The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

Staying, he would have to see about tackling all of these rumors and doing his best to quell them. Finding the source seemed the most obvious solution. Find the culprit and stop him.

Or, most likely, stop her.





Chapter Four




The Blankenship ballroom was crowded with all of Shropshire.

As in years before, it was a delightful country ball. Extraordinary, really. It was the only of its kind, Imogen suspected, where yeomen and tradesmen and their families mingled alongside the shire’s well-heeled gentry: dancing, drinking, eating until one was red in the face.

The finest silks merged with the poorest of wools. The Blankenships did not discriminate. Class distinction was not observed at these affairs. Once a year the tables groaned beneath enough food to feed two villages. Even with Mr. Henry and his insatiable appetite present.

The slovenly man owned a small pig farm just outside of town, and from the state of his muddy boots and soiled trousers, he had not likely freshened his clothing before he quit his pig stalls for the day and ventured forth tonight. Mr. Blankenship really was singular in his ability to overlook such a man tromping mud—and other substance Imogen dared not examine too closely—all over his floors.

She watched him with a faintly curling lip. As an agent of the shire’s vicarage, she knew she was supposed to serve all the denizens of Shropshire with goodwill and love in her heart. However, she held no goodwill in her heart for this man.

He sat at a table, waited upon most diligently by his wife, a woman very much with child. Their eleventh child, in fact. Although that did not stop the man from snapping his greasy fingers for her to hurry and fetch him yet another plate of food.

Mrs. Henry had been with child every year since Imogen and her parents moved here. As soon as one baby arrived another was on the way. Mama had oft grumbled that some men in life were as feral as beasts of the field and could not be civilized.

Mama had helped in the delivery of several of Mrs. Henry’s babes whilst Imogen helped with the children—a task that their own father felt too beneath him. Mr. Henry usually sat drinking his ale and stuffing whatever food Imogen and her mother had brought into his mouth, leaving scarcely enough for his own children no matter how generously they had packed the basket.

Aside from her burgeoning belly, Mrs. Henry was thin as a reed, her features haggard this evening. Her hair fell untidily from pins into her face. Or perhaps that was a deliberate attempt to disguise the bruise purpling her eye. Imogen noticed it though. Just as she had noticed all of Mrs. Henry’s bruises and scrapes over the years. This one did not escape her detection either. Whenever Imogen inquired about them, the farmer’s wife always had some excuse: a fall, a collision with a door, one of the little ones threw a spoon and struck her.

Imogen did not believe a single one of her excuses.

Unlike his wife, Mr. Henry possessed great ham-sized fists and was a bear of a man with a large belly that pushed against his too-snug vest and jacket. He tore into a turkey leg with his teeth as though it had wronged him and he wished to punish it. Just the sight of him made Imogen wish she were a man with the power to punish him so that he never lifted a finger to his hapless wife again.

Imogen tore her gaze from the detestable farmer and scanned the room. A cornucopia of lanterns cast everyone’s faces in a merry yellow glow as the orchestra played a lively tune. Mercy’s younger sister, Grace, called out a greeting as she whirled past in a spirited reel. Imogen waved after her.

Miss Lockhart, the housekeeper up at Penning Hall, was in on the fun, too. She whirled past in Mr. Blankenship’s arms.

Papa applauded Mr. Blankenship for hosting these affairs, and had done so ever since they first moved here years ago. He praised him quite effusively from the pulpit for organizing occasions that unified the community. Some might say it was just good sense to sing the praises of a man as wealthy and influential as Mr. Blankenship, that it could only work to the benefit of the village and the good vicar. And yet Papa did not think like that. He was not after his own gain. His mind did not work for selfish purposes.

However, Imogen did not agree with her father. Contrary to what he said, the Blankenship ball did not unify all of Shropshire society—not that Imogen contradicted her dear Papa on that point.

Delightful occasion or not, the late Duke of Penning had never graced any of the Blankenship balls. He might have invited the Blankenships up to the grand manor house for an occasional fete, but that was different. The late duke could invite whomever he wanted into his space. He had the right to pick and choose. He was a duke. He could do anything he wanted—but what he clearly never wanted to do was mingle with the many varied denizens of Shropshire in the Blankenship ballroom.

And this certainly was not the kind of event the once most precious and valued Penning heir would ever attend. He certainly had not in the days before he inherited the dukedom and definitely not after, in his glory days as the Duke of Penning. Before the truth came out. Only now, apparently, did he deem it a good enough venue from him.

Now he attended. Now he was here.

She lifted her nose a notch as though his presence carried with it an unfortunate odor.

People watched him as he moved about the room. Yes, Imogen watched, too, but she was not gawking at him for the reasons they were.

Everyone in this village held him in awe. As though he were still the duke. Still a nobleman in their midst. It was most vexing.