A Duke for Christmas

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Though tired and desiring nothing more than a few minutes of quiet before the fire in a room that did not swoop with wave and wind, Sophie set herself to calming the landlady’s ruffled feathers. She stepped forward to catch the upper edge of the fresh sheet to pull it straight. “Mmm,” she hummed, breathing in. “Is that lavender I smell? Such a pleasant change from the ship’s bilges.”

  “So I should think indeed. Never will I lay a sheet away without sprigs of dried herbs between. Keeps off the moth and keeps the cupboard sweet Now, never you mind, missus ...”

  “It’s no trouble,” Sophie said brightly, reaching for a pillowcase. “Many hands make light work, you know, Mrs—?”

  “Cricklewood, ma’am. Mrs. Thomas Cricklewood. He’s been gone to his reward these five years come Michaelmas.”

  “I see. Do you find it difficult to carry on here without him?”

  Mrs. Cricklewood started to answer and then hesitated. A distant expression came into her eyes, as if she’d never considered the question before. Then she nodded. “There was so much to be done, and nothing to do but to see it through.”

  “So true,” Sophie said. “The first three months are a blur to me now. Then to find a way to come home and all that that entailed with no more help than I could find from the consulate in Rome. They were kind, but there was so much to do on my own.”

  “You’re too young to be a widow,” Mrs. Cricklewood said flatly.

  “I feel that, too. But here I am, nonetheless.”

  Mrs. Cricklewood pursed her lips and gave a last emphatic thump to the pillow. “I’ll bring you some hot water and a pot of tea. Just home from foreign parts, I reckon tea’s the first thing you’ll care to take aboard.”

  “Oh, yes, please. And the two young ladies that were with me ... where are they? They speak no English.”

  “They’ll be one flight up, Mrs. Banner, though what you want with a pair of handless foreigners when there are good English girls going wanting ...”

  “That’s a long story, but they have been good to me. I must see they are comfortable.”

  “Well, we all know our own business best. I’ll be about your tea, if that Fissing will let me near my own kettle.”

  After sharing a narrow cabin for ten days with both the Ferrara sisters, being alone was the greatest possible luxury. Neither girl was a difficult companion when not seasick, though Lucia’s sulky beauty attracted too much attention from the sailors. But the constant presence of other people had rubbed Sophie’s soul raw. She had grown used to solitude in the last year and had treasured it.

  Laying aside her bonnet and cloak, she caught sight of herself in the pier glass beside the washstand. Thanks to the cold, she’d been unable to see what the women of England were wearing under their warm outerwear. The last Ladies’ Magazine she’d seen was eighteen months old, and even had she liked the styles, she could not have afforded a new dress.

  She hardly believed herself to be in the mode, even if it might have swung back to the fashions of three years before. This dark wool day dress had been part of her bride clothes, now dyed for mourning with indifferent success. In some lights, it looked the color of the bladderwrack that floated on the sea, in others an odd bronze-green. Her mother was as clever a needlewoman as lived and had much store of fabric laid by. Surely once home, she’d find new things to wear. There was no point in taking in the waist of this dress anymore, even if it did fit her little better than her boat cloak. Food at home would be plentiful, more than enough to help her regain her former contours. She did look gaunt, her cheeks all fallen in. No one would take her for thirty, let alone a few months shy of twenty-one.

  Stepping closer, she looked into her own eyes. The frankness and confidence that had once shown so bravely there were gone forever. Now she looked at the world as one who would wince if only her will would permit such a show of weakness. She could eat her fill, pinch her cheeks to make them pink, and do her hair in ringlets and ribbons, but what could she do about her eyes? A fringe, she thought, or a veil.

  At a tap on the door, she called, “Come in,” and, as if these were magic words, a parade of wonders entered. A maid with a silver tray loaded with translucent porcelain cups and a pot with fascinating curls of steam emerging from the spout preceded a stoutly calved youth pushing in a slipper tub. Two pert girls with brass cans of water, the cooler air condensing on the sides to send drips of water falling to the floor, were followed by a superior sort of servant in a black suit of clothes. He was very tall and thin, with a nose that could have given Wellington’s two lengths and still romp home. Sophie had no difficulty identifying him, but it took considerable command to keep from laughing, for she could well imagine Mrs. Cricklewood having little patience with such an exquisite personage.

  “You must be Fissing,” she said. “I must thank you for all your care of me.”

  “His Grace’s orders, ma’am,” he answered with a bow correct to the millimeter for both a widow and a friend of his master’s. “He asks if you would deign to dine with him this evening.”

  “I’d be more than happy,” she said, wondering if his respectful bow factored into account her evident poverty. In this she did him an injustice, as she realized a moment later. It was his own consequence he honored, not hers. He directed the tub to be set thus, the tea tray so, and the attendant maidens could not pour the bath water until he tested it with a thermometer he withdrew from his pocket. His gracious nod of permission would have looked well coming from a bishop.

  “I have taken the liberty, ma’am, of opening your bags. If it pleases you, I should like to take an iron to several of your gowns so that you may choose one for this evening.”

  “Thank you, Fissing. There’s not much to choose from, I’m afraid.”

  “Black must always be proper,” he said, as though reading it off one of the tablets handed down to Moses at Mount Sinai.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Several more journeys with cans of hot water saw the tub ready for use. Fissing had even produced a bar of scented soap. Sophie found herself wondering if Dominic used it.

  Alone again, Sophie was torn between the tea she longed for and the sight of so much fresh water to be devoted to washing away the stains of travel. There’d been no water for washing on the ship, only for sponging off the more obvious marks and washing one’s hands. And in Italy, in order to bathe, she herself had to carry the water from the kitchen stove up four flights of stairs, for she’d never been able to bring herself to bathe in the landlady’s kitchen as Broderick did. The water was never more than lukewarm after that climb.

  She decided not to ruin the tea with hurrying. Pausing to pop on the cozy, she hastily undid laces and buttons in order to slip cautiously if blissfully into the tub. True, it only came up to her hips but it felt like the waters of paradise. Soon, however, she realized that, though the water was warm and relaxing, she could not release the tension that had been holding her together since months before Broderick’s death. Her bath, therefore, was brief.

  “I’ll be hanged before I ever leave England again,” she said, sinking down before the fire to let her hair dry and pouring out at last the fragrant tea. Her first sip made her sigh with delight. Yet her worries did not leave her. Even in sleep lately, she’d been plagued by her troubles. Maybe when she saw her home again, all this tension would finally leave her. She wondered if she would fall down like a puppet when its strings are cut.

  Driven by her sense of responsibility, Sophie went upstairs after dressing to see if the Ferrara sisters had all they needed. At her gentle rap, Angelina came out, her finger raised to her full lips. “Prego, Signora,” she said, adding that she had just that moment seen Lucia fall asleep and that she herself intended to rest as well.

  “Shall I have dinner sent up to you?” she said carefully.

  Angelina’s pretty face bore a look of disgust. She spoke rapidly, too fast and too idiomatically for Sophie to follow. Her Italian had its limits, bounded by the classi
cs on one side but coming to a sharp stop when it reached the street. She gathered, however, that the sisters’ interiors were still too disturbed by the emotions attendant on reaching land to find food other than nauseating, even if it had been something they recognized.

  Her next meal held considerable interest for Sophie. Even if her insides had been more seriously disarranged by travel than they were, she still would have been eager to taste her native foodstuffs again. Her last beefsteak had been so long ago that it was no more than a distant memory—as a wonder glimpsed once in a dream and never forgotten.

  Whether through Mrs. Cricklewood’s natural talents or the nosiness of Fissing, dinner was all Sophie could have hoped for and more.

  At the end of a gorging three-quarters of an hour, she glanced up, rather guiltily, at Dom. He sat on the other side of a small round table, idly turning a wineglass in his fingers, gazing through the ruby wine. His long legs were stretched out before him, still in their boots. He had not dressed for dinner, and Sophie wondered if Fissing had vouchsafed the information that she had no evening dress of any description.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, after swallowing a last bite of cream cake, “My conversation seems to have gone all to pieces in the last few years.”

  His kind eyes smiled at her. “You’ve no idea what a pleasure it is to see a young woman eat with appetite. Most of the maidens I squire at parties and dances and such seem to think eating unladylike. They peck at their food like birds or, worse, claim they are not hungry, then snatch bits from my plate. I don’t like it when a particularly tasty morsel disappears just as I am about to put a fork in it.”

  “You attend a great many such entertainments?”

  His broad shoulders moved carelessly under his beautifully cut coat. “When friends invite me, I try not to snub them. And your sister is always most happy to find me partners. Or perhaps it is the girls who need a partner, and I am never too proud to ask anyone to dance.”

  “My sister gives many parties?” This did not accord with her memories of Maris.

  “Several each Season. I owe your sister a great debt, and if dancing with spotty or butter-toothed girls is a way to make her happy, I shall be a willing sacrifice.”

  “What do you owe her?”

  “She saved Ken from making a rake of himself. He was headed down that path, and it would have been a woeful waste. He’s one of the few truly good men I know.”

  “I hadn’t heard this tale. I know Maris was foolish about Sir Kenton, but I hadn’t known that he was so far gone in sin.”

  “He had a most rapacious mistress,” he said, “who would have ended by ruining him, morally if not financially. Once he met your sister, he put that other woman aside—for which act all his friends were profoundly grateful.”

  “I’m glad as much for Ken’s sake as for Maris’s. Some women do seem to have the power to overset a man’s thinking.” Suddenly the second cake, the overfilled jelly glinting red as rubies in the firelight, no longer looked even remotely tempting. She knew entirely too much about bewitching women and the effect they had on husbands.

  Chapter Three

  “What time shall we be off in the morning?” Sophie asked, turning her thoughts resolutely away from her memories.

  “In the morning? I thought you would wish to spend several days here, resting from your journey.”

  “I suppose that would be sensible,” she said.

  “But you’d rather be on your way with all haste?” he asked, as if he’d read her mind.

  “Have I grown so transparent?” He didn’t answer with words but with a sideways glance. “Yes,” she admitted, “I am eager to be at home. I have missed them all so much. But if the horses need to be rested further, of course I shall have to wait.”

  “We came along by easy stages, and as I will be riding, perhaps we could leave in the morning, as you have so little luggage.”

  “Riding,” she echoed dreamily. “How I have missed that.”

  “They have horses in Italy, as well as tea.”

  “Yes, very fine horses, though a little heavy across the rump. But even the swayback rubbish-cart horses were above my touch. Which recalls something to my mind...”

  She had learned not to be missish during battles with landladies, mistresses, and the wives of English expatriates. She’d even learned how to deal with men without making play of her femininity. But this was Dominic and the subject was money.

  “I cannot afford at present to pay my shot at this inn, nor indeed to pay for anything greater in cost than six shillings and sixpence, unless Mrs. Cricklewood is willing to accept Italian scrip. I hope to be able to pay you back at some future date.” Sophie hoped he’d attribute her pink cheeks to the wine she’d drunk, not embarrassment.

  “Actually, Ken has equipped me with enough soft to pay for everything. Whatever restitution you feel you must make is between the two of you.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stood up as Fissing came in to clear the table. He had not permitted the inn’s servant to enter beyond the threshold of the private parlor, even carving the joint himself. Now his pale eyes flicked over the table. Sophie wished now that she’d eaten that last tart. They might not appear at table again if he thought she had not liked them.

  “Dinner was wonderful, Fissing. Pass my compliments to Mrs. Cricklewood, please.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” he said, bowing without stopping his work.

  Dominic brought his wine to the fire. “He approves of you,” he said softly.

  “Wherever did you find him?”

  “He was my grandfather’s man, trained by his former valet, who must have been something of a tartar. I doubt my grandfather could call his soul his own if the teacher was anything like the pupil.”

  “You do look terribly ill-used.” The difficult moment past, Sophie felt she could joke comfortably with him.

  “Oh, I am, I am. I’ve had to give up comfortable boots, putting my feet on the furniture, and smoking cigars. My desk is straightened, my bills receipted, my books put away—whether I’m done reading them or not.”

  “That is hard to bear. Men don’t like to be fussed over, that much I have learned.”

  “Well, Fissing fusses like a mother. Or a wife.” Sophie glanced up, surprising an expression of tenderness on his face, or so she thought. The candlelight was flickering from the draught through the opened door as Fissing departed. When she looked again, there was nothing to be seen but the cool eyes and his lips with their slightly ironical twist. He turned the conversation to Italy and drew out her opinions on art, sanitation, and differences between cultures.

  “At first, you know, I was rather shocked by the way they conduct so much business in the street. Many of their homes have portals in the side that they open to sell goods. And the noise—the street today was nothing compared to it. Every transaction is conducted at the top of their voices. That took some time to adjust to, but soon there I was, shouting and laughing with the rest. There was a flower seller on the corner who never failed to give me a carnation when I went by. At first, Broderick bought all my flowers from him. Then ...” Sophie stopped, aghast at her near betrayal. “Well, even when I couldn’t afford flowers, he always gave me a carnation. Sometimes rather dashed, but still smelling so sweetly.”

  “Then you found friends so far from home?”

  “More friends than I ever could have hoped for.”

  “There are many English in Rome, I believe.”

  “More all the time. People making a tour of Europe, of course, now that it’s safer. You can always tell them. They look at the buildings, not the people, and never trouble to learn a word of the language, not even enough to drive away the more importunate vendors.” She laughed a little. “Listen to me, running on as though Rome were my own private estate overran by vulgar hordes. People should come to Rome in flocks, yes, and spend all their money there. Heaven knows the city could use it. There is much poverty there.”

  “I didn’t mean
tourists so much,” Dominic said. “There are many English who make their home there now. I’ve met a few on their visits home. Let me see ... do you know Lady Devere, relict of the Earl of Grassle?”

  Sophie flinched. “I don’t care for the term ‘relict,’ especially now that I am one.”

  “I beg your pardon.” But there was a smile in his voice.

  “I have met Lady Devere, but I cannot say I care for the entourage she has gathered about herself. I’m sorry if she is a friend of yours.”

  “I know her son better than I know her. What is the matter with her entourage?”

  Sophie shook her head. “If you know her son, then I am very glad. He should know what goes on at the Villa da Pace. Her secretary claims to have a title, which I believe he stole from a poem by Byron; there are several persons of no apparent past who have taken up residence with her; and her butler is well known to be robbing her blind. She’ll hear no ill of anyone, not even of the little priest she has with her, allegedly teaching her Italian and Latin.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, except that he took every opportunity to back me into a corner and whisper... suggestions.”

  “I see,” Dominic said, all laughter having left his tone. “How did you meet her?”

  “Through Broderick. He knew everyone, from the man who swept the streets to the cardinal in charge of the bank at the Vatican. He had a knack for making acquaintances, if not friends.”

  “Why not friends?”

  Sophie realized she’d been rattling on without pause for quite half an hour. “You are far too easy to talk to, Dominic,” she said, standing up. “I had better retire before I bore you any further.”

  He rose and she realized afresh how tall he was. “I shall write to Lady Devere’s son. I think, and warn him that his mother has found herself among an unsavory lot.”

  “Please do. She’s a dear, though rather a featherbrain. Tell him she’s taken to wearing a turban and drinking inferior sherry, won’t you?”