My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “He should not have to pay me at all,” Theo retorted. “I should assist a gentleman in distress out of simple human decency.” Mr. Tresham would be horrified to hear himself described thus, though the term was apt. Theo had questioned him for more than an hour, and he’d never mentioned friends from school, neighbors at Quimbey Hall, old tutors recalled fondly, doting aunties… not a single soul who cared for him.

  Was there any greater distress in life than to be alone with all of one’s joys and burdens?

  Mr. Wentworth took the draft over to his desk. “Jonathan Tresham is something of an unknown quantity, but he’s not in distress. He had substantial assets on the Continent, Paris in particular, and sold them all before removing to London. He does not bank with us, nor with the Dorset and Becker, which is where the ducal funds are kept. I can tell you little about his situation, except that you should be cautious.”

  Theo was always cautious, but that summary left her feeling encouraged as well. If Mr. Tresham were in difficulties or engaged in shaky investments, Mr. Wentworth would have known.

  “More than usually cautious?” Theo asked.

  He slipped the draft into a drawer. “Yes.”

  She waited while Mr. Wentworth resumed his seat.

  “I was not born to all this,” he said, making a gesture that included a silver biscuit tray, fragrant daffodils, and a desk that was worth more than all the furniture in Theo’s house combined. “People know that, and they speculate: Where did Wentworth come by his fortune? I will tell you honestly, Mrs. Haviland, I worked very hard, I was very lucky. There’s no more to the story than that.”

  There was likely much, much more.

  “Is Mr. Tresham personally wealthy?”

  “You decide: He has some of the best rooms at The Albany, though he doesn’t appear to occupy them. His fancy coach is pulled by four matched grays, and he keeps teams waiting from here to the family seat at Quimbey Hall. He also has a private apartment in St. James’s Street, three different country estates that I know of, a yacht he uses for Channel crossings when the mood strikes him.

  “And yet,” Mr. Wentworth went on, “Tresham is not an owner or investor in any business I or my partner have ever heard of. His name never appears on the betting book at White’s. He doesn’t keep a stable of hunters. His father, by contrast, was a legendary scandal. Public inebriation, liaisons that should have remained private, endless inane wagers and deep play he could not afford.”

  Theo helped herself to a biscuit. “If I expect polite society to overlook my late husband’s faults, I can hardly hold Mr. Tresham accountable for the sins of his father. Mr. Tresham is a ducal heir. They aren’t supposed to be paupers.” And apparently, Mr. Tresham’s differences with his father ran far deeper than boyish rebellion and aristocratic indifference.

  Though Mr. Tresham had also mentioned business meetings. What had those been about if not investments or commercial enterprises?

  “A ducal heir,” Mr. Wentworth replied, “usually receives only a quarterly allowance, and the Quimbey dukedom is quite modest compared to most such titles.” Mr. Wentworth looked as if he wanted to say more. “Be careful, Mrs. Haviland.”

  His sound advice had seen Theo through the worst months of her life. “So careful that I refuse his money?”

  “If all he wants for that sum is matchmaking advice, then by all means, keep the blunt. I’ll sign the draft and deposit it into one of the bank’s operating accounts, then transfer the funds to your name. Such transactions are commonplace when discretion is necessary. I do have a suggestion.”

  The biscuit was heavenly, light, buttery, sweet, rich. It begged to be dipped in a hot cup of morning chocolate, not that Theo had had chocolate in the past two years.

  “I have ever been one to heed your suggestions, Mr. Wentworth.”

  “Ask him about his charitable activities. If he hasn’t any, then he might be just another conscienceless aristocrat, or he might have a reason for keeping his wealth quiet. When the charities know a man has coin to spare, they dun him without ceasing. If he has charitable causes, that will tell you much about his priorities.”

  Mr. Wentworth had charitable causes. How could Theo not have realized this? “You are certain he’s wealthy?”

  “As certain as I can be. I maintain a close watch over the funds, I have eyes and ears in unlikely places, and Mr. Tresham’s name does not come up where it shouldn’t.”

  Theo held out the tray to him. “These are exquisite. You must have one.”

  The moment turned awkward, with Mr. Wentworth considering the tray and then Theo, before shaking his head.

  “I avoid sweets. One can grow accustomed to them.”

  “And a bit of sweetness in life is bad for us?”

  He rose, and Theo did as well, rather than allow him to loom over her. “The lads…” He looked away, as if seeking guidance from the landscapes on the walls. “Any biscuits not eaten at the end of the day go to the messengers. They can eat them or sell them. One boy makes it a point to feed a few crumbs to the pigeons—his charitable project. I would not deny him that experience of generosity.”

  This admission embarrassed Mr. Wentworth. He’d once been a hungry, grubby boy without a crumb to give away. Theo was as certain of this as she was of his present wealth and integrity.

  “You might consider marrying,” she said. “My own brush with the institution left much to be desired, but I love my daughter beyond all telling. I’m not sorry I married.”

  “You’re sorry you married Mr. Haviland. You’ll choose carefully for Tresham and quietly. Shall I see you to the door?”

  “I can see myself out, Mr. Wentworth. My thanks, as always.” Theo paused in the doorway with him. “Have a biscuit every once in a while, Mr. Wentworth. Life can’t be all about impecunious widows and crumbs fed to pigeons.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was laughing at her, though his expression was more solemn than an undertaker’s. “See what you can find out about Mr. Tresham’s charities, and if I come across any relevant information, I’ll pass it along.”

  “Thank you.”

  She left the bank feeling better than she had in months. So Mr. Tresham was discreet about his means. That spoke well of him. Theo was hundreds of pounds richer than she’d been a week ago, and all she had to do to earn that money was find some other woman for Jonathan Tresham to marry.

  That notion made her so happy, she went across to the bakery and bought a half-dozen biscuits, though by the time she arrived home, only two remained in the box.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  “Mrs. Haviland, I cannot be seen with the medusa on my arm at occasions of state.” Jonathan spoke calmly when he wanted to shout.

  “Dora Louise is not a medusa,” Mrs. Haviland retorted. “She comes from good family, she is ambitious enough to make you a very creditable hostess, and she likely does not have any say over her coiffure. You were kind to her, you must have some regard for her.”

  They were in the dove parlor again, this time with the door closed. Jonathan was pacing a worn spot into the carpet before the hearth to match the one by the door.

  “I am kind to any number of street urchins, impecunious scholars, and aged sailors, but I don’t want to marry them,” Jonathan said. “Miss Dora Louise schemes. Schemers are unpredictable and unscrupulous. A bad combination for a duchess.”

  Mrs. Haviland rose from the sofa. “Her determination indicates that she’s highly motivated to gain and hold your notice. If she were a man, you’d call her enterprising. You’d say she shows ingenuity and initiative.”

  Of all the daft reasoning. “She is not a man, and she cannot be my duchess. What sort of woman exercises no influence over her own hairstyle?” What sort of woman ambushes a man who should have known better than to be ambushed?

  Mrs. Haviland closed her eyes and rubbed the center of her forehead. She had an ink stain on her index finger, suggesting a late night with correspondence, or possibly with ledgers.r />
  Lucky woman.

  “Dora Louise is a young woman of good birth,” she said, pressing her index finger to the spot between her eyebrows. “She is being paraded before polite society in hopes of making a match. How many times have I told you—?”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  She’d come to a halt before him, as if to stop his pacing. “A slight headache only. I spent too much time with the household accounts last night. I’m sure it will pass.”

  About twice a year, Moira was afflicted with paralyzing headaches. They were the only force Jonathan knew of that could honestly subdue her.

  “A slight headache can turn into a megrim. Please have a seat.”

  Mrs. Haviland’s expression said she wanted to argue, but now that Jonathan studied her, her gaze was less sharp than usual. Beneath her eyes, slight shadows showed against her cheeks.

  “Please,” Jonathan said again, patting the back of the armchair. “Perhaps we can make three lists. Impossible, possible, and encouragingly probable.”

  Mrs. Haviland sat, reminding Jonathan of a reluctant Comus. The mastiff did not obey him so much as he humored Jonathan’s suggestions more or less begrudgingly. Jonathan’s hostess would toss him from the premises if he aired that comparison, though the mastiff also had dignity and—when provoked—considerable ferocity.

  She propped her elbow on the armrest and resumed rubbing her forehead. “What does probable mean to you?”

  “The meaning of probable was the topic of a treatise I wrote at Cambridge. In many cases, probability can be predicted. In others, it can be narrowed to a discrete mathematical range, or so I theorized.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “Relax your arms.”

  She sat up as straight as a new footman caught napping. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to prevent disaster.” He set his thumbs against the base of her neck and pressed in small, firm circles. “If you’ve never had a megrim, count yourself fortunate. I’ve seen them fell formidable parties for days.”

  She was as taut as the shortest string on a harp. “I’ve endured my share. Your hands are warm.”

  “My apologies. Next time, I’ll be sure to chill them prior to putting them on your person.”

  Her skin was warm and smooth as only a woman’s flesh could be. Jonathan worked his way out across her shoulders and had a sudden image of Casriel touching the lady thus.

  Which was absurd, of course. Mrs. Haviland was up to the weight of, say, the Duke of Anselm, a cantankerous, enormously wealthy, decent sort who, alas, already had a duchess. Casriel had younger brothers who weren’t as fascinated with sheep as the earl was, but they were younger sons. Mrs. Haviland didn’t need another genteelly impoverished dunderhead of a spouse.

  “Do you ever think of remarrying?” Jonathan asked, beginning on the muscles that ran down either side of her hooks.

  “All I can think about now is how irregular your behavior is.”

  “Shall I stop?” He’d done this for Moira any number of times and Frannie too on several occasions.

  “If your duchess is prone to headaches, you’ll need this skill. Dora Louise has been known to suffer headaches.”

  Dora Louise was a megrim in muslin. Jonathan’s thumb found a knot of muscle beneath Mrs. Haviland’s right shoulder blade. He explored gently, ignoring the fact that she was more gracefully curved than Moira, slighter, more petite.

  Also prettier, as doves were prettier than peacocks.

  “Dora Louise is the last name on my possible list. And now you will permit me to change the subject: What sort of man would you consider, if we were to look for your next match?” Jonathan slid his hands up to grasp her neck, his fingers tunneling into the warmth of her hair.

  “I will not remarry.”

  “Bend your head forward. I’m not suggesting you remarry. I’m asking you about your own list in a hypothetical sense.”

  She obeyed, much to his surprise, though the result was to create a slight gap in her fichu that drew Jonathan’s attention the way Comus’s gaze would rivet on a bag of cheese rinds.

  I am not a hound. Theodosia Haviland is not a treat. He braced a palm on her forehead and slowly, firmly squeezed her neck. A whiff of jasmine came to him—her version of the fragrance, which put him in mind of summer gardens under a quarter moon.

  “I became interested in my husband because he had a fine sense of humor. He could laugh at himself, at Society, at ducks splashing in a puddle. After my father’s illness, I longed for laughter.”

  “A sense of humor can be attractive.” Jonathan lacked one, according to Moira. Anselm and Casriel laughed at him, though he was often at a loss to know why. “What else would you seek?”

  “Archimedes’s sense of humor turned out to be a frivolous nature. I did not want to see that. He was affectionate,” she went on more softly. “He had a way of including little touches—a brush of his hand to my arm, an extra pat when draping my cloak over my shoulders. His nature was to touch who and what was around him. I hadn’t come across that in a man before.”

  Mrs. Haviland’s neck was turning pink—kissably pink, which was ridiculous—but Jonathan could not see her expression because her head was bent forward.

  And then she sat up, her expression conveying that she’d endured as much helpful presumption from Jonathan as she was able to.

  He withdrew his hands. “You miss your husband, for all his faults.” Was it a relief to her, to be able to miss a man who’d disappointed her? A frustration? Jonathan shifted to take a seat on the sofa, and thus he and the lady were at eye level.

  “The marriage grew troubled,” she said. “Archimedes expected to inherit the title and all the wealth that went with it, though the previous viscount was vigorous in old age. My husband wanted more children, thinking that an heir would be expected of us, but if one cannot support a wife and daughter, how can one expect to support a son, or the next daughter and a son? Three daughters?”

  “Don’t dwell on the difficulties,” Jonathan said, patting her wrist. “Every match has troubles, every family has troubles. I don’t like to see you looking daunted.”

  Hated it, in fact.

  “My head feels better.”

  She did not look as if she felt better. “You have some means now,” Jonathan said. “Think about that, and if you’d like help choosing an investment, I can make a few suggestions.”

  “The cent-per-cents will do for me. Predictable growth on a modest scale is preferable to any wild venture, no matter how lucrative.”

  She sounded like His Grace of Quimbey, whose stewardship of the dukedom was conservative to the point of backwardness. Quimbey likely suspected Jonathan’s involvement with The Coventry Club, but the old boy didn’t pry.

  “I’m sorry your marriage was difficult,” Jonathan said, “but because your husband was a disappointment, you’ll be cautious about choosing my duchess.”

  “You will choose her.” Mrs. Haviland was very clear on that point. “I will merely suggest. Lady Antonia Mainwaring belongs on your probable list. She’s kind, intelligent, pretty, and wealthy.”

  Theodosia Haviland was kind in a drill-sergeant sort of way, intelligent, and pretty. “As long as she doesn’t fashion her hair into snakes or pop out of hidden stairways into the arms of unsuspecting bachelors, put her on the list.”

  Jonathan spent the next hour learning exactly how many well-born young women were in search of a wealthy, titled spouse. Mrs. Haviland considered everything—fortune, pedigree, location of the family seat, age, and the situations of any siblings or parents.

  She knew all the secrets, which were relevant because they could become scandals. They were also bargaining points in the marriage settlements, as in the case of Dora Louise’s older sister.

  Mrs. Haviland had further troubled herself to learn the dispositions of the young ladies, sending two to the impossible list because they were—the eighth deadly sin again—frivolous.

  “Are you perhaps being too cautious?�
�� Jonathan asked when she’d consigned a marquess’s daughters to impossibility for silliness. “A touch of lightheartedness in a duchess isn’t the same as financial irresponsibility in a man.”

  The possible list was disconcertingly short. One widowed duchess, three ladies by birth, and two heiresses to old wealth.

  Mrs. Haviland set her pencil aside. “The more a problem wanted solving, the more inane my husband’s jokes became. I grew to dread his tread on the stair. He’d invest in idiot schemes and wager sums we could not afford on imbecilic bets at the clubs. If he was particularly cheerful, I knew he’d been especially stupid at cards and was hoping I’d never learn of his foolishness. A frivolous woman will be an endless liability, Mr. Tresham.”

  Jonathan had viewed admitting his dislikes, habits, and quirks as necessary, the same as a patient set aside dignity to discuss symptoms with a diagnosing physician. The greater awkwardness was these admissions by Mrs. Haviland.

  The one man upon whom she should have been able to rely had betrayed her trust.

  “Is there nothing about the married state that you miss?” Jonathan asked. “Nothing you’d like to have back, if you could have it without the disappointment?”

  She glanced around at the parlor, as if she suspected the pantry mouser had sneaked into forbidden territory. “You will think me ridiculous.”

  “If I had to swear to one eternal verity, it’s that you are not about to be ridiculous.” Nonetheless, she needed some joy, even silliness. She needed flirtatious banter, mad gallops, and French chocolates.

  “Sometimes, when we were courting, Archie would take me in his arms.”

  Jonathan waited, expecting a recitation of stolen kisses, and—heaven forefend—silly private endearments.

  “He would hold me,” she went on. “Just that. Stop the conversation, cease his flattery and grand pronouncements, lay aside his memorized verses, and take me in his arms. I thought it the most precious gift he could have given me.” She twiddled the fringe on an embroidered pillow. “I believed his embraces when I ought to have paid attention to my own doubts. I gambled and I lost. I know better than to toss the dice again.”