Saved by the Outcast Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Norfolk, England, Summer, 1818.

“Mama … oh … where are you, Mama? Papa? No … don’t let … I don’t want to go … where are you? Don’t … no … it’s … oh, goodness me,” Phoebe exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed, reeling from the awful dream she had just awoken from.

The morning sunlight was streaming through a gap in the curtains, and Phoebe took a deep breath, reminding herself it was only a dream – the same dream she had been having since she was old enough to remember. It was always the same – the carriage, the sound of horses, the voices of her father and mother, and then the shots …

“Only a dream,” she told herself, pulling back the blankets and getting out of bed.

It was still early – the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed six, and it would be an hour before her maid, Sophia, came to wake her. Phoebe liked to be up early when the house was still quiet, and there was no chance of her being disturbed by her aunt or uncle. Pulling back the curtains, Phoebe pulled up the window sash and leaned out, breathing in the cool scent of the summer morning and smiling as she watched the birds flitting between the trees in the garden, singing merrily to one another.

“What a simple life it must be for a bird,” Phoebe thought, watching a robin hopping across the lawn below.

It was going to be a beautiful day. The gardens were looking at their best – the flower borders bursting into an artist’s palette of colours and the countryside around Hindringham Hall lush and verdant. Phoebe watched the birds for a few moments longer, wondering what the day would bring. She would try to avoid her aunt and uncle as much as possible – just as she did every day – and wondered about walking into the village or by the brook that wound through the meadow.

“I should visit the graves – take some flowers,” she said to herself, for she often did so on days when she had awoken from the recurring dream.

Phoebe’s parents had died when she was very young – just three years old. Robbers – highwaymen – had attacked the carriage she and her parents had been travelling in. Both her parents had been killed in the robbery, and the thieves had taken jewellery worth a fortune, along with a sum of money.

“It’s under our charity you live, Phoebe,” her aunt often reminded her, and Phoebe would nod and agree, telling her aunt how grateful she was for everything she and Phoebe’s uncle had done for her – what else could she say?

They had taken her for their ward, moving into Hindringham Hall immediately following the tragedy. Phoebe’s uncle had assumed the barony – there being no male relative to inherit – and ever since, Phoebe had lived under their auspices, doing as they told her and usually trying her best to keep out of the way. Phoebe’s aunt and uncle had no children of their own, but they had not lavished the same love and affection on Phoebe as her vague memories of her parents suggested they had before their death. Phoebe remembered smiles, laughter, and love. With her aunt and uncle, she received nothing of the sort.

“I will go and visit the graves,” Phoebe said to herself, and dressing hurriedly, she slipped out of her bedroom and along the corridor to the landing.

Her aunt and uncle slept in another part of the house – the grander part – and the servants would be busy below stairs, readying the hot water and tea tray for their master and mistress. Phoebe liked to go out early – in the summer, when the days were long, and dawn broke early. She preferred her own company to that of others, and she liked visiting her parents’ graves on mornings like this.

“I’ll take some flowers from the garden,” she thought, and having crept quietly downstairs, she let herself out of a side door into the garden.

The sun was already warm – it was going to be a hot day – and Phoebe picked a bunch of flowers from the far end of one of the beds, where the missing blooms would not be noticed. Phoebe’s aunt prided herself on her garden, and she would not have been happy to think Phoebe was picking flowers from her prized borders. Glancing back to the house – an ancient manor, timber-framed, with tall chimneys and leaded windows – Phoebe sighed. It should not have been like this. Had the horrific circumstances of her parents’ death not occurred, Phoebe’s life would have been very different.

“But it happened, didn’t it? And there’s nothing you can do about it,” she told herself, as now Phoebe turned and made her way through a small gate in the hedge at the far end of the garden.

It led into a meadow, where a path wound towards woods beyond. In the distance, about a mile or so further on, the spire of the village church rose above the flat Norfolk plain – the highest point for miles around – and it was towards the church Phoebe made her way, following the path through the woods and along the side of a meandering stream, known locally as “The Walsh.” As she walked, she hummed to herself. A tune she remembered from long ago, one her mother would lullaby her to sleep with. It was comforting to recall it, and she was so absorbed in her memories she almost collided with a figure coming towards her over one of the stiles, where the path turned through woodland by the stream.

“Oh, goodness, you startled me,” she exclaimed as the man appeared before her.

He was handsome, smartly dressed in breeches, a shirt, and a waistcoat with a gold pocket watch hanging on a chain from his lapel. He wore a top hat, but Phoebe could see his hair was jet black, and he had deep hazel-coloured eyes. Now, he looked at her curiously, with a slight smile as she blushed, having not expected to meet anyone out so early.

“Or did you startle me? You were rather lost in your own thoughts, I think,” he said.

Phoebe was somewhat taken aback by his words. They were bordering on rude, and she fixed him with a glare.

“You’re walking on my uncle’s land. That means you startled me,” she retorted.

The stranger laughed.

“Actually, I’m walking on my land. You’re standing on the border of the two estates. The stile marks it,” he said.

Phoebe’s eyes grew wide with astonishment and fear as she realized who she was talking to. This was Thomas Cunningham. The new Duke of Walsingham. He had a fearsome reputation, and it was said he had turned his own stepmother and half-siblings out of Walsingham Hall on the very day of his arrival to claim the inheritance after his father’s unexpected death. She had seen him at church, but not up close, a distant figure in the family pew, sitting on his own.  Phoebe had been somewhat scared of him when she had seen him during matins – an aloof, distant figure, cold and reclusive. His appearance had done nothing to dispel the rumours about him. If anything, it had only served to confirm them.

“Well … are you going to tell me I can’t cross the stile? I’ve been doing so all my life,” she exclaimed, but the duke only laughed and shook his head.

“No, I’m not. I’m going to cross over myself. One for one, if you like,” he said, and now Phoebe stepped hurriedly aside as the duke mounted the stile.

“I still say your startled me,” she said, and the duke turned and tipped his hat.

“Very well, good day to you, Miss …” he said, and Phoebe drew herself up, determined for the duke not to think he had the upper hand.

“Miss Phoebe Pollard. Good day to you, sir,” she said, and turning, she hurried off along the path, her heart beating fast at this unexpected encounter.

***

Walsingham was the name of the village. A collection of timber-framed cottages, pebble-dashed in the tradition of the local area. The church, Saint Mary’s, stood in the centre,  and the bells were just striking seven o’clock when Phoebe reached the entrance to the graveyard. She had calmed down a little since her unexpected encounter with the duke, telling herself not to be so foolish as to be afraid of him. But the rumours about him were scandalous, and her aunt had spoken disparagingly about his treatment of his stepmother.

“Though perhaps my aunt’s displeasure is reason enough to think there might be another side to the story,” Phoebe told herself as she crossed the graveyard, the hems of her skirts growing damp with the dew.

A lark was singing in one of the trees as though calling a choir of birds into song, and Phoebe paused for a moment, enjoying the sound as she smiled.

“I do like the early mornings,” she thought, making her way to where her parents were buried side by side.

“Here lieth John, the Baron Greenwood, beloved brother and father, and his wife, Margaret, beloved mother, who died on the 25^th May 1800.” 

The letters were growing faded now, the stones worn by the weather and covered by moss and lichen. Phoebe did her best to keep them clean; she took a stick and worked the end across the letters, scratching the dirt away to make them readable. She liked to visit the graves, for though she had few memories of her parents, she liked to think they had listened to troubles and woes over the years and knew something of her life, even from beyond the grave.

“They’re talking about marriage – I don’t know why. I’ve got my own income. I don’t need to marry,” Phoebe said out loud, brushing the last dirt from the graves.

Over the past few weeks, her aunt had mentioned the prospect of marriage on several occasions, though with no specific suggestion of who the match might be.

“You need to marry, Phoebe. You can’t live here forever,” she had told her, though Phoebe knew differently.

Her parents had put a large amount of money in trust for her – it provided an income sufficient to last a lifetime if necessary. And there was Hindringham Hall, too. It was Phoebe’s home. It had belonged to her father as the Baron Greenwood, and only cruel circumstances had placed it in the inheritance of Phoebe’s uncle. Phoebe had lived there her whole life, and the thought of leaving it to marry filled her with deep sorrow. She did not want to leave that familiar world behind, as much as she would gladly leave her aunt and uncle behind …

“I don’t want to marry just anyone. But it’s as though I won’t have any choice in the matter. Perhaps I won’t,” Phoebe said out loud, sighing and shaking her head.

She liked to come to the graves and think. There was never any answer, of course. But to sit with her parents was to be reminded of what might have been – a very different life from the one she lived now. Phoebe spent most of her time with the servants. They were kind to her, and they understood something of the trials she had suffered at the hands of her aunt and uncle – trials the servants knew all too well. Phoebe had laid her flowers, and now she kneeled in front of the stone, her eyes closed, knowing she would soon have to tear herself away and return home.

“And I thought I was an early riser,” a voice behind her said.

Phoebe startled, letting out a cry as she spun round to find Richard Gordon, the Viscount Thornton, standing behind her.

Richard was a friend – a few years older than Phoebe – an acquaintance in whom she had often confided her troubles. Richard had grown up in the district, tutored at home, before being sent to Eton and then going on to Cambridge. His family owned an estate on the far side of the village, with land stretching in the direction of the coast. He was a pleasant and amiable man – dependable – and in their youth, Phoebe and Richard had spent a great deal of time together, finding common interests in music and art. He smiled at her as she rose to her feet and dusted herself off.

“You startled me, Richard. I didn’t think anyone else would be here at this time,” she said, blushing at the thought of his having overheard her talking to her parents.

“I’m sorry … I was just doing the same as you. Visiting Sally’s grave,” he said, nodding to the far side of the graveyard.

Phoebe shook her head. Their friendship was formed over shared tragedy. Richard had lost his sister when they were both young. She had drowned in a deep pool on his estate. He blamed himself for it, and punished himself by frequent visits to the grave, where he would sit and weep. Phoebe had always felt sorry for him, and she knew he felt the same towards her – sorrow at the shared tragedy they both endured, a sorrowful wound never to be healed.

“I have a dream sometimes, you see – I’m there in the carriage on the way home with my parents. It’s the day of … what happened. I’m there, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m just a child. I hear the pistol fired, and then … nothing. I wake up. And when I do, I have to come here,” Phoebe said.

She knew she was punishing herself – forcing herself into greater sorrow. But as for when she would no longer have to live with this recurring dream …

“I understand. I have the same sort of dreams. It’s nearly twenty years ago, but still the same dream. Poor Sally,” Richard said, glancing across the graveyard and shaking his head.

“But you weren’t to blame, Richard. You tried to save her,” Phoebe said, placing her hand on Richard’s arm.

He looked up and gave a weak smile.

“Yes … I know … and that’s what my mother tells me frequently. No one blames me for what happened – except myself. But I’ll only go on blaming myself. I know I will. Still, I’m glad I have someone who understands what it feels like. You know how difficult it can be,” he said, and Phoebe nodded.

She knew just how Richard was feeling. There were times she blamed herself for what had happened to her parents – as irrational as she knew that was. What if she had not been there when it happened? Would they have got away? Did they die trying to protect her? Why was she the one to survive? Such questions took Phoebe down a rabbit hole, and she could spend hours lost in pointless speculation, upsetting herself more and more …

“Yes, but I also know we still have to go on living – and make the best of the lives we’ve been blessed with. Sometimes, I feel I should be living more than I am – for them,” Phoebe said.

She knew she was not explaining herself very well, but Richard nodded.

“Yes, you’re right. Whatever I do, I always imagine Sally being there – sharing in it. I try to see the world through her eyes, as well as my own,” he said, and Phoebe nodded.

It was time to go home. Sophia would be wondering where she had gone, and her aunt would not be pleased to discover she was nowhere to be found.

“Will you walk with me? I should be getting back,” Phoebe said, and Richard nodded, offering her his arm.

He was a true gentleman and had been a good friend to Phoebe in the years gone by.

“I’d be pleased to. I was going to call on the duke – but it’s too early yet,” Richard said, and Phoebe raised her eyebrows.

She presumed he was referring to the Duke of Walsingham, who she had just met on the path into the village. Ever since his arrival, rumours had been spreading about this cruel and heartless man, who had evicted the dowager duchess – his stepmother – and her children from Walsingham Hall in an act of cruel retribution after his own mother had died when he was very young. But was this really the same man she had met just a short while ago?

“Yes, I just met him by chance crossing the stile onto my uncle’s estate. The servants are always talking about him. They say he’s a horrible man. That poor woman, the dowager – forced to leave her home and take her children with her. I think it’s terrible,” Phoebe said, shaking her head.

Her aunt and uncle were hardly saints, but even they had not behaved in such a terrible way, and though Phoebe knew little of the dowager and the circumstances of the duke’s death, she could not imagine the newly inherited incumbent had any real reason for such cruel behaviour.

“It’s not like that. We were at Eton together – and Cambridge. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known you. That awful woman deserved everything she got. If anything, Thomas was too lenient with her,” Richard said, shaking his head.

Phoebe was surprised by the force of his words – a direct contrast to the rumours she had heard spread about the duke and his cruel behaviour towards the dowager and her children.

“Do you think so?” Phoebe asked, and Richard nodded.

“Absolutely. After his mother died, there was no question of his being welcome at Walsingham Hall. Regina made sure of that. That’s why he was sent away to school. She was desperate to legitimize herself in the eyes of society – she wanted her own son to inherit the title. Fortunately, the duke died without having changed his will – perhaps he sensed his wife’s true intentions. She was furious, but Thomas did what was right. But even from afar, she continues to spread her vicious rumours – that’s why your servants all think what they think,” Richard said.

Phoebe did not know enough about the matter to make a proper judgement. She was only going by what she had heard. But if Richard was right, then her opinion of the duke was wrong. They had reached the edge of the village now – where the footpath crossed the meadows towards Hindringham Hall, and they were about to cross the stile when Richard pointed to the far end of the village green.

“Who is it?” Phoebe asked as a figure now approached them.

“It’s the duke,” Richard replied.

Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. What should she do? She knew the duke had not long since returned to the village, and it was only natural he should want to walk on his own estate. But to encounter him again after their previous exchange felt awkward. What would she say? What would he say?

“I should be going. I’ll see you soon – and thank you,” Phoebe said, and before Richard could protest, she had climbed over the stile and was hurrying across the meadow in the direction of Hindringham Hall, her heart beating fast.

Phoebe did not know why she had hurried away. Richard had been adamant that the rumours about the duke were not true, yet Phoebe remained wary, not knowing what to make of the new duke and fearful of saying the wrong thing in his presence. Now, she paused, turning back to where Richard and the duke were now conversing with one another, the latter casting a glance across the meadow to where she stood.

“He must think I’m being rude,” she thought, but despite Richard’s assurances, Phoebe could not help fearing the rumours about the duke might be true as she wondered what would happen if she chanced on an encounter with him again.

Chapter Two

“Who was that?” Thomas Cunningham asked, watching as the young woman hurried across the meadow, pausing to look back before hurrying towards Hindringham Hall.

His friend, Richard, smiled and shook his head.

“It was Phoebe Pollard – the daughter of the Baron Greenwood. Well … his niece, too,” he said, and Thomas looked at him puzzled.

“I don’t understand what you mean. I just met her. She said he was her uncle,” he said, and Richard smiled.

“Her uncle’s the Baron Greenwood – of Hindringham Hall. A man of little wit and limited conversation and married to a woman who suits him very well on that count. Phoebe’s mother and father – the baron and baroness – were killed in a robbery when Phoebe was very young. It was highwaymen. They were returning from Cambridge when it happened. A nasty business. I’ve known her for many years. She and I … talk,” Richard said, and Thomas raised his eyebrows.

“I see … how terrible. But why did she run away like that? Am I so terrible as to elicit fear in every person I encounter? She was quite rude just now. We had an argument about who startled who first,” he said, and Richard shook his head.

“No, but these rumours your stepmother keeps spreading aren’t helping you. It’s the servants who gossip – and the women in their parlours, I suppose – men, too, for that matter. Phoebe spends a lot of time with the servants at Hindringham Hall, and the things they hear …” Richard said.

Thomas groaned. He had come out early to walk – before the likes of Phoebe Pollard and others, who jumped to conclusions before knowing the facts, were likely to be out and about. His first impression of her had been favourable in terms of attraction. She was a pretty young woman, petite and slim, with black hair and bright blue eyes. She was feisty, too. Thomas liked that in a woman – if it was directed elsewhere than at himself. But he could not understand why that previously feisty woman had now run away from him.

“Save me from idle gossips and silly women,” he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

“But Phoebe’s not like that, Thomas. I’ve known her for a long time. She’s had a difficult life. Her parents killed in such tragic circumstances, and having to endure her aunt and uncle as her wards. It’s not been easy for her – not by any measure,” Richard said.

Thomas nodded. He valued Richard’s opinion – he had been a wise counsellor in recent months despite having advised against Thomas’ plan to evict his stepmother and his step-siblings. Thomas trusted his friend, and if this was his opinion of Phoebe, so be it.

“No, it doesn’t seem like it has been. How tragic,” Thomas replied.

But he had enough troubles of his own not to concern himself too readily with those of others. The rumours his stepmother had spread about him had been to his detriment. He had only been the Duke of Walsingham for a few short months, and already he was talked of as something of a pariah – a cruel man who had evicted the dowager duchess and her children as soon as circumstances allowed, sending her to London and expecting her to fend for herself. The truth was far more complicated than that, the story stretching back many years to the miserable childhood Thomas had endured at the dowager’s hands following the death of his mother. She had been a cruel and unforgiving guardian, and the arrival of her own children – a son and a daughter, Maximilian and Carrie – had only made matters worse. She was ambitious and had believed the title should go to Maximilian, rather than Thomas. When Thomas’ father’s will had been read, she had flown into a terrible rage, accusing Thomas of underhand deeds, even as the lawyers involved had assured Thomas all was legitimate. In response, Thomas had sent her away, and now she was exacting her revenge through the spread of rumour and scandal.

“The two of you could be friends,” Richard hinted, but Thomas shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I know who my friends are – and I don’t need anyone else. You’ve been loyal to me, Richard, and I’m grateful to you for that. Actually, I was going to come and see you later today. I’ve received a letter from my stepmother – filled with her usual vitriol,” he said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and handing it to Richard, who looked at it in surprise.

“Hasn’t she already had her say?” he asked, and Thomas laughed.

“Did you really think she’d let matters rest? No. She’s changed tact. She’s demanding a share of the inheritance for the children. She’s begging poverty. And making threats, too. Read it for yourself,” he said, pressing the letter into Richard’s hands.

His friend took the letter from the envelope and began to read, tutting and shaking his head as he did so. Thomas had read the letter a dozen times since it had arrived at Walsingham Hall the previous day. It had made him angry – even more so than he had felt before. It was his stepmother’s sense of entitlement he resented – after the way she had treated him, he could hardly believe she would have the audacity to make such demands, as well as her threats. It was extraordinary, but the message was very clear.

“How extraordinary – she’s demanding money for Maximilian’s first season in London, to be followed by a similar sum for Carrie next year. Why should I give her a penny? I know what she’s done – I know how she’s behaved. The rumours about me … she still wants him to inherit. He’s an awful boy – we never got along. If anything, I was glad to be sent away. But I’m certainly not going to give him anything,” Thomas said, shaking his head.

They were still standing by the stile, where the path led across the meadow towards Hindringham Hall. Phoebe had disappeared from sight, and Thomas wondered what further rumours she – and all the others – would come to believe if his stepmother went on causing trouble.

“He is the second in line, though – isn’t he?” Richard said.

“Yes, and what difference does that make?” Thomas replied.

It was he who had inherited the title – not Maximilian. There had been no provision in Thomas’ father’s will for either of his other children and no mention of the title passing to anyone else.

“I only say it because of what she’s already done. Who knows what she’s capable of …” he said.

“You mean you think she intends me to have an accident?” Thomas replied, laughing and shaking his head at the very thought of it.

But Richard looked grave.

“I’m only pointing out the precariousness of your position, Thomas. There’s an answer, of course,” Richard replied.

“And what is it?” Thomas asked.

His friend smiled.

“You marry and produce an heir. You’ll have to eventually – you don’t have any choice. But sooner rather than later, would mean the strengthening of your position. Do you see what I mean?” he asked.

Thomas took his friend’s point – but as for marrying to prevent wickedness on his stepmother’s part, the idea seemed somewhat far-fetched. He had not considered marriage – not seriously, at least. He was still young, and his inheritance had come unexpectedly. Marriage was something vague – a distant possibility rather than an immediate concern.

“And who would I marry? Everyone thinks I’m an ogre – the monster who threw his own stepmother out of her home and made her children homeless, too. If only they knew the truth,” he said.

“But think about it – marriage would only serve to strengthen your position. And make you respectable,” Richard persisted.

“But there’s no one I could marry, Richard. We’re not exactly in the midst of high society here, are we? Norfolk’s hardly the centre of the civilized world. Who do you think would deign to marry me on an arrangement?” he asked, and Richard smiled.

“Phoebe might,” he replied.

***

Richard’s words remained with Thomas for the rest of the day. It was a curious suggestion – extraordinary, even – but not without its practical merits. Richard was right – Thomas’ position was precarious, and there was every chance his stepmother intended to use every means at her disposal to outmanoeuvre him. The thought of her resorting to violence was far-fetched, but there were other ways of ensuring his removal – legal challenges or the spread of scandal and rumour. If Thomas’ stepmother forced him from his position, her son would inherit the dukedom, giving Regina the power she so desired. But if Thomas were to marry and produce an heir, his stepmother would be unable to mount any challenge against him in claiming the title for Maximilian.

“But she’d never agree to it,” Thomas thought as he returned home to Walsingham Hall.

They had known only the briefest of encounters, and it had hardly been an introduction befitting a potential courtship. But as he looked up at Walsingham Hall, Thomas knew Richard was right. He needed an heir to prevent this, his home, from the threat of his stepmother. It still felt strange to call the palatial pile his home. Walsingham Hall was his by rights, but Thomas still felt as though he was a stranger there. But little by little, he was growing used to it, and the servants had made him feel welcome, even as the lingering presence of stepmother remained.

“I trust you enjoyed your walk, Your Grace,” the butler, Preston, said as Thomas entered the house, and Thomas nodded.

The servants – the butler, Preston, the housekeeper, Mrs Watson, and his valet, Colin Berry, in particular – had known what the dowager was like. They had seen how she treated Thomas, for all three had been serving at Walsingham Hall for many years. Preston was a tall, slim man with auburn hair and deep hazel-coloured eyes. He smiled at Thomas as he took his coat.

“I did, yes, thank you, Preston. It gave me a great deal to think about,” he said, and the butler raised his eyebrows.

He had been in service to Thomas’ father – his own father having been the butler before him. Preston had seen first-hand the terrible things Thomas had suffered, and it had been to Preston – and the other servants – Thomas had turned to when times had been difficult in his youth. Now, as master of the house, Thomas treated his servants as the family he had never had, confiding in them on a far more intimate level than might be expected in most households.

“I see – I hope you’re not still dwelling on the terrible rumours your stepmother insists on spreading. It’s all nonsense, Your Grace,” he said, but Thomas shook his head.

“Not dwelling, no. But I’ve thought about it a great deal. I think there’s a solution,” he said, and the butler raised his eyebrows once again.

“One can think of a permanent solution, Your Grace – though it wouldn’t be a moral one. But as for anything else …” he said, shaking his head.

Thomas smiled.

“Yes … but Viscount Thornton put the thought into my mind. He suggested I should marry. If there was an heir …” Thomas said, his words trailing off as he imagined what the butler might now be thinking.

But Preston only smiled and nodded.

“As you wish, Your Grace – it might work,” he said, and Thomas laughed.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea, do you?” he asked, and the butler blushed.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. You’ve suffered a great deal – and your stepmother’s recent actions have continued to show the power she still exerts over you. Don’t you think it would be best to settle matters there before thinking … ahead,” the butler replied.

“But that’s just it – how can I settle the matter without ensuring her influence wanes? If I marry, and if there’s an heir … well, it’ll put an end to any claim she might have,” Thomas replied.

He could not rid himself of the thought – it was the perfect solution, but not one he could easily progress. He knew what the butler’s next question would be, and, as of yet, he did not have an answer.

“And who would you marry, Your Grace?” the butler asked.

“Well … I suppose I’d have to marry someone of my rank and class – as pompous as that sounds. She’d have to be an aristocrat’s daughter,” Thomas replied.

He was thinking back to Richard’s words. He had thought of little else since they had parted. He knew next to nothing about Phoebe, though Richard had assured him he had done his best to dissuade her of the false opinions she harboured. Proposing marriage to her would benefit them both. Richard had told him something of the harsh life she endured at the hands of her aunt and uncle. Would she not be crying out for escape?

“She would, Your Grace. But who do you propose?” Preston asked.

“I’m not sure yet. But I’m fairly certain … well … what do you know about the Baron Greenwood?” Thomas asked, ushering the butler into his study.

Preston looked somewhat perturbed.

“You don’t mean the orphaned daughter, Your Grace?” he asked, and Thomas was now the one to raise his eyebrows.

“Just tell me what you know, Preston,” he replied, closing the door behind them.

***

“Oh, there you are, Miss Pollard. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Sophia, Phoebe’s maid, said as Phoebe entered the servants’ hall for breakfast a short while after parting ways with Richard at the stile.

Sophia had been her maid since Phoebe was fifteen. They were more like sisters than servant and mistress, though Sophia was somewhat older than Phoebe and often had to be the voice of reason against Phoebe’s desire for freedom and doing things her own way.

“I went to the graveyard. I know what you’ll say, but there’s no harm in it,” Phoebe replied.

She knew Sophia did not approve of her going to the graveyard alone, but Phoebe had wanted to do so. She liked to be alone with her thoughts, and her walk back across the meadow had given her a great deal to think about. She did not know why she had run away so readily from the duke, but the sight of him – and knowing of the rumours surrounding him – had scared her.

“You know what your aunt would say, Miss Pollard,” Sophia said, shaking her head.

Phoebe ignored her, sitting at the table as one of the other maids placed a cup of tea in front of her. There was a loaf of bread, along with butter and jam. Phoebe was hungry after her walk and cut herself a large slice from the loaf. She was used to eating with the servants – they were her friends, too, even as they maintained something of a curt respectfulness in her company.

“What do you know about the Duke of Walsingham, Sophia?” Phoebe asked, for she was interested in hearing the other side of the story again – that of the rumours she had already heard circulating, which contrasted to the story Richard had told her, and the impression she had received.

Sophia shook her head.

“A wicked man, Miss Pollard – though his stepmother was no better. But the way he treated her … he threw her out of the house, and the children, too. I think it’s terrible,” she said.

“But what if the rumours are wrong? What if he’s nothing like that? What if he had his reasons?” Phoebe replied.

She liked playing Devil’s advocate with Sophia – posing a question for them to take sides over.

“And what would you know about him, Miss Pollard? He’s only been back here a couple of months. But it’s what they say about him – that he threw her out the moment he returned. And to see him at church, too. All high and mighty,” she said, tutting, as she cut a slice from the loaf for her own breakfast.

“Richard says he’s been misunderstood – that’s he’s nothing like that, really. He says the duke was a victim of his stepmother’s cruelty – that she deserved everything that came to her,” Phoebe replied.

“Well … I don’t know about that, Miss Pollard. I’m only repeating what others have said. But rumours usually have some basis of truth, don’t they?” Sophia replied.

Phoebe agreed – she had heard enough gossip in her time to know that some of it, at least, contained a kernel of truth. Her aunt was always repeating gossip – or spreading it herself. She held a gathering once a week for a select group of women, all of whom were of a similar ilk. Over tea and cakes, they would dissect the misfortunes of one poor victim after another. Truth was not necessarily a prerequisite for those things they came to believe, but there was often a nominal basis to what was said, even as it was heavily elaborated on.

“Yes, they do … but why would the duke throw her out, and the children, if not for some actual reason? It doesn’t make sense,” Phoebe said.

Sophia tutted.

“I don’t know, Miss Pollard. But I do know I need to get on with my jobs or I’ll be in trouble with your aunt,” she said, and Phoebe nodded.

She did not want Sophia to get into trouble on her account. It was easily done, and there was not one of the servants who had not been on the receiving end of Phoebe’s aunt’s temper. But it was Phoebe herself who bore the brunt. Her aunt and uncle had always made it clear they had little time – or love – for her. She was treated as something of an inconvenience, tolerated, but not wanted. Phoebe’s aunt could be cruel, and as a child, Phoebe had suffered much at her hands. As she had grown up, there had been a sense of resentment on the part of Phoebe’s aunt, and with the question of marriage now arising, Phoebe knew it would only be a matter of time before her aunt and uncle forced her into accepting a choice of their own, rather than hers. How different her life would have been, had it not been for the terrible tragedy that still haunted her dreams.

“I’m sorry, Sophia. I’ll go,” Phoebe said, but the maid smiled and shook her head.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Miss Pollard. You can stay – just help me fold these things, then we’ll take them upstairs,” she said, and Phoebe smiled.

She liked helping Sophia – she was the nearest thing to family Phoebe had. She missed her parents, or, rather, because she could not remember a great deal about them, she missed the idea of having parents – real parents, who loved and cherished her. Phoebe had never known love, except as a memory – not in a maternal or paternal sense, and never romantically, either. As she helped Sophia, her thoughts turned again to the duke, and her brief encounter with him that morning. Was he really as cruel as the rumours suggested? It seemed he, too, had had a difficult upbringing, and if the stories about his stepmother were true, Phoebe could relate to him. She would surely have done the same if the situation was reversed, and she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to turn her aunt and uncle out of Hindringham Hall.

“Do you believe the rumours about the duke?” Phoebe asked, as she and Sophia carried piles of clean clothes up the back stairs to the bedrooms above.

Sophia tutted.

“It’s not for me to have an opinion, Miss Pollard. I really don’t know,” she said, and Phoebe smiled.

“Nonsense – you must have an opinion. You’re the one I first heard talking about it with Mrs Best,” she replied.

Mrs Best was the cook, and a notorious gossip – what she did not know about the goings on in the district was not worth knowing.

“Well … they say the dowager left in a flood of tears. She and the children were seen in a carriage driving through the village – sent to London. You know all this, but … well, the butler at Walsingham Hall is … an acquaintance of mine,” Sophia said, blushing as Phoebe smiled.

Phoebe knew Sophia had been meeting a man in recent weeks – entirely respectably, though she had not revealed his identity. They had gone to the fair at Fakenham and dined at the village inn. Phoebe was glad – she liked to think of others being happy.

“And what does he say?” Phoebe persisted.

“Well … he says the duke had a difficult upbringing. He and his stepmother never got on well. Perhaps there’s blame to be had on both sides,” Sophia said, and she would say no more on the matter, telling Phoebe it was not right for servants to gossip about their betters.

But as the day went on, Phoebe found herself thinking more and more about the duke – about the loneliness of his position, and the fact of their shared difficulties in growing up. She felt foolish for having run away, and foolish for having so readily believed the things others had said.

“I’ll speak to Richard again – and I’ll make my own mind up,” she told herself, wondering if there was a chance to make amends for her behaviour, and discover more about the new duke for herself.