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

by Vandagriff, G. G.

  When he failed to find her in the town, he began exploring all the lanes that led off from Bath in different directions. By the end of the day, he was fairly convinced that, if she was in Bath, she hadn’t ridden out that day.

  He would give it a week. He would enquire in the shops for her and her aunt, giving their names and descriptions. He would walk the streets. He would do everything he could to find her.

  At least there was no sign of Chessingden.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  OUR HEROINE IS GREATLY DISTURBED

  The day after Gregory’s arrival, Elise woke early and worked on her manuscript, heedless of her guest.

  Pamela never left Ravensbrook’s side for long during the terrible days while they waited to see if the duke would regain consciousness. Chaperoned by her mother, who was perforce obliged to remain at the duke’s side as well, she slept on the daybed in his room. Her mother kept to the couch. Longing to climb up into the bed beside her beloved duke, Pamela had to be content with washing his brow, cheeks, and neck with a cool, damp cloth. Every part of his face was so dear to her, she could not bear the possibility that it might grow cold and wax-like in death. As long as his heart beat, she would not give up.

  She spoke to him constantly about the life they would live. “We shall have an heir and a spare, and then I would like to have three little girls to climb on your lap and give you kisses.”

  She read to him from Donne, his favorite poet. She even read the newspapers to him. And when her mother fell into a doze, she kissed him—his eyelids, his cheeks, and finally his lips. Pamela’s heart ached for him to return her kisses, but she knew as long as he breathed there was hope.

  After a week of being near death, the duke rallied and regained consciousness. Pamela was kissing him when his eyes flew open. They instantly filled with love. The long ordeal had left her weak and tired, but new strength surged through her, and she wept silently on his chest, holding him in gratitude and sending prayers of thankfulness aloft.

  His friends began to hope that he might live. His assailant had been apprehended by a pair of Bow Street Runners, who earned a hefty reward. The man’s trial was to be in three weeks’ time in the House of Lords. Hearing this news aided the duke in his recovery . . .

  At length, her aunt opened the door to her room, and seeing her still in her nightrail, said, “My dear girl. You simply must come and do something with the viscount. He is driving me to distraction! He has hovered over me all morning. In the garden, in the stillroom, while I have been arranging flowers . . . I’m leaving now to visit my friend, Lady Frances Davenport, and so you simply must come down.”

  “I did not ask him to come. I am writing. Tell him to go ride a horse. He can take my mare.” She huffed a sigh. “I suppose I will be down for luncheon. I am that hungry.”

  “Is it going well?” her aunt asked. “Your writing?”

  “The news that the duke is alive has added a much needed happy note. And now the book has a new lease on life, as it were! It would not have been a terribly popular work, had it ended with his death.”

  “I hope you’re not making it too close to reality,” Lady Clarice cautioned. “The duke is a private man, I think.”

  “Oh, he will never read it! Only silly, romantic girls like me will read it. And even if he did, he will not know who wrote it.”

  “I would not lay odds on that, my love. Only you could write the story you are writing.”

  When Elise met the viscount at the table for luncheon, her aunt had not returned.

  “I’m sorry you had to amuse yourself this morning. I have been writing.”

  “Oh.” He looked a bit taken aback. “A new novel?”

  “Yes. It is a real novel this time. About a duke.”

  Once the footman her aunt had hired had laid the covers and withdrawn, Gregory asked, “The same duke we both know?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Is it a romance?”

  She merely smiled at him with a trace of sauciness.

  “Elise . . .”

  “Yes, Gregory?”

  “I cannot bear to see you so starry-eyed over Ruisdell. I tell you, he is nothing more than a rogue, whereas I . . .”

  “Are nothing more than a cad,” she said, interrupting him. “I haven’t forgotten the incident of the unbuttoned dress!”

  “Darling, I was carried away by desire. It happens to the best of men.”

  “I disagree. Joshua loved me dearly. I have never known a better man. And he certainly never came close to taking the liberties you took! What has happened between you and Violet?”

  “Do not bring up Violet again, I pray.” Elise thought he sounded like a sulky boy who has been caught with his hand in the sweets. “Do you not want to know why I came all this way?”

  “I am actually quite surprised that you would seek me out, considering how the newspapers impaled you as one of my ‘many fiancés.’

  “I love you, Elise. It’s as simple as that. I think of you night and day. I smell your scent in my sleep. I imagine your body intertwining with mine. I find I cannot look at another woman with any interest at all.”

  Elise was stunned and a bit frightened by his passion. At the luncheon table, no less! She only hoped that with her aunt gone, he would not become so aroused that he would take further liberties. When she said nothing, he took her hand across the table and moved his thumb across its ungloved skin. He continued. “Not only do I love you, but I feel you were made for me. You will make the perfect Whig hostess. I intend to continue my parliamentary career. I want to revive the Prince Regent’s Whig sympathies. I want to unseat Liverpool and have Prinnie appoint another Whig Prime Minister. I know that you agree with my politics. I don’t know another woman so passionate about reform. I will be vociferous for women’s rights, for educating the poor, and I will continue to urge Parliament to provide for those who have served their country and been forgotten.”

  His eyes glowed with even more passion when he talked of his political aims than when he talked of her attractions. If she did not believe him to be a cad, she would be seriously tempted. But his speech had betrayed him. I! I! I! Gregory’s assertion that she was made for him, further disclosed his narcissistic bent. To him, the sum total of her value as a human being was to be his lover and his hostess. He had as much as told her that this was the reason she existed. And then he had promised to speak up for the rights of women!

  “I’m deeply flattered by your offer, Gregory. But believe me when I say that we would not suit.”

  His nostrils flared, and his lips compressed. “You are besotted by Ruisdell, are you not, you little ninny?”

  “How dare you!” Elise jumped up from her chair.

  “Well, let me tell you something about your precious duke. You think that he has fallen in love with you, that his love for you has changed him from the rogue he used to be.” He stood and looked her straight in the eye. “You might like to know that were I not in the picture, were I not a rival for your affections, he would not have paid so much as the smallest attention to you.”

  “You really are absolutely insufferable,” she turned to leave the room, but he grabbed her hand.

  “Listen to me! He taunted me with it. Ruisdell has hated me ever since I exposed him for a cheat. He told me that he could make you fall in love with him. He offered to bet with me. Of course, I wouldn’t behave in such a coarse manner, so he bet with Somerset instead. It’s in the betting book at White’s.”

  Elise froze. In spite of everything she thought she knew about Peter Northcott, Duke of Ruisdell, why did Gregory’s words have the ring of truth?

  “I do not believe a word you say! You have your answer. I will not marry you! Now leave here this instant! Go! Get out! I never, ever want to see you or hear from you again!”

  “Hah! I knew that would crack the ice in your veins.”

  “You fabricated the entire story! I don’t believe you!”

  From his pocket he extracted
a carefully cut piece of newsprint. “Read that!” Throwing it on the table, he strode out of the dining room. She stood staring at the cutting as though it were a cobra poised to strike. Turning her head to one side, she stuck out a blind hand, found the piece of newsprint, and crumpled it without reading it. Had she not learned just yesterday how unreliable the newspapers were? Flinging the wad of paper in the grate, she sat down, head in her hands.

  Little by little, she took Gregory’s revelation apart and examined it. Was the tale about cheating at Oxford true? Was that where the rumors that Ruisdell was the worst rogue in England had begun? No, it could not be so. Gregory was the one without honor. She would stake her life that it was Gregory who had substituted the marked cards and framed the duke as a cheat.

  If one took that as a fact, one could easily understand the duke’s animus. She could actually relive the moment in her mind when Ruisdell had insulted Gregory by telling him, in essence, that he was too small and weak to take on her defense against Robert. A well-placed barb, to be sure. She had been surprised at his championship but had later put it down to his friendship with Joshua. Had she been wrong?

  Remembering her encounters with the jealous Lady Marianne, she wondered suddenly how she ever could have thought the duke enamored of her when he had spurned such a magnificent woman. If Elise had thought at all, she had thought Ruisdell loved her enough to marry her. What folly! If he would not marry the daughter of a duke, a diamond of the first water, why would he marry ordinary Elise Edwards? What had she been thinking? When had her conviction that he was nothing but a gambler, womanizer, and all-over hedonist begun to falter?

  When he talked about the war. When he talked about his friendship with Joshua. In other words, when I connected with him emotionally. Is he nothing more than a master seducer? Probing and probing until he found my weakness?

  Reaching into the grate, she pulled out the scrap of newsprint and smoothed it on the table.

  The marquis of S— bets 5,000 guineas with Duke of R— that seducing Miss E— will cure the duke’s well-known ennui. Shall Miss E—’s charms succeed where Lady M—’s have failed?

  Elise winced as though she had been struck. Her body, formerly reveling in the joy that the duke was alive, now contracted all over. Her eyes filled with hot tears of humiliation. She could not even stand. A sentimental, green girl! That’s what she was! Not only had he fooled her completely but he had used Joshua to do it. Nothing was sacred to that devil. Nothing.

  Dashing upstairs to her bedroom, she grabbed hold of the manuscript that lay on her desk and began tearing it across, sheet by sheet. She would rewrite it. And this time, it would be a cautionary tale for all unwary, silly virgins like herself.

  She sat to the task immediately. She would not return to London until she had completed it and sent it to her publisher.

  How and when does a gentleman of high birth commence to become a rogue? Perhaps there is no better breeding ground than the University of the Privileged—Oxford. Perhaps it is there that he learns the fine art of cheating at cards, beginning by taking in his friends who think he is a jolly good fellow. Surely this deceit prepares him for anything! To take in those who trust you—that is at the very center of a rogue’s heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IN WHICH THE DUKE TRACKS DOWN HIS BELOVED

  Ruisdell had kept his ear to the ground for notice that Viscount Chessingden had returned to Town. One morning in late August, when he should have been, according to his normal routine, in Brighton, the marquis (who had also stayed in Town) paid him a visit just as he was preparing to leave for Tattersall’s. He had in mind to buy a fine mare to breed with Jupiter when he went up to Derbyshire.

  George entered his dressing room, eyes alight with familiar mischief. “Chessingden’s back,” he announced. “Had it from Chatfield at White’s last night. Viscount dined with him. Rotten humor.”

  “Ah!” the duke said. “Sounds like he came back with his tail between his legs. I knew that woman had sense.”

  As Richards put the finishing touches to his cravat, Ruisdell instructed his valet, “Go to the mews and find Harris. Ask him to insinuate himself into a friendship with Chessingden’s coachman.” Handing his valet a pile of shillings, he continued, “Drinks are on me. Object of the exercise is to find out where the devil Chessingden has been. In as much detail as possible. Suggest to Harris that once he finds out the general neighborhood, he pose as a relative of someone who lives thereabouts, and then get the best directions he can manage.”

  “Right you are, Your Grace. ’Twill be a pleasure.”

  With that operation in hand, the duke decided to put off his visit to Tatt’s. “I’m dashed if I’m not in the mood to go a round with the Gentleman.”

  “Your shoulder!” the marquis protested.

  “Time I was getting my form back. Coming?”

  After a punishing round with Gentleman Jackson, the duke threw several buckets of water over his head and body to wash away his sweat. “Want to see Elise Edward’s little operation in the East End?” he asked George.

  The marquis nodded his consent as he watched the duke dry himself off.

  Today they found Lady Susannah, and two other women the duke did not recognize. To his surprise, Chessingden was there in the role as protector. He greeted the duke and marquis with a false smile that did not reach his hooded eyes.

  “Well met,” he said, shaking hands. “I do not believe you know Miss Elphinstone. She is a particular friend of Miss Archer's who is filling in for her. Undoubtedly you know Lady Harriet who is taking Miss Edwards' s place while she is out of town.”

  Ruisdell and Somerset introduced themselves to Miss Elphinstone, a short woman with sandy hair and lashes and a pair of speaking green eyes. Obviously overwhelmed by the presentation, she gave a deep curtsey, and ignoring the soldier who stood before her with his bowl, she offered them soup. “It’s a fine lamb stew today,” she said.

  “Thank you, Miss Elphinstone, but I think this soldier was here before us. Perhaps you had better serve him.” The woman blushed so unbecomingly it was painful to Ruisdell. Giving her a reassuring smile, he bowed to Lady Harriet and walked down the waiting queue, shaking hands with those soldiers who still had them, inquiring as he had before about their service.

  This simple act brought him much satisfaction, as well as making him feel bound in some important way to Elise. Most young women were not allowed by their parents even to discuss the war and certainly not the government’s failure to provide for these unfortunate men. But his Elise had not only possessed herself of the facts but had done something concrete to help.

  As he was leaving with Somerset, he thought it natural to ask Chessingden, “Have you any idea when Miss Edwards will return?”

  Chessingden looked at him with eyes hard and bright with some kind of satisfaction. His smile twisted as though he tasted something bitter. “I would not be surprised if Miss Edwards never returned to London.”

  Years of practice hiding his emotions came to the duke’s rescue. He gave an easy smile. “Well, Miss Elphinstone, it looks as though you have a new job. It’s a worthy cause. Continue your excellent work.” He tipped his top hat to them all. “Miss Archer, Lady Susannah, Lady Harriet, wonderful to see you, as always.”

  It wasn’t until he got into a hackney with George that he said, “What would you like to bet that weasel of a viscount said something poisonous about me to upset Elise, because she wouldn’t have him?”

  “No takers. Must have been a corker. Never saw anyone so distraught as Miss Edwards when you were knifed. Wanted to stay and nurse you. Aunt wouldn’t let her.”

  “Maybe she still thinks I’m dead,” the duke said, his voice grim. At that instant, there wasn’t another man in the world that he hated like he did the viscount. “I’ve got to find her, Somerset.”

  He spent the afternoon at White’s, too distracted for cards. Instead, he managed only a fair game of billiards. Returning home to change for
a solitary dinner, he went by way of the mews first. Harris popped his head up from the loose box where he was currying one of the duke’s bays.

  “I did whatcher wanted, yer grace. I found where the viscount went.”

  “Good man, Harris.”

  “Yorkshire. Near little village called Whitcombe. Grand manor. Middle of a forest.”

  He very nearly threw his hat into the air. His heart sped like a racehorse. “Harris! Tomorrow we leave for Whitcombe. Have my traveling carriage ready. I’m not certain how long we’ll be gone.”

  “Will take about three days to get to Yorkshire by carriage.”

  “Right you are.”

  During his journey, the duke had far too much time to think. Silent though his friend was, he wished the nature of his errand had allowed him to bring Somerset. He found himself lost in memories of Elise—the way her grace had bewitched him the first time he had seen her serving soup at the canteen, her hair in a knot, her dress with its chemisette making her look like a schoolmistress. A very appealing schoolmistress. Then the day he had come upon her in the park and the strange bond he felt, not knowing she was reading a letter from him to her about Beynon’s death. After that, there had been the opera, when she had looked not only lovely with the pink rosebuds in her hair but sweet as well, arousing all his protective instincts . . . He continued his review of all the occasions they had spent together, performing it like some kind of catechism once a day. Always ending in the last time. After the knife struck. Had she really said, “My love, my darling,” or was that just a memory of something he dreamed of during his fever?

  They reached the village on the evening of the third day. There he, Harris, and Richards found a small but adequate inn, the Black Ox. It was crooked with age, constructed of local gray stone but scrubbed clean inside. Richards always insisted that the duke travel with his own sheets and pillow, so they had no problem with damp bed sheets.

  The supper of a game pie, local ale, and an apple turnover was adequate, if not grand, and after standing Richards several games of darts, he retired to bed in a hopeful mood. He dreamed steamy dreams of Elise and rose anxious to see her at last.