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The Travellers
The Travellers
The Travellers
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The Travellers

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Are you a Georgette Heyer fan? This is my version of what happened to The Duke of Sale after his marriage to the Lady Harriet Presteigne. I do not pretend to be in Miss Heyer's league but I hope you like my story nonetheless.

A year after their marriage, Harriet is dead. Distraught and unable to cope with his loss he can turn neither to his former mentor, Lord Lionel, who had has a stroke, or to his friend and cousin Gideon who is thrown from his horse and seems unlikely to ever walk again. Some three years later, having been unable to outrun his demons, he finally realises that his protected upbringing has left him wholly unable to cope with the slings and arrows of life's misfortune and he resolves to disappear and strike out on his own. A further three years after that, now a confident man who can manage on his own, he resolves to return. A mere week or so before he sets off for England he stumbles across an English lady in need of rescue with a mysterious past and who possesses a most unfeminine skill with a sword.

In effecting Miss Leighton's rescue, the Duke finds himself pitchforked into the complex politics of post revolutionary France. Never having previously interested himself in domestic politics he would have found himself out of his depth if not for the lady who in addition to her skill with the foils shows an deep understanding of international politics.

Who is this Lady? Why has she never been seen abroad in England? Why is it that the dastardly Monsieur Hainaut seems so determined to despoil her honour? The Duke decides to untangle the mystery and discovers a dark family secret stretching back over two generations. It will take him all his ingenuity and newfound confidence to solve the puzzle.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 22, 2015
ISBN9781311145925
The Travellers
Author

J. Howard Shelley

I am 62 years old and I have a daughter w currently working towards a PhD in history. When I left school I trained as a nurse in mental health and then in general nursing ending up in operating theatres. At the age of 45 I became a solicitor (for those of you born on the left hand side of the pond that is a type of lawyer) and I now specialise in litigation work. When I retire I fancy learning to be a bookbinder.For the rest, I have qualifications in welding and ballroom dancing and I teach artistic roller skating. I play a reasonable trumpet I'm good at DIY and I like mountains.My Books are all set in the first half of the 19th Century. I try to construct interesting (and sometimes convoluted) plots, in which a romance is the central theme and you will find no sex or adult content in any of my work.Oh yes .... one other thing; I don't really write for profit. The cover price of $0.99 does not even come close to making it a viable option for a career. I have paid for someone to design covers for me - the cost will not come close to being be covered from this year's revenue...but I am aware what I really need is a proof reader and editor. The truth is - I cannot afford it. The cost of someone to proof read "The Travellers" which is my shortest book (and the free one) is such that (on current sales) I will be dead before I recoup the costs. I do my best but I am aware there are typos. If you find them please contact me on facebook and let me know.

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    The Travellers - J. Howard Shelley

    The Travellers.

    J. Howard Shelley

    Published by John Howard Shelley at Smashwords

    Copyright 2014 John Howard Shelley

    This Edition 2021

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

    Author’s plea.

    I cannot afford an editor! To have this book professionally proof read and corrected would cast about £1500. That is more money than I expect to make from total book sales in 10 years. So, you may find some typos although I have done my best to remove them all by getting friends to read it and running it through Word’s editor function. The difficulty is that you never see your own typos. You read what you think is there and not what in fact is there. If you find a typo please let me know and I will correct it on the next edit run.

    Thanks

    And Finally

    This book is free at Smashwords. If you enjoy it please consider buying one (or more) of my other titles which I have priced at $0.99. Since this is my shortest book every other title will give you more words per cent! My other titles are listed at the end.

    Prologue

    On a very cold evening in early January eighteen twenty-four, a stranger stood upon the threshold of the large salon into which he had just that instant been conducted and gazed appreciatively at the unfamiliar surroundings. He had met his sponsor, the Compte D'Etienne, a jovial and easy-going man with whom it was easy to fall into friendship, but three days previously and, after a pleasant evening playing cards in the Compte's town house, an invitation to the most select gaming house in the city had (as the stranger had intended) inevitably followed.

    It was to be assumed from the admiring expression upon the stranger’s face, that the establishment, located in a discreet situation just off the Langenstrasse in the centre of Strasbourg, found favour with the newcomer, although as he had been warned what to expect he showed no surprise. Even the most casual and disinterested observer would have rapidly concluded that, as gaming establishments went, this one was out of the ordinary and would bear favourable comparison with the Nonesuch in London or anything the Jardin Du Palais Royal had to offer.

    The harshest critic, no matter how searching his glance, could have discovered no fault with the decor and facilities. The main reception room was splendidly lit with no less than four chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Just in case there might be a corner of the room which, by an oversight, had escaped illumination, there were candelabra on every table and sconces lining the walls. The decoration was rich and fashionable, without ostentation yet tasteful, and the furnishings, while not opulent, were of the finest quality, in the most up to date style and designed with comfort in mind. The wines which this establishment proudly served were from the most exclusive vineyards and the finest vintages, and the delicacies cooked up in the kitchen by the highly paid artist in charge and his small army of chefs would tempt the most jaded of palates.

    Strasbourg was, even then, a cross-roads of Europe. As the capital city of Alsace, it would have been an important city in its own right; but it stood next to the Rhine, the mighty thoroughfare that cut across Europe, and it was thus also an important port. To the east across the river was the state of Baden in the German Confederation, to the north Belgium and to the south Switzerland. Westward there was the great Champagne region of France.

    Travellers from other nations were attracted there by the history and the sights and it was not unusual to see Danes travelling south, Savoyards travelling North and English visitors passing through on the grand tour en route to Vienna. The conversation in The House reflected this. On this evening alone, the visitor could hear French, English, and snippets of Italian in addition to the predominant German. It mattered little, the patrons of this exclusive establishment were wealthy, well-educated and could switch effortlessly between any of the main European languages spoken here. If all else failed, they could resort to the universally understood language of Latin. This then, was a cosmopolitan venue catering for a cosmopolitan clientele in a cosmopolitan city.

    There were, of course, those people who regarded The House (its real name had long since been forgotten) as too stuffy and rated the company and the entertainment a bore. They were few, and generally their distain arose more from their inability to secure an invitation to the premises than from any genuine disapproval of the activities behind the discreet front door. The members chose who to admit very carefully and it was generally agreed that it was easier to gain admission to some of the European Royal households. The stranger had been told by his sponsor, that only a week previously, a minor prince of an equally minor principality had been politely but firmly shown the door after he became so drunk that he insulted a fellow member. He would never be readmitted.

    Mr. Liversedge, the larger than life and very English personality who presided over The House, was every bit as well known in Strasbourg as his establishment. Even those who had not yet been granted admission were prepared to acknowledge him if they met him in the street, doubtless in the hope that they might be more fortunate in the future. It was not that he was particularly handsome; indeed, the opposite was true, he was portly, middle aged and his face was round and singularly unprepossessing. Yet gentlemen found his conversation interesting and ladies said he was charming and respectful. He was therefore a welcome guest at any number of soirées and parties and, although he did not dance, since he was known to be extremely fastidious as to the company he kept, his attendance did accord the gathering a certain cachet.

    He claimed no noble birth, the extent of his wealth was unknown (although rumour had inflated it fantastically) and it was a mystery, even to the most frequent visitors to The House, quite how he had managed to insinuate himself so completely into society. His ton was good, but this would not on its own have been, in the normal way, enough for him to be recognised; yet even the highest sticklers were prepared to pass time with him. There were it was true, still some places where only those who could claim noble birth were admitted and from those places Mr. Liversedge was excluded. He did not appear to mind this exclusion overmuch and as he was inevitably able to report intelligently upon what had happened at these events, it was almost as if he had been in attendance anyway.

    Moreover, it seemed he was extremely well connected. He claimed acquaintance with most of the noble houses of Europe and rarely did a visitor arrive at the House without its impressive proprietor being able to identify his lineage. Furthermore, he had an uncanny ability to identify who might soon arrive at The House and when they might be expected. The Members had long since ceased to comment upon this unusual prescience. They had become used to hearing Mr. Liversedge predict that the Count of this or the Duke of that would be arriving soon and then seeing that same person present himself requesting admittance a few days later. No-one knew how he could possibly predict that a foreign gentleman was about to descend on his club and although this mysterious ability had long been accepted, it was still regarded with some awe.

    From the rare glimpses afforded of Mr. Liversedge’s private apartments, the members concluded that he was an avid reader. He took the best newspapers from the European catalogue, a well-thumbed copy of Debrett’s stood amongst rows of tomes listing the great and good of all the countries of Europe together with other reference books showing their coats of arms and mottos. He also took a great many society papers and magazines, and he kept a scrap book of cuttings together with a diary. Although he had been seen writing in both, no-one had ever been permitted to view their contents. Still, even with all this information, it was still hard to conceive how one man could know so much.

    The younger patrons of the establishment were wont, on occasion, to try to confound this apparently encyclopaedic knowledge and magical ability to predict the future, but their efforts met with indifferent success. One enterprising young prince arrived at the door to The House with a richly dressed middle aged man whom he blithely introduced to mine host as the Compte de Perpingnon. Mr. Liversedge bowed deeply and welcomed this new visitor with his usual bland expression. Some five minutes later, the alleged ‘Compte’ heard a discreet cough;

    Would Your Excellency like a glass of Claret? asked Mr. Liversedge.

    Why yes, thank you the visitor replied automatically. Immediately the room burst into laughter. Realising he had been found out, the visitor cocked an enquiring look at his host.

    Your Excellency could hardly be the Compte De Perpingnon as that title became extinct over one hundred years ago. Tell me, how did you find London?

    His Excellency the Ambassador of the King of France to the Court of King George of England was stunned.

    How did you ...? he stammered to a halt and looked around in a bewildered fashion. Mr. Liversedge bowed slightly and moved away, his countenance fixed in its usual impassive expression. An elderly gentleman tapped the stunned ambassador on the shoulder and laughingly advised him,

    Don’t ask. He will not say. He chuckled, and truth to tell, it is much more amusing watching people trying to catch him out."

    He ought to work for the government, replied His Excellency feelingly, he would be good at that. My own wife doesn’t know I’m back in France yet.

    No one had ever seen Mr. Liversedge cast the dice or hold a hand of cards and although the racing journals of a dozen European Capitals were delivered for the convenience of the patrons, he had never been known to place a bet or offer a tip. Yet his knowledge of all forms of gaming was acknowledged as unmatched. He was unhesitatingly applied to as the arbiter of all matters related to play and his decisions were rarely questioned. He could spot an ivory turner or a card sharp in seconds and several gentlemen had been unceremoniously ejected from the premises after they had been caught out by his quick eye.

    He dressed plainly in black, although his clothes were well cut by the finest tailors and his knowledge of fashion was particularly nice. He never endorsed a fashion or style, and he pretended not to notice the more extravagant apparel sported by his younger patrons but, if a particularly well-cut coat caught his eye he would, on occasion, be moved to offer a graceful compliment. The wearer’s tailor soon thereafter invariably noticed an increase in business.

    No visitor to The House was ever heard to complain as to the quality of the refreshments. Mr. Liversedge ensured that the food and drink he served was of the finest quality and exquisitely presented. He was painstakingly discreet and, other than he was unmistakably English, no-one knew anything about him at all. It may have been that the servants knew more than this, but not even the offer of significant bribes had induced any one of them to talk. Either they knew nothing, or they were breathtakingly loyal.

    The sum of this understated splendour, together with the conviviality and expertise of the owner meant that while play often was for very high stakes, it was scrupulously fair and other than giving a warning about dipping too deep, even the most censorious parent had few qualms about taking his son to play there or allowing him to visit on a Grand Tour. Liversedge had even been known to intervene to prevent a young man’s enthusiasm getting away with him and had on several occasions undertaken to keep a keen but unobtrusive eye on the son of one of his patrons. This was a place a man could relax, enjoy a very good glass of wine or a superb brandy with his friends and play piquet or deep basset or, if that were his choice, throw dice for any stake without having to worry whether your opponent might be using fulhams, and where debts of honour were paid promptly, in full, and without excuses.

    The stranger was impeccably dressed without calling attention to himself and although he was unknown to the other patrons, the few disinterested glances sent in his direction were sufficient to reassure those present that he was accompanied by a member and the porter had been right to admit him. In time, if he wished to return, he would have to confirm his identity, and someone would have to promote his membership but, for now, his demeanour and the company he kept, proclaimed his status as a gentleman. If he was an imposter, the members had confidence in Liversedge. Few indeed gained admittance in the first place and never had one managed to return for a second visit; if the newcomer did not have the requisite credentials of breeding and wealth Mr. Liversedge would find him out in a trice and he would be politely but firmly shown out.

    The gentleman was somewhat shorter than average and slightly built; but he was wiry withal and he had a stealthy air about him which would make any footpad think twice. His height, and his unpretentious mode of dress would have rendered him easy to overlook in a crowd. Yet, for all his small build, he did not appear diffident or shy. To the contrary, he had a confidence and an air of self-assurance which proclaimed wealth and the habit of command.

    He smiled politely to the footman as he gave his cloak and hat into his care. This lackey, who had, over many years' service in gaming establishments, encountered countless such garments was quick to recognise the quality of these items and smiled in anticipation when the stranger pressed a coin into his hand. A few seconds later he was astounded to discover that he held a gold coin rather than the usual silver item and he made a mental note to ensure that the owner of the coat lacked no comfort in future. Such largesse was rare indeed!

    The owner of the cloak having, by these simple means, ensured that whatever the demands of the other patrons of the establishment, his needs would have priority, spoke a few private words into the ear of his sponsor. This worthy, apparently happy to leave his companion to his own devices, smiled in response, gave a slight nod, and turned in the direction of a small group of friends who had hailed his arrival.

    Glancing purposefully around it was to be inferred that the stranger had been looking for Mr. Liversedge because, having identified this individual, he walked in his direction. Liversedge was, at that moment, engaged with a young gentleman whose raiment proclaimed that he was a pink of the ton, or at least wished to be considered as such. From the overheard conversation, it became apparent that this young gentleman had experienced a run of bad luck,

    Perhaps, Mr. Liversedge advanced in a tone which left the luckless gambler in no doubt of his obligations, you would like me to send a man around to your house to obtain some further money for you? Or you might like to leave a pledge?

    The exquisitely dressed gentleman knew quite well that he would not be permitted to leave without paying or securing his debts in full, or if he did so, he would face the certain embarrassment of never being readmitted to The House. Upon it being suggested that he should urgently consider how he was to meet his obligations he replied with some dignity that his friends need have no concern and hurried off to the servant waiting in the hall to tell him that he had urgent need of further funds.

    The Stranger had the intention of taking Mr. Liversedge by surprise. Without waiting to be noticed or introduced he leaned forwards and said softly;

    I see you have succeeded then. He then stood back and waited to see what effect his words might have. The Stranger was not disappointed, it was apparent that for a split second Mr. Liversedge did not recognise who had addressed him although the voice was familiar. Then, to the astonishment of all the other patrons present, not one of whom had ever seen Mr. Liversedge anything but absolutely composed, he exclaimed,

    Your G-Grace, but ...but... and he turned alarmingly pale.

    Chapter 1

    His Grace Adolphus Gillespie Vernon Ware, (Gilly to his friends, Adolphus to his Cousin Gideon and Vernon by preference) Seventh Duke of Sale smiled and, clearly enjoying Mr. Liversedge’s loss of composure, added, suavely,

    And I made sure you would be pleased to see me. Tell me now; it must have been well over seven years? Are you well? he enquired urbanely after smiling at mine host's discomfiture, you look quite out of sorts. Painfully and unpleasantly aware that he was now the object of significant and unwelcome curiosity Mr. Liversedge pulled himself together and with an effort bowed deeply to the Duke. In something close to his normal serene tone, he turned around to the liveried lackey standing behind him and requested a chair for his noble visitor. Before the lackey thus addressed could leap to his master’s bidding the Duke raised his hand to indicate that he had no need to be seated. Mr. Liversedge and I are old friends, and I would like very much to have a word with him in private. Perhaps there is a private room...?

    If Your Grace would come this way? Mr. Liversedge’s response was rather hurried, almost as if he would be glad to remove himself and this unexpected visitor from the many speculative stares from the members. He bowed again and indicated that the Duke should precede him, clearly taking the view that, at least until he had time to compose himself, it might be better if he took himself away from their gaze. With none of his customary aplomb and little dignity, and to the astonishment of the other patrons, he ushered his noble guest towards the door into his private offices.

    Some two minutes later the Duke was seated in Mr. Liversedge’s private Library holding a fine cognac.

    Well, he said, you appear to have put the money I gave you to very good use.

    As Your Grace says, nodded Mr. Liversedge, by now restored to something approaching his normal equilibrium, but if Your Grace will recall, on the last occasion we met I told you that I was a man of large ambition.

    Mr. Liversedge cautiously regarded the Duke. Over the years, he had wondered what he would do if Sale came to The House, but he had always thought he would have received some warning. The reputation he had acquired, and carefully maintained, was simply a result of avid perusal of the society columns of a range of newspapers and a keen interest in gossip. As he knew that almost every noble visitor to his adopted city would want to visit his premises, it required little skill if he heard that a particular nobleman was intending to visit the city, to predict that individual would soon thereafter present himself at his door requesting admission. The possibility therefore that an English Duke, the possessor of one of the largest fortunes in England, might arrive without him having some warning of the event had simply never occurred to him.

    He knew that there were very few people left in England who now would remember him. His immediate family were all dead, as was the elderly gentleman whom he had served for a number of years as Valet. Although there were doubtless a few people who might recall young John Liversedge, the younger son of a blacksmith from a small village in Lincolnshire, the likelihood that they would cross his path was so remote that he disregarded it. The Duke, however, was one of the very few people who could, if they wished to do so, destroy the position he had managed to create for himself. His surprise appearance therefore put Mr. Liversedge seriously out of sorts.

    The last time Mr. Liversedge had seen his noble visitor was at Cheyney, one of the Duke’s homes near Bristol. On that occasion, the Duke had told Mr. Liversedge that he should leave the country and had arranged for his Steward to pay him five thousand pounds to hasten him on his way. There had been an incident between Mr. Liversedge and the Duke which the latter had not wanted to become common knowledge. Mr. Liversedge had been paid the money to buy his silence and his absence. This was a very generous offer because Mr. Liversedge had kidnapped Sale and had then offered to arrange his disappearance if his Cousin Gideon, who was also his heir, would pay him a handsome sum. The incident could, Mr. Liversedge admitted sanguinely to himself, on the whole, not be said to reflect entirely favourably on him.

    Mr. Liversedge had taken the opportunity offered by the Duke’s largesse with both hands. He had left for France where he had opened a small establishment and then over the years his ambitions had grown with every success. He had now reached the pinnacle. He knew that his establishment was as good as might be found in any other major city in Europe and better than most. Unfortunately, his very success meant that he now had a great deal to lose and, try as he might, he could not quite keep the concern out of his normally impassive countenance. Were the Duke to decide to expose him he would be lucky to escape arrest especially as there were those, jealous of his success and influence, who were looking for just such an excuse to close him down.

    He studied the Duke carefully. It was apparent that the intervening seven years since last their paths had crossed had been rather more kind to the older man than the younger. The change to what had then been a very youthful countenance would, he thought, have been clear to even the most casual observer. When Mr. Liversedge had last seen the Duke, at that time newly in love and about to come of age, he looked younger than his 24 years. Although now only thirty-one he looked closer to forty. His face was deeply lined and there was a record of pain and suffering etched on his every expression. This older Duke was a very serious man. True, he smiled occasionally and when he did it reached his eyes, but whereas before he was carefree, now even the most casual of observers could see that the Duke of Sale carried a great deal of reserve. His conversation was considered and thoughtful and lacked spontaneity; his gait was purposeful, and he had a look of quiet determination which made Liversedge extremely wary. This was not a man to lightly cross!

    Mr. Liversedge was not homesick; Alsace had been far kinder to him than the country of his birth had ever been, but he kept up to date with news from England through talking to the many English visitors to The House and from the newspapers that he had arranged to be delivered on a regular basis. In view of his history, the ex-valet had maintained a particular interest in the Duke of Sale, and he was thus able to guess with considerable accuracy, although he did not know all the details, what had wrought such a stark change.

    At the time Mr. Liversedge left England the Duke had just become engaged to the Lady Harriet Presteigne. The marriage ceremony had taken place a month or so later and it had been the match of the season. The couple, it was said, were made for each other. Although the engagement had been planned since both were in the schoolroom, each had had the good fortune to find, in the other, their soul mate.

    Lady Harriet was neither a great beauty nor a celebrated wit and prior to her marriage she had the reputation of being somewhat mouse-like, but she eminently suited the quiet and understated Duke of Sale. With the confidence that comes with being one of the most important peeresses in the realm and with the support of her husband she came into her own. Sale Park, His Grace’s principal seat located in the rolling countryside of the Midlands was transformed from a hidebound establishment, characterised by excessive formality, into a happy home. Even Lord Lionel Ware, for so long the Duke’s guardian, and the sternest critic of anything which he did not hesitate to stigmatise as ‘modern’ was obliged to own that Harriet’s taste was impeccable and the House better run than it had been since the death of the 6th Duke and his Duchess.

    It seemed that the happy marriage was soon to be blessed with a happy event. Only a few short months after the marriage had taken place her Grace announced within the family, that she was increasing. Sir Lionel proudly, if prematurely and optimistically, announced that Sale was to have an heir, her Grace quietly hoped for a boy and the Duke scandalised the whole household by proudly proclaiming that he wished for a daughter who might look like her Mama. On the seventeenth of October 1817 Harriet was brought to bed and the household waited expectantly. Less than two days later both Harriet and the baby – indeed a girl - were dead.

    Harriet held on long enough to apologise to her Lord for failing to present him with an heir. He told her not to be silly and stated that she would soon recover and there would be plenty of time for more children. She smiled and shook her head sadly and died in his arms a few minutes later.

    His Grace dealt with the funeral arrangements with a straight back and a forced smile; gentlemen of his order do not wear their heart on their sleeve. Only once did he come close to breaking down. Nettlebed, His Grace’s valet, chanced upon him as he changed for dinner. The Duke was sitting in his chair and staring into space with such a look of abject misery on his face that the gentleman’s gentleman, who had served his master since he was in short coats, involuntarily started Oh Your Grace. The Duke turned to him and asked in a voice his Valet had not heard since his master was twelve years old,

    How are we going to manage, Nettlebed? What shall we do? Nettlebed could only answer, because he knew that it what was needed

    We shall get ready for dinner Your Grace.

    Worse was yet to come. Some months later Gideon, the Duke’s cousin, and his closest friend was riding in the park when his horse was startled by the sound of a wheel coming off a passing Barouche containing two ladies. Always the dashing cavalry officer and far more concerned for the safety of the ladies unceremoniously tipped out onto the grass than his own, Gideon forgot to tend to his horse and was thrown. He would never ride again. His father, Lord Lionel Ware, the Duke’s guardian since birth and for so long the driving force in the family rushed to his son’s side but he was unable to deal with his son’s injuries and suffered a stroke. He recovered somewhat but he was never the same man; gone was the restless energy and determination, he was now happy to agree with any suggestion and to sit quietly in the sun with a book. He slept often during the day and became forgetful. He was always glad to see his nephew, but he was no longer able to advise or assist him with any matter concerning the estate.

    The Duke, only relatively recently of full age and now the head of the family, dealt with these new disasters efficiently and with a sad smile, but he felt the weight of his many responsibilities pressing down on him. A posthumous child; his father having died some months before his birth and his mother following her husband onward due to the effort of bringing her son into the world, the Duke was singularly ill equipped to deal with the sudden change in his life. He had been a sickly child and for some years, despite the effort of a small army of nurses, doctors and other staff hired to secure his health, there remained some real doubt as to whether he would survive sufficiently long to take command of his inheritance. He was protected from the smallest ill wind and his every whim was instantly attended to. He was not allowed to indulge in the rough and tumble of his peers in case he might take hurt. This might have, were it not for Lord Lionel’s abrasive personality, have turned him into a precocious spoiled child but his uncle was determined that he should be fully aware of his obligations.

    Fortunately, the Duke knew of and appreciated the services his many staff performed for him and he bore with his overprotective retainers with much more patience than would most boys his age. He was very sweet tempered never failing to acknowledge even the smallest service with a smile and quiet thanks. In contrast to his quiet and thoughtful ward, Lord Lionel was loud, bluff and much addicted to sport. It never occurred to his Lordship that the Duke’s failure to be assertive could largely be laid at his own door. On the few occasions The Duke had ventured to propose his own ideas Lord Lionel had told him forcefully that he had no idea what he was talking about and should be guided by his elders. Unfortunately, Lord Lionel’s dominant personality, coupled with his charge’s dislike of argument, meant that the Duke found it much easier simply to do as his Guardian advised.

    There was little change when he left school. He was sent on a grand tour with a man chosen by his uncle. He never could take to Captain Belper who was loud, not particularly cultured, over jovial and seemed to think that, given time, his young charge would come to enjoy those manly pursuits he himself enjoyed. The sole reason Lord Lionel had chosen the Captain was for his undoubted ability to protect the young Duke and Belper followed Lord Lionel’s strict instructions that he was to take no risks with the safety of the young Duke to the letter. He saw risks everywhere the Duke wanted to go and, as he had no appreciation of ancient Rome or Greece, he simply refused to allow his protégée to stop at what he saw as pointless ruins. The Duke therefore spent two miserable years travelling from one place to place to another, never seeing anything at all and in intimate company with a man he cordially detested.

    He had a season or two on the town before his marriage, but Lord Lionel again prescribed where he should go and whose balls he should attend. As Lord Lionel’s decisions were based solely on whether the company was such as would be in keeping with the dignity of the Duke of Sale, he was bored most of the time. He was uncomfortable at many of the fashionable squeezes to which he was invited, and he had no taste for society gossip. He was only too aware that, while he was much sought after as a dance partner, most of the ladies whom he dutifully led out onto the floor were concerned only with the contents of his wallet, and the size of his consequence. Not one of these very high bred ladies were remotely concerned with getting to know him.

    Had Harriet lived for two or three more years it is possible that the Duke would, by that stage, have developed enough self-confidence and a sufficiently secure sense of self-worth to have weathered the storm. However, unable to grieve for his beloved Harriet and their child and deprived of the support of his friend Gideon who, although putting a brave face on his physical limitations, had enough problems of his own, the Duke withdrew inside himself. With Lord Lionel no longer able to remind him of his obligations, cousins and various other relatives were firmly but politely rebuffed. A few hardy relatives and neighbours endeavoured to keep contact and, for a while, some succeeded. Even they, in the end, gave up. In less than a year the Duke of Sale found himself alone.

    This did not greatly bother the Duke since he found talking to people exhausting and he was therefore glad when the visitors stopped calling. The doors to the Duchess’s rooms were shut up and locked left, as the Duke had ordered wholly undisturbed and Sale Park became a mausoleum. Most of the rest of the House was closed up under holland covers with only the Duke’s private rooms and the servants' quarters in regular use. Many of the staff were let go; with no visitors to cater for and an undemanding master there was nothing for them to do.

    Even the solitude of Sale Park afforded the Duke no respite, the lengthy corridors and large salons which he and Harriet had planned to renovate, seemed to echo with so many shattered hopes. After a while, the home he had known since boyhood started to become oppressive. Hoping to outrun his demons the Duke looked for accommodation elsewhere. A mean inn unfrequented by the ton, felt much more comfortable than his own houses haunted by the ghosts of his own past. By the time a year had passed after Harriet’s death he could bear neither Sale House in Curzon Street nor Sale Park. No matter where he looked, there were memories, bitter as gall, crowding in on him and reminding him of events he wanted to forget. Eventually, apart from a couple of rooms kept for the rare occasions his Grace remained overnight, both houses were completely closed, the furniture obscured by Holland covers and only minimum staff retained to keep the Duke’s rooms barely habitable.

    Sale Park was a great estate and the business of collecting the rents and managing the land continued, much as it ever had during the Duke’s minority with the loyal Scriven, his Grace’s steward, at the helm. Although the house developed a neglected feel, the gardens were still maintained albeit not to the same standard. There were fewer gardeners as there was no-one in residence to feed and in any event, there was little pleasure for the outdoor staff in exerting themselves. Their master was hardly ever at home and even when he was, he appeared not to notice the neglect. The few staff left fondly remembered the days when they had played host to the local hunt or a shooting party. The most exciting event to happen there now was when a party of visitors applied to the housekeeper to see the house and grounds. Even these visitors slowly dwindled to nothing. Word soon reached the guidebooks that the whole house was under Holland covers and there was nothing to be seen. It was not long before Sale Park disappeared from the lists of recommended destinations.

    After the Duke made the (in his eyes) mistake of visiting Cheyney, the sizable property he owned near Bristol and had to endure the sympathy of his staff and tenants, he sent for his Steward. This worthy hurried to attend his master hopeful that he would be told something that would lift his spirit. He was disappointed.

    Scriven, please arrange for all my houses except for Sale House and Sale Park, to be made available for rent. The staff may remain if the tenant wishes to hire them. Alternatively, they are to be given good references and six months' pay in lieu of notice.

    But... but Your Grace, Scriven was horrified.

    Do I need to repeat myself said the Duke frostily, reminding Scriven strongly of the Duke’s late father if you are not prepared to carry out my wishes, then you may, as an alternative, take your pension.

    Further instructions followed over the next few months. The Duke, unable to face living at Sale Park and with nothing to occupy his mind recalled, somewhat tardily, that he had obligations to his properties across the country and to those who depended on his estates for their livelihood. His forefathers had managed their estates but none of them had ever taken as much direct interest as the current Duke did now. He threw himself into visiting his estates, long left to his agent’s management. He did not stay at any of his houses, although any one of them would have been pleased to welcome him, preferring instead to put up at posting houses or provincial inns. He liked the impersonal feel and the knowledge that no-one knew, or cared, about his history. Usually, he used the name of Mr. Rufford (Baron Ware of Rufford being one of his lesser titles) to avoid, as he saw it, the excessive, and unjustified, deference and fawning afforded to the Duke of

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