“How long are you staying, Devlin?” the Dowager asked. “Please do not run away so soon.”
“I shall endeavour not to do so, Mama,” he replied gravely, but a twinkle flashed in his eyes as he looked at his mother. “There are a few things I must attend to while I am here, so it will possibly be a fortnight. If you can put up with my temper for so long.”
Fenella’s heart leaped with joy, a joy she sternly repressed at once. Mentally she scolded herself for finding him so attractive. Besides, was it not he who was spying on her? The sooner she was able to eliminate her desires for good, the better.
“How wonderful,” the Dowager smiled. She turned to Fenella. “Don’t you think so, my dear?”
“Yes, indeed,” Fenella murmured mechanically through stiff lips.
Devlin gave a polite smile in her direction and she returned the salutation with a slight inclination of her head. As they strolled along, the thrills tormenting her body began to diminish and her breathing gradually returned to normal.
Perhaps in time this fever will die a natural death.
They heard the sound of carriage wheels whirling up the gravel drive. The Dowager stopped and looked at Devlin.
“Visitors?” she wondered aloud. “Have you invited anyone down to Deverell House?”
Devlin’s brows drew together in a thunderous scowl. “No, Mama, but it seems that visitors have arrived. I shall find out.”
He did not have to. Blenkins tottered toward them, looking flustered as he observed his master’s expression.
“What is it, Blenkins?”
“Your Grace …” Blenkins wrung his hands. Very few guests made an uninvited appearance at Deverell House, unless they were particular close friends and relatives. Blenkins’ shocked expression heralded a disaster of the most monumental proportions. “It’s…er…a personage.”
“Come on, man!” the Duke snapped. “Who is it?”
Before Blenkins could reply, an apparition sailed around the corner of the house. Dressed in sheer white muslin with satin ribbons threaded through her bodice and sleeves, and carrying a lacy parasol aloft to protect her porcelain complexion, Lady Penelope Vane presented a dazzling picture of pale loveliness. The diaphanous folds of her transparent gown revealed the contours of her body as she walked. It was clear from the obvious lack of undergarments that Lady Vane, like some of the more daringly fashionable ladies of Society, did not believe in concealing her charms.
She tripped lightly up to them, holding out her gloved hand to the Duke, and with an enchanting smile said, “There you are, you naughty man! I had quite given up waiting for you.”
Fenella knew the Duke’s moods by now and she saw the storm clouds gathering on his brow at this flagrant flouting of convention and good manners. Blenkins muttered something about informing Mrs. Perkins, then hobbled away as fast as his arthritic old bones would allow. To Fenella’s surprise, the Dowager forestalled any awkwardness by stepping forward with the social ease and elegant grace of good breeding and years of experience.
She held out her hand to Lady Penelope. “How good of you to pay us a visit. You must be Lady Penelope Vane. I knew your mother, Imelda, the celebrated beauty. You are so like her in appearance.”
Lady Penelope gave her most brilliant smile, took the Dowager’s outstretched hand and sank into a low curtsey. “You are too kind, ma’am,” she breathed.
“Not at all,” the Dowager replied. “Yes, Devlin is a very naughty man. He is so remiss about inviting company down to Deverell House. I fear we have become country mice, since we never meet anyone of consequence these days.”
She looked at Devlin, who gave his mother a grateful smile and then turned to Fenella.
“Miss Preston, please allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Lady Penelope Vane.”
Fenella was astounded. If he had suspicions about her background, why was he taking her part so openly? Fenella could see that the Duke’s marked courtesy toward her did not sit well with his lover. Lady Penelope’s scintillating smile dropped. She tightened her lips and nodded disdainfully. Her turquoise eyes flickered over Fenella’s plain gingham dress. In that instant, Fenella felt dowdy and gauche.
The quality of Lady Penelope’s outfit, the excellent cut and the delicate tracery of embroidery, the matching accessories of fashionable laced boots, smart gloves, stylish bonnet and dainty reticule made Fenella feel like a country bumpkin. She gazed at Lady Penelope’s elegantly dressed, guinea-gold curls and immediately pushed a few dark strands of tangled tresses behind her ears, feeling windblown and clumsy. When Lady Penelope’s mouth twitched with scorn, Devlin frowned.
“Miss Preston is my mother’s particular friend and companion.”
Fenella was astonished that Devlin was so insistent on her being recognised. She blushed and gave a small curtsey.
“Yes, I could not do without her,” the Dowager agreed, her serene smile brimful with meaning.
“So delighted to meet you, Miss…er.…” Lady Penelope hesitated over the name, as if she had already forgotten it.
“Preston!” the Duke supplied sharply. “Shall we retire to the house, Mama?” He took the Dowager’s arm. “I am sure we should all be grateful for a cup of tea.”
Fenella hastily took the Dowager’s other arm and Lady Penelope was left to walk behind the trio.
As they reached the main entrance, they saw a familiar figure, gaudily attired in a pumpkin-hued coat, offset with azure blue pantaloons. A sheepish Frederick Perivale was lounging on the steps. Another elaborate confection of cloth covered most of his chest. Fenella suppressed a smile. Freddie was incorrigible in his attempts to become an icon of fashion.
“Freddie!” Devlin’s mouth became a grim line.
Freddie strode over to Devlin, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish gasping for air.
Devlin silenced him with a frosty glare. Fenella heard him mutter, “Later,” under his breath, as he escorted the Dowager indoors.
“I think I shall have a little rest,” the Dowager sighed. “Perhaps you would like to read to me, Fenella, dear? We can have tea in my suite and I am sure Lady Vane would care for some refreshments in her room.”
Fenella was also glad to escape the situation that was fast wearing her down. Later, as she read aloud to the old lady, her mind seemed separated from her task. Her thoughts roved through various improbable scenarios as she mechanically turned the pages. The Dowager fell asleep within a few minutes and Fenella was alone with her mental and emotional turmoil. She felt a mixture of feelings—anger, embarrassment, shame, humiliation at feeling the way she did about Devlin, exhaustion and intense discomfit. It was obvious, from his astonishment and anger, that Devlin had not invited his mistress down to Deverell House. So what was she doing here? In addition, Devlin’s surprising courtesy to Fenella left her mystified. If he was spying on her, why was he almost championing her position in the house? Still musing on these happenings, Fenella fell asleep over the book.
* * * *
“It was all Freddie’s idea, you can be assured,” Lady Penelope protested under Devlin’s arctic gaze, as she tugged at a stray thread on her glove. She gazed up at the Duke’s impassive face and fluttered her eyelashes.
“I cannot believe you came down here unescorted and unattended.”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Devlin! Of course I came here escorted and attended. Freddie escorted me and at this very moment I’m sure my abigail is in the kitchen, eating her lazy head off.”
This last was also true—Maria, Lady Penelope’s abigail, had retired to the kitchen where an interested Cook was plying her with a large cup of tea and a ham sandwich in the hope of extracting further gossip about her ladyship. Judging by Maria’s sour expression, there was a strong possibility that many juicy morsels of scandal would be forthcoming.
“I thought you would have had the decency to arrive more than half-dressed.” Devlin indicated the revealing lines of Lady Penelope’s gown.
She flamed red at the veiled insul
t and threw her head up. “There were times when you preferred me more than half-undressed or have you forgotten so easily?” Her eyes raged silent accusations at him. “Has your head has been turned by other, more parochial interests?”
Devlin whitened and his jaw clenched with suppressed irritation but he refused to be drawn. “Perhaps you would like to refresh yourself before dinner?”
“I only had your wellbeing in mind,” Lady Penelope pouted. “Freddie said he was so worried about you and that your friends needed to cheer you up.”
“Quite so,” Devlin replied in a curt tone. He had regained control of his temper but a cold burning anger had replaced his fiery rage. He could not believe she had had the temerity to arrive uninvited at his family home. Lady Penelope had often nagged about meeting his mother. Devlin had never considered introducing her to his mother because a formal introduction to his parent in such an intimate family setting would constitute the first step towards an offer. He was enraged that Lady Penelope could have forced his hand in this brash and presumptuous way.
“You are just incensed because I have taken the bull by the horns and invited myself here. It is disgraceful that we have been”—Lady Penelope hesitated, as if choosing her words with care—”associated for so long and yet I have never met your dearest Mama. I am sure she must have been monstrously curious about me.”
Her expression dared him to reply but Devlin had taken her measure and was not about to be lured into saying something he would later regret. However, he thought to himself that since his Mama knew all about Lady Penelope, her curiosity had long been satiated.
Devlin instructed Mrs. Perkins to escort Lady Penelope to the Chinese Bedroom and to provide suitable refreshments while she relaxed. Lady Penelope opened her mouth to complain, but the look on Devlin’s face silenced her. Devlin then strode off to the stables, with a protesting Freddie in tow.
“And what idiocy are you up now?” Devlin glowered at Freddie. “I cannot believe you are party to this impertinence…this arrant intrusion.”
Freddie blanched and tried to explain to his friend just how impossible it had been to resist Lady Penelope’s suggestion that he escort her down to Deverell House. With Devlin’s gaze boring into him, Freddie gave up trying to explain how escape was impossible when a soft voice sounded as a siren song in his ear.
“So you see, Dev,” Freddie sighed in resignation. “It was easier to say yes.”
Chapter Nine
To her chagrin, Fenella had only the green dress to wear that evening. All her other gowns, including the ones the Dowager had given her, were day dresses. Molly was amazingly inventive with a new hairstyle, and slipped out the room for a few minutes before returning with two perfect white roses. She inserted the roses into the confection of curls piled high on Fenella’s head, with a trail of curls falling down onto her slim neck a la Grecian mode, or as close to it as possible.
“I hope you had permission to take those roses,” Fenella said in tones of mock severity.
Molly tossed her head and sniffed. “For ye, Miss, I don’t need any permission.”
She continued tweaking and patting the curls until all were arranged to her satisfaction. Then she stepped back and, waving her hands in the air with a flourish, proclaimed dramatically, “Wollah!” Then she blushed and giggled, “I think that’s wot them Frenchies say, Miss.”
Fenella suppressed a smile. Molly had taken to her temporary new role of lady’s maid like a duck to water. She turned her head from side to side, admiring Molly’s handiwork. She did look sophisticated. However, something was missing. Molly thought so too, judging from her serious expression as she studied Fenella’s reflection. She pursed her generous mouth, drawing her eyebrows together in a deep frown.
“Pore Miss.” Molly’s lugubrious sigh indicated that her ministrations were incomplete. “Nuthin’ in the way of jools. Them pearls is fine for informal, but fer tonight we need a bit o’ sparkle. I mean just a pair of earbobs is all we need to finish it off.”
The word “sparkle” stirred Fenella’s memory. She suddenly thought of a small silk pouch her aunt had tucked into her baggage at the last minute with the words, “In case you attend a social function and need something sparkly.”
“Why, yes, Molly, I may have something sparkly. Possibly just a brooch.”
Fenella rummaged in one of her drawers and drew out the black silk bag. It had an embroidered crest on it, but the gold thread had frayed so badly that Fenella could barely make out the emblem.
“My aunt gave this to me as I came away and I have not even bothered to open it.”
“Cor! Not bothered, Miss?” Molly’s mouth hung open in a large gape of surprise. “It could be real jools, Miss!”
“I don’t think so.” Fenella smiled. “Perhaps a cameo or a paste necklace, but nothing too valuable, I’m sure.”
Molly reverently poured the contents of the silk bag onto the dressing table. There was a pair of exquisite pearl and diamond drop earrings, a pearl and diamond bracelet and ring, and a gold locket engraved with what appeared to be the same elaborate emblem on the bag. The locket looked very old and the emblem itself almost worn away, as if it had belonged to many generations before her. Fenella gazed at the jewellery in awe.
“I’ve never seen this before!” She touched the small gleaming heap. “There must be some mistake.”
“I don’t think there’s a mistake, Miss,” Molly confided in respectful tones. “There’s more inside.”
Fenella drew a folded piece of paper from the confines of the black bag and spread it out. It was in her father’s handwriting. The paper was creased from being folded several times, and there were a few spatters of ink on the page as if her father’s hand had been unsteady at the time of writing.
My dearest sister Maud,
Thank you for taking in my Fenella. I know this is a responsibility you will discharge with all the love and caring in your soul. I shall never see my darling child again. I entrust these jewels to you until she is old enough to appreciate and use them. They were a wedding gift to my wife, Fenella’s mother, and the locket comes from her family. I know you will keep them safe until the right time.
Your loving brother,
James
Ready tears sprang to Fenella’s eyes, tears she dashed away with the back of her hand. Dear Aunt Preston had chosen the right moment to give Fenella her birthright. Memories of her father flooded back into her mind in a flurry of confusion. Somewhere, amongst the fragments of smiles, laughter and remembrances, she had a sudden, strangely familiar flash of her mother. Fenella felt along the side of the locket with her fingernail for the small indentation that would allow her to open it. The locket sprang open. Inside was a curl of silky dark hair. Fenella stared at it. It had to be her mother’s hair. Dark eyes and dark curls…a low, soft voice, and now she remembered why she had reached up to pull her mother’s hair—the glittering earrings had caught her baby glance and attention.
But was there only the curl, she asked herself? Intrigued, she fiddled with the locket again. She pressed on the insides of the ornament out of curiosity, and was astonished when two thin gold leaves sprang open, revealing a picture on the left and right hand sides of the locket. One was of a handsome, fair-haired man in a military uniform whom Fenella recognised as her father; the other was of a dark-haired, beautiful woman, who so resembled Fenella that she knew it was her mother. The force of this old memory slammed home and Fenella heaved a huge, shuddering sigh as she gazed at the faces of her dead parents. After a few long moments, she carefully replaced the curl and closed the locket. Tears coursed down her cheeks but they were not tears of sadness; they were tears of happiness that at last she had something solid to call her own. She now had something tangible to cement those few pitiful memories forever in her mind.
“Now don’t go a-cryin’, Miss,” Molly begged, alarmed that her elaborate coiffure would come tumbling down. “Are those yer Mam’s bits and bobs?”
When Fen
ella sniffed and nodded, Molly remarked with prosaic logic, “Then they’ve come in the nick o’ time, for we needed to dress ye up a bit, Miss. An’ if yer Mam was ’ere right now, wouldn’t she be ever so glad to see ye lookin’ like a princess.”
Fenella sat silent while Molly carefully fixed Fenella’s earrings and then threaded a black velvet ribbon through the locket so that it hung between Fenella’s breasts. Fenella slipped on the bracelet and ring and admired her finery as she turned her hand from side to side. The diamonds and pearls glimmered softly in the candlelight.
“Now yer as perfect as a picture, Miss.” Molly beamed with pride.
When Fenella went downstairs for dinner, she was acutely aware of her modest position in the house and sensitive to Lady Penelope’s dislike of her. It had been impossible even to suggest having a tray in her room. The Dowager had been horrified, and just a little hurt at the idea.
“But ma’am, I am hardly family, and I feel this is a family occasion,” she protested.
“Pshaw!” was the Dowager’s inelegant rejoinder. “I can hardly call that woman family in return, my dear, and since you are more than family to me in how I depend on you, I insist you join us every evening as usual for dinner.”
The old lady’s face was so stern that Fenella dared not defy her by feigning a sick headache.
Fenella walked into the drawing room and Freddie rose to meet her, a welcoming smile lighting up his face. She noticed he had taken his godmother’s more than blunt comments to heart, and was dressed soberly and elegantly for the occasion, with just the smallest hint of frivolity in his elaborate neck cloth, arranged in a trone d’amour.
“I say, Miss Preston, but you always look splendid.” He bowed over her outstretched hand. “Doesn’t she, Dev?”
Devlin turned to her from the fireplace and drawled, “Miss Preston always complements every occasion.” He bowed. “A picture of loveliness.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Fenella spoke quietly and with such sincerity that the Duke raised his left eyebrow a fraction before ushering her to the sofa where the Dowager sat.
The Dangerous Duke Page 11
