Page 13 of The Devil to Pay

How are you, Sis? Rumour has it you’re as big as a house. Don’t tell me it’s twins again? I am uncertain the world is ready for the number of Grenvilles you seem determined to populate it with.

Anyway, it seems an age since I saw you last, and all your various brats. How many are there now? I appear to have lost count. I think I might need a bit of rusticating, and as the next addition to your brood is due in the spring, I thought I might give you the benefit of my delightful self for a few weeks from mid-May through June. There’s no need to thank me, I know you’ll be delighted at the prospect.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Leo Hunt to his sister, The Most Hon’ble Lady Arabella Grenville, Marchioness of Bainbridge (Children of Mr Nathaniel Hunt and Mrs Alice Hunt).

24th February 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

Jules looked down at his hands and winced. They were in a bad way and, although Briggs tended to them at night, he was too stubborn to allow the man to let him off his duties or give him an easier time of it. He’d dragged Briggs into this mad situation, the least Jules could do was to share his portion of the workload. The weather was not helping. The temperature had dropped steadily, and the mizzling rain gradually soaked their clothing until the cold seeped into their bones.

Not for the first time, Jules wondered what the devil he was playing at. Except that he really was serious about his writing and, as much as Davenport’s words had stung, he’d feared there might be some truth in her words. What he’d told Pip had been true, too: no gardener or housekeeper would ever speak to him directly, even if he hadn’t been at pains to keep his identity a secret. His mother might be a celebrated authoress, but she was a woman.

For the future Duke of Bedwin to be discovered as the author of sensational romance novels would damage the dignity of the title, and Jules would rather die than have that happen. The only time he’d almost fallen out with his mother was when he had begged her to keep his secret, which she had not wanted to do. But he could not bear the idea of his father reading his work and thinking him even more frivolous than he already did. In some more sensible part of his mind, he knew his father respected his mother’s work, but somehow, he could not envisage the Duke of Bedwin being so sanguine about his heir having written The Jewel and the Iron Key or any of his other titles.

Jules’ entire life had been a prelude to becoming the duke, a circumstance that made him entirely miserable. It wasn’t so much that he objected to the title. It would be an honour as well as his duty to become the next duke and to carry on his father’s legacy, but his father would need to be dead for it to happen, and that he could not bear to think of.

His father was the greatest man he had ever known. Somehow, he combined the role of loving father with that of commanding one of the most demanding titles of the peerage. He never shirked his duty, never failed to listen to the needs of the people who relied upon him, and yet always seemed to be around for important family events, never missed one of his many children’s birthdays, or a prize giving at school, and had read bedtime stories and kissed scraped knees whenever the occasion arose. In Jules’ mind he was a paragon of everything a man ought to be: strong but fair, confident but gentle, clever and wise and endlessly patient… except Jules had been pushing that patience to the limits for some time and he knew it.

He didn’t even know why he did it, except that if he were unfit to be the next duke, perhaps his father would simply not grow old. A stupid, childish impulse to be sure, but his father had accused him of immaturity so often of late the explanation had finally come to him and he’d not dismissed it as he might once have done. Jules was not oblivious to his own faults, much as he might dislike having them brought to his attention.

“Is something amiss?”

The sharply worded query had Jules leaping out of his reverie and spinning around to see a pair of piercing blue eyes regarding him with something like suspicion.

Jules opened his mouth and then hastily closed it again, remembering just in time that he couldn’t talk. He firmed his lips and shook his head, picking up the shovel again but unable to hide a wince of pain.

“Show me.”

He looked around again, startled by the peremptory demand.

“Your hand,” Davenport ordered briskly, holding out her own, covered in worn brown kidskin gloves.

Jules shook his head again, sensing danger, but she just gave an impatient tsk. “Don’t be difficult, I’ve not got all day and you’ve clearly hurt yourself. Come along,” she added, with the tone of a woman used to being heeded without question.

Reluctantly, Jules held his blistered hand out. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Well, that needs dealing with at once, before it becomes infected. Come with me.”

Jules shook his head, glancing around in the vain hope that Briggs might appear, but he’d gone off to get another barrowful of manure and was nowhere in sight.

“Mark, is it?” she asked, her voice softening a degree.

Jules nodded.

“Well, Mark, I am only going to treat your hand and then you may return to your cousin. You’ve nothing to fear, I promise, but if that wound gets infected you might be very ill indeed, and I cannot have that on my conscience. Please, come with me.”

With no other option, Jules abandoned the spade and followed her back to the house. Trying to remember his manners, he attempted to keep his eyes from the sway of her hips as she strode back across the garden. No ladylike, meandering stroll for Miss Boadicea, and Jules discovered he did not need to adjust his stride to make allowances for her. She walked like a man, covering the distance with ground eating strides that made him wonder just how long her legs were, and if they were as shapely as the rest of her. Irritated to discover his mind kept finding far too many positive aspects about his nemesis and was continually wandering in such a direction, he made himself remember the words of one of her more caustic reviews and was feeling thoroughly nettled again by the time they reached the manor.

She led him to a small still room at the back of the house that seemed to be used for drying herbs and flowers and was filled with shelves, all of which were crammed with bottles and jars. Arranged with meticulous precision, each was clearly labelled as to their contents and the date on which they’d been made.

“Sit down.”

It was an order rather than a suggestion and Jules glowered with annoyance as he made use of a high stool beside the workbench. A maid appeared as if by magic. No doubt Boadicea had put a curse on the entire staff, and they were all in her thrall, forced to appear at her slightest whim.

“A jug of warm water, if you please, Milly.”

“Yes, miss,” the maid said, casting a curious glance at Jules and then disappearing again.

“Don’t you feel the cold?” Boadicea—Davenport—demanded, regarding his bare forearms without so much as a blush, though her gaze lingered a fraction longer than it ought.