My Dear Duchess

by M C Beaton

  Jack Ferrand surveyed the trembling figure of Miss Wheatcroft with dislike. She was dressed in an extremely smart skating rig of scarlet velvet with gold frogs but her long nose was just as red and her thin sandy hair poked out in wisps from her under bonnet. With a sigh of relief he spotted the approaching bulk of Chuffy.

  “Ah, Chuffy,” he cried. “There is a vastly pretty lady waiting for your escort!” Priscilla turned around with a radiant smile on her face but Chuffy lumbered straight past her and took Frederica’s arm. “Delighted to oblige,” he said, gliding off with Frederica.

  There was nothing else Jack Ferrand could do but escort Priscilla. Then he noticed the jealous and venomous glance Miss Wheatcroft threw in Frederica’s direction and felt more charitably inclined towards the girl. She could yet be useful.

  “Where is our dear Duchess’ husband?” said Priscilla, following Frederica’s slim figure with a wintry look that sparkled like the frost-covered fields.

  “He is at Chartsay,” replied Jack Ferrand, neatly executing an intricate turn. He lowered his voice, “May I tell you something in strict confidence?”

  “But of course!” breathed Priscilla, her long nose twitching like a rabbit.

  “It is said that the Duke seeks a divorce.”

  Priscilla put her gloved hand to her mouth and gave a delighted “Oh!” and her fervent assurances that the news would go no further. She then glided off to spread the delicious tidbit round the other guests as soon as she could. She was clever enough to keep the news from Emily, however. Even Priscilla knew that her dear friend was positively “blinded with affection” when it came to matters concerning the Duchess.

  Jack Ferrand looked on with delight as Miss Wheatcroft sped from group to group over the lake, glad to have people stop and listen to her at last. Mr. Ferrand reflected on the ways of the world and considered it was simply marvellous that no one would consider telling Frederica what was being said about herself.

  Frederica became uncomfortably aware of whispers and pitying glances and suddenly wished that the card tables could be set up so that she could lose herself in the game.

  A thaw set in on Christmas morning with a great gusty wind driving sheets of rain against the window panes. A parcel arrived for the Duchess of Westerland and she tore open the wrapping with shaking fingers. It was a pretty gold filigree bracelet which she tossed aside while she searched for a note. With trembling fingers she opened the thin slip of paper and read the spidery handwriting. It said, “His Grace, the Duke of Westerland, presents his compliments to Her Grace, the Duchess of Westerland with many wishes for a pleasant Christmas.” The note was signed, “Your humble and obedient servant, James Entwhistle, secretary.”

  The most recent addition to the Duke’s household, secretary James Entwhistle, could never have guessed what agonies his simple note had caused.

  Frederica’s misery was complete. The noisy Christmas festivities washed passed her as she stood on a little rocky island of loneliness and despair. Only in the intricacies of piquet or whist did she manage to escape from her tortured thoughts.

  She took her new-found gambling fever back to the empty rooms of Grosvenor Square with her but, to Jack Ferrand’s eternal disappointment, she drew the line at visiting gambling clubs, however select. The stakes were too high, she protested, and it was not her own money to lose. She contented herself with lady-like games of whist or silver loo when the card tables were set up after dinner in the households of her friends.

  The quiet Miss Wheatcroft had been busy and it eventually came to Emily’s ears that her dear friend had been gossiping about Frederica’s supposed impending divorce around every salon and drawing room in London.

  In a towering rage, she sent Priscilla packing and then rushed round to Grosvenor Square and asked Frederica bluntly if the news were true. “I am not considering a divorce,” said Frederica. “It must mean that it is your brother who is considering it.”

  “Then it’s a piece of idle gossip,” snapped Emily. “If, by any chance, Henry were considering a divorce he would certainly not tell anyone. He never discusses his marriage. I am one of the few who know it was a marriage of convenience and the two of you seem to have been rubbing along tolerably well. It’s not as if either of you were in the habit of having lovers’ quarrels!”

  Perhaps if Emily had not been so robust and matter-of-fact, Frederica might have confided in her. But she had received so many hurts and humiliations since her marriage that she cringed from another rebuff. Emily might point out that she should never have married brother Henry unless she was willing to meet the terms of the marriage.

  Frederica plunged once more into the social round and, when her husband returned to town, she found herself accepting as many as four or five invitations a day. The Duke returned to his Corinthian sports of boxing, curricle racing, and other manly pursuits and spent most of his evenings in either White’s, Watier’s, or Brooks.

  Priscilla’s one piece of gossip died as the ducal couple continued to share the same roof and more tantalizing on-dits began to circulate.

  Frederica felt as if she had never led such a dissipated life but to Jack Ferrand’s jaundiced eyes, she seemed the model of propriety.

  He decided to call on Clarissa.

  To his surprise, he was informed that Miss Sayers was not at home although he could hear her laugh echoing from the drawing room.

  He returned to his carriage outside the house in Clarence Square and waited patiently. Half an hour later, the thin mincing figure of Lord Adderson descended the stairs. Lord Adderson was a young widower who had reportedly run through his own fortune, his late wife’s fortune, and was now said to be on the look-out for another.

  Jack Ferrand waited until Lord Adderson’s carriage had turned the corner of the square and then mounted the house steps again. He pushed past the startled butler and strode into the drawing room. Clarissa and her mother were in a great flutter about something and both of them turned and stared at him with haughty displeasure.

  “A word with you in private, Miss Sayers,” said Jack, holding open the door for Mrs. Sayers who started to bridle and protest but was cut short rudely by Clarissa.

  “Go on, mama. I am quite capable of dealing with this… gentleman.”

  Both waited in silence until Mrs. Sayers had left. “I gather you are to be congratulated,” said Jack Ferrand.

  “Yes,” yawned Clarissa, waving her fan languidly to and fro.

  “Then my girl, let me remind you that the marriage will never take place if you continue to give me such cavalier treatment.”

  “Do your worst,” mocked Clarissa. “Percy Adderson will never believe you. He is much too interested in my fortune.”

  “He may not, but the rest of London society will. And Adderson has a grim mama and a very old name to protect. You would never get near the altar.”

  Clarissa turned white and dropped her fan. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You know I would,” he said. “You have only one more little thing to do for me. You will go to the Duke all concern for your little sister. You will tell him that Frederica has been keeping low company and is in the habit of frequenting a certain Mrs. O’Brien’s establishment. You will say as a clincher that she is to be there tonight. And you will leave the rest to me.”

  “You are too cruel,” Clarissa sobbed. “I am tired of this whole matter.”

  “Don’t waste your tears on me,” he said brutally. “I am not one of your gallants. You will do this one last thing or you will never be Lady Adderson.”

  She did not reply but stared at him white-faced through her tears.

  “Answer me,” he commanded, twisting her arm behind her back.

  “Yes… yes,” whispered Clarissa. “But, by God, I hate you more than any other vermin on the face of this earth.”

  “Just do it,” he said, releasing her. “Here is Mrs. O’Brien’s direction. Go to the Duke this morning.”

  Clarissa watched him stride from the
room through a mist of tears. She decided to call on her brother-in-law while she was still distressed and frightened. Henry had an uncomfortably shrewd eye.

  “If ever I get out of this coil,” she swore to herself, “Frederica can marry the Prince Regent for all I care!” It suddenly struck her that this was at least a somewhat unselfish thought and she felt strangely comforted.

  She was leaving to collect her cloak and bonnet when she almost collided with Mrs. Sayers. “Sit down for a minute, Clarissa,” said her mama with unwonted severity. “Are you going to throw your engagement to Adderson to the winds by receiving that man, Ferrand, unchaperoned?”

  “Why, mama, he is an old friend!”

  “A young unmarried man who whispers in corners with a young unmarried girl is no friend,” said Mrs. Sayers grimly. “What is behind these meetings? Out with it!”

  For a split second, Clarissa thought furiously, then she forced a smile. “Why, mama. I was sure you would have guessed. It was Mr. Ferrand who fostered my engagement to Lord Adderson.”

  “Indeed!” cried Mrs. Sayers, much mollified. “Then we are very much beholden to him. Lord! I’d love to see Frederica’s face when she hears you are marrying a title.”

  Clarissa looked at her mother in some surprise. Could not Mrs. Sayers understand her stepdaughter enough to know that Frederica would not care one way or the other?

  “You know, mama,” remarked Clarissa in a conversational voice, “you are a remarkably stupid woman.”

  “How dare you!” gasped Mrs. Sayers and mother and daughter fell into one of their tormenting, harrying and chivvying arguments with all the enthusiasm of old campaigners.

  They went at it hammer and tongs for nigh on an hour until Clarissa, who was just about to throw one of her famous tantrums to somehow clinch the argument of her mother’s stupidity, recollected her appointment and left a startled Mrs. Sayers in mid-scream.

  The Duke had not yet left for his club. Clarissa was ushered into the Egyptian room and left to await him. A cheerful fire was crackling on the hearth, sending little sparkles of light glinting from the glass sphinxes heads on the pilasters of the fireplace. The Duchess was fortunately absent. Through the long windows, she could see glimpses of the leaden sky outside. Her mission began to take on an air of unreality and Clarissa fervently wished that she could simply get up and go away and forget about the whole thing.

  The door opened and the Duke entered. He was dressed to go out in a blue fitted swallowtail coat, striped waistcoat, buckskins, and polished hessians. He had lost his tan and his thin, white handsome face looked unwontedly severe. To Clarissa, he seemed like a formidable opponent. Her nerves and distress returned and she began to cry most convincingly. Despite her very obvious distress, the Duke experienced nothing more than a pang of boredom until through her sobs, he caught the mention of his wife’s name.

  Three quick strides took him to her side and he jerked her to her feet. “Frederica! What about Frederica?” he demanded, holding the sobbing girl by the shoulders and resisting an impulse to shake her hard.

  With an effort, Clarissa pulled herself together. She may as well get it over quickly.

  “Poor F-Frederica,” she stammered, holding a wisp of handkerchief to her eyes. “She has got into bad habits and bad company and spends her nights g-gambling in low dives.”

  The Duke released her. “Fustian,” he remarked coldly.

  Clarissa was suddenly terrified that he would not believe her. “It’s true,” she cried. “Why, I know that tonight you will be able to find her at her usual rendezvous, a Mrs. O’Brien’s.”

  “Mrs. O’Brien’s. Come, come. Do you take me for a flat? My wife may not yet be up to all the ways of the world. But she certainly would not attend a gambling hell frequented by card sharps and the demi-monde.”

  “But it’s true!” wailed Clarissa, almost believing it herself in her desperation.

  The Duke sat down and crossed one muscular leg over the other and surveyed her coldly. “It occurs to me that if Frederica were disgracing herself by frequenting a low establishment it would surely be a source of joy to you rather than otherwise. You can act very coyly and prettily, my girl, but I am persuaded that there is not one whit of truth in all this farradiddle. Why this sudden concern for Frederica’s welfare?”

  Clarissa played her trump card. She opened her beautiful eyes and gave him a direct look. “I see I cannot fool you, Henry. The fact is I have become engaged to Lord Adderson this very morn. Any breath of scandal attached to our name and…”

  She did not need to finish. The Duke vividly recalled her desire for a title. He leaned forward. “I shall go to Mrs. O’Brien’s tonight. If Frederica is there, God help her. An’ she is not… then God help you, dear Clarissa.”

  Clarissa recoiled. The Duke’s eyes were blazing and she realized with a thrill of terror that he was likely to be a much more formidable enemy than Jack Ferrand. She had a sudden impulse to tell him the truth but he had risen to his feet and rung the bell for the servant to show her out.

  She almost ran from the house to her carriage and nearly collided with a small female figure who was lurking on the pavement.

  “Why! Miss Wheatcroft,” exclaimed Clarissa recognising the foxy face peeping out from a poke bonnet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have urgent news for Mr. Pellington-James,” whispered Priscilla, the tip of her nose twitching in an irritating manner. “Do you have his direction?”

  “He has lodgings in Albemarle Street, I believe,” said Clarissa coldly. “I suggest you go there and enquire.”

  The little figure scuttled off leaving Clarissa to stare after her. What was that all about? Clarissa had a comforting feeling that at least Chuffy was in for as bad a morning as she was experiencing herself.

  A new Chuffy Pellington-James was at that moment ambling in a leisurely manner back to his flat in Albemarle Street. Overcome by the friendship of such a notable Corinthian as the Duke of Westerland, and tired of the malice of the Dandy set, Chuffy had decided to adopt the Corinthian mode.

  He had just visited his tailors, Weston and Meyer in Conduit Street, to supervise the structure of a suit of evening clothes that even Mr. Brummell would find unexceptionable. Rigid days of sports and exercise had reduced his stomach to comfortable proportions and his rosy face, free of its customary white paint, beamed on the world.

  Even a rigidly starched cravat tied in the Oriental failed to mar Chuffy’s comfort. Free of stays and high heels, he felt like a new man.

  He was cheerfully whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and looking forward to changing his clothes and having a well-earned lunch at his club, when the whistle died on his lips. He found himself looking down at the unforgettable face of Priscilla Wheatcroft who was clutching the railings at the entrance to his flag.

  “Oh, Mr. Pellington-James,” she gasped weakly. “Thank goodness it is you. I am feeling faint. Do you think you could procure me a glass of water?”

  “Well, no I can’t,” said Chuffy baldly. “M’man’s got the day off. ‘Sides it wouldn’t be the thing to have a lady in my flat. Where’s your maid?”

  “She… she fell ill too,” whispered Priscilla, swaying against the railings.

  Chuffy swore under his breath and looked quickly up and down the street. No one was in sight. “You can come in for a minute,” he said. “And make sure nobody sees you leavin’.”

  She nodded and clung onto his arm. Together they climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartments. He fumbled for his key and let her in to a dark hallway. “What an interesting little key,” cried Priscilla, holding out her hand. “May I see it?”

  He handed it to her. “It’s the latest Chubb lock,” he said proudly. “No felon’s going to pick that one.”

  “Really,” exclaimed Priscilla, inserting the key in the inside lock. “And when I turn it like this, there you are, all locked in, safe and sound.”

  “Well… er… yes,” said Chuffy, holding out his
hand for the key but she moved in front of him into his small book-lined parlor.

  Before Chuffy knew what she was about she had run to the window which was open a few inches at the bottom and hurled the key out into the street.

  “What the…” began Chuffy.

  She turned and faced him with her back to the window, a smile of triumph curving her thin lips. “You are compromised, Mr. Pellington-James,” she cried. “Now you will need to marry me!”

  Chuffy moved quickly to the window. The street looked a very long way down. “I could scream for help,” he remarked.

  She gave a scornful laugh. “A large man like you, screaming for help! Why, you would be the laughing stock of London.”

  Gloomily, Chuffy realized this to be true. The new respect and compliments he had earned since he had joined the Corinthian set were not to be thrown away lightly. He sat down suddenly and surveyed Priscilla Wheatcroft with a drawn, hard look beginning to form on his usually cheerful features.

  He began to pull of his boots.

  “Why, Mr. Pellington-James! What are you doing?” screamed Priscilla.

  “Makin’ the most of it,” said Chuffy laconically, removing his jacket.

  “But… this is not what I planned,” stammered Priscilla.

  Chuffy tore off his cravat and removed his splendid waistcoat.

  “I shall scream for help,” said Priscilla, breathing hard.

  Chuffy removed his shirt and then his undervest. “Won’t do you any good,” he remarked cheerfully. “Nobody in the house and the window won’t open any further.”

  He hitched a thumb into the top of his trousers and looked across at Miss Wheatcroft who was staring at his naked hairy chest and looking now as if she was really going to faint.

  He approached her slowly as she backed into a corner of the room. “You said I was compromised, Miss Wheatcroft,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye. “But you’re the one that’s going to be compromised so you may as well make the best of it. Come here to me.”

  Like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake, Priscilla moved slowly towards him. He caught her round the waist and removed her bonnet and threw it on the sofa.