Chapter 3

Anthony weighed his options carefully, only half listening to what James was saying about their broken carriage. He had hoped to return to England in total anonymity, hence the unmarked travelling coach he had hired out of London. Now that he had been seen—by his own dratted staff no less—there really was no turning back.

Especially not with the mystery still staring him in the face. He recognized Miss Barclay well enough. She had been his mother's favourite attendant for the last seven years. But the woman standing beside her didn't look like any companion Anthony had ever seen, even on the Continent, where rules about birth and appearance were laxer than in England.

Between her stunned expression and the quality of the carriage—his carriage—in which she had been travelling, he had to imagine she had been invited to Norwich by his mother.

That begged the question: Why the deuce had his mother chosen the moment of his return to entertain guests at Moorhaven?

"Your Grace?" Anthony peered down at the footman, who was looking up at him over his shoulder. James pointed at the faulty wheel. "Shall I walk to Thetford to find a mechanic, as Miss Barclay suggested?"

Exhaling hard, Anthony squinted towards the horizon. "I'm not certain what other options we have. There's nothing our own driver can do about the break, and he has to be in Norwich by seven o'clock besides."

He grunted, dropping into a crouch beside James. Reaching a hand beneath the carriage bed, he felt around for the linchpin behind the wheel. He gave it a tug, and it seemed secure.

"The wheel's not at risk of falling off—yet. Something must have happened to the axle, but I can't feel what it is," Anthony said.

He pulled his hand away, laying his arms over his knees and dropping his head in thought. The staff at Moorhaven Manor were diligent in their work. They wouldn't have forgotten to maintain the vehicles while Anthony was away. If the carriage had been rarely used, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that something had been missed in their checks.

Which means Mother has scarcely left the house in the two months since Father passed, Anthony thought, stretching back into a stand, despite her assurances that she was fine.

Guilty feelings writhed inside him. His father's death had been quick and painless, according to the letters Anthony had received. Anthony couldn't have predicted his father's fall from that blasted horse. Yet, it didn't make him feel any less reprehensible for having been gallivanting around the Continent when it had happened.

His mother had been left all alone in her grief, and Anthony ... Well, he had barely had time to contemplate his own feelings on the matter. He had other matters to deal with now, like coming fully into the title of Duke of Westden well before it was his time.

James rose beside him, and Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, returning his thoughts to the problem before him. Plym and his own driver returned from their inspections, and he turned to them to propose a solution.

"I suggest you start walking," Anthony said. "Alternatively, you could drive the thing slowly as far as it will go. And James, you could walk beside it. There is a mechanic in Thetford. He oversaw some of the races Father would host ... So long as there are no passengers in the box, the worst you'll endure are a few spooked horses until you reach him if anything should happen. Which it will not."

"A fine idea, Your Grace," Plym replied. He hadn't changed at all since Anthony had last seen him, with his thinning dark hair and potbelly. "What do you suggest we do with ..."

He let the question trail off, nodding towards Miss Barclay and the anomaly beside her. Anthony turned to find them standing in the same spot, except now, they weren't alone.

"It's just like Patrick to make things twice as complicated as they need to be," he muttered, shaking his head. His travelling companion must have exited their coach while Anthony had been occupied with the wheel. He was now talking the ears off the stranded women. "Allow me to speak with them while you prepare for the drive to Thetford."

With a nod, Anthony stepped away, leaving the rest of them to get to work. Patrick's laugh was the first thing he heard as he circled the carriage. Miss Barclay's eyes widened, and she quickly dropped into a curtsy. When the stranger failed to do the same, Miss Barclay pressed down on her shoulder, forcing her to bow. His mouth twitched with a smile despite the dire circumstances they found themselves in.

"Your Grace, how relieved I am to see you so well after these long years." Miss Barclay was as deferential as ever. She released the woman, and they both straightened. "Allow me to introduce Miss Marianne Buller. She has been invited to Moorhaven Manor at the behest of Her Grace. We were completing the journey from London when ..."

All eyes turned to the carriage.

Anthony inspected Miss Buller, waiting for her to greet him. He wasn't a stickler for propriety like some of his peers—especially not after his time abroad—but a dark part of him was enjoying watching the invitee squirm. She was slightly tall for a woman, with hair that was neither blonde nor brown, though her eyes were unmistakably green.

Undeniably pretty, with a full face and a lively gaze, she had an innocent essence that reminded Anthony of a Gainsborough portrait he had seen long ago. Her thin lips were pursed in worry or perhaps amusement. Was she stifling a frown or a smile? Anthony wasn't certain he wanted to find out. Some things, though not all, were better left unknown.

A prod in the ribs from Miss Barclay forced her into action. "It is a pleasure to ... make your acquaintance ... Your Grace." Miss Buller bowed again, and it was just about the worst curtsy he had ever seen.

Patrick broke the awkward silence. He was a damned natural flirt, and his interruption seemed to put Miss Buller at ease immediately. He smiled, turning towards Anthony. The sun refracted off his blond hair, making him look approachable and friendly in a way Anthony had never been able to muster.

"Miss Buller was just telling me that your mother has invited her to stay with you," Patrick explained, his voice lilting in mischief. "It seems that manor of yours will be bursting at the seams for all the guests you're hosting this week."

"Mr Patrick Bowers," Anthony introduced in turn, forfeiting his own introduction. "We have been travelling companions for the last year, having met in ..." He stopped himself from explaining further, unsure why he had even started. Miss Buller didn't deserve to know anything about him until she had explained how she knew his mother.

"Well, it does not matter where we met. Mr Plym and the footman will be driving to Thetford to find a mechanic. In the meantime, I suggest the two of you join us in our coach. We will travel the rest of the way to Norwich together."

It was not a question but an order. Despite her obvious inexperience with the aristocracy, Miss Buller seemed to understand as much. Anthony stepped aside to allow Miss Barclay and her ward to join the coach ahead of him.

He shivered as Miss Buller stepped past, filling the air with her perfume. His mother's attendants knew better than to fragrance themselves. It drew too much attention to them. The scent was heady and floral, momentarily dazing him. Worse still, the woman looked him straight in the eye as Miss Barclay dragged her past, eliciting a nervous shiver down his spine.

"What were you saying to them?" Anthony asked Patrick once the women were out of earshot. Their hired driver guided them into the coach, the door closing behind them.

"In the twenty seconds before you arrived, you mean?" Patrick grinned, ambling towards the vehicles. "I introduced myself, and they introduced themselves in turn. Is the concept of polite conversation so unknown to you?"

"I think we can both agree that you are conversational enough for the both of us, politely or otherwise." Anthony scowled. "Do you believe the woman's story?"

Patrick shrugged. "There's only one way to find out. She doesn't strike me as a charlatan."

Not yet, Anthony thought, watching Patrick march away. But who's to say she's not taking advantage of my mother's soft, grieving heart? The sooner I can get some answers from her, the better.

Thankfully, Anthony didn't need to wait long.

The party drove in companionable silence for twenty minutes, having seen off Plym and James towards Thetford. Anthony had watched them go from the back window, glad the carriage remained intact until they turned the bend, where they drove out of sight. The moment they arrived at Moorhaven, he would send a rider from the house to ensure the faulty carriage had arrived safely in Thetford.

It was a tight squeeze inside their hired coach. The box was supposed to seat four passengers, but the vehicle's spaciousness had been largely oversold at the coaching station. He squeezed himself into the corner, not wanting to knock knees with Miss Buller seated in front of him. Eventually, Patrick began talking again, asking Miss Barclay about her history with the Colline family and gathering information about Moorhaven Manor.

Anthony had turned away, watching his home county roll past the small sliver of window accorded to him by their lack of space. He hadn't known how it would feel to return to a town – a world – in which his father no longer existed.

So far, it felt odd, as if he was seeing East Anglia through new eyes despite having lived in these parts his entire life. It was still beautiful, despite the surrounding fields being flat as canvases, especially in that late summer light, and he longed for the morning he could take a long walk through the grounds of the manor.

As though the driver had read his mind and misconstrued the thought, the carriage suddenly stopped. Anthony glanced over at Patrick, looking out his window and seeing a small inn on the other side.

"The horses were standing too long in that heat," the driver explained as they piled out of the carriage a few minutes later. "I'll be just a moment, Your Grace. We'll water the horses and be off again in no time."

Anthony nodded, sending the driver off towards the adjoining stables. He must have remembered Anthony's desire for anonymity. The inn was a stone's throw from the main thoroughfare to Norwich, but it was secluded enough to ensure that only a few travellers would pass through, if any. The inn looked mostly empty from the outside. A sign read ‘Old Buckenham Mill and Lodgings".

Sitting along a hissing waterway, the building comprised an old water mill attached to the main inn. It was bordered by tall trees baking in the sun. Anthony glanced up at the building with its stone face and trailing ivy, wondering whether this property fell in his domain.

There were so many unknowns regarding his new title, and without his father to shepherd him properly through the transition as they had always planned, it seemed inevitable that Anthony would fail.

He gasped quietly as a hand appeared in the periphery of his vision. Miss Buller had sidled up beside him, extending a handkerchief.

"I noticed in the carriage ... your hand is covered in grease." She cocked her head to the side, gesturing for him to take the cloth. "I have another, and it's hardly irreplaceable. Please, take it."

Anthony wasn't sure where to look first. Anywhere was better than her kind eyes. Two of his fingers were black from where he had been examining the undercarriage. He was used to having stained hands, what with his work. Paint always caked under his nails, where it would lodge until his next bath.

Still, with a polite nod, he took the handkerchief and wiped off what he could. The pads of his fingers were still grey when he was done. If Miss Buller noticed, she was kind enough not to say anything about the inefficiency of his ablutions.

"That wasn't dukely of me. My manners are usually much better." He tried to give the handkerchief back to her, only for her to refuse with a raise of her hand. "We'll see to it that my mother has this replaced for you. Thank you."

"It's no bother at all." She exhaled deeply and looked up at the inn. Behind her, Miss Barclay and Patrick were walking away from the carriage, headed towards the water wheel. "I imagine it was quite a shock, finding a stranger in your carriage by the roadside."

"It was not entirely usual," he replied, surprised to find her candidness endearing. She was definitely from London, speaking with a somewhat different accent than the English aristocrats he had kept company with during his time away. "How is it possible that you know the duchess?"

Miss Buller parted her lips to speak, then quickly dipped into her pocket. She retrieved a crumpled letter, turning it towards him.

"Frankly, I don't. Your mother—Her Grace—wrote to me earlier this week. My own mother ... she passed away just recently. It seems that she and the Duchess of Westden were connected somehow, but ..." She shook her head, wrinkling her nose. "I haven't the faintest clue how that could be possible. I have come here to find out."

Anthony was not the type of man to take someone at their word. He took advantage of Miss Buller's willingness to be believed, asking to see the letter.

A quick scan of its contents proved Miss Buller's story. The handwriting was undoubtedly his mother's. He even recognized the stationery as coming from the house. The letter that had announced his father's death had been written on the same decorated ivory parchment.

"Your Grace, I swear, I don't mean to intrude. I would have thought twice about coming if I had known you were returning home and under such awful circumstances." When Anthony looked up again, she was staring at him with her hands clamped over her heart.

"I realize that you would be well within your right to ask me to leave even before I have a chance to meet the duchess, but I am begging you to let me come with you—at least until I know why your mother wished to see me in the first place."

"We owe you that much, at least," Anthony replied, folding the letter carefully before handing it back to her. From first impressions, she must have thought he was a callous monster for her to be beseeching him so desperately. "I can make no promises for the morrow or the day after, but you will be allowed to remain for as long as it takes for my mother to provide you the answers you seek."

Miss Buller looked immediately hurt. He hadn't meant to sound cruel. It shouldn't have bothered Anthony, yet it did. He wondered why, deciding there was something piteous about Miss Buller, or perhaps, about her situation. He understood all too well how frustrating it was to have questions without answers, knowing what it could make someone do in desperation.

"Thank you for your generosity," Miss Buller replied, and Anthony couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic. "I will be quiet as a mouse until then."

She signed that she was locking her lips and throwing away the key. Anthony wrestled with a smile, not wanting to encourage her. The last thing he needed was a new friend or, worse, a new admirer.

Under normal circumstances, he might have been flattered because Miss Buller was beautiful. Their circumstances, however, were anything but normal—not least of all because Anthony had so many questions of his own pertaining to his father's sudden death and so few answers.

"There is no need for that." Anthony stepped back, wanting to take a solitary walk and clear his head. "Just behave as you normally would around me, Miss Buller."

Miss Buller followed him. "That will be rather difficult, Your Grace. I have never met a duke before and haven't any idea how I'm supposed to address one. Miss Barclay tried to brief me in the carriage, but we didn't have time to cover everything before it broke."

"I gathered that from your failed curtsy," Anthony quipped, then suddenly felt shameful. "Forgive me. I should not be making your situation any more difficult by teasing you."

"Actually, I've always found that a little humour can make some of the worst circumstances almost bearable." She smiled, lacing her hands in front of her. "I think a lot of life is like that. You either laugh or you cry."

Anthony supposed she was right. "Tragedy and comedy. I'm certain Shakespeare would agree." He paused, wondering if she knew who that was. "Do you …"

Miss Buller looked immediately outraged, cutting him off.

"I am a seamstress, Your Grace. Not a wild animal." Her lips quirked with a teasing smile. "Even my kind have access to newspapers, you know. I may not have read Shakespeare directly, but I've seen his plays advertised."

"You're right, Miss Buller." Anthony struggled with his apology. He was usually so well-behaved. "The question should not have passed my mind. I hope you did not find it derogatory."

"Actually, I found it tragically comedic. And comically tragic." She laughed. "Here, I thought I would be the one insulting you—not the other way around."

"I'll tell you what," Anthony said, grinning when she forced a scowl. "Let's put a pin in your etiquette lessons for now. Shakespeare must come before good manners. I'll tell you all about him on the next leg of our journey, so long as you'll indulge me."

From how she picked up her pace, it seemed like she would.