The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne

by Kasey Michaels

  Desiree laughed in sheer delight, which was surprising to Bramwell, for he had thought he’d just leveled the woman with his most fierce scowl, his most threatening voice. “I have lived long enough to see a miracle, monseigneur. God is indeed good, oui? The Baron Lorimar, he was right. All the heart of your father, monseigneur, all the heat, the fire, the delicious nonsense. Hidden for years, but always there, always ready, waiting. But with a steadfastness never seen in the father. You are perfect for my little Sophie. Perfect!”

  “And betrothed to marry another,” Bramwell put in facetiously, rising and going to the table, picking up the already uncorked bottle, pouring each of them a glass of wine.

  “Bah! That is nothing, monseigneur,” Desiree said, accepting a glass. “A mere bagatelle, a nuisance soon forgotten. Trust Sophie in this, monseigneur. In her zeal to make everyone happy, the little minx is already well on the way to most comfortably settling Mademoiselle Waverley, unaware that she is also helping herself to her own happiness. Life is so interesting when one is in Society, oui? The dance, the whirl, the excitement. My Sophie was born for all of it—to be the happy, laughing queen of all of it!”

  Bramwell’s head was beginning to spin, and he knew it had little to do with no breakfast and a bellyful of wine. “I prefer to let the subject of my soon-to-be-broken engagement to Miss Waverley lie for the moment, mademoiselle. We were discussing Baron Lorimar, I believe? That is why I’m here, remember?”

  Desiree took a deep drink of the wine, then nodded her head as she swallowed. “Of course, of course. Certainement. We will discuss the Baron Lorimar. He came to me in Wimbledon early last winter, entirely unexpected, and with a sad tale to tell. His good friend, he said, was in danger of losing himself to dullness. He needed to be awakened, brought to realize that life was more than playing a role be believed was his duty. He needed some fun, some excitement, some joie de vivre. There was a daughter of Constance Winstead, oui? The Baron had thought he was right in believing this, remembering this. And he had an idea. What had brought joy to the father...”

  As Desiree’s voice trailed off, to be followed by a wink that was surely meant to imply what she had not bothered to explain, Bramwell found himself sitting down beside the maid once more. It was much more respectable than falling down. “Go on, please. He met Sophie, and then—what?” he said, noticing that his lips had gone numb.

  “He met Sophie? Then you do not know anything, do you?” Desiree questioned him, her tone no longer happy, but disdainful, condemning. “You think that Sophie has known from the beginning, that she knows now, oui?”

  Bramwell rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I, Desiree? But I did think it, if only for a moment. This was your plan, yours and Lorrie’s. Not Sophie’s. Please, go on. Finish it.”

  Desiree gave a small, delighted chuckle. “Ah, yes. A miracle. I am looking into the face of real love. For you were not angry when you thought—for just that moment that you thought it—that Sophie may have been in on our little scheme. You were crushed, brokenhearted. There is yet hope for this sad old world, if true love between a man and a woman is still possible, oui?”

  She stood up, poured herself another glass of wine, and began pacing the same small carpet Bramwell had trod moments earlier. “Let me see. How did it grow from there? Oh, yes, I remember. I was to get Sophie to London. But how, monseigneur? How was I to get her there? And not just in London, but smack into the middle of Society, into your orbit. Better yet, under your roof?”

  Bramwell was beginning to understand. It was either the wine, or he was waking up, becoming more and more himself again. “You had the letter from my father,” he said. “Which, I do believe, means your considerable talents extend to that of forgery?”

  Desiree pointed straight at him. “Now, that, monseigneur, Sophie does know. I could not keep it from her. Not when that fool of a solicitor insisted upon spending the night, then wandering out of my chamber the next morning still tucking his shirt into his breeches.” She shrugged, winking in delight. “I am still quite good, monseigneur, and the solicitor, he was happy to do anything I asked. Signature, seals, anything! And that was that,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “You had no choice but to take Sophie in, as your father had promised, and you, monseigneur, are an honorable man, oui?”

  Bramwell rose and replenished his own glass, eyeing the level in the bottle as he sat down once more. “So Lorrie did see Sophie for the first time after she was installed here in Portland Square. That should have been obvious enough, for even he isn’t that good an actor. He was genuinely bowled over by her, which serves him right, now that I think about it. The wager, the paper listing the wager, however, was all planned out beforehand, as a part of the scheme you and Lorrie hatched between you.”

  He eyed the maid curiously. “And you picked up that paper, not Giuseppe. The monkey only was told to give it to Sophie, so as to stir the waters more, make us more aware of each other. Am I correct?”

  “You’re very, very good, monseigneur,” Desiree told him, giggling. She was now on her third small glass of wine, and the bottle was empty. “But I had more of a plan that just those silly wagers of the baron’s. I instructed Sophie to tell you immediately that she was irresistible, and that you should not fall in love with her. She was sure I had done this so as to have you take her in dislike, make her safe from your advances, if you should have thought to make her your mistress, but—”

  “But you really did it so that I’d be sure to be interested,” Bramwell finished for her. Desiree, he believed, would have made an admirable general—and an even better tactician.

  “Oui. I thought to hasten matters. Gentlemen are sure to come forward the moment one tells them to please, please, step away. But no one can dislike Sophie. She is totally lovable, oui? She couldn’t know how she had immediately become attractive to you. She has learned my tricks, monseigneur, but she has not yet learned them all. And still, even last night, when she came to me with her face glowing with love for you, I continued to warn her away.”

  Bramwell drained his glass. “You’re holding out for marriage,” he said flatly, realizing that he had somehow come to find himself in the unique position of possibly having to apply to his beloved’s maid for permission to marry. This entire scene was ludicrous. Laughable. And he hadn’t enjoyed an interview this much in years. “Once Sophie, that is, all unknowing of what she is doing, neatly removes the single obstacle remaining in our path.”

  “Not the only obstacle, monseigneur,” Desiree told him, suddenly serious as she crossed to the small chest beside the bed and opened the top drawer. “My only fear of bringing Sophie to London was in having her within the same orbit as the uncles. Society miss or duke’s wife, they may not want her here. Because of these,” she ended, holding up what looked to be about a half dozen slim, leather-bound journals. “I’ve been waiting for the correct time to show them to you.”

  Bramwell was suddenly quite sober. “Those belonged to Constance, I’ll assume,” he said quietly, watching as Desiree held the journals between her hands, preparing to replace them in the drawer.

  “Oui,” Desiree said absently, reaching into the drawer, running her hand over its interior. “They are very dear to Sophie, much as I pleaded with her to burn them, burn them all. Constance wrote down everything, you see. She had a separate journal for each of the uncles, along with much gossip of a more silly nature. And that, monseigneur, is what worries me. The gentlemen, they must all know of the journals, oui? Constance was always fond of saying she had no secrets from the world.”

  “If they do indeed know about the journals, and remember their existence, I imagine the uncles are feeling much the same way now about their own secrets,” Bramwell said, frowning. “There are what—about a half dozen of them?”

  “Oui, monseigneur, six. Constance did not begin her journals until Sophie was, oh, seven or eight years of age, I suppose. One man is dead, the uncle of your friend, Sir Wallace Merritt. Fro
m the pages of her mother’s journal, Sophie learned how to make Sir Wallace happy. She saw it as providential, oui? Another is in Scotland, and of no worry to me. There is, of course, your father. And the three uncles. Six men, six journals.”

  Bramwell watched as Desiree dropped to her knees and pulled the drawer clear of the chest, frantically looking into the cavity. “But there are only five now. One is not stuck in here,” she said, her voice rising in alarm as she looked to Bramwell. “I had hoped. But, oh, monseigneur, it is not here. Which one is missing?”

  Bramwell waited as Desiree opened one journal after the other, quickly scanning the first page, then throwing it onto the bed. “Lord Buxley’s,” she said at last, looking up at him, her expression one of near panic. “Of all of them, why one of the London uncles. Mon dieu, monseigneur! What are we to do? Lord Buxley’s journal is gone!”

  Bramwell sat very still for a long time, then slowly got to his feet. “As Giuseppe can’t read—he can’t, can he?—I believe I will make a small visit to my aunt’s chambers,” he said finally. “If I find the journal there, one question will remain, a question I must ask my aunt.”

  “What would that question be, monseigneur?”

  His smile was tight, and not at all amused. “Well, Desiree, I’ll tell you. As my aunt is an inveterate lover of gossip, I must first assume that Sophie told her about the existence of these journals, not realizing the temptation she had unwittingly put in the dear, light-fingered old lady’s way. I’m willing to make that leap in logic, as I believe you might have already done. Which begs the question, dear woman—did my aunt just now borrow the one, or has she been treating the journals as a sort of lending library for some time now, then going out into Society, fully armed with her newly discovered knowledge?”

  “Mon Dieu!” Desiree breathed out, collapsing her rump onto the floor. “The oncles won’t like this, oui?”

  “Exactly,” Bramwell said, already on his way out of the room.

  A chapter of accidents.

  — Earl of Chesterfield

  Chapter Twelve

  Sophie lingered at a table of books that concerned gardening, field drainage, and the proper composition of compost, pretending an interest as she kept one eye trained on the doorway. What was taking Sir Wallace so long? Honestly, give the man one simple assignment...

  The afternoon had gone wonderfully well, thanks to Bobbit’s discreet inquiries at a local pub frequented by house servants that had led to a list of several promising lodgings to be inspected. In fact, Sophie and Sir Wallace had quickly located very likely the most ideal bachelor quarters in all of Mayfair, the entire project taking less than two hours. A Mr. Forester, late of Hampshire and now in an extreme rush to return there after a brief, expensive sojourn to London’s raciest gaming hells, had been more than delighted to turn his furnished accommodations over to Sir Wallace, and to include his small staff as well in the bargain.

  Which had left more than enough time for a visit to Hatchard’s, and a bit of matchmaking. Again thanks to Bobbit’s network of talkative house servants, Sophie already knew that Lord Charles Anston and his four daughters would be there at precisely three o’clock—just another reason his lordship would be so right for Miss Waverley, being such a punctual, dependable, responsible sort of fellow.

  Sir Wallace, as per Sophie’s earlier arrangement, would leave Sophie safely browsing at Hatchard’s while he drove over to escort Miss Waverley to meet with her, another arrangement the well-prepared Sophie had already made. Once Bramwell’s betrothed was present, Sophie would bring Lord Anston and Miss Waverley together. Sir Wallace would then, keeping strictly to the script Sophie had furnished for him, remember a most pressing engagement elsewhere and beg Lord Anston to be so kind as to see to getting the ladies home.

  It was a brilliant plan. Simple. Direct. But with no room for error. The timing had to be perfect.

  And Sir Wallace was late. A good twenty minutes late as a matter of fact. And Lord Anston was showing signs of being ready to gather up his daughters and depart.

  But, then, Sophie told herself, he hadn’t as yet seen her here, had he?

  Giving her curls a toss, and pinning a bright smile to her face, she stepped out from behind the table and headed straight for the eldest Anston daughter, brushing a shoulder against her as she moved past, then quickly stopping to offer her apologies for being so clumsy.

  “My goodness, what a beauty you are!” Sophie then exclaimed as the two bent to retrieve the small pile of books that had fallen from the girl’s arms, to scatter on the floor. “You have the look of Lord Anston about you, don’t you? Those lovely blue eyes, that small cleft in your chin. Oh, goodness, yes, the resemblance is remarkable! I’m Sophie, by the way. Sophie Winstead. Your papa was kind enough as to call on me the other day, in Portland Square. I’m staying there with the duke of Selbourne’s aunt, in case you are wondering if it is permissible to speak with me, and Lady Gwendolyn makes me absolutely acceptable, yes? Is your papa here, then? I just arrived, and have not seen him. He is such a doting papa, isn’t he, so proud of his beautiful daughters. Now I see why. If anything, he has not said enough about your beauty. You’ll have a Season soon, yes?”

  Shock, flattery, a tumble of breathless words, a few smiles that held nothing but artless female talk—all of these combined to gain the immediate confidence of Miss Sarah Anston. Within moments she had dragged Sophie over to where her obviously bored father stood bracing up one of the many bookcases that littered Hatchard’s nearly from floor to high ceiling. At Sophie’s sunny greeting, he snapped to attention at once.

  All four Anston daughters were soon gathered up and introduced, and Sophie gushed over and flattered each of them in their turn. They were lovely girls, really, and very well behaved, very eager to talk. By the time Sir Wallace finally showed himself, fairly dragging Miss Isadora Waverley along with him through the aisles, Sophie was able to introduce them all to each other, telling Miss Waverley about Sarah’s love of reading, Ruth Ann’s wish to witness the new King’s Coronation, Lucy’s adoration of her puppy, Fluff, and little Mary’s tumble from a beech tree just before their trip to London, which explained why her left arm was strapped up in a sling.

  “You may not know this, girls,” she told them, lowering her voice just a trifle, as if imparting knowledge that definitely would impress them, “but Miss Waverley here is an expert on the London Season. I cannot tell you how much she has helped me, a silly country miss with more hair than wit, how many pitfalls she has saved me from in only the short time I have been in Mayfair. Lord Anston?” she then asked, looking at him directly. “Don’t you agree? Miss Waverley is absolutely the most perfect person one could ever think to have about when one is launching a Season, yes?”

  Miss Waverley colored prettily to the roots of her hair—probably the first time color had ever invaded those lovely, porcelain cheeks. “Lud, Miss Winstead, you embarrass me. I did nothing. It is the same with you as it would be with these four dear young ladies. The beauty, the sweetness—all the materials are there. It is just that I can help to mold, to shape, to instruct. And it has been delightful. Truly delightful. Lud, can there be anything more satisfying than to see another lovely young girl properly launched?”

  “Really, Miss Waverley?” Lord Anston asked, looking at her thoughtfully. “So many women would run, screaming, from the prospect of, say, popping off four motherless daughters over the next decade.”

  “Then the more fools them, my lord,” Miss Waverley stated firmly, reaching down to tuck an errant curl behind little Mary’s ear. “That’s better, dear. Now stand up straight, so that everyone can see your wonderful posture and marvel at what a well-brought-up child you are. Lud, how I tremble as I remember my long days spent wearing a horrid back board, until I’d learned my lesson about posture.”

  “You know, Miss Waverley,” Lord Anston began, still looking at her rather intently (“measuringly” might be too strong a word for a gentleman Sophie hoped to see tumb
ling into love in the middle of Hatchards). “You might not remember, as I was nearly trampled in the crowd of eager gentlemen seeking your kind attention during your first Season, but I was one of your most devoted admirers before you became betrothed to Lord Coulbeg, may he rest in peace. But I felt my status as a recent widower, lined up against the dashing earl, put me sadly out of the running, if I might be so bold as to speak freely.”

  There was that blush again, Sophie noticed, realizing that pink cheeks made Isadora Waverley much more humanly beautiful than did the icy coolness with which the young woman accepted Bramwell’s equally cool kiss on her hand. She doubted that either Lord Anston or Miss Waverley would ever fall madly, deeply, passionately in love—as she was beginning to see the emotion—but they were definitely suited to each other. Definitely. And they’d be happy with each other. Content. She sighed, feeling quite content herself.

  “But I do remember you, Lord Anston,” Miss Waverley was protesting prettily even as Sophie was congratulating herself. “Very well, indeed. Lud, I believe you were called back to your estate just as we were getting to know one another. Why, I had all but fallen in love with your tales of your estate, as I do so love the countryside as you described it. Anston Manor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling and nodding. “Ruth Ann here broke out in spots, and Sarah right after her, so that I had to return there. To Anston Manor, that is.”

  “Oh, Papa!” Miss Anston exclaimed in youthful high dudgeon, turning to Miss Waverley. “Papa just doesn’t understand that he shouldn’t speak of such things as spots.”

  “Papas are like that,” Miss Waverley said, nodding in agreement. “Lud, I remember the time, one evening during a small dinner party, when mine was about to tell the vicar about my—well, lud, never mind what it was. Mama stopped him before I could perish of embarrassment, thankfully.”

  “Mamas do that,” Ruth Ann said sadly. “Except we don’t have one anymore. Not in ever so long, since little Mary was born.”