Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston
Chapter Three
Wildwood—April 1810
Emery Jenson awakened after a brief sleep. She rose and changed out of her gown, which she had fallen asleep in when she came home last night. She had spent every waking hour at the Duke of Winslow’s bedside for the past three weeks. The duchess was in London for the start of the Season and had been informed of her husband’s ill health.
She had chosen not to return home.
The couple had never been close. Or at least not ever since Emery arrived in Kent with her parents, who came to work as steward and housekeeper at Wildwood ten years ago. The duchess spent a majority of her time in London or traveling to see friends. Emery could count on one hand the times Her Grace had come to stay at the country estate. The duke rarely left Wildwood unless it was to go visit one of his other numerous properties.
They must have been close at one time. At least enough to make two sons together. The marquess, Winslow’s older son, came to Wildwood even less than his mother. When Emery and her parents arrived to work on the estate, the marquess was away at school. He had returned for a couple of weeks before leaving for university. He spent holidays in the city with his mother or visiting school chums, making only the occasional visit to Wildwood. It hurt her to see how much the duke loved the boy and how his heir apparent treated His Grace as if his father were rubbish.
There had been a younger son. The only reason Emery knew of him was from running across his grave in the churchyard. She had a keen interest in history and found a great deal could be learned about a place and its people from reading headstones. It was there she stumbled across the Notley family plot and found the grave of young Anthony Notley, who had died a few months before his seventh birthday. Neither the duke nor any of the staff ever spoke of the boy. She supposed his youthful death had been a painful experience for all and curbed her natural curiosity, vowing never to ask anyone about the boy.
She repaired her hair, removing a few pins and smoothing the locks before sliding the pins back into place. That would have to do. She needed to get Papa his breakfast and then head back to the main house, where her mother would have arrived a few hours ago to supervise the servants starting their day.
Emery boiled water for tea and then poached an egg for her father, the only thing he would eat for breakfast. Worry filled her. Papa had seemed different lately. She couldn’t put her finger on it but something troubled him. She was loath to speak to her mother about it. Mama already had so much responsibility running Wildwood. Usually, Emery helped with some of those tasks, just as she aided her father with estate business. Lately, though, she had spent the bulk of her time nursing the duke.
“Good morning, my dear.”
She glanced up. “Hello, Papa. Your breakfast is almost ready. I’ll let the tea steep a minute longer.”
He seated himself and tapped on his egg as she studied him. He seemed his usual self today. Even in good spirits, judging by his smile.
She poured his tea and added the two lumps of sugar which he insisted made it drinkable. Passing the cup and saucer to him, he took it and rested it on the table.
“I need to go to the house now,” she informed him.
“Will you be with His Grace all day?”
“Most likely.”
“Any improvement?”
She sighed. “None. He has grown progressively weaker. Mama asked Mr. Sevill to write to Her Grace and the marquess and implore them to return home.”
Concern filled his face. “It is that serious?”
“Yes, Papa. I don’t think His Grace has long to live.”
Emery leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “I am sorry I have abandoned you lately in order to tend to His Grace. I miss working with you.”
“That is quite all right, my dear. I can manage on my own. You caring for the duke allows your mama to run the household, knowing His Grace is in good hands. If not for you, she would need to be by his side since his family is not in residence.”
“Is everything going well on the estate, Papa?”
He looked perplexed by her question. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “No reason. I suppose I miss having a hand in things. That’s all.”
“I will see you later,” he said, lifting his cup and sipping from it.
“Goodbye,” she called as she went out the door.
As she left the cottage they lived in, a perk of Papa being the estate’s manager, she hoped her misgivings would be proven wrong. Her father had always been in excellent health. He was fifteen years older than her mother, waiting to wed until he was forty. She supposed since he was now in his mid-sixties, it was only natural that he slowed a little bit, both physically and mentally. She still planned to keep an eye out for him, though. If he needed her to take on more of the estate’s business, she was more than willing. She enjoyed the work and especially liked dealing with the tenants, many of whom felt like family to her.
Emery arrived at the house and cut through the kitchens, waving to Cook. She passed her mother, who was in conversation with Mr. Sevill, the butler. She had never seen a servant more loyal to his master than Sevill was to the duke.
Nodding to them as she passed, she hurried up the back stairs to His Grace’s rooms. Thomas, the head footman, sat by the bed.
“How is he?” she asked softly.
“A bit restless, Miss Jenson. He slept but kept thrashing about. I don’t know how much rest he truly got.”
“Thank you, Thomas. Go get yourself something to eat and then sleep a few hours.”
He smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Jenson.”
She took his place in the chair next to the bed and studied the man lying there. The Duke of Winslow had turned seventy his last birthday and up until then had been in excellent health. Shortly after his birthday, he had come down with a nasty cold which he hadn’t been able to shake. From there, it seemed his health went downhill. Now, he had been bedridden the past few weeks, his breathing labored, and he possessed no appetite. The village doctor had been called in and had bled His Grace, which had done nothing to improve his condition and only seemed to weaken him instead.
He groaned and opened his rheumy eyes, blinking as he looked around. Then a coughing fit seized him. She helped him to sit up, firmly patting his back before easing him back onto the pillows.
“Some broth, Your Grace?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Tea,” he rasped.
A pot sat on a table next to the bed. Though it wouldn’t be hot, she poured it anyway. Emery had him sit up so she could fluff his pillows and then gave him the cup, bringing her hands around his to guide it to his parched lips. He took a few sips and then pushed it away.
“So . . . tired,” he managed to say.
“I know you are, Your Grace. Try and get some rest. I will be here if you need anything.”
He did as she instructed and Emery sat for another two hours, thinking about the spring planting and summer harvest.
“I want . . . it.”
She came out of her woolgathering to see the duke had awakened.
“What would you like me to fetch, Your Grace?”
“The portrait. Sevill . . . will know . . . which one.”
“I will see to it now, Your Grace.”
Emery rang for a maid and Addy appeared.
“Stay with His Grace for a few minutes. I will be back soon.”
The maid traded places with her and Emery went to find the butler. He was supervising two footmen polishing the silverware. To her dismay, she saw Thomas was one of them. She started to speak up and tell Sevill that Thomas had kept watch over His Grace and deserved a few hours of sleep but the footman shook his head, warning her off.
She understood. No one wanted to be on Sevill’s bad side. If she pointed out that Thomas needed rest, Sevill would deliberately keep Thomas up another twenty-four hours, assigning the footman meaningless tasks simply because he could do so without anyone questioning his authority. Her mother and the butler had been at war for years. Mama loved her position at Wildwood—except for having to work with the cantankerous butler.
“Mr. Sevill, might I have a private word with you?”
He gazed upon her with disdain. “Now is not a good time, Miss Jenson. These footmen need constant supervision in order for their tasks to be completed correctly.”
“It involves a request from His Grace,” she said, knowing that would do the trick.
Immediately, Sevill strode from the room, waiting for her just outside the doors.
“What can I do for His Grace?” the butler asked eagerly.
“He wants you to retrieve a portrait. He didn’t say which one. Only that you would know the one he spoke of.”
Surprise flickered across the butler’s face. “He asked for it?”
“He did,” she confirmed. “I have no idea which portrait or where it is located. Can you retrieve it for me?”
“Wait here,” he commanded.
The butler disappeared and was gone a good quarter-hour. When he returned, she saw the item he carried was covered with a cloth.
“Are you certain he wanted this?” Sevill asked, doubt in his voice.
“All I know is that His Grace asked for it and knew you were the one who could locate it.”
“It is just that . . . well, it is of his boys.”
Understanding dawned within her. Though no one ever spoke of young Anthony, the duke must have wanted to once more see a picture of the child he had lost so long ago before he passed.
“I will take it to him,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it, Mr. Sevill. His Grace will be most appreciative, I am sure.”
Emery returned to the duke’s rooms, the covered painting in hand. She dismissed Addy and returned to the duke’s side.
“Your Grace, I have what you asked for. Mr. Sevill located it.”
“Good.” His voice, usually so strong, sounded feeble and faint.
She withdrew the cloth from the frame and sat, placing the picture in her lap so the old man could view it at eye level. A smile crossed the duke’s face as he gazed upon it. Though curious, she knew she could look upon it after he did.
“My . . . boys,” he rasped, reaching out a hand, his fingers touching the canvas.
She sensed another presence and saw that Sevill had slipped into the room. He came to stand on the other side of the bed, his gaze turning to the picture.
“Send for my boy,” the duke said, his voice quavering with emotion.
“I have sent for him, Your Grace. A week ago,” Sevill said, unable to mask the sadness in his eyes.
“Then go for him in person,” His Grace said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I need Ralph here.”
“Of course, Your Grace. And Her Grace?” Sevill asked.
“She can go to Hell.”
The vehemence in the duke’s words struck Emery, almost if he had landed a blow to her belly. She wondered what had passed between the pair that had left them so estranged. Then the duke began coughing again. She propped the portrait against the wall, once again helping Winslow. Sevill stayed, too, and finally the fit finished. The duke collapsed against the pillows, exhausted.
“Do as he said,” she told the butler. “Leave for London immediately. I fear the end is near. His heir should be here. Don’t come back unless he accompanies you,” she said sternly.
For once, the butler didn’t argue. He nodded solemnly and left the room.
Emery watched her patient for a few minutes and when she was convinced he was sleeping deeply, she rose and moved to view the portrait. Turning it so that it faced her, she sucked in a sharp breath.
Three boys were pictured together. Not the two she had expected.
She recognized the marquess immediately. His face hadn’t changed much since the artist had completed his work years ago. The youngest of the three looked to be about six, meaning this portrait had been commissioned shortly before Anthony Notley’s untimely death.
Her eyes were drawn to the unknown boy, who had to be ten or eleven. He had golden brown hair that seemed kissed by a summer sun. His sky blue eyes were those of his mother’s. He looked as though he had been told to take the portrait sitting seriously, yet a glint of mischief shone in his eyes.
Who was this boy—a son no one ever spoke of?
She had come to Wildwood ten years ago. This Notley boy would have been a couple of years older than she was if she was right about the timeframe of the painting. Had he been at school? Had some terrible tragedy also befallen him? How awful for His Grace to lose not one but two sons. Perhaps that is why the duchess avoided Wildwood, not wanting any memories of the two boys she had lost.
Yet if this boy was a Notley—and dead—then wouldn’t he be buried in the family plot, next to Anthony?
Her curiosity grew, wondering if Winslow had called for the painting in order to see the sons he had lost and would soon be joining. She could understand the portrait being hidden, especially if it caused the duke and duchess so much hurt to view it.
Placing it against the wall again, she remained by the duke’s side another hour. A low moan came from him and he opened his eyes. They were filled with pain—and something else she couldn’t identify.
“I couldn’t help but look at your sons, Your Grace. They were handsome boys.”
His face softened. “Ralph,” he said softly. “My heir.”
“Yes, I saw the marquess. A very distinguished lad. As were the others.”
The duke frowned. “Anthony. Gone . . . so many years now.”
She placed a hand over his. “I have seen his grave in the churchyard. I know you must miss him.” Emery hesitated and then said, “And your other son. The middle one. He, too, was quite handsome.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “He is dead to me. He ruined everything.”
Suddenly, Winslow clawed at his chest, wheezing. His face grew a bright red. Emery pulled the cord and a footman rushed into the room after two minutes. By then, it was too late for a doctor to help. The Duke of Winslow had taken his last breath and was finally at peace.
“Bring my mother,” she told the servant. “His Grace has passed. Arrangements will need to be made. Summon the doctor and the vicar.”
“Yes, Miss Jenson,” the footman said, quickly exiting.
Emery glanced back at the still body on the bed and then her gaze turned to the portrait of three young Notleys.
Who was the middle boy—and what had happened to him?