The Duke's Dilemma Read online

  THE DUKE’S DILEMMA

  By

  Fenella J Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of The Author - Fenella J. Miller

  The Duke’s Dilemma Copyright Fenella J. Miller, 2012

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’ s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  (Originally published as The Ghosts of Neddingfield Hall)

  Dedication

  For my children

  Annabel & Lincoln

  Cover design: Jane Dixon-Smith

  Prologue

  June 1814

  Lord Colebrook, the Duke of Waverley admired himself in his new finery. The coat he’d had made at Weston’s in royal blue superfine had shoulders padded to give him extra width and his new boots, from Hoby, had lifts in the heel making him two inches taller.

  His hair, cut in a fashionable Brutus style, would have been better hidden under an old-fashioned powdered wig as it was quite definitely thinning on top and it’s rich russet tones were fading to an indeterminate sandy colour. He smiled; his thin lips and aquiline nose added to his elegance and no one would mistake him for anything but the aristocracy.

  He could hardly believe the young lawyer he had employed to find out as much about his English relatives as he could had come up with the information that he had inherited a dukedom, and along with it three sizeable properties and a fortune in the funds.

  Lord Colebrook had employed him to ferret out facts about Neddingfield Hall and Miss Culley who was in his opinion living there illegally. His grandfather had grown up at Neddingfield but, as the youngest son he had had no expectations of inheriting. He and his two brothers had spent their summers rampaging around the Kent countryside. His grandfather, after whom he was named, had rediscovered the underground cellar in which visiting priests had been secreted after they’d landed from the continent in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

  Not long after that he had become involved with the local free traders and had the ideal place for them to hide their contraband when it arrived on the coast. The young man had become rich from his ill-gotten gains but unfortunately the excise men had captured him one night on the beach. His hideout had remained undiscovered but he was given the option of going to live on the far side of the world or being hung as a common felon.

  Thus Bertram had been born in the Caribbean; he’d never met his grandfather but his father has had his head filled with tales of Neddingfield Hall and how it should belong to them, should never have been passed down the female line. He was a Sinclair the current owner was a Culley.

  He heard the rattle of teacups approaching; the refreshments he had requested were on their way. He relaxed his expression to one of supreme indifference and turned to face the door. There was a polite tap and he bid the servant enter.

  ‘I have your tray, your grace, shall I put it on the side table?’

  ‘Do that. I’m expecting Jones, my lawyer, to arrive later this afternoon. Show him in immediately.’ The footman bowed and left him on his own again.

  He loved to hear himself addressed as ‘your grace, in fact he sent for unwanted items just so he could hear his servants address him so. He had grown up in near poverty until his father had become involved in the trade of black gold. In this way he had restored their fortunes and when he had died in the New Year he’d made James promise to return to England and reclaim his rightful heritage.

  His money had been transferred to London. An agent had purchased him this smart townhouse, not in the most fashionable part of London but at the time he’d no expectations of being elevated to the peerage. He’d brought with him three faithful retainers, those with as little compunction for fair dealing as he had; who were not squeamish in the slightest and would, dispatch anyone who stood in his way without hesitation.

  The lawyer he had selected was recently qualified, with little more than one room and a clerk to assist him. Bertram had no wish for his business to become banded about the coffee houses. Jones had respectable lodgings but no wife or dependents. The man had been gathering information about Miss Culley, the current state of Neddingfield Hall and her heir, one Major Sinclair, currently fighting in France.

  His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. With luck the man would meet his end there leaving him the sole legitimate heir and he would have no need to become embroiled in a plot in order to obtain what he wanted.

  His intention was to be the owner of Neddingfield Hall before the end of the year. He no longer needed it, but he had made a deathbed promise and had no intention of reneging on its promise.

  He sat down to study the papers he had already received. Miss Culley had inherited the property from her mother who had been a Sinclair until her marriage. The house wasn’t entailed or it would have gone directly to this major. As far as he knew there were no other relatives in his way.

  The mantel clock struck three and there were footsteps approaching the drawing-room. Jones, as usual, was punctual. Once again Bertram posed, leaning nonchalantly against the mantelshelf his legs crossed elegantly at the ankle, the epitome of aristocracy, or so he thought.

  Mr Jones entered. For some reason the man’s face was pale, his hands trembling. This was not his normal demeanour and for a horrible moment Bertram thought the man had contracted a putrid fever and brought it into his house.

  ‘Are you unwell, sir? Pray do not come any closer; I have no wish to catch whatever it is you’re suffering from.’ He spoke from the relative safety of the window brochure, the long curtains on either side almost obscuring him from view.

  ‘No, sir, I am not unwell but am the bearer of the most awful tidings. I hardly know how to tell you.’

  Bertram stepped forward his face a mask of anger. How dare this man address him so informally? He was about to reprimand him sharply when his brain registered that the omission had been deliberate.

  He grasped the back of the chair, his knuckles white. ‘What is it you have to tell me? Do not procrastinate, Jones, I wish to know the whole, leave out no details.’

  Slowly the man stumbled out the shocking news. ‘I was misinformed, Mr Sinclair, the title is to be given to a Ralph Sinclair whose claim is thought to be a degree closer. However no one can find him. He’s somewhere on the continent with the Duke of Wellington and until he can be contacted is unaware of his elevation.’

  To be so cruelly demoted by a man he already hated was too much for his slender grip on sanity. ‘Excuse me, Mr Jones, I have forgotten a most urgent errand.’

  His lawyer, his colour better now he believed his employer had accepted his news with equanimity, nodded politely. ‘I’m perfectly content here, sir, I am in no hurry to return to my lodgings, my time is yours.’

  Bertram strode from the room and took the back stairs that led to a small room in which his three henchmen remained when not occupied about his business. He explained what he required and then was back in his drawing room once more the perfect urbane gentleman. When he dismissed his lawyer it was with a friendly smile. The butler who conducted him to the front door remarked on the young man’s improved appearance.

  Mr Jones was never seen again. When his landlady eventually reported his non- appearance he had already been dead for a week. His clerk, strangely, had also disappeared and the lawyer’s office denuded of papers. The constabulary believed the man had taken advantage of his employer’s absence and absconded with h
is documents.

  Bertram Sinclair satisfied no one would ever know he had ever coveted the title, or that he had made extensive enquiries about Neddingfield Hall, spent the next few weeks devising an ingenious plot that would reinstate him as the Duke of Waverly and also give him what he desired most: Neddingfield Hall. He would make his preparations carefully; he had no need to hurry, revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

  Chapter One

  November 1815

  ‘Good heavens! I wonder why we’ve stopped this time? Birdie, is it that wretched coach we have been forced to travel behind this past two hours, holding us up?’

  The grey-haired lady Miss Hester Frobisher was addressing so informally shook her head in frustration. ‘My dear girl, how can I possibly know why we’ve stopped? If you want to find out, why don’t you open the window and hang out like an urchin? I’m sure the aristocrat travelling ahead of us would find the spectacle amusing.’

  Hester giggled. ‘You’re quite right, as usual, Birdie. I suppose I must remain here on the seat and pretend I am a meek and docile young woman content to do as I’m bid.’

  The snort of derision from her companion woke what at first glance might have been taken for an old black rug crumpled up on the opposite squab. ‘Oh dear, now Jet has woken up. I shall have to get out and let him—’

  ‘Thank you, my dear girl, I’m well aware what that smelly animal will wish to do. What possessed you to bring him with us I cannot imagine. All I can say it’s a consolation, albeit a small one, that we are travelling in November and not at the height of summer. Being incarcerated with your malodorous dog would have been unbearable in the heat.’

  Hester leant over, impulsively kissing the leathery cheek of her dearest friend and companion Miss Mary Bird. ‘Hush, Birdie, you’ll offend him. You know how clever he is, he understands every word you say.’

  Kicking aside the bricks placed in the well of the carriage to keep their feet warm that morning, Hester tightened the ties of her bonnet and pulled her cloak firmly about her shoulders. The black hearthrug stood up arching his back emitting a stream of noxious gas as he did so. At the sound of her companion choking she hastily flung open the carriage door and without waiting for the steps to be let down, jumped out on to the lane, closely followed by her dog.

  A swirl of icy wind tugged at her cloak and her bonnet threatened to leave her head in spite of the tightness of its ribbons. She glanced down the lane seeing at once what was causing the hold-up. The smart equipage its navy blue coachwork gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight was stationary a hundred yards ahead of them.

  Then she noticed the gates of her great-aunt Agatha’s ancestral home, Neddingfield Hall, were closed across the driveway. Even from this distance she could see they had been barred from the inside.

  She turned, clutching her bonnet with one hand and the neck of her cloak with the other, to speak to one of the two outriders who had accompanied her on this trip. Tom, more her man of affairs than a common servant, was astride her own gelding, Thunder, a magnificent bay.

  ‘Tom, why have we stopped so far away? I should really like to have gained sight of the other travellers.’

  The young man called down to her his words almost blown away by the wind. ‘If we got any closer, miss, Bill won’t be able to turn the coach. It’s going to be a tight squeeze as it is. It’s a rum do, the gates being closed, I don’t remember them being like this before.’

  ‘No, they never have. It’s very worrying. Why should Aunt Agatha summon me urgently and then bar the road?’

  As she was talking the watery sun slowly sunk below the horizon and the road took on a gloomy, almost threatening atmosphere. ‘Jet’s in the bushes; I’ll wait with him whilst Bill turns the carriage. We cannot stand about out here, we shall have to put up at the Jug and Bottle and discover what’s happened tomorrow.’

  Hurrying across the lane she followed the sound of her dog crashing about in the undergrowth. She prayed he wouldn’t pick up the scent of a rabbit and refuse to return to her call. She loved him dearly but sometimes she did wish he was a little more obedient.

  Hester could hear Tom and James assisting Bill to turn the horses. It was fortuitous they were tired as the four matching chestnuts would never have submitted to such cavalier

  treatment when they’d set off that morning.

  She wondered who the occupants of the other travelling carriage were; that they were members of the aristocracy was perfectly clear from the gilt encrusted crest emblazoned on the side of the coach. Hester hadn’t been aware her aunt mixed with the ton, she was an eccentric and had never married. She lived as she pleased on the vast fortune left her by doting parents. The money had been made in shipping and Hester stood to gain an absolute fortune when Aunt Agatha died. However, as Miss Culley was a healthy woman in her sixties this was immaterial.

  There was a second noise in the woodland ahead. In the dark she couldn’t make out what it was but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Instinctively she called her dog. He was crashing back and his rumbling growl did nothing to reassure her. Instead of pausing at her side the dog shot past, hackles up, looking more like a wolf than a domestic animal. Suddenly she was no longer alone.

  ‘What ails that dog, Miss Frobisher?’ Tom was beside her, his pistol out, staring into the darkness.

  ‘I don’t know, I thought I heard someone out there. Jet obviously thinks there’s a danger.’

  ‘In that case, miss, come back to the coach. There’s something havey-cavey about all this. Locked gates, a stranger in front of us. I think the sooner we get back to Little Neddingfield the better.’

  He bundled her back through the undergrowth and out on to the lane. ‘I’m not leaving without Jet.’ She didn’t have to wait long, minutes later her hound appeared at her side, his neck smooth, his tongue lolling and eyes shining with pleasure. ‘Good dog, come along, we’ve got to go.’

  She scrambled inside and her dog followed, flopping down on the far seat as if by right. James slammed the door and her coach lurched off. She couldn’t see if whoever it was in the other vehicle followed or not.

  ‘Birdie, what about Jet? The last time I had occasion to visit the Jug and Bottle I was struck by its cleanliness. I rather think Mrs Jarvis won’t welcome his presence in our bedchamber.’

  ‘And neither shall I, my dear. The dog can sleep outside in the stables with Thunder; you know he’s just as happy there as he is cooped up inside with you.’

  Hester sighed; this was quite true. She believed one’s faithful hound should pine away without one’s presence but Jet seemed to thrive in her absence. No, that wasn’t quite

  true, he was only happy as long as he knew she was within easy reach.

  The coach turned sharply right and halted. ‘Well, my dear, here we are. I must own I’m a mite uncomfortable after being in this coach all day. I wish to stretch my legs and wash the grime from my person.’

  Before Hester could reply the door swung open and Tom let down the steps. ‘I’ve managed to obtain two chambers and a private parlour for you, Miss Frobisher.’ He grinned and Hester thought she detected a malicious glint in his eye. ‘The only rooms left are of a poor quality.’

  She hid a smile behind her gloved hand. When the smart coach arrived its occupants would have nowhere suitable to sleep. It didn’t bother her one jot.

  ‘Come along, Birdie. If I remember correctly Mrs Jarvis sets an excellent table so we shall not go hungry tonight.’ She noticed James had slipped a loop of rope around Jet’s neck and was holding him firmly. She saw the dog look up assessing his captor and then relax. Satisfied she hurried in to the warmth of the inn, glad to get out of the biting wind.

  A jolly, middle-aged lady in a pristine apron came forward to greet her. ‘Good evening, Miss Frobisher, Miss Bird, I’m ever so pleased to be able to help you out tonight. What a to-do! Your man explained that you’re unable to reach Neddingfield Hall. I reckon everything will be explained right enough tomorrow. I’l
l show you to your chambers myself, if you would care to come this way.’

  The landlady, remarkably nimble for one of her size, lifted her skirts and swept across the polished boards to the oak staircase. She glanced over her shoulder encouragingly. ‘Your parlour overlooks the yard; you’ll be able to see all the comings and goings. However, your bedchamber, Miss Frobisher, is at the back of the building so you won’t be disturbed.’

  Hester gathered up the folds of her voluminous cloak and ran up behind Mrs Jarvis. She was so fatigued she didn’t think an army marching past could rouse her that night.

  Ten minutes later she was in her room removing her gown and preparing to wash in the bowl of hot water that had arrived almost as she did. She had decided to dispense with the luxury of her own maid for this short trip so Jane had been left behind. Hester thought she was quite capable of doing for herself for a short space of time. Her change of clothes had been carefully selected, all were easy to step in and out of without assistance.

  In her room, at the rear of the inn she was unaware of the arrival of the second coach and didn’t hear the angry altercation that took place in the vestibule when the aristocrat discovered there were no decent rooms available that night.

  Chapter Two

  Hester woke when Birdie brought her morning chocolate. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, disorientated. ‘What time is it? I feel as though I’ve only been asleep for an hour or two.’

  ‘It’s after seven o’clock, my dear, and I thought it wise to rouse you early. There are things you need to know.’

  She was wide-awake. ‘Tell me, have you heard why Aunt Agatha wouldn’t let us in yesterday?’ She raised a hand as her companion prepared to put the tray across her knees. ‘No, Birdie, please put it on the side table. I shall get up. There’s something awry or you wouldn’t be here so early and fully clothed.’