A Woman of Little Importance: A clean and sweet Regency Romance by Sheila Walsh

Author:Sheila Walsh [Walsh, Sheila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: regency romance, Regency Historical Romance, Historical Romance, Regency Fiction, Georgian Romance, clean and wholesome, clean regency romance
Publisher: Wyndham Books (Regency Romance)
Published: 2020-05-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

It had been the Duke of Orme’s custom, since the onset of his gout, to take a late breakfast and thereafter to repair to the library to read his newspaper and attend to the post which his secretary, Mr Fisk, had previously opened and laid ready for him on the desk.

There was seldom much of interest. People in general only wrote to him when they wanted something. This morning was no exception, and he speedily disposed of the correspondence, until almost at the last he recognised the familiar hand of his sister. Euphemia was five years his senior and always addressed herself to him as though he were not yet out of short coats. She lived in the wilds of Warwickshire, too far away, thank God, for anything but written communications. In this instance she had dismissed her steward, and wished him to apply his mind to the vexed question of engaging a new one, but as she invariably dismissed the fellow at least once every year, and as speedily reinstated him, he grunted and consigned the letter to the pile to be answered by Fisk with his usual tact. He reached for the last one with a sense of relief.

His angry bellow was heard by his secretary some way down the hall. Mr Fisk had been waiting in nervous anticipation, and now, as he hurried to obey the summons, the palms of his hands were freely perspiring.

‘Where did this ‒ this piece of anonymous filth come from?’ enquired his grace in tones so silky soft that, in spite of all his years in the duke’s service, Mr Fisk quailed.

‘Its source, I fear, remains something of a mystery, your grace. The porter informs me that it was handed in by a maidservant at the same time as the post was being delivered.’

‘Maidservant! Bah!’ The look he bent upon his secretary was awesome. ‘There is not a word of truth in it, you understand? Not one word.’

‘Quite so, your grace. If your grace will pardon the liberty ‒ there are always people out to make mischief ‒’

‘Mischief! I’ll give ’em mischief when I run them to earth! Tell Hamlyn I want the travelling coach made ready in an hour’s time.’

Mr Fisk was torn ‒ the duke’s gout was a little on the better side, but he was in no fit case to be travelling to Surrey, for there was no doubt in the secretary’s mind but that that was where he was bound. He ought to have followed his first instincts and torn the letter into little pieces. But his grace had a devilish queer way of learning things ‒ things you’d swear he couldn’t possibly have known about in any ordinary way. It must be a family trait, for Lord Alastair had something of the same omniscience about him. So Fisk bowed to the inevitable, and consoled himself with the thought that whatever ructions there might be at Ashbourne Grange he at least would be well out of reach of his grace’s wrath.

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