“Why that would be lovely, Sol. Very kind of you.”
Taking her hand, Solomon bent to kiss it. “I would love to visit with you further, Rebecca, but I wish to have a dance with the young lady I mentioned.”
“She is here?” Rebecca strode out from behind the pillar, gazing around at the crowd within the vast Rotterdam hall. “Which one is she? I do not need to meet her just yet, but I would like to see my old friend’s taste in ladies.”
Solomon looked everywhere, but he could not see Miss Wolcott anywhere. Nor did he see Thomas Wolcott. Disappointment flooded him. “She must have left.”
“And it is my fault, Sol. I am so sorry I deprived you of a few moments with her. I am sure she will forgive you for your brief neglect.”
Solomon stared at the milling guests, observing their lightning glances, their appraisal, their whispers behind their hands. No doubt, he would be on the scandal sheets yet again, seen trying to hide the fact that he spoke at length, in a private alcove, with a known actress, Rebecca Calhoun. “I hope so,” he whispered.
***
Miss Teresa Wolcott
Never in her life had Teresa wept herself to sleep. Not even when her mother passed away, not when her father, whom she adored, died. The Duke’s evident love for the actress Rebecca Calhoun had destroyed what illusion Teresa had for herself that a man, a Duke, could ever be interested in her. Now, for the first time, she believed what people spoke about her – that she was emotionally unstable, a spinster who spoke her mind, a useless bluestocking no sensible man would approach, much less marry.
Falling asleep in the midst of her weeping storm, she woke a few hours later. Long past midnight, her face swollen from crying, her chest tight, she rose from her bed to wash her face and brush her hair. Both actions soothed her, and she sat staring out her window across the roofs of London. “Thomas and Amelia were right,” she murmured. “He hurt me.”
Though she loved them both dearly, Teresa vowed they would never know of her humiliation. Thomas tried to ask a few questions on the drive back to their townhouse – why did she want to leave without talking to His Grace, why did she look upset, was she sure she wanted to leave the party so early? – but Teresa steadfastly refused to answer them.
She could not bear their playful I told you so even if they meant it well. Yes, they would mean well, but she could not face even talking about seeing the Duke so happily in love with an actress. Sitting in her armchair, Teresa recalled what she knew of the woman named Rebecca Calhoun. So beautiful, a man had only to gaze into her exotic eyes and they fell at her feet, her slaves.
“I do not have exotic eyes,” Teresa muttered. “Men do not fall at my feet and become my slaves. And my name certainly is not as intriguing as Rebecca Calhoun. It is Teresa bloody Wolcott.”
The hours slipped by as she gazed out over the street lights of the city, churning toward the dawn and a new day without hope of a happy ending. Her eyes gritty, her mind and emotions numb, she finally grew exhausted enough to sleep. Returning to her damp pillow, Teresa caught the Duke’s face in her mind’s eye, and fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
Thomas was gone by the time she dressed and went down the stairs to the kitchen, and Amelia went back up them complaining of nausea. Alone at the table in the dining room, served by her annoyed cook, Teresa only picked at her food. She knew the cook recognized a face swollen from weeping, yet could not find it in her to care. Word might get to Elsa, she knew, but perhaps not to Thomas or Amelia.
Even as she listlessly stared at her plate, still mostly empty, Elsa came in to curtsey. “A letter for you, Miss Wolcott.”
“Thank you.”
The seal was the Duke’s. Teresa tossed it on the table, unopened, unread. He had played her for a fool, and like a fool, fell headlong into his games. “I am supposed to be smarter than that.” She eyed the letter on the polished oak of the table, then stood up. Leaving her plate for Elsa to finish, she took the letter to her room and placed it, still unread, on her desk. Picking up the book she had been reading, she took it to the reading room with the intention of reading.
Instead, she stared out the window.
Lunch came and went without her appearing at the table. At last, Amelia entered in search of her, and discovered Teresa engrossed in the novel. “Teresa, dear, are you not hungry?” Amelia asked.
Teresa feigned a smile. “I ate too much at breakfast.”
Amelia sat down with a groan. “At least you are able to eat breakfast,” she murmured. “Take my advice, never get with child.”
That will never happen. Not now. Naturally, Teresa did not voice that thought aloud. Instead, she asked, genuine concern in her voice, “Are you all right?”
Amelia nodded, leaning back into her armchair. “The doctor warned me about morning sickness,” she said. “He just failed to warn me about how horrid it is.”
“And this is normal?”
“It would seem so.” Amelia smiled. “At least for the first few months. Then it is supposed to taper off.”
“I hope that happens soon,” Teresa replied, eyeing Amelia with worry. “I hate seeing you so ill.”
“You are a sweetheart, Teresa. Tell me, how was the party last night?”
Teresa shrugged. “You know, the usual. Started off all right, then had another anxiety attack. I asked Thomas to bring me home.”
Amelia clicked her tongue. “I am so sorry, Teresa. I had hoped my massage helped.”
“It did.” Teresa smiled. “Until I danced with Dame Rotterdam’s grandson. I fell apart after that.”
“Oh, dear.”
Teresa aimed for light heartedness. “I think it’s best I remain a spinster, Amelia. I am just not bred for parties and balls and trying to find a husband.”
“But.” Amelia stared at her. “I thought things were going well with the Duke. You seemed so happy, in spite of being shot at.”
“I have no wish to embarrass him. I know I will, in time. I will just withdraw from society in general.” Teresa smiled. “The upper class will no doubt appreciate it. Not being forced to listen to my opinions and all.”
“I don’t like that.” Amelia frowned. “You deserve a husband who will love you.”
“That will not happen.” Teresa picked up her book and showed it to her with a smile. “I will live vicariously through my romance novels.”
***
Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill
Expecting a reply to his letter from Miss Wolcott, Solomon drummed his fingers on his desk, watching for a messenger through the window. None came. For hours he watched, waiting, yet no reply came from her as they had before. Surely she would not refuse an invitation to attend a ball with me.
Unease coursed into his gut as he recalled his happy conversation with Rebecca and Miss Wolcott’s mysterious disappearance from the party the evening before. Even Dame Rotterdam had wondered why she left while seemingly upset when she offered her farewells.
“There must be a connection,” he muttered.
“Your Grace?”
Turning in his chair, he found Mrs. Camelia Hart, his housekeeper, at the door to his study. “Yes?”
The rotund yet pleasant woman with the tidy bun curtsied. “Mr. Hall is busy, and did not realize that Mr. Evan Fawcett arrived. He wishes to see you, Your Grace.”
Solomon raised a smile. “Send him in, please.”
“Right away, Your Grace.”
He sat back in his chair, grateful for the distraction. Evan was not just one of his oldest friends, his keen eye for horseflesh made him the perfect choice as the manager for Solomon’s breeding facility in Lancashire. He made the journey to London every few months when Solomon could not go north, but Solomon did not expect him until the following week.
Evan blew in with a grin on his unshaven cheeks, his blond hair rakishly combed back and his laughter bringing a smile to Solomon’s face. He stood up to embrace his old friend, then invited him to sit. “I did not expect you until next
week,” he said. “Whiskey?”
“Yes, thank you. I had to come early, Sol.”
“By your expression, you did not come just for the reports,” Solomon said, pouring golden whiskey from the decanters into tumblers. “Tell me.”
Evan picked up his glass and lifted it high. “I came to toast with you the next breeding stud of Thornehill Farms, my old friend. Old Rage and Regret foaled, Sol.”
Solomon set his tumbler down, his eyes wide. “If you came all this way to tell me that, then she –”
“Yes.” Evan laughed aloud. “She produced a colt that eclipses his sire as the moon eclipses the stars.”
“Oh, my God.” Solomon set his tumbler down without drinking from it. “How can you be so sure?”
Evan grinned and down his whiskey in a gulp. “Sol. It’s me. I know quality when I see it. The right mix of genes created a near miracle. This colt will make you a fortune.”
“I have a fortune. Will he have his sire’s speed?”
“He will surpass his sire, Sol. This colt will win races all over the realm. The Prince Regent himself will sit up and take notice.”
Solomon picked up his tumbler, leaning forward over his desk. “How many know of this colt?”
“Right now, only the grooms. I told no one else.”
“They would not know quality from a hole in the ground. You tell no one, Evan. No one. I mean it.”
Evan grinned, and held out his glass for a refill. “Am I stupid, Sol? No. You picked me for this job because I know horses and I am loyal. I came here to tell you personally for that very reason.”
“And outside of Percy, you are my closest friend.” Solomon poured more whiskey into his glass.
Evan laughed again, kicking his feet against the desk like a little boy. “Sol, we will take English racing by storm. This colt will romp through the competition like a scythe through barley.”
“Keep him safe, Evan. If word gets out about him, my competitors will go to great lengths to kill him.”
Evan’s humor faded. “No one will harm that colt, Your Grace,” he said, his eyes hard and his voice harder. “I so swear it.”
Solomon sipped his drink thoughtfully, staring into space. “Play down his quality,” he said. “I will not discount that I have a spy among my grooms. Inform them he is useless, that I intend to break him to harness.”
Evan slapped his hand on the desk. “You are a genius. Yes, I am sure you have a spy and I am glad I never spoke of him.”
Solomon eyed him sharply. “Yet you came here right after his birth. That may rouse suspicion.”
Evan laughed. “It is my normal time to come and give you my reports. The timing is impeccable.”
“Even so, Evan, I want you to turn him out to pasture with his dam. Any spy worth his salt will not give credence to a star colt out in the fields. I, you, would be expected to go to great lengths to protect one, if I had such a star.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Evan agreed. “You may be right. If I put about that he is not what we had hoped for, your competitors will look to the next births from that same sire, and not look twice at him.”
“Anonymity will keep him safe.”
“I wish you would come back with me,” Evan complained. “I know horses, not people. You could spot the spy in a heartbeat while I will carry on oblivious to who he is.”
Solomon grinned. “And if I dismissed the spy, my competitors will know I am onto them. That, I do not wish to do. I want them thinking they have me dead to rights while I produce a horse that will run theirs into the ground.”
***
Teresa nipped the daily scandal sheet from Amelia’s fingers. His Grace, the Duke of Thornehill is at it once again, seen conversing in secret with Miss Rebecca Calhoun, a known actress, while attending the illustrious Dame Rotterdam’s party. Also in attendance was the emotionally unstable Miss Teresa Wolcott, who once again showed society what not to do. “I danced one dance with her,” states Mr. Boyle Cartwright, grandson of the esteemed Mrs. Rotterdam. “Never again. She is just too strange.”
Amelia eyed Teresa over her tea cup. “Do you like what you read?”
Teresa snorted and tossed the sheet down. “In my romance novels.”
“This is no romance novel,” Amelia stated with heat. “This is real life.”
“I cannot help what happens when I get stressed,” Teresa protested. “You know this.”
“I am not talking about you. I am talking about the Devil Duke.”
Teresa shunted her eyes away. “I did not even see him to talk to him.”
“And you are quite right to not to. He is trouble, Teresa.”
“Did I also not tell you I am done with scandal sheets and polite society? I am done, Amelia. No more parties, no more balls. No more Teresa Wolcott. Just another aging spinster staring death in the face.”
Amelia glanced away. “I did not mean that, Teresa. I just do not wish you to associate with him.”
Teresa pointed sardonically at the page. “Does that say I engaged with him? Does it say I fell at his feet? No. You have Mr. Boyle Cartwright running from me in panic.”
“He is also a fool.”
“They don’t care, Amelia,” Teresa half screamed. “I am nothing but an unstable, outspoken female who stepped out of her place. They believe him, but will not even get my side of the story.”
With a sigh, Amelia crumpled up the page and threw it into the fireplace. “Nor will they,” she admitted. “Those writers see only scandal, not the truth.”
Teresa threw her arms in the air. “Thank you. You see at last.”
Amelia scowled, tapping the table with her fingers. “There is some truth to what they write, however. Do not be fooled by the Duke’s manner.”
“We are not talking about the Duke. We are talking about me. My life. They call me unstable, yet when I am not in a crowd I behave better than they.”
“That is quite true,” Amelia replied with a laugh. “You are. You do.”
Folding her arms over her bosom, Teresa stared at the crumpled paper. “If I had the power,” she murmured, “I could set the story straight. But I do not have it.”
“Thomas told me how you plan to overcome your condition,” Amelia said, her tone soft. “You do that, men will fall at your feet.”
Teresa snorted. “I do not want them to. I want respect, to be listened to as an equal.”
“Just calm yourself enough to get married,” Amelia replied, sardonic. “Women will never be considered the equal to men.”
“I can dream, can I not?”
Laughing, Amelia replied, “Please do. Let me know how it all turns out.”
“One day,” Teresa commented, her voice low, “women will be the equal to men. Will have the ability to vote, own land, be divorced, and live alone without condemnation. Even govern.”
“I disagree,” Amelia said calmly. “We live in a man’s world, live by a man’s rules. We are not called the weaker sex for no reason.”
“We are not weak if we stand united, Amelia. Look at America across the sea. Former colonies who now stand as one nation because they united against the crown.”
Chapter 9
Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill
Dining alone at the exclusive gentleman’s club, White’s, Solomon ignored the whispers and stares from the other tables as he usually did. He remembered Miss Wolcott’s opinion that people should simply learn to mind their own business, and smiled to himself. Then his smile faded as he recalled he had received no reply to any of his letters over the last few days.
By now, he had a very strong suspicion she had seen him talking with Rebecca and no doubt assumed the worst – that his interest was in the actress, not herself. He had no idea if Miss Wolcott was reading the letters, burning them unread, or reading them and not believing a word he wrote. Wondering if he should pay an unannounced call on her, he glanced up to find a waiter hovering nearby, a silver tray in his hands.
“Yes?”
> The waiter bowed. “A message for you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
Opening it, he discovered it was from Thomas Wolcott. Your Grace. I wish to meet with you to discuss the details of your case at your convenience. I am currently outside White’s if you care to return a message stating where and when to meet you. Yours, Thomas Wolcott. Grinning to himself in triumph, Solomon refolded the letter and placed it in a pocket of his coat.
Signaling a waiter, he said, “There is a man outside named Thomas Wolcott. Escort him here as my guest.”
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