An item from the Nottingham Vigilant sent to The Teatime Tattler
Ashmead Gleanings for Saturday June 20, 1818
The Village continues to enjoy a quiet June. Weather to date has been favorable for a good harvest, and the Saint Morwenna Ladies’ Guild has kept the church awash in flowers.
Fletcher Hadden, village bootmaker, welcomed a fine son last week. The father reports mother and son are fit as can be. Walter Simmons announced the betrothal of his daughter Penelope at the assembly Saturday night. Folks were pleased for the girl, but a few ladies couldn’t help commenting that her older sister Bernice appeared none to pleased to be left on the shelf.
Ignatius Browning’s prize sow delivered of twelve piglets, causing much local interest. Due to an accidental over shipment of summer muslin, George Denman wishes folks to know it can be had at bargain prices at Denman’s drapery.
The most interest in Ashmead this week, however, centered on the whereabouts of Eli Benson, land steward to the Earl of Clarion. The end of May a woman turned up at Clarion Hall seeking help. Folks there report the woman had Caulfield hair and eyes, as do all of the old earl’s by-blows. We speculate she hoped to get part of the will where he left them all bits, but everyone knows Benson already settled the will. Made good on every promise. Is she a fake?
Edward Lamson Henry (1841-1919)
Soon after, Benson hied off to Manchester with the woman. Supposedly to settle some legal problems for her. A few folk took particular notice that they went off alone together. We’ve not verified that, but in any case he hasn’t returned. Work on road improvements around tenant cottages has all but stopped waiting for Benson’s input, and the repairs to the stables haven’t done much better.
This reporter asked the man’s father, Robert Benson, the innkeeper at The Willow and the Rose, about it over a pint of ale. He repeated that Eli is simply managing some legal problems and will be home soon. If that is so, why did he send his other son to investigate?
We have it on good authority that Sir Robert Benson, the one that’s a hero, galloped off to see to his brother. Trouble is brewing in Manchester. Count on it.
About the Book
Frances Hancock always knew she was a bastard. She didn’t know her father was an earl until her mother died. The information came just in time. She and her mother’s younger children were about to be homeless. She needs help. Fast. What she wants is a hero.
Eli Benson, the Earl of Clarion’s steward, took great pride in cleaning up the mess left behind by the old earl’s will. When a dainty but ferocious young woman with the earl’s hair and eyes comes demanding help, his heart sinks. She isn’t in the will. She was forgotten entirely. And the estate is just getting its finances back in order. But he knows a moral obligation when he sees one. He may not be her idea of a hero, but people count on him to fix things. He’s good at it. Falling in love with her will only complicate things.
Eli will solve her problems or die trying. It may come to that.
Award winning author and Bluestocking Belle Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.
Where, oh where, is the Duke of
Reddington? Since the 23-year-old Viscount Tisdale acceded to the dukedom upon
the death of his father last month, he seems to have disappeared. A certain
housemaid in the Half Moon Street residence of the volatile beauty known as La
Fantasia (with whom, readers may recall, the viscount has for some time enjoyed
an intimate acquaintance) informs the Tattler that the young duke
returned to Town after the funeral only to quarrel violently with his
inamorata, at last being driven from the beauty’s abode by means of vases,
figurines, and sundry other bric-a-brac hurled at his head.
When questioned as to the duke’s
whereabouts, Sir Ethan Brundy will only say that the duke is seeing to one of
the several estates that came to the young man along with his ducal title. Pressed
for particulars, he declined to specify which estate, claiming that the duke
controls so many he cannot keep them all straight. Given that the late duke had
sufficient confidence in Sir Ethan’s intelligence to name him executor of his
will, we at the Tattler suspect his professed ignorance is, in fact,
false modesty. Readers will remember that Sir Ethan is the brother-in-law of
the young duke (having married the duke’s sister four years ago in what at that
time was called the mésalliance of the century) as well as the political
rival of Sir Valerian Wadsworth, both men currently standing for the same seat
in the House of Commons.
Adding to the mystery, a young
man fitting the duke’s description has been sighted in a Lancashire village
near Manchester—specifically, at what was formerly the home of the late Mr.
Henry Drinkard, now converted to a boardinghouse run by his widow and daughter,
Daphne, the latter being a promising young poetess whose work the Tattler
has had the honour to publish.
But what’s this? An examination
of public records by one of our intrepid reporters indicates that none of the
duke’s holdings are located in Lancashire; however, that northwestern county is
the location of a thriving cotton mill owned by none other than Sir Ethan
Brundy himself. Can it be that Sir Ethan knows more than he is telling? And
where do Mrs. Drinkard and Miss Drinkard fit into the puzzle?
We are pleased to assure readers that our intrepid reporter is on the case, and we hope to have an answer very soon to the Mystery of the Disappearing Duke.
~excerpt~
“Truth to tell, Ethan, I’m deuced glad you’re
here” Theo confessed. “I’d be obliged to you if you can advance me something on
my inheritance—just enough to tide me over until the will is probated, you
know.”
Sir Ethan shook his head. “Much as I’d like to
oblige you, I can’t.”
“You can’t?
But—well, but dash it, Ethan! You’re the executor, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Well, then—”
“Theodore, all that means is that I’m charged
with making sure the terms of your father’s will are carried out the way ’e
intended—and that includes seeing to it that everything is done open and
aboveboard.”
“But it’s my own money, dash it!” Theodore
protested.
Sir Ethan nodded. “And you’ll get it, all in
good time.”
“Good time for you, maybe!”
“Aye, and for you. After all, you’d not like it
if I started doling out legacies to your father’s valet, or housekeeper, or
butler, would you?”
“No, but—”
“But the money’s rightfully theirs,” he added
with a look of bland innocence in his brown eyes. “It says so in the will.”
“It’s not at all the same thing!”
“It is so far as the law is concerned. If I
were to distribute so much as a farthing from your father’s estate before
probate is granted, I’d open meself up to legal action.”
“But I
would be the logical one to bring any such action against you, and it’s not
like I’m going to prefer charges against you for giving my money to me!”
“You
might not do so, but your father’s lawyer might,” his brother pointed out. “
’e’d be within ’is rights, too. In fact, ’e might even consider it an
obligation to ’is grace.”
“Crumpton is my lawyer now—and he’d do well to remember it!”
“Aye, that ’e is. And if you know ’e can’t be
trusted to look out for your father’s interests, ’ow can you trust ’im to look
after yours?” Seeing this observation had deprived his young relation of
speech, Sir Ethan added gently, “What’s the matter, you young fool? Surely you
’aven’t got yourself rolled up within a se’ennight of in’eriting the title?”
“I’m not ‘rolled up,’ ” Theodore protested.
“I’ve got plenty of money—or I will have, as soon as it comes into my
possession.”
“Is it that little ladybird you’ve ’ad in
keeping?”
“No—that is, not entirely, but—dash it, Ethan,
she expected me to marry her! I may have been green, but I’m not such a flat as
all that! And when she saw I couldn’t
be persuaded, or seduced, or coerced into it—” He broke off, shuddering at the
memory.
“Didn’t take it well, did she?” Sir Ethan
observed knowingly.
Theodore gave him a rather sheepish grin.
“Lord, you never saw such a shrew! It made me think that perhaps I’m well out
of a bad business. But I couldn’t let it get about that she’d ditched me, so I
went to Rundell and Bridge and bought her the most expensive thing they had.”
Sir Ethan, who had bestowed upon his wife more
than one bauble from this establishment and thus had a very good idea of the
prices to be found therein, gave a long, low whistle.
“And then,” Theodore continued, “I went to
White’s and—well, I just wanted to forget about it, just for a little while—not
just Fanny, but all of it: the dukedom, and the steward and his blasted
‘improvements,’ and the House of Lords, where I’ll no doubt be expected to take
my seat, and—oh, you don’t understand!”
“Actually, I do,” said his brother with a
faraway look in his eyes.
Theodore, intent on his own troubles, paid no
heed to the interruption. “And I can’t let it get out that the Duke of
Reddington don’t pay his debts, for we’ve had quite enough of that in the
family already! But I don’t have to tell you
that—God knows you shelled out enough blunt, towing Papa out of the River
Tick.” At this recollection, a new possibility occurred to him. “I say, Ethan,
I don’t suppose you would be willing to lend me the ready? Just until the will
is probated, you know, and at any interest rate you care to name,” he added
hastily, lest his brother-in-law balk at agreeing to this proposal.
Sir Ethan gave him an appraising look, and
asked, “ ’ow much do you need?”
Theodore told him.
“You’ve managed to run through that much in
less than a fortnight?” demanded his brother-in-law.
“No!” Theodore said, bristling. “That is, I’ll
admit I’ve spent more than I should, but old Crumpton says the will could take
months! A fellow has to have something to live on in the meantime.”
This figure, while high, seemed quite
reasonable compared to the sum Theodore had felt necessary to sustain him for
the few months it might take for the will to go through probate.
“All right, then,” pronounced Sir Ethan. “It’s
yours.”
Theodore was moved to seize his brother’s hand
and wring it gratefully. “I say, Ethan, you’re a great gun! You’ll have every
penny of it back, I promise—and, as I said, at any rate of interest you care to
name.”
Sir Ethan shook his head. “There’ll be no
interest. As for paying me back, you don’t ’ave to do that—at least, not in
pounds, shillings, and pence.”
This assurance left Theodore more than a little
puzzled. “What do you want, then?”
“You’ll pay me back by working it off.” In case
further explanation was needed, he added, “In the mill.”
About the Book
When 23-year-old Theodore becomes Duke of Reddington after his father dies, his new responsibilities are enough to send him off in a blind panic. Within days, he’s amassed a pile of debts, which his brother-in-law, mill owner Ethan Brundy, agrees to pay—provided Theo works in the mill until his father’s will is probated. In the meantime, Theo has a lot to learn about how the other half lives—and there’s no one better qualified to teach him than Daphne Drinkard, forced to take in boarders since the death of her father has left her and her mother penniless.
About the Author
Sheri Cobb South is the bestselling author of the John
Pickett mysteries (now an award-winning audiobook series!) as well as Regency
romances, including the critically acclaimed The Weaver Takes a Wife and
its sequel The Desperate Duke, winner of the 2019 Colorado Authors
League Award for Best Romance Novel.
Fletcher Hadden, village bootmaker, welcomed a fine son last week. The father reports mother and son are fit as can be. Walter Simmons announced the betrothal of his daughter Penelope at the assembly Saturday night. Folks were pleased for the girl, but a few ladies couldn’t help commenting that her older sister Bernice appeared none to pleased to be left on the shelf.
Frances Hancock always knew she was a bastard. She didn’t know her father was an earl until her mother died. The information came just in time. She and her mother’s younger children were about to be homeless. She needs help. Fast. What she wants is a hero.
