***
Derrick Blake, Duke of Tennyson, did not like poetry.
Actually, he loathed it.
Along with puppies (too much licking), cats (too untrustworthy), dancing (too tedious), and smiling (too painful). He had formed these opinions over twenty-four years comprised of a strict upbringing followed by a period of wild carousing that had earned him the moniker the Debaucherous Duke. A title he wore with some pride, not that anyone would know it mostly due to the lack of smiling and a little bit due to the growling sound he made whenever someone dared invoke it.
Rather like a bear, Derrick enjoyed jaunts of socialization before retreating into his cold, dark cave to sleep off whatever headache his indulgence in spirits and all-night gambling sprees had yielded. Tucked away in his Grosvenor Square manor with the curtains drawn and the candles dimmed, he would sleep for hours. Sometimes even days. Then he’d wake up and do it all over again, because why not? What else was a duke withenormous wealth but no true purpose in life supposed to do? Take up gardening?
Perish the thought.
Although lately, his favorite gambling hell wasn’t exciting him as much as it used to. His favorite brandy had started to taste bland. Even his interest in the large busted, heavy lidded sirens that draped themselves over the back of his chair at the hazard table had begun to wane. In short, he was suffering from a terrible case of ennui. Which, all things considered, was completely unacceptable. Thus, Derrick found himself doing the one thing he hated most of all: he was going for a walk. In the park. In themorning. A good five hours before he normally arose from his bed, staggered into his tub, and submerged himself into a frothy, bubbly mixture of soap and regret.
It was his butler that had suggested it.
‘Refresh the body, Your Grace, and the spirit will follow.’
Utter claptrap, if you asked him.
But at this point he was willing to try almost anything, and so when a brisk knock sounded on his door at the absolutely deplorable hour of half past nine, he’d gotten dressed, chugged a cup of black coffee without a single splash of brandy (might as well have put a dagger in his heart), and stumbled outside into the fresh air and the sunshine that Grieves had assured him would fix all of his ailments.
Or kill him outright.
Why the bloody hell do people do thiswillingly,he wondered as he glared around at the myriad of carriages and pedestrians traveling up and down the muddy walking trails and bridle paths of Hyde Park.
Given that it was the middle of February, the ground had frozen and softened and frozen again, resulting in both sheets of treacherous ice and large ruts that Derrick did his best to avoid as he veered down a lesser traveled trail that wound its way overa bridge and around a pond dotted with barnacle geese that were about as pleasant as their name suggested.
“Go away,” he snapped when a trio of feathered menaces came waddling toward him, wings outstretched and black beaks bobbing. “I haven’t any bread for you. I said I haven’t -bloody hell!”
With a loud honking battle cry, the largest goose charged and Derrick dove to the side then spun around just in time to see the other two barnacle geese following their leader into the fray. Honking and hissing, they surrounded him as he backed slowly toward the bridge with his hands raised.
“Easy there, you ugly feathered bastards. Come any closer and I’ll wring those long necks and have you on my table by supper. Don’t think I won’t. Brandy and buttered goose. I can’t think of a better meal. So go ahead, you stupid birds.” He’d reached the edge of the bridge. A wood plank creaked under the heel of his boot as he eased onto it. “Waddle one more step-”
“Augustus, Marcus, Constantine!” a light, feminine voice called out airily from around a bend in the path. “Where are you, boys? I have your corn!”
As one, the geese turned around and - to Derrick’s general disbelief - formed a single file line before chuffing off in the direction of the magic voice coaxing them with what was, presumably, their favorite treat. Certainly they appeared to like it better than duke mutton. He heard happy honks and the tinkling of laughter, the sound of it reminiscent of a wind chime made of shells that had hung outside his window when he was a boy.
Strange, that he would think of that now when it hadn’t crossed his mind in years. He and his mother had made the wind chime together when they were on holiday in Bath. It was one of his few, genuinely joyful memories from a childhood he’d done his best to largely forget. But the laughter brought it all back. Thesalty smell of the ocean. The warm beat of the sun against his neck. The weight of his mother’s hand on his as she’d patiently taught him how to tie the shells together.
She’d died shortly after that and his father had promptly sent him off to boarding school where he’d endured the cruel, relentless taunts of a bully until he finally grew big enough to put the bully in his place. By then, his father was dead as well, and he was the newly minted Duke of Tennyson. Arrogant and half-feral with a chip on his shoulder large enough to fell a tree.
After putting the right staff in place to ensure he wouldn’t have to lift a finger when it came to the running of his dukedom and the various properties, employees, and charitable causes that accompanied one of England’s oldest titles, he’d thrown himself into sin.
Drinking.
Gambling.
Carousing.
Feeding into the vices that had, for a time, soothed the raw ache in his soul left there by a child’s lingering bewilderment at having been abandoned by the two people who should have loved him the most.
But that damned laughter… that tinkling, musical, angelic laughter… brought him back to a place he’d sworn he would never visit again.
His past.
Grinding his teeth together, Derrick took another step onto the bridge. Part of him, a large part, recognized this as his opportunity to sod off right back to his manor. His butler’s advice be damned. But another part, considerably smaller yet annoyingly persistent, urged him to see the face behind the wind chimes.
It was probably an old, stooped over woman with a gnarled cane. Old, stooped over women seeming particularly fond offeeding fowl, which in turn led those same fowl to go looking for food in the pockets of dukes. Nasty habit, that. If nothing else, he owed it to his fellow brethren to tell this old lady she was culpable in a goose assisted murder attempt.
