George, examining a sheathed sword hanging on the wall.

  “It was my father’s,” Thomas said. “Battle of Waterloo. The day he, unfortunately, lost his life.”

  “Yes, I remember you telling me that—about fifteen times now,” George said turning to greet his friend with a wicked smile.

  George was only a little younger than Thomas. Slight of build, but wiry, with a wide face, sandy hair, and blue eyes, George and Thomas had been friends since they were children. George’s father’s estate abutted Pemberton, and their families had been cordially connected for as long as Thomas could remember.

  “What brings you to Pemberton today, old friend,” Thomas asked going over and clasping George by the shoulder.

  “Father wanted me to ask you about the racing mare you were thinking of selling. He might be interested.”

  Thomas laughed. “Oh, might he? And what is he proposing to pay me for her?”

  George rubbed his stubbled chin. “Well, that depends…”

  “On what?”

  “Well, what can she do?”

  “She’s come in second at Newmarket twice. She took the Oaks blue ribbon last year and is favored at St. Ledger in the spring.” Thomas smiled. “But then, you and your father probably know that, am I right?”

  George squinched his face and seemed to play dumb. “I would not know. And Father just wanted me to ask casually.”

  “Then he is not seriously interested?”

  “Wouldn’t say that… But… he was thinking three hundred might be a fair offer and he might be interested at that price.”

  Thomas gave a hoot of laughter. “Three hundred? That would be just about what it costs to stable her. It is clear to me he really is not seriously interested.”

  “Well, hold on now, old friend. He said he might just go to five under the right circumstances.”

  “And what would those circumstances be?” Thomas asked, loving the bargaining.

  George rubbed his chin again and feigned deep thought. “Well, it would depend on how she does at Epson.”

  Thomas stood resolute. “I could not see letting her go for less than a thousand.”

  “Oh…”

  “And if she does well at Epson, the price goes to fifteen hundred. So, if your father is serious, he had better act fast. Epson is coming up before you know it.”

  They looked at each other and broke into laughter. They knew each other too well to take this silly game seriously.

  “Did Willoughby offer you tea?”

  “He did, but I declined,” George said, “I heard you were in London recently.”

  “I just returned. How did you hear about that?”

  “I might have heard it from Helena.”

  “Oh, have you seen her recently?”

  “I believe we crossed paths in the village recently. I hardly remember.”

  Thomas studied him. He could usually tell when George was not replying with a straight answer, and he said, “I need to pay her a call. She came by when I was away and left me a note. I owe her a visit in any event.”

  “Well, tell her I say hello. It has been so long since I saw her last.”

  “Did you not just tell me you met in the village?”

  The guilty expression on George’s face gave him away, but he brushed off the mistake. “Oh, yes. But it was so brief as not to be a real conversation.”

  “Hmm,” Thomas said.

  George became animated and slapped his walking stick in his hand. “I should be going. I have a few other errands to attend to. It was wonderful seeing you again. I hope you will be at Pemberton for a while.”

  “I expect to be. Perhaps we can go for a ride some afternoon that does not threaten rain.”

  “I should like that.”

  “And if your father is serious about the mare let me know.”

  George smiled. “I shall pass along your message to him.”

  Chapter 3

  Wilcox Mowbray, the Earl of Denham, had a modest estate in Gloucestershire, but he resided mostly in London. His Lordship was a gentleman in his early fifties. And though he kept a trim figure, he had lost a great deal of his sandy hair—his face was sallow and sagging, and he had a lazy eye that was most disconcerting if he trained it on you in a confrontation.

  He spent a great many evenings at his town club playing cards with some of the regular players. However, as Mowbray was preparing to leave the club one afternoon, the club’s chairman stepped away from his office and, with a stern expression,
stood before His Lordship.

  “Your Lordship, if we might have a few words…” He gestured with his hand for Wilcox to precede him into his office. Wilcox obliged.

  The Chairman went to his desk and offered Wilcox a chair opposite. He then picked up a statement and offered it to his guest.

  “As you can see, you are more than several months behind on your dues and fees. Your Lordship, I thought this might be the perfect time for you to settle your account.” He paused and stared intently at the Earl.