The Duke Goes Down

by Sophie Jordan

  It was her first lesson upon arriving in Shropshire, and one she never forgot.

  Chapter Six

  Perry stood outside the double doors of the retiring room where Emily Blankenship had vanished and tried not to feel like an unwanted suitor.

  He shifted his weight, shuffling on his feet as he waited for her to emerge, ready to ask her for the next dance as he had planned to do when he first spotted her.

  He’d seen unwanted suitors before at balls. Hapless, spotted-faced young men loitering outside the ladies’ retiring rooms. Desperation wafted around them in an invisible haze, and he’d always felt sorry for the lot of them. Didn’t they know any better? Desperation never won a heart. He winced. And yet here he was.

  He’d never thought to count himself among the ranks of unwelcome and hapless suitors. Never had he imagined he would be undesirable to the fairer sex.

  As he lingered outside the doors, he fixed a mild smile to his face and ignored the curious looks sent his way from ladies entering and leaving the room.

  He thought back to Emily Blankenship’s face when their gazes had locked across the crowded room. She had bolted at the first sight of him—as though he was a contagious disease. As though one glimpse of him had turned her stomach. Her sister, who was forever at her side, was nowhere in sight either, and he could not help wondering if she was hiding in some corner, afraid to come out because of him.

  Bloody hell.

  It was as though he was trapped in some other cosmos. One in which the most common and ordinary ladies were diving into potted ferns to avoid him.

  He cringed. Except this was not another cosmos. This was his reality. This was his life now.

  It had to be the bloody rumors. Both Misses Blankenship had been friendly with him after church. More than friendly. The rumors were the only thing that made any sense. Nothing else had changed.

  Clearly he needed to exercise his charm and win back their favor. If that meant addressing concerns over these bloody rumors, so be it.

  His hands opened and closed at his sides. Someone was ruining his life with this damnable slander. He had thought nothing could get worse. How much lower could he descend than losing his title, his fortune, the bulk of his friends, and the lady he had been courting? The lady he had actually liked and thought liked him in turn had faded from his life faster than a wisp of smoke.

  But apparently he could sink lower. Evidently he had.

  He stared at the closed doors to the retiring room, feeling very much like one of those unwanted suitors from memory.

  He had to find out who was behind this sabotage, and he had to put a stop to it or look elsewhere for an heiress, which meant leaving Shropshire and imposing on the few friends who still spoke to him. That brought forth a weary sigh from deep in his chest. He recoiled at the very notion of living off the generosity of the few friends left to him. It was difficult enough living with his mother—even if she was responsible for the situation in which he now found himself.

  But you don’t mind taking advantage and living off the generosity of a debutante’s dowry.

  He shifted on his feet and rubbed at his chest—at the sudden gnawing ache there. It suddenly felt as though his lungs were too small, too tight. He sucked in a gulp of air in an effort to expand them.

  He didn’t know why the act of courting and marrying for financial security should give him pause or discomfort. Marriages were formed upon such factors all the time. He should feel no compunction. That was the way of the ton. It was the way of everyone everywhere. Even humble yeomen married based on such reasoning.

  One’s rank, family name, finances and attractiveness were always negotiating tools. Hellfire, those had been the same deciding influences he took into consideration a year ago when he was still the Duke of Penning and had begun his courtship of Lady Circe. He winced. When he still possessed the wealth that went along with the title.

  Now he felt decidedly . . . less. He had little to offer. His ego could only convince himself so much that his handsome face and charm were enough. There was reality . . . and the humility of the past year serving as a mirror, showing him the truth of his irrefutable reflection.

  He glanced around, feeling suddenly inconspicuous where he stood. Indeed several eyes were trained on him. He’d felt the stares all night. As though he were a bug pinned beneath a glass dome. A specimen for public inspection. They were more than curious. They were critical and judging.

  He had the sneaking suspicion that if he approached another lady, she, too, might run for the hills—or in this case, the retiring room. This was an altogether alien experience for him and not a little demoralizing. Rejection, he realized, was a lowering thing. It did not feel great. Not great at all.

  He fought the impulse to leave. That would be cowardly and defeatist. He was unwilling to give up. He couldn’t do that. If he left, it would be as though he were declaring all the rumors were true.

  He decided to duck out of the ballroom for a breath of fortifying fresh air. A brief respite and then he would return to the ballroom.

  Perhaps while he was out there, it might occur to him how to overcome these blots on his name—and how he might find the culprit responsible for them and put an end to this rubbish once and for all.

  The ball was in full swing, perhaps even growing more crowded with every passing moment. The Blankenships truly had invited everyone. Imogen and Mercy were now pressed along the far wall. Relegated. Forgotten. But not, apparently, completely invisible.

  “Oh! Hello, there, you two!” Mrs. Berrycloth exclaimed as she spotted them. She waved at them from several yards away. She wove through bodies to arrive breathlessly at Imogen’s side.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen and Mercy greeted the widow in unison.

  The lady had traded in her black mourning weeds for a less dreary gown of dark plum. The neckline was quite daring, displaying an abundant amount of cleavage.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Imogen inquired, trying not to stare overly long at her mesmerizing décolletage.

  “Indeed, I am. I just took a turn about the dance floor with one of Mr. Blankenship’s guests. A barrister from London.” Mrs. Berrycloth clutched her side. “I haven’t been so exerted in ages. I am out of practice, it seems.”

  “Would you like me to fetch you some punch to help refresh you?” Mercy asked.

  “Oh, that’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss Kittinger.”

  Mercy slipped away to retrieve a drink for the widow.

  “It is good to see you making merry, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen offered.

  “Thank you, m’dear. I was happy to cast off my widow’s weeds. It has been long enough.” The widow had been thrice widowed, so she clearly knew what it was like to endure the constraints of mourning. “I’ve been looking forward to this ball. I’ve always loved to dance even if the late Mr. Berrycloth couldn’t countenance it.”

  Her late husband had been a prosperous merchant almost twice her age. Imogen had never seen him dance at these things. Indeed not, he usually ate and played cards. All sedentary activities. He had not shared any of his younger wife’s more energetic interests like dancing.

  “The Blankenships’ ball was auspicious timing then.”

  “Indeed. What of you, m’dears? No dancing for either of you? You two ladies should not be hiding here among the potted ferns.”

  Mercy returned then with punch in hand and answered, “Oh, I must keep a sharp eye on my sister. If I’m off cavorting, who will look after her?”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Berrycloth looked Imogen up and down, assessing her in her modest gown. “And what of you Miss Bates?”

  “Oh, I’m not much for dancing.” At least not since she was a blushing ten and eight. She had been more adventurous then . . . up for anything. More the fool she.

  “What? You are still young. I’d been married twice by the time I was your age and had not even met the late Mr. Berrycloth yet.” Mrs. Berrycloth lightly swatted her. “You have plent
y of time. You should be twirling about on that dance floor instead of fraternizing with all the old dames and wallflowers.”

  Imogen shook her head with a small laugh, not bothering to point out that she was a wallflower. Unapologetically so. Well, she had been a wallflower. She supposed she did not qualify anymore. Not at her age.

  Now she was simply an aging spinster. But that was fine and well with Imogen. Her life had purpose and meaning. She had freedom. More freedom than most. So many wives had none of those things. They had only what their husbands allotted them. No freedom. No choices.

  Husbands. It should not be that a woman counted herself fortunate if her husband was a good man. If he was a man of honor, a man who didn’t neglect or abuse his wife. A woman should expect those very fundamental things as her due and not count herself lucky.

  Indeed, in a perfect world there should be no husbands like Mr. Henry.

  “Let me locate a partner for you, Miss Bates,” Mrs. Berrycloth pressed, standing on her tiptoes and scanning the crowd for a likely candidate. “Ah, I think I see young Halston without a partner at the moment. He does have very nice teeth, and that’s not something every gentleman can boast—”

  Imogen shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not necessary. I am quite content as I am.”

  “Why, Mr. Halston should count himself lucky to partner with you. Your teeth are lovely, as well—”

  “That is neither here nor there, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen said without heat and offering a gentle smile, intent on giving no offense but determined that she not be intimidated into dancing. She was much too old for this nonsense. “I have no wish to dance. With him or anyone. It’s not for me, I am afraid. I am quite settled in my life.” Imogen often found herself saying such things at these functions. It was tiresome. She was constantly attempting to convince the world around her that she was happy as she was—a woman without a husband. Such an entity could exist—such a person could exist. It existed in her.

  “Well, that is true as long as you have your dear papa. What happens when he’s gone?”

  Imogen felt the words like a sharp uncomfortable pinch. She looked at Mrs. Berrycloth in disbelief. No one had ever been so bold as to ask her that before. “Well, I—I,” she stammered, disliking contemplating such a thing.

  “I’ve had three husbands. I know well the ephemeral nature of life. Especially for a gentleman advanced in years.”

  “I—I—”

  “No one lives forever.”

  “Well, yes. Of course.” She knew that. Better than most. She’d already lost her mother in a horribly sudden manner.

  One day Mama had been enjoying herself amid her favorite pastime, happily toiling in the garden, and then a fortnight later she had taken to her bed, feverish from a festering wound. An accidental cut on her hand from her gardening shears had resulted in a fatal infection that brought about her demise.

  It had been arbitrary and senseless and horrible. There was nothing anyone could do to save her. They could only sit by her side and watch her die.

  Life, Imogen had learned then, could be as volatile as the weather. So Imogen was not blind to the impermanence of life. Indeed not. She knew how fragile the threads that made up one’s existence could be.

  “I do hope you have made plans for your future, Miss Bates. I only say this out of concern.”

  Imogen started at the remark, her thoughts reluctantly drifting to her future.

  She would receive a small inheritance from Papa, but he was not a wealthy man. It would not be much. Perhaps just enough to keep her in genteel poverty—as long as she did not live to the ripe age of one hundred. She winced. Or fifty.

  She supposed she could take employment as a governess or a teacher. She would have to do something. It was vastly unfair. She would lose her home. The vicarage would go to the next vicar. Her throat tightened at the thought. When she lost Papa, she would lose everything. Not only her beloved father, but her home. Her way of life. All would be forfeit.

  Hopefully Papa would not be leaving her for a good while. She made certain he did not exert himself, overseeing all of his affairs for him and encouraging him to rest at every opportunity so that he did not suffer from another fit.

  Hope also throbbed in her chest that Papa would find favor with the new Duke of Penning. The appointment of the vicar was completely at his discretion. The Duke of Penning not only selected the vicar, he could force him to resign.

  Not that anyone knew when His Grace might arrive. There were rumblings that the man lived in Newfoundland working in the cod trade or in Greenland mining for iron. There were several stories, all unsubstantiated. An agent had been sent abroad to find him many months ago. Everyone waited with bated breath to see what manner of man he would be once he was located and appeared—especially as so many people had their livelihoods tied to him.

  “Oh, there are many fine gentlemen about tonight. I’m sure any number of them could tempt you.” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes glittered and stopped to rest somewhere across the ballroom.

  The skin at the back of Imogen’s neck prickled. She followed Mrs. Berrycloth’s gaze, already knowing what she would find, knowing what—or rather who—had captured the lady’s most ardent attention.

  Imogen sighed. The widow fixed her attention on Mr. Butler with clear admiration as he cut through the packed crowd, his long strides purposeful. Imogen’s own gaze lingered on him, on his handsome features set in grim lines. Anyone else would look off-putting wearing such a moody expression, but he still managed to look handsome. Still compelling. She gave a slight shake of her head.

  No doubt he was about claiming his next waltz with an eligible young lady who met his criteria for marriage.

  Mrs. Berrycloth continued, “I must confess, it’s nice to see His Grace out and about at village functions.”

  “Hm. Yes. But he’s not the duke anymore, is he?” Imogen felt like she would be making that correction all her life.

  “Oh, indeed, but what are we supposed to call him?” Mrs. Berrycloth sniffed. “I can’t imagine calling him anything else. It feels rather . . . impolite.”

  Impolite?

  “Mr. Butler,” Imogen supplied. “We’re supposed to call him Mr. Butler now.”

  Mrs. Berrycloth swatted her arm with her fan and giggled. “Oh! Can you imagine? I could not do that. It would seem so rude.”

  “It is his name,” she grumbled, annoyed at the widow’s interest in Mr. Butler. She certainly wasn’t behaving as Emily Blankenship had been. Evidently the recent rumors had not reached the lady’s ears. It was difficult to imagine she would not care.

  “I saw him earlier in the week and promised him a dance tonight.”

  “Indeed?” Mercy sent Imogen an amused look.

  The widow nodded gleefully, as though she had managed a great coup. “What’s more . . . he suggested we take an afternoon stroll one day soon.”

  Mercy’s grin to Imogen seemed to say: you did not run off all matrimonial prospects.

  “Oh. Did he now?”

  The gentleman worked fast. Imogen had not realized that he had cast his web so wide as to include Mrs. Berrycloth. She fought down a derisive snort. But of course he had. The lady had her own fortune. That made her a viable candidate. She gave her head a small shake. Apparently she needed to work quickly, as well.

  “Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen began, “would you like to step out for some air with me?” She motioned to the double doors leading out into the gardens. “You look like you might enjoy a refreshing breeze.”

  “Oh, am I perspiring?” With a look of dismay, she waved her fan over her face with more vigor. Before Imogen could put her at ease, Mrs. Berrycloth was looping her arm with Imogen’s and guiding them out to the veranda. “We can’t have that. I don’t want to appear red-faced and discomposed.”

  “Mercy?” She turned to her friend. “Care to join us?”

  “I’ll stay here. Grace is dancing a little too closely with a certain young man for my tast
es. I best intervene.”

  “You do that.” Nodding, and smiling sweetly, she and Mrs. Berrycloth advanced to the veranda.

  At her first sweet inhale upon emerging outside, Imogen felt much improved. The air was cooler and less pungent than in that stuffy ballroom, to be certain.

  “That is more like it, Miss Bates. Excellent suggestion. Much better.” Mrs. Berrycloth descended the steps toward the burbling fountain. Imogen kept pace alongside her. The widow sent her a mischievous wink. “I can’t look less than my best for my dance with the duke.” She looked rapturous at her own delusional words and pressed a hand over her impressive bosom as though her heart threatened to explode from her chest. “La, I never imagined that would happen. He is such a beautiful man.”

  Imogen nodded numbly. It was like they were speaking two different languages. “Mr. Butler,” she corrected automatically. The woman had to understand a lauded nobleman was not pandering to her.

  Mrs. Berrycloth shrugged and glanced back toward the house, clearly eager to return for her much-anticipated dance.

  “Are you not concerned?” Imogen began.

  “Concerned? With what?”

  “His recent fall . . . in Society.”

  Mrs. Berrycloth waved a hand. “Oh, pish posh. He’s still a gentleman, and a very handsome one. Virile from all appearances. I cannot tell you how very important that is. After three marriages, it ranks as very important to me. A man’s . . . er, stamina in certain areas can be very valuable. Trust me. Have you seen him astride a horse? Those manly thighs of his? Oh. My.” She cut Imogen a meaningful look and then waved herself with her fan more vigorously, her skin flushing all over again. “Forgive me, Miss Bates. You must think me perfectly brazen. I sometimes forget you’re still a maid. You’re so very mature and self-assured.”

  Mature and self-assured. Translation? A spinster.

  “I would not know about that,” she murmured.

  “His undeniable virility aside, there is much to recommend him. His mother is a duchess. His father was a duke. Perhaps his pockets are empty, but mine are more than deep enough for the two of us.”