"Working boots. The kind you'd wear if you were planning to spend time in mud and muck." He took a slow sip of his ale. "Marsh said he ordered two pairs. He paid in advance and did not haggle."
"Dukes don't haggle."
"This one didn't even try to negotiate. He just paid what Marsh asked and seemed grateful for it."
There was a ripple of murmurs around the room. A duke who didn't haggle was unexpected. A duke who was grateful was practically mythological.
"He's playing some kind of game," said Robert the carpenter, who had been listening from the corner. "He has to be. Men like him don't suddenly decide to mingle with common folk. There's an angle."
"What angle? What could he possibly want from us?"
"Land, labour. Something. Rich men always want something."
"He already has more land than he knows what to do with. And his tenants provide all the labour he needs."
"Then it's the girl. He wants the girl."
The room went quiet. It was one thing to speculate about a duke's motives in the abstract; it was another to suggest he was pursuing one of their own.
"If he touches that girl improperly…" Someone started.
"He won't." This came from Thomas Fletcher himself, who had entered the public house without anyone noticing. The blacksmith's presence commanded immediate attention; he was well-respected, well-liked, and not a man anyone wanted to cross. "I've spoken with him. Briefly, but enough."
"And?"
"And he's not what I expected." Thomas crossed to the bar and accepted the ale that Mr Holloway silently poured for him."He's awkward and uncertain. And he looks at my niece like he can't quite believe she's willing to talk to him."
"That's how predators work, though, isn't it? They seem harmless until they're not."
"Maybe. But there's another possibility." Thomas took a long sip. "Maybe he's just lonely. Maybe he's spent his whole life being treated like a title instead of a person, and he doesn't know how to connect with anyone. Maybe my niece is the first person who's ever looked at him like a human being, and he doesn't want to lose that."
"You're defending him?"
"I'm observing him. There's a difference." Thomas set down his mug. "He's coming to dinner tomorrow. At my house. To eat at my table and prove that he's serious about whatever this is."
The silence that followed was profound.
"A duke," someone said finally. "At your table."
"That's what I said."
"Eating your food."
"That's generally what one does at dinner, yes."
"Thomas, are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure that my niece is a grown woman who can make her own choices. I'm sure that this duke, whatever else he might be, seems genuinely interested in her as a person, not just a conquest. And I'm sure that the only way to know if he's trustworthy is to give him a chance to prove it." Thomas looked around the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "I'm not asking any of you to like him. I'm not even asking you to trust him. I'm just asking you to wait and see. Let him show us who he is before we decide what to do about it."
Mrs Wrightly, who had been listening from her corner table, spoke up for the first time.
"You're quiet," Mr Holloway observed, sliding a cup of tea across to her. "No opinions on the duke and our Lydia?"
"Plenty of opinions. None that would help anything."
"That's never stopped you before."
"No. It hasn't." She wrapped her hands around the warm cup. "I've known that girl since she was seven years old and crying in my kitchen. I've watched her grow up, find her strength, and become someone I'm proud to know. And now she's caught the eye of a duke, and I don't know whether to be happy for her or terrified."
