He started at her forceful exhalation.
“Your willful neglect has ensured they live in squalor, with barely enough food to survive. You are not fit to be calledYour Grace. You should be calledYour Disgrace!” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the cart. She offered the large man her hand, and he handed her back to the coach’s seat in an easy motion. Then he walked around the horse and took his position again.
“Good day,Your Disgrace,” she said.
“That’s not very original,” he said, churlishly. Every duke who caused a spot of trouble was labeled adisgraceby the papers and the public.
Henry looked at the driver. Surely, this man would take his side. “Sir, do you mean to leave me here on the road?”
The driver opened his mouth, but Lady Katherine interrupted. “That is exactly what we intend. It might do yousome good to walk and think about what you have done—or rather,notdone.” She tossed her hair and nodded to the driver. “Good day.”
“Not really,” Henry mumbled to himself as the cart drove on, leaving dust in its wake and making him cough. Well, he thought, Lady Katherine certainly lived up to theshrewpart of her father’s title. He could only hope his mother gave him a warmer welcome.
Henry reflected, as he walked and sweated and brushed dust from his lovely greatcoat, that this was not the first time he’d been called adisgrace. Any number of headmasters had referred to him and his friends King and Rory using that term. More frequently, the three of them together were called Misfortune’s Favorites, because it was said anyone who met the boys suffered misfortune. Henry thought the events of the last month would prove that assumption incorrect. He’d suffered enough misfortune to make up for any he might have caused anyone else.
Not that Lady Katherine would agree. She seemed to think he was some sort of ogre who mistreated his tenants. She probably thought he beat women and feasted on babies. For some reason, the few times he’d seen her, his impression had been of a shy, meek person. She wasn’t that at all. She was brash and outspoken and…beautiful.
Henry couldn’t deny he was intrigued by her. For the most part, that interest stemmed from the novelty of the way she’d spoken to him. He’d very rarely, if ever, been talked to in that manner. Certainly, no woman who was not his close relation had ever addressed him in that way. Henry didn’t think even his sisters would have dared. And all of this anger because of the estate’s tenants? Henry had an estate manager. The man’s name was Gillett. He had experience and had come highly recommended. He sent monthly updates. Gillett had nevermentioned anything about squalor or neglect. Henry wondered what had become of Gillett when the estate had gone to Shrewsbury. Had the marquess kept him on or let him go?
The gate to the dower house came into view, and Henry smiled at the sight of it. The wrought iron was adorned with flowering vines in pinks, whites, and reds. They certainly gave the place a welcoming appearance.
Henry unlatched the gate and passed through, forcing himself to march to the door and keep his head high. He paused at the arched doorway and looked up at more flowering vines. These flowers were orange and purple. The flower boxes in the windows were stuffed with a profusion of flowers as well. Henry hadn’t known his mother was such a proficient gardener. But then again, what else did she have to do out in the country all year long? She never came to London now that his sisters were married.
Henry wondered if he should knock or go in. Considering he hadn’t been to the dower house more than a handful of times since his father’s death, more than a decade earlier, he decided to knock. He knocked once, waited, then knocked again. The third time was more akin to pounding. Finally, the door creaked open, and an ancient manservant blinked at Henry from behind enormous spectacles.
Henry blinked back.Impossible.“Ellsworth?”
No, it couldn’t be Ellsworth. The man had been a relic when Henry was born. He must be past ninety now. He could not still be serving as the duchess’s butler.
“Your Grace,” Ellsworth said, bowing slightly. Henry swore he heard the man’s bones creak. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I do hope so, Ellsworth.” Henry braced himself to catch the butler if he fell over as he rose from his bow.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” The butler cupped his ear, indicating he hadn’t heard Henry.
“I said, I do hope so.”
“You need a rope to tow, Your Grace?”
“No, Ellsworth, I said—” Henry shook his head. “Is my mother at home?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Your mother is alone. Your father died, I’m afraid.”
Henry shifted his weight. “I know that, Ellsworth. I am the new duke.”
“I wouldn’t call it a fluke, Your Grace. Would you like to come in?”
In lieu of speaking, Henry nodded. Ellsworth opened the door further, and Henry stepped inside. The vestibule boasted paper painted with roses, as well as a cushioned settee and a vase with fresh roses on a mahogany table. The entrance was bright and clean, and, Henry had to admit, rather welcoming.
“Is the duchess at home?” he asked Ellsworth.
“You need a comb, Your Grace?” The butler’s rheumy eyes passed over Henry’s mop of brown hair. Henry resisted patting it down. He hadn’t had the funds to retain his valet, and no one but Backly had been able to manage his hair.
Henry took a breath, struggling for patience, and tried to communicate with Ellsworth again. “I said, is my motherat home?”
“On loan, Your Grace?”
“At home!”
