“As do I. Stabbing a worm at the end of a hook is the most savage I’ll become, Gates. The wild game around Chiddon have no need to worry. I prefer a good roast to venison, at any rate.”
“Very good, milord,” Gates replied. “Not much good at hunting myself. The despair of my father. I’m much better at ale. Will you have a tankard?”
“I will.” The Pickled Duck could rival the finest gentleman’s club in London. A game of cards was taking place in a far corner, along with a heated discussion between two young men who appeared to be arm wrestling. “What is that delicious aroma floating toward me, Gates?” Ellis’s stomach rumbled.
A tankard was placed before Ellis, the foam thick and delicious. “Rabbit stew, milord. My wife sets the snares least you think I’ve misled you about my skill.” Gates gave him a toothy grin. “Of which I have none. Shall I bring you a bowl?” At Ellis’s nod, Gates bustled away, returning with a steaming bowl and a hunk of bread. “Mrs. Gates is a marvel with rabbit, among other things.” He wiggled a pair of bushy brows at Ellis. “The stew is a favorite of our duchess.”
Ellis picked up his spoon, dipping it into the thick gravy steaming from his bowl. Hard not to miss how Gates referred to Beatrice asourduchess. There was a reverence in his tone usually reserved for martyrs and saints.
“The Duchess of Castlemare?”
“The very one,” Gates assured him. “What other duchess is there in Chiddon?”
That was probably true. “Her Grace enjoys rabbit stew at The Pickled Duck?”
“And the occasional meat pie. Doesn’t care for lamb.” Gates frowned. “Not sure why.” He shrugged. “When the duchess comes to check on the brewing, she often stays to sup,” Gates said with little modesty before lowering his voice. “We’re partners in a business venture, me and Her Grace.”
“I see.” The idea was as ridiculous as the thought of Beatrice tucking into a bowl of rabbit stew.
“The brewing of ale and cider, my lord. Her Grace is most interested in the process. I brew the best ale to be found in the entire county. Everyone says so. The duchess agrees and is making inquiries to sell my ale outside Chiddon. Discreetly, of course. It would hardly do for word to get out a duchess was dirtying her hands at The Pickled Duck.” Gates looked chagrined. “I may have spoken out of turn.”
“Not to worry, Gates. I won’t say a word. I would never disparage a duchess.” Ellis raised his tankard. “Nor you, for that matter.” The ale was quite good. And if Gates hadn’t been nearing sixty, bald and with a paunch, Ellis might have assumed Beatrice had taken him as a lover, because he could think of no other reason why she would ever be involved in a brewing enterprise. “And the duke? Does he approve of Her Grace’s hobby?”
The furrow between Gates’s eyes deepened. “There is no duke about, milord. Only the duchess. Her Grace is a widow, milord.”
Impossible.He’d heard Castlemare’s name in London, and he’d sounded very much alive.
Gates frowned, giving him the appearance of an annoyed pug. “Perhaps you’ve confused our duchess with another?”
What a thought. Two Beatrices terrorizing England would signal the end of days.
According to Gates, the Castlemare who had wed Beatrice Howard was dead. It had never occurred to Ellis that the Castlemare he had heard mentioned in town was not Beatrice’s husband but hisheir. He’d never inquired because...well, Ellis tried not to think overmuch about Beatrice Howard, and he’d been somewhat preoccupied with escaping the machinations of Lady Blythe.
“My mistake, Gates. The dowager duchess—”
“Her Grace don’t like to be referred to as a dowager. Best not to use that term around her.” Gates tilted his chin in warning.
“I see. I meant no disrespect. I only hadn’t realized. I’ve been gone from England for a time and only returned a month or so ago.” Ellis had an odd compulsion to explain himself to Gates, something no proper earl would have done. “An honest mistake.”
Lady Blythe would reach for the smelling salts if she knew.
Gates appeared mollified and poured out another ale for Ellis.
Beatrice’s reaction to the mention of Castlemare now made much more sense. She’d assumed, incorrectly, that Ellis had been taunting her. Or that he was merely a nitwit. She didn’t seem to think him especially intelligent.
“I confess, your ale is wonderful. I can see why Her Grace would be interested. And the stew.” Ellis gave a pat to his stomach. “My compliments to Mrs. Gates.”
Gates beamed. “Thank you, milord. I’m rather proud of my ale.” A discussion commenced with Gates which consisted of the aspects of malting, barley, and the like, all of which Ellis found mildly interesting.
“And though there’s plenty of wheat and barley grown in Chiddon,” Gates continued, “if you want your flours and such ground, you have to go to Overton.”
“Overton?” That was a distance away from Chiddon. “Why?” Ellis took another sip of his ale. Gates really was on to something. Ellis had rarely tasted an ale so crisp. “Truly, Gates. This is finer than any I’ve tasted in London.”
“Half and half, milord.” Gates nodded to Ellis’s tankard. “It’s a mix of bitter ale and porter. But I can’t give away the specifics.”
“I would be distressed if you did,” Ellis agreed.
Gates poured out a mug for himself before launching into another discussion of ales, stouts, and porters before pausing. “Oh, but you asked why we must go to Overton. Completely forgot. I lose my head while talking about my ale.”
