The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  That brief romantic lapse had been enjoyable, but she hoped Stratton did not misunderstand or attach any special meaning to it. If he did, she would have to remind him of her views about marriage. A few kisses and caresses were harmless enough, but she would not allow any man to own her, which was what marriage meant.

  She locked those thoughts away now lest one of her guests comment on her color. Fortunately they busied themselves accepting cups of tea or coffee from Jocelyn and nabbing little cakes with their fingertips.

  “The printing will be finished tomorrow and the subscribers’ copies will go in the mail by week’s end,” Althea said. “Clara met with our delivery women on Monday, and each will come by and receive the copies she will bring to the bookshops to which she attends.”

  Lady Farnsworth, black-haired and steely-eyed, balanced her cup and saucer in one hand while perusing a proof of the journal with another. “It is certainly the most impressive volume so far. I think the order of the entries gives it a certain gravitas without appearing so weighty as to bore one silly.”

  Lady Farnsworth’s own essay came first in that order. She was one of their contributors who used her real name, and a political report by the widow of a baron did lend gravitas to the journal. As politically minded as any man, Lady Farnsworth might not be received by the finest ladies, who disliked her growing eccentricity, but it was said the smartest men welcomed her company. As to her social standing, she had long ago become outspoken in her opinions on what she called the tribal oddities of the ton. Well into the autumn of her life, she had ceased caring who liked her.

  Clara and Althea had decided Lady Farnsworth’s reports alone would give the journal credibility and had been delighted when their invitation to write for Parnassus had been accepted. At least they might stifle any criticism that a journal full of apparently anonymous writers might well be the work of only one person.

  “I am more impressed by how well the printer engraved the drawings I had made,” Lady Grace said. She wiped her delicate fingers on a linen, lest the sugar in the cakes mar her impeccably designed silk ensemble. Lady Grace always wore garments that made Clara envious, and her tall, willowy form enhanced those fashions perfectly. Add her delicate face, very dark hair, and a rosebud mouth, and other women might be excused for hating her. “He will include those pages correctly, I hope.”

  “We have seen the first copies off the press, and he has handled it expertly,” Clara said. Those pages had cost a pretty penny. She could not deny that an essay on fashion was much enhanced by drawings of those fashions. If Parnassus ever had to pay its own way, however, that might be a luxury it could not afford.

  “It all appears in order,” Lady Farnsworth said, setting the proof aside. “You have outdone yourself. I daresay we should be toasting with something more celebratory than coffee.”

  “I have no ratafia, regrettably.”

  “What do you have?”

  Althea gave Clara an impish smile. “Yes, what do you have? Surely there is something here for medicinal purposes.”

  “I suppose there may be some sherry. Jocelyn, see if you can find the sherry and four glasses.”

  Jocelyn had no trouble finding it since it lived in a nearby cupboard where it might be removed easily, illness or not. Indeed, Clara kept some glasses right there with it.

  Lady Farnsworth took the decanter and poured herself a full glass before passing it back to Jocelyn. The maid did the honors for the rest of them.

  “Oh, look, you published another one of Mrs. Clark’s poems. I am so glad,” Lady Grace said. She still reviewed her own proof, spread on her lap. “Oh, my, this one is rather pointedly satirical.” She read while she sipped. Little laughs punctuated her concentration. “Is her name really Mrs. Clark?”

  “It is.”

  “There are thousands of Mrs. Clarks in London, so she might as well use it,” Lady Farnsworth said. “A name like that is as good as being anonymous.” Unlike my name, which is known far and wide and takes courage to use, she might as well have added, since her comment included that implication.

  “Will we do another volume before the Season is out?” Lady Grace asked. “I ask so that I know whether to make notes as I attend the parties.”

  “I would like to try and publish every other month, if we can manage it,” Clara said. “Now that I am living here, I can bring in some help more easily, so it does not all fall to Althea and me.”

  Lady Farnsworth’s eyebrows arched high. “You are living here?” Not much surprised Lady Farnsworth, but from her tone this had.

  “I moved here last week.”

  “Is that wise? I mean, a woman alone . . .”

  “I am not alone and will be less alone as the servants I hired start coming.”

  “Your grandmother cannot have approved, not that she approves of much anyway.” Lady Farnsworth never hid her dislike of Clara’s grandmother. The two of them were of the same generation, and Clara surmised there had been some unpleasantness between them in years past.

  Lady Grace giggled. “I think it is safe to say she did not. I am correct, am I not, Clara? But our Clara is courageous, and I say brava! If my brother were not so malleable, I would be tempted to do the same.” She set down her glass. “I must take my leave now. I look forward to receiving my copy, Clara. You and Althea have a fine journal there, and it will be all the talk.”

  She stood. Lady Farnsworth unburdened herself of her refreshments and stood as well. “That will not be all that is the talk,” she murmured.

  Once Clara saw them out, she returned to find Althea flipping through one of the proofs.

  “We outdid ourselves, if I do say so, Clara. However, every two months may be too ambitious.”

  “We will not know until we try.”

  “We will need more contributors, however. If you publish that frequently, it cannot always be the same names and voices.”

  “Then I will find new ones.” She spoke confidently, not sure how she would do that. “It is difficult to expand the subscriptions unless there is a regular publishing schedule, so if I am serious about this I need to consider what it will be.”

  “Quarterly would be acceptable.”

  Clara trusted Althea’s judgment. That her friend now advised more cautious growth meant it was a path to be taken seriously.

  Althea reached for one of the cakes. “Lady Grace is so funny. She grabbed one of these right away, but we had to listen to her say oh, I shouldn’t three times while she ate it. I wish women would not do that. Either enjoy the sin or don’t commit it, I say. And having embraced the sin, do not fret later about how it might make you stout.”

  “Sin freely or not at all, you mean.”

  “Exactly. Perhaps I will write my next essay about that. It is a viewpoint women need to hear.”

  Clara wondered if Althea would only discuss eating cakes in that essay. Knowing Althea, probably not. Other sins would come into her argument. Althea was nothing if not logical and consistent.

  “Is that how you live, Althea? Do you sin freely?”

  “The evidence is that I do not sin at all. You did not see me devouring your cakes today.”

  “I am not talking about cakes.”

  Althea turned her whole body in Clara’s direction. “What are you asking me?”

  Althea was probably Clara’s closest friend now, but she found she could not say what she meant.

  “Are you asking me if I have had affairs, Clara?”

  “Of course not. That would be rude and bold.”

  “But you would not mind if I confided in you, correct?”

  “Please do not. I should never have blurted that.” She leaned forward and grasped the sherry decanter. “Rather suddenly this looks appealing.”

  “Do not apologize. You are curious. As am I. I wonder why this topic is of interest to you now.”

  Clara drank rather more of the sherry than was normal for her. It gave her something to do while she found a way out of this conversation. />
  “Have you contemplated taking a lover?” Althea asked. “Is that the real reason you moved here, or at least one of them?”

  “I have no need of a lover. At least not now. I simply wondered if as women mature, they find their views on such matters changing.”

  “Most definitely. If yours are changing, you are not unusual. We are not girls anymore.”

  So there it was. She was not unusual to find herself indifferent to the rules with which she was terrorized as a girl. Not unusual to be fascinated by pleasures long denied her. She supposed part of the change was that she now had much less to lose.

  “Of course,” Althea continued, “your situation is not quite the same as mine. I am a widow. You are not. That does make a difference. I am sure that you understand that.”

  “Too well. No one would raise her eyebrows on hearing you had set up your own household, I am sure.”

  “I doubt eyebrows would rise more than a fraction if I took a lover, as you wondered. You, on the other hand . . .” Althea reached over to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “It is the curse of the unmarried woman, I suppose. All those notions about virtue and innocence hang on such women forever. Even Lady Farnsworth, who prides herself on her liberality, would not approve if you took up with some man. Nor would he escape unscathed after taking advantage of you.”

  I cannot claim he took advantage. I would like to, but I cannot.

  Jocelyn came in to take away the tray. Before reaching for it, she removed a letter from her apron pocket and handed it to Clara.

  Althea had risen to prepare to leave, but she halted when she spied the letter. “It looks important. Superior paper and a very fine hand. And postpaid.”

  Clara opened it so she could satisfy both of their curiosities. “This is odd. I barely know him.” She handed the letter over to Althea. “The Duke of Brentworth has invited me to a party next week. A garden party.”

  “He is said to have the finest in town. Garden, I mean. What is this here about your sister?”

  “He cannot invite her directly since she is not out, but he has included her in my invitation. If I tell her, she will insist on going, so I will have to as well.”

  “Your grandmother could chaperone if he invited your whole family.”

  “I will find out if Brentworth invited my entire family. Nothing I have heard about the man suggested he would voluntarily suffer Grandmamma’s presumptions, but he may have invited her all the same.”

  “If not, you must do the duty, for your sister’s sake.”

  “If I must force myself, I suppose I can manage it.”

  Althea laughed and gave her a kiss good-bye. Clara read the invitation again and wondered if Madame Tissot would have one of her new dresses finished in time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam was delayed from attending Brentworth’s garden party by the arrival of a letter in the afternoon post. Upon seeing the handwriting, he sent his valet away while he read it.

  His mother’s hand showed as steady as ever, but her words proved less comforting.

  My dear son,

  Your last letter troubled me. Your questions indicate that you are persisting in your intention to learn about your father’s death. I had thought, incorrectly it appears, that your years here had dulled your anger. I had also thought that upon returning to England you would conclude it best to allow his spirit to rest in peace.

  I was unaware of the rumors of which you have now informed me, that he gave aid to Napoleon’s last army. Certainly no one whispered them to me. Nor did he confide in me, but he would have never wanted me to share the extreme distress such rumors would bring him. Although you have now given me the likely reason for the death he chose, I find that it only fills me with disquiet and regret, so I am not thanking you.

  As to your query about what kind of support he might be thought to have given France, if not money, I have no answer. That you ask implies that you believe he may indeed have done this, and that pains me deeply. I trust you know in your heart that he was not that kind of man. Nor, other than me, did he have any special sympathies for my people, so he had no reason to betray his home.

  As for the Earl of Marwood, that sorry war had been waged for years before I married. Such men normally draw their sabers over honor, a woman, or land. I never attempted to learn what initially caused it. It was so far in the past that it had nothing to do with me, and learning that history would not end the acrimony.

  Spring has come to Paris, and as always it alternates between glorious mornings and afternoon rain. I hope to see you soon. When England starts to bore you, as soon it must, I look forward to your visit or, hopefully, your renewed residence here. I have ensured that your own house is kept in good repair, and I always tell certain inquisitive ladies that you will be back soon.

  He had assumed he could learn something from her. He would have never written to her about any of these questions otherwise. Instead he had distressed her to no good purpose.

  Her gentle scolds were nothing new. Her desire that he leave the past alone was not either. For five years she had convinced him that the prudent path was the forward one. Whenever he would grow restless about his unfulfilled duty to his father’s name, a visit to her would soothe the turmoil trying to take hold of him again.

  You should marry. Give the title an heir and give me grandchildren, and find happiness. He always thought she knew more than she said and kept it from him lest it only feed the dark turbulence that might one day get him killed. Now, when he had at least half the truth in his hands, she insisted she knew nothing at all.

  He submitted to his valet’s final ministrations in a dull mood and dallied with other mail before setting off on his horse for Brentworth’s house.

  Perhaps it was the sun that improved his spirits, or the gaiety of the small crowd milling about the large garden. Certainly the sight of Lady Clara did not hurt. She sat with her sister and Langford’s brother Harry on a bench in the center of the formal plantings nearest the house. Her sister wore the white muslin that they had ordered at the dressmaker’s that day. Since most of the girls also wore white, only the simplicity of the garment marked her as different.

  Lady Clara also wore a dress commissioned that day. Although decorated by simple embroidery so subdued as to be almost invisible, its color made all the difference. In the clear light of day, that hydrangea hue appeared more vibrant than it had in the shop.

  He walked to them. She had said not to call. She had not said not to speak to her. Not that he would have obeyed such a command anyway.

  Harry noticed him first and hailed him with a happy greeting. Harry looked much like his older brother, only still rangy in the way of young men about twenty years in age. He also wore spectacles, the result of too much reading by candlelight over the years. Adam assumed that long after he and Langford were forgotten, some esoteric history tome written by Harry would live on in the libraries of the world.

  “It is a fine day, is it not, Stratton?” Harry appeared drunk with delight. Since Lady Emilia did not look bored, things must be going well between them.

  “Yes, very fine.”

  “Most fine,” Lady Emilia said with a big smile.

  “Indeed it is fine,” Lady Clara said without even a small one.

  He availed himself of an open spot on the bench next to Lady Clara. She inched her rump closer to her sister and farther from him.

  “You ladies are more beautiful than the blooms,” Adam said. “That color is very becoming, Lady Clara.”

  “I thought it would do, under the circumstances.”

  “I am sure you look forward to the day when you wear a variety of colors again. Blue, for example. Bright blue, to set off your lovely eyes and contrast with your hair.”

  “She has such a garment,” Emilia said. “He might be describing your blue riding habit, Clara. It does flatter her, sir. No one could fail to admire her when she wears that habit and sits atop a fine horse.”

  “I am sure,” A
dam said.

  Clara sucked in her cheeks.

  Harry’s mood had dampened a bit upon Adam’s addition to their group. Now he brightened, as if struck by divine inspiration. “I spied a bed of tulips when I entered. Would you favor me with your company while I go take a look at it, Lady Emilia?”

  Emilia turned hopeful eyes on her sister. Clara gave Harry a critical glance, then another over her shoulder. “I suppose a short stroll through the plantings would do no harm. Remember what I told you on our way here, Emilia. We do not want Grandmother scolding me for being an inept chaperone.”

  Emilia walked off with Harry before she finished. She took advantage of the additional space to scoot farther away from Adam.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Brentworth is one of my best friends. If you had not spent your first Seasons ignoring my existence, you would know that.”

  “It entered my mind that he might be. Did you put him up to this? He does not entertain here often. I think the last time I was at this house was three years ago, before he inherited.”

  “No one puts Brentworth up to anything. He decided on his own to do this.” Officially true, if not completely so. “Perhaps he has decided to entertain more and thought this small gathering would be a good start.”

  “It came at a convenient time. It is a good start for Emilia too.” She looked over her shoulder again, to find her sister in the garden.

  “Are you obligated to sit here the whole time?” he asked. “Is there some rule unknown to me that you cannot enjoy the sun and blooms if you are in mourning?”

  “Of course not. It is just . . .” She looked around the garden and bit her lower lip. “I feel a little strange. I know all these people and yet feel removed from them all in a new way. As if they do not matter. As if I do not matter to them either.”

  He knew that strangeness well. “You have been separated from them longer than you realize. Your father’s passing changes things too. We are all put in columns by others and get moved around as time goes by.”