“Do you know what it is you’re looking for?”
He balanced the bulky ledger on his lap, using his elevated leg to hold the book in place.
“I want to see the profits from the hops crops over the past twenty years. If it’s truly declining as the state of the barracks would suggest, I want to see it in ink.”
He flipped through the pages of the ledger as Viv worked the shelves behind him.
After great maneuvering of both himself and the chair by several footmen, they had made it to the duke’s study. It was difficult for Ryder to think of it as his study even though his father had been dead for more than ten years. He could still picture the old man hunched over his desk, meticulously penciling in notes along the ledgers’ neat columns. He ran his fingers over a marking on the page now, outlining his father’s crisp handwriting.
His father had been much older when Ryder was born, and although there was a significant age difference, his father had not ignored him. It wasn’t exactly a close relationship, but neither was Ryder neglected. The previous duke ensured that Ryder knew what to expect when he inherited the title one day and how to manage the various accounts, the tenants, and the crops.
Still, it was odd to be sitting there now, going back through the very ledgers his father had so carefully kept. He didn’t know why he was suddenly compelled to uncover the state of the hops crops. But then, Ryder didn’t know what to expect from himself these days. His attempt to escape the restlessness that plagued him had ended in near disaster, and he knew, somehow, that he could never return to the life he had been living.
He looked up as Viv moved down the shelf she was currently scanning. She wore the blue gown again. He was coming to find the image of her in her work gown, dust sleeves affixed to her forearms, strangely comforting. It was as if the sight of her dressed for work signaled safety. The restlessness couldn’t get him as long as Viv was there to keep him distracted.
“This one is from the twenties. I can’t tell if that last number is a six or an eight, though.” She tugged a bulky ledger from the shelf, sending up a cloud of dust as she pulled the tome from the bookcase that spanned the wall behind the duke’s desk.
They both watched the dust settle before exchanging a glance.
“I’ll be sure to speak with Mrs. Olds about having the room aired.”
While her tone was neutral, he couldn’t help but hear a telling ring to it.
“Mrs. Olds likely hasn’t bothered to have this room aired because I am never in residence.” He said what he knew she must be thinking.
“It would be a more efficient use of the staff.” Her smile was nothing more than a flash of tight teeth.
He couldn’t stop a laugh.
“I would be offended by such boldness, but in this case, it’s rather the truth.” He thumbed through more pages. “I should inform Mrs. Olds, however, that I intend to be in residence going forward and this room should be regularly cleaned.”
Viv’s skirts rustled madly as she turned to him, suspending her perusal of the shelves so abruptly she laid out a hand to steady herself against the bookcase.
“You’re going to be in residence? Whatever for?”
He lifted his gaze from the ledgers. “Because I live here.”
She pursed her lips. “You, in fact, live at whatever house party is currently the most attractive. Why ever would you stay at Margate?”
He placed a finger along the column he had been studying so as not to lose his place, but it also bought him time to study his wife. Her lips were slightly parted, and he couldn’t help but remember the kiss from the previous night. It had felt so right to kiss her, so perfect. Surely that was a sign that he had been right. She did hold the power to quiet whatever it was that haunted him.
“I find myself growing tired of house parties. They all seem to be rather the same. I don’t care for such tedium and repetition any longer. There are other things in this life that warrant attention.”
Namely her, but he didn’t think she would be agreeable to that conversation as of yet.
She studied him, and he felt naked under her gaze. He hadn’t told anyone of the restlessness that consumed him. If he were frank, there wasn’t anyone to tell. The acquaintances he made in society were just that. He would never go so far as to suggest they were friends. Therefore, he had no one in whom he could confide.
As he regarded his wife now, however, he wondered if he might confide in her.
The thought had never occurred to him. In fact, he had never before considered what their marriage would be like. He had assumed that his marriage would be like much of society’s unions. It would be an arrangement of sorts, mutually beneficial and serving to fulfill the needs of the title. He hadn’t before thought he might be friends with his wife.
“Such as?”
He hadn’t expected her to continue along that line of thought, and her question had him pausing.
He didn’t know.
He knew there was something else out there he should be seeking, but he could not have given it a name if it were a matter of life and death.
He closed the ledger, his hand holding his place.
“Do you know you can take a steam-powered paddler across the Atlantic now? They say soon we’ll be able to reach America in a week’s time.” He pointed out the window as if she could see what he envisioned in his mind. “Explorers have reached an entirely new land in the Southern Hemisphere. An entirely new land yet to be discovered even today.” He dropped his hand and shook his head. “House parties seem so frivolous at a time like this.”
She did nothing more than blink at him, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed.
He cleared his throat. “Haven’t you ever thought about things like that?”
“No.” She did not speak the word harshly, and somehow he thought he might have startled her more than anything.
He shrugged again. “I do. And sometimes I wonder what more there is out there to be found.”
He met her gaze, and he knew she understood he didn’t speak of discovering new lands or inventing new technology. Something passed between them in the silence then, and somehow it was as though they were starting over. But that wasn’t true. He still lived with the pain of knowing he’d hurt her, and he always would.
But something was different now. Perhaps she viewed him a little less critically. Perhaps he saw her as more than the wife society demanded he take. He couldn’t name it, but then he didn’t want to. He simply enjoyed the feelings that simmered between them.
“My sister—Eliza—makes little books for children.” The words were loud in the quiet of the study, and Viv’s eyes had gone wide as if she were putting forth a great deal of effort. “They are quite popular. I never would have thought my quiet little sister would hold such a revered place beyond our family.”
He couldn’t stop the smile that tripped to his lips. “I always knew there was more to Eliza than she was letting us see.”
Viv shifted then, and he realized she had had a death grip on the bookcase behind her during their conversation. He made note of it. If his kisses held no power over her, his words certainly seemed to.
He decided to save her by opening the ledger in his lap once more and finding his place along the column of numbers. He heard her pull the next ledger from the bookcase, and she set it on the duke’s desk. He had positioned his chair close enough to the desk that he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent as she sat.
“Are you finding what you need?”
He looked up. “I believe I am. I’d like to compile the yearly profits for the hops crop over the past ten years.”
Before he could say more, she began rummaging in the desk, pulling forth a sheet of paper and an old quill. She rattled a bottle of ink over the desk.
“Do you suppose luck is with us that this hasn’t dried out?” Her smile was almost mischievous, and he was struck by how the playfulness seemed to transform her features.
She had always been the strong one of her sisters. Slightly taller and with that mane of captivating red-gold hair, he could see how people were easily intimidated by her. But not him. He reveled in her strength, marveled at her prowess.
He held out a hand.
“I’m due for a spot of good luck.”
She placed the ink bottle in his hand. He closed his fingers around it and gave it a good shake before carefully pulling the lid free. He handed it gently back to her, and she placed it on the desk as she gathered her quill.
He didn’t know why he should find this game so amusing, or more, so consuming, but perhaps it was because it was Viv, and for once in so long, he didn’t feel the monotony that dogged him.
The quill emerged from the bottle glistening with indigo ink, and she cast him a wry smirk.
“It would seem your luck is changing, Your Grace.”
He raised his chin to a haughty angle and returned her smirk with a pompous grin of his own. “Oh, very good, ma’am.”
Her laugh was light and airy, and he was mesmerized by the way it softened her face.
Others might find her brash, a towering vixen, but to him, she was like a mystical water sprite, glittering with magic and possibility.
He swallowed, not daring to cast so much hope on this.
“When you’re ready,” she said, gesturing with the quill.
He picked up the ledger and read off the date and the yearly profit for the hops crop. They continued like that: she finding the correct ledger, he searching for the proper column so she could transpose it on the compiled list.
He only wished to catalog the last ten years from before the passing of the public house bill until present day, but it seemed hours passed by them without notice.
There was an entire block in the early thirties for which they could find no ledger, only to discover them shoved behind some piano samplers. Margate Hall did not even contain a piano. Viv muttered about setting the room to rights before heaving the ledgers free.
Finally, when the windows beyond the study had turned black with night, she handed him the compiled list. He studied the single piece of paper as his heart sank.
The hops crop was failing.
Each year showed a steady dwindling of profits, yes, but more than that, it showed a smaller crop was harvested. His steward must have diverted funds to other more plentiful crops, leaving the hops to languish.
He looked up from the list to find Viv studying him, her eyebrows raised in question.
“It’s not good.”
“Worse than you expected?”
He could only nod.
Something unexpected happened then. She placed her hand on his forearm, curving her fingers about him and squeezing in comfort. He watched the gesture, heat and anticipation coursing through him, but another feeling overcame them.
Tranquility.
Her very touch had the power to still the roiling thoughts inside of him. The feel of her skin against his sent a shock wave through him that willed his very being to settle and be easy. The sensation was hypnotic, and he never wanted her to stop.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything that can be done?”
It was a moment before he could collect his thoughts enough to answer. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Stoker. If there is a solution to this, he would know of it.”
She squeezed his arm again, and regrettably, let go to put away the ink and quill.
It was only much later as he lay on the settee in his rooms, staring out the windows at the stars that dotted the night sky, that he realized he had felt the restlessness not once that day.
It had snowed in the night, and her booted feet crunched across the grass as she moved in the direction of the hops workers’ barracks.
She had awoken that morning in a surreal state of uncertainty. She no longer had such a firm grip on her resolve to get answers from her husband, and instead, found herself with more questions. Especially after yesterday.
She had no idea he was interested in steam paddlers or explorers, and yet he spoke of them so fervently. Did he wish to explore? Was wandering the entire width and berth of England no longer enough for him?
But no, that wasn’t right. He had said he planned to spend more time at Margate Hall. What could that possibly mean? Did he intend to assume a more direct role in the running of the estate? Would he take his seat in Parliament?
Would he want to start a family?
Her heart thudded at the thought.
None of this made sense, and she was in a trickier quagmire than when she’d left Ashbourne at Christmas. This was not at all the way she’d anticipated things would transpire, and she needed to get a better handle on the situation. It was time to confront Ryder with her questions and gain a better understanding of what he meant for the future.
Because it was her future, too.
She rounded the corner of the horse paddocks, and the workers’ barracks sprang into view. From this distance, they appeared no more than forlorn huts settled into the slightly uneven landscape of the fields. The snow had coated its roof with a blanket of white, and dead and dried plant life clung to the outside as if the yard had not been kept in good repair during the summer and weeds had been left to grow.
She picked up her skirts and kept going, the wind lifting the tie of her bonnet as she pressed into the crisp winter morning.
As she drew nearer, details emerged that could only paint a grim tale. Most of the doors hung at odd angles, their leather hinges having long ago stretched and warped until the portals were no longer sealed against the elements. Shattered glass like jagged teeth were all that remained in most of the windows, and at the far end, a great hole in the roof loomed black against the fresh snow.
What had happened?
She wanted to blame Ryder, but that was an easy excuse. His absence should not have led to this if his steward had been reliable. She’d met Reynolds once, and she didn’t think it was his fault either. The man was pragmatic and sensible. This deterioration was a result of simple math.
The hops crop didn’t bring the profit necessary to maintain the barracks. It was as simple as that.
She wasn’t sure why she felt a pang of sadness at the thought. There were plenty of estates in Kent that harvested hops. Surely there was a surplus in supply. Or what had Ryder said? There was some sort of bill that had passed that had affected the market.
None of that mattered. All she could see before her was a shattered way of life that may never regain its footing.
She wrapped her arms around herself as if to hold off the cold, but it wasn’t the winter wind she felt. It was the passage of time. Something she knew only too well.
A noise from behind her startled her into turning, and she saw that a horse had been released into the paddock off the stable. The horse trotted away, its clever hoofs sending up a dusting of snow wherever it trod. It shook its mane as if delighting in the morning sun, pillowy bursts of breath rising from its nostrils.
The sight was a splendid one, and she found herself at the stable door before she realized she was moving.
The stables were a flurry of movement that morning. Some lads shoveled out stalls while others dragged bales of hay along the main corridor. They seemed to be singing to one another, a sort of call and response that brought a kind of dance to the work.
“Your Grace!”
She turned at the exclamation to find Geoffrey standing behind her, his arms wrapped snuggly around a harness.
“Hello, Geoffrey,” she said with a smile, but it did nothing to lessen the astonishment on his face. “I never did get to properly thank you for your expedition through the night. I hope you know how incredible it was, what you did. I thank you for it, and I hope to count on your service for many years to come.”
Geoffrey’s surprised face remained unchanged except his lips may have parted farther apart.
“Thank you,” he finally stammered. “Your Grace, if I may, but…what are you doing here?”
He looked around them as though she had wandered into something far more debauched, like a gaming hell.
“I saw the horse in the paddock.” She gestured back the way she had come. “I was wondering if I may see His Grace’s horses. The ones driving the phaeton that day.”
The mention of the horses involved in the accident seemed to break the spell, and Geoffrey turned, setting the harness on a pile of hay bales off to the side.
“Ve and Vili, you mean.” Geoffrey rubbed his hands together, and she wasn’t sure if it was to remove any detritus that may be on them or to warm them in the chilly air.
He nodded his head for her to follow. They made their way down the main corridor to the other end of the stable where there wasn’t so much bustle. Most of the stalls were empty at this end, although she noted they were a great deal larger.
When they reached the very end, she saw that the last two stalls were occupied. She couldn’t make out much more than a great, towering blackness swaying softly inside of them.
“Here they are, ma’am. Two of the finest horses in England.”
Geoffrey plucked a carrot from a sack leaning against one of the empty stalls. He approached the stall on the left first.
“Here ye go, boy.” He was careful to keep his hand flat as a massive horse appeared at the bars. His thick lips wiggled as his teeth emerged, sucking the carrot into his mouth with a grace that belied such massive jaws.
“This one here is Vili. A beautiful horse, isn’t he, ma’am?”
She only vaguely heard what Geoffrey had said, so transfixed was she by the glittering dark eyes of the horse. He was entirely black except for a small white patch on his chest. She wasn’t sure how long she studied him, but it must have been long enough because Geoffrey actually touched her arm.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
She started and forced a smile, unsure of why the horse had unsettled her.
“Yes, quite. It’s just…he’s a beautiful horse.”
Geoffrey’s smile was exaggerated in obvious delight. “Oh, that he is. But you haven’t seen Ve yet.”
He moved to the opposite stall, snatching another carrot as he went. The horse that moved to the bars was identical to the other, but Geoffrey was right. There was something different about this horse. It was almost as though he could read her thoughts by merely looking at her.
“His Grace was worried they were injured in the crash.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “No, ma’am. They came trotting back to the barn looking for their oat bags. That’s the thing about horses. They always know where the food is.”
He rubbed at Ve’s snout as the animal chomped the last of his carrot.
Geoffrey sobered suddenly, and Viv found herself leaning in to hear him. “Poor Ve, though, was still attached to the pole.” He gestured with his hand to indicate the pole that ran between the horses and connected to their harnesses through thick straps so the animals could stop the vehicle behind them. “It does say something about His Grace’s dedication to his horses. He never lets anyone else inspect the traces nor hitch up his horses, even if he was in a hurry that day.”
She had reached out a hand to nuzzle Ve’s nose, but she stopped at Geoffrey’s words.
“His Grace was in a hurry?”
“Oh, that he was, ma’am. He’d come tearing into the yard not a handful of hours earlier, said to ready his phaeton team. He had to be off.”
Suspicion and dread pierced through her like twin lightning bolts.
“Did he say where he must go?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “There wasn’t time. His Grace was ready to leave just as soon as we had the phaeton ready and the horses brought round.” He scratched at Ve’s nose now. “Like I said, only His Grace does all his own hitching. Doesn’t trust another soul to do it.” He turned his gaze on her then, and she was struck by the seriousness such a young face could carry. “It likely saved his life, it did. His Grace is nothing but methodical and ardent about how he takes care of his horses.”
She’d heard Geoffrey, she was sure she had, but the thoughts rattled about in her head. Where had Ryder been going that was so urgent? Did it have something to do with the writer of the letter? She swallowed the bile that rose up at the thought.
Had she been waiting for him? Had they planned a lover’s tryst?
Why did it matter?
She had spent four years as the scorned wife, betrayed by an unfaithful husband. He had not begged her forgiveness then, had not followed her in the hopes of convincing her to stay. The life he had led since then had not been celibate. She’d heard the rumors. All of society had heard them.
Ryder Maxen, the Rogue Duke, and bedder of widows and lonely wives.
It was almost a rite of passage for neglected wives.
Have you had the Rogue Duke yet?
She’d heard the scandalous whispers more than once in ballrooms across London. She knew of whom they spoke, and they knew who she was. It needn’t matter, though. It was clear theirs was not a marriage of faith and fidelity, and those who wished to share a bed with her husband were not so discreet as to whisper their scandalous thoughts where she couldn’t hear them.
And yet, for some strange reason, the writer of the letter haunted her more than any of the whispering widows and wives before her.
A coldness seeped through as she grew used to the feelings of betrayal and suspicion. This was how it always was when she heard tales of the Rogue Duke’s conquest. But even as the familiarity of being the scorned wife fell over her, it somehow didn’t fit as comfortably as it once did. Because Ryder didn’t fit the picture she’d drawn of him the way he once had.
“So His Grace was headed out of Margate when the accident happened?” she asked now.
She wasn’t sure why, but she’d always assumed Ryder had been driving toward Margate when he’d crashed the phaeton. She’d never spent a holiday season at Margate, and it was very likely her husband hosted a house party there for the season. Perhaps he’d left for a few days for a sumptuous rendezvous with another widow somewhere in Kent and was returning in haste to the debauchery he’d left behind.
But if he’d been leaving Margate instead…
Well, where was he going?
“Yes, he was, ma’am. Just as quick as could be.”
“Did he say anything when the rescuers found him? Anything to suggest where he might have been going?”
Geoffrey scratched at his chin. “Well, not so much as that, ma’am. As I told you when you I found you in Glenhaven, His Grace was only saying one thing.”
She wrapped her arms around herself once more, bracing for what she knew not.
“And what was that?”
He pushed back the brim of his wool hat. “Well, he was asking for you and only you.”
“Did he ask for me or did he merely speak my name?”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am?” he asked, screwing up his face in question.
“When he was speaking, did he ask someone to send for me? Or did he merely say my name?”
A look of understanding lit his eyes then, and he snapped his fingers. “Ah, I see your meaning, ma’am.” He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t so grand as all that. He merely spoke your name over and over. Almost as if he was saying his prayers.”