And yet...
Surely the fact the world had created someone as wonderful as Frederick should bring her some comfort, even if he abhorred her.
Chapter Twenty
The candlelight glowed in the laboratory, and Frederick tapped his plume against the paper. Pondering chemical formulae had never seemed so worthless.
Something sounded in the room above.
Frederick blinked.
Two thoughts soared into Frederick’s mind.
1.) She’s returned.
2.) I’m happy.
Frederick shook his head.
Naturally Celia had not returned.
She was in London, further from Yorkshire than most of her class would travel in their lives. Naturally she would not repeat the journey anytime soon.
And he certainly wouldn’t be happy at her reappearance.
His chest clenched, as if the thought were a lie.
It was ridiculous.
She was a maid.
A servant.
Not an aristocrat with a title.
Not even an aristocrat without a title or a poor member of the gentry.
All of high society had thought it scandalous when his father, then a second son, had run off with Frederick’s mother, even though her talent was lauded by the highest of royals.
Frederick knew.
People were still speaking of the scandal decades after.
No.
There was no circumstance, even a romantic one, in which a duke might marry a maid.
Celia was not even a woman renowned for her talents. All of London was not in love with her for her work on the stage. She was not, like the wives of some of his friends, a leading researcher in a novel field. She was simply sweet and lovely.
His mother had struggled so much to be accepted by society. She’d tried to master the arts of fashion that involved constrained palettes, no face powder, and few appropriate fabric cuts. She’d withdrawn from performing at social gatherings to avoid making the other women uncomfortable. She’d made polite conversation on the latest coveted holiday destination.
And perhaps she’d been happy.
She’d never complained.
But after his father died, she’d only had Frederick, and lord knew Frederick had his own imperfections.
He was not going to demean all his mother’s attempts to meet the rigid demands of the ton by marrying someone so utterly unsuitable.
He’d already sufficiently tarnished her work by proposing in public to a maid.
At least Lady Fitzroy could confirm Celia had been using her daughter’s name improperly.
The ton might laugh at him, but they should still be able to forgive his error, perhaps citing it as an example for why men should mingle in society, lest they be misled.
No.
If Celia—the name still seemed unfamiliar, even in his thoughts—appeared, it would be because she’d have been cast out from her place of employment. It would be because she was still hoping for a match, or at least money, from him.
He scowled. Forgiveness must be reserved for lesser sins.
The sound—was it scraping?—appeared again.
Frederick rose from his desk and walked toward the spot from which the noise came.
The servants had draped cloth over the hole until it could be repaired. It would be easy to take a peak into the room above. Far better than leaving his laboratory and barging into the room from the corridor, where his servants or mother might happen upon him and deem him hopelessly lovesick if nobody was in fact inside. He was in no mood for his mother to muse over the strength of love, even the lost variety, using maudlin quotes from plays for unnecessary emphasis.
Frederick carried a chair toward the hole in the ceiling and stared up.
Someone did seem to be moving about.
Perhaps an animal had gotten loose?
Or perhaps a servant was cleaning?
Except...Most of them were absent. He’d given them time off. He didn’t need them gossiping at his sudden passion for maids.
After all, he’d always been aghast at the men who blithely spoke of seducing their servants, as if a servant had a choice in the matter once her master decided to make her his target.
When had Frederick turned into one of those men?
He ran his fingers underneath the coarse blanket. Light shone from above.
Something sounded again.
“Hello?” he called out. “Who’s up there?”
Perhaps Celia had forgotten something? Perhaps she was right above, worried to reveal her presence to him. Perhaps she needed him.
Perhaps I need her more.
He pushed through the hole, shoving aside the blanket.
A female voice shrieked.
Frederick jerked his head in the direction of the scream.
A woman lay on the four-poster bed. None of his maids had a habit of wearing so much lace and fur. She turned her face to him.
Celia?
He blinked.
But this woman’s eyes were different, and her bone structure varied slightly, ever so slightly, from Celia’s.
This was the woman he’d conversed with when she’d first arrived.
Celia’s absence shouldn’t have felt disappointing, but sadness still inundated him, with perhaps not the actual force of a tsunami—he was too accustomed to her loss, but he may as well have been wading through overly icy water.
Frederick gritted his teeth. “You must be Lady Theodosia.”
She left the bed and lowered herself into a deep, elegant curtsy. “It is a pleasure to see you, Your Grace.”
This was the woman Celia had impersonated.
This was the woman he’d believed to be enamored with. He’d whispered her name before he fell asleep. He’d hoped to utter it for the rest of his life.
He clambered from the hole and stomped toward her.
She shrunk back, but he didn’t care.
He was in no mood to be gentlemanly. The rules of etiquette did not apply to housebreakers.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
The woman had the decency to blush, and she lowered her eyelashes. Somehow the gesture lacked Celia’s charm.
“Perhaps you’re here to collect the woman impersonating you?” he asked.
She flinched.
“All the ton know,” Frederick said.
“Truly?”
“They will soon.” He shrugged. “The roads have been icy lately. I imagine even the Royal Mail is experiencing efficiency issues.”
“I thought Celia would be able to step into my role easily. Did she embarrass you greatly at the ball? Step on gentlemen’s feet too often?”
He smiled tightly. “On the contrary.”
“She was recognized,” Lady Theodosia said faintly.
“By your mother.”
Lady Theodosia widened her eyes. “She was not supposed to be here.”
“Unfortunately I was not aware of that,” Frederick said stiffly, uncertain for a moment how to form the words, but cognizant she would learn. “I proposed to her. In front of the entire ball room. That’s when Lady Fitzroy informed me the woman I was proposing to was your maid.”
“Heavens!” Lady Theodosia fanned her face. “How appalling! Devastating! Catastrophic!”
“Yes,” Frederick said curtly. He did not require Lady Theodosia to list every single adjective that conveyed the extent of the disaster.
The worst thing was—it wasn’t the humiliation he dwelled on, it was the fact he hadn’t actually met the love of his life.
“I’m sorry,” Lady Theodosia said.
“I just—I don’t understand why she did it,” he said. “Or you. Did you want to humiliate me? Had I hurt you in some manner in the past?”
He could imagine if Lady Fitzroy had schemed to harm him in some way—she seemed the type to seek revenge, but he couldn’t understand why Lady Theodosia and her maid would have done so. “Or perhaps you wanted to upset your mother?”
&nb
sp; “It wasn’t like that,” Lady Theodosia said quietly. “If I had known my mother would be here—”
He gave her a hard stare, and Lady Theodosia flushed. Her gaze moved to the window. “Well. Naturally I would never have done it.”
“Was it her idea?” His voice wobbled. “Answer me.”
“Naturally not. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t...about you.”
“It was about me.” A man stepped from behind the curtain. He must be Frederick’s age, perhaps even younger. His face was shaved smoothly, showing an attention to his appearance that his rumpled attire did not replicate. He dipped into a deep bow. “I am ze Vicomte Espadon. Like ze fish. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“He is my betrothed,” Lady Theodosia said. “The love of my life. The best, most handsome, most romantic, most brilliant man in the world. Naturally we desired to elope. And we didn’t want anyone to discover our absence.”
“Ah,” Frederick said.
So Lady Theodosia’s disappearance really might not have had much to do with him.
“Please forgive mon ange,” the vicomte said. “Ze maid was not good at playing her. Not everyone has her gift for ze drama.” He knelt and kissed Lady Theodosia’s hand.
“She was most convincing,” Frederick said.
“We always did look alike,” Lady Theodosia said.
“She was the moon to your sun, mon ange,” the vicomte said gallantly. “The daisy to your rose. The salmon to your—”
“Stingray,” Frederick finished.
Lady Theodosia flushed. “Where is she? I-I do want the best for her.”
“She went back to London.”
“With my mother?” Lady Theodosia asked faintly.
“Indeed.”
Lady Theodosia’s face lacked its previous vibrancy, even in the presence of the vicomte.
“We’re too late,” Lady Theodosia said. “We should have eloped after all.”
“You’re not married yet?”
“Well.” Lady Theodosia’s cheeks darkened and she averted her gaze. “The road to Harrogate was most horrid. Does no one maintain the roads? There were potholes galore.”
“So you decided not to go at all?” Frederick didn’t bother to keep the shock from his voice.
“We thought perhaps we could go to France and that we may as well bring Celia with us.”
“And why didn’t you come earlier?”
“Well, we wouldn’t have wanted to raise your suspicions. And the inn was quite romantic.” She giggled.
She shouldn’t be giggling.
“You shouldn’t be telling anyone you spent time with this man alone,” Frederick said. “Much less alone in an inn.”
Lord. She was a fallen woman.
And utterly unconscious of the consequences.
“We will marry.” Lady Theodosia straightened. “Naturally.”
Frederick assessed her. Her faith in an eventual marriage was admirable.
Still... Why hadn’t the vicomte insisted they elope at once?
The ride to Hull and subsequent voyage to France would hardly be comfortable.
Frederick gritted his teeth. The vicomte should not change his mind. The Frenchman seemed to care for Lady Theodosia, but he would not be the first man to relinquish earlier romantic interests. Perhaps he was hoping to ascertain Lady Theodosia would receive a dowry. Frenchmen’s glee in burning down manors and chopping off noblemen’s heads had made noblemen’s wealth vulnerable. The man was fortunate to have an intact head, but that hardly made him able to provide for a wife.
“Do you have transport to take you to Scotland?”
“We have a white stallion with a long flowing mane,” Lady Theodosia said.
“And I imagine it needs plenty of rest.” Frederick sighed and directed his gaze at the vicomte. “Come with me.”
“Where are you taking him?” Lady Theodosia’s voice wobbled.
“You need to marry, and I intend to help you. Celia did not sacrifice her reputation for you to ruin yours.”
“But we’re not part of this parish. And the vicomte is Catholic.”
“I will take care of it,” Frederick said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Frederick strode into the dining room. His Hessians clicked against the floor, and he gave his cloak to a startled servant. He’d been right. The minister had agreed to issue a common license to Lady Theodosia and the vicomte. It wouldn’t be secret, but that was fine. The marriage would occur soon anyway.
Everyone was eating. Good.
“We weren’t certain when you would arrive back,” his mother said hesitantly. “Or where you were.”
He frowned. “Why would you?”
He hadn’t been taking his meals with them. Meals might lead to conversation, and he refused to discuss his heart while slicing into goose.
“Have a seat,” Miles said, venturing into his familiar jocularity.
“Oh, yes,” Miles’s wife said.
Frederick shifted his legs. Flecks of mud floated from his Hessians to the floor.
Not good for the servants.
Likely they had an ascribed time to clean each room, and Frederick was not helping them.
Strange how he’d never given much thought to them before.
Frederick didn’t need to be perceptive to note that the guests’ eyes were round with worry. He abhorred it. Normally they were a much happier bunch.
This was Christmas, they were together, and they were concerned for him.
“You can look cheerful,” he said.
His guests looked up at him. Their eyes retained an inordinate degree of worry.
“There’s going to be a wedding,” Frederick announced.
“Splendid!”
He wasn’t certain who had exclaimed first. All the women rose, as if leaping were their first instinct at hearing about nuptial vow exchanges. The men followed, slapping him on the back and muttering something about happiness and congratulations.
Rupert stood and raised his goblet. “To the lucky bride and groom.”
The statement was met with a flurry of crystal clinking and wine imbibing.
It was ridiculous.
“You don’t suppose I am the groom,” Frederick said.
“You aren’t?” Rupert’s eyes drifted to Frederick’s mother.
“And she isn’t either,” Frederick said. “Not that she could find anyone in this place.”
“I know better than to go husband hunting,” Frederick’s mother said, but that horrible look of concern was again present in her eyes. “But just who is getting married?”
“Lady Theodosia,” Frederick said.
The others remained confused. “The real one. And some French vicomte.”
“‘Tis I.” The vicomte entered the room. He’d managed to dress for dinner, and his cravat was all intricate loops and flourishes. “I am ze Vicomte Espadon. Perhaps you know of me? I am ze man most handsome that you English write about.”
The others blinked, pictures of bafflement, but then Rosamund smiled. “I believe I have read about you. In Matchmaking for Wallflowers.”
“Don’t tell me you still read that,” her husband grumbled.
“I only read for the fashion plates,” she assured him.
“Oui, I am a man most fashionable,” the vicomte murmured, glancing in the gilded mirror at his reflection.
His betrothed joined them. “I am sorry for the delay. It took me a while to find a maid. And then she was quite taken aback. But one can hardly dine with dukes and duchesses without having a professional dress oneself.”
Frederick’s lips almost twitched. He was hardly dressed for dinner, and the Duke and Duchess of Belmonte spent most of their nights dining with former pirates on the Duke’s ship.
“I require a chair,” Lady Theodosia announced in a regal manner to the footmen, and one was soon brought for her and the vicomte.
“So you and the vicomte are marrying?” Rosamund asked her.
�
�Oh, indeed,” Lady Theodosia said. “The Duke of Salisbury arranged the common license himself.”
“How kind of him,” Rosamund mused.
Frederick took his seat at the table.
The others might be puzzled, but he didn’t care.
Helping Lady Theodosia, even if she seemed too naïve to be grateful, was an easy decision. Her marriage would be better for Celia after all.
That was of no importance.
What seemed more important was that he could have sworn that his friends had seemed to think he was going to marry Celia.
The thought should have been absurd.
She was a maid.
And yet...
All his friends had married for love.
None for duty.
He’d always intended never to marry at all, so perhaps marrying without society’s consent would not be catastrophic.
Perhaps he’d been foolish.
Perhaps his silence was sentencing her to a life of misery under a cruel employer who despised her. Had she deserved that?
She’d misled him, but she’d been assisting her sister. He would be a fool to ignore that.
He picked up his knife and fork, but despite the cook’s consistently excellent cooking, his mind was not on the hollandaise that graced the poached fish.
The other men kept on darting their gazes at him. They seemed under the impression he would not notice if they kept their gazes brief.
They were wrong.
He wasn’t surprised when Marcus declared a sudden and urgent desire for a cigar, even though he’d never mentioned having even tried one before.
Frederick didn’t mind the excuse to be alone with them, and they left the ladies even before the footmen had swept away the dessert course.
“I didn’t know you were having other guests,” Rupert mused.
“They were a surprise. Apparently people have enjoyed giving them lately,” Frederick said.
Rupert shrugged. “So that woman might have been posing as an heiress, but at least it had to be less confusing than a woman posing as a male.”
“I don’t recall your wife having spent her formative years as a servant,” Frederick said.
The men were silent.
Frederick’s chest ached. He’d hoped that they might offer some words of encouragement. Both Rupert and Miles had caused the ton to gossip about their marital choices, and even Marcus’s choice had been deemed below him.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 14
