The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Once they moved into the dining room, Mr. Butler held out her chair for her. Of course, with his unfailing manners he would do that. There might have been cross words between them, but he would always extend her courtesy. He might have been stripped of his noble birthright, but his nobility ran deeper than rank, deeper than his name. Deeper than skin. Imogen realized this of him, even as she was loath to admit it to herself. He had his redeeming qualities.

She stiffly sank down and seated herself, positioning her body on the edge of the seat, her spine as rigid as a slat of wood, careful that they not come into contact again.

Mr. Butler took his seat and joined them, bowing his head as Papa said grace over their meal. Imogen could not help from studying him as Papa blessed their food, watching him undetected and marveling at his presence in their modest dining room.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Papa declared as he snapped his napkin and lowered it to his lap. “It is so nice to have you here permanently in Shropshire.”

She winced at her father’s rather obtuse if kindly intended remark. The only reason Mr. Butler was in Shropshire was out of necessity. He could not help it. He had lived in London before his change of circumstances, and he doubtlessly would prefer to still be there and not stuck here.

Mr. Butler murmured his thanks as Mrs. Garry took the initiative to serve Papa from the large vegetable pie. Steam wafted up into the air as she cut through the flaky golden crust and placed a generous slice of the savory goodness on Papa’s plate, then on each of theirs.

It was simple fare, but delicious. No multiple courses for them. Imogen could not help but think he was likely accustomed to more sophisticated meals boasting several courses.

“This looks scrumptious, does it not, Mr. Butler?” Of course it did not occur to Papa to be self-conscious of their humble meal, and it should not affect her either. “You cannot do better than vegetables picked this very day,” he declared as he dug in with his fork.

“No, sir, you cannot,” Butler agreed.

“Nicely done, Imogen,” Papa praised. “Your mama would be proud that you’ve kept her garden flourishing.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she returned, her cheeks afire.

“Are you responsible for maintaining the garden, Miss Bates?”

“We all contribute to it, Mr. Butler.”

Papa waved his fork at her. “Do not be modest, daughter.” He looked to Butler. “Our dear Imogen does most of the work, and this meal is the product of her labors.”

If possible, her cheeks stung hotter. Butler was not like her papa. He likely thought her as lowly as a field hand for her efforts. Men of his ilk did not deem it genteel for a lady to dirty her hands, and she was certain he thought little of her.

Except his expression did not reflect that. Mr. Butler looked at her almost in admiration and she lowered her gaze to her plate, telling herself it must be her imagination. As furious as he had been with her last night—kiss notwithstanding—he would not look at her with any form of approval or warmth. He thought her a menace.

She had not forgotten his parting words, warning her to mend the damage she had done. You owe me my reputation. I want it back. You will help me, Miss Bates.

Those ominous and vaguely threatening words did not match the way he was looking at her right now. She swallowed thickly.

If he knew about her conversation with Mrs. Hathaway he would absolutely not be looking at her in such a manner. Indeed not. His gaze would be murderous.

The sight of him cozying up to Mr. Blankenship had filled her with a surge of complicated emotions. She’d reacted without thinking, the taste of his punishing kiss like fire on her lips. The kiss might have started out as a punishment, but it had turned into something else. It had turned into a kiss that she delighted in and seized and took ownership of for herself. It had fueled her in some bewildering way.

Her face hotter than ever, she took a much too big bite and chewed, glad for a reason to abstain from conversation.

They fell into companionable silence as they ate. Mrs. Garry left them and there was only the scrape and clink of cutlery and glass for a good few minutes. Thankfully Papa still very much possessed an appetite, and he very much enjoyed his food, almost to the point of gluttony. Not that his lanky frame gave any hint of that.

Imogen studied Peregrine Butler beneath her lashes as he sat in the chair across from her. The chair her mother once occupied. It had been empty a long time now. Usually it was just Imogen and Papa in this dining room, at this table, except when they accepted one of the invitations extended by members of his flock and dined out.

Lately, of course, they accepted fewer of those invitations given Papa’s condition, and they rarely ever invited anyone into their home anymore. Except for tonight. Papa had taken it upon himself to break custom.

And yet it felt nice to have a third person at their table again. Even if it was Mr. Butler. His body nicely filled the usually empty space.

Butler patted his napkin at his mouth. Only crumbs remained on his plate. “Any time you want to invite me over to reap the benefit of your labors, Miss Bates, please do not hesitate.”

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. He had certainly never sat across the table from a lady who had harvested with her own two hands the meal he ate. Now, contrary to her early self-consciousness, she felt a twinge of selfish pride to be unlike what were doubtlessly scores of females in his life.

“Of course, Mr. Butler. You are welcome whenever you choose,” she said and strangely the words did not even stick in her throat.

He motioned to the pie at the center of the dining table. “Might I?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Of course.” Before she could move to assist him, he was lifting up from his chair and helping himself to another slice of the savory pie.

The warm pleasure she had felt in her face now spread even further throughout her.

Until she recalled that one final wicked rumor she had whispered about him to Mrs. Hathaway. It would have made its way through town by now.

Her pleasure dashed, suddenly the food she had just eaten settled like stones in her stomach. Observing him last night with Mr. Blankenship, she’d had a knee-jerk reaction. Very well. An overreaction. Now she could acknowledge that.

Perhaps nothing would come of it.

Perhaps Mrs. Hathaway would say nothing. It was an unlikely hope.

Imogen closed her eyes in a long, pained blink as she reflected on the impulsive words she had uttered to the town’s biggest gossip.

Thankfully Papa was engaging Mr. Butler in conversation and neither gentleman noticed anything untoward in her expression. She was simply relieved to be spared the burden of carrying the conversation all by herself.

She listened with half an ear as her own thoughts whirled and twisted through her. She caught only snatches of their discussion. Papa’s topics ranged from theology, to history, to the upcoming fall fair and which farmer might win the prize for the best sow.

She knew she should better monitor what was being said in case Papa lost his train of thought and needed her to step in to keep him on track. Usually, she was more diligent about doing that very thing . . . but then a distraction the likes of Peregrine Butler was not usually in the vicinity.

The dinner might not boast multiples courses, but Cook had prepared dessert and they indulged in a refreshing raspberry flummery.

“Now I must come back,” Butler declared with relish as he tucked into the creamy custard. “This is bliss on a spoon.”

Papa twirled his spoon in a small circle. “Cook is a marvel. She could work in any household in the land.”

Finished with dinner, they rose and retired to the parlor. Imogen almost expected Butler to take his leave at this point, but he lingered.

At Papa’s request, Imogen settled before her harp and began to play. Most ladies played the pianoforte, but her mother had taught her the harp, and although she was not nearly as proficient as Mama, she could adequately strum a tune.

She played the solo from Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, closing her eyes as she often did whilst she played. Upon the last chord, she opened her eyes and found that Papa had dozed off in his wingback armchair.

With the music fading in the room, his soft snores could be heard over the crackling and pop of the fire. His head lolled against the back of the chair and his mouth sagged open. She smiled fondly at him.

“He’s tired,” Butler offered up unnecessarily.

She turned her attention to Butler. He stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel. A small fire crackled in the hearth, casting light on his dark trousers.

“Yes,” she agreed. “He did not manage a nap today as he usually does.”

“That walk took him some time.”

It felt like a jab and she scowled. Squaring her shoulders, she defended, “My father is a very independent man.”

“He needs tending.”

“He is well tended, I assure you. I take care of him in a way that does not rob him of his dignity,” she insisted.

He stared at her in silence, his scrutiny intent and she couldn’t fathom his thoughts. She looked back at her father napping in his chair.

After some moments, Mr. Butler’s voice reached her. “He said you’re of great help to him.”

She must have missed that remark when she was woolgathering at dinner. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I am his daughter.”

“And your mother is gone,” he added.

She nodded, feeling a little awkward. Butler’s eyes were far too keen on her. “He needs me.”

“Did she help him with his sermons, too?”

She tensed and cut him a sharp look. How did he know of that? Had Papa mentioned that? Oh, she really ought to have paid closer attention. She and Papa had discussed how no one in the community should be alerted to her involvement in his sermons. People had to believe Papa was the same man he had always been. No one could think his episodes of apoplexy had affected him in the long term and made him less than able to perform his duties.

“No, my mother assisted in other areas though. She was a much better gardener.”

“And you’re the better writer?”

She swallowed and shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to answer that. “Er. I also help Papa with his paperwork.” In truth, she did all of it for him these days. His bookkeeping had been a mess before she got her hands on it.

His gaze skimmed her face. “I’m sure you do. You’re quite the enterprising lady, Miss Bates. You do it all.”

She lowered her gaze, certain he was ridiculing her now. “Please don’t mock me, sir.”

“I am not mocking you. Rare is the individual as productive as you are.” Her cheeks grew warm under his regard—until he said his next words. Then the heat was the result of an altogether different reason. “I am certain once you put yourself to the task, you shall have no problem dismissing the rumors of me you started.”

She shook her head. Of course.

“Is that why you are here?” she hissed, sending a quick, wary glance to Papa. “Did you even accidentally happen on my father? Or was that a ploy?”

“A ploy? You think I stalked him?” A corner of his mouth kicked up and she ignored how rakishly handsome he looked. “If I wished to see you, I needed no ploy to do it.”

She shot a worried look at her father. Thankfully, he still snored on unawares. “I think you have one purpose here and that is to have me do your bidding,” she rushed to say, her voice a feverish hush on the air.

He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Have you ever done anyone’s bidding, Miss Bates? You don’t strike me as a biddable sort.”

“I listen to my father.” She sniffed.

No one else was due her deference as far as she was concerned.

“I might not be your father, but it is my hope that you will do the right thing of your own accord.”

Well, if that did not make her feel riddled with guilt.

As though sensing he was being discussed, Papa suddenly snored loudly enough to wake himself. He jolted in his chair, sitting up and looking around wildly as though he had forgotten his location.

Imogen quit her seat before the harp and hastened to her father’s side, resisting looking at Mr. Butler as she glanced to the clock on the mantel. The hour was growing late. She should see Papa to bed. Sound enough reason to put an end to this most unusual of evenings.

She doubted such a thing would ever happen again. She could not imagine another time when Peregrine Butler should take the time to dine with them, no matter how much he claimed to enjoy tonight’s dinner. He had his agenda and she and Papa were not part of that.

Shewas not part of it, and she would do well to remember that and cease her interference in his plans. Yes, she had a change of heart. Borne of desperation and self-preservation, she’d changed her mind. She would leave him be, and he would then have no reason to seek her out.

If he wanted to marry a lady for her dowry and that lady was agreeable to being so manipulated, then so be it. He would not be the first man to do so—nor would the lady in question be the first to marry for reasons that had nothing to do with love and respect.

“Papa,” she whispered so as not to startle him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed.

His eyes flitted to her face and she watched as awareness filtered back in. “Imogen? Oh. What time is it?” he asked as he glanced to the clock.

Mr. Butler’s clothes whispered as he moved away from the hearth. “Time for me to take my leave. I’m afraid I overstayed my welcome.”

“Oh, never say!” Papa took her arm and rose to his feet. “You’re welcome to stay the night, Mr. Butler, so you don’t have to ride home in the dark. We always keep our spare room prepared for guests.”

Imogen felt her eyes go wide. Peregrine Butler in the bedchamber next to hers? She tensed, forcing her gaze to remain fixed on her father so she did not turn to gawk at Mr. Butler.

“Oh, I could find my way home blindfolded, and even if I could not, my mount knows his way home. He’s well trained and could find his way to the stable through a blizzard.”

Papa did not look convinced, but he nodded, and motioned for Imogen to move in Butler’s direction. “See our guest out, Imogen. If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Butler, I’m going to start up the stairs for bed. Thank you for joining us.”

“I had a marvelous time. Thank you.”

Mrs. Garry, who had undoubtedly been listening at the door, appeared in the room ready to take her father’s arm. Imogen and the housekeeper had grown increasingly concerned at his maneuvering on the stairs and tried to be there when he ascended or descended.

Mr. Butler looked to her expectantly, arching an eyebrow as they were left alone in the parlor.

“This way,” she murmured, gesturing ahead as though there was any great mystery as to the location of the front door.

She marched through the small foyer whilst Papa finished ascending the stairs alongside Mrs. Garry and disappeared from sight.

“I trust you can find your way to our stable,” she said rather curtly as she pulled open the front door for him.

He hesitated before crossing the threshold. “It’s a short stroll. Why don’t you walk with me, Miss Bates?”

She peered at him suspiciously, her hand flexing anxiously around the edge of the door.

He gestured for her to precede him out into the evening.

Surely Papa did not mean for her to see him to the stable? It was not necessary.

The corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk. “Afraid?”

“Ha. You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Butler.” At least not very much.

She swept ahead of him into the night. He stepped out after her, shutting the door behind them. They walked around the house toward the stable at the back.

“It’s very dark out.” She glanced up at the moonless night. Visibility was low. She hated to ask the question, but felt compelled to do so. “Are you certain you do not want to accept my father’s offer to stay the night?”

“Do you want me to stay the night, Miss Bates?”

His deep voice felt like velvet on her skin. “I only ask out of concern.”

“Pity. You needn’t fret though. I’ll make it home safely.”

Nodding, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest as they advanced on the stables, her steps hard and quick.

She sent him a curious glance, wondering why he should want her to accompany him. Why did he not simply take his leave? He had never sought her out before. He’d resented all the times she had been foisted on him when they were young. Was it so he could harangue her further about her rumormongering?

“Is this where you berate me further to restore your reputation, Mr. Butler?”

Why else would he want to be alone with her?

“No need to go over that again. I trust you will do the right thing. You’re the vicar’s daughter. A good Christian.” His eyes seemed to be laughing at her now. “Of course, you will do the proper thing.”

She bristled. “I never claimed to be a saint. I’m not without flaws.” In her experience some of the most righteous people possessed the greatest flaws. She had always marveled at that contradiction.

“No, you’re not a saint,” he agreed, and she bristled even further, stopping hard outside the stables. There was no need for her to go beyond this point with him. He could fetch his own mount himself.

She turned to face him. “Here you are.” His expression was difficult to read in the darkness.

He stopped, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “It’s been diverting.”

“Diverting?” she snapped. “Certainly not my company? You once called me sanctimonious. You said I had the personality of a rotten lemon.”

“Ahh. That was not well done of me.” The levity in his voice vanished, replaced with a hint of embarrassment. If she wasn’t so annoyed, she’d enjoy his seeming contriteness. “I’m sorry for that.”

She blinked, startled. Was he apologizing?

“I was young. It’s not an excuse, but I am sorry for any pain or discomfort I caused you.”

This was unexpected.

Who was this man?

She did not know what to say, but then that was fitting as she did not know him any longer.

Perhaps she never had. Perhaps everything she thought about him had been wrong.

She shook her head and then stopped to nod jerkily. It was as much acknowledgment of his words that she could offer. “Take care riding home, Mr. Butler.”

There. Those words seemed safe.

Turning, she fled back through the dark to the hulking shape of her house, still hugging herself when she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber. She lowered her arms to undress and slip into her nightgown. At her dressing table, she sank down on the bench and began taking down her hair.

A knock at her door made her jerk. “Who is it?”

Papa’s voice called out and she released a shaky breath that turned into a hoarse little laugh. She was being silly. Had she expected Mr. Butler to give chase? Her heart raced a little at the prospect, imagining him following her and bursting inside her chamber. With another shake of her head she told herself that no part of her thrilled at the notion.

“Come in.”

Papa shuffled into the room. “Did you see Mr. Butler off, Imogen?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“He’s such a nice man.”

She forced herself to nod in agreement. “Yes, he is.”

“Such a shame all the misfortune to befall him.”

Her stomach twisted in on itself as she considered how disappointed Papa would be with her if he knew of her recent actions. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale. “Did you need something, Papa?”

“Oh, yes. I was in bed and then I remembered the letter.” He lifted a trembling hand, stretching it toward her, a piece of foolscap she had not noticed when he first entered the room clutched between his fingers. It shook on the air between them. “It came some days ago, but it slipped my mind.”

She smiled indulgently. A great many things slipped his mind.

“What is this?” She stood from her seat and took it from his fingers.

“Your cousin, Winifred, wrote to us.”

At the mention of Winifred’s name, her stomach heaved yet again. Not that a letter from her was anything dire or even rare. She wrote to them a few times a year. Papa was her sole uncle, after all, and Imogen her only cousin.

They had been close once. Before Winifred married.

She began reading, skimming over Winifred’s neat scrawl regaling them with her busy social calendar and Maynard’s many achievements at school. It was difficult to fathom. Winifred was only a year older than Imogen, but she had a seven-year-old son. A son that had been away at school ever since he was out of leading strings.

“I apologize for being so remiss, m’dear. I’ll have Mrs. Garry air out the lavender room tomorrow so it is ready for them.”

Imogen snapped her attention from the letter she was only halfway finished reading to gape at Papa. “They’re coming here?”

“Oh, yes.” He waved at the letter. “Read on. You will see. You will see.”

She looked down at the letter as though it had turned into a serpent in her hands. “Winifred is coming here—”

“Yes, she and her husband are traveling north to Elgin and intended to stop over for a night or two.”

“Or two . . .” she whispered.

One night she could endure, but two full nights? What would she do with herself? How would she interact with them? How would she sit across the table from Edgar multiple nights and behave as though he was not a wretched excuse of manhood?

Her mind roamed frantically, seeking some solution, some escape.

Perhaps she could take herself off elsewhere.

Perhaps she could be gone before they arrived. Desperate thoughts and all impossible. She could not leave Papa. She could go nowhere.

She looked down at the letter again and tried, not very successfully, to focus on the words scrawled on the page. “Did she say when they are coming?”

“Ah, yes. As I said I was very thoughtless.” He tapped the side of his head. “You know me these days. I’m afraid I’m quite forgetful. The letter when it arrived . . . oh, let’s see. When was that?” He looked toward the ceiling of her bedchamber as though the answer was inscribed there. “Two weeks ago?”

She sputtered, “Papa! Two weeks ago?”

“Yes, m’dear. Read on,” he directed. “They arrive tomorrow. Won’t that be lovely?”