A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  “I had the sense that she’d been working on it for a long time.”

  “It?”

  “Whatever the secret was.”

  Peter flicked a folded page on the desk. It fell open—a perfumer’s bill. Small, not portentous. Another meaningless remnant. “I have no idea.”

  “The answer might be in this paper of hers,” Miss Ada continued. “I think it is.”

  “Paper? What are you talking about?”

  Ada fumbled a little as she took the folded page from her pocket. They had been speaking so openly. She’d felt very close to the duke. But now he’d gone gruff. His frown made her clumsy. “I found this under the mattress in her room. I brought it to you.” There was no need to discuss why she hadn’t simply sent the document. She’d wanted to see him, and she was glad she’d dared to come. Delia would have approved, she thought. Of her determination, at least. What she would have thought about Ada’s interest in her brother, she didn’t know.

  “Then you must know more about this secret than I do,” he said. “I assume you’ve read it.”

  “You think I’m a snoop?”

  “I don’t see how anyone could resist.”

  Ada ducked her head, wishing he sounded less angry. “I did try. But Delia wrote it in some other language.” She unfolded it to show him. He bent closer to look. Ada took a careful breath. Being so near him fogged her brain. With his hair nearly brushing her shoulder it would be all too easy to babble. But she wasn’t going to do that. She’d made a vow not to be a silly chit. Now or ever.

  “That’s not French or German,” he said.

  He sounded less irritated. Ada sent up a silent thanks. “That’s just what Charlotte said.”

  “It’s not Italian or Spanish either.”

  “You can read all those?”

  “No, but I have seen examples. This looks completely unfamiliar.”

  “What can it be? And how did Delia know it?”

  “I have no notion.” Compton stared at the page. “Or…wait. Miss…Miss…what was her name?”

  “Who?”

  “For a while, Delia had a governess from…Russia? Sweden?” He looked at the writing with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think this can be Russian. Their lettering looks different, doesn’t it?”

  “You think it’s Swedish then? Did Delia really learn Swedish?”

  “I was at school when Miss…whatever her name was…worked here. I was never really acquainted with her. Delia loved languages though. As your story proved.”

  “Yes. Languages were like games to her.”

  The duke frowned. “But isn’t Swedish a little like German? Distantly related at least? This isn’t. I’ve never seen anything like this. Koska. What can that be? Tuuma. Vastaus.”

  “We should find the old governess and get her to read it to us.” Ada wanted to run out right now and search for the woman. She also wanted to stay exactly where she was, with her shoulder almost touching his and the clean scent of him around her.

  “I don’t even remember her name,” replied Compton.

  “There must be a record of her employment.”

  “Such details were not my father’s strong point, Miss Grandison.”

  “But Delia wrote down the secret.” She tapped the paper. “At least, it’s very likely she did, right here.”

  “I very much doubt—”

  “I feel she did!”

  He fell silent. Ada waited, her heart sinking. He was going to dismiss her ideas. He thought she was a fool.

  He looked at her, his face quite close to hers. The smallest movement would have brought their lips together. Ada’s pulse accelerated. At the same moment, his expression shifted.

  “I suppose we could look around,” he said. He moved back a step. “See if my father kept any receipts.”

  “Oh yes! And we should find out where those keys fit as well.”

  He touched his pocket as if he’d forgotten them. “Do you have any notion how many locks there are in this house?”

  “Charlotte will make a list. She’s terribly organized.”

  “Is she?” He looked down at her.

  Ada nodded. “And Sarah can find the governess in your record books. She adores that sort of thing.”

  “Indeed. And what does Miss Finch adore?”

  A pang of apprehension went through Ada. Harriet had sat beside Compton at dinner last night. She hadn’t been able to hear all they talked of. But she refused to show agitation. “Any number of things,” she declared airily. “As do you, I’m sure.”

  “More each day,” he answered.

  After all that had passed between them in this room, she decided to place herself among these items. She only hoped that she rightfully could.

  Five

  Dinner that evening began smoothly. Macklin had encouraged Peter to seat Miss Harriet Finch on his left, even though he’d done so the previous night as well. He didn’t mind doing so. Miss Finch was a lovely, restful young lady. She kept the conversation flowing so that he didn’t have to worry about finding new topics. And she received his responses with calm equanimity, almost making him feel socially adept.

  Unlike Miss Ada, who gazed at him from the other side of the table with dark eyes that seemed to burn under those authoritative brows. He ought not to have mentioned her eyebrows. He knew that. He’d apologized. Hadn’t he? He’d meant to. Under the weight of her gaze he couldn’t quite remember. Was she reproaching him? Was he mistaking her expression again? He couldn’t tell. Miss Ada didn’t make him feel adept. Surprised, moved, intrigued, heated, but not deft. She was complicated, and somehow far more compelling than her friends.

  All through the meal, his eyes kept being drawn back to her. It was as if she was trying to convey some secret message, rather like the mysterious bit of paper she’d brought along. Delia’s last words, as it turned out. Typical of his sister that they were a mystery.

  Their time together in Delia’s room remained with him—the stories Miss Ada had told, but more her quick, ardent response to him. She roused a confusion of dreams and desires. Which he, in his position, should resist, Peter thought. He would. He was. No, he was staring at her again.

  He turned away, and encountered the censorious gaze of her aunt on his right side. A different sort of look, but just as powerful. He could certainly see a family resemblance between Miss Ada and Miss Julia Grandison. The older woman seemed continually disapproving, however. Peter had even caught her casting hard looks in Macklin’s direction. He couldn’t imagine a reason for that. If there was anyone here that Miss Grandison should admire it was the earl.

  Peter returned his attention to Miss Finch, who made some comment about the herbed sauce. Was it possible that she was a trifle boring? No, of course she wasn’t. This was the way of society—cordial, reassuringly predictable. And so he was enjoying his orderly dinner. Of course he was. Thankfully not interrupted by bats.

  He did notice afterward that he couldn’t remember anything he and Miss Finch had talked about, while he remembered every word that Miss Ada had said to him about his sister. But that just showed that sad thoughts could overwhelm happy ones. Hadn’t the poet Milton said so? Or someone said it about Paradise Lost? Peter shook his head. First Dante and now Milton? Why the deuce was he thinking about them?

  * * *

  That night, at last, Ada had a different dream. It was just as vivid as the disturbing ones, but the mood was something else entirely. She was at a wedding. She knew that’s what it was, even though she was alone at first. The knowledge was simply there. Then her friends appeared—Charlotte and Harriet and Sarah in bright dresses—and others as well. Her family sat in a church pew. She walked by them.

  That was when Ada realized that this was her wedding. She was pacing down the church aisle alone. Where were her attendants? Why wasn’t her father at her side? She
felt her gown frothing around her feet and wondered about the flowers on her bonnet. She’d always meant to have roses when she married. Were they there? Her hands were empty.

  The aisle seemed very long. She walked and walked without seeming to make progress. And she couldn’t see who waited for her at the altar. Which was the most important part, wasn’t it?

  She walked faster. The place must be the size of a cathedral. And who were all the shadowy figures filling it, stretching out on either side? She didn’t have nearly that many acquaintances, let alone friends. Multitudes watched her pass. She felt the weight of their attention and wished for a supporting arm. But there was only herself and the endless aisle.

  Finally, finally, she reached the front of the church. But the two who waited there—the groom and the vicar presiding—remained vague, mere outlines. “Who are you?” she asked the former. It wasn’t fair. A dream shouldn’t leave out the crucial piece.

  Her question had no effect. Though she peered and peered, she couldn’t see. The ceremony took place. Or maybe it didn’t. There were gestures and perhaps words, but Ada couldn’t hear them. She wasn’t certain whether she spoke. Her throat felt tight. The guests had vanished. Most of the church had as well. The edges of her view had gone misty. “Why can’t I see?” she complained.

  In response, the two indistinct figures at the altar gradually faded.

  Ada turned in a circle, searching, but they were gone. Everyone was. She was alone again. And so very tired. She lay down on the first pew, which was now empty. She folded her hands, closed her eyes. A little rest and then she would…

  “Miss Ada?”

  She wasn’t Miss anymore. Possibly. Or not.

  There was a touch on her shoulder. Ada stirred. Ah, there was a gentleman kneeling beside her. Surely this was her bridegroom, solid at last. She reached out and laced her arms around his neck and pulled him close and kissed him. It was her very first kiss, though she wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone.

  She touched his lips with hers, tender, experimental. More of an imagined kiss at first. She raised up a little, pressed closer.

  For one startled instant, there was no response. Then his lips softened under hers. His arms came around her and pulled her against him. He was very strong! The kiss deepened. A bolt of arousal shot through her. Passion, she thought. This was what people meant by it. Ada felt as if she was melting, and yet also newly vibrant. Her arms tightened around his neck. She clung to him and to the kiss.

  And then he pulled away with a jerk and a wild look. He put his fingers to his lips as if hers had burnt him.

  The Duke of Compton pushed Ada back onto a sofa in the Alberdene drawing room. On which she lay instead of her bed. And she had no memory at all of getting here.

  Ada blinked, shaking off sleep and the lingering wisps of her dream. She’d kissed Delia’s brother. She’d often wondered during this last year what it would be like to kiss him. She’d imagined scenes where a kiss might happen. Nothing like this one, of course. But now she knew that it was lovely. The sort of thing one would like to try again, when more than half-awake. She sat up. A candle burned on a low table nearby.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Here.”

  Was that one query or two? Ada looked around. The corners of the room faded into dimness—rather like, and unlike, her dream. “I suppose I was sleepwalking again?” The words were half a question. “I don’t remember.” She shook her head. The sleepwalking was a worry. “I dreamed of—” No, she wasn’t going to tell him about the wedding. The thin folds of her nightdress shifted around her, translucent in the light of the candle. She could see her knees through the cloth. One couldn’t get more improper than this. She ought to be mortified, but she felt curiously elated instead. In fact, a bubble of rapturous excitement rose in her chest.

  “We must tell someone,” he said.

  “That we kissed?”

  “No! The sleepwalking. As for the other—”

  “The kiss?”

  “I didn’t mean… I had no notion—”

  “I believe I kissed you,” Ada said. She savored the word. She liked saying kiss, the effect it had on him. She enjoyed flustering the duke, she realized. It was fun. Clearly he had no idea what to say next. “I won’t kiss you again if you don’t want me to.”

  “It’s not a case of wanting.” He sounded hoarse.

  “So you do want me to?” She longed to hear him say so.

  His eyes burned into hers. The desire in them made her breath catch. “You know we can’t,” he said.

  It was difficult to know anything at that moment. Ada felt like a child who’d inadvertently teased a tiger.

  “This.” His gesture encompassed the dark, silent room, their nightclothes, the mere inches that separated them. “Is so far beyond the line.”

  Ada knew the situation was scandalous, but she was still glad she’d kissed him. “You seemed to like it,” she couldn’t help saying.

  He stood and stepped away from her. “What I like and what I can offer as a man of honor may not be the same. Most often they are not. I’ve known that since I was fifteen.” He picked up the candlestick. “You must take more care, Miss Ada.”

  Care not to push him too far? Or was he speaking of the proprieties? His expression was unreadable. Had she offended him? Ada had a sudden quiver of concern. She wanted him to think well of her. “I’ve never done anything like this before, of course. I was dreaming, and the dream kept going and…shifted into something else.”

  “Nothing to do with me, you mean.”

  That was not what she’d meant. She searched for the right phrase. She couldn’t say she’d imagined kissing him since they first met. She might be daring, but she wasn’t brazen. “It was the sleepwalking,” she said, and thought herself the lamest creature in nature.

  “Indeed.” He looked stern in the dancing light of one candle. “And that is a problem. You can’t wander the house at night. It’s dangerous.”

  “I only seem to come here.” Now Ada indicated the room around them.

  Compton shook his head. “We must ask your aunt what to do. That is, you must. Best not to mention me.”

  “If I say anything, Aunt will take us away at once.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  He didn’t look at her. Had he sounded the least bit forlorn? Or did she only wish it? “You want me to go?”

  “What I may want…is irrelevant. There’s no point in you staying.”

  “Yes there is! I don’t want to go until we solve Delia’s mystery.”

  At last he turned, his face despondent. “You know it’s very likely that there’s nothing to find,” he replied.

  “No, I don’t. I think there certainly is.”

  “Miss Ada.”

  “I’ll lock the bedroom door,” she interrupted. She’d have to think of something to tell Sarah. Well, she would. Not about the sleepwalking, though, unless she had to. Her friends already thought she was not acting like herself. Charlotte had said so. “I’ll hide the key so I can’t find it when I’m asleep.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Or I’ll have Sarah hide it.”

  “You’ll tell her then?” Compton looked relieved.

  She would tell her something, Ada repeated to herself. “And then we can work together to discover what Delia meant. We’ll begin tomorrow morning.”

  He looked uncertain.

  She must end this before he made some irrevocable pronouncement, Ada thought. “I should get back to my room.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ada’s nightdress pulled taut as she stood. The duke looked away, the perfect gentleman. She hadn’t understood until tonight that one might sometimes wish a man not to be a gentleman.

  She walked at his side toward the stair. He wore his odd Egyptian robe again. Her aun
t would deliver a scold of epic proportions if she happened to open her bedchamber door and see them, Ada thought. Once she got over her utter stupefaction. Ada walked faster.

  * * *

  Ada gathered her friends the following morning right after breakfast, well before her Aunt Julia would be downstairs. A sense of urgency drove her. She didn’t know how long she had at Alberdene and felt there was no time to lose in figuring out what Delia had meant.

  She’d found a room in the modern wing of the house that didn’t look much used. The furnishings were a hodgepodge, and the draperies even more frayed than in other places. She didn’t think anyone would object to a bit of rearrangement, or perhaps even notice that she’d pulled a large table away from the wall and set chairs around it.

  Harriet had brought along pencils and paper. Charlotte had drawn up the grid they always created, with each girl’s name at the top of a column, into which would be entered the tasks they agreed to take on. Sarah had a book. It would be some useful history or reference to suggest how they should proceed. That could be counted upon.

  The sight of their faces around the table warmed Ada’s heart. She’d known these three since their first year at school, when their troop of gangling fourteen-year-olds had united to defend a housemaid accused of stealing a ruby ring. Ada had been convinced by the maid’s tearful denials and determined to help. But without Charlotte’s methodical systems, Sarah’s head full of odd facts, and Harriet’s practical sense, she would have failed. Together, they’d discovered that the ring had been snatched by a teacher’s pet crow and hidden in the bird’s cage, along with a number of other small lost treasures. That revelation had been the greatest triumph of her young life up to then, Ada remembered with a smile. They’d all nearly burst with pride. She hadn’t understood then that their burgeoning friendships were the real boon.

  She did now, and she couldn’t imagine the last four years without these three. They’d grown from girls into young ladies together. They’d shared victories and tragedies. They’d learned that different temperaments could be something to celebrate, and disagreements could be quite useful things. It was a measure of Delia Rathbone’s quality that she’d been welcomed into their tight-knit group. The shock of her death could still be felt in the fabric of their connection.