He would stay far away from the duchy’s primary seat at Woodglen, scene of his nightmares. He’d make a quick trip and be back to his motherless children in a month. Decision made, he nodded off.
Chapter Two
Nether Abbas, Dorset, October
Dew covered thegrass along the hedgerows and sunlight shone over the stubble in the newly harvested rows as Mia Selwyn made her way past Woodglen’s fields to the village, glad for a day away from Selwyn Court, Selina’s complaints, and Eustace’s sly comments with the horrid friends who had followed him home.
Eustace mocked her reading habits, her gown, her hair, her parentage unless Uncle Ludlow stepped in to stop it. He usually ignored the abuse when Eustace came alone, but with Eustace’s friends at Selwyn Court, he probably hoped one of them would take her off his hands. She shuddered at the thought.
Making it worse, her uncle had informed them all that some sort of cousin had turned up at Woodglen claiming to be the duke’s heir, sending Selina into a frenzy. She pleaded and begged her father to invite the man to tea, a duke in waiting being even better than a missing one. At least she had left off flirting with Eustace’s rakish friends.
When the Norman tower of Saint Peter’s came into sight through the yew trees, Mia slowed her steps, letting the countryside work its magic on her mood. She paused to enjoy fall wildflowers in a yard or two as she passed. Her much-loved dog, Hector, a great furry creature of questionable origins, matched his steps to hers, ever content to be at her side.
She tied Hector to a pole outside Adcock’s Stationery and went in to post a letter to her Great-Aunt Hortensia. Uncle disapproved of the relationship, so Mia found it easier to post privately from her pin money. If she asked him to frank a letter, he would read it and impose his opinions on her.
She passed two stores and peered into the window of Hinson’s Grocery. Hinson’s wife, Martha, managed a small enterprise, a tearoom of sorts, in an alcove off the store. The thought of tea and Martha’s pastries drew her. She could refresh herself and delay her return.
“Does your uncle allow that great monster of a dog in the house?”
Mia turned toward the sneering face of the speaker, Evelyn Duger.
“No, we keep him in the stable. My uncle prefers to think of Hector as a stray who will be driven off eventually.” The stray part was true enough, but he was Mia’s now and the only thing she had in the world that mattered. Hector knew it. He wouldn’t leave.
Evelyn gave a sniff and breezed by, into the store. Mia entered and found an empty seat in the far corner. She’d stumbled into a nest of gossips, and most of the tables were full. The buzz of conversation centered as it usually did on the big house, Woodglen, and its happenings.
Mia quickly realized why so many ladies were present. A maid from Woodglen had come down and sat center table with Martha Hinson. One of the ladies peppering her with questions about the famous heir called her Mercy. This lot was as frenzied as Selina about the man.
“Acts like the duke himself, he does. He rode up flashing papers claiming they proved his place a week ago, moved in, and has us running off our feet to do his bidding,” Mercy said, tossing her hair and preening.
“Except this cousin isn’t the duke. There’s no proof Glenmoor died. The courts will wait seven years, won’t they?” Martha Hinson asked.
The entire subject of the poor missing duke turned Mia’s stomach.
“The cousin definitely exists, though, I can tell you,” the maid said, accepting another cup of tea from Martha. She probably thought it her due for entertaining them.
“I’m surprised old Fillmore let him in,” Evelyn Duger said. The Woodglen butler was notoriously high in the instep and unlikely to tolerate nonsense.
“Oh, Fillmore objected loud enough, but Marshall let him in.”
Curtis Marshall was the Woodglen steward. “Why would he do that?” Mia frowned over her teacup.
“Said he had examined the man’s credentials, whatever that is. Next thing we knew, Marshall announced that as next in line, he had a right to ‘inspect’ the estate until the duke’s death is proved or he returns,” Mercy said. “None of us have seen the big oaf inspect anything but the wine cellar and the dining room.”
“How is the butler taking it?” Milly Adcock asked.
“Fillmore looked fair to swallow his tongue, but that housekeeper, Mrs. Morrit, dotes on him. Neither one can defy Marshall,” Mercy responded.
“With the duke gone, the steward has the power?” Mia mused.
Mercy shrugged. “That heir may think otherwise. Though, he’s a weak-chinned fop and lazy to boot.”
“If there’s power to be had, greedy men will try to take it,” Evelyn Duger said.
Agnes Pettifer, Evelyn’s sister, put her oar in. “If he’s as lazy as Mercy says, he’s more apt to wait for someone to hand him power than to grab it.”
Evelyn snorted. “Some business chap in London may have the reins.”
An hour later more than one curtain twitched as Mia made her way back through the village still wrapped in thought about the mysterious cousin. Clear of the place, a slow smile came over her. Nether Abbas, a nest of spite populated by nosy busybodies, often turned its claws on Viscount Clavering’s poor relation, Mia herself. It occurred to her that a much more delicious scandal—speculation about the so-called cousin entrenched at Woodglen—might keep them occupied and push their henpecking over her lack of breeding aside for a while.
