Chapter One #2
Henry shook his head. “No. Believe it or not, the miscreant who I will be dealing with is…the blacksmith.”
He almost laughed at the surprise in his servant’s face. It was a rather wild suggestion. If he had not received the same news time and time again from multiple sources from London’s streets, he would not have credited it himself.
“Yes, this Banfield has messages coming and going, all very secret,” Henry said quietly, his heart thundering at the injustice. “That’s where I’m going.”
“Going?”
It was perhaps a foolish idea, even Henry had to admit. Why, he was a duke, though no one in this small village knew that. There would be no magistrate here, probably. No justice who could stand his ground alongside him.
No one to protect him if things got ugly.
Henry drew himself up. But he would not need anyone to stand beside him and protect him. An Everleigh, needing protection?
Not a chance.
“You are sure about this?” For some reason, Jenks’s face looked worried. “I mean to say, Your Grace, these allegations are most serious, and unsubstantiated—I do not mean you are acting in bad faith,” he added hurriedly.
He had evidently seen Henry’s glower. “Are you suggesting I am incorrect, Jenks?”
“I would never say such a thing to you, Your Grace.”
“That’s right—” Henry paused as his mind caught up.
Jenks radiated an expression of pure innocence, which was impressive for a man nearing forty with a reputation ten years ago, Henry had been informed, of a few seductions in the nearby town to Dulverton Manor.
“Yes. Well. Precisely. But tell me this, Jenks. What would you do if I could present you with the man who had attempted to sully Lady Margaret’s reputation?”
The jovial and innocent expression disappeared immediately from the servant’s face. “Am I permitted a weapon, Your Grace, or will I need to use my bare hands?”
Henry grinned. “Precisely. Here, give me a hand with this.”
He moved so swiftly around the carriage, the manservant was on the backfoot. Henry had already thrown open the door and pulled from beneath the seat the trunk he had placed there when they had left Dulverton Manor.
It was not large. It did not need to be.
“Quickly man, before the rest of Pathstow wakes up,” he hissed under his breath, excitement rushing through his veins.
He shouldn’t be enjoying this. He wasn’t, really. He was only here to avenge his sister’s honor and make completely sure no such nonsense would appear in the newspapers.
The very idea of those stories being true! It was incomprehensible!
Which was why it was wild that his heart beat excitedly.
It was not as though much excitement happened in his life, Henry tried to tell himself as his fingers fumbled with the trunk’s clasp.
The war in France was almost over, that’s what they kept saying, and much of his life was taken up with reviewing rental surveys and mediating arguments between servants.
Dull dinners, boring balls, and catatonic card parties were all London could offer.
No, this was an adventure, Henry thought as he started to pull the clothes from the trunk. Two days in Pathstow, a little light revenge, and he could return to the Dulverton Club with a hilarious story that would impress.
“B-But Your Grace!”
The outraged horror in Jenks’s voice made Henry smile. Really, he could not have hoped for a better reception to the jacket he was holding.
“Help me off with mine, Jenks,” he said to his manservant, trying to shrug off the heavy elegant woolen creation of the finest tailor in York as he clambered into the carriage. It was not the perfect dressing room, but it would do. “Come on!”
“But, but,” stammered Jenks as he rushed to help his master out of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches. “I don’t understand!”
“Good,” Henry said cheerfully as he pulled on the stained, slightly torn, and much mended clothes he had pulled from the trunk. “If you would not expect a duke to be so dressed, then we shall have to hope old Banfield won’t either.”
“But Your Grace, where on earth did you find such offensive garments?”
It was difficult not to laugh. Henry had never heard such disdain drip from his manservant’s voice. True, the clothes were rather careworn, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it?
A duke was in danger unless he was in disguise…
“One of the undergardeners was getting married, and I promised him an entire new set of clothes if he gave me his,” explained Henry, as though this was perfectly natural behavior of a duke. “He can’t complain, I’ll treat him to a full suit from George Stulz from Savile Row.”
“Your Grace!”
“Oh, Jenks, don’t give me that,” Henry said, stepping out of the carriage and breathing in the air of Pathstow as though he were a new man.
The manservant staggered from the carriage, legs barely able to hold him as he stared in horror at his master. “Your Grace!”
“That’s Everleigh to you,” Henry corrected.
Well, it was rather a clever idea. Of course the blacksmith would never admit to his perfidy if he just strode in there wearing the trappings of wealth and privilege.
No, he had to go in there and wheedle the truth out of him. And wouldn’t it be easier for the man to admit his guilt if he believed he was doing so to another man of his own class? Another blacksmith, say?
“B-But Your Grace!” Jenks was still spluttering as Henry started walking toward the scent of wood and iron on the air. “Where will you stay? What will you do for—”
“I’ve got a few guineas, I’ll take a room in one of the pubs.” Henry had been pleased with his foresight until he saw his manservant’s face.
“One of the pubs?” Jenks said, bewildered. “Your Grace, there is but one!”
Nothing the man said could dissuade Henry from his purpose. He had to save Peg’s reputation, didn’t he? Not to mention the other reputations easily ruined by such malevolent lies. That meant accosting Banfield.
He had thought of everything.
“Oh, don’t worry so much, Jenks,” said Henry with a grin. “Take the carriage back to London and await me there. Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll be back in a few days. How hard can it be?”
Ignoring his manservant’s continued splutters, Henry strode forward with purpose. The day was warming with every passing minute, and it was not hard to follow the sound of hammering that now accosted his ears.
The smithy. A crucial part of any village, he knew. The hammering was steady, continuous, evidently delivered by a well-practiced hand.
Henry stretched his shoulders as he walked, just in case the man lashed out as soon as he asked about the gossip. The smithy was right before him, door open and heat pouring out.
For just a moment, Henry paused and reminded himself why he was here. Peg had to be protected, and he was the only one who knew the scandals were coming from here.
Banfield may wish to fight, but that was fine by Henry. His fingers itched to mete out vengeance. He stretched his hands, curling them into fists as he strode into the smithy. One could never tell. One had to be prepared for—
“What do you want?”
Henry’s jaw fell open, and he came to an ungainly halt.
The smithy was large, far larger than he had initially supposed. There were racks of instruments, a bench covered in what must be the smithy’s day’s work. A huge furnace on one side of the room was pumping out so much heat, his brow immediately began to swelter.
But that was not what had disquieted him. Standing by the forge and over the anvil was a woman.
Not just a woman. A woman. Henry had never seen the like, and he’d been met a fair few of the ladies of the ton.
She was…beautiful, was the only way to describe her. Dark hair, almost raven black, swept up in a messy knot that certainly wouldn’t have passed muster at Almack’s. Her hips and breasts swelled under a leather apron tied behind her back, and the warmth of the room made her skin glow.
There was also a glare in her eyes.
“Well?” she snapped, pushing back her hair. “I said, what do you want?”
Henry closed his mouth hastily. This was foolishness. He had not come here to be dazzled by the wife of Banfield, he was here to accost Banfield himself.
The last thing he needed to be doing was gawping at the man’s wife, trying not to look too carefully at the glistening skin, the curve of her—
“Sir?”
“Y-Yes,” Henry said hurriedly, forcing the distraction away. “Yes, I…I wish to see Banfield.”
The woman raised an imperious eyebrow. “Well?”
He swallowed. Of course, he should have been specific. “Mr. Banfield. The blacksmith, the owner of this place.”
Why was his heart thundering so powerfully? Why was his concentration—
The woman smiled, such a mischievous expression that Henry’s stomach dropped painfully to his feet.
“The blacksmith?” she said archly. “You’ve found her.”