The Duke's Undoing (Three Rogues and Their Ladies)

by Vandagriff, G. G.

  Even with her aunt standing in the hall next to her, Gregory wrapped his arms around Elise and kissed her proprietarily on the lips. Then he held her a little away from him and looked into her eyes.

  Maybe I’m already getting over him.

  Just yesterday, that look from his heavy-lidded, seductive eyes had made her weak at the knees. Especially after a kiss. But not today. Had her night of tears begun to sever her emotional connection to him, in order to spare herself further pain when he inevitably turned to Violet?

  “Good morning, my darling. Ready for those greedy soldiers? It seems there are more every week. The queue will already be snaking its way through the marketplace, though it’s only half ten o’clock.”

  The Viscount never dressed down for the canteen. Wearing buff pantaloons, a bottle green jacket with a green and gold striped waistcoat and an ivory shirt and cravat, he looked exactly what he was—a privileged gentleman.

  “I’m glad there are more each week. This is the only meal they get, most of them,” she answered. Though she was aware that Gregory took credit for the project to increase his stature in the House of Lords, the canteen had been her idea.

  He helped her aunt into his carriage first and then handed up Elise. Once they were settled, he struck the ceiling of the carriage with his umbrella handle, and they were off through the noisy, crowded streets. Though Elise detested the sooty air of London and the boisterous streets with their clatter of hoofbeats and jingling harnesses, hawkers, and creaking carriages, she did not want the Season to end. Her mother, kept in the country by a leg broken in two places, was going to be extremely angry if she did not return home with the viscount’s engagement ring on her hand. Known by the sobriquet of Lady Hatchet, she was, at this moment, gleefully immersed in wedding plans. Before Elise’s unwelcome discovery at Lord and Lady Gaskill’s house party over the weekend, she was to have been married in August at the family church in Shropshire.

  Well, it could still happen. But only if I’m wrong about Violet.

  They pulled up in front of the town residence of her closest friend where she lived with three aunts and her brother, Thomas who was becoming a very influential member of the House of Commons. Elise watched Violet’s and Gregory’s expressions intently as they met. They were just as normal. No guilty looks. No furtive glances. Neither of them seemed the least self-conscious. Gregory did not hold on to Violet’s hand a second longer than he needed to when handing her into the carriage. Violet’s countenance was as open and guileless as ever.

  “Good morning, Elise!” she said. “My, you look lovely.”

  Violet was slightly chubby, as her aunt had said, and her straitened finances did not allow her to have dresses made by the top modistes, who would have played up her voluptuousness and streamlined the rest of her figure. But nothing could take away from the sweetness of her face and the brilliance of her rose petal complexion. Elise had always thought that her friend had the face she deserved. Violet was the kindest, most giving person she had ever known. Now Elise wondered how long her friend had secretly been in love with Gregory. If her fiancé made no move during this month, she had no doubt that Violet would take her unrequited passion to the grave before she would speak of or act upon it.

  When the viscount climbed back aboard and signaled to his driver to start, he said, “Ladies, I’m so glad you are all in plump currant today. We’re to have visitors. Your patrons are coming to look over the operation.”

  Elise stifled her annoyance. She disliked the idea of being shown off for Gregory’s political ends. But Violet said, “Oh, those wonderful gentlemen who have given their money to help the poor wounded soldiers? I cannot wait to thank them!”

  Aunt Clarice echoed Violet’s sentiments. Elise was left wondering at her own cynicism.

  The canteen was in a former small shop building with a rudimentary kitchen in the rear. It sat in the heart of the Covent Garden street market where fruits, vegetables, poultry, fish, and meat were sold to cooks from all over London. Two sturdy women were paid to do the canteen’s cooking. Each day of the week, three different society women would come to ladle out the nourishing soups and stews to the queue of soldiers and their families. They ate at the crowded tables and benches in the storefront. A gentleman always accompanied the ladies to keep the soldiers and other East End riffraff in order. Thursdays were Violet’s, Lady Clarice’s, and Elise’s day to serve and Viscount Chessingden’s day to protect.

  When Elise began her duties, she ceased to think of Gregory and Violet and focused on the former soldiers she was coming to be familiar with. Her favorite was “Cap’n” Joe, as he was known—a soldier who had lost both his legs in the war and who played ditties for her on his mouth organ while being pulled in a wooden wagon by his wife. Today he was serenading her with “What’ll You Do with a Drunken Sailor?” Elise smiled at him, his pregnant wife, and four-year-old daughter who carried a dirty rag doll.

  It was near noon when the patrons started to arrive. First was Lord Clarendon, a noted Whig with a charitable disposition. He and Elise had a great regard for each other. In his middle age, he had a large head of gray hair and a long face with a generous chin. This was not his first time to the kitchen. After greeting Elise, Violet, and Lady Clarice, he began shaking the hands of the soldiers in the queue, cheering them and their families.

  Next to arrive was a stranger. A very handsome stranger from what Elise could see when she looked up from her ladle. His brows slanted down at the ends as he smiled at her, giving his brown eyes a concerned and gentle look. At his temples, his medium brown hair made Michelangelo cupid’s curls. He was dressed immaculately all in black, relieved only by his white shirt with moderate collar points and an expertly tied cravat. He carried a mahogany walking stick.

  The new patron looked over their operation with an interested countenance. The viscount was quick to meet him with a handshake and a clap on the back. “Welcome, Ruisdell! Ladies, we have here a genuine Tory, the Duke of Ruisdell. Your Grace, may I present Lady Clarice Manton, her niece and my fiancée, Miss Edwards, and Miss Archer. The duke bowed solemnly over each of their hands. When he reached Elise at the end of the line, he held her hand a fraction longer than necessary and searched her with his eyes as though she puzzled him. Then his gaze followed her hands as she resumed ladling the soup, her silver bangle of a bracelet sliding up and down her forearm. For some reason, the sight seemed to fascinate him.

  “You are doing a great work here, ladies,” he said, at last. His voice was a rich, reverent baritone. “I’m a wounded soldier myself.” He indicated his walking stick. “However, Providence has blessed me with ample means. Thank you for taking such an interest in these men and their families.”

  “Thank you for your generous support, Your Grace,” Elise said. Ladle in hand, she sketched a curtsey and gave him her nicest smile.

  With a brief smile and a tip of his top hat, he left them and walked down the queue, shaking hands and greeting the returned soldiers. Elise was able to hear him asking where and under whom each had served.

  Once he moved on, Aunt Clarice whispered so only Elise could hear, “That man! I don’t believe it! Why, Ruisdell’s the worst rogue in England!”

  Elise changed her favorable opinion of him on the spot. A rogue. Therefore engaged in womanizing, heavy drinking, and gambling—all the things she most despised about the gentlemen of her class. Gregory always told her she was a Radical because she was of the opinion that her male peers lived expensive, dissolute lives off the work of the poor. Perhaps she was so vehement because her own father was such a poor landlord, putting little back into the estate, blind to the needs of his tenants. And he was a gamester. In one night, he might lose more money than his tenants’ hard work paid him in a year. Her mother’s sharp tongue was the only thing that kept him in line and preserved their mediocre fortune.

  She wondered what kind of landlord the duke was. He showed great interest in the soldiers, tousling the heads of their children, lifti
ng his beaver top hat as a salute to their ladies, even though most were dressed in rags.

  Relenting a bit, Elise allowed that he did care for the wounded soldiers. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge. But a rogue! How could she reconcile the two faces of the man? Maybe he was more complex than most people she knew.

  Her author’s instinct came alive. She was going to put him in a book. Maybe even write a whole book, just about him. Elise hoped that chance would throw him in her way again so that she could make out his character.

  The third contributor to arrive was the fat, redheaded Earl of Southwick who, as usual, had his handkerchief out, dabbing futilely at the perspiration on his forehead. He also had visited before. This time he asked, “Might I have a bowl of that soup? It smells excellent, and I missed my breakfast.”

  Curbing her desire to tell him to go to the end of the line, Elise ladled him a bowl and handed it to him wordlessly.

  “Ah, excellent!” the Earl said as he tasted it. “I must give my compliments to those wonderful cooks!”

  *

  When they were safely back inside the doors of Aunt Clarice’s town house, had removed their hats and gloves, and settled in Aunt’s pink saloon with reviving cups of tea, the older woman said, “Well, Elise! I was watching the viscount like a hawk, my dear. He never looked at Violet. And she seemed to be completely unaffected by his presence. It is my belief that you were overhasty in your decision. A third broken engagement is going to take some explaining. I’m four and fifty, and never have I heard of such a thing. What am I to tell your mother?”

  Her mother would not take it well. Lady Hatchet had been overjoyed that her daughter was finally to be settled with a viscount. Elise was vastly tired of the abuse she had suffered at Mama’s hand because of her unmarried state.

  Was not the real problem that no man could live up to Joshua and the future they had planned together? Life on his lovely estate, next door to where she had grown up. A continuation of their mutual discovery and discussion of things political, scientific, and especially literary. They would have held musical salons in their London house. And a continuance of the hours upon hours of time they spent together reading from her manuscripts, sharpening their wits against all the ironies of polite social intercourse . . .

  “We needn’t tell her just yet,” Elise said. “I haven’t made a clean break. There’s always the possibility that I was mistaken, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I’m counting on it, Elise. And that the poor man won’t have taken offense at your high-handed treatment.”

  Elise shrugged. “Oh, Aunt Clarice! Shouldn’t you love to have me here to live with you, taking care of you in your old age, supporting my expenses with my quill?”

  Her aunt tut-tutted. “My desires are not to be consulted here. How do you know that your mother won’t tear me limb from limb?”

  Finishing her tea, Elise stood up and kissed her long-suffering aunt on the cheek. As usual, Queen Elizabeth, now tucked under her arm, growled with jealousy. “I’m going up to my novel now, ma’am. Put your feet up as Doctor Finch told you to do. There’s a good aunt. I won’t let Mama tear you limb from limb, and neither will Queen Elizabeth. She’s as fierce as her namesake.”

  Later, when she was settled at her desk, quill in hand, she considered again the comparison of Joshua to Gregory. Surely, it was foolhardy. Who could ever match Joshua? Why did she keep getting engaged? First Robert, and now this. She should rig herself out in full mourning for the rest of her life and experience love only by way of Joshua’s cherished memory and the one medium she could control—her writing.

  Returning to that occupation, she tried to wield her quill to pull herself out of her confusion. Writing always worked to relax her. Everything else retreated before the tale she was telling about the scandals erupting in the small town of Stanton-at-Liechmere. She even asked Kitty to have her dinner sent up on a tray so she could ply her quill far into the night. When she at last went to bed, she tossed and turned until the wee hours, tormented by thoughts of Joshua’s gentle kisses and laughing green eyes. He had aroused passion in her that no one else had been able to equal.

  Gregory’s caresses had never had the same effect. Aunt knew nothing of what had gone on at the Gaskills’ when Gregory had led her out to the terrace that first night. It had been their first time alone. Strolling with her away from all the other couples, her fiancé had seized her with a passion that she had never known he possessed. His kisses had strayed into forbidden territory, and it was only with great difficulty that she had detached herself from him. Would he have used Violet in such a manner? Would Joshua ever have insulted her in such a way? Definitely not. On both counts.

  *

  In the following days, her erstwhile fiancé showered her with gifts, flowers, and daily epistles, telling her of his love and admiration. He even begged her pardon for his “impetuosity,” claiming he couldn’t be blamed for loving her body and soul. Violet was beside herself and, according to Aunt Clarice, could not imagine why Elise would not receive her. This state of affairs continued for two weeks. Suddenly, the letters stopped. Even more ominously, Violet ceased to call.

  One day, two days, three days, a full week. Elise tried to congratulate herself on her perspicacity but found it difficult to face her lonely future. She sent back Gregory’s engagement ring. He did not return it.

  This was the longest span of time she had passed without seeing, writing, or speaking to Violet, and she missed her friend more than she missed Gregory. She missed attending the musicales where her talented friend would sing with her bewitching coloratura soprano voice. She missed attending lectures with Violet on social reform. Most of all, she missed their spirited debates and conversations. The sad fact that she missed Violet more than Gregory was telling.

  As far as the rest of the world knew, a putrid sore throat explained Elise’s seclusion. Sukey took her place at the canteen (not without complaint), and Elise sent notes to acquaintances expressing her regrets that she was too unwell to attend their ball, rout, dinner, tea, or musicale. She absolutely could not set eyes on Gregory and Violet, together or apart.

  Her Aunt lived in a dreamworld of her own. Childless, she used her vast inheritance from her husband to endlessly redecorate her home according to her present fancy and to entertain Whig luminaries, whose company she and Sukey sought to further their own schemes for social reform. In addition, she was writing an opera and had formed several charities to promote literacy among the lower classes. She held board meetings for these in her home. Elise refused to participate in any of these gatherings to the point that her aunt began to despair over her behavior.

  Sukey was another matter. “Elise Edwards!” she exclaimed one afternoon when Elise came down to take tea with her aunt and companion in the newly redecorated Chinese saloon.

  “I cannot believe you are eating your heart out over that fribble! Where is your sense of proportion, your taste for irony? It is so much a part of your prose, my dear, I cannot believe it has deserted you entirely over this paltry issue.” She raised her Imari teacup to her lips and took a large gulp. Sukey gulped everything, including life. Always thoroughly involved in some entomological enthusiasm, she had no time for fits of melancholy.

  “My darling,”Aunt Clarice added, “I agree with Sukey. You simply must pull yourself together.”

  “Aunt, Sukey, try to understand. This isn’t just about Gregory. It’s about Gregory and Violet together. Don’t you see? Violet has been my dearest friend since we were in the nursery. I want to wish her well, but I just cannot seem to manage it. I am afraid that when I am confronted with a vision of the two of them I will just . . . dissolve!”

  Sukey shook her head until her gray ringlets bounced. “Rubbish!” she said.

  Her aunt said, “Sukey, dear, he may seem a fribble to you, but he was Elise’s fiancé. It is a loss, you know. However you look at it.” Then, to Elise, “He still doesn’t look at Violet the way he looks at you. I saw them to
gether just last night at a musicale.”

  Elise felt a jab to the heart. This was her first real confirmation that Gregory and Violet were an item.

  Her aunt, undoubtedly reading her face, said, “Well, for my part, I always did think you came alive as soon as he entered the room. I realize that this doesn’t march well with your intent to mourn poor Joshua all your life, but you should not have treated the viscount so shabbily, you know.”

  Elise blinked quickly, hoping the women did not detect her tears. “Let us change our topic of conversation. How does Queen Elizabeth feel about her Chinese surroundings, Aunt? I believe the red silk walls to be a little much for a room this size. Gold would be nicer, I think.”

  “Just what I told her,” Sukey said emphatically. For a little dab of a woman, she was emphatic more often than one might suppose.

  *

  When Elise had gone an entire week without hearing from the viscount, she determined, at last, to take the air. She would take her maid and venture out, wearing a veil of course, to Green Park—not the fashionable Hyde Park. Aunt Clarice declared she looked like a widow, but Elise didn’t want assaults by either well-wishers or gossips. The creatures had been busy enough this week—resulting in several items in the society pages that noted Elise’s absence from the viscount’s company and the presence of Violet on his arm.

  In order to place things in some sort of proportion, she took with her the letter that Joshua’s commanding officer had written to her upon the death of her first fiancé two years ago. Once seated in the park, a distance from the hoofbeats, cries of itinerate tinkers, and clatter of carriage wheels, she took the letter out of her reticule and read.

  My dear Miss Edwards:

  This is the most difficult task I have ever faced. I am writing to tell you that your fiancé and my best friend in the world was killed two days ago in the miserable heat of battle. I only wish I were there to cushion this terrible blow by sharing our memories of this outstanding soldier.