Her Grace of Haverford eyed the young man in her parlour with some amusement. Not, perhaps, as young as all that. The new Lord Rutledge must be approaching forty years, but he had the type of face that looks mature at twenty and ages changes little thereafter. In his eighties, he would still be a handsome man.
A lifetime of careful observation of those who surrounded any duchess allowed Her Grace to detect his discomfort, though he held himself like the cavalry officer he once was, and his face hinted at the reason for his nickname. Rock Ledge, they called him. The man who never showed emotion. The duchess saw the slight stiffness around his eyes and mouth, the nervous flick of his eyes towards the maid, rapidly schooled to refocus on his hostess, a thumb and forefinger pressed rigidly together. Rutledge clearly expected this experience to be unpleasant.
“Thank you, Milly. You may leave us,” the duchess said to the maid. The girl went obediently, closing the parlour door firmly about her.
Rutledge straightened still further, and his eyes widened.
To business, then, and to put the poor boy out of his misery. “Rutledge, I have called you here today to offer my support.”
He was wary, of course. “Your support, Your Grace?”
He had a reputation as a blunt man, refreshingly blunt, her friend Lord Henry had said. She would not beat around the bush, then. “Your brother was a wicked man, rightly shunned by Society. You are the opposite, I am told by those I trust. Society will not, however, change its mind about the Rutledges. Not without some direction.”
Rutledge blinked rapidly a couple of times, before saying, “Direction from Your Grace must always be successful.”
A most tactful way to express doubt. She allowed her amusement to show in a smile. “I have known one or two failures, my lad. But I do not anticipate difficulty in this case.”
“I am an unworthy cause, Your Grace. I have no wish to shine in Society.”
“You will bury yourself in the country, I have no doubt, and ignore us all. But that will not do for your wife and children.”
He looked down at his hands, which had formed fists before he could prevent them. She watched them slowly relax, waiting for his response, which came after a long moment. “You have been honest with me, Your Grace, and I will return the courtesy. I have no intention of perpetuating the Rutledge line.”
His intentions, if Henry was correct, were not the only ones to be considered. And Henry knew Rutledge nearly as well as he knew Susan, his own daughter.
No need to tell Rutledge that his days as a single man were numbered. “I see. Well then, we shall talk about something else.”
She passed him the cup of coffee she had prepared for him, and he took it with thanks, nearly spilling it at her next comment.
“I believe you have recently spent some time with my goddaughter, Susan Cunningham,” she said.
Gil Rutledge is the hero of The Realm of Silence, available from this site’s bookshop on 15 May, and from all other eretailers on 22 May.
Excerpt
Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.
Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.
He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.
No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.
Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughtersleft to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.
With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.
Beyond the fence that bordered the garden, carriages collected their passengers from the front of the inn. Stamford was on the Great North Road, and a transport hub to half of England, with roads branching off in every direction. As Gil stoically soldiered his way through breakfast, he watched idly, amusing himself by imagining the errands and destinations of the travellers.
Until one glimpsed face made him sit forward with a start. Surely that was Amelia Cunningham, The Goddess’s eldest daughter? No. This girl was older, almost an adult, though still dressed as a schoolgirl.
He frowned, trying to work out how old little Amy must be by now. He had last seen her during his most recent posting to England, before he was sent overseas to Gibraltar then on to the Peninsular wars. At the beginning of 1808. He remembered, because that was when he parted with the best horse a man had ever owned. More than four years ago. The Goddess who held his heart had been a widow these past two years and Amy must be—what? Good Lord. She would be sixteen by now.
He craned his neck, trying to see under the spreading hat that shielded the girl’s face, but she climbed into a yellow post chaise with a companion—a tall stripling boy of about the same age. And the woman who followed them was definitely not The Goddess; not unless she had lost all her curves, shrunk a good six inches, dyed her golden hair black, and traded her fashionable attire for a governess’s dull and shapeless garb.
No. That was not Susan Cunningham. Amy would have a governess, presumably, but the boy was way too old to be Amy’s brother Michael. No. The girl could not have been Amy.
The door closed, the post boy mounted, the chaise headed north, and Gil went back to his breakfast.
Ella, watching Alex treating a crowd of admiring females to his best imitation of a man pleased with his lot, was surprised when Mrs Fullerton spoke at her elbow. “Silly hens. He is being polite, of course, but I dare say our new Lord Renshaw is hating every minute.”
There cannot be an easier or more prolific crop on the face of the planet. Plant, feed (they love manure and compost), and — whatever you do — don’t forget. Once they start to produce, you’ll need to pick daily, or one day you’ll come out and find a marrow the size of Africa smothering everything else in the garden.
