Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

Ducal Encounters

Portrait of a Duke Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2014

This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of The Author – Wendy Soliman ISBN: 9781483529189

Winchester, England – Spring 1819

“What the devil…”

Cursing, Vincent Sheridan struggled to control his stallion as a small dog streaked across the road in front of him, spooking the young horse.

“Steady, Forrester,” he soothed, reining the animal in and bringing him to a shuddering halt in the centre of Compton’s main street. He patted the horse’s sweaty neck as he watched the dog who had almost brought them to grief run triumphantly off with a string of sausages dangling from its jaws. The butcher’s boy ran after it with a cleaver in his hand, but was never likely to catch the miscreant. Not unnaturally, the episode had attracted quite a crowd. Two boys Vince didn’t recognise came bounding along, puffing from their exertions as they called to the dog.

“Ruff, where the devil are you?”

“Come here at once.”

To Vince’s utter astonishment, the dog looked up at the sound of their voices, quickly dug a hole to bury his contraband and trotted over to them, as innocently obedient as you please. Vince, having recovered from his annoyance at having his new horse’s training interrupted, could see the funny side of the incident. The butcher’s boy, on the other hand, appeared unimpressed. Supported by a growing band of local lads, he approached the dog’s owners.

“Your dog’s a thief,” he said, not without just cause.

“He should be shot,” said another.

His supporters murmured their agreement.

“What sort of dog is he anyway?” The questioner cast a scathing glance over the canine criminal and dug his fingers his thatch of unkempt hair. “Don’t look like no dog I’ve ever seen.”

“Who are you two and what’re you doing ’ere?”

“They’re probably from Shawford,” another boy suggested, when the two being subjected to Compton’s version of the inquisition weren’t given an opportunity to respond. “Sent here with that miserable excuse for a dog to spy on us, and steal from us an’ all.”

Vince shook his head, saddened but not surprised that the rivalry between the villages now affected children encouraged from the cradle to believe they had reason to mistrust their perfectly acceptable neighbours. The dog
did
help himself to the sausages, there was no denying that fact. Even so, it was hardly a hanging offence. The butcher should have dealt with the matter himself by demanding restitution for his loss from the boys’ parents. Instead he stood back, arms folded, and encouraged a mob of village urchins to act as judge and jury.

The oldest of the local boys couldn’t have been more than eight or nine at the most and should not have his childhood blighted by a dispute that made absolutely no sense. How the feud had started was a mystery, but it was generally assumed that Vince’s ancestors were to blame because they were disobliging enough to situate Winchester Park precisely mid-way between the two villages. The Park was home to the Sheridan family, the eldest of whom was Vince’s brother Zach, the Duke of Winchester. Each village was fiercely determined to claim the Sheridan family as its own and bask in the reflected glory accorded to such a connection. It had once been an endless source of amusement to all the Sheridan males but was now in danger of spiralling out of control. He made a mental note to tell Zach about today’s debacle.

“Looks more like a rat than a dog,” another boy sniffed to the great amusement of his friends, who clearly thought he was the wittiest of fellows.

“Take that back,” said one of the dog’s owners, red-faced with anger, puny clenched fists raised in the animal’s defence.

“Will not!”

A stone was hurled to emphasise the refusal, at which point Vince realised he would have to intervene. Several Compton adults had paused to observe the scene and it was evident that none of them had the smallest intention of restoring order. The dog at the heart of the dispute—or the excuse for it—was a small, wiry terrier mix with a tan, black and white coat and ears that sat at different angles. He whimpered when the stone skimmed past his head and ducked behind the boys’ skinny legs.

“Get off with ya,” the bully who had displaced the butcher’s boy as leader of the gang snarled, raising much meatier fists. “We don’t hold with no strangers around here.”

Another stone was hurled and then all seven of the Compton boys set upon the two with the dog. Sighing, Vince removed one glove, placed two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. It had the desired effect and all combatants turned in his direction. Seeing who had broken up the dispute, the Compton boys scattered. The agitating bully, Vince was pleased to note, had a bleeding calf. In spite of his peace-loving tendencies, presumably the dog had come to the defence of his outnumbered owners.

Vince dismounted and approached the two boys, curious as to their identity. They were still on the muddy ground, battered and bruised but, as far as Vince could ascertain, without broken bones. The dog growled upon Vince’s approach. When he offered up his re-gloved hand for inspection, the canine sniffed it, appeared to find nothing objectionable and graciously permitted Vince to rub his spikey head.

“I planted that big boy a right facer,” one child proclaimed.

“No, Leo, you missed. That was me.” The second boy flexed bruised and bloodied knuckles to emphasise his point.

“Well, I kicked him then.” The first lad examined his wounded knee, looking pleased with his battle injury. “His leg was bleeding, Art. You must have noticed that.”

Leo and Art? Well, at least Vince now knew their names, even if they were so alike—twins presumably—that it was impossible to tell one from the other. Both had curly chestnut hair, the same colour as his stallion’s coat, mischievous green eyes, and skinned knees that implied they were no strangers to rough and tumbles. Typical boys. That was all it was possible for Vince to discern about their features, other than that the one without the cut knee would have a splendid black eye to show off come the following morning.

“That’s only because Ruff bit him.”

“I say, did he really?” Leo, or was it Art, patted the dog’s head. “Good boy, Ruff. I expect Aunt Nia will find you a beef bone as a reward.”

Vince could tell that the boys were totally indifferent to the mud seeping into the seats of their pants as they sat in the street, enthusiastically squabbling about their own roles in a battle they had now convinced themselves they had won unaided. Vince felt a moment’s nostalgia for his own childhood; a time when similar scrapes had seemed equally important to him and his three brothers. The only difference was that when he had been Leo and Art’s age, he had been brawling at prep school rather than in village streets. Different location, different class of opponent, same principle.

He sobered when he considered what could have happened to these two if he had
not
put a stop to the incident. He would like to think other adults had not intervened because his presence had been noticed and they had deferred to his authority. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The boys would have been badly hurt before anyone else took control.

“Well, lads,” Vince said as they finally noticed his presence. “That didn’t go too well.”

“It wasn’t our fault…”

“We were minding our own business.”

“We would have apologised and offered to pay for the sausages, but they didn’t give us a chance.”

“They just wanted to fight with us.”

Vince held up a hand to put a stop to the endless flow of words. “Has it happened before?”

“We only just moved to the area.”

“Well, I think you ought to get off home. That knee needs attending to.”

They clambered to their feet, but Vince could see the injured party couldn’t put much weight on one leg. He would have a hard time of it walking with blood still flowing freely from a bad gash. He must have fallen on one of the jagged stones that were being hurled at them. Vince produced a handkerchief, tied it around the wound and then lifted the boy onto Forrester’s back, in front of the saddle. Vince then mounted up himself, held a hand down to the other boy and pulled him up behind.

The butcher watched, scowling, arms akimbo. He clearly wanted to give the boys a piece of his mind, but with Vince as their champion, he would not dare.

“Here.” Vince reached into his waistcoat pocket and flipped him a coin far in excess of the value of the sausages. “For your loss.”

The butcher doffed his cap. “Thank you, m’lord. I hope you’ll see to it that those lads have their backsides tanned.”

“Why?” A hint of sarcasm shaped the arch of Vince’s brow. “Did
they
steal from you? Was it they who started the brawl?”

Without waiting for a response, Vince turned Forrester down Compton’s main street. They made a strange spectacle, as evidenced by the astonished looks directed their way by the residents who turned out to watch them. Here was he, Lord Vincent Sheridan, brother to a duke, in all his sartorial elegance, accompanied by two mud-caked urchins on one of the finest horses in the district. Oh, and a dog, too. Art or Leo, the lesser injured combatant, had tucked the little dog under his spare arm when Vince pulled him up behind. He shrugged, rather pleased that the boy thought to protect the cause of their problems.

“Where to, boys?” he asked.

“We live at Stoneleigh Manor…”

“It’s on the southern edge of the village.”

Vince knew where it was since it adjoined the boundary of the Park. It also answered the question of the boys’ identity. The Manor had been vacant for a considerable time. News had reached the Sheridan family that it had been let, but mystery surrounded the identity of the new tenants. All efforts by the local populace to welcome them to the district had been met by closed and locked gates, which was unusual enough to foment endless speculation. Vince’s entire family were consumed with curiosity, but his mother, the dowager duchess, would not leave her card until she was satisfied she would not be intruding upon their new neighbours’ desire for privacy. Overtures from a lady of the duchess’s consequence could not, after all, politely be ignored.

The fact that the new residents had not hired any servants locally—another cause for grievance amongst Compton’s residents—indicated they must have brought their own people with them. It wouldn’t be possible to live in a house the size of the manor without domestic help of some sort. Whoever lived there was reclusive by nature: that much at least was apparent. Rumours abounded that Patrick Trafford, the renowned Irish portrait painter, much in demand in the higher echelons of society, had taken the house. Lady St. John, a close neighbour and friend of Vince’s family, as well as an intimate of Trafford’s granddaughter, insisted it was so. Trafford
was
a recluse, so perhaps the rumours were true after all. Lady St. John had been in Southampton with Vince’s married sister since the manor’s new residents moved in two weeks previously, and so the rumour had yet to be substantiated.

Now, purely by chance, it appeared Vince would soon be in a position to satisfy his family’s collective curiosity.

“I say, this is a bang-up horse, sir,” said the injured boy in front of him.

“Absolutely first rate,” agreed his brother.

“Is he fast?”

“Can he jump?”

“Well, thank you,” Vince replied when they paused with their enthusiastic chatter long enough for him to respond. “I’m very glad he meets with your approval. He’s still young.”

“We could help you to train him.”

“We’re very good with horses.”

“We’re Irish, you see, and everyone knows the Irish have horses in their blood.”