by Darcy Burke
“I plan to start with the performers,” she explained as a footman served her breakfast.
No, not “a” footman, she reminded herself. This one was John. He could not eat cheese without becoming ill. He had worked here for seven and a half years.
She knew because his details were written on page one hundred and thirty of the fifth “lower servants” journal the previous mistress of Ravenwood House had kept.
Lady Amelia had been kind enough to send over her own notes, which turned out to be an incredibly daunting quantity of meticulously indexed and cross-referenced journals, compiled over the years in Lady Amelia’s own small, precise hand.
Kate had read every single page and made her own list of what she felt were the most important elements, as well as notations on where in Lady Amelia’s journals more information could be found.
It would take a lifetime to become half as fluent in the daily inner workings as Lady Amelia had been, but Kate no longer felt lost—or incompetent. Between her notes and Lady Amelia’s, Kate was slowly gaining her confidence.
Things might take a little more time as she got used to how everything worked, but someday, running Ravenwood House would be as easy as opening a museum or starting an arts society.
She hoped.
In her scant free time, she would do her best to move forward with the Society for Creative and Performing Arts.
“Today I will begin spreading the word to actors, acrobats, opera singers, and the like. They are by far the most important element, so they have to come first.”
“Aren’t the donors you’re hoping to attract also a key component?” He raised his brows.
She waved a hand. “Money is easy. Art is hard. The easiest way to get the ton involved is simply to tell them everyone else already is. They are sheep. They’ll follow.”
Ravenwood choked politely behind his cup of tea. “I hope your attempts at persuasion are a little more delicate when you speak to your ‘sheep’ in person.”
Her cheeks flushed. He was right. She had spoken thoughtlessly. A trait she was trying to correct.
“It’s a Society of the Creative and Performing Arts,” she tried to explain. “It can’t be a Society of the Creative and Performing Arts without creative and performing artists.”
“It also can’t function without funding,” he pointed out. “I could offer a Ravenwood Grant tomorrow. A hundred pounds each to the first ten sopranos who walk in the door. How many do you think would show up on the front lawn?”
“If all I wanted was to rain money at random individuals,” she said in frustration, “I would take your thousand pounds and toss it from the balcony at the nearest orchestra. That is not a society, and not at all what I’m trying to build.”
“I know. That’s what I’m trying to show you.” He put down his tea. “If you want the ton to feel like they’re part of something new, something valuable, then you must treat them that way, too. If you want to do the impossible and have jugglers rub elbows with earls, all parts of the whole are equally important.” He paused. “Except you, of course.”
Her mouth fell open. “Not me?”
“You’re the most important of all. You’re not just the brain behind the organization, you’re its face, its heart, and its soul.” His eyes were filled with pride. “You’re also the one person I truly believe not only could make something like this happen…but undoubtedly will.”
Her belly fluttered. He wasn’t belittling her project. He wanted her to succeed as much as she did. Took for granted that it would be a triumphant victory.
She reconsidered his recommendation on how to view the patrons.
Her arms tucked about her waist. He was right. Moving within society’s rules did not mean giving up her goals. It meant achieving them a different way. Possibly even a better way.
“Thank you,” she said as she rose to her feet. He had given her the right attitude with which to face her day. “If you like, I will keep you apprised of my progress.”
He rose to his feet as well. “I would like that very much.”
She curtsied and hurried out of the room to fetch her pelisse. She was still thinking about him when the coach pulled up at the theatre. Ravenwood had surprised her yet again. His support of her ideas, his willingness to help… He was a wonderful husband. No wonder she could never get him out of her mind.
“Lady K!” crowed a dozen voices as she stepped behind the stage curtain. “Your grace, that is. Hard to believe you’re a duchess now!”
She grinned at her friends. It had been too long since last she’d seen them.
“Tell us,” Miss Nottingworth said with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Was that stolen kiss worth it?”
“How could it be?” Mr. Devonshire laughed, as he slapped an arm about Kate’s shoulders. “Like the lady always says, the Frost Fair is never over when you’re anywhere near Ravenwood!”
Bile churned in Kate’s stomach at the sound of her own careless words thrown back to her.
The cruel things she had said when she hadn’t even taken the time to get to know him now haunted her. Her unfounded prejudice against him was unforgivable.
“He’s nothing like that,” she said urgently. “He’s kind and caring and thoughtful—”
“He’s a stick-in-the-mud. You said so yourself.” Mr. Devonshire shook his head. “How could someone like you possibly be happy with someone like that?”
“It’s impossible.” Miss Nottingworth crossed her arms. “He doesn’t know you. He couldn’t.”
“He does,” Kate insisted. It was true. His support had proved it.
Miss Nottingworth raised a skeptical brow. “What was his wedding gift?”
The east wing, Kate started to say, then changed her mind. He’d given her something even better.
“A beautiful garden,” she answered with pride. Happiness radiated through her chest. Those few moments had meant everything.
“Not bad,” Miss Nottingworth admitted grudgingly.
Mr. Devonshire raised his brows. “And what did you give him in return?”
Kate stared back at the set designer in dawning horror. Her stomach bottomed. Nothing. Not even a wedding night.
“I…” She floundered for a response.
Mr. Devonshire laughed and shook his head. “Just quizzing you. What could anyone give a duke who has everything?”
What indeed. Her belly fluttered. There were a few things Ravenwood didn’t have and desperately wanted. One might make the perfect wedding gift.
Kate had ruined things once when she’d filled his parents’ empty parlor with her Egyptian artifacts. Not this time. She was in the unique position of having the precise connections to turn a faded memory back into reality.
Mr. Devonshire had been the most sought-after woodworker in all of London. She had no doubt he could recreate every stick of custom carved furniture in that painting so precisely that even Ravenwood wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
Miss Nottingworth was the most talented costume designer in England. She would be able to replicate every fabric, every design, right down to the thread.
Her mad idea wasn’t a dream—it was something she could turn into reality!
If Kate managed such a feat, perhaps Ravenwood would realize how much she wanted their marriage to succeed. That it must succeed. Her heart was already his.
She wished she had a secret garden of her own, just so she could invite him to share it with her. He might think of her as a dahlia, but he was the one with hidden beauty. She longed to be able to ease some of the hurt from his past. To show him she was on his side. That they did have a future together.
Kate’s tight shoulders loosened. Soon he would see how deeply she cared. If all of her contacts worked together, they could bring the parlor back to life in a matter of weeks.
But to do so… She swallowed.
First, they would need the painting.
Chapter 17
Kate paced the halls of Ravenwood House in a
cold sweat.
She desperately wanted to surprise her husband with a complete recreation of his childhood parlor, but to do so, she could neither allow woodworkers and designers and seamstresses to use the parlor as their workshop, nor could she allow them to keep the cherished portrait in their own workshop for weeks on end.
Even if the gift were not a surprise, Ravenwood would never allow the parlor to be invaded in such a way—or to allow the painting out of his possession for even a moment.
So she’d made a compromise. A risky one. She’d snuck the family portrait to her friends whilst Ravenwood was at Parliament and instructed them to return it the following night when he was away again.
Twenty-four hours for the best painter of their acquaintance to forge a copy of the canvas with perfect exactitude.
Twenty-four hours in which Ravenwood might decide at any moment to revisit his old memories…and discover them missing.
Three hours remained. Ravenwood was still at home. The portrait was not.
Kate’s fingernails were bitten to nubs.
She hadn’t stepped outside of the house since the painting had left the manor. She had to be on hand to intercept it the moment it returned. She also had to be on hand to intercept Ravenwood, should he venture anywhere near the parlor.
Distract him with what? She wasn’t certain. Something. Anything. It didn’t matter. Soon, the painting would be back in its proper place and she could breathe again. Soon after, once the parlor had been brought back to life, her husband would see how much she cared.
Their marriage might have been an accident, but it wasn’t a mistake. Not if they worked at it. Ravenwood eschewed artsy nonsense whereas she adored it, but that did not mean they couldn’t come to love each other. For them to live together, instead as two solitary souls haunting separate halves of a sprawling, lifeless manor.
Where was her husband, anyway?
She strolled by his bedchamber as casually as possible. The valet was alone. Ravenwood had not yet arrived to dress for the parliamentary meeting. Nor was he in the dining area.
His office, then. The only other room he ever visited.
Kate shook her head. She could not imagine how boring life would be if it were filled with nothing but work and duty. She knew from her cousin’s example that the other peers of the realm did not leave one eight-hour parliamentary session only to spend another eight going over the same material alone.
How Ravenwood could endure spending so much time at his desk was beyond her.
She wrapped her arms about her chest. Light spilled from the open doorway to his office.
He was seated at his desk, his head bent over one of his many ledgers, a pen poised over one of the blank pages. His chestnut curls spilled over his forehead. Concentration lined his handsome face. Her heart thumped at the sight.
She paused in the corridor to watch.
He didn’t move.
Seconds turned into minutes. If it weren’t for the occasional blink of his eyes, a casual observer might have believed him a statue carved of wax. She couldn’t even distinguish his breathing.
Suddenly, he jerked the pen away from the blank page and stabbed it viciously into a pot of ink.
For several long moments, he tapped the nub against the inkwell to remove excess ink, dipped the tip into the ink again as if too much had slid away, then started the process of tapping and dunking all over again.
At last, he returned to his original position, with his pen once again hovering over a blank page.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
After a long moment, something changed. His eyes softened. The corners of his lips quirked into a wistful smile. And his pen flew across the page so rapidly that he barely took time to do more than dash the tip into the ink before letting it sail across the page again and again as if he were a man possessed.
Mystified, she stepped forward. “What are you writing?”
“Poetry.” He slammed the journal closed without allowing the ink to dry. His tone was flat. His face, expressionless.
Her mouth fell open in surprise. Poetry? Him? “May I—”
“No.” He threw the thick blue volume into a drawer and turned a key in the lock. “It is private. As is this office.”
Her face flamed with heat. Not because he had chastised her for spying on his private space. But because she had judged him incapable of such an interest.
Once again, she had been wrong.
His poetry might be wonderful or terrible or anything in between, but it was sincere and it was his.
“Pray continue,” she stammered, backing into the hall. “As you may recall, I’ve the Grenville soirée tonight and ought to select my gown.”
Before he could stop her—not that he showed any sign of wishing to do so—she flung herself out of sight and pressed her back into the corridor wall. Her heart refused to slow.
Her husband was a poet.
The Duke of Ravenwood was a poet.
She squeezed her eyes shut. All this time he’d let her blather on about her creative friends, and he was one.
He wasn’t just romantic when inside the walls of his secret garden—he was expressive and imaginative in the privacy of his mind.
And he had gazed at her in his typical stoic silence when she’d casually dismissed poetry as featherbrained fops playacting at being Byron.
In horror, she clapped her hands over her mouth to bite back a hysterical laugh.
When was the last time she’d written a poem or danced a ballet or sang an operetta? Never. The last time was never. Her chest tightened.
He’d had every opportunity to throw her close-mindedness in her face. Yet he’d chosen not to do so. He was too admirable for that.
If he wanted privacy to exercise his creativity, she would do everything in her power to give him as much freedom as he required.
Heart thudding, she pushed away from the wainscoting and made her way back toward her half of the manor. Toward the empty parlor, where she would await the painting.
From now on, she would keep to the east wing unless explicitly invited to join him elsewhere. His office was his. The west wing was his. The garden was his. From now on, she would make it her duty to ensure he was never interrupted when he was in any of those places.
She had asked him to sponsor an artist at her inaugural event. Well, she would sponsor him.
He didn’t lack for money, or materials, or a workspace. What the overworked, under-appreciated Duke of Ravenwood most needed was time to himself. Time to be himself. The luxury of a few hours here and there where his presence or signature or advice or leadership was not required by someone else.
A chance to be a poet. To enjoy his garden. To experience a moment of freedom. To just…be.
“Your grace? A package has arrived for you.”
Her pulse skipped. She whirled around to see a footman bearing a large, flat crate. Thank heavens!
“Please place it outside my aunt’s bedchamber.” That sounded innocuous enough. A heavy sigh of relief escaped her lungs.
Now the only trick would be smuggling the portrait out of the crate and back onto the wall.
She had asked the maids who cleaned that corridor not to enter the parlor for a few days, just in case the painting hadn’t returned in time, but that was no guarantee that curiosity at the strange request wouldn’t propel one of them to peek around the corner.
She hung back just long enough to give the footman time to drop off the crate and walk away before rushing to Aunt Havens’ guest quarters to retrieve the package.
With the aid of a small knife she’d sequestered just for this purpose, she was able to pry off the lid and slide out the linen-wrapped frame.
Her nerves jumped. Before anyone else could chance upon her, she hurried straight to the back parlor. She didn’t unwrap the frame until she was standing directly in front of the empty nails where the portrait had once hung.
Carefully, she placed it back on th
e wall then stood back to rake it over with a critical eye.
It looked the same. No visible nicks in the gilded frame, no dirt or stains upon the cracked canvas.
She narrowed her eyes as an insidious thought occurred to her. This had better be the original portrait and not the forged copy. A painter like her friend would be talented enough to duplicate every brushstroke, cracks and all.
No. She shook her head. Her friends would not have done that. Their artistic fingers might be capable of such deception, but their kind hearts were not. They wanted Kate’s gift to succeed as much as she did.
She folded up the empty linen as if it were no more than a bit of mending and slipped back through the corridors to her aunt’s bedchamber.
The empty crate had been removed from the hallway. In its place stood an extravagantly coiffed Aunt Havens, outfitted in canary yellow silk from neck to toe.
“What time are we leaving?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to put on a proper gown?”
Kate blinked. The Grenville soirée. She’d nearly forgot.
Aunt Havens had not, of course. She loved parties as much as Kate did, and had attended them all as her chaperone since the moment of her come-out.
Kate grinned back at her aunt.
Now that she was married and no longer required chaperonage, she still couldn’t imagine going anywhere without Aunt Havens.
Her aunt had never been a simple duenna, but rather Kate’s favorite person and closest friend. The most amusing rout was made even more fun by having Aunt Havens at her side to make jests to and confide secrets.
“Of course I’ll wear a proper gown,” she said gaily, looping her arm through her aunt’s. “Come help me choose one that won’t clash with yours. I had thought cobalt at first, but now I’m starting to think, why not a mint green?”
Now that the portrait was back and she and Aunt Havens had diverting plans, Kate’s spirits lightened considerably. No more risks. No more prejudice. A heightened sense of responsibility. She was New Kate. Duchess of Ravenwood, in fact. From now on, she would act like it.
The moment she was bathed and dressed, she and Aunt Havens set off for the Grenville soiree.
