A Duke Deceived (The Deceived Series Book 1)

by Cheryl Bolen

  "I don't know what to do." Emily's voice was strained. "I cried off the Gilberts' rout last night, telling Mama I was out of sorts with a ghastly headache, but I can't do that forever."

  "Though I daresay it's not far removed from the truth. The only time you are your old self is when you are with Harriet."

  "Just so, but I could never tell my parents about her."

  From her carriage window, Bonny watched the warmly bundled equestrians threading through Hyde Park. "Em, perhaps you could go with Harriet to live in Milford. Don't make a decision today. Just think on it. We've kept everything at the old rectory just as it was. Mrs. Green is there, courtesy of Richard's purse."

  The corners of Emily's mouth lifted into a smile, and a winsome look crossed her features. "That sounds so wonderful. Just Harriet and I in a little cottage. How happy I would be."

  The carriage drew up before Emily's magnificent house in Cavendish Square. Bonny watched Emily mount the steps, holding her bonnet to her head to keep the strong wind from snatching it. Once Emily disappeared into Wickham House, Bonny withdrew from her reticule the note to the Earl of Dunsford she had penned that morning. Having one of her own servants deliver it was out of the question. They all loved Richard too thoroughly, and she could not have them thinking her a disloyal wife. Therefore, she determined to hire a street urchin to carry the dispatch to Harriet's uncle.

  Bonny instructed her footman to summon a young hostler hovering about Cavendish Square. A lad whose face was red from the stinging wind approached her window, and Bonny asked him to take the letter to Dunsford House on Half Moon Street. She gave the happy youth a shilling. "Please tell the person who answers the door that Lord Dunsford is to be delivered this note at once."

  "Yes, me lady," the boy said, skipping off behind a gig clopping in the direction of Mayfair.

  Next, Bonny had her barouche taken to the square near Kepple Street, where she asked her coachman to wait while she took a stroll through the park in the center of the square. Tying her bonnet under her chin, she stepped from the carriage and enclosed both hands in the muffs warmth.

  Her stroll, once again, ended up at the house on Kepple Street, and for the second time that day, Bonny paid a visit to Mrs. Davies and Harriet.

  Bonny wasn't there five minutes when she heard the Earl of Dunsford's strident voice, followed by heavy steps on the wood floors of the narrow entry hall.

  "Excuse my appearance," he told Bonny, straightening his cravat as he entered the parlor. "I came as soon as I received your note. Blasted early in the morning."

  Bonny handed over a babbling Harriet to her uncle. "It wouldn't seem so if you went to bed at a tolerable hour, my lord."

  "I would not have stayed out so late if my luck had been better. Fact is, I failed to win back my losses in spite of playing till dawn. Just dug myself further into debtor's prison."

  Bonny frowned. "I am sorry your luck is so poor and your sleep so short, but it now is the most appropriate time for your visit here, since Harriet's mother left just an hour ago."

  Balancing the blond baby on his left arm, Dunsford poked Harriet's chubby stomach with his right hand. The baby grabbed his index finger, wrapping her pudgy fingers around it.

  "Look how strong she is!" the earl exclaimed. "It was the same with Harry. Always smaller than me, but he could outfight me any day. Very strong he was." He turned loving eyes on the baby and attempted to speak in a falsetto voice. "She is such a strong little miss. And so precious." His lips brushed the fine, soft hair on top of her nearly bald head.

  They passed barely a half hour in the presence of the happy baby when Bonny said, "You are free to stay, my lord, but I must go."

  His lips thinned with disappointment. "I have an appointment myself." He handed the baby over to Mrs. Davies.

  Harriet clung to Lord Dunsford and commenced the worst crying spell Bonny had seen, worse even than when Emily left. "It seems Harriet has become very attached to you, my lord."

  "You may be sure her love is returned tenfold," he said in a sad tone. "Deuced hard to leave her."

  It had been a good session sparring with Jackson, Radcliff reflected as he cracked his whip over the high-stepping bay that drove his phaeton through the narrow streets of London. Too bad Twigs hadn't been there. Capital fun.

  From the corner of his eye, Radcliff caught sight of something that struck his subconscious as being incongruous. Within a few seconds he realized what it was. The Earl of Dunsford's barouche was parked in front of a house on this unfashionable street.

  Radcliff slowed down to examine the crest on the barouche door. Indeed, it belonged to that no-good blackguard. As he passed on, Radcliff heard a door open and turned to see Dunsford's tall frame coming through the door to a narrow little row house.

  Radcliff stared hard at the earl.

  What he saw caused his heart to nearly stop beating. Beside Dunsford at the top of the stairs stood his own beautiful wife.

  Busy talking to each other, the pair did not see him, and by the time they looked up, he was gone from view.

  Though Radcliff could no longer see Dunsford and Barbara, the picture of them standing atop the steps, looking into each other's eyes, was etched into his memory like letters on a gravestone. His hold on the bay slackened, allowing the horse to take him wherever it desired. He did not care.

  What did he care about anything? The wind pierced through him, but he did not even button his coat. He'd felt on top of the world since the night Barbara had cried so pitifully with disappointment that she was not with their child. He'd thought she wanted to be his wife in every way. But now his world crumbled beneath him.

  Bonny sat staring at the leather backgammon board.

  "Your turn to roll," Twigs said.

  She picked up the dice, then met Twigs's gaze. "You knew the duchess, Richard's mother, did you not?"

  He looked puzzled. "Never played backgammon with her, if that's what you mean."

  "No, no. I don't mean that. I would just like to know how a duchess acts." Bonny threw the dice and moved her men along the points accordingly.

  "Same as anyone else, I expect." He grabbed the dice and shook them vigorously, watching with delight and then triumphantly moving one man past Bonny's and knocking off another. "By Jove, this is capital fun."

  "What I mean is, can you remember anything about her that may have set her apart?"

  He pondered her question. "Sat at one end of the dining table. That set her apart."

  "You mean while the duke sat at the other end?"

  "Right you are."

  "I believe that's the customary procedure for the host and hostess, but I mean, did she act any particular way that made one think she was...like royalty?"

  He sniffed his perpetually runny nose, then stroked his chin. "Never took breakfast. Leastwise, not downstairs. Took a tray in her room and never came down till afternoon."

  The fourth duchess sounded to Bonny like any woman of quality. Bonny threw the dice and moved her men.

  "Old duchess was very nice–like the new duchess."

  Bonny looked into Twigs's watery eyes. "That's so kind of you. I want to act like a proper duchess. I should die if I embarrassed Richard."

  "What the deuce kind of talk is this? 'Pon my word, you could never embarrass him. If you ask me, he's deuced glad to have you."

  At this, Bonny got up from her chair and came to hug a red-faced Twigs. "You are so very dear, Twigs."

  As she spoke, Bonny heard her husband's voice.

  "I'll thank you to keep your hands off my wife."

  Bonny turned smiling eyes to her husband. "Oh, but it was me hugging Twigs. He is the dearest man."

  Radcliff scowled and moved toward them. "What diversion is it for you, today?" He looked at the backgammon board and frowned. "A game of sheer luck."

  "Perhaps that explains why I'm losing so dreadfully," Bonny said, trying to sound flippant to soothe her husband's anger. Surely he couldn't be jealous of poor Twigs. "I woul
d hate to think it was because I have no skill."

  Still embarrassed over being kissed by the duchess, Twigs said, "Now that you are here, shall we play something else? Loo?" He knocked his men down and went to fold up the board.

  Bonny squeezed her husband's hand and gave him an imploring look. "Do play with us, Richard."

  Radcliff threw himself into a nearby chair. "I don't wish to play anything."

  Startled by his harsh tone, Bonny sat down beside him, folded her hands in her lap, forced a smile and said, "Very well, Richard. We'll just chat. Have you been boxing today?"

  He nodded solemnly.

  Twigs's gaze shifted from Radcliff to Bonny. "Capital boxer, Richard. He's the only one I've ever seen who could plant a facer on Jackson."

  "What's a facer?" Bonny asked.

  "Nothing you need concern your pretty head with, Barbara."

  She still did not like her husband's tone, or his dismissal of her.

  "Very competitive, Richard. Doesn't like to lose," Twigs said.

  "I never lose," Radcliff stated flatly, glaring at his wife. He rose and addressed Twigs. "It's time for you to walk." He bent over the bed and assisted his friend to his feet. Twigs's man had helped him into long pantaloons earlier in the day.

  Bonny got on the other side of Twigs to hold him. Twigs put one foot in front of the other while grimacing in pain.

  "He's moving much better than last time, don't you think, Richard?"

  The duke agreed. "You'll be back in the ring with Jackson before you know it."

  "By Jove, need to get my movement back," Twigs said haltingly. "Got a mind to buy colors."

  Radcliff cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his wife.

  She shrugged. "I fear Twigs has a notion he'd look good in a red coat."

  "Fancy that the duchess is right," Twigs said, panting.

  "You are most determined to deprive us–permanently–of your company," Radcliff said, one of his arms circling his friend.

  "Like a cat, I am. Got a few more lives to use up yet."

  They reached the door and turned to go back to the bed. Beads of perspiration bubbled on Twigs's forehead.

  Bonny wanted to take his mind off his suffering. "Tell me, Twigs, what is your favorite thing to eat? I must have Cook make it up for you."

  He took a breath, then spoke. "Most anything suits me. Put it in front of me, and I'll eat it."

  Her eyes scanned his thin body. "But surely there's something you've been craving."

  "To tell the truth, been fancying plum cake."

  "You shall have it tonight," Bonny said as the three of them reached the bed.

  After Bonny dressed for dinner in one of her new gowns, she gently rubbed perfume behind her ears. She kept expecting her husband to come into her room as he often did while she dressed, kissing a trail along her shoulders as he clasped on her necklace. But this night he did not make an appearance. Was he really angry because she had kissed Twigs? Surely her handsome husband could never be jealous of his bumbling friend, but that was the only explanation she could think of that would explain Richard's aloofness that afternoon.

  She met her husband in Twigs's room, where they had decided to take dinner, and was disappointed Richard still had not noticed her new gowns. Refusing to accept his inattention, Bonny twirled in front of him. Though black, the elegant gown swooped down in front to the lowest-cut neckline Bonny had ever worn. She knew her full breasts, like her creamy skin, were an asset, and tonight, especially, she wanted to look beautiful for Richard. A train of black illusion fell from the back of the gown. A pair of black satin slippers barely showed below the front hem. Bonny felt confident she looked good. Marie had used curl papers to achieve the Grecian goddess effect with her hair.

  "Does your grace, by chance, notice anything different?" Bonny smiled into her husband's stern face.

  His pensive eyes studied her almost gravely. "I must say, Madame Deveraux has never had so lovely a lady on which to display her artistry."

  Her hands cocked on her hips. Bonny gave her husband an insolent gaze. "And how, may I ask, are you such an authority on women whom Madame has clothed? I believe I may get very jealous."

  The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. "I'm sure I have no firsthand knowledge of the women, Barbara."

  If only he had called her "my dear" or "my love," as he often did. Those words, though he had said them without passion, were so much more intimate than the formal-sounding Barbara.

  Bonny sat in a Louis XV chair and scooted it up to the table beside Twigs's bed. "I do wish you wouldn't act so grim, Richard." She inhaled the hardy beef au jus. The table was set with all manner of dishes, and two footmen served. "After all, you should be in good humor, since you beat Twigs and me so soundly at loo this afternoon."

  Sitting opposite her, Radcliff did not lift his eyes from his plate. "You went to Madame Deveraux's today?"

  "Yes."

  One of the footmen uncovered the salvers and the other served from the steaming dishes. What a waste to have so magnificent a round of beef for just the three of them, Bonny thought, but she took consolation knowing the servants would feast, as well as the inhabitants of Carlton House.

  "You left rather early," Radcliff continued. "Did you go elsewhere?"

  "To Cavendish Square. Emily accompanied me to Madame Deveraux's."

  Radcliff spread a napkin on his lap. "You went nowhere else?"

  Her heart raced. Had one of the footmen or the coachman told him about her using the messenger boy? Had any of them followed her to the house on Kepple Street? She hated to lie, but she had given Emily her word she would never tell anyone about the baby. She swallowed. "No."

  She felt Richard's eyes on her and avoided them, turning to Twigs. "You may be sure, Twigs, Cook has prepared plum cake for dessert."

  "Much obliged, your grace."

  "Now that the duchess has kissed you, you may call her Barbara, or Bonny Barbara–as she's always urged you to do. You're practically one of the family. You don't call me "your grace," man."

  Bonny watched her husband's face as the candlelight flickered in his bright eyes. He didn't really seem jealous. "Yes, Twigs, you must talk to me like I'm your sister."

  "Quite stout, my sister, not at all like you."

  "How a man can be so skilled at gaming and horseflesh and so lacking in all other sensibilities," the duke said to Twigs, "is beyond me, my dear friend."

  "You know, Twigs," Bonny said, "I used to think you and Richard an unlikely pair to be such great friends–for I am sure you know how dissimilar you are–but Richard tells me you are extremely amusing and given to setting the bloods into hysterics with your entertaining ways. I long to see that side of you."

  Twigs sniffed. "Not fit for a lady's ears or eyes, I regret to say."

  Radcliff scooped peas into his spoon and gave his wife a playful glance. "He's right, my dear."

  At least he had called her "my dear," she mused.

  Her hopes for additional intimacy from her husband went unrealized, though. At bedtime, she climbed into her featherbed and listened to her husband's indistinguishable words to Evans in the ducal chamber. When the conversation ceased, she propped herself on a mound of lace-edged pillows and waited for Radcliff, reading until her candle melted down. Her eyes stung and she told herself that it was from the new wood burning in her hearth, not from her husband's absence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marie curled one of her mistress's black ringlets around her finger. "I've come to a good station 'ere, except for Mr. Nose-in-the-Air. You'd think 'e was the duke 'imself. Too good to eat with us other servants, 'e is. I'd say the man 'ated women."

  "Men have a hard time accepting change," Bonny said to her abigail's reflection in the looking glass. "It's just been Mr. Evans and the duke for many years. Evans may resent that women have entered into their all-male domain, but he'll come around."

  "Ye are much too kind, yer grace." Marie stood back, head to the side, studyi
ng Bonny's hair. "The hair, even if I says so meself, looks quite good, but I can't do nothing for them dark circles under yer eyes. 'Is grace won't like 'em."

  Then his grace shouldn't neglect his wife, Bonny thought. She had lain in her bed hours last night, hoping her husband would join her, speculating on possible sources for his anger. Was he upset because she kissed Twigs? Had she behaved totally unlike a duchess? Was he sorry he had impulsively married her? Had he renewed old liaisons with other women? At the last thought, her stomach plummeted.

  While Bonny renewed her troubling thoughts, Mrs. Henson brought coffee and the morning's post. Bonny thumbed through a stack of communications from various tradesmen. Half the tradesmen in London courted the patronage of the new Duchess of Radcliff. Near the bottom of the stack, she found a letter penned to her in a feminine hand on scented stationery.

  Bonny eagerly tore it open and read the letter written in elegant, flourishing penmanship from the hand of Cressida Carlisle. She informed Bonny she was staying in London with her eldest sister, Mrs. Athena Miller, and would be calling on the duke and duchess. Athena? Cressida? The Carlisles must have been enamored of Greek mythology, Bonny thought with surprise. None of the Carlisles had struck her as particularly literary, save for the novels Cressida read about waifs marrying counts and living happily ever after. Of course, the waifs turned out to be noble-born and switched at birth.

  That very afternoon, Cressida and her sister paid a call. The duke was not at home, but Bonny presided over tea and cakes in the green salon. She was genuinely glad to see Cressida.

  Like the first time Bonny had met her, Cressida wore pink, a color that very much suited her delicate beauty. Squire Carlisle spared no expense in dressing his only offspring remaining at home.

  Mrs. Athena Miller, unlike her much younger sister, presented a matronly appearance in her cap and somber brown gown of good quality. Frizzled locks of gray curls poked from the cap, and the woman's figure resembled a bulging sack of flour. She did resemble Cressida when she related her animated accounts of the ton, many of whom she did not know personally.