Page 22 of Duke in Darkness

The man blinked, his surprise obvious. “I would be much obliged.”

Leaning forward, Gabriel rang a silver bell, and eventually a knock sounded at the library door before a senior footman poked his head around. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Refreshments, if you would. Strong tea for me. Fruit cake.”

“Of course. How do you take your tea, Mr. Fairlie?”

Fairlie. Of course.

The steward smiled. “Same as His Grace would be right nice.”

“Yes sir.”

When the footman retreated, Fairlie turned back and resettled himself in his chair. “If you don’t mind me saying, it’ll be a pleasure to drink real tea, not the weak milky brew that so many enjoy. I’m sure the stuff I drank on campaign quite destroyed my insides, but I cannot stomach anything else.”

“You’re an army man?”

“Yes sir. I mean, Your Grace.”

“Either is fine,” Gabriel replied, the thought of a fellow ex-soldier addressing him by the much-missed ‘sir’ like cool water to parched earth. “Where did you serve?”

Fairlie shrugged. “All over the place. The colonies, Mysore, France…then I took a few bullets to the shoulder in the Irish rebellion of ’98 and was honorably discharged with the rank of sergeant because I couldn’t swing a sword or shoot a rifle properly anymore. M’wife says I’m the most accurate weather predictor in the county…oh lord, I’m rambling again.”

“What led you t-to…to…” Frustration tore through Gabriel as his jaw seized up, and his words slurred. Why now? Why here? “To Rutland?”

The steward paused, then softly replied, “You might dismiss me for saying this, sir, but I read the Gazette, and I’ve kept in touch with my old army brothers. I know this country owes you the greatest of debts, for what you did in Spain and France, and what you sacrificed to save so many others. My shoulder scar took a long time to heal, but before it did, what a bloody nuisance. Always itching and throbbing and pulling. I imagine it’s much worse when it is your face and you keep stretching it when talking.”

At the wholly unexpected comment, Gabriel stared at Fairlie, who stared defiantly back. “Blunt speaking, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

“Aye, sir. Tis my fault—”

A knock sounded again, and the footman walked in with a tray of steaming, fragrant tea and a platter of sliced fruit cake. As soon as the man had departed, Fairlie cleared his throat, then continued, “Tis my fault, and I’ll answer for it to God, but all I’m saying is you needn’t be shy about pausing or talking slower to me if your scar aches. I understand.”

Shock almost froze him to the spot. Apart from Hobbs, he’d lost so much being medically discharged from the army after twelve years’ service. A way of life. Structure. Friends closer than brothers that he’d trusted with his life. And suddenly, from an unlikely source…empathy. Not disgust, not feigned coddling or pity, just brisk acknowledgment from a man who knew. Fairlie had served for a long time, and had probably witnessed terrible things, before his career abruptly ended through injury. This was someone a colonel-turned-duke could breathe easily around. And there certainly wouldn’t be many like him amongst the ton.

Swiftly, he reached for a slice of cake, just to regain his composure.

“I’m not going…to dismiss you, Sergeant,” Gabriel said eventually. “Competent men who…speak truths when required…are too scarce.”

The steward grinned, his relief palpable. “Thank the good Lord. My wife would have boxed my ears if I’d returned home without employment. Will you allow me one more entirely too-forward thing?”

“I’d wager saying no…wouldn’t stop you.”

“As I said, sir, tis my fault,” said Fairlie, stirring his tea then taking a gulp. “And I’m even less tolerant to pretense and falsehoods than I was as a stripling. But it strikes me, while you are a truly great military man, perhaps…”

“Just say it, damn you. I know nothing about crops. Or tenants. Or land incomes.”

“For the moment. But should you ever wish to journey north, I would be delighted to bore you for hours on the topics. And answer any questions you might have. Naturally not all areas are the same, and your estates will run differently due to size, soil, and quality of equipment and farmers, but a rudimentary knowledge of matters will help in future negotiations. And…” Fairlie paused and cleared his throat. “Uncovering any inconsistencies in your ledgers.”

Gabriel sat up straighter. “Something to report?”

“No, sir. Oh hell, I’m going to say a third too-forward thing. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the previous duke…he, ah, never seemed terribly interested in the workings of his lands, only the profits made. Well, for the estate I manage, anyway. Perhaps I’m doing him a disservice, and he cared a great deal for his other properties.”

A snort of derision nearly escaped, but Gabriel suppressed it. As Fairlie noted, it was bad form to speak ill of the dead, even if they had been a wretched waste of space who only cared about horses, house parties, and political cronies. In that order. “Would you be willing…to spend a few more days…in Town? I should like to…take up your offer. Learn some estate basics.”

Fairlie beamed. “Be happy to. I’ll send a note to my wife.”

“Tell her you’ll be…receiving a wage increase. Might help.”