Scandalizing the Duke

by Leslie V. Knowles

  He excused himself from the giggling brunette and her mother when he saw his great-aunt approach.

  "A most excellent crush, Wolverton," Lady Althea Ridley announced. It always impressed him that she still had the carriage and complexion of a woman far younger than her seventy-six years.

  "I'm glad you approve, Aunt." He took her hand and bowed over it, then straightened and acknowledged her silver-haired escort. "Wentworth." He turned back to his aunt and gave her a knowing smile. "Anne will be pleased you are here."

  "Pish-Tosh," she answered with a dismissing wave of her hand. "She knows I would be the last to miss her come-out. What will please her is a full dance card and a drawing room full of flowers come morning." She turned and placed her hand on her escort's arm. "Once we have our dance, Wentworth, you will lead me to my grand-niece before you go to the card room."

  As they swept away to take their place for the next set Lucien saw that Tristan had finally arrived and was conducting Anne onto the dance floor.

  He did not see either of the Longborough sisters.

  THE FRAGRANT SCENT of roses greeted Charlotte when she followed Elizabeth down the stairs the morning after the ball. A collection of flower vases filled several tables about the drawing room. A few contained lilies and one held cheerful yellow jonquils. She took another appreciative breath and counted nearly a dozen bouquets. Oh My.

  Lady Anne had told her they would be the measure of her success with the gentlemen to whom she had been introduced. Though she had enjoyed the ball and had never lacked for a partner, Charlotte had wondered if she would receive any flowers. Did this mean she and Elizabeth were properly launched into the Season?

  Elizabeth selected a card from the nearest bouquet, pink and white roses interspersed with lacy green ferns, glanced at it and passed it to Charlotte. "These are for you."

  Charlotte smiled in delight as she sniffed the fetching arrangement. Their peppery floral aroma captured the promise of summer to come. She read the message on the card, then chuckled as she read aloud.

  “So lovely a dancer,

  so lovely a smile,

  so lovely your laughter,

  and gaze for a while."

  She grinned as she tucked the card back into the bouquet. "I do hope Mr. Seldon does not aspire to making his fame with poetry." He’d been the earnest young man who’d been her partner for the supper dance.

  Elizabeth laughed as she handed Charlotte three more cards, “The white, yellow, and dark pink roses are also for you. At least these don't include poetry." She gestured to the six additional vases that filled the room. "You most certainly charmed everyone last night."

  "Surely they aren't all for me." Charlotte protested. How terrible if Elizabeth was ignored. She quickly checked the other cards, dismay gathering when the next four were also for her. Finally, she saw her sister's name on the arrangement of jonquils and daisies. "Here," she said as she passed the card to Elizabeth, "These are for you."

  Pleased surprise warmed Elizabeth's expression as she took the card. "They are from Lord Ravencliffe. “Flowers that bloom naturally in the wood are as sweet as those cultivated in the garden." She studied the flowers, and then smiled. "Jonquils are not the usual choice for floral acknowledgements, but neither are they odd." She smiled at Charlotte. "He knew we overheard Lord Marshburn last night. How kind of him to find a way to assure me I am not beyond courtesy."

  "Kindness had little to do with it, I'll wager." Charlotte declared. "I suspect he found your conversation a refreshing change from bland observations on the weather and gossip." Certainly, Charlotte appreciated the way he had defended her sister to Lord Marshburn. He was handsome, too. And titled. And intelligent. And perfect for her sister.

  She selected the card from the last bouquet. "Oh, here. Lord Ravencliffe is not your only admirer." She reached into a bouquet of white roses and handed a second card to her sister. "Mr. Sheffield also sends his regards."

  Mr. Sheffield had been the only other gentleman to ask Elizabeth to dance once the rude Viscount had made the rounds of the card room. "Neither gentlemen are actual admirers." Elizabeth said as she fingered the petals of one of the roses. "Lord Ravencliffe wanted to offset the unkindness of Lord Marshburn's comments, and Mr. Sheffield, as his friend, is following suit. I doubt either of them would have done so had not Lord Marshburn spoken so dismissively."

  "I say they’re both more interested than you give them credit for."

  "And I disagree,” Elizabeth said as she leaned down to bury her nose in the floral perfume. "But I don't intend to let that interfere with enjoying the first bouquets I've ever received." She stood and surveyed the overflowing room. "In fact, as there is ample proof of our social success when we receive callers this afternoon, I shall remove mine to my room so I may enjoy them all the more."

  Once Elizabeth and her bouquets were gone, Charlotte returned each of the cards to their respective bouquets. Most were from gentlemen who had been pleasant but made no lasting impression. Though several of the titled gentlemen from her list had attended that evening, they had found other partners, and she still had no idea if they would impress. There were no flowers from the one who most invaded her thoughts. The same one who refused to introduce her to possible matches.

  Since His Grace had been almost surly in that regard, she asked her aunt about her list of gentlemen over breakfast. “Aunt Poppy, is it true that the Duke of Everham keeps a host of dogs with him when he comes to London? His Grace said he has at least twenty-five or thirty more at his country estate.”

  “Everyone knows the Duke of Everham is obsessed with his dogs,” Aunt Poppy agreed. “Other than in Parliament, one never sees him in public without several on lead.”

  So, the duke had not deceived her, though Aunt Poppy did not sound as derisive as His Grace had. “He would not comment about Lords Marley or Grantley, though I got the impression he did not approve of their behavior.”

  Aunt Poppy’s eyes widened. “Tell me you did not ask him about them.” Her horrified expression told Charlotte more than her admonition. “Beyond the indelicate nature of such a question, Wolverton is especially disapproving of gossip. Promise me you will come to me or your uncle if you wish to know more about a gentleman.”

  Aunt Poppy spread a dab of marmalade on her toast and confessed, “As to the gentlemen in question, I’ll grant you that both the late Lords Marley and Grantley had scandalous reputations. But that does not mean the sons are unworthy," she assured Charlotte. "Take Wolverton himself, for example. He is the pattern of propriety. In fact, some speculate his father's actions are responsible for his own pristine reputation."

  Charlotte set down her fork. "What did his father do?"

  "Oh," her aunt flushed. "It was long ago and really isn't something one should dwell on. As it is, Mr. Sheffield has become a respectable gentleman despite his unfortunate position."

  "What does Mr. Sheffield have to do with the actions of Wolverton's father? "

  Aunt Poppy gave her a startled glance. "Mr. Sheffield is the scandal,” her aunt clarified. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and straightened her cutlery as though organizing her thoughts at the same time. "As you have been introduced, I suppose you should know of the situation, but," her eyes shifted to where Sarah sipped her chocolate and nibbled on toast. "Perhaps now is not the time."

  Sarah drained her cup and set down the narrow crust remaining of her toast. "It is alright, Aunt Poppy." She pushed her chair back and placed her napkin beside her plate. "I’ve finished. I’m going upstairs to write a letter to Papa, so you can tell them all about the scandal without worrying about me." She gave them all a saucy grin. "Though I already know. His sister, Rowena, told me all about her family while you and the duchess selected fabrics at the modiste’s shop."

  Aunt Poppy gasped but waited until Sarah was out of the room before she explained, "Mr. Sheffield is the former duke's natural son by the current duke's first nurse. If that were not enough, when the child's mother died
several years later, Wolverton's father brought the boy into his own home and expected Her Grace to raise him along with the legitimate children. It caused quite a stir for several years." Aunt Poppy flushed again before adding, “But, as I said, Mr. Sheffield has turned out well and is generally accepted by most families."

  Elizabeth, who had returned from her room in time to hear the story, spoke up. "When Anne introduced him as her half-brother and his name differed from hers, I assumed he was Her Grace's son by an earlier marriage." She put a piece of toast on her plate.

  Aunt Poppy took a sip of tea before responding. "As I said, it serves no purpose to dwell on an embarrassing family situation. Both the former duke and the woman in question are no longer alive and that which is in the past should remain there. It is known, but not discussed." She rose from the table in a manner that indicated she had said all she intended. "Don't forget we have fittings at Madame Fochet's this afternoon, and we are to attend the opera this evening."

  Charlotte absorbed this information and realized how vague her introduction to the duke's younger brother had been. She remembered that he had arrived late, so had not been announced at the door. Not only that, now that she considered her aunt's revelations, he and His Grace had remarkably similar coloring and features. Indeed, with her focus on her list of prospects, she had made the same assumption as Elizabeth without questioning the resemblance of the two men.

  "Who would imagine Mr. Sheffield to have such a background?" Charlotte mused. "I wonder how many other scandals we are unaware of."

  Elizabeth set down her cup. "I'm beginning to think quite a few."

  Two hours later Charlotte knew that assumption was correct as she caught fragments of gossip flowing through the rooms at Madame Fochet's modiste shop. A repurposed townhouse, the ground floor provided a parlor for those waiting for fittings or private consultations. The upper floors contained bolts of fabric, and workrooms where seamstresses filled orders and made alterations. Several ladies in the parlor chatted over books of patterns and samples of cloth.

  Most on-dits were nothing more than revelations of who escorted whom and what they wore, but occasionally the scandalized voices took a sudden dip in volume before the huddled participants gave collective gasps, then censorious declarations or titillating giggles gave away the manner of the transgression.

  Curiosity—alright—nosiness, had Charlotte straining to hear the whispers around the room. By the time the hems on her new dresses had been marked, she overheard that Lord Hobart had a new mistress, Lady Jordan was enceinte with a child believed to be fathered by someone other than Lord Jordan, though no one knew who, and Miss Rosemary Somms had been discovered in an attempt to elope with a gentleman whose name she refused to divulge and had been sent into the country in disgrace. Charlotte also learned that Lord Bascomb had crashed his phaeton after taking a dangerous turn at high speed at yesterday's races in Middleton and that Mr. Percy Philmont had taken a tumble into the Serpentine after a particularly long night of carousing.

  She knew that the Duke of Everham's dog had, indeed, whelped a litter of eight puppies, and at least three ladies feared their husbands would pick one to bring home to their children.

  Soon after she'd seated herself in the main salon to wait for Elizabeth to be finished with her fittings, an irritated male voice, from the private viewing room nearby, caught her attention.

  "You will wear what I tell you to wear, Sophronia. You know you have no taste and that you invariably combine the wrong colors with ridiculously modest designs. You are neither an innocent nor a crone and you will display what charms you have in any manner I decide fit my requirements. We have been invited to dine with the Earl of Dovehurst before the opera and I will not have him or his son think I am shackled to an insipid female."

  Charlotte stiffened. Albert Franklin. Her stomach clenched and her hands chilled. His irate tone resurrected her childhood terror and the threats he’d made when he'd found her spying on him near the riverbank that ran between the property he managed and Papa's.

  "Now go back into the fitting room and tell Madame Fochet to lower the neckline another full inch and it is to be done within the hour so you can wear it tonight."

  Unable to help herself, Charlotte rose and drifted toward a table of design books provided for the patrons. The table’s location next to the private consultation room allowed her to verify that the voice did, indeed, belong to Albert Franklin. She fingered the pages before peering around the wall. Madame Fochet stood beside the thin woman Charlotte recognized from Anne's ball. Vivid red silk clung to the woman's narrow form and the wide cut neckline already dipped lower than Charlotte's. Oh my. Another inch would bring the fabric perilously close to exposing the woman's bosom entirely.

  The low cut on Charlotte's own gown for the evening had made her blush though she'd been assured that the neckline was the latest in fashion. The neckline on the red dress, however, exceeded those she had observed so far. A glimpse of the woman’s downcast expression as she turned to enter the dressing room convinced Charlotte the woman dared not object. Charlotte had seen that same expression on his first wife’s face many times in the months she had spied on her neighbors. Charlotte’s eyes stung and she blinked away tears. Poor woman.

  Albert Franklin moved into sight and stood with his back to the doorway. She ducked away before he caught sight of her.

  A few moments later Madame Fochet emerged with the red gown and summoned a helper to whom she gave swift, quiet instructions before returning to the private viewing room to assure him that the seamstress would complete the required alterations immediately. "Matilda will bring you and Lady Dalton tea while we make the adjustments, M'lord."

  M’Lord? Lady Dalton? Charlotte moved to a corner seat out of sight of the private consultation room. He must have inherited a distant title since his first wife's death.

  CHAPTER 5

  When they took their seats in Uncle Aubrey’s theater box that night, Charlotte surveyed the vibrant colors and brilliant jewels on display as the audience filled the opera house. Her pulse thrummed and her breath quickened with excitement. She’d dreamed of seeing a stage performance from the first moment she’d read one of Shakespeare’s plays. Her sisters had often acted out plays for their own entertainment at home, but to be in a real theater, with real actors, made her positively giddy.

  Conversations and laughter filled the great hall and musicians at the foot of the stage tuned their instruments, filling the hall with sound and her spirits with celebration. Perfumes of every description mingled with the more subtle scents of talcum, wax and spirits. Even the occasional whiff of over-heated and under-washed personages failed to override her delight in the evening’s promise.

  "Oh, how splendid,” she breathed. Leaning forward, Charlotte gazed out over the railing to the pit area where several young men congregated as they greeted one another and ogled the young ladies sitting with their families and escorts. She ogled them back until one of them caught her eye and winked at her, which made her gasp in surprise and then chuckle at his audacity.

  She quickly shifted her gaze to the boxes on the opposite side of the theater where she saw the Earl of Ravencliffe enter a box followed by Lord Norcross and an unknown, rather dashing, gentleman with light brown hair. Each of them escorted ladies whom Charlotte had not yet met. When she asked who they were, her aunt eyed them with careful attention before stating, "I am not acquainted with them... and am unlikely to be."

  "Why not...?" Charlotte’s eyes widened and heat burned her cheeks when she realized the implication of her aunt's assessment. "Oh."

  She returned her gaze to the box and the questionable ladies who were now seated and laughing at something the gentleman with the brown hair said. They did not appear particularly different to her. True, the necklines of their gowns were quite low, but so were several of the gowns she saw on many of the ladies to whom she had already been introduced.

  She turned to Elizabeth and whispered. "Do you think Au
nt Poppy is right?"

  "I'm afraid so." Elizabeth answered. "I have seen them before at various public entertainments, but they have never been included on the guest lists of any private balls that I've attended."

  Charlotte stared, fascinated by the women. Though she was not supposed to, she knew that some women sold their favors and that many gentlemen engaged mistresses for their pleasure—which she had reasoned out had to do with mating. Of course, no one had ever explained the terms, but she had overheard enough to know that much. She also knew that mating was how babies were made, which was why true ladies did not allow gentlemen to kiss them before their betrothal, and that they most certainly did not allow any other favors or familiarities to their person until actually married.

  She had always assumed that women who were free with their favors would look different from ladies of genteel upbringing. To be sure, she had seen some women on the streets in the lesser areas of town who did have the hard, course features of a woman who would lower herself for coin. But the women in Ravencliffe's party were well dressed, with tasteful jewelry and the finest of silks. How could anyone believe them less than respectable? What made them different from ladies like her aunt or the women in the streets?

  While she watched, though, she realized that there was a subtle forwardness in the way the couples interacted. The ladies didn't object to the familiar way the unknown gentleman touched their arms or waists or backs—which he did frequently. In fact, they appeared to encourage it.