by Lucy Ashford
Deb sank back on to her bed with her eyes closed. Oh, no. This was going to be even worse than she expected.
* * *
She dressed with the help of the maid, though she would have preferred to manage by herself, because the maid kept glancing at her bruised face in horror. When the maid held out her black bonnet and veil, Deb almost snatched at it, glad to pull the veil down; then finally she swathed herself in the black cloak and hurried down the stairs, clutching her brown valise.
Only to realise that in the entrance hall, most of the staff appeared to have been summoned there, to pay their due respects on her departure.
‘Lady Simon, ma’am,’ they murmured to her, the footmen bowing and the maids curtsying as she walked slowly past them.
The travesty had begun, thought Deb with a faltering heart.
It was going to be a hot day. As a footman took her bag and escorted her out to the waiting carriage, she saw that the sky was a clear blue, the breeze gentle; it was just the kind of summer day, in fact, when she and her friends would travel through towns and villages with light hearts, eagerly discussing future plans.
Today, her destiny was spelled out for her by the clothes she was wearing. She was shrouded—buried alive—in widow’s weeds.
His Grace the Duke of Cirencester assisted her personally inside his travelling coach. She wondered how ever she could have missed his pre-eminence yesterday, for now the servants seemed to be bowing and scraping, and addressing him as your Grace every time they came within a few yards of him.
She settled herself in the far corner of the carriage, leaning back against the velvet upholstery with her bag at her feet. Thankfully there was no sign of her aunt, and though Palfreyman had come outside to see them off, Deb noticed that the Duke made no effort to shake his hand. As for her, Palfreyman had come up to her just before she stepped up into the coach, and said with a hideous attempt at affection, ‘Goodbye, my dearest Paulette. We’ll meet again soon, I’ve no doubt.’
Deb had turned to the Duke in horror once he’d gone. ‘He’s not coming to London, is he? I won’t have to see him there?’
‘He has a London residence,’ the Duke told her icily. ‘But I think he’s aware that he’d be well advised to stay away from it for a while.’
At first Deb had been afraid that the Duke would sit inside with her, but she was spared that at least, because he chose to sit up at the front next to his coachman. She watched the scenery rolling by and tried to think calmly. The Duke is a man of action. His plans will be concise and effective. All I have to do is be Paulette for a matter of a few weeks only. Then I will be free...
The whole side of her face ached, but her mind was clear. Clear enough for her to be able to foresee, with a sense of considerable doom, that she would probably never be free of the consequences of all this, for the rest of her life.
* * *
They stopped twice to change horses, and at one of the better inns Deb was guided to a private parlour to partake of a light lunch. The Duke did not join her, so she ate in solitary splendour.
Onwards they went. The Duke remained outside, up on the driver’s seat; Deb could hear the two men talking intently about horses and axles and harness, and the Duke sounded just as knowledgeable as his coachman. By the early evening they’d passed through St Albans, and Deb must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes the carriage had left the turnpike road and was rolling along a sweeping drive that was set between sheep-dotted pastures and lush woodlands. In the distance, but growing nearer every minute, was perhaps the most beautiful house that Deb had ever seen.
House? It was more like a palace built of golden-grey stone, with a great, sweeping façade flanked by stables, and a crenellated roof which glittered in the sun. Fountains played in ornamental ponds on either side of the vast forecourt, while ancient statues watched from their plinths as the carriage slowed and drew to a halt before the pillared entrance.
The horses were instantly surrounded by a flurry of grooms, while a footman hurried to open the carriage door. Deb realised that ranks of servants were already lined up by the steps leading to the entrance; it was probably someone’s full-time job to watch for the Duke’s arrival, she thought rather faintly. Then the Duke himself was holding out one firm hand to help her descend, and she realised that all eyes were on her.
‘They’re expecting me?’ she whispered to him.
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I sent a rider on ahead. Welcome to Brandon Abbey—Lady Simon. And please keep that veil over your bruised face. Or there really will be talk.’
She tugged the veil into place and reached for her bag. ‘Leave it,’ he said sharply. ‘A footman will carry it up to your rooms. Take my arm.’
Deb would much rather have got down by herself. She would much rather not have been aware of the tremor that jolted her body at his firm, warm touch. No doubt he’d already forgotten last night’s kiss—but she hadn’t. She reached, panicking slightly, to touch the bruised skin around her eye.
‘Keep your veil down, I said.’ The Duke’s instructions were curt. ‘Say absolutely nothing to anyone as I introduce you. The staff won’t expect it. I’ve explained to them all that you are still in fragile health.’
He was already leading her towards the servants. ‘Lady Simon, as you all know,’ she heard him explain to them, ‘has suffered a most grievous loss with my brother’s sudden death. I trust that you will all make her stay here a comfortable one.’
The footmen bowed and the housemaids curtsied. Finally the housekeeper, Mrs Martin, after murmuring respectful words of concern, took Deb up a vast staircase and along a carpeted corridor to her own suite of rooms.
Yes—a suite of rooms. Deb smothered a gasp. She found herself being shown around a bedroom, a bathroom, a dressing room and a small but beautiful sitting room with tall sash windows that overlooked a pastoral scene of carefully tended gardens, with rolling green hills dotted by stands of ancient oak woodland in the distance.
She looked around again slowly. All this just for her? The true irony was that she’d rather be in a barn with the Lambeth Players any time, or sleeping under the stars, for that matter. Her heart clenched in sudden anguish. She was going to miss her friends so badly.
Mrs Martin hovered. ‘We are all so very sorry for your tragic loss, my lady. If there’s anything at all you require, please let us know.’ She pointed to the bell-pull, curtsied and left.
As soon as the housekeeper had gone Deb pulled off her black bonnet with its veil and put it on the bed. Her bag was here already—a footman must have run up the back stairs with it. She pushed it into a corner, out of sight, then gazed out of the window again.
The distant road curling over and beyond the hill taunted her with the prospect of a freedom she no longer had.
* * *
She was the Duke’s prisoner, Deb acknowledged to herself over the next few days, but she was a very comfortable prisoner. Mrs Martin was the only person allowed to tend her—the elderly housekeeper had gasped when she first saw her bruised face, but in the discreet tradition of household staff, Mrs Martin asked no questions, but instead provided a bowl of warm arnica solution together with some soft lint. ‘Bathing it with this should help ease the discomfort a little, my lady,’ she had said kindly.
All in all, Deb could not have been better treated. Her meals—deliciously light soups and salads and jellies—were brought up to her regularly by Mrs Martin herself, whose demeanour softened even further with Deb’s shy praise of the care she was receiving. Of the Duke himself, there was no sign; but Deb couldn’t complain that she was confined to her rooms, for on her third day there Mrs Martin asked if she would like to be shown around the main part of the house, and Deb followed the housekeeper through the great hall and the banqueting chamber, her eyes growing wider beneath her ever-present veil.
A h
ome fit for a duke, indeed. From the banqueting chamber they went on to the sculpture room, which was filled with statues of Italian marble, and at a higher level Deb noticed there was a mezzanine gallery lined with imposing portraits of the Duke’s ancestors. Mrs Martin pointed up to them, and told her that the gallery led to the private quarters of the Duke himself.
The life of an aristocratic lady did, Deb acknowledged reluctantly, have its advantages. The baths alone were luxury—never before had she had enough hot water to submerse herself deliciously; never before had she been provided with so many clean, soft towels piled high. When her bruises had faded so as to be almost invisible, she had a visitor, a small, dapper Frenchwoman called Madame Celine, who came to measure Deb for new clothes. Only two days later, the modiste brought the first of them.
Deb gazed at them as they were unwrapped from their tissue paper. They were all in black, of course—there were two day gowns, an evening gown and two pelisses—and they were exquisitely made. Deb looked up at the modiste in amazement. ‘You have made them so very quickly.’
‘I have several assistants, my lady,’ said the cheerful Frenchwoman, ‘and for this task I put all of them to work, night and day. If the Duke of Cirencester makes a request of me, nothing is too much trouble. He is one of the finest gentlemen in the land, n’est-ce-pas? So handsome, also!’
And the modiste cheerfully left her to survey the wealth of black garments that bedecked her room.
‘Ma’am. My lady?’
Deb swung round to see that a young maid had come in.
‘Mrs Martin sent me,’ the maid stammered. ‘My name’s Bethany, ma’am—my lady—and she thought you might perhaps want someone to help you with your new clothes.’
So Bethany—she was a sweet, timid girl—brushed out Deb’s long hair, then helped her into one of the new black gowns. And as Bethany buttoned it up and adjusted its silk collar and cuffs, Deb caught sight of herself in the looking glass, and her stomach pitched.
Unlike the gown the Duke had thrust upon her at the Angel in Oxford, this one was made to fit; this one was made to flatter in an entirely feminine way. Every seam, every pleat, every ruffle spoke of craftsmanship and artistry. And—her blood chilled—there had to be a mistake, because the neckline of the gown was appallingly low.
‘I cannot wear this,’ she said quickly to Bethany. ‘I’ll put on another gown.’ But every garment was the same, she saw with rising panic as she inspected one after another. Madame Celine had made an error.
‘I’d better keep this one on,’ she said wearily to Bethany. But she would speak to the Duke as soon as she could. Already the little maid was finding her a soft black shawl to wear, from another box of garments that Madame Celine had brought.
‘How very tragic for you, my lady, to lose your husband so young,’ Bethany whispered as she helped her to adjust the shawl around her shoulders. ‘And you have been very ill, the Duke says. He told us all that only now can you face society again, and we are all to treat you with the very greatest care.’
Your master, thought Deb, is the biggest hypocrite going. ‘Did you ever meet my husband, Bethany?’
‘Oh, no, my lady, Lord Simon hasn’t been here for years, as you’ll well know. We all guessed that his lordship much preferred London to the countryside.’
Bethany began to tidy up Deb’s dressing table, while Deb reeled again a little. Simon hadn’t been here for years? Hadn’t been to visit his older brother with his bride? But this must have been Simon’s family home. He must have grown up here, surely...
And she told herself, You are supposed to know all these things about your husband already. Be careful.
‘Shall I put your hair up, my lady?’
‘No. No, thank you, I prefer it loose.’
Swiftly Bethany pinned on the widow’s cap and half-veil that Deb knew she had to wear indoors, and Deb drew the shawl more tightly across her bosom. ‘Do you like it here, Bethany?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am—my lady. Brandon Abbey is such a beautiful house. And all the others tell me that his Grace the Duke is the best employer they could wish for.’
Deb listened incredulously—so his abrasive rudeness was stored up for her, then. Little Bethany chattered on while Deb tried to listen, tried to concentrate.
Already she was Paulette, in the eyes of so many. Perhaps playing the part of the stricken young widow was not going to be as hazardous as she’d feared.
Or so she thought—until the Duke demanded that she be presented to him.
Chapter Ten
Bethany had only just left Deb’s room when Mrs Martin came in. ‘My lady, his Grace wishes to see you in his library. In half an hour’s time, if you please.’
‘Is he there now?’
‘He is. But...’
‘Then I see no point in delay, Mrs Martin. I wish to see him also. I’ll go to him straight away.’
The housekeeper looked anxious. ‘As you wish, my lady. I’ll take you there, shall I?’
That was one advantage, thought Deb, in being, as she now was, a person of importance. No one dared to argue with you. Although there was one notorious exception, and that exception was standing in the library with his rather forbidding back to her, gazing at some items in a tall, glass-fronted cabinet, apparently lost in thought; though as soon as he heard the door open, he swung round on her with astonishment in his blue eyes. ‘Lady Simon. What are you doing here?’
She faltered, then tilted her chin defiantly. ‘I was told you wanted to see me.’
‘In half an hour,’ he corrected her sharply. ‘Didn’t my housekeeper tell you so?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I would prefer you to follow my instructions in future.’
Breathe. Breathe steadily and calmly. Bethany might think him kind, but as far as Deb was concerned, he was as hateful and as autocratic as ever, with his chiselled jaw and his utterly cold blue eyes beneath jet-black brows. She felt rebellion surge in her chest.
So she’d responded to his summons a little early—but did it really matter? Inwardly she cursed the fact that physically he towered over her, but she forced herself to look up and meet his raking gaze. ‘I came to you, your Grace, because I have an issue with the gowns you instructed Madame Celine to make for me. They are unsuitable.’
‘Really?’ He was examining her figure coolly, and she felt the warmth rise in her cheeks. ‘Madame Celine is, I’m told, a modiste of some experience. How, precisely, are the gowns unsuitable?’
She found his drawling tone utterly provoking. ‘Look at this one.’ She parted the shawl in an extravagant gesture and his blue eyes glittered—with amusement? With relish, at the sight of her half-naked bosom?
Oh, no. She shouldn’t have done that. She really shouldn’t.
‘It—it’s too low,’ she stammered. ‘And it’s the same with all of the gowns you provided for me. I am supposed to be dressed decorously! I am supposed to be in mourning—’
She broke off because he was walking slowly towards her. ‘Stay there.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Yes— like that. With that fire in your eyes, you look just like Paulette. My God, you are Paulette.’ He reached out to touch her arm and she froze; then he seemed to shake himself. ‘The way you walk isn’t quite right,’ he said flatly. ‘You move too confidently, too assertively. Paulette’s every move was calculated to attract men, not to challenge them. Paulette made the most of her décolletage always, and would have done so even at her husband’s deathbed—had she troubled to be there. And that,’ he concluded calmly, ‘is why I ordered Madame Celine to—emphasise your assets.’
‘But—even now?’ she whispered. ‘Paulette would dress like this even in mourning?’
‘Oh, yes. What better chance to extract sympathy and catch herself a new husband? As for you, I thought you of all people would be used to
dressing up in almost anything, whether for the stage or for your clients. Though I don’t suppose, now I come to think of it, that you’ve been paid to dress in mourning very often. But Paulette’s would have been an unusual kind of mourning.’
He went casually across to the drinks cupboard and poured out a small glass of sherry. ‘You’ve made a good impression on my housekeeper, by the way. Mrs Martin is for ever murmuring her pity for you. A poor, heartbroken soul, she calls you.’ He handed her the sherry, and she was aware of him examining her face beneath her half-veil before he spoke again. ‘I trust that you’re fully recovered from the injury that Vera Palfreyman caused? That, incidentally, was why I wanted to see you. To check that you were all right.’
Deb hated sherry. She put the glass down. ‘My thanks,’ she said coolly. ‘But I’m perfectly recovered. So are you saying that the design of these gowns was your idea? And that I have to dress like this—in London?’
He drew even closer, so she could almost feel the warmth of his muscle-packed body. ‘I was only reminding you that Paulette was open to the highest bidder—always.’ His eyes raked her again. ‘You will, I assume, be familiar with the feeling.’
She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist easily, and smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘Something else you’ve got to practise,’ he said. He let her go and went to pour himself brandy. ‘Use some self-control, for God’s sake. My little sister’s for ever throwing tantrums, but she’s only seventeen.’
‘You—you have a sister?’
He sipped some of his brandy. ‘I do. Her name is Laura, and I’m her guardian, since our mother died even longer ago than our father did. Shortly after Laura’s birth, in fact.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Our mother had little time for her children—neither did our father, come to think of it. Anyway, you’re unlikely to meet Laura, since she’s staying with some good family friends in Brighton for the next month. At least—’ he regarded her steadily ‘—I hope you don’t meet her.’
