The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

The Blankenship ballroom was crowded with all of Shropshire.

As in years before, it was a delightful country ball. Extraordinary, really. It was the only of its kind, Imogen suspected, where yeomen and tradesmen and their families mingled alongside the shire’s well-heeled gentry: dancing, drinking, eating until one was red in the face.

The finest silks merged with the poorest of wools. The Blankenships did not discriminate. Class distinction was not observed at these affairs. Once a year the tables groaned beneath enough food to feed two villages. Even with Mr. Henry and his insatiable appetite present.

The slovenly man owned a small pig farm just outside of town, and from the state of his muddy boots and soiled trousers, he had not likely freshened his clothing before he quit his pig stalls for the day and ventured forth tonight. Mr. Blankenship really was singular in his ability to overlook such a man tromping mud—and other substance Imogen dared not examine too closely—all over his floors.

She watched him with a faintly curling lip. As an agent of the shire’s vicarage, she knew she was supposed to serve all the denizens of Shropshire with goodwill and love in her heart. However, she held no goodwill in her heart for this man.

He sat at a table, waited upon most diligently by his wife, a woman very much with child. Their eleventh child, in fact. Although that did not stop the man from snapping his greasy fingers for her to hurry and fetch him yet another plate of food.

Mrs. Henry had been with child every year since Imogen and her parents moved here. As soon as one baby arrived another was on the way. Mama had oft grumbled that some men in life were as feral as beasts of the field and could not be civilized.

Mama had helped in the delivery of several of Mrs. Henry’s babes whilst Imogen helped with the children—a task that their own father felt too beneath him. Mr. Henry usually sat drinking his ale and stuffing whatever food Imogen and her mother had brought into his mouth, leaving scarcely enough for his own children no matter how generously they had packed the basket.

Aside from her burgeoning belly, Mrs. Henry was thin as a reed, her features haggard this evening. Her hair fell untidily from pins into her face. Or perhaps that was a deliberate attempt to disguise the bruise purpling her eye. Imogen noticed it though. Just as she had noticed all of Mrs. Henry’s bruises and scrapes over the years. This one did not escape her detection either. Whenever Imogen inquired about them, the farmer’s wife always had some excuse: a fall, a collision with a door, one of the little ones threw a spoon and struck her.

Imogen did not believe a single one of her excuses.

Unlike his wife, Mr. Henry possessed great ham-sized fists and was a bear of a man with a large belly that pushed against his too-snug vest and jacket. He tore into a turkey leg with his teeth as though it had wronged him and he wished to punish it. Just the sight of him made Imogen wish she were a man with the power to punish him so that he never lifted a finger to his hapless wife again.

Imogen tore her gaze from the detestable farmer and scanned the room. A cornucopia of lanterns cast everyone’s faces in a merry yellow glow as the orchestra played a lively tune. Mercy’s younger sister, Grace, called out a greeting as she whirled past in a spirited reel. Imogen waved after her.

Miss Lockhart, the housekeeper up at Penning Hall, was in on the fun, too. She whirled past in Mr. Blankenship’s arms.

Papa applauded Mr. Blankenship for hosting these affairs, and had done so ever since they first moved here years ago. He praised him quite effusively from the pulpit for organizing occasions that unified the community. Some might say it was just good sense to sing the praises of a man as wealthy and influential as Mr. Blankenship, that it could only work to the benefit of the village and the good vicar. And yet Papa did not think like that. He was not after his own gain. His mind did not work for selfish purposes.

However, Imogen did not agree with her father. Contrary to what he said, the Blankenship ball did not unify all of Shropshire society—not that Imogen contradicted her dear Papa on that point.

Delightful occasion or not, the late Duke of Penning had never graced any of the Blankenship balls. He might have invited the Blankenships up to the grand manor house for an occasional fete, but that was different. The late duke could invite whomever he wanted into his space. He had the right to pick and choose. He was a duke. He could do anything he wanted—but what he clearly never wanted to do was mingle with the many varied denizens of Shropshire in the Blankenship ballroom.

And this certainly was not the kind of event the once most precious and valued Penning heir would ever attend. He certainly had not in the days before he inherited the dukedom and definitely not after, in his glory days as the Duke of Penning. Before the truth came out. Only now, apparently, did he deem it a good enough venue from him.

Now he attended. Now he was here.

She lifted her nose a notch as though his presence carried with it an unfortunate odor.

People watched him as he moved about the room. Yes, Imogen watched, too, but she was not gawking at him for the reasons they were.

Everyone in this village held him in awe. As though he were still the duke. Still a nobleman in their midst. It was most vexing.

The Duke of Penning was not in this room. Indeed not. Only Mr. Butler was in attendance.

Penniless and rankless, albeit handsome, Mr. Butler.

Imogen nodded once and told herself to stop searching him out. She’d done enough of that. It felt rather desperate. It made her feel like one of the ladies who couldn’t keep their eyes off him. Usually it was because of his dashing good looks. He cut an impeccable figure in his smart and still fashionable attire.

But there was more to it tonight. There was a difference. There were more to the stares he was eliciting.

For a start, the long looks he garnered had nothing to do with his appearance. Not anymore. Not this night. The whispers behind fans and gloved hands were all about the latest on dit.

The rumors circulating about him.

She need not hear everyone’s words to know what they were saying—more or less. They were speaking the words she herself had breathed to life. The on dit she had created.

“You’ve been busy,” Mercy’s sudden voice remarked.

Imogen jerked at the arrival of her friend beside her. Her hand flew to press over her startled heart. “Oh,” she exhaled. “Mercy, dearest. How lovely you look this evening. Is that a new gown?” Imogen leaned forward to press a kiss to the young woman’s cheek.

Mercy gestured to her gown—a garment Imogen had seen her friend wear many times before. “This tired thing?” In fact, Mercy had worn the same gown to the Blankenships’ last two country balls, and Imogen well remembered it.

Mercy’s farm was quite prosperous, but one would never know it from the humble manner in which she lived. Plump pockets did not prompt her to spend money on herself and buy new frocks. She saw to it that her sister was always outfitted accordingly, but not Mercy. She never indulged in fripperies for herself.

She also had her brother with whom to contend. She often bemoaned the fact that Bede was a bit of a spendthrift. Since finishing school, he spent very little of his time at his family home. He rarely visited—even on holidays. Imogen could not recall the last time she had seen him. He left the management of the farm to Mercy, devoting most of his time to his leisure pursuits in Town. Mercy was, in effect, the head of her family, shouldering all the responsibilities whilst her siblings led carefree existences. It was likely why Imogen was so drawn to her. Mercy understood all about obligation and duty to one’s family.

“Yes,” Imogen insisted. “Your dress is lovely.”

“Tsk! Rubbish.” Mercy swatted her with her fan. “Now you’re just trying to distract me with your lovely lies.” Mercy’s dark eyes danced. “And speaking of lies.”

Imogen ignored the pointed mention of lies, asking instead, “Why would I be attempting to distract you?”

“To keep from talking about all the natter floating about town. Would you know anything about that, Imogen? Hm?”

Imogen sighed and decided not to pretend ignorance of her friend’s meaning. They were well beyond that. Mercy had been there, after all. She had stood witness to the first lie Imogen had uttered regarding Mr. Butler—when Imogen informed the Blankenship sisters that he was stark bald and wore a wig.

“Just a few more carefully placed words here and there.” Imogen sniffed and took a sip from her glass of punch. “No more than that.”

Mercy lifted an eyebrow and sipped from her own punch. “Apparently a few more carefully placed words served its purpose. It took not five minutes upon arrival before I heard the latest tattle about Mr. Butler. You’re quite the yarn spinner. I never realized you possessed such an imagination.”

“I can be creative when called upon.”

“And you’re called upon to be creative now?” One of Mercy’s dark eyebrows arched sharply.

Imogen gave a mild shrug, and lifted her glass for another sip, returning her attention to the dance floor. Mercy followed her gaze. They watched the colorful dancers for several moments. Standing by and watching was a familiar habit.

Like Imogen, Mercy was not interested in attracting a dance partner. Imogen might once have had dreams of dancing the night away in the arms of a dashing gentleman, but it had been a long time since she harbored those kinds of aspirations. As two firmly on the shelf spinsters, it had been several years since either Imogen or Mercy were even asked to dance at one of these things. They were content to chat and watch and keep a vigilant eye on Mercy’s sister who did have those aspirations.

Although tonight Imogen found herself distracted from their usual easy flow of conversation. Mercy’s words of caution from the other day echoed in her mind. When this reaches his ears, which you know it will, and he finds out you are the source . . . what then?

Indeed. What then?

Imogen tried to envision that moment and what she would say. What would she do? Was there some way she might avoid the man? Could she feign ignorance? Deny all accusations? Or should she simply confess her actions and tell him why she had felt compelled to ruin his matrimonial prospects? She cringed at the notion of having such a conversation with him. Such a candid exchange would not be an easy thing.

Pushing the unwelcome prospect from her mind, she did her best to follow Mercy’s conversation and contribute her own remarks. It was difficult. Maintaining a discussion while tracking Mr. Butler was a challenge.

She watched him edge the ballroom, heading toward Emily Blankenship with long strides and a steely-eyed purpose. Blast the man for still looking so very handsome. His change in circumstances had done nothing to alter his physical appeal. Unfortunately.

Emily’s eyes widened at his approach. In a less than discreet move, the girl spun around and dove awkwardly down the corridor for the ladies’ retiring room, reminding Imogen of a hen fleeing the fox.

Imogen lifted her cup to her lips to hide her smile.

Apparently Mercy did not miss the little interaction either. She tsked. “Well. Your words have certainly done the trick.”

Imogen shoved the guilt away that threatened to beset her. She would not let such emotion torment her. She knew the manner of man Mr. Butler was, and she knew the hope that brimmed in these young girls’ hearts. She would not permit him to crush any of them.

He was only looking to find an heiress and use her for his gain. He needed an heiress for what she could bring to him, for his own salvation—not for who she was. Not for reasons of affection or respect. And while Imogen knew that was often the way it was in marriages—they were rarely formed on the basis of love or fondness—she could not look at him without remembering that disagreeable lad by the pond . . . and later the young nobleman in the conservatory.

Why was it that the wretched memories were always the ones that stuck with you?

The warm memories, such as her mother’s laugh, her mother’s face . . . those grew dim with time. The harder Imogen tried to pull those memories from where they were buried in the far recesses of her mind, the more elusive they became.

But not the wretched memories. Those were clearly imprinted. Never to be erased. It was not fair how it worked out like that.

“You realize you could be ruining him.”

Imogen stiffened at Mercy’s words.

“His fate should not rest on me or anyone. Nor should it rest on his marriage to someone else. His fate is in his own hands.” Her parents had always told her that—happiness came from within a person.

“You think so?” Mercy queried thoughtfully.

She heard the doubt in her friend’s voice, and even felt a little bit of it creeping in on herself, but she chose not to react to it.

Mercy could not understand. She had no personal experience with Butler. She had not been the one to suffer those afternoon teas at Penning Hall that her well-meaning parents insisted were obligatory given the Duke of Penning’s total and unfettered influence over their lives.

That’s what being the Duke of Penning was. Power. The position meant power and absolute authority over those born mere mortals.

That was why it had been so gratifying to learn that the prized Penning heir was in fact no heir at all. He was mortal.

No winged seraph, but mortal. Vulnerable to wounds. Just. Like. Them.

Just like Imogen.

Even at a young age Imogen knew her family existed at the Duke of Penning’s whims. His pleasure with her family dictated everything for them. How many frocks she and Mama possessed, how often they indulged in desserts, their summer trips to visit family in London and whether they took spring holiday in Brighton so that they could frolic in the sea waves.

From the start, Imogen had been aware that they were just as beholden as the lowest scullery maid to the Duke of Penning. Also from the start, resentment had simmered within her at the unfairness of it all.

During those obligatory visits, whilst the adults conversed, Imogen was stuck with the young lordling and his overly beribboned little sister. The two rotten children wanted nothing to do with Imogen, and clearly viewed keeping company with the vicar’s daughter akin to torture.

They’d done nothing to conceal their aversion about keeping company with her.

They’d done nothing to make her feel comfortable.

In fact, they had made her quite miserable.