Page 6 of Her Wily Duke

“He is quite strong. It will not hurt him,” said Frederick. “And if it does…”

He puffed out his cheeks, as though vainly wishing for something that he knew would never happen. Wiggins lifted his hand towards the Duke for a moment, in a helpless fashion, before attempting to respond.

“But—”

“Don’t contradict me, Wiggins,” said Frederick, a scowl darkening his face.

“Yet just a moment ago you said—”

“I know what I said. Do not be impertinent. You know how much I hate impertinence.”

Wiggins had never seen a man shift his opinion so much in the space of a few sentences. It made his head hurt.

“Under no circumstances,” said Frederick, beating his fist into his hand, “is anyone to fetch Adam. I want him to languish at that Inn. I want him to pace his room miserably from morning to morning. I want him to suffer the indignities of the poor and helpless!”

“Very well, Sir,” said Wiggins, realising that there was nothing more he could do. “But what will the people think of you?”

“The people?”

“The staff, the tenants who rent your land, the surrounding villagers who hold Lord Whitewell in the highest esteem? If they learn that the son of the late Duke had to wade through dirt and dust in the heat because of his brother’s rudeness, it will create a scandal. Popular opinion will favour him, not you. You will be disgraced.” Frederick had been gritting his teeth since the mention of his father. Any reminder that someone else had once been the Duke of Foxridge irritated him. Still more did it irritate him to be reminded that his younger brother was still beloved throughout the county, while he languished in his study in isolation. “I am not trying to take sides,” Wiggins continued, “I merely feel that it would be in your best interests—”

“No need to say more,” said Frederick with a wave of his hand. “I see that I have been betrayed on all sides. My own servants conspire against me, hoping to raise up my successor. My rival.” He bit his lower lip. “Answer me this — was this the first letter that you’ve received from Lord Whitewell in the past year, or have there been others?”

Wiggins hesitated then exhaled loudly.

“He has written many letters, Your Grace. Not just to me but to other members of the staff. Full of the soundest and most helpful suggestions, I assure you.”

“As I suspected! He’s not even here and still he undermines my authority. How much more so will it be, when he returns home, when he’s once again living under this roof!”

“Yet perhaps if you would accept some of his advice,” said Wiggins in an apologetic tone, his voice quivering slightly, “he would not need to operate in secret.”

“Follow his advice — follow your advice!” said Frederick. He paced back and forth in front of the fire, his hands behind him, looking indignant. “What can a man do when he is surrounded by traitors?”

“Am I correct in thinking that you have torn up and burned every letter which he has sent you?” asked Wiggins.

“Of course I have!” said Frederick, stopping at once and flexing his jaw muscles menacingly. “All of them full of his ‘wisdom’. ‘Do not throw that party.’ ‘Do not hire more maids than you can afford.’ ‘Lower the price of rent to keep the tenants happy.’ As if he could run this estate better. He would do well to remember that I am the Duke — not he!”

Wiggins let out a loud and profound sigh.

Keeping up with his volatile master’s changes in mood was exhausting. He could be spiteful and vindictive one minute, melancholy and self-pitying in the next. He could even be found in a jovial mood occasionally. Yet he was perpetually plagued by insecurities and self-doubt. He seemed sometimes to regret his petty mistreatments of others even in the moment that they were committed.

Yet Wiggins had gained a certain privilege during his many years of service to the family. It was only this which caused him to broach an extremely sensitive subject.

“You have spent,” he said, bracing himself for the blow which was surely coming— “you have spent so much of your income since the late Duke’s death, that you have spent almost everything you have.” Frederick gritted his teeth, yet said nothing. “But you are not yet ruined,” said Wiggins, bravely pressing his point. “There is still time to right the course. I am convinced that your brother can help you, if you will but allow him.”

“Perhaps I will,” Frederick said sarcastically. “But first he'll have to find his way back here.”

“Which he now has,” came a powerful voice through the partially open door.

It swung open wide, and the imposing figure of Adam Villiers entered the room.

*****

“I think that Lady Caroline is lonely.”

Benjamin Mowatt looked up from last week’s London newssheet, which one of the villagers had dropped off to him that morning, and frowned at his daughter, his mind only then catching up with what she’d said.

“Lonely? Why?”