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

“Oh, am I perspiring?” With a look of dismay, she waved her fan over her face with more vigor. Before Imogen could put her at ease, Mrs. Berrycloth was looping her arm with Imogen’s and guiding them out to the veranda. “We can’t have that. I don’t want to appear red-faced and discomposed.”

“Mercy?” She turned to her friend. “Care to join us?”

“I’ll stay here. Grace is dancing a little too closely with a certain young man for my tastes. I best intervene.”

“You do that.” Nodding, and smiling sweetly, she and Mrs. Berrycloth advanced to the veranda.

At her first sweet inhale upon emerging outside, Imogen felt much improved. The air was cooler and less pungent than in that stuffy ballroom, to be certain.

“That is more like it, Miss Bates. Excellent suggestion. Much better.” Mrs. Berrycloth descended the steps toward the burbling fountain. Imogen kept pace alongside her. The widow sent her a mischievous wink. “I can’t look less than my best for my dance with the duke.” She looked rapturous at her own delusional words and pressed a hand over her impressive bosom as though her heart threatened to explode from her chest. “La, I never imagined that would happen. He is such a beautiful man.”

Imogen nodded numbly. It was like they were speaking two different languages. “Mr. Butler,” she corrected automatically. The woman had to understand a lauded nobleman was not pandering to her.

Mrs. Berrycloth shrugged and glanced back toward the house, clearly eager to return for her much-anticipated dance.

“Are you not concerned?” Imogen began.

“Concerned? With what?”

“His recent fall . . . in Society.”

Mrs. Berrycloth waved a hand. “Oh, pish posh. He’s still a gentleman, and a very handsome one. Virile from all appearances. I cannot tell you how very important that is. After three marriages, it ranks as very important to me. A man’s . . . er, stamina in certain areas can be very valuable. Trust me. Have you seen him astride a horse? Those manly thighs of his? Oh. My.” She cut Imogen a meaningful look and then waved herself with her fan more vigorously, her skin flushing all over again. “Forgive me, Miss Bates. You must think me perfectly brazen. I sometimes forget you’re still a maid. You’re so very mature and self-assured.”

Mature and self-assured. Translation? A spinster.

“I would not know about that,” she murmured.

“His undeniable virility aside, there is much to recommend him. His mother is a duchess. His father was a duke. Perhaps his pockets are empty, but mine are more than deep enough for the two of us.”

Bold words, but true enough . . . even as much as Imogen loathed to hear them. Mrs. Berrycloth was not as rich as the Blankenships, but she was quite well set. The notion of Mr. Butler and the lovely widow together unsettled her. Her stomach felt as though she had eaten something off-putting.

Evidently Mrs. Berrycloth had not heard the rumors Imogen started.

Or could it be that she did not mind that he wore a wig and sported extra toes and kissed like a toad? Perhaps his manly thighs were enough for her?

Evidently Imogen needed to exert more influence.

“I thought you would be more discerning, Mrs. Berrycloth, given Mr. Butler’s . . . condition, but I applaud you for your tolerance.”

She stopped waving her fan and looked at Imogen sharply. “Condition?”

Imogen nodded doggedly, her mind working quickly to come up with another affliction to toss upon Butler’s head in case she had heard the others and they did not deter her. “Yes. Um. It’s a little bit of a delicate matter. I dare not speak of it.”

“Oh, you can share with me.” Mrs. Berrycloth sidled closer. “We are well past shyness. Speak freely.”

Imogen hedged. “I’m afraid it’s most unpleasant. I dare not repeat it.”

“Tell me, please. What is it?”

“It’s dreadful to say, but . . . Mr. Butler suffers from excessive . . . flatulence.”





Chapter Seven




Had those words really just come out of Imogen’s mouth?

She glanced around as though someone else was standing nearby and had uttered the incredible claim. But no. It was only the two of them. Imogen and the Widow Berrycloth.

Mrs. Berrycloth blinked as though she had misheard. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bates?”

“Oh, indeed. Poor Mr. Butler has met with physicians, herbalists . . . an unbalance of his humors, they all say.” She shrugged again, unsure of the nonsense she was spouting, but she had sat beside Papa as he attended to several of the elderly members of the community and this was a frequent complaint they had lodged.

“Flatulence?” Mrs. Berrycloth demanded as though seeking clarification on the point.

Imogen nodded and continued, “Nothing can be done.” She waved her hand in rapid little circles, hoping she did not look like someone lying through her teeth, even as she was. “He’s lost a great deal of staff over it. All of Penning Hall reeked of rotten eggs when he was in residence. Now his mother’s staff at the dower house endures it. The dowager duchess had had to double their wages to simply keep them on.”

“Good heavens. How dreadful.” Mrs. Berrycloth breathed deeply, her nose wrinkling in revulsion. “I had not heard.”