by Lavinia Kent
The Real Duchesses of London
ANNABELLE, THE AMERICAN
LAVINIA KENT
THE REAL DUCHESSES OF LONDON*
Kathryn, The Duchess of Harrington
“I am the perfect duchess. I am beautiful, rich, well read, well spoken, and have a civilized relationship with the duke. What more could a woman want?”
Elizabeth, The Countess of Westhampton
“I may not be a duchess, but I am more of a lady than any of them. You’ll never see me in the scandal sheets. Mind you, I am not saying I haven’t ever been scandalous—just that you’ll never know.”
Georgianna, Lady Richard Tennant
“My son will be a duke. It doesn’t matter if I get to be a duchess as long as I know my son will inherit from his uncle, will hold the title. My husband may have broken many of his promises to me, but that one is absolute.”
Linnette, The Dowager Duchess of Doveshire
“I have no intention of giving up what is mine. I’ve run the house and the estates for years. Why would I ever give them up now? I don’t care who the new duke is.”
Annabelle, The Marchioness of Tattingstong
“They say that, because I am American, I have no taste, no grace, no style, no refinement. I have every intention of showing them just how wrong they are—and when the time comes, I will be the perfect duchess.”
*All quotes as relayed to Miss Jane White, more or perhaps less accurately, by Miss Mary White, lady’s maid for the Duchess of Harrington
CONTENTS
Cast of Characters
The Maids
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
The Maids
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
The Maids
About the Author
Also by Lavinia Kent
Copyright
About the Publisher
THE MAIDS
“Oh, my God!!” Abby’s voice echoed down the street.
Jane hurried up after her. Her friend had never taken the Lord’s name in vain and it seemed most unlikely that it could mean anything but true disaster. “What is it? Is somebody hurt?”
“No, but look. I can’t believe it. He would never do that to her. She’s my favorite in the whole bloody bunch of them. Lady Tattingstong cannot deserve this. No, she cannot. Her husband is a true devil if this is true.”
Jane found herself stopping beside her friend and staring at the chemist’s window. Abby had sounded as if she were talking about a family member, not some lady they followed in cartoons and scandal sheets, but Jane did know the feeling. Following the lives of the duchesses had become a central part of her day. She felt deprived on those days on which cartoons did not appear.
This cartoon was something else, however.
It truly was horrible. Lady Tattingstong stood in the front and slightly to the left. She was standing surrounded by bags of money, pound notes dripping out. That damned American flag stuck proudly out of her grand bosom. She smiled as if she controlled the whole world—and enjoyed it.
But behind her stood her husband, the marquess. Jane had come to know all their faces well. He was looking forward at his wife, his expression one of distaste, even as he slipped his fingers forward and pulled several pound notes. That was not, however, the worst.
The worst was the pretty young woman held tightly in his other arm. The pretty young woman with a new baby in her arms. The pretty young woman whose bodice was stuffed full of Lady Tattingstong’s pound notes. The pretty young woman who had another child beside her.
“My God,” Abby repeated her earlier words. “The marquess has another family.”
CHAPTER ONE
Annabelle, Lady Tattingstong, did not love her husband. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling and contemplated that fact. She did not love him for many reasons.
1. He was too polite.
2. He never lied—this should have been a good thing, but he never even told social lies and no lady wanted to know when she looked tired or a dress didn’t suit her.
3. He never told her she was beautiful—and she was.
4. He rarely spent any time at home.
5. He never cuddled her after they had marital relations.
6. He did not like her cat.
7. When he kissed her, he tasted of whiskey.
8. He snored.
9. He couldn’t sing.
10. He had married her for her money.
But the most important reason was that he did not love her.
Thomas had told her so when he proposed. He’d explained that he wished to marry her because she was a most suitable bride for a second son. She was not unattractive. She was of good enough family—of course, she was American, but he was intending to stay in Boston for another decade or two. She was of calm temperament—of course, he couldn’t see the swirling thoughts in her mind. And most importantly she was rich, very rich. There were jokes that her father owned all the timber between Boston and Lake Superior and they were not far from wrong.
She had never quite understood why Thomas had felt the need to be so blunt. She expected that his feelings were not far different than those of most of the men who had courted her over the years, but none of them had ever felt the need to express those feelings in their proposal.
Which brought the larger question of why she had agreed to marry him. She hadn’t had to. Her father would have been quite happy to have her stay home and care for him until he was in his dotage.
So why had she married Thomas? She could list those reasons as well as he. He was handsome—if one liked one’s men a little slimmer than her oversized brothers and one liked eyes so deep a brown that one could drown in them. And then there was that voice. Deep and low and oh, so English. He could read a list of farm supplies and it would make her shiver, shiver in all those places a lady should never speak of. In fact, in general he made her shiver in unspeakable places. Even his scent could set her aquiver.
He was certainly of good enough family. He might have been only a second son when they became engaged, but he’d been the second son of the Duke of Stonebridge.
He was intelligent and well read. He could speak of music—even if he couldn’t sing—and had recited quite a bit of remarkable poetry to her when they’d been courting.
And he was not rich. That last should not have been a positive, but it meant that she’d felt some power going into the marriage. She knew that he’d own everything that was hers once they were wed, but he’d know just where his fortune had come from—and who had to be kept happy if he ever wanted her father to give him more.
But none of that quite explained why she had said yes to his oh-so-odd proposal.
She had married him plain and simply because she wanted to. There were many good reasons for saying yes, and a few for saying no, but deep in her gut she’d just felt that “yes.” And she was a firm believer in following instincts.
And she’d been right—at least until Thomas’s older brother died and he became the marquess three weeks before their wedding.
Then everything had changed.
And she wasn’t quite sure that she liked the change. Even after a year and a half she had not adjusted to the title.
Perhaps she should have cried off before the wedding. She’d offered him the chance, told him she would understand if his change in circumstance had changed his mind. But he’d insisted that he wished the wedding to go forward.
Darnation. She didn’t know why she was thinking about this at all.
It was one thing to
be glad she didn’t love her husband and quite another to dwell on the fact.
She sat up in bed and pushed the covers away, reaching over to ring for coffee. Her maid knew not to wake her until she called. It wasn’t that she slept late, just that she wanted to rise when she wanted to rise.
She slipped from the bed and went to the window. Another beautiful day. Cool, temperate, and full of flowers. Perhaps she’d work in the garden. There was nothing that made her as happy as working with her flowers. She loved arranging them and thinking about how all the colors combined. She had no artistic talent with pencils or paints—unlike her sister, Lucille—but she thought of flowers as her paint.
Starting to hum, she turned as her maid, Molly, entered the room with a cup and small pot of coffee. The smell, both bitter and rich, filled the room. Was there anything as wonderful as the smell of coffee?
The coffee was quickly arranged on her writing desk and she waved Molly away. She would dress later. Right now she wanted to look out the window and think about her garden.
It was far more pleasant to think about that than anything else in her life.
Almost as if conjured by the thought, the door suddenly banged open and Lucille came rushing in, her face white as an Easter lily, but her cheeks flushed red.
“I didn’t do it. I swear to you I didn’t do it. I would never do it. Never. Never. Never.” Lucille said it all in a single breath, even her lips beginning to pale.
What on earth was the girl talking about? Lucille had never been one for drama, so it must be important. Annabelle put down her coffee and turned, waiting.
“I really didn’t do it. You know I wouldn’t.” Lucille still did not breathe.
Annabelle filled her own chest with air. “I am afraid I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“The cartoon. The blasted cartoon. I didn’t draw it. I promise I didn’t.”
That was just nonsense. “Of course, you didn’t. Why would I even think you had? I know you don’t draw cartoons.”
Lucille dropped her gaze and turned away. She didn’t say anything.
Concern began to fill Annabelle. This was most unlike her sister. Despite her beauty, Lucille was often quiet and could fade into the shadows in an instant, but she was never unforthcoming. Something was wrong, very wrong.
Her cup hit the saucer with a clink. She gazed wistfully at it for a moment, feeling her morning slipping away. Family was more important than flowers.
She stood and walked to her sister, slipping her arms about Lucille’s slim shoulders. “I know you, dearheart. Whatever it is cannot be that bad. Come, sit beside me on the bed and we will talk. Everything is better when you talk about it.”
“Not this,” Lucille answered, but walked to the bed. Annabelle followed behind, still hugging her sister.
They sat, side by side.
Annabelle picked up Lucille’s hand and held it, knowing her sister would talk when she was ready.
“But I did draw a cartoon—well, it wasn’t really a cartoon. It was more of a print.”
“You did?” Annabelle kept her tone calm, even as her heart jumped.
Lucille squeezed her hand tight. “Yes, I drew the first one of you and the other ladies. The real duchesses’ one.”
“You did?” Annabelle’s disturbance at this announcement was so great that her face felt frozen, her mind unable to choose an emotion to display.
“Yes.” Lucille’s voice was very small.
“Why on earth would you have done a thing like that?”
“I was just imagining the life I’d like here in London. Even when we were invited to affairs, nobody spoke to us—and I just picked out the women I thought would be good friends for you. You seemed so alone all the time. I made a game of choosing one woman wherever I went who I thought looked fun or nice or interesting. And then one day sitting in the park I just drew you all together. I created a party in my mind and then put it on paper. I put you with the friends I wanted you to have.”
“Oh.” What else was there to say? Annabelle’s stomach began a slow churn.
“But then a man saw my drawing and offered me five guineas for it and I gave it to him.”
Five guineas? Given the settlement that their father had given Lucille, that was less than duck feed—and Annabelle always made sure that Lucille had ready spending money. “Why?”
“It made me feel like a real artist. I loved that somebody paid me for what I was doing.”
“Oh.” Again, Annabelle was without words.
“I knew it wasn’t right, but I never expected him to use it to make prints and that it would be all over London. It was just a harmless little sketch.”
“Not so harmless.” Annabelle could not help the edge of bitterness that seeped into her tone.
Lucille’s shoulders drew back and Annabelle could feel her becoming defensive. “There was no harm in that one. Yes, it caused some gossip, but no scandal. And it caused you to meet the other ladies. I was actually quite proud.”
There was some truth to that. Without that first sketch she might never have met the ladies, never become friends—still . . . “So proud that you drew a second one?”
“Yes, the one of you all at tea. You made such a pretty picture and I wanted the world to see that my dream had become real. I felt that my sketches were actually creating our lives.”
“And the third one? That horrid one of Linnette and Kathryn’s husband? What were you trying to create with that? Why ever would you have drawn that? It was horrid.”
Lucille pulled her hand away and twisted her fingers together. “I didn’t draw that one. I don’t know who did. I drew another picture of you all at tea. An even nicer one. I don’t know what happened.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” Annabelle wasn’t actually sure that she believed any of this. None of what Lucille was saying seemed to make sense. It was impossible to know what to feel.
“Yes. Just look at that ugly cartoon. My drawings are much more refined, more real. That one was just ugly. A child could have drawn it.”
It had been ugly, but not the way her sister meant. The drawing had caused tremendous harm. It had caused Kathryn and Linnette to stop speaking, and even though they’d reconciled now, there was trouble with Elizabeth. It was such a mess and to think that Lucille might be responsible. “So you only drew the first two.”
“No . . .” Lucille hesitated. “I also drew the one of Kathryn and her husband, Harrington, looking so fondly at each other. The one with the doves. I was only trying to help. I wanted everyone to know that they loved each other and that the business with Linnette was just nonsense.”
“And that was all?” Annabelle was having trouble imagining her sister involved with the more recent cartoon of Linnette and the new Duke of Doveshire. That one truly had caused a scandal.
“That’s all. I only drew the three—or at least, only three of my drawings were turned into prints. I do have others, but I have not sold them. I even have a lovely one of Linnette and her duke. I was planning to sell that one. It shows their love so well.”
Annabelle wanted to flop back on the bed and hide her head under the pillows. This was all so unbelievable. She’d have to persuade Lucille to tell the other ladies and she wasn’t at all sure how they’d react—but they did have the right to know.
Instead of lying back, she turned further toward her sister, capturing both of Lucille’s hands with her own and holding them tight. “And why are you telling me this now? If you’re done with the whole mess, why tell me?”
Lucille swallowed, her whole head jerking with the motion. “I thought you knew, that you would have seen it.”
“Seen what?” A cold pit opened in Annabelle’s belly. Were her secrets about to be exposed? Only she had no secrets, so why was the pit growing?
Lucille pulled a hand away, sliding it into the slit in her skirt, reaching for her inner pocket. She pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Another cartoon! Why d
id Lucille look so strange? Had her sister become involved in scandal? Despite the pit, Annabelle knew she, herself, had not done anything to warrant a cartoon.
Then Lucille unfolded the paper and the pit engulfed all.
Thomas Nettingsly, Marquess of Tattingstong, stared at the tobacco store’s window. He’d never felt such an urge to put his walking stick through anything.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Who could have done such a thing?
Who had known his secrets?
His father’s barrister, perhaps, but nobody else.
He knew Margaret would never have said anything. She knew that discretion was of utmost importance. And Grace? He could only hope that Margaret still managed to keep little Grace sheltered.
So who? And why?
Annabelle. His mind filled with her image. He was not worried whether she was behind this mess. He knew that she was not. But how would this affect her?
He’d worked so hard not to hurt her, to be as honest as he could possibly be.
He brought his stick down hard—on the pavement. Despite the temptation, breaking a window would only cause more scandal.
He turned on his heel, ready to walk away. He certainly did not need to be caught staring at the blasted thing.
Too late.
“She’s really quite pretty, your little mistress.” A man stood a few feet back, also staring at the window. His coat marked him as a gentleman, but only barely.
Fury began to build within him. He knew the comment was not unreasonable, but that did not make it easier to bear. “She is not my mistress.”
The man patted his portly waist and smiled. “If you say so, although I daresay with a wife like that, who would blame you? Why not have the money and the girl too, if you can?”
Thomas’s fists curled at his side. Nobody would talk of Annabelle in such a manner. He would pound the stranger into the street—but then there would be more talk, and Annabelle would not need more gossip.
Turning, he walked away without another word to the odd gentleman. He walked fast, his stick clicking against the pavement with each step. Pausing at the corner, he debated his direction. His club? Home to Annabelle? Should he check on Margaret? His father’s barrister? Or, heaven forbid, his father himself? The duke would not be pleased with this mess—and he and his father rarely spoke at the best of times.
