My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  Mrs. Compton won a sizable pot. Bea’s winnings were more modest. Her Grace of Anselm was a gracious loser, while Lady Bellefonte’s luck changed constantly. Lady Della had disappeared into the kitchen more than once, the majordomo on her heels.

  As Theo was preparing to leave, Lords Lipscomb and Henries arrived arm in arm, several friends on their coattails. The entire room gave a shout as Mrs. Compton won another substantial sum.

  “Can you see me home?” Theo asked Mr. Dorning.

  “You’re leaving? The place hasn’t been this lively in weeks, and you’re leaving?”

  Across the room, Jonathan was chatting with Anselm, the same as they might have at any ball or Venetian breakfast.

  “I’m not sorry I came,” Theo said, “but I still have packing to do.” Jonathan would be here until dawn and be here again tomorrow night.

  That hadn’t changed.

  Dorning offered his arm. “He can’t leave the game just when his luck is changing, Mrs. Haviland. He gave his manager the sack, the chef is in a pet, and the club has been the butt of unkind rumors. You can’t expect him to abandon his post now.”

  “This outing was a lark, Mr. Dorning, as all visits to a gaming hell should be. I’ve satisfied my curiosity. Mr. Tresham doesn’t expect me to stay, and I’ll not visit again. Let’s be off, shall we?”

  * * *

  The Coventry had had its best night ever, the play continuing until dawn. Lipscomb had won a nice sum, as had many of Theo’s friends. Jonathan’s search of the office had revealed Moira’s private set of books and a wad of banknotes sufficient to cover the club’s expenses for months—or to convince the authorities that they need not trouble themselves to raid the club for the nonce.

  He had no doubt more money had been secreted on the premises, but he’d fallen asleep before completing his investigations. He awoke to a jab in the ribs and a brisk female voice in his ear. Before the words made sense, his mind had sorted out the important message: This lady was not Theo.

  “If this is your idea of how to organize a business, then it’s no wonder you nearly lost everything.”

  Lady Della Haddonfield stood at the end of the office sofa. She wore a thunderous frown and a smart blue walking dress with a white lace underskirt.

  “My lady, you should not be here.”

  “Neither should you. Their Graces of Quimbey arrived home from their journey late last night, and I understand they are expecting you to be engaged. You are very lucky your auntie was not among Mrs. Haviland’s lady gamblers.”

  Jonathan’s head hurt, his eyes were scratchy, he was famished, and he needed privacy. More important than all of that, he needed to see Theo.

  “What time is it?”

  “Time to get up. Well past noon.”

  He shot off the sofa and tripped over his own boots. “Bloody damnation.”

  “Language, Jonathan. You can’t pay a call on Mrs. Haviland in your present condition.”

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sideboard. “Ye flying imps of hell.” A ghoul stared back at him, cheeks unshaven, hair in wild disarray, shadows beneath sunken eyes.

  Lady Della set about closing drawers, hanging up coats, and otherwise tidying the chaos Jonathan’s search had created. She had the look of a woman preparing to exert dominion over a space, to arrange it to her liking.

  “If you’d excuse me,” Jonathan said, “I’ll join you downstairs when I’m more presentable.”

  She passed him his favorite burgundy morning coat. “Don’t tarry over your toilette on my account, though I suppose the charwoman shouldn’t be needlessly frightened. Adolphus and Mr. Dorning have been touring the premises, prying into cupboards and trying to look knowledgeable. I suspect you will find them in the wine cellars.”

  She was leaving Jonathan a moment to collect his wits, which was more than he deserved where she was concerned.

  “Thank you, Lady Della.”

  “For?”

  “For joining the women last night, for being here today.” For not giving up on me.

  Her expression said she did not want his thanks.

  Jonathan tried again. “You look like him, you know.”

  Her bravado faltered, revealing a very young and uncertain woman. “I haven’t a likeness. I was hoping… never mind. I’ll have the kitchen make you a tray.”

  She turned to leave on a soft rustle of skirts, and though Jonathan felt eight kinds of urgency to quit the premises, this moment mattered as well.

  “A portrait of him—of Papa—hangs in a room off the library in Quimbey House,” Jonathan said, sitting to pull on his boots. “He posed for it when he was a few years younger than you are now. The resemblance to you is uncanny. I will ask Quimbey to give you the painting.”

  She stared at the cluttered blotter, smiling at nothing Jonathan could divine.

  “You walk like our papa,” he went on, getting to his feet and searching his memory. “You have his flair for making an impression. Did you know his second middle name was Delacourt?”

  Della wiped at her cheek. “I was named for my grandmother—for the Marchioness of Warne.”

  “I suspect if you look at the parish registry, you were baptized Delacourt Haddonfield, or you at least have that for a middle name. Lady Warne’s nickname was doubtless a convenient afterthought. We can have a look sometime. Nobody need know of such an errand.”

  “I’d like that.” She seized him in a tight hug, then whirled from the room when Jonathan would have offered more: Their father had been ferociously good at billiards, possessed of a fine baritone singing voice, and had been unusually patient with the elderly.

  He’d been a poor father and a vexatious husband, but not a complete wastrel. Not even an entirely bad man, given the nature of the union he’d found himself in.

  “Papa would have enjoyed last night,” Jonathan informed the empty room. “He might even have been pleased for me.” Jonathan had enjoyed last night, had enjoyed glancing up to see Theo amid her friends, Theo sipping champagne at the table by the stairs, Theo watching him.

  Theo, who was departing for damned Hampshire.

  Jonathan washed and shaved, found a clean shirt and cravat, and brushed his hair, all the while trying to recall what, exactly, Theo had said to him before she’d slipped away on the arm of Sycamore Dorning.

  Perhaps Dorning had some insights to offer. Jonathan found his guest looking all too well rested and counting the bottles of claret.

  “You’ve a fortune in wine alone,” Dorning said, holding a bottle up to the lit sconce.

  “What have you done with Lady Della?”

  “She dragged Mr. Haddonfield off in the direction of the nearest milliner’s. Said you would not be tarrying on the premises when you have a call to pay. This is an expensive vintage, and you must have two hundred bottles on hand.”

  “Two hundred forty-three.”

  Dorning tossed the bottle into the air and caught it. “Two hundred forty-two. What are the odds this call you’re paying is on an attractive widow bound for Hampshire?”

  “The odds coincide with absolute certainty. Come with me.”

  Dorning had moved to the next bin, which held a very fine cognac. “Why? You have a widow to woo, and I have a wine cellar to fall in love with.”

  “The widow might well have already left for the country, in which case I will have to renew my acquaintance with Hampshire. If she hasn’t departed, then I have time to make you an offer you cannot refuse, but I don’t intend to do it on an empty stomach.”

  Dorning collected a bottle of cognac and waved it in the direction of the steps. “Lead on, Mr. Tresham, though I warn you, I drive a hard bargain.”

  Jonathan took the steps two at a time. “I’m not inviting you to dicker, Dorning. Either you take the offer, or I’ll make it to Lipscomb and Henries. I’d rather make it to you, provided you can inveigle your brother Ash to join you in the venture.”

  Dorning scampered up the steps, a bottle in e
ach hand. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “He has caught Lady Della’s fancy, and she can’t very well bring him up to scratch if he’s ruralizing in Dorset. I’m also told that siblings are a blessing of the highest order. Ash Dorning is proficient with numbers, and I like that in a fellow.”

  “I’m proficient with numbers.”

  One of the undercooks had set a place for Jonathan in the dining room. A plate of steaming eggs, a tray of bacon, a rack of buttered toast… hearty fare for a man with much to do.

  “You are proficient at looking idle while spying. I persist in the hope that you have potential nonetheless. The Tresham family is tenacious, if nothing else. Find a seat and prepare to listen carefully.”

  “I’d rather find a wineglass.”

  Jonathan tucked a table napkin into his collar. “Save the boyish charm for the patrons, or for the magistrate. You might well be meeting with him later today in an attempt to persuade him to modify his plans for next week. I’ll equip you with a substantial sum of money to use in any manner you see fit, though I suspect coin will figure in your discussion with the authorities—assuming you accept my offer.”

  Dorning took a seat and snatched a strip of bacon. “I accept. What are you offering?”

  * * *

  The garden was the only part of the London residence Theo would miss. She’d told her solicitor not to rent the property out just yet—a precaution, in case Cousin Fabianus proved to be impossible rather than merely dull.

  Hampshire doubtless had flowers, but these were her flowers. She had separated the irises the year Archie had died, the muguet des bois the year after that. Those had grown from plants she’d taken from her mother’s garden, and they’d thrived so well they needed separating again.

  The garden was a small, important remove from the house itself, and Theo had needed that distance badly. Perhaps she should take a few cuttings to Hampshire as a gift for her host.

  The gate creaked behind her, though Williams had departed with both girls for market not a quarter hour past. Perhaps Diana had forgotten her penny-rhymes-with-many again.

  “Mrs. Haviland.” Jonathan Tresham strolled around the potted herbs. He was resplendent in morning attire, though he still looked tired to Theo. “I knocked on the front door, and nobody responded. You gave me a very bad moment, madam.”

  Theo was having a bad moment—a good bad moment. “Mr. Tresham.” She didn’t bother rising to curtsey, lest she throw herself into his arms.

  “May I join you on the bench?”

  “Of course. How is The Coventry?”

  He took off his hat and rested it on the rim of the herb pot, then sat a decorous foot from Theo’s side. “We’ll get to The Coventry. How are you?”

  Miserable. Much of Theo’s unhappiness was grief, a familiar and irksome burden. Not grief for a life wasted this time, but grief for a dream lost. She had set Jonathan aside, certain of her course. Now, she had time for regrets.

  “I’m somewhat fatigued,” she said. “Yesterday was busy, and last night went late, then I spent much of today finishing up my packing. I gather you were out later than I?”

  Jonathan looked… different. Not as confident, not as self-possessed. Theo took a measure of satisfaction from the possibility that he was sorry to see her go, perhaps even troubled.

  She was certainly troubled.

  “I fell asleep as the sun rose,” he said, “and had not Lady Della roused me with a hard poke to my ribs, I’d likely still be snoring amid The Coventry’s bills and ledgers. We had our busiest night ever, thanks to you and your scheming ladies.”

  “My friends.” That they’d rallied to her cause—a duchess, a countess, several other titles Theo barely knew—had been bewildering. She had been invited to Her Grace’s card night for ladies, and she’d been assured that cards played little part in the gathering.

  “Your friends,” Jonathan said, snapping off a sprig of rosemary. “I hope you consider me a friend, Theodosia.”

  The piney scent of the herb cut through even the fragrance Jonathan wore. “I am not in the habit of wagering my savings on behalf of mere acquaintances, Mr. Tresham.”

  “Please assure me you won.”

  “I made fourteen pounds. I cannot believe… I did nothing to earn that money, but the ladies insisted I have it. That is two years’ wages for some domestics and more money than many people ever see at once.”

  “Why did you do it, Theo? Why storm the gates of a place that cost you financial security and marital accord?”

  “You asked me that last night. Archie had many haunts. The Coventry was only one of them. You didn’t buy The Coventry until I was out of first mourning.”

  The garden was an oasis of peace, even if the fountain had been sold, even if the lilies of the valley were pushing up the bricks on the walkway. Theo did not want to say her good-byes to Jonathan here, not in this sanctuary.

  She half rose, but Jonathan caught her by the wrist. “Something Anselm said has stuck in my mind, Theo. Something I need to clarify with you.”

  Theo sank back onto the bench. “Out with it, then. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I have no plans to return any time soon.”

  Stop me. Ask me to stay. Please…

  “You told me Archimedes died amid a silence so loud it broke your heart.”

  Why would he recall those words, and why bring them up now? “I was the only one home, the only one with him.” Very likely because Archie had planned it that way.

  “Anselm assisted you by having your husband’s personal effects sold, nearly all of them, from what the duke said. Rings, sleeve buttons, clothing, boots, his shaving kit and brushes, everything, including a collection of pistols, all but one of them in pristine condition.”

  The moment condensed into dread, as many moments had since Archie’s death. This one was worse than all the others, because Jonathan was here, speaking quietly and pronouncing himself Theo’s friend.

  “His Grace was most helpful,” Theo said.

  Jonathan moved closer. “Theo?”

  A scalding droplet hit the back of her hand. “I think you should go.” Another tear splashed onto her wrist, while a tearing pain welled from the bottomless pit in her belly.

  “Archimedes took his own life,” Jonathan said, so gently. “Rather than face ruin, he left you alone to cope with the aftermath. He did this, knowing you had both a daughter and sister depending on you, and he did this without alerting his own family to the straits you’d be left in.”

  Theo turned her head, unable to nod, speak, or reply in the face of a heartache so vast it nearly crushed her.

  Another silence blossomed, this one patient and infinitely caring.

  “Archimedes was not well, Jonathan. He was unwell in his mind, his body, his spirit. He was so sick, and I was so endlessly upset. I did not realize… I did not know...”

  Jonathan enfolded her in an embrace, his arms tight around her as the tears grew into silent sobs. How long she cried, she did not know—an eternity of sorrow, a few minutes on a peaceful, sunny afternoon. Through it all, Jonathan held her and stroked her back, until the aftershocks of emotion quieted to an occasional shudder.

  “I didn’t want you to know. I never wanted anybody to know.” Theo wiped at her cheeks with a handkerchief mangled past all hope. “He shot himself here.” She tapped her chest. “The physician pronounced it an accident, but Archie had been so despondent… The doctor put forth a lie, admonishing me to protect the dignity of the deceased, and I was too… I did not contradict him, and my dissembling was not for the sake of the deceased.”

  “Guns do misfire, Theo.”

  How kind he was, how dear. “Archie left a note: So sorry, my dear—for everything. Remember me fondly. Love, Archimedes . I have never remembered him fondly, not since that day.” She sat up, though Jonathan kept an arm around her shoulders. “You will think me awful.”

  “I think you courageous and honorable to your bones.”

&nb
sp; “I can’t look at a gun. For months afterward, if somebody dropped a platter, if a stone bounced up and hit a carriage window, I jumped half out of my skin. The nightmares were terrible, and I could not be honest with anybody. Bad enough to die in debt, but to die by one’s own hand… Diana and Seraphina would have had no future, and more than anything, I am still angry with Archie for that.”

  “And yet,” Jonathan said, “you set aside your anger to rescue my gaming hell. Why, Theo?”

  Because I am your friend too. “Because I know what it’s like to need help and find all backs turned, all eyes averted. I know what a life without allies feels like, and I know about your list of charities, Jonathan. You aid so many, and you never mentioned that to me. You blathered on about Quimbey and tenants and employees, but your generosity goes beyond that. You are a good man, you were my good man, and I lost my courage.”

  He kissed her cheek and lingered close. “Why should you have to be brave all the time? Why should any of us?”

  A fair question, and Theo would have the journey to Hampshire to ponder it. Jonathan would likely marry an heiress—six names came to Theo’s mind, all wealthy women from excellent families. Jonathan—drat him—had made good impressions on every one of them.

  “Will you write to me?” She was a widow. Widows could receive correspondence from friends.

  Jonathan drew back and moved half a foot away on the bench. “Not bloody likely.”

  He enjoyed such a sense of clarity about his path. Always had, likely always would, while Theo felt as if she were setting out on a journey without a map, compass, or directions.

  “You have courting to be about, I understand. The Coventry means much to you, and now you know—”

  “No, Theodosia, you do not understand.” Again, his resolve was evident in his tone. “I’ve arranged to sell The Coventry. Sycamore Dorning will take over its management with one or two of his brothers. Over time, if he’s careful, he can buy me out. I’ll remain landlord for now, but eventually, the Dorning brothers will become owners of the entire venture.”