The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  “I have a plan,” she announced with a grim smile. Sir Marcus smirked. Now things were becoming more interesting than ever.

  “We will discredit this woman.”

  Sir Marcus stirred uncomfortably. “We?”

  He was not keen on becoming directly involved in Lady Penelope’s revenge upon this young woman. If Devlin was as sweet on her as Freddie declared, it could be dangerous. Sir Marcus prided himself on being an excellent shot and swordsman. Devlin, he knew, far outstripped his skills.

  “Yes, of course, ‘we’!” Lady Penelope snapped, with an impatient stamp of her foot. “I cannot do this without you. Now listen.”

  She quietly outlined a plan that had Sir Marcus recoiling in horror. Fleecing foolish young bucks and having the occasional skirmish with an angry, cuckolded husband was acceptable. Destroying a young woman’s reputation was not.

  “So you will seduce this slut in such a way that Devlin either hears of it or sees it. Then if he has a tendre for her, it will soon be over. He will, naturally, turn to me for comfort and he will propose.”

  Sir Marcus looked doubtful. “How and where can this be arranged?”

  “At Deverell House!”

  “What? Are you insane?” Sir Marcus sputtered, leaping to his feet. “Devlin will never allow such an incident to take place in his own house, and he will never include me in any social invitation.”

  Only he and Devlin knew the truth about the enmity between them. A few years ago, Devlin had caught Sir Marcus cheating at cards but had not disclosed the information openly. If he had spoken out, every establishment in London would have closed their doors to Sir Marcus. Complete social ruin had stared the rake in the face. Despite his outwardly uncaring attitude toward social niceties, Sir Marcus feared being a social pariah. Devlin had kept silent on the understanding that he ceased gambling in the respectable clubs.

  Sir Marcus was aware of Devlin’s barely concealed scorn and avoided the Duke at every turn. Sir Marcus had no doubt that Lady Penelope would have it all round Town in a trice if she ever found out, and not even his birth and fortune could save him. If she did not let loose the information, the threat would always hang over Sir Marcus’ head and then he truly would be her creature, dancing attendance upon her every spiteful whim.

  “Exactly!” Lady Penelope smirked. “He’ll never allow any embarrassment to touch upon his mother or the ancestral home. So, when you’re found in a compromising situation with little Miss Milksop, he’ll have to remove both of you forthwith and hush up the scandal. Well, that will be the end of her chances with him and her reputation; and that’s when he will announce our engagement to create a new diversion.”

  “And what about my reputation,” Sir Marcus remarked sourly.

  Lady Penelope burst into trills of derisive laughter. “My dear Marcus, everyone knows you haven’t the shred of a reputation so it doesn’t matter a jot about you.” She twirled in happy triumph. “You will lie low for a while, as is your wont, then crawl back into the nasty circles you frequent.”

  Sir Marcus flinched. Her words were true, but it still shocked him that this woman could use two people so mercilessly to achieve her own ends. He would not forget the way Lady Penelope had looked at him. His time would come and then the boot might very well be on the other foot.

  “And how do you propose to get me into Deverell House for this grande affaire?” A bitter note in his voice betrayed his hurt.

  “It’s quite simple. I shall descend upon my darling Dev once news reaches me that he is back in the countryside. I shall persuade him to have a house party, with amusing and entertaining guests. It will be marvellous.”

  Lady Penelope clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve already planned my wardrobe to dazzle Devlin. There will be too many of our friends there for him to dare deny you entry. He won’t risk a scene; in any case, I will deal with him. Your task is to make yourself attractive and desirable to the little companion; mine is to secure my future. Leave it all to me.”

  She patted his arm. “I want to know everything about her. You have her name; get your spies to work.”

  Sir Marcus decided not to disclose the juicy fragments of information about Miss Preston’s past. Those gems were for his use alone. Humming to himself, he slipped out the front door and swaggered jauntily down the street.

  Chapter Eight

  Fenella stared at her aunt’s letter. She was sitting on the lawn, under the sheltering branches of a large, spreading oak. It was a beautiful morning and the heavenly blue sky, dotted with just a few white cotton-wool clouds, presaged a fine day. At Fenella’s feet, the two spaniels rolled and played, pawing her skirt, begging for attention. However, she was oblivious to her surroundings or her companions. She was frozen with shock as the words danced in a blur in front of her eyes. Her aunt’s train of thought was as confusing as the information she conveyed.

  “My dearest Fenella,” her aunt wrote, in her usual rambling fashion. “I don’t wish to alarm you, my darling girl, but something of the strangest nature has occurred. At first, I thought it was a mistake, and then I considered it might be some kind of practical joke. However, now I am truly disturbed.

  Mr. Mullins, the greengrocer, overheard someone asking questions about you. He couldn’t say exactly what he had heard. It seems he caught a few fragments of conversation and the mention of your name. He was standing at his stall, stacking oranges and obviously could not turn around right away to see who was asking about you. When he finally managed to do so, he saw little Peter Barlow running off and the figure of a cloaked man turning the corner. Well, he couldn’t even say for sure it was a dark, cloaked figure, but he gave me to understand that it was more a fleeting shadow of someone. Then again, I suspect Mr. Mullins reads his wife’s novels from the circulating library because he had this odd, excited expression on his face. He hissed all these details to me in a loud whisper. Naturally, such behaviour is bound to attract attention because then I had Mrs. Soames upon me, also asking about you and if the dresses were to your liking. I had to put her off with a story before I could get Mr. Mullins all to myself again.

  Well, after I had bought a pound of turnips and a bag of oranges, which I do not even particularly like, I extracted these few facts from him: a man, a stranger to these parts, has been asking about you. He seems to speak in a strange accent, but that could be because Peter Barlow said he was wearing a muffler right up to his nose. Oh, did I not say it, dearest? I caught hold of that scamp Peter and, after a slice of my seed cake, he told me that last detail. But what makes it all the more worrisome is that he did not ask for Fenella Preston, which is your persoodonym (Fenella smiled at her aunt’s spelling), but Fenella Hawke!

  Now, I ask myself, who would want to enquire of you? You have been living with me since you were sixteen and it is nigh on four, nearly five years now. I asked myself, whom could you have met outside the area who would be enquiring of you here. Then I asked myself why, if you are known to the Dowager and her people as Fenella Preston, why anyone from that side would enquire of you as Hawke. In addition, how would they know that name anyway? I waited for a day or so, half expecting someone to guide the stranger to my door. This would only be natural and proper if he had a legitimate reason to ask about you. But no one came to me.”

  Here Fenella suppressed a pang of guilt. She had not confided to her aunt that the Dowager knew and accepted the truth about her. However, who could be asking about her? And using the name Fenella Hawke? Icy waves of anxiety washed over her. It had to be that despicable man. That was it. He was trying to find out about her past, trying to winkle out any information to discredit her in the eyes of the Dowager. Rage reared up inside her. Of all the nasty, sneaky tricks. Then she calmed herself and tried to think clearly. She focused her eyes on the letter again.

  “Anyhow, my dearest girl, I do not want you to lie awake at night and worry yourself over something that may prove to be nothing more than a hoax, but I do think we should be watchful. Please take th
e greatest care when speaking of your past, even though you have nothing to hide. It would be a shame to destroy all your chances of advancing in the world.”

  A discreet cough interrupted her frenzied thoughts. Fenella jumped.

  “Beg pardon, Miss.”

  “Oh, Blenkins. You startled me.”

  “So sorry, Miss. Her Grace is asking for you. She is in the rose garden with Miss Eugenia and the Reverend.”

  Fenella stifled a groan. “I shall be there directly,” she replied, with forced cheerfulness.

  “Very good, Miss.” Blenkins bowed and went off.

  Fenella sat for a few moments and idly stroked the spaniels’ heads. The Dowager’s Cousin Eugenia was an interfering spinster in her late fifties, much addicted to religious tracts and, in particular, the Book of Revelations. Having failed to find a husband, she had found God, hellfire and damnation. From that moment on, her sole mission in life was the instant conversion of all who crossed her path. She was aghast at Fenella’s confession that she had been encouraged at an early age to read widely about various religions, including Buddhism, and that she had not been forcibly marched off to church every Sunday morning as Cousin Eugenia thought necessary.

  “What?” Cousin Eugenia’s scandalized tweet had echoed shrilly around the drawing room at their very first meeting. “Buddhism? Pagan rubbish? How dreadful!”

  Cousin Eugenia’s cup rattled in its saucer as she tried to fan herself and remove a great sheaf of tracts from a voluminous battered leather bag at the same time. She cast a horrified look at the Dowager before thrusting the tracts into Fenella’s arms.

  “Your aunt and friends have failed you miserably, my girl. In the absence of your good parents, they should have instructed you in the ways of the church.”

  Fenella did not have the heart to tell Cousin Eugenia that her dear aunt had a very gentle approach to religion, and considered church more a matter of enjoying herself in the choir and arranging the weekly tea party for the ladies than any real desire for spiritual edification. However, out of politeness, she accepted the wads of sermons Cousin Eugenia thrust upon her every week and tried to peruse them.

  A few lines were usually enough to put her to sleep.

  Fenella strolled to the rose garden with the spaniels lolloping along beside her. She could see the Dowager sitting on the garden bench, an exasperated expression on her face. Next to her, Cousin Eugenia was chattering. Her long horsy face was quite plain since Cousin Eugenia did not believe in any kind of adornment, or the use of cosmetics or lotions to improve the complexion. The black ribbons on her drab bonnet waggled as if in agreement as she continued her lecture. Reverend Havergill sat quietly beside her, with a dreamy, docile look on his face. He was approaching sixty and had a round, red-cheeked face, rather how Fenella imagined Friar Tuck would appear. His wispy white curls clustered in a halo around his head. The buttons of his rusty black coat strained to contain a portly stomach. Fenella had a sudden thought that perhaps Cousin Eugenia and the Reverend should “find each other.” She smothered a giggle and went forward with a demure expression.

  “Ah, Fenella, my dear,” the Dowager said, relief evident on her face as she stretched out her hand in welcome.

  Cousin Eugenia pursed up her lips in disapproval when the dogs frolicked about her feet and tutted-tutted as she rummaged in her enormous bag for the latest tract. “And how did you find last week’s reading material, Miss Preston?”

  Cousin Eugenia twisted her thin lips into the grotesque semblance of a smile, which Fenella thought only resulted in her looking even more as if she had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. Cousin Eugenia had already shared with Fenella her view that beauty was the Devil’s handiwork and designed wholly for the downfall of innocent men.

  Fenella, ignorant of Cousin Eugenia’s further plans for her spiritual salvation, smiled decorously. “Yes, thank you, ma’am. It was most edifying. The role of Martha in Jesus’ life is a glowing example of humble female simplicity that every young woman should attempt to emulate.”

  The Dowager dabbed her nose with a lace handkerchief to avoid bursting into peals of inelegant laughter.

  “Er…yes…quite!” Cousin Eugenia snapped, sounding annoyed by Fenella’s reply. “I believe your poor, dear, departed parents would be most gratified to know you are attempting to create spiritual goals in your life. What religion did you say they were?”

  Fenella felt an icy chill run down her spine. How was she to avoid mentioning her parents? Was this a trap? She glanced at Cousin Eugenia. The spinster’s dark eyes gleamed back at her, as cold as steel.

  “I did not say,” Fenella replied. “Although I could not be sure now, since I was so young when my parents died, but I do not think my father had any particular religious leanings.”

  “And your mother?” Cousin Eugenia prompted.

  “I believe she was Catholic,” Fenella said, her heart sinking as she saw a mixture of expressions flitting across Cousin Eugenia’s face. Triumph, revulsion, dislike. Cousin Eugenia uttered an exaggerated screech of horror and clapped her hand against her heart.

  “Oh! Oh!” she squawked. “Catholic? A Papist?” She gave several wild swoops with her handkerchief as she flailed her arms about, and then slumped against the back of the bench, her eyelids fluttering.

  The Reverend Havergill, unversed in the artful ways of women, stuttered, “My dear lady! Shall we call a doctor?”

  He jumped up in panic and looked around, flapping his hands in helpless distress. Fenella turned to run back to the house for help.

  “Nonsense!” The Dowager slapped Cousin Eugenia’s hands hard.

  Shocked, Cousin Eugenia opened her eyes wide and sat up. “Oh!” She gave a faint squeak, affecting confusion. “Where am I?”

  “Where you have been for the past hour!” the Dowager snapped. “Sitting in the rose garden. And I’m sure the heat has addled your brain, my dear cousin, since just the mention of religion seems to bring on your funny turns.”

  She glared at Cousin Eugenia, who quailed beneath the Dowager’s gaze.

  “Ah, to be sure, Cousin, it was merely my interest in Miss Preston’s spiritual—”

  The Dowager’s frown was quelling. “Her dear, departed parents’ religious leanings are actually Miss Preston’s business. I would hate this darling young girl to feel that any member of our family was so ill-mannered as to pry into her personal affairs.”

  “Yes…yes…of course.” Cousin Eugenia rose from her seat and assumed a hurt expression. “My concern was for Miss Preston’s spiritual welfare.”

  She gave a haughty sniff and turned up her long nose. She flashed a hate-filled glance at Fenella, who recoiled under the force of her malevolence. “I shall take my leave. I can see when I am not wanted.”

  “What a good idea, Eugenia. Perhaps you will visit us another time,” the Dowager said, ignoring Cousin Eugenia’s continued feeble protestations of innocence. “And now you have expressed your concern for Miss Preston, please excuse me. I am sure Reverend Havergill will escort you on your way.”

  Cousin Eugenia fluttered toward the Reverend Havergill, who promptly offered her his arm and a cup of tea at the Rectory. The two wandered away, heads together, talking animatedly.

  The Dowager turned to Fenella. “I think we should make our way back to the house. I feel quite fatigued after that spiritual tussle.”

  Leaning on Fenella’s arm, the Dowager walked slowly back in the direction of the mansion.

  “Horrible woman,” she muttered under her breath. “An interfering old biddy if ever there was one. She simply cannot keep her long nose out of people’s private business. I know one cannot choose one’s relatives, but at least one can choose one’s friends. In any case, Cousin Eugenia is a very distant relative by marriage on my late husband’s side, so I do not consider her true family. Take no notice of her, my dear. I pity the poor creature’s straitened circumstance; it’s the only reason I allow her to enjoy the position she does here—s
mall as it is.” She patted Fenella’s hand.

  With a sinking heart, Fenella realised that the Dowager championing her cause had secured her an enemy for life.

  As they crossed the lawn, Fenella saw a familiar figure approaching them. Her heart leaped in her breast and a thrill ran down her entire body.

  “Devlin!” the Dowager exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise!”

  Devlin came striding toward them, dressed for riding. His tobacco-coloured coat and yellow buckskin breeches became him to perfection. Tasselled Hessian boots, polished to a mirror finish, completed the picture. Fenella marvelled at how elegant he always appeared, yet there was nothing of the fop about him. Devlin was the epitome of masculine perfection. She continued to walk slowly beside the Dowager, although her heart raced and the blood pounded in her veins.

  Her face was impassive, her expression bland, revealing nothing of the turmoil of desire raging inside her body. Only the heightened flush in her cheeks and the quickened heaving of her breasts were the subtle indications of her inner feelings.

  “Miss Preston.” Devlin sketched a bow in her direction. “Your servant.”

  Fenella inclined her head in polite acknowledgement.

  “My dears,” the Dowager beamed, taking Devlin’s arm so that she was between Fenella and Devlin.

  Fenella was glad Devlin had given her merely a small bow and murmured a brief greeting before turning to his Mama, not expecting an answer. It was just as well since her throat seemed to have closed up and she would have been incapable of uttering a word to him. As the trio walked along the gravel drive, the Dowager chatted happily, remarking on how well Devlin was looking.