She tilted her head, grinning. In this lighting, his brown hair had an umber undertone, and his eyes seemed warmer than usual. Her home had so many colors to compete with one another that she wasn’t really able to focus on any one detail, no matter how much she liked it, and she did like having the opportunity to stare at Emilian. Firstly, without having to train her eyes to stay on him, and secondly, without having to dodge the chiding that was sure to come if she lasciviously gazed upon the duke.
He was dressed understatedly. Although men often wore darker colors that women might only wear while in mourning, and this would not cause anyone to look twice, his garments were made from slightly tired fabrics. They looked old and a little faded.
“Before I say anything else at all, would you be willing to accept an apology?”
Her heart gave a funny little drop. “Yes.”
“I should have told you the truth, if not the night we met, then as soon as I found the opportunity.”
“Yes, I agree.”
He smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “I am so sorry that I didn’t.”
“You should be.”
They ambled slowly. “Oh, absolutely. I really ought to… tell you some things. If you care to listen.”
“I do,” she said. It was an understatement.
She was impatient.
But rushing Emilian would likely get her nowhere. I have waited this long. What difference will a few more minutes make?
Too restless to sit, she supposed, he continued leading them along the path. “Several years past, though it does feel like a century, I was an actor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The assertion did not offend her. It was just not something she thought he would say.
“An actor.”
“Yes, I… it was rhetorical.”
“I went out with a friend… my oldest friend. We were young and quite taken with the whole… milieu,” said Emilian. “It was, of course, not where we said we were. One visit turned into many, and finally, Paul—Lord Paul, that is—he remarked that it was too bad I was a Valencourt, for I’d have made a fine entertainer.”
“Did he?”
Feeling as though this might not be the moment to say Lord Paul had sought her out, she let it go. She had done nothing shameful, and nor had Lee’s gallant friend.
“Yes, he’d seen me mimicking everyone since we were boys. Others we both knew, pub landlords, his mother. Anyone, really. And when I was at school and being tutored, I loved literature most of all. I could recite all manner of things.”
She chuckled at the revelation. It was not hard to believe. He was so astute and kindhearted.
“And, like you did, he saw how enthralled I was by the different plays. I enjoyed other acts—rope dancing, horsemanship, all of them. But most of all, I liked watching stories. Subsuming myself into someone else for the sake of fiction or feeling. I still do.” He scowled. “Well, I would. Were it possible.”
“But your father was a duke,” said Teddie, spotting the problem.
“Indeed, and so was Paul’s. Nonetheless, I was fully taken with the idea.”
It was quite a magical and grand one. Teddie was less grandiose than him. By comparison, several years ago, she had no greater ambition than to dress as a boy and sneak into a pub just to see what all the fuss was about.
She almost said as much, but Emilian ploughed on, maybe because once he had started speaking to her—really speaking to her—he did not dare stop.
“I did it,” he said. “I convinced someone to give me work. First, I was an understudy, and I don’t think it was expected I would really get to do much of anything. But the lead fell ill, and so, I had my chance.”
“Did you like it?”
“Adored it.”
His eyes lit with the memory, but she feared what he might say next. Somehow, this had all stopped for him, and it had not stopped gently.
“That led to…” he pursed his lips and gathered his thoughts. She stroked the inside of his arm as though to hearten him. “Honestly, I would not be inaccurate to call it a career. Nights and nights of different roles. I do not wish to sound arrogant, but neither should I downplay who I was.”
“How in the world did you manage to keep it to yourself? Did you? I would assume that you did, for I have seen nothing alluding to such a thing.” Teddie considered what she and Emma had poured over, and what little she had gleaned herself from the ton. With growing dread, she recalled what Lord Paul had told her: Emilian was forced into the army. This must have been why. She could see no other reason.
“I had—have—a name that I used for work, and I did not frequent the stages usually favored by the beau monde. There are so many theaters in London alone that it was easier than you might believe. And I think that even if someone could have recognized me, the cosmetics and the costuming… not to mention the wigs, sometimes… would have obscured my identity enough.” He grinned at her. “Vile, the wigs. The, ah, face paint as well. Awful texture.”
“I can imagine.” It seemed like it would be immensely heavy and greasy. One would probably have to wash intensely to remove it.
“I was not the heir, either, you see,” said Emilian. “That helped, along with a natural aversion to big gatherings… if I ever made an impression on anyone at those things, I’m not sure that it lingered for long in their minds. Some younger siblings do make a place in the elite circles, but I was never one of them. I was not much of a fixture, and neither my brother nor my father seemed to care. They largely left me to my own devices.”
Am I supposed to say I am sorry? That existence seems so lonely, thought Teddie. She’d always had Emma, even when Emma was living with Matthew. She settled for something in between an expression of sympathy and a leading statement.
“But you found your camaraderie elsewhere.”
Her gamble worked. He beamed. “I did.”
“The people with whom you worked… they liked you.”
“They liked my fabricated character who played other fabricated characters.”
“No, they liked you. Besides, I am sure some must have known,” she insisted.
“Some did. If you look around for the name, you would find out more about him,” said Emilian with unmistakable, but hushed, pride. “He was poised to be… well, something.” Sighing, he added, “I wonder what he would have been, had fate not turned her hand.”
“Shall you keep the name a secret, or am I allowed to know it?”
“Oh, if you are to be my wife, I should think that you will have—”
Mother, true to her God-given horrid timing, exploded into the garden and crunched along the gravel behind them.
“Your Grace, I really must insist that we go about this marriage appropriately, this time!”
Father must have kept her confined for as long as he could, bless him for trying. Emilian, though, did not seem terribly affronted, for he smiled at Teddie.
Then he turned to Mother.
“I quite agree, Mrs. Driffield. I butchered things before. Have I permission to call on Teddie tomorrow?”
“I…”
“Only under the most proper of circumstances, Madam.”
Even Mother could not refuse such contrite, plain speech. Teddie watched the fight ebb out of her, and it seemed there were at least two Driffield women whom the Duke of Welburn could charm. Mother turned a shade of rose and swallowed.
“I… yes, Your Grace, that is acceptable.”
“Thank you.”
Before she could be too docile, though, she exclaimed, “I do believe your visits should still be dutifully chaperoned. And in public!”
“Mother, Emma would be most happy to accompany us,” said Teddie, aghast at what she was leaving unsaid—but did not need to say.
“Whatever you wish,” said Emilian.
He was unperturbed.
“And announcements must be made.”
She was perturbed.
“Indeed, I fully concur. As soon
as they can be undertaken.”
“Theodora, you really could have avoided all of this upset,” said Mother, ostensibly unable to control herself from saying more.
Teddie cringed and took a—very—deep breath.
Bugger the man, Emilian was quaking with controlled laughter.
I will hit you again, she thought. “All’s well that ends well,” she said, a touch tightly.
“Do you know, I needn’t have worried as much if you did begin to…” Mother did not finish the thought, but she did motion expressively to her abdomen.
At that, Emilian did break into laughter, although he relinquished Teddie’s arm so that he could turn away from them, and his laugh was not very loud at all.
Well, if he was laughing, she could not mind her mother’s boorish candor.
Much.
*
There were four more visits after that first one. Three were in the house. Lee wished to gain the Driffields’ favor and Mrs. Driffield was resolute in her belief that neither he nor Teddie could be trusted alone. With that, he agreed.
He did not trust himself to act with restraint if he had the chance to be unaccompanied around Teddie.
The fourth appointment saw them going to Hyde Park with Mrs. Crowley, this time settling for a picnic near Rotten Row. Mrs. Crowley was pleased to be out. He understood from Teddie that her beloved husband had died, which accounted for her mourning dress. What was more, it had been a love match, and although she was close to finishing her year, Teddie did not believe she felt any less bereft.
Since they were out, Lee felt more comfortable explaining more of his sorry situation. He felt more optimistic now than he had in a long time. Although it was in the offing that he did not need Teddie’s money to go about fixing things, he knew that he had to say so.
The difference now was that he could find the words.
Mrs. Crowley was a good, empathetic listener, he’d discovered, and she and Teddie had a magnificent rapport. It didn’t bother him in the slightest that both sisters were hearing the tale. They would not tell their parents about it, that much he knew. As long as it was possible, he wanted Mr. and Mrs. Driffield to be kept unaware of his past.
Teddie said, incredulously, that her sister had not reacted much when told her future brother-in-law once worked in the theater.
After Teddie demanded, “Is that not thrilling?” Mrs. Crowley had reportedly shrugged, and replied it was not as though he’d been a highwayman before becoming a duke.
From what Lee knew of Mrs. Crowley, it seemed to square with her character.
“I still haven’t any confirmation of how Father learned what I was up to,” he said. “Thank God, I don’t think he had any notion of how long it had been going on.”
“You don’t have any idea?” Teddie scowled. “Do you not think your brother could have…” she exchanged a look with Mrs. Crowley, who’d instructed Lee to call her Emma. He had not done so, yet.
“It is a possibility. I do not want to judge him too critically, for I understand now that Father was not decent to either of us.” There was no need to go into details that might disturb them. Compared to the worst cases of abuse, Lee knew that being dismissed and ignored were almost benign. Amongst his fellow soldiers, he’d heard tell of fatherly beatings or being deprived of food.
Father never hit me, he thought.
But he rarely deigned to speak to you, unless it was to praise Thomas, and what about all those times he took away your novels because he said they were ridiculous?
Then there was the time he had been sure Thomas calculatedly injured his cat’s paw. Father laughed, saying cats were not meant to be pets and the damned creature should have been earning its keep as a mouser. Not lounge about all day waiting to be petted.
“Still, if he was responsible for altering the course of your very life, I think him quite wicked,” Teddie said.
She was right. He was.
“He was not kind. I do not know if he was wicked of his own accord, or Father modeled the behavior for him.”
“He still had a choice.” Defiant to the last, Teddie shook her head. “He did not have to be cruel.”
Lee might have kissed her for her fervor. But he feared that kissing would distract him from what needed to be discussed.
“Teddie, perhaps it was not so simple as that,” interjected Mrs. Crowley.
“Regardless of how it transpired, Father sent me a note. I had, actually, just finished work. In it, he said he would contact me… then, days later, I was summoned to the townhouse.” Though the night of his and Father’s confrontation was remarkably clear in his mind, he was succinct about it. “He had found a way to ship me off.”
“Were you not well-positioned to be made an officer, perhaps?” Mrs. Crowley asked.
Teddie, who already knew the answer to this, sighed.
“Gracious, no,” said Lee. “And I was not a distinguished soldier, either. The entire time, I kept thinking to myself that I’d come back to London… and resume doing what I’d done as Judd.” He’d told Teddie about Judd. Ever resourceful, she had discovered all manner of ephemera bearing Judd’s name and attesting to his shadow on stages. It made him wistful. “I even toyed with the idea of faking my own death.”
Off the ladies’ horrified looks, he said, “It would not have been terrible! I merely would have stopped living as Lord Emilian, you see? I could have pretended he died. You’ve no idea how haphazard some of the records are… it’s quite something. Not that it’s the image our Empire wishes to project.”
They did not see, judging by their faces. Teddie was forlorn, while Mrs. Crowley was astounded.
“But,” he continued, “my injury put an end to that sort of thinking.”
“How utterly awful,” said Mrs. Crowley.
Teddie sighed. “What did you do when you were sent back home?” He thought she had a loose idea, but he wanted to make sure that they both knew.
“Judd still had a place in the world. His friends were bewildered, most upset at his appearance and the state of his voice. But he started to make his way crafting sets… finding props… that kind of thing.”
Lee did not disparage the work. It was critical and required skill. He was decent at it, but not as good as many who made it their business. The simple fact was that it was not what he’d seen himself doing. Dreams about fixing boards and crafting scrims and dressing actors hadn’t sustained him through the bleakest of times.
He’d had to do plenty of work behind the scenes, however, while he lingered about venues. As a greenhorn, no one would have respected him unless he proved willing to do tasks that some deemed beneath them. So, when he’d come back and found it was the work available to him, he could very well do it.
“Still within the world you love, but not in the manner you’d hoped,” said Mrs. Crowley.
Nodding, Lee said, “I could have been solvent for some time to come—if my allowance had been the same as it was when Father was the duke.”
He let his eyes wander the Row, and allowed himself to relax in the fine weather, taking his time, knowing that his companions were interested and in no hurry.
Indignant, Teddie asked, “Thomas cut you off?”
“Not quite,” said Lee. “He kept diminishing the sum until I had little choice but to see him. My landlady was demanding my rent, and one cannot live on eating sawdust. Had I done nothing and hoped he would change on his own, I would’ve been out on my ear soon enough.”
Or crammed back into the Albany with Paul. He hadn’t tried to do that immediately upon returning because, to put it blandly, frequenting the man’s accommodations as a guest was lovely. Living with him, though, would have meant being made aware of much he did not want to see.
Or hear.
“I knew it,” Teddie said, mostly to Mrs. Crowley, “I knew that all of those little speculations in the papers couldn’t have been for nothing!”
“Teddie—”
“You always want to see the best in
people, Emma. But sometimes, there is nothing redeemable.”
They were not bickering; they were conversing. Lee found it delightful.
He said, “I am sure that you both must have inferred this to some extent, but he used our family resources in… dastardly ways. For things that I won’t repeat.” He had no doubt that they would not come as a surprise to either woman, but it was all past. “Quite frankly, he depleted much of it. I did not know.”
Teddie remained quiet.
Mrs. Crowley said falteringly, “Forgive me for asking, but… he died quite suddenly after your last meeting?”
She eyed him with trepidation.
“He should have. Of shame,” muttered Teddie. Beyond that, she said nothing else.
“He… yes. A fortnight, almost exactly.”
“And it all passed to you,” said Mrs. Crowley. She brought a gloved hand to her mouth. “The debts, the…”
“All the woeful circumstances.”
“Your Grace, that’s appalling.”
“Emilian, or Valencourt if you must,” said Lee. “It was… a shock. Not only had I never wanted to be the duke, I was constantly told in all manner of ways that I wouldn’t be.” For the most part, Teddie knew what occurred, though Lee didn’t shy away from the particulars. By default, he believed Mrs. Crowley—no, Emma—knew, too. “I settled on marrying because things seemed so dire.”
“So, you went to the Sutherlands’ ball,” said Teddie. “And got hit by a woman for your trouble.”
Even Emma did not chastise her sister. All three of them could see the humor.
Emma looked keenly at Lee. “My sister’s violence seems to have turned out all right, hasn’t it?”
This next part was immeasurably important, and he was dying to say it.
But there had to be a proper order to what he revealed. “They aren’t dire. I mean to say, the state of my affairs isn’t what I first surmised.”
“They aren’t?” Teddie stared at him and he took her hand. He smiled as he clasped it reassuringly.
“I wanted to say. But you, understandably, were laying foundations with Sir Gregory. I let my jealousy get the better of me.” Without thinking, he said, “And my fears bested me, too.”
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