Dukes By the Dozen

Pulling the door shut with a snap, he studied the clearing in front of the cottage. White blanketed everything, bringing with it a still winter silence. Small boot prints disturbed the smooth surface of the snow, pointing toward the shed. A little farther beyond, horse tracks arrowed toward the north. Toward the forest path, as far as he knew.

He followed the tracks, each step in the ankle-deep snow increasing his discontent as the outside world crept back in. His stallion had disappeared, his shoulder was aching again, and his cursed highwayman had left him stranded. He did not know precisely how far he was from his own estate, nor where the nearest tenant or villager’s cottage might be.

Looking down at the horse tracks, he continued to follow them.

At least he knew where she was, and when he found her, he would wring the neck of that discourteous, beautiful, irritating, clever, sensual—

A wagon appeared on the path, bringing with it creaking wood and the muffled sound of hooves. A sway-backed mule led the weather-worn wood vehicle, its driver wizened and hunched against the cold—all three of them might be a century old.

“Yer Grace!” The driver reined in the mule, raised a hand, and wheezed, “I’m ‘ere to get yer!”

“Is that so?” Wulf eyed the piles of fresh hay in the wagon bed, then the wrinkled face, red with cold. Surely the man was one foot in the grave and did not deserve to be out on a morning like this.

“The ‘onest ‘ighwayman sent me, Yer Grace. I’m to take yer home on me way to find work.”

“I see. Thank you, then, sir.” At least the blasted woman hadn’t abandoned him entirely, though her gesture did not even his temper. “I would prefer to return to Falk Manor. Would you be so kind as to see me there?”

“’Spose.” A frowned creased the old man’s face. “I was going t’other way to pick up some work, but the ‘ighwayman said as ‘ow I ought to git you, and the jobs aren’t plentiful anyhow. So, work can wait.” He jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “I’ve put out fresh hay.”

“That is kind of you.” Favoring his aching shoulder, Wulf pulled himself into the wagon and braced for the jolting ride. Even as he did so, he noted patches on the jacket draped over the hunched, frail shoulders in driver’s seat. Surely the threadbare garment would not be warm enough for this bitter cold.

Yet the man was looking for work, despite shoulders bent with age.

Wulf thought of the Honest Highwayman’s words the night before, of the poor and the old and infirm she provided for. Was this man one of Wulf’s own tenants? He did not know, and could not say he would have paid attention before. He would not have looked. Really looked.

That shamed him, though he doubted he would ever fail to notice those around him again.

“My good sir,” he said, turning in the wagon and leaning against the planked wall. “Might I ask how long you have been acquainted with the Honest Highwayman?”

“Fer some time.” The driver clucked to the mule and did not turn around. “I came to git yer, because I was asked. I won’t say no more, for the ‘ighwayman ‘as done well by me.”

Wulf had thought as much. The ancient man was one of the recipients of her thievery, and from the look of his frail frame, he could use it. “You are looking for work, you said?”

“Aye.” The word carried a cautious tone. “Cutting ice, dragging it to the ice houses. The big families will want it come summer.”

“Hm. Well, I’ve a need for another man in my stables, if he’s good with animals and vehicles. Light repair to wheels and such, a bit of polish to the carriage lamps, currying the horses.” He rubbed at his chin, as if he wasn’t thinking about that frail body hauling huge blocks of ice through the winter cold. “If you’ve the interest.”

“Could be.” The man clucked to the mule again, the sound inattentive rather than meaningful. “In the stables, you say?”

“Yes.” He waited as the man glanced over his shoulder, consideration moving over weathered features. “Just present yourself at the rear door of Highrow Place if you’ve a mind.”

The sound the aged driver made as they passed beneath the gate to Falk Manor was part grunt, part assent. Wulf accepted that as noncommittal, but noted he needed to speak with the head groom about finding a place for another set of hands should the offer be accepted.

The wagon trundled to a stop in front of Falk Manor’s double doors, and the butler quickly opened them. Eyes wide, he examined the rough vehicle and the less-than-respectable appearance of both its occupants.

“Your Grace!” The butler called out as Wulf jumped from the wagon to stride up the front steps. “Has there been an accident? Are you injured?”

“I was delayed by a highwayman last evening and my horse bolted.” He knew he sounded irritated and gruff, and smoothed his tone. “If I might seek assistance?”