The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Ten years later, 1848

The once glorious and venerable Duke of Penning sat as bold as he pleased in the first pew of Imogen’s church.

Except he was a grand duke no more.

The young nobleman had gotten his comeuppance.

The mighty had fallen from his perch and landed upon earth to mingle alongside the rest of them—even if he still happened to sit in the pew reserved for the Duke of Penning and his family.

Duke no more.

A tight little smile of satisfaction curved Imogen’s lips—until it occurred to her that she was sitting in church and harboring some decidedly less than charitable thoughts over one man’s misfortune. Not very virtuous behavior. She tried to stamp down her glee. It was not well done of her.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of her prayer book, digging into the leather, and she sent a guilty glance where the erstwhile duke sat beside his mother, looking unreservedly bored as her father pontificated from the pulpit—and any guilt she may have harbored for her less than charitable thoughts toward the man vanished.

Impudent man. Once the real duke arrived, he would then sit among the denizens of Shropshire like the mortal he was. Her smile deepened. She longed for that day. The final reckoning come to fruition. Mama had been right. As you sow, so shall you reap.

Her gaze drifted back to the front of the church. Papa stood on the other side of the altar, one hand gripping the pulpit for support. He scarcely looked up from the parchment as he haltingly read, squinting through his spectacles. She silently encouraged him. Come now, Papa. You can do it.

He was no longer the rousing orator he once had been. He had not been that in some time. Not since his last fit of apoplexy, but as long as Papa was still here with her, and he could stand up in front of his congregation and read the sermon she had written for him, then all was not lost. He still enjoyed society, and society enjoyed him. It was enough.

Imogen shifted restlessly in her pew. Penning—no, that was not correct. He had ceased to be the Duke of Penning for nigh on a year. One would think that fact would have fully absorbed into her head by now.

Mr. Butlerattempted to hide his yawn behind his hand. Rude man.

Why was he even here today? He rarely ever put in an appearance at the vicarage—or Shropshire, for that matter. It was typically left to his mother to grace the hallowed confines of their country church.

To be fair, he was still glorious. Dark locks and silvery gray eyes. He was a dark angel. Imogen well knew that angels came in all shapes, however. Ever since she was a child and found herself launched into a pond on the Penning estate, choking on pond scum, the little lordling’s laughter ringing in her ears, she knew what manner of angel he happened to be.

The boy had been a devil then, and the man was no better now. A smile again threatened to overtake her lips. He would soon learn that the world no longer bowed down to him.

Papa finished and the congregation lifted as one to their feet.

Imogen collected Papa’s cane she was charged with keeping for him, and stepped out from her pew. Moving forward, she patiently held out her gloved hand for Papa to accept as he stepped down from the dais. He took his cane, gripping it with one hand and latched onto her arm with his other, leaning a significant amount of his weight on her. Fortunately she was sturdy. Helping Papa to and fro over the last couple years had developed muscles where none had previously existed.

They started down the center aisle together as the choir sang its departing hymn. Her gaze landed on Mr. Butler for a heartbeat. He wore an impatient expression, as though he could not wait to be free of this church. Imogen sniffed in disdain and snapped her gaze forward.

She and Papa took their positions just outside the double doors. Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and smiled and greeted the denizens of Shropshire. Papa managed this part of his duties quite well. He still loved the social aspect of his role. That had not changed. He had always been a marvelous listener. He smiled and nodded and appeared wholly invested in conversations flowing around him—even if he was not quite the loquacious speaker he once was. Even if it took him a long time to arrive at his words. That did not mean he failed to appreciate the community around him.

Imogen likewise nodded and smiled and said all the right and usual things as congregants exited the church.

Thank you for coming. Have a lovely day. How is your dear grandmam? We would love to join you for tea this week. Oh, my what a splendid bonnet! My compliments on your freshly painted fence. It is the highlight of Shropshire.

The banalities ended as the last family passed through the doors and moved on. Imogen and her father turned to face the bustling churchyard.

As with every Sunday, members of the congregation lingered and mingled. There was nothing unusual with such a sight. The duke—blast it! Mr. Butler—in their midst, however? That was unusual, and highly suspect as far as Imogen was concerned.

In the last year since his disinheritance, he had not accompanied his mother to church. It was a curious thing. What brought about this development now? Why was he here? Should he not be in London leeching off his friends now that he found himself without rank and funds? At least she assumed he was without funds. She was not privy to the nature of his finances. Or perhaps now that the truth of his birth had been revealed those friends wanted nothing to do with him.

She tugged down on the brim of her bonnet so that she might survey him more inconspicuously.

He stood beneath the shady drape of a tree, adjusting his hat, looking resplendent in his blue frock coat and brocade waistcoat, his cravat impeccable beneath his chin. He still dressed in the height of fashion. At least he was fashionable by Shropshire standards. Evidently it would take more time for his state of penury to become perceptible to the outside world.

“Come, daughter.” Papa patted her gloved hand and together they stepped down the front stone walk of the church.

Mrs. Blankenship and her daughters immediately waylaid Papa. Imogen stepped to the side, largely forgotten as they started chattering excitedly about their impending house party. Their guests were very important and well-heeled people from London. The entire shire was invited to the country ball they would be hosting on the third night of their house party.

Imogen smiled as though interested in the banter, but she had no interest in balls. At nearly six and twenty, balls were no longer high on her list. Indeed, they had not been for some time.

Lifting her face, she let the rare sunlight skim over her skin with no fear of any resulting freckles. Her nose was already spotted with them. She’d been born that way. Freckled and cheeky, her mother had oft asserted.

Lowering her face, she allowed her gaze to roam over the inhabitants of her beloved Shropshire—or at least those who had shown up to hear her sermon today. It filled her with secret delight when people complimented Papa. No one could know they were her words—that would not go over well at all—but she knew and that was enough to make Imogen feel warm inside.

She squinted against the bright morning glare.

Mr. Butler no longer stood alone. He had moved and was now chatting with the very elegant baroness. She frowned slightly. Strange indeed. Imogen had never seen them in conversation before.

The widow was not in the first blush of youth—or even the second blush of youth. Of course she was no ancient dragon either. She had to be close to a decade older than Mr. Butler, but she was still an exceptionally handsome woman with vividly dark hair and translucent skin.

Her daughter stood near her, shifting awkwardly from slippered foot to slippered foot as her mother conversed with the former duke. The baroness touched the girl’s arm, and brought her in closer, determined, it seemed, that she participate in the conversation. Mr. Butler angled his head and listened with a rapt expression as the blushing girl murmured something.

Oh, dear.Imogen narrowed her gaze on the trio. She dearly hoped Butler had no designs on the baroness’s daughter—and that the baroness would not actually humor his designs if he did.

The young girl would soon be traveling to London for her first season. Once she turned ten and eight, she would officially be on the market. She would doubtlessly find more suitable choices there than an illegitimate scoundrel, who clearly only had interest in her dowry.

A year ago he had been living the life of a spoiled nobleman, paying no mind to the baroness or her daughter or anyone else in the village of Shropshire. He cared naught for anyone or anything save his own pleasures.

Obviously, he’d had a change of heart. The baroness was no longer beneath his notice. In fact, her daughter would now be quite the catch for the likes of him and well he knew it.

She felt her lips purse in disapproval. Imogen could not stand by silently as he ruined the poor girl’s life. She knew all about young girls with their shimmering hopes who fell prey to silver-tongued devils. She knew too well.

Mercy Kittinger sidled close to Imogen’s side.

“Your duke is looking as dapper as ever this morning,” she murmured for her ears alone.

“He is not my duke. Or a duke, for that matter,” she corrected her friend while trying not to sound too gleeful.

Mercy stared at Mr. Butler in a considering fashion. “’Tis a shame to see though.”

“What’s that?”

“Young Annis staring after the duke calf-eyed. You must not approve.” Mercy looked at her knowingly. Her long-time friend was well versed in Imogen’s dislike of the former duke. She did not fully understand it, of course, but she knew of it. Imogen had never shared the particulars of that day in the conservatory. Some shames were best kept private.

“She’s young and impressionable.” Imogen shrugged. “Mr. Butler is handsome and still possesses an air of consequence. It will take time for others to see that he is no longer eligible.” Papa chortled at something Mrs. Blankenship said. It reassured Imogen to see him happily occupied. “Will you be attending the Blankenships’ upcoming ball?” she asked her friend.

Mercy sighed. “I suppose I must. Grace will not forgive me if I keep her from it. She says I keep her isolated enough at the farm.” Mercy’s anxious gaze tracked to her sister, where she stood laughing with a gaggle of other young girls.

The Kittinger farm was sprawling and took up a considerable amount of land to the east of Shropshire. The Kittinger house itself was almost an hour’s ride by carriage. They did not often make trips to the village. Sunday was usually the only day Imogen could visit with her friend, unless she made a special trip to call on her, and lately she preferred to stay close to home in case Papa had need of her.

Imogen turned her attention back to Mr. Butler as he bestowed a brilliant smile on the baroness and her daughter. “I am certain that wretched man will be in attendance, wooing all the unattached young ladies who have two ha’pennies to rub together.”

“I think he’s looking for a bit more than two ha’pennies,” Mercy offered. “He’s searching for an heiress, and Shropshire does boast a few of those.”

Imogen made a sound of disgust. “Can you imagine it?” Now he would join their ranks. Now those heiresses were good enough for him. She sighed. “Dukes are the worst.”

“Except he is no longer a duke . . . as you are fond of reminding.”

“Indeed. Indeed, he is not.” She nodded once in accord.

Mrs. Blankenship’s twin daughters edged away from Papa’s and their mother’s side to stop before Imogen and Mercy.

“Good day, Miss Bates, Miss Kittinger,” they greeted in near unison. Turning then, they tracked Mr. Butler through the crowd. The girls sighed dramatically. “Penning is so handsome, is he not?”

“And no longer Penning,” Imogen offered with false cheer, but they did not seem to hear her.

“He has accepted Mama’s invitation to our ball,” Emily, the more effusive of the Blankenship sisters, trilled, very nearly dancing in place. “It is so thrilling.”

Imogen canted her head. “Is it?”

Emily continued as though Imogen had not spoken. “He’s never attended any of our fetes before, although we have been invited on occasion up to Penning Hall.”

“There has been nothing held at the hall following the late Duke of Penning’s passing. Not so much as a tea since then,” Imogen reminded, unwilling to let the point slide. She wished everyone would recall how little Mr. Butler had to do with anything or anyone in Shropshire. Unlike his father, he cared not one whit for their community. His present interest was only spawned by his need.

Emily fluttered her hand in dismissal, still staring dreamily after Mr. Butler.

It really was too much. What would it take for others to realize he was no grand catch anymore?

“And there is his other . . . affliction,” Imogen heard herself declaring.

Emily glanced at Imogen sharply, proving she was not completely oblivious of her remarks. “What affliction?”

“Yes, what affliction?” Mercy seconded, her expression rightly wary. She knew me only too well.

“I should not speak of it . . .” Imogen hedged, her mind working feverishly, wondering if she dared say what was even teasing at her mind.

Now both the Blankenship sisters were looking at her expectantly, waiting.

Imogen cleared her throat and glanced around as though to make certain there were no eavesdroppers . . . although she knew once she uttered the words, they would be the tattle of Shropshire. The girls, like their mother and brother, could not keep a secret, but that would be the point of what she was about to do.

“Well . . . the man is stark bald. He wears a wig,” she rushed to whisper. “It’s quite unfortunate. Oh, they’ve done their best to conceal it with a very realistic-looking wig. The best money can buy, but he’s been bald ever since he was a lad.”

The girls gasped, swinging their gazes to rest on the former duke. “No! His hair seems so very real.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mercy murmured. Imogen shot her a quelling look.

“Indeed. It is very convincing.” Imogen nodded with feigned grimness. “However, if you were to give it a hearty tug it would pop clean off his head.” She made a popping sound with her tongue against her cheek and the girls’ eyes widened even further.

The sisters exchanged looks and with a quick farewell, they beat a hasty line for their mother, doubtlessly to fill her ears.

“What have you done?” Mercy asked with a chuckle and rueful shake of her head.

“I’m simply protecting the unsuspecting females of Shropshire from a grasping and disingenuous man.”

“By starting a rumor? And when this reaches his ears, which you know it will, and he finds out you are the source . . . what then?” Mercy arched an eyebrow.

Imogen felt a flicker of misgiving . . . until she once again caught sight of the man in question, escorting the baroness and her daughter to their waiting carriage.

Young sweet Annis had settled her hand on his arm and blinked up at him worshipfully. Imogen blinked, suddenly seeing herself as she had once been, so much like Annis, young and hungry for the love and attention of a handsome young man. Susceptible.

No.It would not be. The girl must be saved.

No fabrication was too wild—or wrong—if it saved a vulnerable girl from making a mistake she would regret all her life.

“I’ve done no harm, and I’m not afraid of him.” Imogen crossed her arms. “Mr. Butler has no power over me.”

Mercy made a skeptical noise in her throat. “I hope you’re right.”