Page 21 of Her Wily Duke

For a moment Emme was too stunned to speak.

“Driven?” she said. “You mean, by one of the servants?”

Lord Whitewell smiled at her innocence.

“No. Driven by me.”

Emme could feel the heat rising in her neck, but nodded without hesitation and hoped that Lord Whitewell didn’t notice how red she was getting.

“Yes. Yes, my Lord, I should like that very much.”

“Then I’ll bring the curricle around after the lesson,” he said. “I don’t want you standing outside in the cold. Wait for me in the main entrance foyer, near the door!”

*****

As promised, Lord Whitewell met her at the front of the house an hour and a half later, after she and Lady Caroline had finished the day’s lesson.

For a time neither Emme nor Lord Whitewell spoke as he drove the small carriage down the road connecting Foxridge Park to Foxridge Village. Adam’s focus was on properly driving the curricle, a light vehicle which, in the hands of an inexperienced driver might easily turn over, or end up running off the road. Emme did not mind, of course - the danger was half of what made it fun for her – but it rapidly became obvious to her that Lord Whitewell was a very experienced driver, and most unlikely to have an accident. The cold was certainly brisk, although Emme in her pelisse was much warmer than Lord Whitewell probably was, in his thin looking cloak.

Emme scarcely noticed the temperature. Half her attention was directed at the man seated beside her on the padded bench, half at the vast late-autumn landscape which surrounded them. The massive oaks on either side of them had long since shed their leaves and stood naked against the iron-grey sky. For a time in late October those leaves had carpeted the ground around them, transforming the world into a riot of colour. Now they were gone, buried under recent snowfalls, trampled under by hooves, and swallowed by puddles as grey as the clouds they reflected.

After a few minutes Emme began to feel pleasantly warm. This surprised her, as her pelisse was not the thickest of garments, although the fur did really make a difference. Occasionally she risked a glance over at Lord Whitewell. He did not smile, but a curious light gleamed in his eyes, conveying a feeling of effortless happiness. She wondered at what might be making him so happy, given the events of recent weeks, then pushed that thought aside, and chose to simply enjoy the drive. It was entirely mysterious to her how she, a woman who had long been known for her obstinacy and defiance, could be soothed into perfect peace by the company of this man.

When the creaking and tumble of a branch directly behind them startled the horses, nearly upsetting the carriage for a moment, Lord Whitewell immediately reassured her.

“You’ll have to forgive them. They’ve been most impatient lately, and startle easily.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“They are on edge, as we all are. The ‘Masked Rider’, as the Duke is calling him, has everyone spooked. These horses in particular have been present on three separate occasions when a carriage was robbed late at night on its way back from the bank. The Duke doesn’t wish to keep sending the same servants, only to have his money stolen again, but he has no other options: the only two servants who he feels can truly be trusted are Wiggins and Walham.”

“His Grace must be up in arms over the whole thing.”

“Oh, he is, make no mistake,” said Lord Whitewell grimly. “He’s taken to sleeping in his study, with a pistol under one arm for protection.”

“Oh, dear!”

“He himself has never seen the Masked Rider, who the villagers call ‘The Wily Black Fox’, but he’s convinced that the scoundrel has it in for him, and is going to all this trouble just to make life difficult for him personally. He refuses to heed the wisdom of his oldest servants who assure him that the Rider has made life difficult for everyone at Foxridge Park, not just himself. After all, it was the servants who were held up and robbed three times in the dark of night, not he.”

“So, he is at his wit’s end?”

“Quite. I have offered helpful advice on many occasions, and he has refused every bit of it. The highwayman seems liable to drive him mad before they ever meet in person. Privately, the servants have discussed not even telling him when the highwayman attacks, but as the Duke insists on being in charge of the house’s finances — against the advice of every counsellor — there’s really no way that they can hide the fact.”

“So the highwayman keeps attacking, and the Duke sinks further into debt as the estate’s funds are stolen, bit by bit,” said Emme in a low voice. “Who benefits?”

“That’s the really interesting question, isn’t it?” said Lord Whitewell as he slowed the curricle before a large branch which had fallen into the middle of the road and was now blocking their way forward. “My brother is so desperate for funds that he has had no choice but to drive the price of rent up higher and higher, which could have been expected to lead to rioting. And yet the tenants are not angry. If anything, they seem as cheerful as ever, and — more to the point — not one has been late in his payments since the highwayman was first sighted.”

Emme remained thoughtful as Lord Whitewell got out of the carriage to move the fallen log so that they could pass. By the time he returned, she was sure that she had come close to solving the mystery.

“So the highwayman,” she said, “must be one of them. One of the tenants!”

Lord Whitewell smiled at her cleverness.

“The thought has occurred to the Duke,” he said, “to several of us, in fact. You didn’t hear this from me, but—” Lord Whitewell leaned over and whispered in her ear, “the Duke has tried sending spies to befriend the tenants and learn their secrets. He was certain that one of them would give away the Rider’s identity.”

“Have they?”

Lord Whitewell laughed.