Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series)

by Lucinda Brant

  “—stupid? What inheritance, Kitty? You said inheritance. That’s why he’s come home to roost, isn’t it?”

  “No. Not stupid but persuadable.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. A young, stupid bride. That’s all very well, but tell me about Strang’s inheritance, Kitty!”

  “Did I mention inheritance? That was foolish of me. Forgive me, but I am unable to tell you. And even if I could, I can’t because I don’t know. Tommy merely mentioned it to me without further elaboration, which is most frustrating of him.”

  “You won’t take me into your confidence and yet you expect me to help you find Strang a wife?” her companion complained. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kitty dearest, if you want my help. Besides, why should I help you when a bride for Strang will surely interfere with my plans to rekindle his interest?”

  Kitty Cavendish tried to fob off her friend by saying lightly, “Hettie, you must know how it is with husbands. If Tommy says he can’t tell me, he can’t, for reasons only known to him. Surely, Kenny has secrets he can’t share with you? He is second-in-charge of the Spying-for-England Department.”

  “It’s called the Secret Service,” Hettie Hibbert-Baker replied loftily. “And Kenny is not only second-in-charge of that, but since our return from New York he is head of something called the American Colonial War Committee.”

  “How very impressive of you, Hettie, to remember the name of such an important but quite pointless committee!”

  “Is it any wonder when Kenny drones on about it to me until I’m purple! I do try to appear interested because he says it is such an important committee, dealing with those horrid colonials not doing as they’re told and wanting something called independence. Kenny has the bad manners to bring his committee grumbles to my bed. And I find that if I don’t puff up his self-consequence by listening as if I’m vastly interested in who’s spying for us and who’s a traitor spying for them, and who is providing information to both us and them, then nothing else puffs up as well, no matter the efforts I go to on my knees or otherwise, and I’m left so dissatisfied I just want to burst!”

  Both ladies fell into a fit of the giggles.

  When she could talk, Hettie Hibbert-Baker adjusted her elaborate upswept hairstyle festooned with ribbons and loops of pearls, which her hairdresser had assured her was all the rage in Paris salons, saying, “Is it any wonder, my dearest Kitty, that I prefer hot-blooded men such as Strang who come to a lady’s boudoir with nothing more tedious on their minds than my preference for mounting.”

  More giggles followed by much waving of fans across heaving bosoms and careful dabbing of moist eyes and then Kitty Cavendish said with a little breathless cough, “Do you know, Hettie, I find all this spying deliciously intriguing. Not knowing who is one of us, and wondering if your partner at whist might be one of them, or if the gentleman with the fascinatingly dark eyes in the next box at the Opera who has his quizzing glass trained on my bosom could be one of them and one of us! I should like to meet one of these clock and dagger men who skulk up backstairs and hide in shadows! Do you think Kenny might oblige me?” She gave a start, as if having a sudden thought and tapped her friend’s lace flounce with her fan, saying with practised surprise, “You! Hettie! You can tell me if we have a spy in our midst! Kenny must’ve told you?”

  “No, Kitty! Just as you can’t tell me about Strang’s inheritance because Tommy won’t tell you, I couldn’t possibly tell you what I don’t know that Kenny told me that I don’t know!”

  Kitty Cavendish pouted and pondered the ivory sticks of her painted lace fan saying with a glance at her friend, “What a shame we must be good and obedient wives and not tell each other the silly little secrets our husbands tell us, particularly when such secrets don’t mean a spoonful of jellied eels to us. Of course we are such dear friends that I know we could have a conversation that once we left this sofa we would both quite forget we ever had...”

  Hettie Hibbert-Baker ummed and aahed and said with a shrug of a bare round shoulder, “I am very forgetful and I really do not know the first thing about what Kenny says to me sometimes that even if I did happen to mention it to you, it wouldn’t mean that I had told you anything of any significance whatsoever.”

  “Precisely!” Kitty Cavendish said with satisfaction. “And I could simply mention in passing what Tommy mentioned in passing to me about Strang so that it would merely be a comment in passing; which is not the same as telling you directly.”

  “That seems exceedingly fair.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

  “And not at all disloyal.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Shall I tell first?”

  “How obliging of you, Hettie dearest. Please do.”

  “Very well. The reason so many government ministers are staying at Treat with their wives is because there is to be a meeting here of the American Colonial War Committee to deal with the French Question: will the French openly support the American rebels in their war or not? If the French do then it stands to reason that England must declare war on France for siding with the traitorous rebels. But the French want to avoid a war with us at all costs; remember their failure in the French and Indian wars and the territories they lost as a result of that disaster? That’s not to say the French aren’t already supporting the rebels, but in secret. We, I mean the American Colonial War Committee knows this for fact because our spies, they are everywhere, particularly in Paris.”

  “Spies! How marvelous!” cooed Kitty Cavendish.

  “Many in the Committee are all for sending a delegation to Versailles, secret or otherwise, to the French ministers and King Louis to discover for themselves, face-to-face, the French position. Kenny says any overtures to the French should be made in the utmost secrecy, and is in favor of a secret delegation, all to save our face should the French double-cross us and choose to side with the rebel colonials regardless of their sincere protestations to the contrary and assurances of their neutrality, a prospect Kenny says is very real given the French loathe us with a passion, which is understandable because we always defeat them. But there is a sticking point and that’s the reason we are all here at the Duke’s invitation.”

  There followed a long silence in which Antonia itched to turn her head to stare at the two women for she was certain Kitty Cavendish’s jaw, like her own, must be swinging wide in response to the lucid summation given by Hettie Hibbert-Baker, a woman whose penchant for the latest craze in towering hairstyles was considered by Polite Society to be in marked contrast to the walnut size of her intellect.

  Kitty Cavendish was indeed stunned, regarding her friend anew, quickly closed her mouth and diverted her gaze to the wide marbled terrace beyond the French windows where some of the ladies were strolling arm in arm, having finished their tea and gossip by the fireplace.

  “A-a sticking point, dearest Hettie?” asked Kitty Cavendish, trying to sound light and disinterested.

  “Roxton. He’s the sticking point. His Grace won’t entertain the notion of a secret delegation. The Duke wants open dialogue with the French. Kenny says that’s just the sort of stiff-necked attitude he’s come to expect from the Duke. And who can entirely trust Roxton’s motives when his father the fifth duke was self-styled M’sieur le Duc in the French manner and his mamma is French to her fingertips? Never mind His Grace has taken great strides since inheriting the dukedom to be seen foremost as an Englishman, distancing himself from the French familial connection with an extraordinary Grand Gesture. As to what sort of Grand Gesture, I have no idea because Kenny didn’t tell me that but he did stress it was extraordinary. And I am doubly sorry to disappoint you, Kitty. I truly cannot name the spy in our midst. Kenny didn’t tell me that either. But then again, he might not know, yet. And naturally, it goes without saying that he didn’t tell me anything at all, as you and I have agreed. So I have now forgotten the lot!”

  “But there is one? A spy. Here? At Treat?”

  Hettie Hibbert-Baker nodded. �
��Now it’s your turn to tell me what Tommy didn’t tell you about Strang. And you must hurry because the whist tables are being settled and I have promised to partner up with Charlotte Strathsay. Oh, look and here comes our hearts delight!”

  “All I know,” Kitty Cavendish confided, “is that Strang’s inheritance has everything to do with a dying distant but titled relative who owns a vast estate in a God-forsaken corner north of the border and who has been breathing his last for a twelvemonth. So turn your attention to the task at hand. Getting Strang married. What do you think of the Aubrey twins? I shouldn’t think either of them would expect fidelity.”

  “Is that it? Are you truly telling me that’s all you know?” Hettie Hibbert-Baker was so incredulous her voice rose on a squeak and attracted the attentions of a few of the ladies coming in off the terrace to join the whist players. “After everything I didn’t tell you?

  “Yes. Strang needs a bride young enough to give him sons. Martha and Maria Aubrey are the perfect age and the perfect choice, not least because they are my nieces. They are also poor. A needy ignorant niece eternally grateful to Aunt Kitty for bagging her a wealthy husband is just what Tommy and I need to secure our old age... Hettie? Hettie! Do attend to the matter at hand! Give me your opinion of my scheme.”

  But Hettie Hibbert-Baker was still recovering from her disappointment at the unequal exchange of information and replied pettishly, “As Tommy is not as accommodating as Kenny, I presume you expect me to wheedle from Strang everything there is to know about his mysterious inheritance?”

  “Will you? That’s just what I was hoping, Hettie dearest. Who better than you to discover what needs to be discovered? You would make an excellent spy, and if Kenny had any idea that inside all that padding and fluff atop your pretty little head there resides a working brain, he would employ you on the spot!”

  Slightly mollified, Hettie Hibbert-Baker smiled and said archly, “Are you asking me to tumble into bed with Strang? What about your nieces?”

  “Oh, I am relying on you to distract Strang long enough to ensure that when this house party is over, my nieces will be the only eligible beauties left worth Strang’s consideration. Besides, with Tommy and I championing their cause on one front and you providing hints in their direction between the sheets, Strang will eventually capitulate. He must remarry. Being summonsed home means he can no longer ignore his destiny. It is unavoidable.”

  “Capitulate. Summonsed. Destiny. These are not words usually associated with Jonathon Strang. An unconventional, free-thinking non-conformist is the Jonathon Strang I knew in Hyderabad. Kenny warned me against him, but...” Hettie Hibbert-Baker sighed on a memory and poised her fan over her almost-bare breasts. “You know me, Kitty, I can never resist a prime piece of beef. I almost broke Kenny’s poor little heart. But I just had to know him, Kitty. It’s not everyday one has the opportunity to sample the divinely exotic. I certainly would never do so here, but in India...” She shrugged. “Must have something to do with the heat.”

  “Divinely exotic? My dearest Hettie, whatever can you mean?”

  There was an extended silence and Antonia unconsciously leaned toward the sofa, the two gossiping friends having dropped their voices behind immobile fans. A sudden burst of raucous laughter that coincided with the peacock’s honking and she was up off the wingchair, startled, and brushing down her petticoats, mortified to be eavesdropping on a private conversation, and mentally castigating herself for such banal behavior. She must indeed be declining into her dotage. Overhearing the rest of a conversation punctuated with giggles and gasps was unavoidable.

  “Hettie. No! Really?”

  “You blush beautifully, dearest. Yes! Really.”

  “I knew Strang’s papa for an eccentric,” Kitty said in wonder. “Indeed, he spent his entire life on the subcontinent, but I never dreamed he would force his young sons to go through with such a heathen practice. It’s barbaric!”

  “Why when there was every expectation of father and sons remaining in India. The native women won’t entertain the idea of fornicating with a man unless he has obliged them in this way.”

  “Extraordinary! But... Why have a native woman as a mistress? There are Englishwomen on the subcontinent.”

  Hettie Hibbert-Baker let out a trill of laughter.

  “Oh, Kitty! You are deliciously naïve. Firangi such as Strang don’t have a mistress they have a harem of native women. It’s what’s done out there. And believe me, Kitty, Jonathon Strang had no shortage of native women lining his veranda for the chance to ride the length and breadth of his stallion, and I’m not talking Newmarket!”

  “Well, my bitter-sweet tartlet, are you and Hettie prepared to share your sure bet for Newmarket?”

  “Tom-my!” Kitty Cavendish declared, gasping for breath and wiping dry her eyes with a scrap of lace she called a handkerchief. She stood, a glance over her husband’s silken shoulder confirming that the gentlemen had left their port to join the ladies at last. “How very unfair of you to sneak up on us!”

  “Then you weren’t talking horseflesh at all,” Lord Cavendish said silkily, eyeglass trained on Lady Hibbert-Baker whose grey eyes danced behind her fluttering gouache fan. “Did you add the spoonful of inheritance and summonsed home to your teacup of conversation, my custard cup?” he asked his wife in an under-voice.

  “Without a trip of the tongue.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Excellent?” Kitty Cavendish pouted into her husband’s cravat and pretended to brush lint from his silken shoulder. “You haven’t even told me, your dearest wife, the identity of the Scottish relative who had Strang summonsed home, and yet I’m expected to sprinkle my conversation with your sugar dust gossip.”

  “I gave Strang my word, sugar plum,” Lord Cavendish apologized in a whisper. “But if you do what I ask, you shall see my soufflé rise to perfection. Strang will then be forced to give up his humble pie arrogance, and the whole world will rejoice, not least of all our dearest niece.”

  Kitty Cavendish had no idea where her husband’s culinary metaphors were leading, but she clung to his last word, saying curiously, “Sarah-Jane doesn’t know either what you know about her father?”

  “Not a salt crystal. He says his immense wealth is sweetener enough for the drones out there seeking to marry his honeybee daughter.” Lord Cavendish glanced again at Hettie Hibbert-Baker. “And she? Was anything forthcoming from between the ears of that spun sugar confection?”

  Kitty’s smug smile raised her husband’s eyebrows. “Never again underestimate her, Tommy. Fair warning.”

  “Is that so? Interesting. Thank you for the warning, my love. And my postulation about colonial tea parties and spy glasses?”

  “Our esteemed friends have indeed gathered for a tea party, to talk French. As to ownership of the spy glass, that is still in question.”

  Lord Cavendish stepped away from his wife and coughed, as if needing to clear his throat, and put up his quizzing glass, saying over his shoulder to Jonathon who had just sauntered up to him,

  “Methinks I’ve caught my bitter-sweet tartlet and Hettie Cream Puff here, with their hands in the chef’s choux pastry. And I’ve no doubts you’re the main course.” When no comment was forthcoming he playfully tapped the merchant’s velvet sleeve with the rim of his eyeglass. “Oh, do at least humor me about my culinary wit, Strang! Strang?”

  But Jonathon wasn’t listening. He pushed past Lord Cavendish without comment, ignored Kitty Cavendish and Lady Hibbert-Baker, who was smiling up at him encouragingly, and strode across to an undraped French window to scoop up off the polished floorboards a lady’s fan.

  Antonia had heard more than she cared to know, and not enough to convince her that what she had overheard should be dismissed without consideration. Despite being a devoted wife and mother, she had never been blind to, nor did she pass judgment on, the liberalities and immoralities that surrounded her as Duchess of Roxton. Thus it did not surprise her that Jonathon Strang had, in all prob
ability, kept a harem on the subcontinent, or that he and Henrietta Hibbert-Baker had been lovers. That Lady Hibbert-Baker was keen to rekindle a past affair was also not surprising. Her lover was tall and very handsome in a lean, muscular sort of way and, from what she had overheard, a much sort after lover. Besides which, the woman made no secret of her lax lifestyle and her arranged marriage was no love match as hers had been. But it bothered her that Jonathon would take such a predatory creature as mistress.

  As for Henrietta Hibbert-Baker’s crude confidences about the man’s personal attributes being divinely exotic and considerably above the average, Antonia’s cheeks had flamed with embarrassment, like an old maiden aunt unaccustomed to bawdy conversation. She immediately wondered if her widowhood was turning her into one of those sad, pathetically frigid creatures who smothered the reality of a lonely existence by publicly taking the high moral ground in all matters sexual, while privately having a partiality for eavesdropping on tawdry conversations to satisfy a non-existent love life. Something Charlotte Strathsay did with fatiguing regularity.

  The thought of turning into the frigidly upright and wholly priggish Charlotte frightened Antonia, bleached the color from her hot cheeks and turned her fingers all to thumbs as she tried to close over the delicate sticks of her carved ivory fan.

  The fan fell with a clatter to the floor and unintentionally the point of her damask covered shoe kicked it forward so it skimmed across the polished floorboards and came to rest across the room against an undraped French window. Antonia’s ladies-in-waiting, seeing their mistress on her feet, had come to stand behind her wingchair, scrambled to retrieve it, scuttling after it like cats after a mouse. The gentleman who had been occupying Antonia’s thoughts got to the fan before them both.

  Realizing the Dowager Duchess of Roxton was on her feet and staring at them with tacit disapproval, Lady Hibbert-Baker lost her silly grin, and she and Kitty Cavendish dipped into a curtsey of respectful recognition, gaze remaining to the floor. Lord Cavendish bowed low, showing Antonia the top of his powdered wig as she swept past them without a second glance that had them all wondering if, after all her years living in England, the Dowager Duchess of Roxton did indeed understand enough of their native tongue to eavesdrop.