The Hazardous Gamble of the Alluring Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “It is wonderful,” Dahlia replied. “It must be served at all our parties in the future, just so we remember this bizarre evening. Here,” she picked up one of the appetizers off her plate, “do try one.”

  Roger opened his mouth and accepted the morsel. “Not bad,” he commented. “But you should try this.” He offered her a little confection of sweet cracker topped with a crystalized mint leaf.

  “Mmmm…good palate cleanser,” Dahlia commented, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. She then picked up a cucumber sandwich and nibbled at it daintily. “In fact, it all tastes so very good. I should have thought I would have no appetite at all after, well, everything.”

  “Reaction,” he said softly. “Fear uses up a lot of energy. We saw it on the battlefield often. Even the toughest dried meat became a treat.”

  “Which this certainly is not,” Dahlia remarked, feeding him a bit of cucumber sandwich. “This is divine. I’ve never tasted cucumber sandwiches that were so delicious.”

  Roger took a bite of sandwich. “House secret,” he said, with focusing his attention entirely on her. “Our young cook had it from his grandmother, the cook for my estate house. Marry me, and you might be able to wheedle it out of her.”

  “Is that the only reason I should marry you?” Dahlia teased.

  “I can think of one or two others,” Roger responded. “In fact, I believe we are far too well chaperoned at the moment.”

  “Your Grace, I cannot imagine marrying anyone other than you.”

  “You will, then? You will be engaged to me in fact, not just as a matter of convenience?”

  “In fact, and even if it were a matter of inconvenience. The answer is yes, Your Grace.”

  Roger whooped with delight, startling Lady Amory who just happened to the walking past them. He reached an arm around her, paying no attention to the people who were now looking at them.

  The door burst open and a member of the Watch burst through it shouting, “The docks! The docks are on fire!”

  Every gentleman and every man servant in the house was instantly on the alert. An orderly stream of men poured into the small courtyard where conveyances were being quickly brought around.

  “I must…” Roger said to Dahlia.

  “I know,” she said. “Be careful, and come back to me.”

  Roger squeezed her fingers gently and moved quickly to the door and out into the smokey night air.

  Outside, men were whipping up their horses, heading toward the blaze. Attendants who were responsible for horses and conveyances, hopped up behind on curricles or atop carriages. The serving men of the house, directed by Herbert and Peter, were loading barrels of water from the courtyard pump as fast as they could pump.

  Roger accepted his gelding, the one that had carried him into battle on the continent, from the hand of his groom and rode toward the docks to see what could be done.

  * * *

  The ladies who were guesting flocked toward the door, but Lady Amory clapped her hands. “Ladies, ladies,” she called, “We can have no better place than this to wait. To go out now would be to add to the confusion in the streets.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Aunt Garrity. “Betsy, run and fetch a stack of those worn linens that were washed recently. You and you,” she indicated two other maids, “go fetch cots or materials that can be made into pallets. No telling how much of a hold the fire might have at the docks, and there will be injuries – that much we can count on.”

  * * *

  Roger rode toward the Thames’ flames were leaping above the water. “They’ve fired the East India docks,” someone shouted above the confusion.

  “No,” someone else called, “the river itself is afire.” The flotsam that floated on the mighty waterway was alight and was burning.

  Some of the ships were moving away from the docks and toward the greater safety of the open sea. But others were caught. Warehouses along the river’s edge were beginning to catch.

  A man in the crowd said with hoarse-voiced awe, “My Gawd, it is like to burn London again.”

  Hand pumps were being stationed along the edge of tributaries, and streams of water were beginning to arc over the vulnerable buildings and the wooden walks. The wagon load of water from the Shelthom townhouse now seemed pitiful in the face of the wild carnage that was beginning to develop.

  Although of little use for fighting the fires, the fresh water they had brought with them served another purpose. As the fire brigade and volunteers fell back from the front lines, Roger’s household was able to provide fresh water for drinking and to wet kerchiefs to filter the smoke and ash from lungs. A pair of surgeons showed up and stationed themselves near the Shelthom water wagon. Some of the guests who had come down to the docks with intent to help fight the fire, now lent their vehicles to ferry the wounded back away from the fire zone.

  Roger caught up with his Captain of the Watch. “We need to make a fire break,” he said. “We can contain this here since the East India Docks are out on the edge of the Island.”

  “Eh, wot?” the Watch captain turned his head.

  Roger repeated his idea, “Fire break,” he shouted. “We need one.”

  “Aye!” the man agreed and went instantly to his men. They immediately began pulling down the ramshackle huts and warehouses along the untouched area, moving the burnable materials away from the steadily growing conflagration. Roger hastened to assist them with their efforts.

  Somewhere out along the river, a warehouse of gunpowder and fireworks was set ablaze. Suddenly, the sky was filled with pinwheels of light, followed by a tremendous boom. People fighting the fire fell back into the fire break that had just been cleared, several of them dragging or carrying injured comrades. The sky rained bits of flaming wood.

  While injured were loaded into such conveyances as were available, the able bodied hastened to beat out the falling embers before they could set the buildings in the shantytown along the shore alight. The explosion seemed to have done some unexpected good for the dock fires were to be reduced to smoldering embers and began drifting out to sea as the tide was fortuitously turning. Someone had gotten the idea to pump sprays of sand over the burning surface, forcing the flotsam into the water and off the land.

  The whole thing had taken less than four hours, but it had vastly altered the appearance of the shoreline. As the sun rose, it revealed smoking ruins and shattered buildings where a bustling shipping area had been only the day before. The scene was strangely still after the hurly-burly of the fire-filled night.

  Gulls flew overhead, screaming their displeasure at having been disturbed. A few of the bolder ones plucked things from the water. Roger wiped one water soaked, grimy arm across his face.

  A body lay at the water’s edge. The sea gulls descended upon it, then rose in a flapping screaming cloud when an arm flailed up. The body looked familiar somehow. Like someone he knew.

  Roger began to run, skidded to a halt, then knelt beside the man. “Sir?”

  The Duke of Cottleroy blinked up at him. “Shelthom?”

  “Sir, are you injured?” Roger looked the man over carefully without touching him but could see no visible injuries or blood.

  “My back, I think. I can’t feel my legs.” Cottleroy struggled for a moment, then lay back.

  “You can move your arms, I believe,” Roger said.

  “One of ‘em, yes. I think the other one is broken. It hurts like blazes.”

  Herbert and two of the footmen came up just then, and other people crowded around.

  “Step back, step back!” the Duke waved the crowd away. “Someone go get a door or a shutter. We’ll need to carry him flat. Take him to Shelthom Townhouse; his children are there.”

  “No!” Cottleroy lurched up, trying to grab at Roger’s sleeve. He gave a cry of pain and fell back unconscious.

  “Still to Shelthom house, Your Grace?” Herbert asked.

  “Yes. Lord Bochil is out here in this mess somewhere, but Lady Dahlia is there. He should be
with family.”

  One of the footmen came up with a door just then. “We’ll want to move him as carefully as we can, Your Grace,” Herbert said. “And he is not a small man.”

  Several crowd members volunteered their assistance. Working together, they carefully moved the middle-aged Duke from his sodden resting place onto the door. It was then an easy matter to acquire porters to take Cottleroy to the Shelthom townhouse.

  Roger sent one of the footmen to fetch a doctor, then, mounting his tired horse, hurried after the improvised pallet.

  As he rode, he worried. What would Dahlia say, seeing her father in such a condition? And how did he come to be out here in the Thames?

  Chapter 31

  Dahlia washed her hands and face in peppermint water to remove the scent of smoke, blood and other things from them. She wore a voluminous apron she had borrowed from the maids’ closet over her gown and had the small train looped up through the apron’s ties.

  She poured the used water into a slop pail that stood near the improvised supply station near the door of the ballroom, poured fresh lavender water into the basin from a pitcher on the stand, and moved back to her self-assigned task of gently sponging grime from the faces and hands of the minimally wounded fire fighters and other people who had been brought in. No sign of Roger or Aaron, but no time to think either.

  Dahlia was just emptying a basin of soiled water when she heard Roger’s voice in the front hall. With a glad cry, she hurried toward it, and was just in time to see six men carrying a door that had been put into service as an improvised stretcher.

  “Easy there,” Roger was saying, “Don’t jostle him. We’ll take the door in and set it on trestles. Best to move him as little as possible.”

  “Roger!” Dahlia cried, “You are safe. Bring him this way, we’ll put him on the dining room table.” Then she recognized the man on the door. “Father! What happened to him?”

  “We aren’t sure. We found him washed up on the shore of the Thames early this morning. He was conscious long enough to tell us that he couldn’t feel his legs.” Roger held the dining room door open for the men to carry the Duke of Cottleroy in and settle the door that supported him on top of the gleaming wood of the heavy dining table. “I’ve sent for a surgeon.”

  “Good luck with finding one,” Dahlia said, “We have two midwives here and an herb woman, but the doctors seem to be unavailable.”

  Miss Scarlett entered the room behind them. “I’ve sent for the Indian, Your Grace.”

  “The Indian? But she’s…” Roger stopped speaking, and Dahlia thought he looked embarrassed.

  “So, she is,” Scarlett said, “but ladies of easy virtue can have all sorts of ailments, and sometimes broken bones and bruises are part of the hazards of their profession. She is well-versed in these things, and in many ways, I trust her more than the fashionable physicians or the ones from the charity wards.”

  “A doctor who is a woman?” Dahlia said in wonderment, momentarily distracted from her father.

  “She can’t practice legally in England, but yes, she is a bhikkhunis from the mountains in India, and she is a fully trained physician of the Far East,” Scarlett said emphatically. “Have no fear, she can do more for your father than most of the surgeons in London.”

  “I am grateful,” Dahlia sank down on a chair beside the table where her father lay. “Can I touch him? He is wet, and covered with stinking stuff from the river.”

  “Bathing his face and hands should do no harm,” Roger remarked thoughtfully, “But let us wait for the Indian before we do aught else. Back injuries are delicate. If he has a hope of healing, we must proceed carefully.”

  “I understand,” Dahlia quickly went back into the ballroom and brought her basin filled with warm lavender water, which she used to bathe her father’s face and left hand. When she started to bathe the right hand, he moaned softly so she let it be. Having done all she could until the doctor arrived, she sat quietly and held his good hand.

  Ah, Father, how have we come to this?

  Roger kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to go clean up and get something to eat,” he told her, “Then I’ll go look for Aaron if he has not come in.”

  Dahlia roused herself from somber contemplation of her father’s still form. “He has not come in yet? I thought it likely that he was with you.”

  “We got separated when we were fighting the worst of the fire. He was with me when the fireworks blew up, but I’ve not seen him since. Most likely, he is with one of the crews that is monitoring the building that are still smoldering.”

  Dahlia’s brow creased with worry, but she nodded her understanding. “Be careful,” she begged him, “this is all so very dreadful.”

  “I cannot but agree,” Roger paused, as if looking for the right words, “It is dreadful. But we must hope for the best. Aaron is resourceful and intelligent.”

  “He is all of that,” Dahlia agreed. “There is porridge, bacon and tea on the refreshment table in the ballroom. Please, Your Grace, let me know when you are going back out.”

  “I will. We have much to hope for, Lady Dahlia.” He gently kissed the top of her hair again and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Do not despair, my heart. If he is not with us within the next quarter candle, I shall be back out there looking for him.”

  “Thank you,” Dahlia held back a sob, returning her attention to her father’s still form.

  * * *

  Roger hastily stripped out of his sodden clothes and washed up in the tepid water from his nightstand. He then went to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of old breeches and a clean shirt. He contemplated the clothing there, then went to the bell pull and rang for a servant. With a few deft moves, he separated his good clothing from the old clothing that had been left there two years ago.

  Jemmy appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, Herbert is assisting the herb woman with a man that is badly burned. May I be of assistance?”

  “I hope so, Jemmy. We have many people coming into the house with their clothing in various states of disrepair. I have half a closet of clothes that I have not worn in the last two years. Can you sort out some serviceable breeches and shirts that could be shared out for those in need?”

  A look of surprise flashed across Jemmy’s face before he schooled it into a proper expression. “Of course, Your Grace. Are you quite sure about this?”

  “Make no mistake, Jemmy. I am certain of it. These things have hung in this closet for two years or more. See here where I have pushed my good clothing to the right side and the worn to the left.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. We do have those who are in need.” Jemmy bowed a little deeper than was strictly correct.

  “I will leave you to it, then,” Roger said, shrugging into a hunting jacket. “I am going to get a bite to eat and go look for Lord Bochil. He was working along the waterfront shortly after the fireworks and has not been seen since.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, I hope you find him quickly. Lady Dahlia is very fond of her brother.”

  Roger left the young footman to sort through his discards and went quickly back downstairs to the ballroom. As Dahlia had said, there was a creditable breakfast laid out.

  Roger scooped up a bowl of the porridge that was warming over one of the fireplaces and crumbled bacon over it. Not wanting to waste time, he ate quickly while standing with his back to the fire. The September weather was quickly turning chill, and now that he was not engaged in fighting a fire, the air coming in the windows from the veranda was rather cold.

  When did I see Aaron last? Was it when the wagons were brought up? Or when the fireworks blew?

  With his breakfast consumed, Roger knocked the dirt out of his hat, and hastened toward the front door. He was just in time to meet a diminutive lady in a close-fitting bonnet of the Grecian helmet style. Her English style clothing was simple and modest, not unlike that of the fanatical Quakers. Her complexion and the cast of her features, however, proclaimed her to be from I
ndia. She had a straight, patrician nose, large dark eyes and deeply tanned skin with just a hint of rose coloring over the cheekbones and lips. Her eyebrows were oddly absent, and she wore no ornaments of any kind.

  “Good morning,” Roger said, a bit startled by the appearance of the woman.

  “Good morning,” the woman spoke excellent English, with only the slightest hint of an accent. “Miss Georgina Scarlett sent for me.”

  “Ah!” Roger exclaimed. “The Indian.”

  “Some people call me that, although I am not truly from India. Since my name is long and difficult for English speakers, you may call me Lisa.” The small woman’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Thank you, Lisa. I am Roger, the Duke of Shelthom. I believe we are expecting you. If you will be so good?”