by Eva Devon
“Good morning, Your Grace. Would you care for coff—”
“You’re ruined,” the duchess said firmly.
“Coffee?” her voice died and her gaze dropped to the newspaper. Word of her sojourn with Aston and Charles could not have gotten out and not quickly enough to be in the papers.
“You need my help,” the duchess kept on. “And badly.”
“I don’t follow, Your Grace.” And she didn’t. She felt totally at sea.
“Call me Cordelia. I think we are going to have to be very close. Very quickly.”
Her mouth dried. “Could you make yourself plain, C-Cordelia? You’re giving me great unease.”
The Duchess of Hunt drew in a deep breath. “I will not apologize for it. You’ve reason to feel as you do.”
Coming from the blunt, yet optimistic, duchess such a proclamation felt dire, indeed.
The butler lingered in the doorway.
Patience glanced back. “Coffee, immediately. And toast.”
She needed sustenance if she was to face her undoing with a head to match the goings-on of the night before.
It was perhaps fortunate that she did, indeed, have practice with drink. . . If not gin.
The gin was pounding away at her with undue relish. She gestured to one of the delicate chairs before the fire. “Do sit down.”
“I will, thank you.” Cordelia sat perfunctorily, her skirts spreading easily over the chair, and she snapped the newspaper open in one determined go.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Patience sat across from the duchess trying not to let the room spin with immediate and intense fear. “Is the newspaper necessary?”
“I think you should hear directly,” Cordelia returned before burying her face in the paper. “It is with great interest that you, dear reader, shall be informed that Mr. P. Auden is no Mr. P. Auden at all. This, in itself, is no great surprise given the use of pseudonyms by the modern day author. However, there is something that will shock you, dear reader, to the core.”
Patience’s stomach dropped and she dug her fingers into the damask-covered chair.
“For, in fact, the only thing genuine about Mr. P. Auden is the P which belongs not to a mister but rather to Lady Patience, daughter of the deceased Baron of Montbank, who perhaps is no lady at all for she is an unmarried young woman engaging in the trade of novels.”
The use of the word woman was very bad. Very bad, indeed. There was a vast difference between a woman and a lady when used in such an official way.
Cordelia looked over the edge of the paper for a moment before snapping it and continuing, “Lady Patience is also the niece of Lord Reginald Penshurst who so recently died in a mysterious drowning accident after losing his fortune and home in a hand of cards. We cannot conceive how a lady should be the author of such salacious and popular works but it is undeniable from our source that Lady Patience is, indeed, P. Auden.”
Patience swallowed. She’d been so careful. So careful. Until just the last few days when she’d trusted Lord Charles.
He’d discovered her identity but she’d trusted him to keep it secret. Mrs. Barton, her publisher, and Uncle Reginald were the only people who knew. Her uncle, of course, was gone.
Mrs. Barton would never betray her and had no reason to. She was certain of it.
Her publisher would be a fool to give up her identity.
That left only one person, did it not? Lord Charles.
For all that she was drawn to him, he was a man not to be trusted. And she had. Could he have done something so foul?
She grimaced and looked to the window.
As she did so, Cordelia lowered the paper.
The butler entered quickly and left the silver tray bearing coffee, cream and sugar as well as toast with butter.
Patience stared at it as she listened to her butler retreat quickly.
No doubt, the man couldn’t wait to eavesdrop at the door.
If Cordelia knew, her entire staff knew.
By now, all London knew.
The news sheet was a remarkable thing, read out in coffee shops for those who could not pay to have one delivered.
Her fate was sealed. Lady Patience was. . . Ruined.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered, at a loss. It was such a strange feeling. Not knowing what to do. She always knew what to do. It was only recently she’d begun to feel as though on unfamiliar footing.
“Do you have any idea who might have betrayed your secret?” Cordelia asked.
She licked her lips. Dare she say it? Well, in for a penny in for a pound as the saying went. “Your brother-in-law.”
“Charles?” Cordelia frowned. “He knows?”
“Indeed. He is very savvy.”
Cordelia smiled tightly. “He is that. But you think he betrayed your secret? He’s a devil to be sure but this doesn’t strike me as his sort of work.
That heartened her. “Does it not?”
“No,” Cordelia replied confidently. “You know him only as the taker of your home?”
Here was the moment. Did she keep lying to Duchess Cordelia? Or did she allow the Duchess to know the truth? What was the point of lying? Now? None.
“Duchess, I know your brother-in-law a trifle better than you think.”
Cordelia’s mouth dropped open for a good moment before she said, “Do you, by God?”
“Yes,” Patience continued, unwilling to go back now. “I’ve met with him twice since coming to London and after we met in the country.”
Cordelia studied her then smiled ruefully. “My, you are the dark horse. May I ask in what capacity? Of course, you needn’t divulge such a thing.”
“You know, I’m not sure,” Patience replied. And she wasn’t. Her relationship with Charles seemed to have no definition. Was he a consultant? At last, she managed, “He was assisting me with my research.”
Cordelia arched a skeptical brow then gave a cheeky smile. “Is that what you call it?”
“Perhaps, there is a little more, but we have not done anything I regret.”
“Good for you,” Cordelia said firmly, folding the paper. “Regrets are for the weak.”
“Then you don’t consider my writing a cause for regret?”
“No!” Cordelia scooted forward in her chair, her cheeks blooming with her determination and sincerity. “I adore your books. They’re quite exceptional. I’ve devoured them. But that is neither here nor there. As it is, you’re going to have to go to Italy and, while I quite like it there for short stays, it is not the place for an English lady to live a lifetime in exile.”
“Byron is there.”
“Byron is an insufferable arse,” Cordelia said with no hint of remorse. “I invited him to one dinner party and by God, the man, genius or no, is beyond silly. Nothing but potatoes and vinegar, indeed. I hear he eats meat in secret.”
That wasn’t the only thing he’d done in secret if the papers were correct.
“He is a literary God, of course,” Cordelia continued. “People have put up with a great deal from him to be sure but he’s rather too much. I know he’s had his challenges but one should just get on with it. Don’t you think?”
“I am not a literary God.”
Cordelia sighed. “Nor are you a man. You shan’t be able to get away with what he has done for so long. In fact, the ton shall be gleeful in raking you over the proverbial coals if something isn’t done immediately.”
“What do you suggest?” Given the duchess’ confidence, it felt as if she were going to come up with a miraculous solution.
Cordelia leveled her with a hard gaze. “Marry.”
“I beg your pardon?” The room seemed to whirl.
“Marry.”
It whirled again and she grabbed the chair tightly. “B-but. . .”
“No, buts my dear.” Cordelia gave a firm shake of her blonde head. “The time for buts ended when the ink was wet on those pages. No. It is time you wed and someone scandalous themselves. Someone from a scandalou
s but untouchable family. A family that will give you protection due to their own status and eccentricities.”
Patience gulped as her position clarified. It was, indeed, bad. Very bad.
“As you say, I am ruined,” Patience rushed. “My title is minor. My money is from trade. What family would have me?”
“Mine.”
“You have brothers?” Patience asked, stunned. Really, it seemed all this was entirely impossible.
“I have an army of brothers but the Basingstoke family is not the family to which I refer.”
“Who then?”
Cordelia sat up very straight and she beamed, clearly pleased with her solution. “My husband’s family. His brother to be specific.”
“Lord Charles?” Was she mad? She must be. How could Lord Charles suddenly be a candidate for her husband?
“Indeed. You’re already acquainted, though the circumstances of your introduction were less than ideal, I grant you. But I like you. You’re everything he needs. You’re everything I desire in a sister-in-law.”
Patience met Cordelia’s confidence with amazement and frankness. “Duchess, all you know is that I am a liar.”
“Ha! That is not the only thing I know at all.”
“What can you possibly know?” Patience protested, splaying her hands.
Cordelia folded her hands as if preparing for an oration. “You are intelligent. Artistic. Passionate. Skilled. Disciplined. You care about women and social causes. You secretly long for a fuller life. . . Charles can give you that.”
“He’s a confirmed bachelor,” Patience replied, reeling from the exceptional list of qualities Cordelia had just attributed to her.
“Perhaps,” admitted Cordelia. “But he’ll marry you.”
“What makes you say so?”
“He’s a good man and he feels tremendous guilt over your uncle.”
“Has he mentioned it?” She knew Charles had been alarmed by putting her out and had been kind about the situation or as kind as someone as devilish as he could be.
“I overheard him discussing it with my husband.”
Patience frowned. “I shan’t marry him out of guilt.”
“You must,” Cordelia refuted. “You’ll be good for him. Even if it’s a marriage in name only.”
“What if he finds someone else to love one day?” For some unfathomable reason, the suggestion was galling but it had to be said.
“Charles?” Cordelia pursed her lips then shook her head. “I doubt it. He is not. . . He needs a strong woman who can stand up to him and survive his black spells.” Cordelia sighed. “You see, it will be no easy thing for you, despite marrying into a ducal family. Much like his father, Lord Charles suffers from melancholia.”
“Lord Charles?” Patience tried to make sense of it. She’d seen that there was depth to Lord Charles and even sadness. “But he—”
Cordelia’s brows rose. “Seems as if he cares not a whit for the world?”
She nodded.
“A pretender, my dear,” Cordelia said sadly. “As most men are in my experience. They all wish you to think they are big, bad fellows without a heart. Puppies, the lot of them, in my opinion. Women are, by far, the stronger sex.”
She agreed with that. But the idea of marriage to Lord Charles?
Suddenly, she recalled the touch of his hands upon her body.
If they married, he could touch her as often as she liked. He could slide his hands all the way up her skirts, between her thighs to touch—
“I can see from your blush that the idea of marriage to him is not entirely repellent.” Cordelia’s self-assurance returned. “He is a handsome man and intelligent. You shan’t be married to a fool. He’ll keep you on your toes.”
Patience looked to the window. “I don’t know—”
“If you do not marry him, your books will become the rallying cry of all those against any sort of forward movement for women and society,” Cordelia said brutally. “They will insist that you have been corrupted without the guidance of a good father figure. That all you have written, your challenging stories, were naught more than that of a fanciful female mind rather than that of a reasoning man.”
A sudden sickness lodged in her stomach. That wasn’t something Patience had considered. If the world suddenly thought her books had been written by a woman, would they truly lose all respect for them?
It hardly bore thinking of. Worse, if she were unmarried, would they think it a sign of a hysterical, unguided debutant? That was worse than any torture she could imagine.
She turned back to Cordelia and asked the obvious. “What if he won’t have me?”
There was a knock on the front door.
“Ah,” said Cordelia with a grin. “Perfectly timed.”
Patience twisted to the door, her insides aflutter with unease and strangely, excitement. “How do you know it’s him? It could be anyone sent to mock me in my hour of pain.”
“It could be,” agreed Cordelia. “But I did send a note round to him, telling him to get his corrupted self out of bed and over here in no small time.”
“I say, you do like to manage things.”
“My husband says I’m terrible. But if one sits around waiting for things to happen one will always be a hand-wringing maiden. Is that what you wish?”
Patience shook her head.
“No.” Cordelia nodded. Clearly pleased she hadn’t been mistaken. “I didn’t think so. I knew you were a creature of sense the moment we met.”
“We’ve met only once. You’re taking quite a risk for your family rallying to my cause.”
“Nonsense. I am an excellent judge of character. I do not need years but moments to assess one’s merits. And quite frankly, my dear, I couldn’t leave you adrift. I know what it is to be alone. And from the moment I saw you, I knew you were special. It is why I had to and am coming to your aid so dramatically. Someone else? I’d help them, of course, but I’d try to calm the gossips, I’d give them money, and I’d assist them in packing. You? You mustn’t leave England with your tail between your legs. England needs a woman like you.”
Patience couldn’t suppress her smile. Duchess Cordelia was a bit of a marvel. A force of nature. How many gainsaid her? Not many, she wagered. Her husband had to be a very strong man, indeed.
The morning room door opened and Lord Charles strode in.
There wasn’t a single sign that he’d spent the night in the slums. Unlike herself, he didn’t look a mess. He looked perfectly groomed.
He was beautiful.
It felt so odd. The idea that she should contemplate a union with him.
They didn’t match. Surely, they didn’t. She was plain. He was stunning. She was awkward. He was popular.
Theirs would be a marriage of opposites. No. She couldn’t. Besides, he would never agree to such a thing. The question was moot.
“Charles, I’ve a proposal for you,” Patience blurted suddenly, not believing she’d declared such a thing when she’d just thought the opposite.
He eyed her, then Cordelia, then the paper on the settee.
“I do believe it is the man who makes the proposal.”
A laugh huffed out of her. “You presume to know what sort of proposal I had in mind?”
“Am I mistaken? After all, with Cordelia here and the morning’s events what they are, what other kind could it be?”
How could she argue? “A good point, my lord.”
“I am nothing, if not observant.”
“Charles, that is but one of many of your slightly annoying qualities,” Cordelia said. “Thank goodness you have so many good ones.”
“Do I?” he drawled. “I had hoped to have lost them all by now.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe him for a moment. He’s a lamb. A veritable lamb.”
Charles cocked his head to the side. “You once thought me quite the arse.”
Cordelia smiled. “I didn’t say you weren’t an arse.”
Despite P
atience’s horrible position, she bit back a grin. Envy. Pure envy assailed her. How was it that Charles had such convivial relationships with the people close to him? Aston. The Duchess of Hunt. He spoke so lightly with them.
She’d never had such a relationship in all her life. Certainly not with family.
Cordelia glanced between them then pointed her parasol at Charles. “Now that I know you two are quite acquainted, I needn’t involve myself nearly as much as I supposed I would have to do.”
“I must ask just one question,” Patience said.
Both Charles and Cordelia stared at her, waiting.
“Did you really think he’d ask me to marry him just at your request?”
Cordelia blinked then looked at Charles. Her smile widened. “Why, yes. I do believe he would have.”
“Even without the guilt?” Patience queried.
“I’ve yet to ask anyone anything yet,” he said loudly.
Cordelia laughed. “Ah. But you will. And as to that, my dear Patience, we shall never know. But from the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one for Charles.”
“But I was plain Lady Patience,” Patience protested.
Cordelia chortled. “Dear friend, for you are my friend now and soon to be sister, I am sure—”
Charles made a strangled noise which Cordelia ignored.
“There is nothing plain about you.” Cordelia turned to Charles. “Is there?”
Charles glanced over to Patience and he held her gaze. At long last, he said in a voice so deep, so sincere, it sent shivers up her spine, “No, Cordelia. Not a bloody thing plain about her.”
With that, Cordelia bustled to the door. “Now, don’t make a muck of it, Charles.”
“I do have a brain,” he said.
“Yes, but it is a male one.” And then Cordelia swished from the room.
“My goodness, she is something,” said Patience feeling as if a gale force wind had departed with the duchess.
“You’ve no idea,” Charles said.
“Is she a trifle mad?”
“More than a trifle I should think. And it’s why we all adore her.”
“Truly?”
Charles nodded. “She had the temerity to waltz into my brother’s life and demand he come up to snuff. He did. And he became a happy man. She did that. Marriage has given her even more vigor. She’s a woman of parts as they say. Like you.”
