The Duke's Dilemma

THE DUKE’S DILEMMA

By

Fenella J Miller

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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 - Fenella J. Miller

The Duke’s Dilemma Copyright Fenella J. Miller,
2012

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

(Originally published
as The Ghosts of Neddingfield Hall)

Dedication

For my children

Annabel & Lincoln

Cover design: Jane Dixon-Smith

Prologue

June 1814

Lord Colebrook, the Duke of Waverley admired himself
in his new finery. The coat he’d had made at Weston’s in royal blue superfine
had shoulders padded to give him extra width and his new boots, from
Hoby
, had lifts in the heel making him two inches taller.

His hair, cut in a fashionable Brutus style,
would have been better hidden under an old-fashioned powdered wig as it was
quite definitely thinning on top and it’s rich russet tones were fading to an
indeterminate sandy colour. He smiled; his thin lips and aquiline nose added to
his elegance and no one would mistake him for anything but the aristocracy.

He could hardly believe the young lawyer he had
employed to find out as much about his English relatives as he could had come
up with the information that he had inherited a dukedom, and along with it
three sizeable properties and a fortune in the funds.

Lord Colebrook had employed him to ferret out
facts about Neddingfield Hall and Miss Culley who was in his opinion living
there illegally. His grandfather had grown up at Neddingfield but, as the youngest
son he had had no expectations of inheriting. He and his two brothers had spent
their summers rampaging around the Kent countryside. His grandfather, after
whom he was named, had rediscovered the underground cellar in which visiting
priests had been secreted after they’d landed from the continent in the reign
of Queen Elizabeth.

Not long after that he had become involved with
the local free traders and had the ideal place for them to hide their
contraband when it arrived on the coast. The young man had become rich from his
ill-gotten gains but unfortunately the excise men had captured him one night on
the beach. His hideout had remained undiscovered but he was given the option of
going to live on the far side of the world or being hung as a common felon.

Thus Bertram had been born in the Caribbean;
he’d never met his grandfather but his father has had his head filled with
tales of Neddingfield Hall and how it should belong to them, should never have
been passed down the female line. He was a Sinclair the current owner was a
Culley.

He heard the rattle of teacups approaching; the
refreshments he had requested were on their way. He relaxed his expression to
one of supreme indifference and turned to face the door. There was a polite tap
and he bid the servant enter.

‘I have your tray, your grace, shall I put it
on the side table?’

‘Do that. I’m expecting Jones, my lawyer, to
arrive later this afternoon. Show him in immediately.’ The footman bowed and
left him on his own again.

He loved to hear himself addressed as
‘your grace
, in fact he sent for
unwanted items just so he could hear his servants address him so. He had grown
up in near poverty until his father had become involved in the trade of black
gold. In this way he had restored their fortunes and when he had died in the
New Year he’d made James promise to return to England and reclaim his rightful
heritage.

His money had been transferred to London. An
agent had purchased him this smart townhouse, not in the most fashionable part
of London but at the time he’d no expectations of being elevated to the
peerage. He’d brought with him three faithful retainers, those with as little
compunction for fair dealing as he had; who were not squeamish in the slightest
and would, dispatch anyone who stood in his way without hesitation.

The lawyer he had selected was recently
qualified, with little more than one room and a clerk to assist him. Bertram
had no wish for his business to become banded about the coffee houses. Jones
had respectable lodgings but no wife or dependents. The man had been gathering
information about Miss Culley, the current state of Neddingfield Hall and her
heir, one Major Sinclair, currently fighting in France.

 
His eyes
gleamed with satisfaction. With luck the man would meet his end there leaving him
the sole legitimate heir and he would have no need to become embroiled in a
plot in order to obtain what he wanted.

His intention was to be the owner of
Neddingfield Hall before the end of the year. He no longer needed it, but he had
made a deathbed promise and had no intention of reneging on its promise.

He sat down to study the papers he had already
received. Miss Culley had inherited the property from her mother who had been a
Sinclair until her marriage. The house wasn’t entailed or it would have gone
directly to this major. As far as he knew there were no other relatives in his
way.

The mantel clock struck three and there were
footsteps approaching the drawing-room. Jones, as usual, was punctual. Once
again Bertram posed, leaning nonchalantly against the mantelshelf his legs
crossed elegantly at the ankle, the epitome of aristocracy, or so he thought.

Mr
Jones entered. For some reason the man’s face
was pale, his hands trembling. This was not his normal
demeanour
and for a horrible moment Bertram thought the man had contracted a putrid fever
and brought it into his house.

‘Are you unwell, sir? Pray do not come any
closer; I have no wish to catch whatever it is you’re suffering from.’ He spoke
from the relative safety of the window brochure, the long curtains on either
side almost obscuring him from view.

‘No, sir, I am not unwell but am the bearer of
the most awful tidings. I hardly know how to tell you.’

Bertram stepped forward his face a mask of
anger. How dare this man address him so informally? He was about to reprimand
him sharply when his brain registered that the omission had been deliberate.

He grasped the back of the chair, his knuckles
white. ‘What is it you have to tell me? Do not procrastinate, Jones, I wish to
know the whole, leave out no details.’

Slowly the man stumbled out the shocking news.
‘I was misinformed,
Mr
Sinclair, the title is to be
given to a Ralph Sinclair whose claim is thought to be a degree closer. However
no one can find him. He’s somewhere on the continent with the Duke of
Wellington and until he can be contacted is unaware of his elevation.’

To be so cruelly demoted by a man he already
hated was too much for his slender grip on sanity. ‘Excuse me,
Mr
Jones, I have forgotten a most urgent errand.’

His lawyer, his colour better now he believed
his employer had accepted his news with equanimity, nodded politely. ‘I’m
perfectly content here, sir, I am in no hurry to return to my lodgings, my time
is yours.’

Bertram strode from the room and took the back stairs
that led to a small room in which his three henchmen remained when not occupied
about his business. He explained what he required and then was back in his
drawing room once more the perfect urbane gentleman. When he dismissed his
lawyer it was with a friendly smile. The butler who conducted him to the front
door remarked on the young man’s improved appearance.

Mr
Jones was never seen again. When his landlady
eventually reported his non- appearance he had already been dead for a week.
His clerk, strangely, had also disappeared and the lawyer’s office denuded of
papers. The constabulary believed the man had taken advantage of his employer’s
absence and absconded with his documents.

Bertram Sinclair satisfied no one would ever
know he had ever coveted the title, or that he had made extensive enquiries
about Neddingfield Hall, spent the next few weeks devising an ingenious plot
that would reinstate him as the Duke of Waverly and also give him what he
desired most: Neddingfield Hall. He would make his preparations carefully; he
had no need to hurry, revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

Chapter One

November 1815

‘Good heavens! I wonder why we’ve stopped this
time? Birdie, is it that wretched coach we have been forced to travel behind
this past two hours, holding us up?’

The grey-haired lady Miss Hester Frobisher was
addressing so informally shook her head in frustration. ‘My dear girl, how can
I possibly know why we’ve stopped? If you want to find out, why don’t you open
the window and hang out like an urchin? I’m sure the aristocrat travelling
ahead of us would find the spectacle amusing.’

Hester giggled. ‘You’re quite right, as usual,
Birdie. I suppose I must remain here on the seat and pretend I am a meek and
docile young woman content to do as I’m bid.’

The snort of derision from her companion woke
what at first glance might have been taken for an old black rug crumpled up on
the opposite squab. ‘Oh dear, now Jet has woken up. I shall have to get out and
let him—’

‘Thank you, my dear girl, I’m well aware what
that smelly animal will wish to do. What possessed you to bring him with us I
cannot imagine. All I can say it’s a consolation, albeit a small one, that we
are travelling in November and not at the height of summer. Being incarcerated
with your malodorous dog
would
have been unbearable in the heat.’

Hester leant over, impulsively kissing the
leathery cheek of her dearest friend and companion Miss Mary Bird. ‘Hush,
Birdie, you’ll offend him. You know how clever he is, he understands every word
you say.’

Kicking aside the bricks
placed in the well of the carriage to keep their feet warm that morning, Hester
tightened the ties of her bonnet and pulled her cloak firmly about her
shoulders. The black hearthrug stood up arching his back emitting a stream of
noxious gas as he did so. At the sound of her companion choking she hastily
flung open the carriage door and without waiting for the steps to be let down,
jumped out on to the lane, closely followed by her dog.

A swirl of icy wind
tugged at her cloak and her bonnet threatened to leave her head in spite of the
tightness of its ribbons. She glanced down the lane seeing at once what was
causing the hold-up. The smart equipage its navy blue coachwork gleaming in the
late afternoon sunlight was stationary a hundred yards ahead of them.

Then she noticed the
gates of her great-aunt Agatha’s ancestral home, Neddingfield Hall, were closed
across the driveway. Even from this distance she could see they had been barred
from the inside.

She turned, clutching
her bonnet with one hand and the neck of her cloak with the other, to speak to
one of the two outriders who had accompanied her on this trip. Tom, more her
man of affairs than a common servant, was astride her own gelding, Thunder, a
magnificent bay.

‘Tom, why have we
stopped so far away? I should really like to have gained sight of the other
travellers
.’

The young man called
down to her his words almost blown away by the wind. ‘If we got any closer,
miss, Bill won’t be able to turn the coach. It’s going to be a tight squeeze as
it is. It’s a rum do, the gates being closed, I don’t remember them being like
this before.’

‘No, they never have.
It’s very worrying. Why should Aunt Agatha summon me urgently and then bar the
road?’

As she was talking the
watery sun slowly sunk below the horizon and the road took on a gloomy, almost
threatening atmosphere. ‘Jet’s in the bushes; I’ll wait with him whilst Bill
turns the carriage. We cannot stand about out here, we shall have to put up at
the Jug and Bottle and discover what’s happened tomorrow.’

Hurrying across the lane
she followed the sound of her dog crashing about in the undergrowth. She prayed
he wouldn’t pick up the scent of a rabbit and refuse to return to her call. She
loved him dearly but sometimes she did wish he was a little more obedient.

Hester could hear Tom
and James assisting Bill to turn the horses. It was fortuitous they were tired
as the four matching chestnuts would never have submitted to such cavalier

treatment when they’d set off that
morning.

She wondered who the
occupants of the other
travelling
carriage were; that they were members of the aristocracy was perfectly
clear from the gilt encrusted crest emblazoned on the side of the coach. Hester
hadn’t been aware her aunt mixed with the
ton
,
she was an eccentric and had never married. She lived as she pleased on the
vast fortune left her by doting parents. The money had been made in shipping
and Hester stood to gain an absolute fortune when Aunt Agatha died. However, as
Miss Culley was a healthy woman in her sixties this was immaterial.

There was a second noise
in the woodland ahead. In the dark she couldn’t make out what it was but the
hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Instinctively she called her dog. He
was crashing back and his rumbling growl did nothing to reassure her. Instead
of pausing at her side the dog shot past, hackles up, looking more like a wolf
than a domestic animal. Suddenly she was no longer alone.

‘What ails that dog,
Miss Frobisher?’ Tom was beside her, his pistol out, staring into the darkness.

‘I don’t know, I thought
I heard someone out there. Jet obviously thinks there’s a danger.’

‘In that case, miss,
come back to the coach. There’s something havey-cavey about all this. Locked
gates, a stranger in front of us. I think the sooner we get back to Little
Neddingfield the better.’

He bundled her back
through the undergrowth and out on to the lane. ‘I’m not leaving without Jet.’
She didn’t have to wait long, minutes later her hound appeared at her side, his
neck smooth, his tongue lolling and eyes shining with pleasure. ‘Good dog, come
along, we’ve got to go.’

She scrambled inside and
her dog followed, flopping down on the far seat as if by right. James slammed
the door and her coach lurched off. She couldn’t see if whoever it was in the
other vehicle followed or not.

‘Birdie, what about Jet? The last time I had
occasion to visit the Jug and Bottle I was struck by its cleanliness. I rather
think
Mrs
Jarvis won’t welcome his presence in our bedchamber.’

‘And neither shall I, my dear. The dog can
sleep outside in the stables with Thunder; you know he’s just as happy there as
he is cooped up inside with you.’

Hester sighed; this was quite true. She
believed one’s faithful hound should pine away without one’s presence but Jet
seemed to thrive in her absence. No, that wasn’t quite

true,
he was only happy as long as he knew she was within easy reach.

The coach turned sharply right and halted.
‘Well, my dear, here we are. I must own I’m a mite uncomfortable after being in
this coach all day. I wish to stretch my legs and wash the grime from my
person.’

Before Hester could reply the door swung open
and Tom let down the steps. ‘I’ve managed to obtain two chambers and a private
parlour
for you, Miss Frobisher.’ He
grinned and Hester thought she detected a malicious glint in his eye. ‘The only
rooms left are of a poor quality.’

She hid a smile behind her gloved hand. When
the smart coach arrived its occupants would have nowhere suitable to sleep. It
didn’t bother her one jot.

‘Come along, Birdie. If I remember correctly
Mrs
Jarvis sets an excellent table so we shall not go
hungry tonight.’ She noticed James had slipped a loop of rope around Jet’s neck
and was holding him firmly. She saw the dog look up assessing his captor and
then relax. Satisfied she hurried in to the warmth of the inn, glad to get out
of the biting wind.

A jolly, middle-aged lady in a pristine apron
came forward to greet her. ‘Good evening, Miss Frobisher, Miss Bird, I’m ever
so pleased to be able to help you out tonight. What a to-do! Your man explained
that you’re unable to reach Neddingfield Hall. I reckon everything will be
explained right enough tomorrow. I’ll show you to your chambers myself, if you
would care to come this way.’

The landlady, remarkably nimble for one of her
size, lifted her skirts and swept across the polished boards to the oak
staircase. She glanced over her shoulder encouragingly. ‘Your
parlour
overlooks the yard; you’ll be able
to see all the comings and goings. However, your bedchamber, Miss Frobisher, is
at the back of the building so you won’t be disturbed.’

Hester gathered up the folds of her voluminous
cloak and ran up behind
Mrs
Jarvis. She was so
fatigued she didn’t think an army marching past could rouse her that night.

Ten minutes later she
was in her room removing her gown and preparing to wash in the bowl of hot
water that had arrived almost as she did. She had decided to dispense with the
luxury of her own maid for this short trip so Jane had been left behind. Hester
thought she was quite capable of doing for herself for a short space of time.
Her change of clothes had been carefully selected, all were easy to step in and
out of without assistance.

In her room, at the rear
of the inn she was unaware of the arrival of the second coach and didn’t hear
the angry altercation that took place in the vestibule when the aristocrat
discovered there were no decent rooms available that night.