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

Imogen pitched in when she could, but much of her days were spent executing Papa’s duties. He no longer managed the number of visits to parishioners as he once did. Whenever he accomplished a call, it wearied him so much that he usually returned home to collapse in his chair by the hearth and nap for the rest of the day with Mrs. Garry doting on him, making certain he ate and drank whilst Imogen went about the shire seeing to his flock.

Mrs. Garry’s distress at the imposition of their guests was understandable. It was difficult enough for Mrs. Garry keeping the house with only Cook and Molly to occasionally assist, but waiting hand and foot on Winnie went above and beyond her duties. Imogen winced. She would likely offer forth her resignation if she had to wait much longer on the demanding woman, longstanding loyalty to the Bates family or not.

“So you have no definitive departure date?” she pressed, determined to get an answer.

Papa frowned slightly. It was ill-mannered and apparently it did not escape his notice, even as absentminded as he was these days.

“My, my, coz. You sound almost eager to be rid of us.” Winnie wagged her fork at Imogen in rebuke, sending tiny bits of ham and grease flying onto the tablecloth. She didn’t even blink at the mess, merely fixed her gaze on Imogen.

“No. Not at all,” she lied.

Mrs. Garry gave her a pointed look as she lowered a dish of bread rolls down before Papa on the table.

As Edgar’s mouth was stuffed full of ham, the juices from which ran down his chin unchecked, he grunted in happy approval and snapped at Mrs. Garry, gesturing for her to fetch him the steaming rolls. Imogen shuddered in distaste. He was revolting. What had she ever seen in the wretched man?

Mrs. Garry’s lips tightened, but she said not a word. She waited for Papa to select his roll and then rounded the table to serve Edgar.

“What do you do for entertainment in your little hamlet here, coz?” Winnie asked, avoiding Imogen’s original question regarding their plans for departure.

She exhaled, wishing Winnie would answer that question but realizing that perhaps she already had. Perhaps her silence on the matter was answer enough.

Imogen plucked agitatedly at the edges of her napkin on her lap. “Oh, I visit with members of the congregation. Help Papa with his sermons.” No way would she admit to Winnie that Papa’s mind could no longer track long enough to write a full sermon from beginning to end. It was what Imogen did. It was all part of pretending that Papa was still a man in full possession of himself. “I tend to the garden. Help Mrs. Garry about the place.”

“Oh, it all sounds perfectly menial. How dreadful!” Winnie’s pretty face pulled into an exaggerated grimace. “How do you abide it, coz? You really should have more staff to support you. It’s uncivilized,” she said as though that was a matter which Imogen could easily change.

Her cousin had only ever led a life of privilege . . . to such a degree that she could not fathom anyone living differently than she did. But then Imogen supposed that was the nature of privilege—the inability to empathize with other people and their lot in life.

Imogen nodded dispassionately, not at all inclined to explain her situation or how she far preferred this lifestyle to that of living in Town. “I am sure you will want to leave soon for far greener pastures that provide more diversions worthy of you.”

“Oh, in good time. It has been much too long since we’ve had a visit. Remember the fun we used to have?”

“Yes,” Imogen agreed. “We did have fun together.” When they were girls. Before Winnie had married. “I do miss those days.” Yet Imogen knew those days were gone. They could not go back to that time.

“How about we venture out tomorrow?” Winnie suggested. “I’ve been here nearly a week. Why don’t you show me more of your dear little shire. You have a baroness here, do you not? And a duke? Where are these most exalted personages? I would very much enjoy accompanying you on your calls to them.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not to that lady farmer you visited today.”

Imogen took the gig and called on Mercy today. She had gone on the pretext that it was Mercy’s birthday. That was next week, in truth, but no one contradicted her on the matter. Mrs. Garry did not question it; merely packed a sweet bread for Imogen to take her to her friend.

“Mercy Kittinger is my friend,” she defended.

“You should be socializing more with the baroness or this duke.”

“Well, the duke is not in residence.” Whomever he was and wherever he might be. “No one knows when he will arrive.” If he did at all.

“Oh, that is unfortunate. What of the baroness?”

“Um—”

“The baroness is lovely. And quite fond of our Imogen,” Papa unhelpfully chimed in to the conversation.

“Oh, la! Well done, coz. You made no mention you had such lofty friends. We must call on her.”

Imogen sighed. She supposed getting Winnie out of the house was the least she owed to Mrs. Garry, and the sooner she exhausted all the interesting aspects of Shropshire (interesting to Winnie), the sooner Winnie and Edgar would leave. Perhaps. She could only hope.

“Will you join us, Edgar?” Winnie turned to her husband to ask.

Imogen tensed, hoping the answer was no. She had managed to avoid any conversation with Edgar beyond superficial niceties. She was proud of herself for that. She did not relish squishing herself into the gig alongside him and Winnie for an afternoon social call.