Page 13 of A Bride for the Rakish Duke

Things that could not be discussed in his mother’s presence, for she would assuredly meddle.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the butler replied.

The Dowager seemed to decide that she would begin her meddling early, as she pulled a frown of disapproval. “What is the cook doing? Willie, I told you, you cannot be soft with these people. I knew you had been too benevolent ever since you so kindly asked me to move to the Dower House.”

She got up, apparently taking it upon herself to go to the kitchens and scold the cook, but William stepped in front of her before she could reach the door.

“How I deal with my staff is none of your business,” he said evenly, for no one ever won an argument with his mother by raising their voice. “Sit down and wait here, for you are the guest, not the host. You keep forgetting your place.”

He did not linger to see her response, heading out to speak to the cook—known to all as Jenny Hen—himself. There would be a reason for this uncharacteristic lateness, and if he had learned anything since becoming a duke, it was that bulling inand shouting rarely won loyalty. And loyalty made for a more efficient complement of staff.

“Oh, Your Grace!” the cook yelped as he entered the kitchens through a cloud of deliciously aromatic steam, waving it away with his hand. “I’m ever-so sorry! Please, forgive me. I’m not at all myself today, Your Grace. They say a watched pot never boils, but worrying near a pot makes everything burn!”

William picked his way around several spills and tried not to frown at the mess of pots and pans discarded everywhere. Ordinarily, the kitchens were pristine, and though there was the residual acrid smell of smoke in the air, whatever she was cooking now smelled wonderful.

“Is something the matter?” he asked as she dried her hands on a cloth. “Are you unwell?”

The cook looked close to tears, shaking her head. “Not in the common sense, Your Grace, but I feel sick with worry.” She paused. “It’s my daughter—she’s laboring with her first, and I’ve had my boy, Benny, run back and forth with news all day. There’ve been some… complications in the last few hours, and Benny went for the midwife, but he’s not been back since, and I’m… I’m…”

Her lip trembled as she visibly fought to hold herself together, wringing the dishcloth almost to tearing.

“I understand,” William said, grateful that he had blocked his mother’s attempt to come here. “I will send for the physician at once.”

The cook’s eyes widened. “Your Grace, I couldn’t do that. I can’t afford it.”

“You do not need to,” William insisted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before he put his arms around the older woman. “I will pay, whatever it costs.”

Jenny Hen hugged him in return so fiercely that he feared for the integrity of his ribs. Clearly, she had needed that. “Thank you, Your Grace. If I live and cook in this kitchen ’til I’m a hundred, it won’t be enough to repay you for this.” She squeezed him harder. “Thank you. May God bless you for this deed.”

He held her as she shook and sobbed in his embrace while his mind raced with the stupidity of making such a generous offer. He was in no position to be charitable, his coffers almost empty, but when it came to Jenny Hen, he could not help it. He would have given her his very last coin if she had asked, for all his life, she had been more of a mother to him than the one who birthed him.

And Ican never repay that, not if I fetched a physician for you a million times.

He pulled back, adjusting her cloth cap. “Can you continue? Should I send for someone from the village to take your place for tonight?”

“I’m almost done with the dinner, Your Grace.” She hesitated, looking somewhat guilty. “After that, I might leave the cleaning up and starting on the breakfast for Elspeth and June if you can spare me?”

He nodded. “Leave as soon as dinner service begins.”

“Thank you,” she gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. “Your Grace, thank you.”

He released her and, with a nod of quiet respect, made his way back out of the kitchens. In the hallway, he passed Mr. Fenton and relayed the order that a physician was to be sent to River Cottages on the very edge of his estate, where all of his most senior staff members and their families resided.

“A physician, Your Grace?” The butler pursed his lips.

It was no great secret that the Stonebridge fortune was threadbare, at least among the longest-serving members of the staff. They had seen the debts grow when William’s father was Duke. They had watched the money drain away and had likely known that William was set to inherit naught but increasing destitution.

“I think you heard me,” William replied coolly, for secret or not, it was not something he would be challenged about.

Mr. Fenton bowed his head. “Of course, Your Grace. I will see it done at once.”

“And please bring any letters that may arrive in the next few days as soon as they arrive,” William added, for he hoped it would not be long before he received word about the special license he had applied for.

Indeed, it couldnotbe long, or all of his plans would come crashing down.

The butler bowed his head again. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

That done, William pressed on toward the drawing room, soothing his nerves about the state of his diminished fortune with the knowledge that Lydia’s dowry would make everything better. It was a famously large dowry, set aside after all of the scandals that Emma had been mired in to improve Lydia’s chances.

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