The Desperate Duke

by Sheri Cobb South

  Theo found her eagerness both touching and heartbreaking—all the more so because such an event would have been scorned by most of the London ladies of his acquaintance. He hadn’t the heart to destroy her innocent pleasure by hinting that she might do better to stay away, never mind suggesting she assume the hopeless task of attempting to dissuade her mother from obliging Sir Valerian. In fact, all things considered, there was only one thing he could say.

  “Miss Drinkard,” he said with a little smile, “I hope you will honor me with the first waltz, in spite of my lack of respectability.”

  As if to prove himself worthy of this honor, he bowed deeply from the waist, and she responded by spreading the skirt of her apron and sinking into a curtsy.

  “The honor will be all mine, sir,” she said,

  “I shall look forward to it,” he said, and was surprised to discover that he meant it. “But now I suppose I’d best go and wash up for dinner.”

  He would have suited the action to the word, but she cried, “Oh, I almost forgot! A letter came for you in today’s post.”

  Ethan! Thank God! With any luck, it would say he’d got Theo’s letter and was returning hotfoot from London to sort out whatever was in the wind at his mill. Theo followed Daphne into the hall, where a couple of letters lay on the small table near the front door. To his surprise, she handed him not just one, but both of them.

  “The other is for Mrs. Jennings,” she explained. “Would you be kind enough to take it up to her? She has the second room on the left, on the opposite end of the corridor from you.”

  Theo agreed, and was soon knocking on the older lady’s door. She opened it, and he surrendered the letter to her.

  “This came for you in today’s post,” he explained. “Miss Drinkard asked me to bring it up to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, receiving it with hands clawed by arthritis. “Such a good boy . . . so like your poor mother.”

  Theo hastily denied having done anything remarkable, but returned to his room much shaken. So like your poor mother . . . Had Mrs. Jennings known his mother? Had she recognized him as his mother’s son? It was all nonsense, of course. Mrs. Jennings was three parts senile. Granted, Theo had no very clear memory of his mother, who had died when he was still in the nursery, but if a certain painting hanging in his ancestral home was anything to judge by, he did indeed look very much like her . . .

  He was still pondering the implications of Mrs. Jennings’s cryptic utterance as he broke the seal on his own correspondence, but this had the effect of driving all other considerations from his mind. It was indeed from his brother-in-law, but it made no mention of the letter Theo had sent him. Instead, Ethan was (he said) pleased to inform Theo that his father’s will had been granted probate, and his exile was at an end.

  “I’m free,” Theo murmured stupidly, staring at the paper in his hand. “I’m free to go.”

  14

  Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would.”

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth

  HARD ON THE HEELS OF his unexpected liberation came the realization that he could not take advantage of it. The vague notion that he lacked funds to arrange for the hire of a post-chaise (for he had no intention of once more subjecting his person to the rigors of travel on the common stage) was given the lie by Sir Ethan’s assurances that Theo had only to present himself at his brother-in-law’s bank, where instructions had been sent by that same day’s post instructing that Theo was to be advanced any sum he required up to a maximum of twenty pounds sterling.

  No, Theo was under no financial obligation to remain in Lancashire. Nor could he flatter himself that his departure would leave the mill understaffed, for although the quality of his work had undoubtedly improved over the course of his employment, he could not convince himself that his absence would have a negative effect on production.

  Still, the fact remained that he could not leave. Not now. It was very clear that Ethan was not coming, and although Theo could not say whether his continued absence was due to ignorance or willful neglect, it clearly behooved him, he thought with a trace of annoyance, to look after his brother-in-law’s interests until such time as he could prevail upon Ethan to look after them himself.

  If he were honest, however, there was another reason, one far more compelling than any sense of family loyalty toward his sister’s husband. In truth, he could not leave without ensuring Miss Drinkard’s safety. He was not sure exactly what plans were being hatched in her mother’s dining room, but it seemed to him that Sir Valerian’s party, added to Mrs. Drinkard’s ambitions for her daughter, might prove to be a volatile, even an explosive combination. He could not go without first being certain Miss Drinkard came to no harm through her own quite innocent involvement.

  In fact, he realized with dawning conviction, he would not have been easy in his mind about leaving Miss Drinkard even had her home not been being used for some nefarious purpose; the sight of her struggling in the embrace of Mr. Potts had been enough to see to that. Theo had been vaguely conscious of a desire to kiss Miss Drinkard ever since the night she had come up to his room to bandage his blistered hands. Any such inclinations, however, had been fairly easy to hold at bay: Miss Drinkard was not the sort of female with whom one could trifle, and even had his intentions toward her been serious, it would not do to press a suit which, so long as he continued in his present guise, she would be compelled to discourage.

  And then had come Mr. Potts. While Theo did that ardent young man the justice to own that his advances had very likely been made with marriage in mind, he had been infuriated to discover that Mr. Potts apparently felt no compunctions in taking by force those liberties that Theo would not allow himself to pursue even by subtler means. His indignation had been considerably exacerbated by the realization that his own intentions toward Miss Drinkard were very serious indeed.

  But what to do? He flattered himself that she would not find his attentions so objectionable as those of the odious Mr. Potts, but if he were to declare himself to her, he would put her in an intolerable position by proposing a match which her mother could never allow, much less approve. On the other hand, if he were to reveal his true identity, she would be obliged to divulge this information to her mother, and that ambitious lady’s demeanor toward him would undergo such a transformation that his position at the mill, both as a worker and as a member of the disgruntled inner circle that congregated in Mrs. Drinkard’s dining room, would very quickly become untenable. Then, too, any such confession must of necessity include an explanation of the circumstances that had led to his present charade, and this, given the late Mr. Drinkard’s weakness for gambling, might provoke feelings of such revulsion in Miss Drinkard’s breast that any affection she might feel for him would be completely overwhelmed.

  No, for a number of reasons, his best course of action—indeed, his only course of action—was to remain where he was, and await events.

  With a sigh of mingled frustration and regret, he lit the candle on the writing table and held the letter to the flame until it caught, then tossed the burning paper onto the grate and watched as his ticket back to London blackened and turned to ash.

  IN THE MEANTIME, DAPHNE was, with some trepidation, preparing to broach a related topic with her mother as they made the final preparations for dinner.

  “—And you may bring down your ball gown from the attic, my love,” her mother pronounced as she energetically sliced a freshly baked loaf of bread and spread each slice with butter.

  “Oh, Mama!” Daphne cried eagerly. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes, indeed! To be sure, this is only a country party, and most of the guests barely respectable. But to appear shabby-genteel would reflect poorly on Sir Valerian. We must demonstrate to him that you are worthy of moving in the highest circles.”

  “Mama,” Daphne began cautiously, “I feel I must warn you that while Sir Valerian might attempt to flirt with me, he has never given me the slightest indication that his gallantri
es are serious.”

  “Of course not, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Drinkard, clearly affronted. “He is far too well-bred to do such a thing without speaking to me first. Of course, had your poor father been alive, it would be he to whom Sir Valerian would apply for permission to address you, but as things now stand—”

  “Mama!” Daphne interrupted, shock (and yes, perhaps dismay) making her forget her manners, “Do you mean that Sir Valerian has spoken to you?”

  “No,” her mother confessed with a sigh of regret. “Still, we must not despair. I’m sure Sir Valerian must be a very busy man right now. It may not be until later, after the elections, that he has time to think of such things, and to realize the value of having a wife at his side.”

  Privately, Daphne thought it would be much longer than that before the aspiring M. P. thought of her in that rôle. Aloud, she merely said, “Mama, I think it would be a mistake to pin all our hopes on Sir Valerian, or to look too high for a husband for me, given our present circumstances. Indeed, there have been times of late when I have thought marriage to—to a man who is good and kind, even if he is not wealthy, might be preferable to the prospect of spinsterhood.”

  “You have, have you?” Mrs. Drinkard’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “And are you thinking of any ‘good and kind’ man in particular?”

  “N-no,” Daphne demurred with perhaps more discretion than honesty.

  “Good,” declared her mother, “for I must urge you to put any such thought out of your head. Even if Sir Valerian does not come up to scratch—and I have not yet given up hope in that quarter, not by a long chalk!—you must not forget what is due your name, my dear. Why, before your poor Papa’s death, you might have looked as high as—but never mind that. Matters are not so dire that you must reconcile yourself to marriage with just anyone, for you will have this house after I am gone, and well, there is never a shortage of people in need of lodging.”

  “And what of—of companionship, Mama?”

  “My dear, surely you are aware that companionship is never a problem in a house filled with boarders!”

  “That’s not the kind of companionship I meant.” Daphne felt her face grow warm, and knew she was blushing. “I was talking about love.”

  “I see,” her mother said darkly, giving her an appraising look. “Don’t go filling your head with romantic notions, my dear. Love may be what all the songs are about, but it rarely lasts. Indeed, when I discovered how your father had been hoaxing us all those years, and how uncomfortably he had left us, it destroyed every scrap of the affection I once felt for him!” She plunged the knife into the loaf as if it had been her late husband’s heart.

  Daphne hardly knew what to say, for she, too, had difficulty reconciling the loving father of her childhood memories with the hardened gambler who had left his wife and daughter penniless.

  “But do not despair,” her mother continued on a more positive note. “If Sir Valerian has not yet thought of marriage with you, I’m sure he will have only to see you in your proper rôle to be captivated.”

  “My ‘proper rôle, Mama?” Daphne echoed, one dimple peeping. “A gathering of mill workers and their families?”

  “Do not be impertinent, miss! You know very well what I meant. I daresay Sir Valerian may host similar gatherings for his constituents, and he needs to see that you are capable of planning such things.”

  “I think the men are doing all the planning, Mama,” Daphne said, recalling certain things that Theo had let fall.

  “Never mind that!” Mrs. Drinkard waved away this detail with a dismissive gesture that caused Daphne to duck out of range of the knife. “You must bring your dress down from the attic, my dear, and hang it up so that any wrinkles may fall out. I wish we might bring it down to the kitchen to steam them out, but we can’t have you going to the dance reeking of garlic and onions.”

  “No, indeed!” exclaimed Daphne, laughing. “Although it would certainly inspire Sir Valerian to make me an offer—to serve as his cook.”

  “Pray do not even joke about such a thing!” Setting aside her knife, Mrs. Drinkard transferred the slices of bread to a basket lined with a checkered cloth, folded the ends of the cloth over the bread to keep it warm, and handed the whole to Daphne. “Set this on the table, my dear, and then you may go up and change. As for the dance”—she sighed—“we shall have to wait and see what happens.”

  “ ’OW’D YOU LIKE TO go back ’ome for a bit, love?” Sir Ethan Brundy inquired of his spouse upon his return from his club, where he had been meeting with the principal advisors in his Parliamentary campaign.

  “Ethan!” Lady Helen exclaimed, rising from her place on the sofa to greet him with a kiss. “Are you burying me in the country again?”

  The joke was an old and oft-repeated one, for Lady Helen had long since discovered that the pleasures of hearth and home were, in their own quiet way, equal—and sometimes superior—to the gaieties of Town.

  “Not if you think it’s too soon,” her husband assured her, glancing down at their son, who sat on the rug drawing in a sketch pad with a blue crayon. “Can Willie travel yet, do you think?”

  “The doctor says there is no reason why he should not do so, provided we wrap him up well, for he is much improved.”

  This much was certainly true. In fact, the purchase of the sketch pad and crayons with which he was presently employed had been a desperate attempt on her part to give him some more suitable occupation than chasing the kitchen cat (in an attempt to grab its tail) or thrusting his head up the chimney (in order, as he explained to his sorely tried mama, to see what was there). Master William Brundy, apparently feeling their eyes upon him, judged it time to present them with the fruit of his labor: a misshapen circle with eyes, nose, and a smiling mouth, from which sticklike arms and legs sprouted without such apparent superfluities as a neck or a torso. This, he informed his bemused parents, depicted his papa.

  “And a fine, ’andsome fellow I am,” declared Sir Ethan without a blink, considering this highly unflattering likeness with every appearance of satisfaction. “What do you think, Willie? Would you like to go back to Lancashire?”

  Willie pondered this question for a long moment before asking, “Is Charley there?”

  “Aye, Charley’s in Lancashire, along with Nurse and your sisters.”

  Sketch pad and crayon were cast aside at this news of his twin. “I wanna see Charley!” shrieked Willie as he leaped to his feet, ready to depart on the instant.

  “I confess, I have missed the other children,” Lady Helen said. “But what of your debate with Sir Valerian? Was it not this Saturday?”

  “ ’e’s canceled it,” her husband informed her, bending to scoop his son up in his arms.

  “Canceled it? Why should he do such a thing?”

  Sir Ethan shrugged. “No idea. Per’aps ’e’s sure enough of his position to believe ’e doesn’t need it.”

  Lady Helen’s bosom swelled in indignation. “Well! If that’s what he thinks—”

  “ ’e’s welcome to think whatever ’e likes—especially if it means we can go back ’ome and rest up for a few days before the next round of dinners and speeches,” put in Sir Ethan.

  “I see your point,” conceded Lady Helen with a sigh. “It has been rather exhausting, hasn’t it? And that in spite of the fact that our schedule has been greatly reduced since Papa died! When I think how I was used to attend three events in the same night, it quite sinks my spirits! I must be growing old.”

  “I’d thought we might leave in the morning and stop for the night in Leicester. We could be there by Friday night—unless you’d rather go at a slower pace, decrepit as you are.”

  She smiled at that, but refused to take the bait. “It might be best to take a slower pace for Willie’s sake.”

  “We can take three days, then, stopping at Olney and Stafford instead,” he suggested. “That would put us there shortly after nightfall on Saturday. ’ow’s that?”

  “Better,
” she pronounced, nodding as she rose from her seat on the sofa. “It would allow us to sleep a bit later in the mornings, too, which I confess sounds divine. But if we are to set out before noon tomorrow, I had best see about packing.”

  SUCH WAS THE STATE of affairs in three different quarters when, after much anticipation, the day of Sir Valerian’s party arrived.

  15

  Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.

  RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, The Rivals

  THREE YEARS OF DEPRIVATION had robbed the former belle of Lancashire of whatever vanity she had once possessed, but Daphne, regarding her reflection in the cheval mirror that took up far too much space in her tiny bedchamber, could not quite suppress a little thrill of satisfaction. The gown had not sustained any injury during its long exile, and if it was not quite as fashionable as it had been when she had first received it from the hands of the dressmaker, it was unlikely that anyone at tonight’s entertainment was sufficiently au courant with the latest modes to recognize this.

  Most of the good jewelry had been sold in the weeks following her father’s death, but Daphne had managed to keep the pearls he had given her for her seventeenth birthday. These now encircled her throat, and a single pearl trembled in each ear. As for her hair, she had washed it that morning in a preparation scented with violets and brushed it until it shone. It was now piled high on her head and threaded through with pearls—false ones, alas, unlike the ones she’d been given for her birthday, but the effect was charming nonetheless—with little ringlets escaping at her temples and the nape of her neck.