My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “Does polite society think of nothing else but flirtation and dalliance?”

  Theo lifted her tea cup, the better to enjoy the fragrance of a strong brew for a change. “Scandal enlivens otherwise boring lives, Mr. Tresham. That is human nature. If dalliances aren’t under consideration, then troubled finances make good grist for the gossip mill. I tread a delicate line avoiding both types of rumor.”

  “Then I will send my regrets to Lord Fulbright. I’ll tell you something else that’s true about you, Mrs. Haviland.”

  She wanted him to leave, so she could pace and curse and doubt herself in peace. She also needed to get that bank draft into her account before she changed her mind.

  “Something positive?”

  “Something true: Your late husband was a fool who didn’t deserve you.”

  “You’re right,” Theo said. “Your flattery needs significant work. We will not discuss my late husband.” She took a sip of tea and scalded her tongue.

  * * *

  Jonathan had spent enough time on the Continent to know good art from the kind that merely covered a stain on the wall. Mrs. Haviland’s talent was significant, but she hadn’t been encouraged to develop it. She had both the amateur’s courage, where rules and conventions needed to be challenged, and the true artist’s skill.

  The painting had been thoroughly dusted, as had the rest of the parlor, and yet no fresh flowers brought color to the sideboard, no beeswax candles stood in the gleaming brass candleholders. The parlor was a mausoleum, preserving the memory of a happier, more secure household. Like most mausoleums, it showed signs of neglect.

  While Mrs. Haviland became more interesting.

  “Shall I go on?” Jonathan asked. “You were a bright child, but nobody thought to get you a proper governess, one who might have developed your interest in faraway lands or interesting philosophies. If you understand a chessboard, it’s because your father taught you so that you might amuse him with the occasional game, but you soon learned to play at his level and to lose on purpose.”

  She studied her tea, hands wrapped around a dainty porcelain cup. Her expression suggested she was trying to place a far-off melody. Her grip on the tea cup spoke of strangled emotion.

  Apparently, he’d overstepped. “Forgive me,” Jonathan said. “Until my uncle intervened, I hadn’t a tutor or governor worth the name. Before Quimbey took the situation in hand, I learned to command attention by being precociously bad, which worked for a time, though I became well acquainted with my tutor’s birch rod. Once Quimbey involved himself, I had to be precociously intelligent, which wasn’t quite as effective.”

  “And now you are precociously rude,” Mrs. Haviland said, finishing a syllogism rather than passing a sentence. “But you are quite bright, so we will educate you. Wasting your hostess’s tea is impolite.”

  He took another sip of tea, feeling like a bully. “I am not rude on purpose, usually. I suspect I am ignorant.” The tea, now that he took the time to notice it, was a fine blend brewed to perfect strength. “I can talk about the weather if you like.”

  Though she’d likely have insights to offer about how even that topic was pursued. Abruptly, Jonathan was uncomfortable with their bargain.

  “The debutantes all learn a trick,” Mrs. Haviland said gently. “They learn to ask a gentleman questions and then listen to his answers. The trick is in the listening, in exerting enough effort in the conversation that a man feels important simply because he opens his mouth.”

  Jonathan was full of questions: What the hell had Mrs. Haviland seen in her husband that she’d entrusted her whole future to him? What had that idiot done to make her so wary and serious? Why hadn’t she replaced the carpet by the door, where traffic had nearly worn the pattern away?

  But then, he knew why.

  “I’ll start,” Mrs. Haviland said. “Does the lovely weather tempt you to ride out on fine mornings, or are you more a man to read the newspaper page by page before embarking on your day? The question is personal without being intrusive, leaves you a choice of two perfectly gentlemanly pursuits, and allows you to ask about my mornings in return.”

  I love to spend my mornings with the ledgers from my club, because the damned park is full of the same buffoons who just spent their evening losing obscene sums in my establishment.

  “Hyde Park is confining when a good gallop is needed,” Jonathan said. “The paths are crowded on pretty days, even at dawn, and Roulette prefers to have room to stretch his legs. Compared to the freedom available at Quimbey Hall, hacking in the park feels like the briefest toddle. What of you? How does your day typically begin?”

  Her gaze communicated humor, also approval and a certain friendliness. She wasn’t smiling outright, but she was no longer biting back a rebuke.

  “Roulette is an interesting name for a horse.”

  “He’s a bay—red coat, black mane and tail. The name fits him.” The gelding also alternated between angelic and diabolical moods, much like the roulette wheel.

  “Tell me more about Quimbey Hall. I take it you have fond memories there?”

  She was good at this. Jonathan was forming an answer—an honest answer—before he realized how good.

  “My uncle cherishes that property, and when he saw what a naughty boy I was becoming, he sent me there. I thought I’d perish of fury, to be ripped away from my parents, but Uncle was right. I needed the peace and spacious surrounds, and even then, I suspect he knew I’d eventually be responsible for the place.”

  She offered him more tea. He accepted to be polite, though he longed for strong coffee or frothy chocolate.

  “Were you angry to leave your parents?” she asked, “or angry that they’d let you go?”

  Jonathan set his cup on his saucer carefully. “Both, I suppose.” A silence sprang up, carrying a fraught sliver of vulnerability. Jonathan rallied before Mrs. Haviland could launch another soft-spoken rocket at his self-possession.

  “What of you?” he asked. “Do you hold fond memories of a rural girlhood, and is that why you’d even consider a remove to Hampshire?”

  The conversation wound on through the second cup of tea and several spoonfuls of the peach concoction, lest Mrs. Haviland scold Jonathan for wasting food. She knew when to press, when to retreat, when to offer up a small insight into her own situation—very small, which was doubtless another schoolgirl strategy about which nobody warned an unsuspecting bachelor.

  At the end of an hour that had gone both quickly and slowly, Jonathan was on his feet, once again studying the trio of doves on Mrs. Haviland’s wall.

  “Will I do, Mrs. Haviland? Will I suffice as a husband as well as a duke?” He’d tried for a light tone and to his own ears sounded like a gambler asking for just a little more credit.

  She considered him while he considered the pretty, docile birds so lifelike he could almost hear them coo.

  “You have to try, Mr. Tresham. All those young women longing to be your duchess have been training for years to earn your notice. They care very much what sort of impression they make on you and the other bachelors. If you can’t muster any regard for their opinion, then no, you will not do.”

  She was telling him no, telling him to take his bank draft and tear it into tiny pieces, despite the worn carpet and the empty candleholders. Unease Jonathan had been ignoring for the whole of this audition—for that was what it had been—coalesced into dread.

  I must take a bride—the right bride—and I cannot find her on my own.

  Mrs. Haviland’s gaze held not anger, not even rejection, but sadness, and that made Jonathan even more uneasy. She could be hired, she could not be bought. She had an unerring social instinct and knew everybody. She was dignified but didn’t put on airs, and integrity radiated from her every word and glance.

  And she doubted his worthiness to speak vows with even the likes of Dora Louise. Genuinely doubted his ability to be a decent husband—and she might be right. Hadn’t Jonathan said as much to Dora Louise himself?<
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  The doves looked out at him from the painting, their little bird eyes at once calm and interested. He needed to be like the doves, settled, happy, sure of his life. He needed…

  Mrs. Haviland was helping herself to his serving of the peach dessert, her expression as she slid the spoon from her mouth a mixture of bliss and guilt.

  “You want me to be happy,” Jonathan said, the truth of that insight lifting all manner of clouds. “You want me to find not merely an acceptable duchess, but the right duchess for me.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Haviland set his unfinished treat to one side on the tea tray. “Marriage is a partnership. If you aren’t happy, your duchess will have a difficult time being content, and conversely. I understand that you seek a cordial union, but if you marry some fanciful girl and break her heart, if you marry a woman without scruples who appeals to your vanity, if you marry—”

  “I understand,” Jonathan said. “I must try. I must risk allowing the ladies to see the man they’ll marry, not merely the tiara in his hands, and I must honestly assess their reactions to him. I comprehend.” He must try, as he’d sworn in adolescence to never again try, to win somebody’s notice and attention.

  “Yes. This is not a pointless game of chance, Mr. Tresham. Finding your bride should come as close to a solemn quest as any undertaking you can imagine.”

  Next, she’d insist he trade in Roulette for a prancing white charger, and to secure her good offices, he might even do it.

  “I do take the matter seriously, madam, else I’d not have retained your services, would I? Will I see you at the Gillingham musicale on Tuesday?” Will you abandon me before our adventure even begins?

  “Call upon me Tuesday afternoon,” she said, rising. “I will have a list of names to discuss with you.”

  “My Tuesday afternoon is already full of business meetings, none of which I can avoid. Might we reconvene Tuesday morning?”

  Her brows rose, as if the notion that Jonathan had commercial interests surprised her. “If you prefer.”

  “Thank you.” Jonathan meant those words. “Until Tuesday, and I will look forward to reviewing your list.”

  He bowed, and Mrs. Haviland escorted him personally to the front door, perhaps to assure herself of his departure.

  “You won’t meet with immediate success,” she said. “We’ll encounter false hopes and blind turns. Fortunately, the Season is only beginning and no betrothals have been announced, so my list will include a fair number of names. You must steel yourself for a forced march, Mr. Tresham, though I will be figuratively at your side for much of it.”

  So earnest, so sincere, and Jonathan had passed muster with her. He pulled his gloves on and tapped his hat onto his head.

  “Your stalwart guidance alone will sustain me. If you’d like to ride in the park Tuesday morning, I can bring a lady’s mount with me and call prior to breakfast.”

  “Thank you, no. My habit is years out of date, and the less we overtly associate in public, the better. I will not be the only lady coming up with a list of matrimonial prospects.” She passed him his walking stick and moved to the door.

  Well, damn. She could not be tempted from her mission, something else to like about her. Jonathan risked a kiss to her cheek and straightened.

  “My sincere thanks for your time today, Mrs. Haviland. I’ll look forward to our next encounter.”

  He jaunted down the steps, in charity with life for the first time in weeks and in charity with Theodosia Haviland. She should be on somebody’s list of possibilities. She was pretty, sensible, kind in her rather stern way, thoughtful, intelligent, artistically talented, and she smelled good.

  That last ought not to matter to Jonathan, but he did favor the scent of jasmine. He turned his steps toward The Coventry, mentally considering his many London acquaintances. Mrs. Haviland would make somebody a lovely wife, perhaps even a titled somebody. Casriel needed a countess…

  But the idea of Casriel marrying Theodosia Haviland, having all that sense and dignity, all that subtle humor and latent warmth for his own, when the earl was mostly concerned with crops, tenant cottages, and wayward younger brothers… Casriel was a dear, but Mrs. Haviland would be wasted on him.

  Not Casriel, then. Definitely not Casriel.

  * * *

  When Lady Canmore had suggested Theo keep her funds at Wentworth and Penrose Bank, her ladyship had offered a cryptic observation as well.

  “Mr. Wentworth neither flirts nor flatters, and I’d trust him with my last farthing.” Bea had likely done just that. Theo certainly had, though she hadn’t understood Bea’s remark until she’d laid eyes on the man.

  Mr. Quinton Wentworth was the epitome of masculine pulchritude. He was decades younger than any banker of Theo’s previous acquaintance, not a trace of gray in his sable hair. His eyes were a brilliant northern blue that should have been arresting, except that all of his features, individually and as a whole, were beyond perfection.

  Lips slightly full, nose exactly proportioned to convey character without disturbing the symmetry of his face. He had height and brawn to ensure that understated sartorial elegance contributed to the impact he made at first sight.

  And second, and third.

  Theo had been lucky. The first time she’d had an appointment with Mr. Wentworth, she’d arrived a few minutes early. She’d noticed a man in a corner of the bank’s fern-studded lobby, crouched before a small boy attired as a bank messenger. The man’s back had been to Theo, but she’d seen the child’s face.

  The boy had been riveted by the adult who’d troubled to address a child at eye level. Man and boy were having a conversation that doubtless dealt with bank messenger business, though the gravity of the discussion suggested the safety of the realm was at stake. The child had not only listened, he’d replied, and nodded, and gestured in the direction of the stairs that led to the bank offices above the lobby.

  Theo had been in few purely commercial environments, but she was sure that in all of London, no other well-dressed gentleman was having a serious discussion with a mere messenger boy on the premises of a bank.

  The child fell silent. The man gently patted his shoulder, rose, and turned.

  As the boy trotted away, Theo had pretended to search for something in her reticule. The man’s gaze had been arctic, without sentiment of any kind. If she hadn’t seen him touch the boy, hadn’t seen the child hanging on his every word, she would not have believed her banker and that patient, considerate gentleman were the same person.

  And yet, they were. In all the years Theo had dealt with Quinn Wentworth, she’d never seen him show any hint of affection again, never seen him smile, but she’d also never met his like for unfailing discretion or conscientious attention to detail.

  “Mrs. Haviland.” He welcomed her to his establishment now as he had then, with a bow to a correctly deferential level, no lower. “You are ever punctual.”

  And he had come down from his office to greet her, as he always did. She suspected Mr. Wentworth liked mingling with his customers, catching snippets of conversation while terrorizing his clerks.

  Though the clerks were a cheerful lot at Wentworth and Penrose.

  “Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” Theo replied. “Let’s be about our business, shall we?”

  Another man might have been offended at her forwardness. Mr. Wentworth never gave any sign of offense. He was never rude, but he was reliably, wonderfully blunt.

  “May I offer you tea, Mrs. Haviland?” he said when he’d closed the door of his office behind her.

  “No, thank you. I’ve come on a matter of some delicacy.”

  He gestured not to the chairs before the enormous mahogany desk across the room, but to a tufted sofa positioned against the wall. A silver tray of biscuits sat on a low table, and a bouquet of daffodils spiced the air with sweetness.

  “The biscuits are fresh,” he said, flipping out his tails, taking an armchair, and lifting the tray in Theo’s direction. “We
order them from the bakery across the street. Help yourself.”

  “I’m too nervous.”

  He sat back and set the biscuits aside. “Then tell me what’s on your mind. You have more privacy here than you’d have in a confessional, Mrs. Haviland.”

  She knew that. When Archie had died, she’d had to confide the situation—finances and all—to somebody knowledgeable and utterly trustworthy, and Bea had recommended Mr. Wentworth.

  Theo withdrew the bank draft from her reticule and passed it to him. “I’m told that if I endorse that illegibly, nobody will know to whom Mr. Tresham remitted the funds. I am passing that document to you personally, so that the transaction remains confidential at this institution as well.”

  He studied the draft, turned it over, held it up to the window, and even sniffed it. “This is legal,” he said. “Not that Tresham’s word is suspect. But tell me, Mrs. Haviland, do I have cause to doubt his honor?”

  The question was so quietly put, Theo at first didn’t grasp… “Mr. Tresham and I have no arrangement of the sort you’re implying, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Blue eyes regarded Theo with all the mercy of a winter storm bearing down on open country. “I ask, madam. I do not imply. You would not be the first widow whose situation left her vulnerable to the unscrupulous.”

  Mr. Wentworth’s speech was that of a gentleman, but occasionally, she heard an echo of the West Riding in his vowels. In his reply, she heard more than an echo of a threat, albeit aimed at Jonathan Tresham.

  “He knows little of the circumstances surrounding my late husband’s death,” Theo said. “Mr. Tresham is a ducal heir. He must marry soon and well. I am to ensure that he makes a well-informed choice.”

  Mr. Wentworth set the draft face-up beside the biscuits. To Theo, that was vaguely obscene, but Mr. Wentworth was a banker, and the draft was a mere commercial instrument to him.

  “You know everybody in polite society,” he said, “are seldom noticed among the chaperones and wallflowers, and won’t send Tresham to a bad fate if you can help it. He should have paid you three times this sum.”