“She’s a silly girl.” Mum rested her plump cheek on her hand. “But I was a silly girl once, too. One does not deserve to have one’s whole life ruined for a single mistake.”
“It happens more than we can imagine.”
“Yes.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “It seems it does.”
Her insight startled him. Had he been so transparent in his guilt and anguish that she knew he was to blame for Michael’s death? Remembering the charred body of his brother, he rubbed the warped signet ring on his forefinger.
“Everything conspired to make her faux pas fatal to her reputation. Lord Freshfield’s secret plan, which ended by being no secret at all, Lady Freshfield’s persecution, and, of course, Mr. Ritter’s refutation.”
All Jude could remember of Lady Freshfield was a voice that grated the flesh with its high notes. “Isn’t Freshie’s wealthy wife from a merchant background?”
“Yes, and unattractive, and married for her money. That made her all the more venomous in her vendetta against the pretty, common, popular Miss Ritter.” As only she could, Mum made a moue that expressed disdain. “Five hundred years ago, Lady Freshfield would have lit the torches, tracked Miss Ritter with dogs, and burned her at the stake.”
“Lovely woman.” And another bump in the road of restoring Miss Ritter’s respectability. It looked like an exciting Season, filled with social intrigue and personal vengeance. When Jude was finished, he would have helped a wronged young woman regain some measure of respectability—and he would have vengeance on his brother’s killers.
He rose. “At any rate, Miss Ritter has brought her belongings and is ready to occupy one of the bedchambers. Would you make her comfortable? I wish to go to the opera.” To see if my tip has sent the Moricadians chasing after Miss Gloriana Dollydear.
“Of course.” Invigorated, Mum rose as if on springs. “I’ll take care of her.”
“By the way, Father ordered clothes for her. You might want to check and see what he deems as appropriate wear for a young lady.”
“Heavens,” Mum said faintly. “He has appalling taste.”
“Exactly. If she’s to go out in public with me—”
“Is she?”
“So Father says, and I won’t be escorted by a fashion disaster.” He sniffed. “It would be fatal for my reputation.”
Mum examined him as if not quite sure if he was jesting. “As you say. When do the lessons start?”
“Officially, tomorrow morning.” He gathered his gloves. “I instructed Phillips to make up the silver bedchamber for her.”
“Absolutely!” Mum bustled out of the room, then back in. “Where is she?”
“In the lesser drawing room.” As she left once more, Jude reflected with satisfaction that his father would never notice Miss Ritter was staying under his roof in one of the numerous bedchambers, and his stepmother would have someone to coddle and promote. Unlike Jude, Mum did things out of pure kindness.
Jude had turned his father’s plan to his own advantage, and his stepmother’s, and Miss Ritter’s. All in all, a most profitable situation.
Caroline sat with her knees together, her feet placed directly below her knees, her hands in her lap, and her heart in her throat. Occasionally, when she wasn’t completely intimidated, she sneaked glances at the gilded frames around the portraits, the lush carpet threaded with inky black, sky-blue and soft peach, and the velvet curtains hung on gold rods. Then she remembered this was the lesser drawing room and was properly intimidated again. Ducking her head, she watched her hands as they flexed on the rod of her parasol and considered the difference between this chamber and the one in her father’s house. This chamber reeked of wealth, as did her father’s, but while her father’s house had been designed for show, the chair on which she perched was gloriously cushioned and so comfortable she fought the temptation to put her head back and nap.
If only her room had been ready! Not that she disbelieved Huntington when he said his father wanted her here, for what reason had he to lie? Yet in his carriage, something about the way he watched her gave her the sense he was playing his own game, and she had already been a pawn in one game, with disastrous results. She didn’t ever want to revisit that humiliation.
She heard footsteps and the murmur of voices out in the foyer. The outer door opened and closed.
The duchess of Nevett herself entered, hands outstretched. “My dear, how good to see you again. I suppose you don’t remember me, but we met during your Season.”
“Your Grace, of course I remember you.” As if she would forget a duchess! Caroline scrambled to her feet.
“Please, don’t call me that! Save the exalted title for my husband. My name is Nicolette.”
Beside the petite and gracious lady, Caroline felt tall, skinny and gawky. “Your Grace…Ma’am…I couldn’t…”
“Of course you could, at least in the confines of my own home.” Taking Caroline’s hand, the duchess squeezed her fingers companionably. “You want me to be easy, don’t you?”
Caroline swallowed. “Yes…Nicolette.”
“There. That wasn’t so difficult. And I shall call you Caroline.”
“Yes, please. Only my sister calls me by name now, and I miss hearing it.” That was the truth.
“Jude tells me he brought you to stay with me. I’m so glad, for you may have heard we had a tragedy recently, and I’ve been dull and lonely.”
“A tragedy?” Then Caroline wished she knew the gossip, for Nicolette’s smile faltered.
“I’d forgotten you have been out of society.”
A tactful way of expressing Caroline’s exile.
“Our son Michael was killed while abroad, but our deep mourning is over, and having a beautiful, vivacious young lady in the house will provide just the tonic we need.” The duchess tucked Caroline’s hand in her arm and led her toward the foyer and the stairs. “It’s very clever of you to find a way to use your talent. I always envied your skill at flirting, and Lady Bucknell recommends the best governesses!”
“You’re too kind.” She was. Caroline was dazed by the welcome.
The stairs rose from the foyer in a graceful arc, and Nicolette continued to escort Caroline upward. “Jude says you’re to start teaching him tomorrow.”
“I taught him a little lesson today.” Caroline’s mouth curved as she remembered.
“You look like the spirit of mischief. Tell me!”
Caroline found herself confiding the whole incident to the duchess, who laughed with seeming glee and approved Caroline’s tactics.
As they approached a closed door in the corridor, a footman sprang to attention and opened it.
“Here we are,” Nicolette said. “Jude suggested the silver bedchamber for you, and I know why he did. It’s the perfect setting for you.”
Caroline knew she shouldn’t allow her jaw to drop. It was unfeminine and unattractive. But whatever she expected of her bedchamber, it wasn’t this. Not this spacious, graceful room decorated in cool blues and warm browns. The fireplace was laid with wood and waited only a flame. A dressing screen stood in one corner. Gleaming silver vases stood on either side of the curtained bed, and the chambermaid was filling them with flowers.
She dropped at curtsy. “Just a few final touches, Yer Grace, and it’ll be ready fer yer guest.”
“Thank you, Daisy. You’ll act as Miss Ritter’s maid while she is staying with us.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Daisy bobbed a curtsy at Caroline, and her gaze examined her up and down. “ ’Twill be a pleasure. May I have yer hat and gloves?”
Caroline peeled off her gloves, but she didn’t have to untie the ribbons under her chin. Daisy stepped close and did it as if Caroline shouldn’t weary herself with such labor. Carefully, Daisy removed the bonnet and took the gloves and the parasol. “Are the rest of yer bags coming later, Miss Ritter?”
Caroline cleared her throat. “I believe there’ll be deliveries with more clothes, yes.”
“Then I�
��ll freshen these up fer tomorrow.” Daisy took them away to the bedchamber.
Caroline had begun to feel as if she had fallen into an odd sort of dream, where she lived in a beautiful house, was attended by a maid, visited with a duchess, had her garments bought by a duke and approved by an earl…It was hard to remember who she was. Not the debutante, but not the same desperate young woman poised on the brink of starvation, either.
“Miss Ritter will have a tray in her room,” the duchess instructed, when Daisy returned.
Daisy curtsied and went to the door.
To Caroline, Nicolette said, “Nevett and I had an early supper, and I know you must be exhausted after your fall from that fractious French horse.” She laughed again.
“It was very fatiguing.” Caroline laughed with her. “What a beautiful chamber this is!”
“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it?” Nicolette gazed about her in satisfaction. “Come and visit while we wait for Daisy to finish.” She seated herself on one of the comfortable chairs placed beside the fireplace, and when Caroline had joined her, she confided, “When Jude returned from abroad, he was much changed from his previous self, and I find myself longing for the old Jude.”
“Changed…how?” Caroline’s curiosity was more than just politeness. Huntington had aroused her interest. While in society, she’d met a number of fops, and Huntington was singular. Caroline couldn’t put her finger on it, but he showed flashes of a powerful masculinity. He observed everything around him intensely, and she, who took pride in understanding men and catering to their inflated sense of self-worth, didn’t quite know how to handle him. She needed to handle him, for she had to complete this task Nevett had assigned her.
She had to. This was her last chance. She would not fail.
“Most obviously, he didn’t used to dress like a French coxcomb.” The duchess rolled her eyes. “It’s driving his father mad. But also, Jude always got his own way. He would manage me and everyone in the family.”
“Oh!” Caroline remembered how he had swept her out of her poor room before she had time to truly consider the situation.
“I see you have experience with his autocratic ways.” At Caroline’s nod, Nicolette continued, “The only one Jude could never manage was his father. They’re too much alike—or rather, they used to be. Jude used to be cautious and thoughtful. He dressed with dignity. He pondered literature and logic. When he was a lad, he was complex, not easy to understand. Rather…stuffy, and solemn beyond his years. Now”—Nicolette shook her head in bewilderment—“he blurts out what’s on his mind, and it’s seldom of import. He’s frivolous. He flings himself at every event as if it is his last.” In a lower voice, the duchess said, “I suppose that’s the legacy of Michael’s death. We’ve all been changed.”
Caroline thought about the dark green journal she had in her bag. She had filled its blank sheets with her plans for flirting lessons, and even now she wondered if her simple strategy would work with Jude. “But to have changed so much seems improbable.”
“I think that sometimes, too, but what game could he be playing?” Nicolette smiled. “Of course, you didn’t know him, he had left before you had your Season, so how can you answer?”
Caroline winced, and reluctantly approached the matter she knew must be on the duchess’s mind. “I’m so grateful for your kind offer to house me while I teach Jude, and I promise there’ll be no embarrassing incident while I’m under your roof.” When the duchess looked startled, Caroline decided she liked this lady more than she had ever liked anyone before.
“I would say not,” Nicolette said. “The people who should be embarrassed by that incident four years ago are Lord Freshfield and his harridan of a wife! You must be so very angry about what happened to you.”
Astonished, Caroline blinked at Nicolette. “Angry? No. No, how could I be angry?”
“How could you not be? You weren’t guilty.” The duchess’s eyes shot gray sparks. “Everyone knows you were a victim of Lord Freshfield’s desire to obtain a divorce. He ruined your reputation, yet he is still accepted. Your father tossed you out without challenging Lord Freshfield or his dastardly deeds. Your friends couldn’t help you. Of course you’re angry.”
Such thoughts had never occurred to Caroline. “But it was my fault. I flirted with Lord Freshfield even though I knew he was married.”
“You were young. You were inexperienced. He had bribed your chaperon. What happened was not your fault—but you and you alone have suffered.”
“I deserved everything that’s happened to me. What’s more, I ruined my father’s expectations—”
Nicolette raised her eyebrows.
“All right,” Caroline admitted. “I don’t really care about Father. But I do care about my sister, and she’s so alone without me.”
The duchess reached across, put her hands over Caroline’s, and said, “If it were me, I would be angry.”
“No. I’m not.” Caroline truly didn’t understand what the duchess was saying. She did not. “I’m not angry.”
From the duke of Nevett’s box in the rapidly emptying opera house, Jude watched Monsieur Bouchard walk to the stage. He handed Miss Gloriana Dollydear a bouquet of flowers and a folded piece of paper. She accepted both with a coy smile and broke the seal on the note. She took the money within, tucked it into her copious bosom, then read the note. Nodding at Monsieur Bouchard, she indicated her acceptance and watched him walk away. Her gaze swept the theater, never seeking Jude in the shadows, but she slid her hand over the back of her neck as if she were exhausted.
It was a signal arranged between them. She had directed them to meet in the alley behind the opera house.
Throwing his concealing black cloak over his beaded jacket, Jude slipped into the darkened corridor. The opera house smelled of dust and greasepaint, and the gilt decorations glinted in the dim light. Only a few people lingered; now that the performance had concluded, the ton made their way to parties or dinners. He walked backstage where the hands shouted and joked as they put away the props and the costumes. The chorus threw cloaks over their stage clothes and left in a steady stream. The stage door opened and closed, letting in puffs of fog and chilly air. People called out good-byes, and no one paid attention to Jude. Male visitors backstage were common; several of the girls cast inviting smiles his way. He kept moving right out the door. The pale fog shimmered in ribbons on the night breeze. He hung back, straining to see the light of Gloriana’s lantern or hear her voice.
And then there she was, smiling into de Guignard’s face while Bouchard held the veiled lantern.
“Mr. Throckmorton is a lovely gentleman, quite the craftsman with everything he does.” Her husky tones carried clearly to his ears. “But he’s got an air about him that’s dangerous, if you understand me, and I’m not likely to cross him.”
“I do understand you, but I assure you, I can protect you from him.” De Guignard smiled so charmingly Jude wanted to vomit. “I’m quite a rich and powerful man myself, and noble, too.”
She tilted her head and studied him. “What is it you want to know?”
“I understand Throckmorton is an important man in this Home Office, where the English make their decisions about foreign policy.”
“I’m a simple opera singer, dearie.” Placing her hand on her hip, she fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s not commerce he talks with me.”
“You could find out, couldn’t you?” Bouchard asked impatiently.
Gloriana transferred her smile to Bouchard. “I could—for the right incentive.”
De Guignard nodded at Bouchard. More folded bills exchanged hands.
“What do you want to know?” she asked in a businesslike tone.
Celeste Throckmorton was a genius.
This was going to work.
Chapter 9
Caroline’s early training had covered many things. It covered how to dance with a man while appearing both modest and appealing, what a man liked to talk about (himself), how to walk in a man
ner guaranteed to catch a man’s eye.
Yet her early training had never covered how to enter the breakfast room of the duke of Nevett while in his employ. She didn’t even know that she should be there at all, but the previous day, as Her Grace had hospitably welcomed her to the home, she had informed Caroline of the time and location of breakfast.
So there Caroline stood, hovering in the doorway while His Grace remained ensconced behind his paper and the duchess read a book. The utter quiet in the cozy room intimidated Caroline; not even the footmen made a sound as they trod back and forth with fresh rashers of bacon and steaming plates of scones.
At last, the smell of food and rich, hot coffee drew Caroline into the room. Lately, as she made her money stretch farther than she had ever imagined possible, she had only allowed herself two meals a day. She wanted to laugh as she remembered how, in the days when she had stood poised on the edge of social success, she had imagined she would escape the coldness of her father’s house and spring into the warmth of an adoring man’s arms. What a fool she had been.
Now she made her way toward the duke’s intimate table, her planning journal held in her hands, making an effort to be as silent as the gliding servants.
And her stomach growled.
“Damn it!” Nevett smashed his newspaper onto the table. “Do you have to be so god-awful noisy?”
Caroline froze.
The duchess was on her feet before he had finished speaking. “Come and sit down, dear Miss Ritter, we have your place set.” Taking Caroline’s arm, Nicolette ushered her toward the table while Nevett glared with unmitigated wrath. “We don’t make a sound around Nevett until he’s had at least two cups of coffee,” the duchess confided in a low voice. “We find they substantially improve his disposition.”
“I heard that! I’m not yet deaf,” Nevett trumpeted.
“No, dear.” Tranquilly, the duchess signaled to the footmen, who began offering platters of food to Caroline.
“I do not require coffee at this or any other time.” Picking up his cup and saucer, Nevett held it as if he disdained the brew within. “I am always even-tempered—except when people are excessively loud and unable to maintain their composure.” He took a sip, then set it down.
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