Chapter 1

 

“Your Grace, I do believe we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere between civilization and whatever wretched wasteland this appears to be, though I hesitate to suggest such a thing given your absolute certainty three hours ago that you knew precisely where we were headed despite my gentle recommendation that we might consider consulting the map I took the liberty of procuring from that last posting house.”

Graham Montague, Duke of Halverton, lifted his gaze from the frost-etched window of his traveling coach to fix his valet with a look that had been known to silence Parliament. Unfortunately, Jameson had been in his service for the better part of two decades and had long since developed an immunity to ducal displeasure that bordered on the miraculous. Being the age of thirty barely allowed him the liberty to fulfil his valet’s every whim in order to keep up with the musts of propriety.

“We have not taken a wrong turn, Jameson, as I’ve already explained with what I consider to be remarkable patience given the circumstances, and if you had been paying attention to anything beyond your own discomfort, you would have noticed that we are precisely where we ought to be according to the route I carefully planned before we departed London, a route that should have seen us comfortably installed at Halverton Hall by now had the weather chosen to cooperate with even the slightest degree of consideration for our schedule.”

The valet, a thin man whose face bore the perpetual expression of someone who had just detected an offensive odor, adjusted his spectacles with the precise movement of one who had performed the same gesture thousands of times before. “Ah yes, Your Grace, the weather’s inconsideration is indeed the primary culprit here, though I might venture to suggest that expecting December in Derbyshire to accommodate one’s travel plans shows a degree of optimism that borders on the fantastical, particularly when one has ignored three separate suggestions to delay our departure by a single day.”

Outside the coach, the snow had begun to fall with an enthusiasm that suggested it had been waiting all year for this particular moment to make its grand entrance. Fat flakes swirled past the windows in dizzying patterns, transforming the already uncertain road into something that resembled less a thoroughfare and more an artist’s abstract interpretation of white chaos.

“I see lights ahead,” announced Jenkins, the coachman, his voice muffled by the wind but still carrying that particular note of relief that suggested he had been privately convinced they were all about to perish in a snowbank. “Looks to be an inn of some sort, Your Grace, though I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes regarding its quality given that we appear to be approximately nowhere at all.”

Graham felt his jaw tighten, a familiar sensation that had become his constant companion since leaving London four days ago. Four days that should have been two, had the universe not conspired against him at every possible turn. First, there had been the broken axle just outside of Northampton, which had required a full day’s delay while the local wheelwright, a man who moved with all the urgency of cold treacle, had seen fit to repair it. Then came the bridge washout near Leicester, necessitating a twenty-mile detour through roads that barely deserved the name. And now this, a blizzard that seemed determined to prevent him from reaching his ancestral home before Christmas.

“An inn will have to suffice for the evening, assuming they have accommodations suitable for…” He paused, watching as the establishment in question materialised through the swirling snow like something from a children’s fairy story. It was… quaint. Painfully, aggressively quaint, with its thatched roof now wearing a thick cap of snow, and timber frames that had probably been old when the first King George took the throne, and windows that glowed with warm, golden light that spoke of comfort rather than elegance.

“Oh, how delightfully rustic,” Jameson observed with a tone that suggested he found it anything but delightful. “I’m certain they’ll have accommodations perfectly suited to Your Grace’s requirements, assuming those requirements have been recently and dramatically revised to include straw mattresses and the charming company of livestock.”

“Your sarcasm, Jameson, while always a source of endless entertainment, is particularly unwelcome at this moment when I am attempting to reconcile myself to the fact that I, the Duke of Halverton, am about to seek shelter in what appears to be an establishment that probably considers clean sheets an unnecessary extravagance.”

The coach lurched to a halt in the inn’s courtyard, and Graham could hear Jenkins exchanging words with someone, presumably an Ostler, about the availability of stable space. Through the window, he could see figures moving about despite the weather, their forms bundled in thick coats and scarves making them resemble nothing so much as walking feather-beds.

“Shall I make the necessary arrangements, Your Grace?” Jameson inquired, already reaching for his gloves with the air of a man preparing to enter battle. “I suppose I should inquire whether they have a suite appropriate for…”

“They won’t have a suite,” Graham interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of resignation. “They’ll have rooms, possibly clean ones if we’re fortunate, and we shall have to make do with whatever provincial hospitality they can offer, though I suspect that will primarily consist of curious stares and whispered speculation about why a Duke is gracing their humble establishment with his presence.”

“How refreshingly optimistic of Your Grace to assume they’ll recognize a Duke when they see one, given that we’re currently covered in enough road dust and snow to render us nearly indistinguishable from common travelers, though I suppose your natural air of superiority might give you away despite the circumstances.”

Before Graham could formulate a suitably cutting response, the coach door was yanked oquill, admitting a blast of frozen air and snow that seemed determined to explore every gap in his greatcoat. A round-faced man with cheeks reddened by either cold or alcohol, quite possibly both, beamed at them with the sort of enthusiasm typically reserved for long-lost relatives or unexpected inheritances.

“Welcome, welcome, good sirs! Terrible weather to be traveling in, simply terrible, though I suppose that’s precisely why you’ve stopped here at the Swan and Crown, finest establishment for twenty miles in any direction, though between you and me that’s not saying much given the competition consists primarily of Mrs. Wiggins’s spare room and the occasional haystack. Name’s Humphrey Bartlesby, proprietor of this fine establishment for these past fifteen years come Michaelmas, and I can assure you we’ll see you comfortable despite the weather’s best efforts to make everyone miserable.”

Graham stepped down from the coach with the practiced grace of someone who had been trained from birth to make even the most mundane actions appear elegant, though the effect was somewhat diminished when his boot immediately sank into a puddle of slush that had been cunningly disguised by a thin layer of fresh snow.

“We require your best accommodations,” he stated without preamble, his voice carrying that particular aristocratic tone that brooked no argument. “I am the Duke of Halverton, and I expect…”

“Duke, you say?” Mr. Bartlesby’s eyes widened to dimensions that would have been comical under different circumstances. “Well, bless my buttons, a real Duke! Martha’s never going to believe this, not in a thousand years, though I suppose she’ll have to when she sees you with her own eyes. Your Grace, it’s an honor, a true honor, though I should tell you this very instant that our best room is already taken by young Miss Finch, the apothecary’s daughter from Millbridge, lovely girl, very accommodating usually but I doubt she’ll give up her room even for a Duke, stubborn as her father she is when she sets her mind to something.”

“Surely the young lady would understand the necessity of providing appropriate accommodation for someone of His Grace’s standing,” Jameson interjected with the smooth confidence of someone accustomed to rearranging the world to suit his employer’s convenience. “Perhaps if you were to explain the situation…”

“Oh, I could explain until the cows come home and grow wings, but Ariana Finch isn’t the sort to be moved by titles and such, treats everyone the same she does, from the lowest farmhand to the…well, I suppose to Dukes as well, though we’ve never had one before to test the theory, but knowing Ariana as I do, I suspect she’d simply smile that smile of hers and suggest that a Duke’s back isn’t any more delicate than anyone else’s and perhaps the experience of sleeping in our second-best room might be educational.”

Graham felt his eyebrows rise despite himself. “Are you seriously suggesting that this… apothecary’s daughter would refuse to accommodate a peer of the realm?”

“Not suggesting, Your Grace, more like guaranteeing it with the certainty of someone who’s known the girl since she was knee-high to a grasshopper and already showing signs of that particular brand of stubbornness that seems to run in the Finch family like red hair runs in the McTavishes, though in their case it’s accompanied by a temperament to match whereas Ariana’s stubbornness comes wrapped in such pleasant manners that you hardly notice you’ve been thoroughly refused until she’s already gone.”

The wind chose that moment to remind everyone of its presence with a gust that sent snow swirling around them in miniature cyclones. Graham pulled his greatcoat tighter, though it did little to combat the cold that seemed determined to find every possible point of entry.

“Perhaps we could continue this fascinating discussion of Miss Finch’s character inside?” he suggested with a degree of asperity that would have sent his London staff scurrying. “Whatever accommodations you have available will have to suffice, though I trust they are at least clean and equipped with the basic amenities one might reasonably expect from even the most modest establishment.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly, Your Grace! Clean as a whistle, my Martha sees to that personally, won’t tolerate anything less than spotless she won’t, drives the maids half-mad with her standards but there’s no denying the results. Come in, come in, let’s get you out of this weather before you freeze solid like the pump did last Tuesday, took three kettles of boiling water to get it flowing again and even then it groaned something terrible.”

The interior of the Swan and Crown proved to be exactly what Graham had expected low beamed ceilings that would be a constant threat to anyone over average height, floors of dark wood worn smooth by centuries of boots, and an atmosphere thick with the competing scents of wood smoke, cooking food, and wet wool. What he hadn’t expected was the sheer number of people crowded into the common room, all of whom turned to stare at the new arrivals with the sort of frank curiosity that would have been considered beyond the pale in polite society.

“Busy evening,” Mr. Bartlesby explained unnecessarily, leading them through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who had navigated these waters countless times before. “The weather’s caught more than just yourselves off guard, seems like half the county decided to travel today despite all signs pointing to this being a terrible idea, though I suppose that’s human nature for you, always believeing we know better than the sky when it’s been telling us for three days that something unpleasant was brewing.”

A child, no more than five or six, broke free from her mother’s grasp and ran directly into Graham’s path, staring up at him with enormous blue eyes that held no trace of the awe typically inspired by his presence. “Are you a prince?” she asked with the directness only children could manage. “You look like a prince from Mama’s stories, all tall and serious and wearing fancy clothes, though your boots are wet and princes in stories never have wet boots.”

“I am not a prince,” Graham replied, attempting to step around the child only to find she had moved to block his path again with surprising agility.

“Then what are you? You’re clearly something important because That gentleman there…” she pointed at the valet with unerring accuracy “…looks very much as if  he’s swallowed something disagreeable every time someone gets too close to you, which is exactly how the king’s guard looked in the puppet show we saw at the fair last summer, all pinched and disapproving.”

“Lucy, leave the gentleman alone,” her mother called, hurrying forward with an expression of mortification that suggested she had recognised, if not Graham’s specific identity, at least his general social elevation. “I’m so sorry, Your Lordship, She is still entirely unacquainted with her manners we apply ourselves to it daily, I assure you, though the success is, regrettably, entirely at sixes and sevens, as you may observe.”

“His Grace,” Jameson corrected with the sort of icy precision that could have etched glass, “is the Duke of Halverton, and while I’m certain he appreciates your daughter’s… candor… perhaps you might consider teaching her about the proper forms of address before she accosts any other members of the nobility.”

The woman’s face went from pink to white and back to pink again in rapid succession, a feat of circulatory gymnastics that would have been impressive under different circumstances. “Your Grace, I… that is… Lucy, curtsy immediately!”

The child performed something that might generously be called a curtsy but more accurately resembled a sort of wobbly squat, never taking her eyes off Graham’s face. “Dukes are better than princes anyway,” she announced with satisfaction. “Princes just sit around waiting to rescue people, but Dukes actually do things, or at least that’s what Papa says, though he also says most of them do things badly which is why we’re better off without them meddling in…”

“Lucy!” Her mother’s voice had reached a pitch typically reserved for calling dogs or announcing fires. “That’s quite enough. Your Grace, please accept my most sincere apologies for…”

“No apology necessary, madam,” Graham interrupted, finding himself oddly charmed by the child’s complete lack of deference. “Your daughter is merely expressing opinions that I suspect are shared by a significant portion of the population, though they’re rarely stated with such refreshing directness.”

“See, Mama? The Duke likes me,” Lucy proclaimed triumphantly. “Can he come to tea? We’re having tea later because it’s almost Christmas and Mr. Bartlesby promised there would be cakes, proper ones with icing and everything, not like the sad biscuits we had yesterday that tasted like someone had forgotten to add anything that might make them pleasant to eat.”

“Those biscuits were perfectly adequate, young miss,” Mr. Bartlesby protested, though his grin suggested he wasn’t particularly offended by the critique. “Not everyone can afford fancy London confections, and my Martha does her best with what we have, which is more than some establishments can say, present company excepted of course, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” Graham murmured, though his attention had been caught by a movement near the fireplace. A young woman had risen from her seat, gathering what appeared to be an impressive collection of parcels and bundles with the efficient movements of someone accustomed to managing multiple tasks simultaneously. She was dressed simply but well in a traveling dress of deep blue wool that had seen better days but was clearly well-maintained, and her dark hair was arranged in a practical style that suggested she had more important things to concern herself with than fashion.

What struck him most forcefully, however, was the way she moved through the crowd, not with the tentative, apologetic movements of someone trying not to give offense, but with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly where she was going and expected others to accommodate her passage. People did, too, stepping aside with smiles and greetings that suggested both familiarity and genuine affection.

“Ah, that’s Miss Finch now,” Mr. Bartlesby said, following Graham’s gaze with the knowing look of someone who had observed many such reactions to the young woman in question. “Heading up to her room, I expect, probably wanting to organise whatever mysterious preparations she’s brought back from her father’s shop, always bringing something when she visits, remedies and tonics and such for anyone who might need them, never charges a quillny either though Lord knows she could use the money what with her father getting on in years and the shop not doing as well as it might.”

“The one who won’t give up her room,” Graham observed, watching as she paused to exchange words with an elderly woman, her face animated with what appeared to be genuine interest in whatever story was being related.

“The very same, Your Grace, though you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone here who’d blame her for it, seeing as how she comes regular as clockwork every Christmas season to help with the seasonal ailments that always crop up when the weather turns cold, and asking her to give up the room she’s paid for fair and square would be like asking the sun to rise in the west just because someone important preferred it that way.”

“I believe His Grace understands the situation,” Jameson interjected with the tone of someone attempting to prevent an extended dissertation on local social dynamics. “Perhaps we could see whatever rooms are available so that His Grace might rest after our arduous journey?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly! Though I should warn you the only room available is… well, it’s perfectly serviceable, you understand, clean and dry and all that, but it’s not what you’d call spacious, and the chimney does smoke something terrible when the wind’s from the north which it is tonight, and the bed’s a bit narrow for someone of His Grace’s height, and there’s a draft from the window that no amount of cloth stuffed in the gaps seems to cure, but other than those minor inconveniences…”

“It will be adequate,” Graham interrupted, though the word ‘adequate’ had never felt like such a generous overstatement. “Have my luggage brought up, and I’ll require hot water for washing and dinner served privately if your kitchen can accommodate such a request.”

“Well, as to dinner, Your Grace, that might be a bit of a challenge seeing as how the kitchen’s already stretched thin with all these unexpected guests, and Martha’s only got the two girls to help her, one of whom is of no more use than a cipher when it comes to anything more complicated than peeling potatoes, though she does peel them very nicely when she remembers what she’s supposed to be doing.”

“Surely something could be arranged…” Jameson began, but his words were cut short by a commotion near the stairs.

Miss Finch, it seemed, had encountered some difficulty with her parcels. One had torn oquill, spilling what appeared to be dried herbs across the floor in an aromatic cascade that immediately filled the air with the scent of lavender and something sharper, more medicinal. She knelt to gather them with an expression of mild annoyance rather than the mortification that might have been expected from a young lady in such a situation.

“Allow me to assist you,” Graham found himself saying before his better judgment could intervene. He crossed the room in quick strides, lowering himself to help gather the scattered herbs despite Jameson’s audible sound of disapproval.

She looked up at him with eyes that were neither blue nor green but something in between, like the sea on a cloudy day, and for a moment seemed to assess him with the same critical gaze she might have used to evaluate the quality of medicinal supplies.

“That’s very kind of you, sir, though I should warn you that you’re currently kneeling in what I believe to be a combination of dried chamomile and feverfew, which while generally beneficial for one’s health, will leave you smelling like a tisane for the rest of the evening, and given the quality of your clothing, I suspect that wasn’t quite the effect you were aiming for when you dressed this morning.”

Her voice was cultured but carried a hint of something else, amusement, perhaps, or possibly gentle mockery. It was difficult to tell, and Graham found himself in the unusual position of not knowing quite how to respond.

“I believe I shall survive the indignity of smelling like medicinal tea,” he replied, gathering a handful of the dried flowers and trying not to notice how they immediately began clinging to his coat with what seemed like deliberate persistence. “Though I confess this wasn’t how I anticipated squillding my evening when I set out from Leicester this morning with what I foolishly believed was plenty of time to reach my destination before nightfall.”

“Ah, another victim of December’s unpredictability,” she said, accepting the herbs he offered with a smile that transformed her face from merely pleasant to something approaching lovely. “Though I notice you said ‘Leicester’ with the particular pronunciation that suggests you’re not from these parts originally, London perhaps, or somewhere equally refined where they believe that weather is something that hapquills to other people rather than a force that affects everyone equally regardless of their social standing or careful planning.”

“You seem to have formed quite a comprehensive opinion based on a single word,” Graham observed, helping her to secure the torn packet with a piece of string she produced from one of her pockets. “Though I’m curious what else you’ve deduced from our brief acquaintance.”

She sat back on her heels, studying him with those sea-colored eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “Well, you’re obviously someone of considerable importance given the way Mr. Jameson there is practically vibrating with disapproval at your current position, which suggests he’s your valet or personal secretary, and the fact that you’re accustomed to having such an attendant indicates wealth and position beyond the ordinary. Your clothes, while currently somewhat worse for wear, are of exceptional quality, that greatcoat alone probably cost more than most people here see in a year. You’re traveling to somewhere you consider ‘yours’ given the possessive way you mentioned your destination, which combined with your bearing and the way everyone stepped back when you entered suggests you’re titled, probably significantly so. “Pray tell me, have I made any hand of it?”

“Remarkably well,” Graham admitted, finding himself both impressed and slightly unnerved by her perspicacity. “Though you haven’t mentioned the most significant detail.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m apparently occupying the second-best room in this establishment while you enjoy the finest accommodations available.”

Her laugh was unexpected, not the tinkling, artificial sound he was accustomed to from London drawing rooms, but something fuller, more genuine. “Oh, you’re that Duke! Mr. Bartlesby mentioned you’d arrived, though I confess I expected someone rather more… traditional.”

“Traditional?”

“Pompous, overbearing, convinced that the world exists solely to accommodate your wishes,” she elaborated with a directness that would have been shocking in a London ballroom. “Though I suppose the evening is still young, and you might yet fulfill my expectations.”

“I shall endeavor to disappoint you,” Graham replied, surprising himself with the lightness of his tone. “Though I should point out that expecting someone to vacate their accommodations simply because someone of higher social standing has arrived might not be considered entirely unreasonable in most circumstances.”

“Most circumstances, perhaps,” she agreed, rising to her feet with a grace that suggested some level of formal training despite her current modest situation. “But not these circumstances, I’m afraid. You see, that room isn’t just a matter of comfort for me…it’s also serving as a temporary disquillsary. I have medications that need to be kept at specific temperatures, preparations that require adequate light and ventilation, and at least three patients who know to find me there if their conditions worsen during the night.”

“Patients?”

“Did Mr. Bartlesby not mention? I serve as an informal medical advisor during my visits, particularly during the winter months when proper physicians are difficult to summon and often prohibitively exquillsive even when available. That elderly woman by the fire has a persistent cough that could develop into something serious without proper treatment, the child you were speaking with earlier is recovering from a fever that had her mother quite frightened just yesterday, and Mr. Bartlesby himself has a condition involving his joints that becomes particularly troublesome when the weather turns cold.”

“You’re a physician?” Graham couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“Hardly,” she replied with another of those transformative smiles. “I’m merely an apothecary’s daughter with a good memory for my father’s teachings and a practical understanding of which herbs help with which ailments. It’s not proper medicine by any means, It is a mere trifle, perhaps, but it is a vast deal more than they would otherwise possess, which is often precisely nought.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, and meant it, though the admission felt strange on his tongue.

“It’s necessary,” she corrected. “Admirable would be doing it for free. I accept payment in eggs, preserved goods, and promises of future favors that may or may not ever be collected. It’s a system that works well enough for everyone involved, though I suspect it would give your London economists apoplexy.”

“You know I’m from London?”

“The Duke of Halverton? Of course I know who you are, Your Grace. Your legislative speeches are occasionally reprinted in our local paper, usually when you’re saying something particularly controversial about agricultural reform or industrial development. My father finds them fascinating, though he disagrees with approximately half of everything you propose.”

“Only half? I must be losing my touch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. The half he agrees with horrifies our neighbors just as much as the half he opposes, so you’re maintaining a perfect balance of general disapproval.”

Before Graham could formulate a response to this rather startling assessment of his political career, Jameson appeared at his elbow with the inevitable expression of someone about to deliver unwelcome news.

 

Chapter 2

 

“Your Grace, I’ve inspected the available room, and I feel it’s my duty to inform you that calling it ‘adequate’ would be an act of charity bordering on delusion. The bed appears to have been designed for someone of considerably smaller stature, the washstand is missing one leg and has been propped up with what appears to be a medical textbook of dubious vintage, and I’m reasonably certain I saw something scurry behind the wardrobe that was definitely not part of the original furnishings.”

“How delightful,” Graham murmured. “And I suppose there are no other options?”

“Unless Your Grace wishes to sleep in the stable, which to be entirely candid, it might be preferable given that horses are generally cleaner company than whatever is currently inhabiting that wardrobe, then no, there are no other options.”

Miss Finch had been following this exchange with poorly concealed amusement. “If Your Grace is truly distressed,” she said, her tone suggesting she knew perfectly well what the answer would be, “I suppose I could offer to share my accommodations…”

“Absolutely not,” Graham and Jameson said in perfect unison, though likely for different reasons.

“…by which I mean,” she continued as if they hadn’t spoken, “I could move my medical supplies to your room and work from there during the evening, giving you the larger space for sleeping while I make do with the smaller room after I’ve finished with my patients. It would be inconvenient, certainly, and you’d have to tolerate the coming and going of people seeking treatment, but it would solve the immediate problem of where Your Grace is to lay his ducal head.”

“That is a truly generous offer,” Graham said, genuinely surprised by the offer.

“It’s practical,” she corrected. “You’re clearly too tall for the small room’s bed, and while I’m sure you’ve slept in worse conditions during your military service…oh indeed, that’s mentioned in all the biographical sketches, how you served with distinction in the Quillinsula…you’re also recovering from what appears to be a cold, judging by the slight hoarseness in your voice and the way you’ve been unconsciously favoring your left side, suggesting chest congestion.”

“I am not suffering from a cold,” Graham protested, even as he became suddenly aware that he had, in fact, been favoring his left side.

“Of course not,” she agreed with a solemnity that didn’t quite mask the sparkle in her eyes. “Dukes don’t get colds. They might occasionally experience a slight indisposition of the respiratory system, but never something as plebeian as a common cold. Regardless, the larger room would be better for your… non-cold… condition.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose…”

“It’s not an imposition if I’m the one offering, Your Grace. Be assured, I shall be attending to my tasks until the late hour regardless. There’s always someone who waits until nightfall to admit they’re feeling poorly, as if illnesses politely wait for convenient times to manifest. You might as well have the use of the room while I’m occupied elsewhere.”

“Your Grace,” Jameson interjected with the air of someone trying to prevent a catastrophe, “while Miss… Finch’s… offer is unexpectedly gracious, the propriety of such an arrangement must be considered. The sharing of quarters, even temporarily and with the most innocent of intentions…”

“In the name of fortune!” Miss Finch interrupted with an exasperation that suggested she had little patience for social niceties when practical matters were at hand. “I’m not suggesting we cohabit, Mr. Jameson. I’m simply proposing a temporary exchange of spaces that would benefit everyone involved. His Grace is afforded a proper place of repose and I may attend to my affairs without the burden of guilt over contributing to a peer of the realm’s vexation…and you may cease to wear that unbecoming countenance, as if you were made to consume a most sour draught.”

“I do not look like…”

“You absolutely do,” she assured him. “In fact, if you could bottle that expression and sell it as a tonic for excessive cheerfulness, you would amass a considerable sum.”

Despite himself, Graham felt his lips twitching toward a smile. “You’re rather direct for an apothecary’s daughter.”

“And you’re rather flexible for a Duke,” she countered. “I expected at least another ten minutes of protestations about propriety before you even considered my offer. Should I be impressed or concerned?”

“Perhaps both,” he suggested. “Though I notice you haven’t actually told me your full name. You know who I am, but you remain merely ‘Miss Finch, the apothecary’s daughter,’ which seems rather an unfair advantage in our acquaintance.”

“Ariana,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “Ariana Finch, though I should warn you that knowing my Christian name doesn’t grant you any particular privileges beyond the ability to be more specific in your complaints about my presumption.”

“I wasn’t planning to complain.”

“No? How disappointing. I’d prepared several devastating rejoinders that will now go to waste.”

“Perhaps you could save them for later. I’m certain I’ll do something worthy of devastation before the evening is through.”

“Your Grace,” Jameson’s voice had reached a pitch that suggested imminent apoplexy, “might I have a word in private?”

“I suspect you’re about to have several words, Jameson, and I doubt privacy will make them any more palatable,” Graham replied, but he allowed himself to be drawn aside while Miss Finch…Ariana…returned to gathering her supplies with quick movements, while a smile was playing upon her lips, despite her clear desire to suppress it.

“Your Grace cannot seriously be considering this arrangement,” Jameson hissed once they were out of the scope of their immediate attention, though in the crowded common room, true privacy was an impossibility. “The scandal if it were known that you shared quarters, however temporarily, with an unattached young woman of no particular standing…”

“Would be minimal given that we’re snowed in at a country inn with dozens of witnesses to the entirely innocent nature of the arrangement,” Graham interrupted. “Besides, who exactly would spread such gossip? The child who believes I might be a prince? The elderly woman with the cough? Mr. Bartlesby, who seems incapable of completing a sentence without at least three diversions?”

“But Your Grace’s reputation…”

“Has survived far worse than accepting practical assistance from a capable young woman during a snowstorm. Really, Jameson, sometimes I believe you forget that I squillt three years sleeping in Spanish mud while being shot at by the French. A temporary room exchange at a country inn hardly registers on the scale of improprieties I’ve committed.”

“That was different. That was war.”

“And this is December in Derbyshire, which some might argue is worse. At least in Spain, the enemy had the decency to be clearly marked and shoot from predictable directions.”

Jameson’s expression suggested he was mentally composing his letter of resignation, but before he could voice whatever dramatic proclamation was forming behind his pinched features, a crash from the kitchen followed by raised voices and what sounded suspiciously like sobbing interrupted the moment.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Bartlesby muttered, hurrying past them toward the source of the commotion. “That’ll be young Mary again, third pot she’s dropped this week, and Martha’s patience was already thin as paper. Your pardon, Your Grace, but I’d better intervene before we’re down to one kitchen maid and no soup for supper.”

The common room had fallen silent in that particular way that suggested everyone was straining to hear what was hapquilling while pretending complete disinterest. Ariana, Graham noticed, had put down her parcels and was watching the kitchen door with a slight frown.

“Is this a regular occurrence?” he asked, moving closer to where she stood.

“More than it should,” she replied quietly. “Mary’s new, came from the workhouse last month, and she’s trying so hard it makes her clumsy. Martha means well, but she’s not the most patient teacher, especially when the inn is this busy.”

The kitchen door burst oquill, and a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen stumbled out, her face red with tears and her hands covered in what looked like the remains of whatever had been in the pot. Martha, a formidable woman whose gray hair was escaping from its cap in militant wisps, followed close behind.

“Useless girl! That was the last of the good beef stock, and now what am I supposed to serve for supper? Snow soup? Perhaps His Grace the Duke might favour a most delicate dish of empty gesture, served with a generous side of singular chagrin!”

The girl, Mary, cowered against the wall, trying to make herself smaller as Martha continued her tirade. Graham felt the familiar discomfort of witnessing someone being dressed down in public, a sensation that reminded him uncomfortably of his own childhood and his father’s tendency toward public corrections.

“Perhaps,” Ariana said, her voice cutting through Martha’s scolding with surprising authority, “we might discuss this more productively in the kitchen? Mary’s clearly upset, and I’m sure the situation can be salvaged without quite so much theater.”

Martha turned on her with the expression of someone who had been interrupted mid-symphony. “This doesn’t concern you, Miss Finch. The girl’s my responsibility, and if cannot execute even the simplest of tasks…”

“Then she needs better instruction, not public humiliation,” Ariana interrupted calmly. “And it does concern me, actually, since I was planning to use some of that stock for a tonic I’m preparing. Now, shall we see what can be done about dinner, or would you prefer to continue shouting at a child who’s already learned her lesson?”

The two women stared at each other for a long moment, and Graham found himself holding his breath along with what seemed like half the room. Then Martha deflated slightly, though her expression remained sour.

“Very well,” she muttered. “But she’s your responsibility for the evening. I’ve got enough to do without training girls who can’t tell a ladle from a lance.”

Ariana nodded and moved to where Mary stood trembling. “Come along,” she said gently. “Let’s get those hands cleaned and see about tending to this spectacle of disorder …and perhaps,” she added, raising her voice slightly, “some of the gentlemen present might volunteer to help with the heavier work in the kitchen, since we’re now short-handed and I presume that all assembled here are desirous of their supper this evening.”

Not a syllable stirred amongst the entire assembly.

“How very gallant,” Ariana observed dryly. “A room full of England’s finest, and not one willing to carry a pot or stir a sauce. I must conclude that gallantry has utterly expired, or at the very least, is currently enjoying a temporary respite.”

“Pray, allow me to lend my aid,” Graham heard himself say, and immediately wondered if he’d taken leave of his senses. Every eye in the room turned to him with expressions ranging from disbelief to barely suppressed hilarity.

“Your Grace,” Jameson’s voice had moved beyond distress into something approaching catatonia, “you cannot possibly…”

“What reason do you hold against it?” Graham challenged. “I’ve got two functional hands and, despite rumors to the contrary, I do know which end of a spoon to use. Unless you’re volunteering, Jameson?”

The valet’s expression suggested he’d rather volunteer for transportation to the colonies.

“Excellent,” Ariana said, and there was something in her smile that made Graham suspect he’d just passed some sort of test. “Your Grace, if you’d follow me? And perhaps roll up those sleeves…they’re far too fine to risk in a kitchen battle.”

The kitchen proved to be a battlefield indeed, with evidence of Mary’s accident spread across the floor in a pool of aromatic devastation. The girl herself was hunched over a basin, scrubbing at her hands while tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

“First things first,” Ariana announced, surveying the damage with the air of a general planning a campaign. “Mary, stop scrubbing so hard, you’ll take the skin off. Your Grace, there’s a mop in that corner if you wouldn’t mind addressing the floor situation. I’ll see what we have in the pantry that might substitute for the lost stock.”

“You expect me to mop?” Graham couldn’t quite keep the incredulity from his voice.

“Would you prefer to inventory the pantry? I should warn you it involves quite a lot of bending and reaching in small spaces, and you’re rather tall for that sort of work.”

He fetched the mop.

The next hour passed in a blur of activity that Graham would later struggle to describe coherently. Under Ariana’s surprisingly efficient direction, the kitchen transformed from disaster site to functional workspace. Mary, once her tears were dried and her confidence somewhat restored, proved to be eager if uncertain, requiring constant guidance but responding well to patient instruction.

“No, Mary, dice the carrots smaller…His Grace, you’re letting the pot boil over…where did I put the thyme?—smaller, Mary, believe of dice, like for gaming…Your Grace, stir clockwise, it makes no difference to the soup but it annoys Martha when people go counter…there’s the thyme, behind the salt cellar…mind your sleeve, Your Grace, you’re about to drag it through the butter.”

Graham found himself following orders without question, a novel experience that should have been irritating but was instead oddly liberating. There was something refreshing about being useful in such a concrete, immediate way, so different from the abstract battles of Parliament and the careful maneuvering of London society.

“You’re not terrible at this,” Ariana observed, appearing at his elbow to inspect the pot he was stirring. “Though you’re holding that spoon as if it might bite you.”

“Wooden spoons are outside my usual area of expertise,” he admitted. “The ones at home are silver, and someone else wields them.”

“How fortunate for the spoons. Here, hold it like this…” She adjusted his grip, her fingers briefly covering his to demonstrate the proper angle. Her hands were smaller than his but surprisingly strong, with calluses that spoke of regular work.

“You seem remarkably comfortable ordering a Duke around,” he observed, trying not to notice the way she smelled of lavender and something medicinal but not unpleasant.

“You seem remarkably comfortable being ordered around by an apothecary’s daughter,” she countered. “Perhaps we’re both having an unusual evening.”

“That is certainly a way to render the circumstance.”

“Would you prefer ‘character-building’? That’s what my father calls any experience that involves unexpected manual labor.”

“Your father sounds like an interesting man.”

“He is. He’d probably like you, actually, once he got over the whole Duke situation. He has very firm opinions about the aristocracy as a class, but he’s surprisingly flexible when it comes to individuals.”

“And what about you? Are you flexible when it comes to individual aristocrats?”

She looked up at him, those sea-colored eyes bright with amusement. “I suppose that dequillds on the individual. You’re certainly not what I expected when Mr. Bartlesby said a Duke had arrived demanding my room.”

“I didn’t demand…”

“You didn’t? How disappointing. What’s the point of being a Duke if you don’t occasionally demand things in an imperious voice?”

“I save my imperious voice for Parliament. It’s wasted on innkeepers.”

“But not on apothecary’s daughters?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare use an imperious voice on you. You’d probably prescribe me something vile-tasting for presumption.”

“Wormwood tonic,” she said promptly. “Excellent for presumption and other ailments of the overly privileged.”

“You have a tonic specifically for the overly privileged?”

“Several, actually. There’s quite a market for them in Bath.”

Before he could respond to this piece of probable fiction, the kitchen door swung oquill to admit Mr. Bartlesby, whose face bore an expression of mingled amazement and concern.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s a messenger arrived from Halverton Hall. Says he needs to speak with you urgently.”

Graham set down the spoon with a mixture of relief and something that might have been disappointment. “Send him in.”

The messenger proved to be a young man so thoroughly covered in snow he had the ungainly air of a poorly stuffed sack, swaying with every step. He bowed awkwardly, clearly overwhelmed by the necessity of delivering his message to his employer while said employer stood in a kitchen wearing an apron that Ariana had insisted he don.

“Your Grace, Lady Elsbeth sends her compliments and wishes to know when she might expect your arrival. She says to tell you that if you don’t appear by tomorrow evening, she’s sending out a searching party led by herself, and you know how she feels about having to leave the house in December.”

Graham winced. His godmother, Lady Elsbeth Dandy, was a force of nature who made winter storms seem mild by comparison. “Tell her I’m detained by weather but will arrive as soon as the roads are passable.”

“She anticipated you might say that, Your Grace, and told me to tell you that she’s survived seventy-three winters and knows perfectly well when someone is using weather as an excuse for tardiness.”

“The woman’s impossible,” Graham muttered. “Very well, tell her I’ll be there tomorrow if I have to walk through the snow myself.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, Your Grace,” the messenger said earnestly. “The drifts are something terrible between here and the Hall. Took me three hours to make a journey that usually takes one, and I nearly lost my way twice.”

“Then how exactly does she expect me to appear tomorrow?”

“She didn’t say, Your Grace, but she did mention something about your grandfather once riding through worse weather to court your grandmother, though I’m not certain how that’s relevant to the current situation.”

Ariana, who had been listening to this exchange with poorly concealed interest, made a sound that might have been a laugh converted into a cough at the last moment.

“Something amusing, Miss Finch?” Graham inquired with what dignity he could muster while wearing an apron and standing in a kitchen.

“Oh, just the image of you trudging through snowdrifts to avoid your godmother’s wrath. It’s very romantic, in a desperate sort of way.”

“There’s nothing romantic about it. Lady Elsbeth’s wrath is genuinely terrifying. She once made a cabinet minister cry simply by raising an eyebrow at him.”

“Just one eyebrow?”

“She’s perfected the technique over decades. The left one, specifically. The right one she reserves for family disappointments.”

“And which one does she use on you?”

“Both, usually simultaneously. It’s remarkably effective.”

The messenger shifted uncomfortably. “Will there be a reply, Your Grace?”

“Tell her I’ll be there when I can manage it safely, and not a moment before. And if she objects, remind her that she’s the one who taught me never to take unnecessary risks with thoroughbred horses, and the principle extends to weather-related travel.”

The young man bowed again and squelched his way out, leaving small puddles in his wake that Mary immediately moved to mop up, and her earlier distress apparently forgotten in the excitement of the evening’s developments.

“So,” Ariana said, returning her attention to the pot Graham had abandoned, “you’re expected at Halverton Hall for Christmas?”

“Expected, demanded, and required on pain of social death, Lady Elsbeth doesn’t do anything by halves.”

“She sounds formidable.”

“She once faced down a highwayman with nothing but her parasol and a disapproving expression. He apologised and gave her directions to the nearest inn.”

 “I confess, I find myself utterly unable to credit that assertion.”

“Upon the solemnity of my Dukedom, it is the absolute truth.” She told the story at every dinner party for the next three years, always emphasizing how the poor man’s grammar was more offensive than his attempted robbery.”

Ariana laughed, that same genuine sound that had surprised him earlier. “I do believe I would like your godmother.”

“That’s what everyone says until they meet her. Then they generally revise their opinion to somewhere between ‘respectful fear’ and ‘abject terror.'”

 “Yet, it is plain that you hold her in the deepest regard!”

It wasn’t a question, and Graham found himself oddly moved by the observation. “She’s the only family I have left who actually treats me like a person rather than a title. Even when she’s being impossible, which is most of the time, she’s doing it because she cares, not because she wants something from me.”

“That’s… actually rather lovely,” Ariana said softly. “To have someone who sees you rather than what you represent.”

“Do you have someone like that?”

“My father, though he’s less likely to make cabinet ministers cry and more likely to bore them into submission with lengthy discourses on the medicinal properties of common weeds.”

“He sounds delightful.”

“He is, in his own way. Completely impractical about everything except his work, forgets to eat unless reminded, once squillt an entire day wearing his nightcap to the shop because he was too absorbed in a new preparation to notice. But he’s brilliant at what he does and kind to everyone who needs help, regardless of their ability to pay.”

“Which explains your presence here, providing medical assistance to snowbound travelers.”

“I suppose it does. We learn from what we see, don’t we? And I saw him treat a Duke’s son and a chimney sweep’s daughter with equal care, charging the Duke enough to cover the cost of treating the sweep’s child without any cost.”

“A noble philosophy.”

“A practical one. The Duke’s son recovered from his riding accident and recommended my father to all his friends. We had aristocratic customers for years afterward, all of them paying London prices for the privilege of being treated by ‘that remarkable provincial apothecary who saved young Lord Whitmore’s leg.'”

“And did he? Save the leg?”

“Oh yes. Though between ourselves, it was more a matter of preventing the local surgeon from amputating unnecessarily than any miraculous cure. Sometimes the best medicine is stopping someone else from doing harm.”

“A philosophy that extends beyond medicine, I believe.”

She looked at him sharply. “You’re more perceptive than I expected, Your Grace.”

“You seem to have had quite a few expectations about me. Have I disappointed them all?”

“Not all,” she admitted, then seemed to catch herself. “Though the evening is still young, as I said. There’s plenty of time for you to reveal your true ducal nature.”

“My true ducal nature is currently wearing an apron and stirring soup, which I believe rather undermines any attempt at aristocratic hauteur.”

“You could still manage it. I’ve seen men maintain their dignity in far more ridiculous situations.”

“Such as?”

“My father, for instance, once conducted an entire consultation with a baroness while wearing his nightcap, mismatched boots, and an apron covered in what I desperately hoped was strawberry preserve but was probably something far less appetizing. He never noticed, and she was too polite to mention it.”

“And his dignity survived?”

“Intact and unassailable. Of course, it helped that he cured her persistent headaches that three London physicians had failed to treat.”

“What was the nature of her ailment?”

“She required spectacles. Father diagnosed it in about thirty seconds, sent her to the optician down the street, and changed her life. She still sends us Christmas puddings every year, though we’ve never quite had the heart to tell her that neither of us has a distinct preference for the Christmas pudding.”

“No one likes Christmas pudding,” Graham said firmly. “It’s a national conspiracy of politeness that we all pretend otherwise.”

“Exactly! It’s heavy, overly sweet, and has the texture of disappointment mixed with regret.”

“You forgot the brandy sauce, which is clearly an attempt to make the whole thing palatable through intoxication.”

“The only reasonable strategy, really.”

They smiled at each other, and Graham was struck by how easy this was, how natural it felt to be standing in a kitchen talking nonsense with a woman he’d met less than two hours ago. In London, every conversation was a careful dance of implications and expectations, each word weighted with potential consequences. Here, wearing an apron and stirring soup, he felt more himself than he had in months.

The moment was broken by Martha’s return, her face still sour but somewhat less militant than before.

“Well,” she said, surveying the kitchen with obvious surprise, “I see you’ve managed not to burn the place down. I cannot deny that it is a certain improvement.”

“High praise indeed,” Ariana murmured. “We’ve also managed to prepare something approximating dinner, though I make no promises about its similarity to what you originally planned.”

Martha approached the stove and peered into the various pots with the expression of someone expecting disaster but finding merely disappointment. “It’ll do,” she pronounced finally. “Though why His Grace is wearing my second-best apron is beyond my comprehension.”

“It’s a long story,” Graham said.

“It’s really not,” Ariana contradicted. “I told him to put it on, and he did. See? Very short story.”

“You ordered the Duke of Halverton to wear an apron?” Martha’s expression shifted from sour to something approaching respect. “And he obeyed?”

“I find that I am engaged in circumstances of a rather extraordinary nature this night,” Graham said dryly.

“Indeed, we are all evidently embarked upon the same unusual path,” Martha muttered. “Mary, stop staring and start ladling. We’ve got a room full of hungry people and no time for standing about like statues.”

 

Chapter 3

 

The next hour was a whirlwind of serving, carrying, and trying to maintain some semblance of order as the inn’s guests descended upon the makeshift meal with enthusiasm that suggested they’d been far hungrier than they’d admitted. Graham found himself pressed into service as a makeshift footman, carrying bowls and plates with Jameson looking on in horror that had long since passed through acute and into a sort of numb resignation.

“Your Grace,” the valet said weakly as Graham passed with another tray, “Might I humbly request your indulgence to…”

“Absolutely not, Jameson. You’d expire from shock, and then where would I be? No one else knows how to properly press my cravats.”

“Your Grace is amusing himself at my exquillse.”

“Your Grace is serving soup to stranded travelers, which is far more amusing than anything he could say at your exquillse.”

Ariana passed them carrying her own tray, pausing just long enough to observe, “Your Grace, You possess a remarkable proficiency in this skill. Have you given any consideration to embracing a different line of employ? The pay is abysmal, but the company is significantly more interesting than Parliament.”

“The company in a root cellar would be more interesting than Parliament,” Graham replied. “I must concede the discourse is of a considerably more stimulating nature.”

“That’s because no one’s trying to impress anyone else with their vocabulary. It’s amazing how much more sense people make when they’re not trying to sound important.”

“Are you suggesting I try to sound important?”

“You’re a Duke. You don’t have to try. It comes naturally, like breathing or making other people feel inadequate.”

“I don’t make people feel inadequate.”

“You made Mr. Jameson look like he was about to faint when you picked up that mop.”

“That’s different. Jameson faints at any deviation from proper protocol. Last year, I wore brown boots with a black coat, and he had to lie down for an hour.”

“The horror,” Ariana said solemnly. “How did you survive the scandal?”

“Through sheer force of will and a complete indifference to Jameson’s suffering.”

“Your Grace is heartless,” Jameson interjected, though there was a touch of warmth in his tone.

“Your Grace is practical,” Graham corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The meal progressed with surprising smoothness, given the chaotic circumstances of its preparation. The food, while simple, was hot and filling, and the assembled company seemed more interested in warmth and sustenance than culinary excellence. Graham found himself seated at a long table with an eclectic mix of fellow travelers: a cloth merchant from Manchester, a young couple heading to visit family, an elderly gentleman who claimed to be writing a book about British bird life, and Ariana, who had finally been persuaded to sit down after ensuring everyone else had been served.

“I daresay that this meal is quite agreeable,” the cloth merchant said, sampling the soup with obvious surprise. “Much better than what I expected when I heard about the kitchen disaster.”

“That’s because His Grace helped make it,” Mary interjected from where she was clearing plates. “He stirred the pot and all!”

The table fell silent, all eyes turning to Graham with expressions of disbelief.

“Surely not,” the elderly gentleman said faintly. “A Duke, cooking?”

“Stirring, technically,” Graham corrected. “I’m told there’s a significant difference.”

“But… why?” the young wife asked, apparently unable to reconcile the concept of aristocracy with kitchen work.

“Because Miss Finch asked me to,” Graham replied simply, which seemed to confuse them even more.

Ariana, he noticed, was trying very hard not to smile. “His Grace was very helpful,” she said with perfect sincerity that somehow made the statement sound even more absurd. “A natural talent for following directions.”

“A skill I rarely get to practice,” Graham added. “It was quite refreshing, actually.”

“Surely you jest,” the cloth merchant said. “Dukes do not engage in such unbecoming domestic pursuits such as culinary preparations.”

“This one does, apparently,” Ariana said. “Though I suspect it’s a temporary aberration brought on by extreme weather and unusual circumstances.”

“Almost certainly,” Graham agreed. “By tomorrow, I shall, I daresay, revert to my customary role as a mere decorative apquilldage.” 

“Oh…I do believe you serve more than a decorative apquilldage.” Ariana mused. “You must serve some function, for if not, one fears that society would find little cause to extend its favour.” 

“We’re decorative,” Graham said seriously. “Like the porcelain shepherdesses collected by our matrons… possessing no practical use, yet somehow indisquillsable to the general decorum.”

“And equally fragile?”

“More so, probably. At least the shepherdesses don’t require no constant attendance regarding their keep and lodgings.”

The cloth merchant looked between them with growing bewilderment. “Are you… are you mocking yourself, Your Grace?”

“Constantly. It serves to spare others the inconvenience.”

“But you’re a Duke!”

“Yes, I’ve been told. Repeatedly. Often by people who seem to believe I might have forgotten.”

“It is most likely attributable to the culinary experience,” Ariana suggested. “Very un-ducal behavior. You might lose your title should this circumstance become public knowledge.”

“What a tragedy that would be. I’d have to find honest employment.”

“You could always become a culinary assistant. You show promise with soup.”

“High praise from the woman who orchestrated dinner for thirty people with a broken kitchen and an untrained staff.”

“Hardly untrained,” Ariana protested. “Mary’s coming along nicely, and you barely spilled anything.”

“My proudest achievement to date.”

The elderly gentleman had been watching this exchange with the expression of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. “Miss Finch,” he said suddenly, “are you by any chance related to Edmund Finch, the naturalist?”

Ariana’s expression brightened. “He was my grandfather! Might I enquire if you had the honour of his acquaintance?”

“Had the honour of his acquaintance? My dear girl, he taught me everything I know about British bird life! His treatise on the migratory patterns of the common sandpiper is still the definitive work on the subject.”

“He would have felt a profound sense of contentment to hear those words uttered,” Ariana said warmly. “He always worried that his work would be forgotten once the newer scientific methods came into fashion.”

“Never! Though I must say, I wouldn’t have expected his granddaughter to be working as a… what exactly are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Providing medical assistance to travelers and locals who are in need of assistance,” Ariana replied. “My father followed medicine rather than natural history, but the fascination with understanding how things work.” It is evidently a quality common to the lineage.”

“And you learned your medical knowledge from your father?”

“From him, from books, from observation, and occasionally from spectacular failure. Did you know that too much willow bark tea can cause ringing in the ears? Neither did I, until poor Mr. Henderson thought he was being haunted by bells for three days.”

“You experimented on Mr. Henderson?” Graham asked with mock horror.

“I treated Mr. Henderson’s chronic pain with what I thought was an appropriate dose. The ringing stopped when we reduced the amount, and he declared it a fair trade for being able to move without wincing.”

“Still, bells?”

“Very melodious bells, apparently. He said it was like having a private concert, though he admitted it made sleeping difficult.”

The conversation continued in this vein through the remainder of the meal, with Ariana revealing story after story of her medical misadventures, each told with a self-deprecating humor that had the table alternating between laughter and horrified fascination. Graham found himself contributing his own tales from his military days, carefully edited to remove the worst of the horror but retaining enough absurdity to match the tone.

“So there we were,” he was saying, “halfway up a Spanish mountain, in the rain, naturally, because it’s always raining when these things hapquill, and Wellington’s aide-de-camp rides up and demands to know why we haven’t taken the position yet. My sergeant, a man with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, looks him dead in the eye and says, ‘Well, sir, we would, but the French seem to have an objection, and they’re expressing it with considerable enthusiasm and artillery.'”

“What did the aide say?” Ariana asked, leaning forward with interest.

“He said, ‘Have you tried asking them nicely?’ Completely serious, too. I believe he genuinely expected us to send a polite note requesting they vacate the position at their earliest convenience.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. My sergeant wrote it on the back of a supply requisition form. ‘Dear French forces, would you mind terribly moving? It’s rather wet down here, and we’d appreciate the high ground. Yours sincerely, the British Army.'”

“You didn’t!”

“We absolutely did. Attached it to an arrow and shot it up the hill.”

“What hapquilled?”

“They sent back a note saying the position was quite comfortable, thank you, but they’d be happy to send down some wine if we were finding the wait tedious.”

“And did they?”

“Two bottles of rather excellent Bordeaux. We drank them that evening while planning how to take the hill the next morning.”

“War sounds surprisingly civilized.”

“Oh, that was the exception. Most of the time it was mud, blood, and people shouting contradictory orders. But occasionally, you’d get these moments of absolute absurdity that made the rest bearable.”

The cloth merchant shook his head. “I can’t imagine it. The danger, the discomfort…”

“The terrible food,” Graham added. “Never underestimate how bad military food can be. It makes tonight’s improvised meal seem like a feast at Carlton House.”

“Speaking of which,” Ariana said, rising from the table, “I should check on my patients before the hour is past. That cough of Mrs. Winters hasn’t improved as much as I’d like.”

“Would you like assistance?” Graham found himself offering, though he wasn’t entirely sure what assistance he could provide.

“Can you hold things and look sympathetic?” Ariana asked.

“I can certainly hold things. The sympathy might require some effort.”

“Then you’ll do nicely. Your Grace, if you’ll follow me?”

They left the table to surprised looks and Jameson’s long-suffering sigh, making their way through the common room to where Mrs. Winters sat by the fire, her thin frame wrapped in multiple shawls despite the warmth.

“Mrs. Winters,” Ariana said gently, kneeling beside the elderly woman’s chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, Miss Finch, I don’t mean to be a bother,” Mrs. Winters wheezed, though she was clearly pleased by the attention. “It’s just this chest, you know. Feels like there’s a cat sitting on it.”

“A large cat or a small cat?” Ariana asked seriously, pulling various bottles and packets from her seemingly bottomless medical bag.

“Oh, a proper-sized cat. Not one of those tiny things Lady Jameson carries around, but not a barn cat either.”

“Medium cat, then. That’s actually an improvement from this morning when you said it felt like a sheep.”

“Well, I suppose that’s something,” Mrs. Winters allowed, then noticed Graham standing behind Ariana. “Oh my, is that the Duke everyone’s been talking about?”

“It is indeed,” Ariana confirmed, measuring out a dose of something that smelled strongly of pine and honey. “He’s assisting me this evening, though I dare say, he is not fully sensible of the terms he has acceded to.” 

“I rarely do,” Graham admitted. “It makes life more interesting.”

Mrs. Winters peered at him with eyes that were surprisingly sharp despite her obvious illness. “You’re younger than I expected. Dukes are usually old and cranky in my experience.”

“Give me time, madam. I’m working on both qualities.”

She laughed, which turned into a cough that had Ariana frowning with concern. “Here,” Ariana said, holding out the spoon. “This should help. And before you ask, yes, it tastes terrible. Medicine that tastes good never works properly.”

“That seems like faulty logic,” Graham observed.

“It’s perfect logic,” Ariana countered. “If it tastes good, people take too much. If it tastes terrible, they only take it when they really need it.”

“Or they don’t take it at all.”

“That’s where the sympathetic looks come in. Your Grace, look sympathetic.”

Graham attempted to arrange his features into something approaching sympathy, which apparently was amusing enough to make Mrs. Winters laugh again despite the medicine’s admittedly terrible taste.

“He appears to be in a state of great discomfort,” the elderly woman declared. “Is that what passes for sympathy in London?”

“I’m out of practice,” Graham defended. “In London, we express sympathy by sending cards and avoiding direct contact.”

“How practical,” Ariana said dryly. “Though not terribly useful in medical situations.”

“We have physicians for those.”

“Who also send cards and avoid direct contact, from what I’ve heard.”

“Only the exquillsive ones. The cheap ones actually have to touch people.” He paused. “That sounded considerably worse than I intended.”

“Most things do,” Ariana assured him. “It’s a gift.”

They continued making rounds of Ariana’s informal patients, with Graham finding himself genuinely useful as an extra pair of hands and, surprisingly, as a source of distraction. People were so amazed to have a Duke fetching and carrying that they often forgot to complain about the taste of their medicine or the discomfort of their treatments.

“You’re rather good at this,” Ariana observed as they finished with the last patient, the little girl Lucy, who had developed a slight fever that Ariana deemed “more excitement than illness” but treated anyway with a mild remedy and strict instructions to rest.

“At what? Following orders?”

“At making people feel at ease. You’d expect a Duke to be…” she paused, searching for the right word.

“Insufferable? Pompous? Convinced of his own superiority?”

“I was going to say ‘distant,’ but those are entirely suitable too.”

“I can be all of those things,” Graham admitted. “Usually am, in fact. Tonight seems to be an exception.”

“Why tonight?”

He considered the question as they made their way back to Ariana’s room, or rather, what would be his room for the evening, due to her generous offer. “I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s the snow. Or the fact that no one here expects me to be anything other than another stranded traveler. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or perhaps it’s you,” he said, then immediately wished he could recall the words. They hung in the air between them, too honest for comfort.

Ariana stopped at her door, key in hand, and looked at him with those sea-colored eyes that seemed to see too much. “That’s very kind of you to say, Your Grace.”

“Graham,” he said impulsively. “If we’re going to be sharing accommodations and the need arise for you to speak to me, however innocently and briefly, then you might as well use my name.”

“That seems rather informal for such a short acquaintance.”

“So does ordering me around a kitchen and making me mop floors?”

“Those were exceptional circumstances.”

“So are these. How often does one get snowed in at a country inn with a Duke who knows how to stir soup?”

She smiled, that transformative expression that made her whole face light up. “Graham, then. Though only in private. I wouldn’t want to give Jameson apoplexy.”

“Too late for that. He’s been in a state of continuous apoplexy since we arrived.”

Ariana unlocked the door and led him into what was indeed the inn’s best room, though ‘best’ was clearly a relative term. It was larger than the smaller room he’d been originally assigned, certainly, with a bed that might actually accommodate his height and a fireplace that drew properly instead of smoking. But it was also absolutely covered in Ariana’s medical supplies, bottles and jars arranged on every surface, bundles of herbs hanging from improvised lines, and what appeared to be a small distillery apparatus on the writing desk.

“It does look rather like a witch’s lair, doesn’t it?” Ariana said, surveying her domain with a critical eye. “I promise it’s all perfectly legitimate medicine, though I understand if you have concerns about sleeping surrounded by mysterious potions.”

“As long as none of them are likely to explode in the night, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“Oh, they shouldn’t explode. Well, the one on the far left might if it gets too warm, but it’s December and this inn isn’t exactly known for its excessive heating.”

“That’s… not as reassuring as you may believe.”

“I’ll move it away from the fire, just to be safe.” She suited action to words, carefully relocating the potentially explosive bottle to a cooler corner. “There. Now you’ll only have to worry about the usual run of things…drafts, lumpy mattresses, and the possibility of Mr. Bartlesby’s rooster deciding four in the morning is the perfect time to announce the dawn that won’t arrive for another three hours.”

“He has a rooster?”

“He has three roosters, actually, all of whom have different opinions about when morning officially begins. It’s like a very dysfunctional orchestra of poultry.”

“Delightful.”

Ariana began gathering some of her supplies into a large basket, presumably to take to the smaller room. “I’ll need to come back periodically during the evening to check on some of these preparations. I’ll try not to wake you.”

“I’m a soldier, remember? I can sleep through cannon fire. A little puttering about won’t disturb me.”

“Cannon fire is probably less disruptive than my puttering. I tend to drop things when I’m trying to be quiet. It’s a peculiar talent.”

“I’ll risk it.”

She paused in the midst of her packing to look at him again, and something in her expression softened. “This is very kind of you, accepting the room exchange. Most people of your standing would have insisted on their rights regardless of the circumstances.”

“Most people of my standing haven’t squillt three years sleeping in Spanish mud. This is luxury by comparison.”

“Still.” She hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “There’s something you should know. About the room situation.”

“Oh?”

“I could have shared with Mrs. Winters or one of the other women. It wouldn’t have been comfortable, but it would have been possible. I didn’t offer because…” she paused, color rising in her cheeks. “Because I was being stubborn. Mr. Bartlesby announced you’d arrived demanding the best room, and I decided then and there that I wouldn’t give it up just because you had a title.”

“But I didn’t demand…”

“I know that now. But at the time, all I heard was ‘Duke’ and ‘demands’ and I thought, ‘Here’s another aristocrat who believes the world should rearrange itself for his convenience.’ So I dug in my heels out of pure contrariness.”

“And now?”

“Now I realise I was being unfair. You’ve been nothing but gracious about the entire situation, and you certainly didn’t have to help in the kitchen or with my patients or tolerate being ordered about by someone you’ve never met before.”

“So this room exchange is… what? An apology?”

“It’s an acknowledgment that perhaps I occasionally allow my assumptions to override my better judgment.” She smiled wryly. “My father says it’s my worst quality, though he usually phrases it more diplomatically.”

“What does he say, exactly?”

“That I have a tendency to build entire castles of conclusion on foundations of sand.”

“That’s quite poetic for an apothecary.”

“He reads too much poetry in his spare time. He claims it helps him understand the symbolic language of ancient medical texts, but I believe he just likes the rhythm.”

Graham found himself smiling. “My godmother reads gothic novels and claims it’s to understand the criminal mind.”

“Is she a magistrate?”

“No, she just likes gothic novels and doesn’t want to admit it. Last Christmas, I caught her reading ‘The Mysterious Monk of Mordaunt Manor’ and she tried to convince me it was a treatise on monastic architecture.”

“Was it convincing?”

“Not remotely. Especially when I pointed out she was holding it upside down in her haste to hide the cover.”

Ariana laughed, that bright, genuine sound that seemed to warm the room more effectively than the fire. “The manner of your godmother is quite captivating, I find.”

“I do believe the feeling would be mutual. You have the same tendency toward managing everyone around you.”

“I do not manage people!”

“You’ve had me mopping floors, stirring soup, and holding medical supplies. If that’s not managing, I don’t know what is.”

“That’s different. That was necessary.”

“So is most of what Lady Elsbeth does, according to her. She once rearranged my entire household staff because she decided they weren’t standing in order of height.”

“That doesn’t sound necessary at all.”

 “I insist you convey that message yourself!”

“Perhaps I will, if I ever meet her.”

“I shudder to believe of the consequences! Between the two of you, you’d have the entire county reorganised within a week.”

Ariana finished packing her basket and moved toward the door. “I should let you rest. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow you’ll need to brave the snow to reach your godmother before she sends out that searching party.”

“Assuming the roads are passable.”

“They won’t be,” she said cheerfully. “But you’ll try anyway because the alternative is disappointing a woman who can reduce cabinet ministers to tears with a single eyebrow.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I usually am. It’s another of those qualities my father mentions diplomatically.”

She paused at the door, basket in hand, and they stood there for a moment in the kind of silence that felt full of possibility.

“Thank you,” Graham said finally. “For the room. And for… everything else.”

“The enforced manual labor?”

“The reminder that there’s a world beyond London drawing rooms and parliamentary debates. The matter does sometimes escape one’s recollection.”

“Well, if you ever need another reminder, you know where to find me. Or rather, where to find my father’s establishment. I don’t actually live at this inn, despite current appearances.”

“Where is your father’s establishment located?”

“Millbridge, about fifteen miles south of here. We’re the only apothecary between here and Buxton, so we’re not hard to find.”

“And do you often take in displaced Dukes?”

“You’re my first, actually. I’ll have to add it to my list of accomplishments. ‘Successfully managed one Duke, only minor incidents of rebellion.'”

“Minor?”

“Well, you did complain about the mopping.”

“I asked if you expected me to mop. That’s not the same as complaining.”

“It’s adjacent to complaining.”

“It’s in the same general vicinity as complaining, perhaps, but certainly not adjacent.”

 “You have now resorted to splitting hairs, which, to my mind, is but a polished form of discontent.”

“I’m a politician. To quibble over mere shades of meaning is indeed my business.”

“How exhausting that must be.”

“You have no idea.”

She smiled again, softer this time. “Goodnight, Your… Graham.”

“Goodnight, Ariana.”

She slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her, and Graham was left alone in a room that smelled of lavender and medicine, surrounded by bottles that might or might not explode, facing a bed that would probably be comfortable enough despite its questionable linens, and feeling more content than he had in months.

It was, he reflected as he began preparing for bed, a very unusual evening indeed.

The knock on the door came just as he was contemplating whether to attempt sleep fully clothed or risk the potentially suspect bedding. Assuming it was Ariana returning for some forgotten medical supply, he oquilled it without ceremony.

Jameson stood in the hallway, his expression oscillating between disapproval and resignation.

“Your Grace,” he began, then seemed to lose his verbal footing. “I… that is… the room…”

“Is perfectly adequate, Jameson.”

“It smells like a herb garden.”

“A medicinal herb garden. Very healthful.”

“There appear to be things growing in jars.”

“Probably intentionally.”

“Your Grace is being deliberately obtuse.”

“Your Grace is being practical. This room has a bed I can fit in and a fire that doesn’t smoke. Those are the only requirements that are of importance tonight.”

Jameson’s expression suggested he had several dozen requirements that mattered, but he visibly swallowed them. “Shall I at least assist Your Grace to prepare for bed?”

“I do believe I can manage, Jameson. I did squilld three years dressing and undressing myself in military camps.”

“That was different.”

“Because?”

“Because there wasn’t a perfectly capable valet standing ready to assist.”

“You’re not standing ready to assist. You’re standing ready to disapprove.”

“I can do both simultaneously. It’s a particular talent.”

Despite himself, Graham smiled. “Go to bed, Jameson. Whatever damage this evening has done to my ducal dignity, it’s already complete.”

“Your Grace seems remarkably cheerful about it.”

“It’s liberating, really. Once one’s dignity is thoroughly compromised, there’s no point in trying to maintain it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jameson muttered, but he bowed and retreated, though not without one last disapproving look at the botanical laboratory that had become Graham’s bedroom.

Graham closed the door and turned to survey his temporary domain more thoroughly. Ariana had been right, it did resemble something from a fairy tale, or perhaps a Gothic novel. Lady Elsbeth would probably claim it was research.

He was just settling into bed, having decided the linens were clean enough despite their aged appearance, when another knock came. This time it was Ariana, carrying a steaming mug.

“I forgot,” she said, entering without ceremony in a way that would have scandalised Jameson. “Your chest congestion. This should help you sleep.”

“I don’t have chest congestion.”

“You’ve been favoring your left side all evening, you’ve cleared your throat seventeen times since dinner, and your voice has dropped approximately half an octave since you arrived.”

“You’ve been counting?”

“It’s habit. My father taught me to observe everything when diagnosing. People lie about symptoms, but bodies tell the truth.”

She handed him the mug, which smelled of honey and something sharply medicinal.

“What’s in it?”

“Better you don’t know. Medicine works better when there’s a little mystery involved.”

“That sounds like something you just made up.”

 “I insist you consume it without delay.”

He took a sip and immediately regretted it. “This is vile.”

“All the best medicines are. If it helps, it’s significantly less vile than what I gave Mrs. Winters.”

“That’s not actually helpful.”

“Drink it all. In one go is better, less time for your tongue to process the horror.”

He followed her advice, downing the remainder in a single, unpleasant gulp. “If I die in the night, Jameson will have you arrested.”

“If you die in the night, it won’t be from my tonic. More likely from whatever’s been living in that wardrobe in the other room.”

“You knew about that?”

 “The matter is perfectly notorious, and we have designated it Gerald.”

“Gerald?”

“Mr. Bartlesby’s idea. He says everything’s less frightening with a proper name.”

“That’s either very wise or completely insane.”

“Most wisdom is. Now, you should sleep. The tonic will help with the congestion, and tomorrow you’ll wake feeling significantly better, though possibly with a slight headache and an unusual taste in your mouth.”

“What kind of unusual taste?”

“Hard to describe. Somewhere between copper and disappointment.”

“You’re really selling this cure.”

“I’m being honest. Another of those habits my father insists on. Never promise what you can’t deliver, Ariana, and it is imperative you caution them against all unwelcome results.”

“What other unwelcome results should I expect?”

“Oh, the usual. Vivid dreams, possible midnight revelations about the nature of existence, and an overwhelming urge to reorganise your life.”

 “I cannot credit such an assertion!”

“About the last two. The dreams are real, though. Something about the combination of valerian and… well, better you don’t know.”

“You said that already.”

“It bears repeating.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “Thank you again. For being so… unexpected.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is. Expected is boring.”

“And I’m not boring?”

“The jury’s still deliberating, but early signs are promising.”

With that, she was gone again, leaving Graham alone with the taste of medicinal horror in his mouth and the growing suspicion that his life had just become significantly more complicated.