How to Tame Your Duke(40)

"Oh, splendid."

"You could tell him tonight, couldn't you? It's Tuesday."

The noseless Old Lady loomed near. Nothing stirred about her right ear  except the snow. It must have been a trick of Emilie's eyes, her  overworked nerves. "So it is. But you forget your father hasn't arrived  back from London."

"Oh, he'll arrive. You'll see. Pater never misses an appointment."

Emilie opened her mouth to reply, but it was Freddie's voice that shattered the air.

"Look out!"

A shape blurred along the right side of her vision. Someone grabbed her  reins, turned the horse to the left, and they were galloping, galloping,  the snow stinging against Emilie's face, the wind freezing her breath  in her lungs.

* * *

The Duke of Ashland sprang from the carriage almost before the wheels  had come to a stop. "Have Grimsby and his lordship attend me in my study  at once," he said to Lionel, tossing the footman his greatcoat and hat.

Lionel followed him down the corridor. "They have gone out, sir."

"Out?" Ashland spun about, nearly knocking the sturdy fellow to the  marble floor. An odd emptiness scooped out in his chest. He realized it  was disappointment. "Out, in this weather?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The weather has in fact turned for the better today, and his lordship was eager to take advantage."

"I see." Ashland turned around and resumed his journey, less urgently  now. "Have them come to me the instant they arrive, then. And tell  Simpson to bring in some coffee," he added, over his shoulder. "A great  deal of coffee."

In the study, Ashland lit the lamps himself and settled into his chair  before the desk. A neat stack of papers lay atop the blotter, waiting  for his attention, but the words blurred in his empty gaze. He glanced  at the clock: half past two. He'd risen before dawn to make the earliest  possible train, to make certain of reaching home in time. And he'd  worked furiously in the days before: going over papers and agreements  with Mr. Baneweather, instructing agents with Isabelle's Italian  address, concluding all his business in a burst of insomniac activity.                       
       
           



       

And that interview last night in the Duke of Olympia's private study . . .

His gaze dropped down to the papers before him, just as a distant  shouting reached his ears, accompanied by thumping and clattering. He  raised his head and looked out the study window.

A loud crash. Raised voices carrying through the walls. Ashland sighed and rose to his feet.

It could only be Freddie.

Sure enough, a bare thirty seconds later, the study door burst open to  reveal his long and angular son, greatcoat still attached to his body,  hat askew. "Pater! You're back!"

"I am."

Grimsby slid out from behind Freddie's back, and Ashland was surprised  by the surge of affection he felt for the tutor's slight form, for his  wheat-colored hair emerging into the light as he removed his hat.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace. How was your journey?"

Ashland looked from one to the other. They were bristling with fresh air  and energy, with some strange suppressed excitement, breathing hard  with it. Freddie's eyes gleamed so brightly, they nearly jumped from his  head. Grimsby's hand clutched his hat a little too hard.

Ashland wanted to leap over the desk and crush them both in his arms.

Being English, and being a duke, and being Ashland, he did not. He  crossed his arms and said, "Tolerable, I suppose. Did you have a  pleasant ride?"

"Oh, ripping," said Freddie. "Especially that exhilarating dash at the  end. Galloped along as if the Devil himself were at our heels, firing a  pistol. Have you ordered coffee?"

"I have."

Freddie tossed his hat and greatcoat in one chair and threw himself in  another. "Grimsby and I have had the most cracking time whilst you've  been away. I've learned all his deadly secrets."

Grimsby sent Freddie a killing look and placed his hat upon a small tripod table, underneath a lamp.

"Is that true, Mr. Grimsby?" asked Ashland. "What sort of secrets?"

"His lordship is pleased to joke with us," said Grimsby, in his gruff  little voice. "I have little of interest to disclose, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that depends on what one finds interesting," said Freddie. "Where the devil is that coffee?"

On cue, the door swung open in a stately fashion. The next few minutes  were occupied by the usual rituals of pouring and serving. Ashland  inspected the coffee, a particular strain of arabica beans he'd ordered  in London and sent down to the Abbey a few days earlier with  instructions to brew at double strength, piping hot. Grimsby's whiskers  twitched as he sniffed his cup.

"Were your ears burning last night, Mr. Grimsby?" Ashland asked, settling back in his chair in a cloud of aromatic steam.

"Your Grace?"

"I was discussing your case with your venerable sponsor, the Duke of Olympia."

Grimsby choked on his coffee. Freddie delivered him a hearty swat to the  back, causing additional coffee to spill from his cup, causing his  hands to jerk, causing more coffee to be spilled. Ashland rose silently  and handed the poor fellow a napkin, while Freddie guffawed  spasmodically in his chair.

"Go on, Pater," he said, between gasps. "Tell us about Olympia."

"There isn't so much to tell, really. He asked after our Grimsby, and I told him he was getting along very well."

"I agree. Grimsby's getting along very well indeed. Giving satisfaction.  That's the phrase, isn't it? A great"-Freddie coughed-"a great deal of  satisfaction."

Grimsby ignored Freddie and looked directly at Ashland. "How kind of you, sir. Was His Grace in good health?"

Ashland laughed. "When is he otherwise? Yes, he was looking very well.  We discussed your excellencies as a tutor for some minutes. He takes a  great interest in you, Grimsby."

"I daresay," said Freddie.

"Very good of him, of course," said Grimsby. "Had he any personal message for me?"

"No, no." Ashland ran his mind over the rest of the discussion: the  political situation in Europe, the distressing affair in  Holstein-Schweinwald. Ashland had forgotten that Olympia's sister had  once been married to the assassinated Prince Rudolf, that he had a  personal interest in the issue. What had Olympia said? I fear there may  be a deeper game afoot. Ashland's attention had been wandering at that  point, looking forward to the next day, aching with longing. At the  conclusion of the meeting, Ashland had finally worked up the nerve to  say aloud what he'd been burning to say for an hour: I have decided to  initiate a suit of divorce against Isabelle. I hope I may count on your  support in this matter? Olympia had looked at him for a long moment,  with that hooded gaze of his, and then he'd risen from his chair,  offered his hand, and said, With all my heart.                       
       
           



       

It had been . . . gratifying. It had soothed that persistent twinge of guilt still buried deep in his conscience, even now.

"No message," he said to Grimsby, a little absently, and glanced again at the clock.

Freddie, setting to work on his cake, said crumbfully, "I say. Are we keeping you from an appointment, Pater?"

"Not at present."

"Because one can't help but noticing that it is Tuesday afternoon.  Shouldn't you be upstairs, bathing and shaving and making yourself  pretty?"

"Frederick." Ashland brought down his cup with a crash.

"Oh, come, sir. We quite understand. We are all men here, aren't we? Men of the world, I mean. Hmm, Grimsby?"

"Quite," said Grimsby, with steely masculinity. He swung his fist upward against his chest. "Men of the world, that's us."

Freddie stuffed the rest of his cake in his mouth and rose. "So we  shan't keep you an instant longer. God knows it must take hours to make  your frightful mug acceptable to the discriminating female eye. What do  you think, Grimsby?"

Grimsby rose. The lamplight reflected against his spectacles in a flash  of white. "I think His Grace is perfectly acceptable. But then, I'm  hardly a judge, am I?"

Ashland felt oddly unnerved under the white light of Grimsby's gaze. He  looked at Freddie instead. "Your candor is priceless, young man.  Grimsby, will you do me the very great service of hauling my ungrateful  cur of a son upstairs to his studies?"

Grimsby bowed, and as the light ran over his skin, Ashland thought he  looked a trifle pink. All the salty talk, no doubt. Poor, innocent chap.

"With the greatest pleasure, Your Grace," said Grimsby, and he grabbed  Freddie by his ungrateful collar and hauled him upstairs to his studies.