Page 9 of Her Wily Duke

“He locks himself away in his study and is rarely seen, except on Lady Caroline’s lesson days.”

“Hmmm, indeed. What days does Caroline have her lessons?”

“On Mondays she’s occupied between the hours of 11:00 in the morning and midday. On Wednesdays she takes evening lessons between 8:00 and 9 or 9:30. And on Fridays she studies between 3:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon.”

“Pianoforte and voice?”

“At present, just voice.”

“Does Frederick know that she is both a talented vocalist and talented pianist? Even when she was little, she was always singing. And Father taught her as much as he could.”

“I believe that he does,” said Wiggins. “I believe that he was testing the new teacher to see how she performed at teaching voice before he gave her additional duties.”

“Perhaps he should only be in charge of pretty young women,” said Adam, looking impressed. “He seems to manage them with great skill and efficiency.”

“I believe that Frederick could have in him the makings of a great administrator, perhaps even a great Duke, if he truly applied himself.” Wiggins frowned. It pained him to be so disloyal to a man who was, ostensibly, his master, and yet his sympathies lay completely and unchangeably, with the Duke’s younger brother. “He just needs training.”

“He needs more than that,” said Adam. “He needs a new character. He needs to become a new person, almost a new man!”

“How does one overcome a lifetime of bad habits?” asked Wiggins. “How does one begin to cultivate new ones?”

“I don’t know, but he needs to find a way. Sloth, indolence, and pride have been his besetting vices since he was a small boy. Father had hoped that when he got older he might mature into someone better, someone worthy of the honour of holding the title of Duke. It was Father’s great disappointment that that never happened.”

“I suppose it’s not too late.”

Wiggins frowned as he spoke, and even his tone suggested that he bore little hope.

“No, but as we mature we become set in our ways. Old habits harden into hard vices. Those vices become walls around us. Those walls become our prisons.”

Wiggins began to reply, but Adam suddenly sat straight up on the divan, holding up a hand for silence.

“Do you hear that?”

Adam’s voice was barely a whisper.

Wiggins strained to listen — his hearing was not what it had once been. For a moment he heard nothing, and then the sound came to him — drifting from down the hallway, a soft voice was raised in cheerful song.

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!

How neat she spreads her wax!

And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

Adam listened as the voice rose and fell, his face transfigured in rapture.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered. “It is the voice of an angel!”

Adam rose from the divan, and both men hurried to the door, which Wiggins nudged open. He caught only a glimpse of bobbing curls and a muslin dress ascending the stairs to the next floor, then the hall emptied, leaving him in an enchanted silence.