My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “He was top wrangler? He earned the highest score in his whole class in the maths examination?”

  “He earned spectacular marks in all of his academic endeavors, which is unusual in a ducal heir.”

  “And then he disappeared,” Della said, leaving the window seat. “I didn’t know he was a scholar. How could I not know that about my brother?”

  “He’s nigh ten years your senior. Do you know what Adolphus got up to while at Cambridge?”

  Della sent Nick a peevish look. “Nobody knows what Dolph does in his laboratory. He scribbles a lot and occasionally causes explosions.”

  “So if you don’t know what one brother is about, why would you castigate yourself for being unfamiliar with another brother?”

  “Dolph is Dolph. I don’t look like him.”

  Della did, unfortunately, bear a resemblance to Tresham. They were both dark-haired, had the same mouth, the same slightly aquiline nose, though Tresham was tall and Della petite. If they were seen together with any frequency, somebody would doubtless remark the similarity.

  Somebody unkind and talkative. “Perhaps Tresham seeks to spare you talk. You’ve made your come out, but you haven’t secured a match.”

  Della wrinkled her nose, which made her look about eight years old. “Secured a match, like a hunter filling his game bag. Nobody has secured me, Nicholas, and while you and Leah are doubtless happily wed, few Society unions can say the same.”

  Why did every subject with Della—every one—traverse boggy ground? She’d seemed smitten with Mr. Ash Dorning, brother to one of the Haddonfield in-laws, and a decent sort. As an earl’s younger brother, Dorning suffered a predictable lack of means, though means could be found for a determined suitor.

  Dorning was back in Dorset on some family business that likely had to do with unruly siblings, while Della was stomping around Mayfair, preoccupied with a half-brother who dared not openly acknowledge his connection with her.

  “Promise me you won’t meddle where Tresham is concerned,” Nick said. “I was once an heir beset by the matchmakers, Della. A man in that position cannot be rude, but he cannot be friendly either. He trusts no one, though he’s expected to be gracious to everyone. His every trip to the men’s retiring room is a fraught excursion, and if he likes a woman, he doesn’t dare dance with her twice in the same week. Tresham has his hands full.”

  Della rearranged Nick’s collection of drill bits, so they were in size order rather than order of most frequent use.

  “Socializing takes up a few evenings a week, Nicholas. Jonathan isn’t seen at the fashionable hour in the carriage parade, he doesn’t attend the theater, and he’s not a member of Parliament. What is he doing with the rest of his time?”

  What an odd, insightful question. “Learning the business of the duchy?”

  “Quimbey’s holdings are modest, as ducal estates go. Her Grace of Quimbey has said as much, because she’s pleased the duke needn’t spend half the year traveling from one property to another. What was Jonathan about when he wasn’t in England, Nick? I don’t see him as the sort to goggle at art and architecture, and nothing in the letters between my parents suggests Jonathan inherited great wealth.”

  She lined up the whetstones with Nick’s whittling knives, just as she was trying to tidy up her understanding of her half-brother.

  “He likely has investments,” Nick said. “The present duke had only the one nephew and would have seen him provided for.” Maybe. Every family dealt with heirs and younger sons differently.

  “Jonathan isn’t the type to live on family charity,” Della said, “and even if he is a ducal heir, what if he’s unable to support a bride, Nick? Respectable families encounter difficult circumstances all the time.”

  God, spare me from anxious sisters. Though Della’s curiosity was justified. Everybody proclaimed that Tresham was the catch of the Season, a ducal heir, young, good-looking, and wealthy.

  But nobody mentioned the source of his wealth, not in whispers, not in asides at the clubs. The rise of business speculation as a means of increasing wealth had also—as any form of gambling must—made losing a fortune that much easier as well.

  “I’ll make a few inquiries,” Nick said, “though I expect Tresham has put money into the funds, the same as the rest of us. You will please not interfere in his affairs, Della. I’m asking you that as your brother, whether you think you’re my sister or not.”

  She should have wrapped him in one of her signature hugs and told him not to be silly. Della instead remained across the workshop, arms crossed, brows knit, her gaze on the unfinished nightingale.

  “Thank you, Nicholas. Please be discreet. Jonathan will not appreciate any more speculation aimed in his direction than he’s already enduring.”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  “Merry widows and matchmakers,” Beatitude, Lady Canmore, muttered beneath the chatter of Lady Brentnock’s other guests.

  “Bachelors and buffets,” Theo murmured in response.

  Bea was a friend from finishing school. Like Theo, she’d married up, been widowed early, and found herself in precarious circumstances despite a connection to a titled family. Not that she and Theo ever discussed finances, but the signs were there.

  Dresses made over from Season to Season, refreshed with such lacework and embroidery as a lady could do herself.

  A pretty brooch frequently worn last spring no longer in evidence.

  A tendency to partake heartily of the buffets.

  And a cloud of men watching from an interested, not always respectful, distance. Bea—poor dear—was beautiful in the blond, blue-eyed manner Society most preferred. She paused in the buffet line at the selection of meats and chose ham—cured ham lasted well—heaping several slices atop of her mashed potatoes.

  Theo held out her plate. “I’m thinking of retiring to Hampshire. Two slices will do for me. Three, rather.”

  They moved on to the beef. “I would miss you,” Bea said. “Do we have something to discuss over a cup of tea, Theo?”

  Theo took two slices of beef still showing a hint of pink at the center, exactly as she liked it. “Diana would benefit from rural life. She finds too much mischief here in Town. Country mischief isn’t as dangerous.” Theo had found some mischief in the person of Jonathan Tresham. He haunted her dreams as Archie never had.

  “Does the current Viscount Penweather know you’re considering a repairing lease?”

  “Not yet. I’m drafting a letter to him. Why are the plates always so small?”

  Across the buffet, Lord Davington dipped a ladle into a gravy boat. “We savor those pleasures most that we enjoy in the greatest moderation, so m’ pater claims.” His smile was commiserating and a little flirtatious.

  “True,” Bea replied, “unless that pleasure is good company. The more of that we can have, the better.”

  She moved along to the curries, while Davington’s gaze became speculative. Theo wanted to throw her plate at him, but remained silent until she and Bea had found a quiet bench outside Lady Brentnock’s conservatory.

  “Is there any quality more tedious in a man than a naughty mind?” Theo asked, arranging a side table before her. “That and a propensity for believing his own lies.”

  Even Bea did not know the exact circumstances of Archie’s death, though Lord Canmore had been a merry wastrel.

  “The two are related,” the countess said, settling on the bench as gracefully as a swan navigates a still pond. “They are naughty because they believe themselves irresistible. Davington is at least handsome.”

  “The handsome ones can be the worst.” Though Jonathan Tresham was handsome and hardly seemed to know it. “Would you like some of my bread? I was a bit too enthusiastic with the butter.”

  “I missed the bread,” Bea said. “I wanted to get to the ham before the cardroom descended on the offerings.”

  The cardroom, meaning the hopeless gamblers, and the gentlemen who’d already served their penance w
ith the wallflowers on the dance floor.

  “If I remove to Hampshire,” Theo said, “could I talk you into coming with me?”

  Bea accepted a slice of buttered bread. “Afraid you’ll lose your courage?”

  Afraid I’ll lose the roof over my head. Afraid I’ll lose my reputation. Afraid I’ll lose my wits.

  “Seraphina will make her bow in two years. At that point, I must be in Town. The viscount is more likely to assist in her launch if he has at least a passing acquaintance with her. He has a town house he rarely uses, for example.”

  Bea set her plate aside. “I’m tempted. I’d be more tempted if Lord Penweather had extended any sort of invitation to you, Theo. Very bad of him to neglect a widowed relation.” She rose and passed Theo her table napkin. “I forgot to stop at the retiring room. Guard my plate.”

  “Of course.”

  Bea glided off with the sort of deportment no governess could instill in a young lady. She knew all about negligent relations. All about negligent husbands too.

  To eat in solitude was a pleasure, though when Theo had done justice to the beef and peas, she began to worry. Bea, in addition to being lovely, was also kind. Any dowager could accost her with a recounting of aches and ailments and be sure of a sympathetic hearing.

  “While Bea gets cold ham.” Theo moved the small table behind a pair of enormous ferns, lest hungry servants take the food back to the kitchen. The ladies’ retiring room was one floor higher and toward the back of the house, though the shortest path was through the conservatory and up the back steps.

  Theo emerged on the far side of the conservatory into a corridor far less well-lit than the public areas of the house.

  “Please let go of me.” Bea, trying for dignity, though Theo heard the thread of fear in her voice.

  “You’re a widow. You have needs.” Lord Davington, exuding anything but charm. “I’m happy to oblige them.”

  The couple was in an alcove across from the back stairs, though Theo could not see Davington’s face.

  “I need a decent reputation,” Bea retorted, “and you need to find another mistress. I am not interested in a liaison, my lord.”

  “I’m discreet. Ask anybody.”

  A tired rage urged Theo to “happen by” the scene and rescue Bea as she’d rescued Jonathan Tresham, though Mr. Tresham could probably have weathered the gossip. Davington risked Bea’s ruin. If Bea could fend him off without assistance, then Davington’s pride and Bea’s reputation would both emerge unscathed.

  “You are pockets to let,” Bea countered, ire lacing her tone. “You can no longer afford a mistress, so you seek to take for free what you cannot purchase. I am not interested in what you’re offering.”

  Bad idea, angering a man intent on a selfish goal.

  “So the lovely kitty has claws,” Davington drawled. “I like spirit in a pet.”

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  A thump sounded, possibly an elbow hitting a wall. Fabric tore.

  “You little hellion,” Davington said at the sound of a slap.

  Theo marched into the alcove, grabbed Davington by the hair, and twisted as hard as she could. “Have you lost what few wits you were born with?”

  Davington kept a hard grip of Bea’s wrist and wrenched out of Theo’s grasp. “Go away, Mrs. Haviland. The lady and I were having a private moment.”

  “I am not going away, and if you don’t turn loose of her ladyship, I shall scream down this house.” That was a bluff. If half of polite society came running from the conservatory to find Bea’s gown ripped, Bea and Theo would both be leaving Town, and not for a cozy cottage in Hampshire.

  “Perhaps you’re jealous,” Davington said, gaze traveling insolently over Theo’s breasts. “Alas, I don’t care for brunettes. They tend to show their age so much sooner.”

  Theo didn’t hear Jonathan Tresham step up to her side so much as she felt him. A large, male presence, scented like a garden of exotic flowers upwind on a summer night.

  “Kick him,” Tresham drawled. “Kick him where he stores his pride, my lady. Keep your gaze locked on his, lest he divine your intention, and silently draw back your foot. Don’t glance at the target—just let fly and demolish it. I’ll be happy to do the same over pistols three mornings hence.”

  Davington turned loose of Bea and scurried back, stumbling into a potted fern. “Tresham. You’re misconstruing the situation. We became a bit passionate, and the lady had a mishap with her décolletage.”

  “Or swords,” Mr. Tresham said, drawing off his evening gloves, finger by finger. “The choice will go to the rodent whose behavior necessitated the object lesson.”

  Bea jerked her dress together and took Theo’s other side. With Mr. Tresham, they blocked Davington’s exit from the alcove.

  “Your choice,” Tresham said, as if discussing the offerings on the dessert table. “Name your seconds now, and I’ll even leave you a week or so to brush up on your fencing and marksmanship. You’ll want to put your affairs in order as well. Pay off your debts of honor, make a will. That sort of thing.”

  Davington had gone paler than moonlight, while Theo, who’d been married to a hopeless wagerer, got the sense that Mr. Tresham was bluffing and doing an outstanding job of it. Enjoying himself, even.

  “Tresham, for God’s sake,” Davington said. “She’s a widow.”

  Mr. Tresham backhanded his gloves across Davington’s cheek—his right cheek. Theo hadn’t sensed the blow coming and neither, apparently, had Davington.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Tresham said, pulling on his gloves. “I thought I heard you use the fact that a woman has been bereaved of her spouse as an excuse to prey upon her, ruin her good name, and violate her person. Surely what you meant to offer was an abject apology?”

  Theo had read the Code Duello of sad necessity. After a blow had been struck, no apology should have been availing, and yet, Davington must apologize if scandal was to be averted.

  “You will find it difficult to sully the reputation of two widows at once,” Theo said. “I know what I heard and what I saw. I know that your finances are in disarray and that you conveyed that information to a certain baroness in Lord Petersham’s library last week.”

  Davington sank back against the wall. He no longer looked like a dashing rake. He looked like a stupid, frightened boy.

  “I would like to see both the ladies kick you,” Tresham said. “Repeatedly. Make up your mind, Davington. Paris is far less expensive than London, and you are in the wrong.”

  Of the three arguments—the violent, the financial, and the honorable—the latter was clearly of the least moment to his lordship. That Mr. Tresham would include honor on the list meant a lot to Theo.

  On Theo’s left, Bea was ominously silent, likely battling rage and tears both. On her right, Mr. Tresham looked bored.

  Davington stood tall and jerked down his waistcoat. “Apologies. Meant nothing by it. Bit of flirtation. No harm intended.”

  Mr. Tresham made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound. “Look the party you have wronged in the eye and admit fault. Offer to make reparation.” He might have been instructing Diana.

  Bea glowered at Davington.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” Davington said, running a hand through his hair. “I imposed and I took liberties. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’ll send you the bill from my modiste,” Bea said. “If and when you do slink back from Paris, I will warn every woman I know to avoid you, especially the pretty widows.”

  That was clearly not the polite acceptance his lordship had anticipated. He stood, hands at his sides, looking helpless.

  “Have my coach brought to the mews, Davington,” Mr. Tresham said, “then repair your appearance and dance with every wallflower in the ballroom. The shy ones, the stout ones, the ones with meager settlements. Charm them and flatter them, but if you so much as steal a disrespectful glance, my seconds will be calling on you.”

  Mr. Tresham took a step back, and Davington bolted from the alcove like
a tame rabbit fleeing the nursery.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tresham.” Theo wrapped Bea in a hug. The poor woman was shaking and her arms were cold. “I’ll see that her ladyship gets home.”

  “Don’t, Theo,” Bea murmured. “You can make my excuses—the ham didn’t agree with me or something. Nobody will notice if I slip out. It’s after midnight, and…” Her voice trailed off as a shudder passed through her.

  “We’ll remove to Hampshire,” Theo said, wishing somebody had delivered even a single kick to his lordship’s pride. “Or to the Hebrides.”

  “While I hesitate to intrude on your plans,” Mr. Tresham said, “if I fetch her ladyship’s cloak, that will engender more talk than if another woman performs that courtesy. You, Mrs. Haviland, are the logical party to accomplish the task.”

  “He’s right, Theo.” Bea drew back and rubbed her arms. “And you haven’t had supper yet.”

  “Bother supper.”

  And yet, Mr. Tresham’s plan made sense, which was why, fifteen minutes later, Bea had been bundled into the ducal coach, the Earl of Casriel at her side. Mr. Tresham’s friend had been happy to serve as escort, having, in his own words, an aversion to the minuet after midnight.

  “Shall we pick over the remains of the buffet?” Mr. Tresham asked.

  “I already have a plate,” Theo replied. “I seem to have misplaced my appetite.”

  “That buffleheaded swine upset you. I really ought to have called him out.” Mr. Tresham sounded unhappy with himself for that decision.

  “Her ladyship’s reputation would have suffered, regardless of the outcome. I cannot let good food go to waste,” Theo said, making her way back through the conservatory. “You are welcome to join me, even if I am hardly fit company.”

  She was angry, with him, which made no sense, and with Davington, and of course, with Archie. Always with poor, departed Archie.

  “Are you truly considering a move to Hampshire?”

  “Yes.”

  They’d returned to the bench where Theo had left her supper. She rearranged the furniture and resumed her place, Mr. Tresham taking the seat beside her.