Duke Number Five Read online

  “You were saying, Mr. Fielding?” Philomena prompted when the children were gone.

  Fielding took a deep breath, and Phineas had the urge to cover the man’s mouth. He did not want to hear the next words. But instead of acting on his impulse, he stood stock still, a pleasant smile plastered on his face and his heart slamming against his ribs.

  “I come with bad news, Your Grace.” Fielding looked at the duchess now. “About an hour ago I went out to feed the stock. I like to do it early on Sundays, and Christmas is like a Sunday to me. Out by my barn I found a horse wandering, his reins dragging. It was a fine horse and not one I knew. It had been outfitted with saddle bags, and I opened them and found they contained items belonging to the Duke of Mayne.”

  “And what of Richard?” the duchess asked. “Was he with the horse?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Mama, sit down,” Phil said, ushering the duchess to a chair.

  “But I was curious as to the duke’s whereabouts. I put my heavy coat on and went

  on a bit of a walkabout. Now that the rain has slowed, I could trace the horse’s footprints back to that wooded area on the west side of my property.”

  He paused then and twisted his cap viciously.

  “What did you find in the wooded area?” Phineas asked, his voice sounding cool and calm, as though it came from someone else. Not someone who could hardly take a breath for the weight of responsibility crashing down on him.

  “I found the duke’s body, my lord—or should I say Your Grace? He was lying on the ground, his neck broken.”

  The duchess gasped and cried out. Philomena went to her, gathering her in her arms. Phineas did not move. He heard a rushing sound in his ears and shook his head to try and rid himself of the sound. Gradually, he was aware of John at his side, easing him into a chair. John was asking questions—something about the state of the body and where it was now. And then Anne came in and was crying, and John was pulling his coat on and going with Fielding to bring Richard home.

  Somehow Phineas found his feet and stumbled after them. He ignored the offers of a coat and hat and followed his brother-in-law into the cold. It didn’t bother him. He was perfectly numb.

  He took the horse put in front of him, mounted, and followed Mr. Fielding on his old mare. John rode beside him, casting Phineas worried looks.

  “Phin, if it is Richard...” John began.

  “It’s him. I knew the idiot would get himself killed. I should have never left him alone.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” John said, all reason and logic. Phineas would have liked to be reasonable and logical as well, but he couldn’t think. He could barely guide his horse on the path before him.

  “I don’t blame myself,” Phin said. “I blame Ernest and his bloody ice and George and his damn temper and Phillip and his asinine swimming.”

  “You never wanted to be the duke,” John said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Four brothers ahead of me. Four. You think one could have the courtesy to stay alive.”

  John didn’t say any more, and they rode the last half mile in silence. By the time they reached the wooded area, it was almost dark. Fielding had stopped to fetch lanterns from his house and Phineas and John dismounted and held the lanterns aloft. Fielding brought them perhaps a quarter mile into the scattering of trees and then stopped. He looked down, holding his lantern out. Phineas paused too, but he did not look down. He heard John exhale. “It’s him,” John said. He knelt, presumably to feel for a pulse or any sign of life, though surely Fielding had already done that. Finally, John rose and put a hand on Phineas’s arm. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

  Phin shrugged the hand off and took another step forward. There, lying against a fallen log, was Richard. His neck was twisted at an impossible angle, and his hat lay askew on his head. His breeches were muddy, but otherwise his clothing was unruffled. The lantern gleamed on the pin at his neck cloth and the ring on his finger.

  Tomorrow they’d search for the groom, but if they found him alive, probably hiding in fear of reprisal, Phin knew his story would be unsurprising. Richard, drunk or asleep or both, had tumbled from his horse, hit the log, and broken his neck.

  Like it or not, Phineas Duncombe was now the ninth Duke of Mayne.

  © Shana Galen