The Day of the Duchess

by Sarah MacLean

  “Wait!” Sesily said, coming forward. “He’s—”

  “What in ever-loving hell were you thinking?” Mal had somehow forgotten the American, which was a shock, honestly, considering how thunderous the man was at that particular moment, spinning Sesily to face him. “Did you just throw yourself into a goddamn bar fight?”

  There wasn’t even a hint of a cower in Sesily. Indeed, it appeared that his sister-in-law was pleased beyond measure with Caleb Calhoun’s rage. Understanding dawned as she turned with utter calm. “What business is it of yours?”

  It appeared the Talbot sisters had struck again, and for the first time since he’d woken hours earlier and realized that Sera was gone, Mal found himself thinking of something other than winning back his wife.

  Calhoun rounded on him. “What are you smiling at, Red?”

  Mal smirked. “Only that it’s nice to see you laid low by one of them, as well.”

  “Leave,” Caleb said, jabbing one finger in Mal’s direction before waving it in front of Sesily’s nose. “And take this one with you.”

  Her eyes went wide. “This one?”

  “You destroyed my tavern, harridan!”

  “I did no such thing! There’s barely a scratch.” Mal cast a look about their wreckage. “And besides,” she said, “it’s not your tavern. It’s Sera’s.”

  Mal went still. “What did you say?”

  Caleb cursed, and Sesily’s eyes widened, as though she’d just realized what she had said. The implications of it. She immediately retreated. “Uh . . . that is—”

  “It’s not Sera’s,” Caleb said.

  “It’s not,” Sesily lied. Too quickly.

  Mal struggled to make sense of the moment through the events of the last ten minutes, the last twelve hours, the last four weeks. Through the ache in his arm where he’d been struck with a chair and the one on his jaw where he’d been struck with a fist, and the one in his chest, where he’d been struck with the truth.

  And then the room went silent, impossibly so, considering the fight and the drink and the heat and the sheer mass of humanity, all eyes on the woman now at the center of the small, bright stage, masked and beautiful. The fight was forgotten.

  She stood in perfect stillness, as though she had simply materialized there, in a pool of golden candlelight, like a goddess.

  “It’s her,” someone breathed, adoration in the words.

  Adoration Mal understood, because there, on the stage, was the woman he loved.

  He would have known her, masked or no, covered in paint or no. He would have known the long lines of her, the curving shape of her, the breath of her. Like light and air and sin and love.

  She wore a stunning gown in the deepest purple, somehow impossibly vibrant in red and blue, shimmering like the metal of her mask, delicate filigree twisted in an elaborate, impossible pattern, an echo of the feathers of her namesake, low over her nose, leaving barely any space between the edge of the mask and her perfectly painted lips, full and stunning.

  The dress was too tight in the bodice, too low in the neck, and perfection.

  And then she raised her arms in the silence, turning her hands out to her audience, all grace, as though she were inviting them in, so she might tell them her most private secrets, so she might love them, as they deserved.

  So they might love her, as he did.

  The entire room seemed to tilt, leaning into her, and Mal with it, pulled on a string. There was nothing that could move him from that room in that moment. Nothing that could take him from this woman.

  She was magnificent.

  “Welcome loves,” she said, her lips curving around the full, proud words, her voice low and languid. Familiar, and somehow entirely foreign. “’Tis lovely to be free with you tonight.”

  And that was when Mal realized the truth.

  This might be a part she played, yes. And it might be something he’d never seen and never known, but it was she. A part of her. And it was not by requirement. She basked in it. She was elevated by it. And then, when she opened her mouth and began to sing, he realized that they were all elevated by her.

  It was no surprise what she sang. Even there, in the dark, where he knew she could not see him, he knew she would sing for him, that song that had echoed in his memory for years.

  “Here lies the heart and the smile and the love; here lies the wolf, the angel, the dove. She put aside dreaming and she put aside toys; and she was born that day, in the heart of a boy.”

  But he did not know there was more to it, additional verses that were melancholy and beautiful, and that made him ache. “Gone is the flower and gone is the crow; gone is the future that promised to grow. Farewell the past, the present, the now; farewell the ship, the anchor, the bow.”

  And then, she found him in the dark room, turning toward him, connected to him now, as ever. As they had been that first night, a hundred years earlier, a thousand, on the balcony in the darkness, destined for each other. For this night. Forever. “So we lie down and pillow our heads; so we lie down in the cool of our beds. We put aside dreaming, and we put aside toys; and remember our days in the heart of a boy.”

  The tavern was still and silent as snowfall, the notes filling every corner of the room, the entire assembly enraptured by her beautiful voice. But only Mal was devastated by the song.

  Because he finally understood.

  The Sparrow was no sparrow. She was a phoenix. Risen from the ash of the past. Of their past. None of the things they’d broken were here. None of the things they’d lost. How often had she spoken of freedom? Here, in this room, she was free.

  He finally understood.

  When the music ended and she bowed low, the room erupted in deafening applause and thumping hoots of approval that set the walls shaking. She did not linger in the glow of the applause, however. Instead, she turned and pushed through a little curtain at the side of the stage, barely noticeable if one wasn’t interested.

  Of course, all the men assembled—and several of the women—were interested. He moved to stop them from following her when a hand stopped him. “There’s security,” Calhoun said. “She’s safe.”

  Two massive men took their place at the curtain, prepared to do battle for the Sparrow, their Queen.

  He didn’t care. He wanted to protect her.

  “Perhaps you should wait,” Sesily added.

  Mal heard the meaning in the words. She doesn’t want you.

  He turned on the duo. “This isn’t her tavern, yet. That’s what you meant to say.”

  “I didn’t mean to say anything.” The American scowled at Sesily.

  Sesily lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “You made me angry. And besides, it’s time someone chivvied them along.”

  “Along, where?” Caleb growled.

  “He’s not divorcing her, American,” Sesily said. “He loves her quite thoroughly.”

  She was not wrong, but nothing in the conversation was helping. Mal resisted the urge to tell them both to shut up and said, “I’m right, am I not? The tavern is to be hers.”

  The answer was wrenched from the American. “It’s hers when she can take it.”

  Mal shook his head. Married women could not own property. And they could not own businesses. “Which can never happen. Not as long as she is married to me.”

  The American did not have to reply.

  To have her future, she had to forget her past. Which was impossible, if he was with her. He looked to Sesily, the only sister who seemed remotely willing to forgive him. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Calhoun did not have to reply to that, either. Mal answered for him. “She did not trust me not to play games with her.” She did not trust him, full stop. And he had done nothing but prove her right, scheming and planning and throwing a damn house party to lure her to him instead of telling her the truth. And risking everything.

  Everything he’d lost anyway.

  He’d never given her reason to trust him.

  Her words from that morni
ng—had it only been that morning? Christ, it felt like an age—echoed through him like her song, sweet and honest and melancholy. Final.

  Love is not enough.

  There had been a time when it would have been. When he had been all she’d ever wished for. All she’d ever needed. But he’d been too blind to see that everything she’d done had been for him. For their family. For their future. And by the time he’d understood, she’d already been fixed to the firmament.

  He nodded, knowing what was to come next. Knowing that if it did not work, he would lose her forever. And knowing that he had no other choice.

  He turned to leave, and Sesily stopped him. “Wait! Haven! What do we tell her?”

  He replied without looking back. “Tell her I’m not marrying Felicity Faircloth.”

  He crossed the street outside, needing air and a moment to think. Turning his back to the curved cobblestone wall, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, the tight ache in his chest threatening to consume him.

  When he opened them, it was to find two brutal men standing in front of him, one tall and lean with a wicked scar down his cheek and a walking stick that looked like it was no more designed to assist in balance than it was to assist in flight, and the other shorter, broader, and with a face that would evoke Roman sculpture if he didn’t look a portrait of cruelty.

  They looked too turned out for pickpockets or drunk blades, but it was Covent Garden, so he said, “If you’re looking for a fight, gentleman, I should warn you that I’m more than willing to give it. Find another bear to poke.”

  The tall man didn’t hesitate in his reply. “We’re not here for you, Duke.” Mal was unsurprised that they knew him. They seemed the type of men who knew a fair amount. “At least, we didn’t come for you. But now that we’ve seen the way you fight . . .” The scarred man tutted his approval. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in fighting for us. Good blunt in it.”

  “I’m not.”

  The other one—the one with the handsome, cruel face—spoke then, his voice low and graveled with what sounded like disuse. “Nah. You’d be rubbish at it.”

  “Why is that?”

  The tall one again. “My brother means that there are two kinds of fighters; the ones who excel at the fight no matter what, and the ones who only excel when something they love is on the line. You’re the latter.”

  Like that, he knew who they were. “You’re the pair that pummeled Calhoun.”

  The tall one tipped his cap, wide grin on his face. “Just a little how’d’y’do, welcome to the neighborhood. Calhoun fought back, and well. We’re friends, now.”

  Mal nodded, even as he doubted every word. He paused, considering the two men and all the ways he might ruin them if they dared even look at his wife. Finally, he gave a little growl and leaned in. “You are right, you know. I am single-minded when something I love is on the line. And I assume you can tell that because you are cut from similar cloth.”

  The men watched him carefully, but said nothing.

  Mal held his fury and frustration in rigid control. “You listen to me. Everything I love is inside this place. If anything happens to it, I come for you.”

  There was a beat of silence, after which the quiet man grunted and the tall man said, “Christ, I wish we could get you in a ring. Think of the money he’d make us!”

  “He’s other bouts in mind.”

  God knew that was right. Until that moment, Mal had fought for himself.

  It was time he start fighting for her.

  Chapter 26

  Ducal Divorce: Decision Day!

  October 12, 1836

  House of Lords, Parliament

  “I don’t see him.”

  Sesily leaned out over the railing of the observation gallery and stared down at the procession of parliamentary members filing into the House of Lords, and Sera ignored the pang of disappointment at the pronouncement, which was validated with a longer, hanging look. “No, I don’t think he’s there.”

  “Well, everyone can see you, so that’s what matters,” Seline pointed out dryly as Sesily righted herself and turned her back to the speaker’s floor.

  “I’m not inclined to show deference to a passel of ancient, venerable men, you know. Not unless they give Sera what she wants.”

  “Which won’t happen,” Seleste replied, putting her perfect bottom to the railing and crossing her arms over her chest. The position placed her posterior on full view below, not that she seemed to mind. “Clare says he has it on good authority that you haven’t the votes, Sera, which you know. Though, of course, you’ve Clare’s.”

  “And King’s,” Sophie chimed in.

  Sera knew she wasn’t getting her divorce. Indeed, she was still surprised that there was a vote at all on the matter. After all, Mal had spent weeks playing at plans for the dissolution of their marriage, ruining the summers of a half-dozen women and Sera’s, as well.

  Lie.

  She ignored the whisper and the truth that came with it. It was easier if she imagined the summer ruined. If she pretended she didn’t care for him. Then, perhaps, it would not hurt so much when he did as he’d always promised—kept the marriage and stayed away.

  For three weeks, he’d stayed away, with no contact and no message other than the one he gave to Sesily at the Sparrow after nearly destroying the place. He wasn’t marrying Felicity Faircloth.

  It seemed he was not marrying Lady Lilith, either, considering both women were returned to London and the marriage mart with the new session of Parliament, along with Lady Emily. Surprisingly, The News of London gossip column had already claimed them three of the brightest jewels of the Season.

  So, it seemed, Mal would not marry another and, therefore, had no intention of divorcing her.

  Three days after Mal left The Singing Sparrow without a word, Sera received word from the Lord Chancellor, indicating that that “the matter of the dissolution of your marriage to the Duke of Haven, by divorce” was to be taken up on the floor of the House of Lords. She was neither asked to make a statement about her request nor was she permitted to engage a solicitor for the proceedings. Wives were not legal entities, and so she was simply given a date and time.

  October the twelfth, 1836, at half-eleven in the morning.

  “Well,” Seline had declared when Sera had told her sisters of the missive. “At least we shan’t miss our morning ride.”

  And so, here they were, each of the Dangerous Daughters having been allowed into the viewing gallery to sit beside their sister as her fate was decided below, by nearly two hundred men born into pomp and privilege. Well, nearly two hundred, and their father, who’d won his title at cards, which, if one thought too much about the current situation, might easily have been the reason they were all sitting there, in the current situation.

  The men below milled about, seemingly unaware of the futures that hung in the balance of their legislative work, filing in and out of two doors, one on either side of the chamber. The door on the left led to the Content Lobby, where lords in favor of the Duke and Duchess of Haven’s divorce cast their votes for “Content.” To the right, the Non-Content Lobby, where the opposite occurred.

  “You’ve at least two votes in favor of the divorce, though,” Seleste pointed out. “King and Clare are standing on your side. The problem is, not one of those crusty old titled men are interested in unhappy wives being able to simply beg off marriage. Our husbands, however, they are loyal to a fault.”

  “I’ve never considered it a fault.” Sophie smiled, peering down over the viewing gallery. “And, besides, I’ve no interest in begging off marriage.” She paused, then breathlessly, “I haven’t ever seen King in his wig. It’s quite . . .”

  “Stirring?” Sesily offered.

  “I was going to say curious. But stirring is an interesting option.” She tilted her head. “Am I stirred? It’s possible.”

  “Wigs will do that,” Seline said, dryly. “Powdered horsehair passed down through the generati
ons. Very handsome. And fragrant.”

  The sisters dissolved into laughter. All the sisters, that was, but Sera, who could not ignore the pressing question of the day. Which made sense, considering the question was to directly impact her future and freedom.

  It did not matter that suddenly, with Mal disappeared from everywhere but her thoughts, she was far more interested in one of those than the other. “You’re sure he’s not down there?”

  Sesily turned and considered the men below once more. “It’s difficult to tell, what with all the wigs and robes, but I don’t think so.” She looked back to Sera. “Don’t you think he would look up here? Or even better, come and fetch you? I mean, this whole procedure seems designed to put you on display. He’s not giving you the divorce, so what’s the point of it?”

  “He promised me a vote.”

  “He promised you love and honor, too, and that did not work out so well.”

  “Seline,” Sophie said sharply. “She doesn’t need reminders of their past.”

  “I promised him those things, as well,” Sera pointed out.

  “Pah,” Seleste waved a hand. “We promised obedience, too, and have any of us followed that one to the letter? The point is, this is humiliating. If he insists on keeping you to wife, then he should have canceled the vote instead of making all the world watch as you lose it.”

  Sera could not disagree with the statement, but it was little matter if he intended to spend the day gloating over his win if he did not turn up to gloat over his win.

  “Well, in either event, you’d think he’d be here,” Seleste replied, joining Sesily to look down on the floor of Parliament. “Surprisingly, Sera, you look as though you’ve received more votes than simply our esteemed brothers-in-law—Oh! There’s Father coming from the Content Lobby. Good work, Papa!” she called down with a wave, drawing the attention and clear disapproval of the lion’s share of the House of Lords. “Papa voted for you, Sera.”