Free The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton Page B

Chapter Five

 
    IN WHICH THE
DUKE ENJOYS RYLESTONE HALL’S AMENITIES
    THE
INMATES of Rylestone Hall were used to waking at dawn. But usually they were
coaxed from pleasant dreams by the vocal gymnastics of Chanticleer IV, proud
descendant of Chanticleer I, Alyosius Honeywell’s prize cock. They were not so used
to waking up to bloodcurdling screams, however.
    Astrid, who had not had pleasant dreams, and who had, in fact, spent most of the night dreaming
about being chased by a twenty-foot tall monster resembling the Duke of
Montford during the village’s upcoming annual Harvest Festival’s
foot-and-ale-race, came awake with a start, followed by a thud.
    It took her a moment to realize she had tumbled off her bed
onto the floor. She stared at the ceiling, where the early morning light was
beginning to chase away the shadows, and tried to figure out what was wrong.
Aside from the fact that the Duke of Montford had spent the night two doors
down from her. And aside from the
fact that she had not murdered him in his sleep as she had originally planned
to do.
    Then the scream came again. High-pitched and very human.
Astrid bolted to her feet and pulled on her dressing gown, then flew out of her
door. She skidded to a halt at the scene before her. The peacock – Coombes
– stood in the corridor two doors down in a nightshirt and head stocking,
covered in the contents of the slop bucket intended for Petunia. Flora was
attempting to dislodge a root vegetable of some kind from behind his ear as the
man spluttered unintelligibly, spitting out bits of last night’s stew.
    Astrid knew immediately from the upturned bucket rolling at
their feet and the giggles drifting from the bedroom across the hall what had
happened. It was a standard trick in Ant and Art’s repertoire, balancing a
bucket on top of the door of an unsuspecting mark.
    “I presume they missed their intended target,” came a dry
voice beyond Coombes.
    The Duke stood in the doorway to his bedroom, trussed up in
a rich velvet robe the color of brandy, arms crossed, an eyebrow arched.
    “Your Grace,” spluttered Coombes, blinking bits of carrots
out of his eyes, “this is insupportable. Unholy.”
    “Quite,” he agreed, his mouth set in a grim line.
    It was not at all appropriate for Astrid to laugh. She covered
her mouth with her fist to keep the giggles contained.
    “Antonia, Ardyce!” she managed to bite out behind her hand.
“Come out here at once.”
    “But you said …”
    “At once,” she repeated, hoping she sounded convincingly
stern.
    After a moment, the two criminals reluctantly dragged their
feet into the corridor, heads bowed.
    She faced them, hands on her hips. “You heard Mr. Coombes.
Your little trick is insupportable and unholy.”
    “Don’t forget misdirected,” inserted the Duke dryly.
    “Yes, that too. Montford was not even hit by residual … er,
splatter. Now go down to the kitchens and fetch something to clean up the mess
you’ve caused.”
    “But Astrid , you said …” Ardyce began.
    She raised an eyebrow, silencing the girl. “Go now. Later
you can apologize to our guests.”
    “Yes, Astrid,” they said in unison, looking suitably cowed.
    As they passed by her, she winked at them. She couldn’t
resist. Their spirits rose considerably, and they took off at a dash.
    She turned to Coombes, wondering what to do with the poor
man.
    “I think I’d best take him out in the yard, miss,” Flora
said. “Throw a couple of buckets from the well over him.”
    Coombes looked even more horrified.
    “Yes, I think that’s probably the only thing for it,”
Astrid said. “I am sorry, Mr. Coombes.”
    “No, she’s not,” the Duke observed casually from his place
by the door.
    “Well, come on, Mr. Coombes. We’ll have you sorted soon
enough,” Flora said, taking him by the sleeve and pulling him down the hall.
    Coombes was too stunned to do anything but follow, casting
wild looks towards his employer.
    When they were gone,