The Determined Duchess

by Erica Monroe

  Well, that answered his question about her friendship with his aunt, and also made him doubt his “beloved nephew” status. Perhaps he had not been favored by Aunt Margaret as he’d thought. “Ah, you see—”

  His explanation was cut off by Felicity. “Nicholas inherited the estate, but he does not deign to visit us often.”

  “I have many obligations that often keep me away from Tetbery.” He hoped that sounded smoother to them than it did to him—because to him, it sounded like a pithy excuse. He’d missed Aunt Margaret’s funeral, and he had nothing to show for it.

  She’d deserved better.

  The people murdered on Ratcliffe Highway deserved better.

  He couldn’t change the past, but at least he could make it right with Felicity. “But soon, Miss Fields will be joining me in London for the Season, so I am certain you shall see much of both of us.”

  “Really?” Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed even more. He wondered how she could even see.

  “Yes,” he said.

  At the same time Felicity answered, “no.”

  “Interesting,” Lady Hettie said, in that same way Felicity had of turning a single word into a bullet for a fully primed pistol.

  Now he knew why Felicity was smiling so damn much: Lady Hettie had earned every part of her fearsome reputation.

  “I’m delighted that you are here,” he said, in his most polite, I-am -fine-with-you-staying-here-even-though-I-am-not-at-all tone. “And I do so hope you find the estate to your liking.”

  “Thank you.” Lady Hettie didn’t seem anymore convinced by his faux politeness than he was. He doubted much got past the old dragon.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Blandford’s daughter said, her tone amiable, as though this was all the most standard of interactions, and not an obvious familial dispute better left to closed quarters. “I’m Lady Mallory Hughes. Miss Fields has told me much about you.”

  “All good things, I hope.” He only managed a tight grin, because he knew bloody well nothing Felicity said about him would be good.

  “Absolutely.” Lady Mallory smiled, as Felicity let out a very loud, undignified snort that made Lady Mallory grin even more.

  Nicholas decided he liked Lady Mallory, more for the things she did not say than for what she did.

  He watched as the girl strode forward to Felicity. She moved with a certain innate grace, her pale gray eyes as dazzling and bright as her wide, welcoming smile. She stood a full head shorter than Felicity, all lush curves while the redhead was tall and lean, all sharpness and prickly points.

  She was precisely the type of woman he usually found irresistible: demure, delicate-boned, and unabashedly feminine. Yet he felt no stirrings of desire for her.

  Because he couldn’t stop looking at his aunt’s ward, standing there so rigidly, black covering her almost from head to toe. The flush of red upon her cheeks from the cold, making him think of other—far more pleasurable—activities that might pink her cheeks.

  He shook his head. There had to be a simple explanation for this, something that did not include him being attracted to Felicity.

  At least Lady Mallory appeared normal.

  Until she embraced Felicity, and her eyes grew cloudy, becoming a milky gray that by no means looked natural. A shiver ran through the woman’s body, and she leaned forward, whispering something in Felicity’s ears.

  Felicity scoffed, murmuring a reply. The girl nodded. Her eyes closed for a second, and when she reopened them, they were again dove gray and clear. Had his eyes deceived him? Pointedly, he looked at Felicity for some sort of clarification, and she just shrugged.

  So she’d noticed the woman’s transformation—that wasn’t a surprise, she noticed everything—but she thought it was nothing to be concerned about.

  Damned Tetbery.

  Only here, in the wilds of Cornwall, would it be considered unremarkable for a woman’s eyes to change color, making her look like some sort of possessed demon.

  Nicholas swallowed down his unease. He shook his head. Strange, vaguely supernatural occurrences or not, he had a duty. Show the guests inside, pretend he lived a stellar life above all reproach. “Shall we go in the house, then?”

  The women set off without him. Their procession stopped only to gather up Felicity’s giant book from the bench. Neither Hughes remarked on this eccentricity.

  Nicholas sent up a silent prayer for small miracles. He had a feeling he’d need all the help he could get this week.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, Nicholas rode to Castle Keyvnor to have breakfast with his friend Teddy Lockwood, the Earl of Ashbrooke. It was the first time he had seen Teddy since his marriage a month ago to Lady Claire Deering. Teddy and Claire had been best friends since childhood, and all of their friends from Eton had predicted long ago that the two were destined for marriage—but they’d never admitted their feelings to each other until the will reading for the Earl of Banfield at the castle on All Hallows’ Eve.

  “Marriage agrees with you, my friend,” Nicholas said, patting butter on his toast. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so relaxed.”

  Teddy grinned as he set his tea cup down on the saucer. “I’ve never been better. Even went hiking yesterday.”

  Nicholas arched a brow. “You hate hiking. At school, you said the outdoors was for men with death wishes.” He pitched his voice lower, imitating Teddy. “‘Too many bugs. Too much heat. Pollen is the very devil.’”

  Teddy laughed. “I still stand by all of that. I’m not saying I’d make it a hobby, but when I’m with Claire, I find I can do all sorts of things I never thought possible. She makes me want to be a better man, Nick.”

  “If you weren’t my friend, you’d sicken me.” Nicholas let out a mock-groan. “You can keep your ball and chain. I’ll be living the bachelor life for many more years.”

  “Of course you will.” There was a knowing glint to Teddy’s eyes that Nicholas didn’t appreciate. “That’s what Blackwater said too, and Lancaster, and St. Giles. There’s something about Castle Keyvnor that brings love to the forefront.”

  “Lucky for me then that I’m staying at Tetbery.” He swallowed down another mouthful of eggs, buying time in silence, for Teddy eyed him as if he had more to say, if Nicholas would just give him the opening.

  Without his approval, an image of Felicity sprang to mind. She’d looked right out there on the front lawn of the estate yesterday, smiling as she greeted their guests. While he couldn’t ride away from Tetbery fast enough this morning, she didn’t want to leave it.

  I’m right where I’m supposed to be, she’d said. What must that be like, to feel at home? Even though he’d inherited Wycliffe Manor several years ago, it didn’t feel like his—he hadn’t even changed the décor of his study yet. Just like his Mayfair townhouse, the manor was exactly the same as it had been when his father was alive.

  He’d told himself it was because he was too busy to devote time to something trivial like decorating. Yet as he’d entered the castle today, he couldn’t help but admit that the greenery and ribbons made a difference—for the first time since he’d arrived in Bocka Morrow, he felt like it was truly Christmastime.

  Teddy took another sip of tea, then asked, “How is your aunt’s ward? Miss Farthing, is it?”

  Nicholas highly doubted Teddy had forgotten Felicity’s surname. He remembered everything, much like Felicity herself. But for now, Nicholas would let him think he was being subtle. “Miss Fields, and she is as difficult as ever.”

  “How so?”

  Nicholas took a bite of toast, frowning. “Felicity has her own ideas about how things should be done, and she doesn’t diverge from that. I want her to come to London with me, to re-enter society. She’s never even had a Season. Aunt Margaret secluded herself on the estate.”

  “Society is not kind to those who are different.” Teddy frowned, and Nicholas suspected he was thinking about Claire. When Claire’s mother was admitted to the Ticehurs
t Asylum, the beau monde had shunned her, dubbing her the Mad Daughter. “Though perhaps she might have better luck, with you as her sponsor.”

  Teddy did not sound all that convinced.

  Having finished with his breakfast, Nicholas shoved his plate away from him and moved his chocolate cup closer. “When we were children, she told me I was ‘bothersome, but tolerable.’”

  “I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of you.” Teddy laughed again.

  It had been so long since he’d heard Teddy laugh, but marriage seemed to change that about his old friend, too. Tall, dark-haired Teddy had always been the most studious of their group, and the most likely to take everything far, far too seriously. “What did you think about her?”

  Nicholas ran his finger across the rim of his chocolate mug, thinking. “Back then, I considered her rigidity and frankness small prices to pay when the alternative was spending the summer alone.”

  Teddy nodded. “And now?”

  He considered this for a moment. “Over the years, I’ve come to think of her like a geometric proof.” When Teddy appeared confused, Nicholas continued, “She begins with the known facts, moves on to a logical deduction, and then arrives at an informed conclusion. She’s the most painstakingly rational person I’ve ever known.”

  And it’s infuriating.

  He did not say this to Teddy, however, for Teddy had returned his attention to his breakfast and the last thing Nicholas wanted was more of his not-so-subtle conjectures.

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Teddy mused. “I quite like rational people. I consider myself one, actually.”

  “Perhaps you and Felicity would get along, then.” Maybe Teddy would have better luck with her than he had. “You could talk to her. Convince her to come to London with me.”

  Teddy shook his head. “You’re like a brother to me, Nicholas. All the more reason why I wouldn’t dare interfere in this matter.”

  There was an underlying note to Teddy’s refusal—something that, if he didn’t know Teddy as well as he did, he might have considered akin to sort out your own woman.

  But Felicity wasn’t his. Not in that sense, at least. She was his problem, yes, but not his.

  He sighed. “How do you argue with someone who always thinks they’re right?”

  “You wait until they’re wrong.” Teddy shrugged. “Or, you accept that maybe, they really are always right.”

  He didn’t want to dignify that possibility. “When I was ten, I told Felicity that I thought I saw Uncle Randall’s ghost in his chambers. I know ghosts don’t exist—”

  “You’d be surprised,” Teddy said, making Nicholas start. His logical, erudite friend had never given the occult credence before. “I may have seen one when we were here in October. I’ve learned there’s much more to the supernatural than I’d care to admit.”

  Someday, he’d have to get the full story from Teddy about what exactly happened to him at the castle. He started to ask about it, but Teddy shook his head.

  “Another time. What did Felicity say to your ghost theory?”

  “She said ghosts were not provable by science, and thus they couldn’t exist.” He rolled his eyes when Teddy grinned at him.

  Years ago, he had taken comfort in how certain she sounded when making this declaration. He’d never heard anyone speak with such plain conciseness: arriving at an answer right away, without seeking anyone else’s opinion on the matter. Everyone in his life deferred to someone else. His mother looked to the patronesses of Almack’s to know what was fashionable, while his father blindly followed the Tories in the House of Lords, because that was what Hardings had always done.

  In the following summers, he realized that this bluntness was simply how Felicity spoke, whether or not she had irrefutable evidence to support her claim.

  With that realization, what had been reassuring became vexatious.

  “I think she sounds like a fascinating woman,” Teddy said. “Anyone who can challenge the Duke of Wycliffe and live to tell about it has my vote.”

  Nicholas frowned. “You make me sound like an ogre.”

  “No, just a powerful man.” Teddy’s voice lost its flippancy, becoming grave. “It’s easy to forget what others face when you live like we do. But you said this girl has no family left. Do right by her, Wycliffe.”

  Nicholas’s head jerked up at the use of his title. Teddy never called him Wycliffe—when they’d gone to school together, he hadn’t been the duke.

  “I’m trying to,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.

  “Do more than try,” Teddy demanded. “Be the man you were when you drafted that Night Watch Bill.”

  “That man was made to look like a fool,” Nicholas reminded him.

  Teddy shook his head. “That man had integrity. I almost lost Claire because I was too cowardly to fight for her. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” Nicholas protested, yet Teddy’s features kept that serious cast. “Fine, I’ll do my best.”

  As he rode back to Tetbery, Teddy’s words kept repeating in his mind. “Do right by her, Wycliffe.”

  Chapter Six

  After an early breakfast, Felicity took Mallory to her laboratory in the secret chamber behind Randall’s old study. Thanks to the second Earl of Tetbery, who had been convinced assassins were after him, the estate had many clandestine passageways and chambers. While these passages hadn’t saved the earl—who really did have assassins after him, surprisingly—they served her purposes well.

  This room in particular had always been Felicity’s safe space, long before it had become her laboratory. Margaret had understood early on that her peculiar ward needed a place she could be unequivocally herself, free from the judging eyes of others.

  Felicity had never had to explain herself to Margaret. The countess had simply known, in that instinctively perceptive way she had, what she needed. They were as close as any mother and daughter could be—closer, even, than Felicity had been with her blood mother, who she barely remembered.

  As for Randall, he had been wonderful too. Felicity did not remember much about the earl, other than how his booming laughter had filled up a room, and how his voice had made Margaret’s eyes dance with happiness. He’d died when she was seven.

  Too long ago to make him viable for resurrection.

  Felicity sighed. So many people at Margaret’s funeral had told her the countess had “gone to a better place.” As if there was anything after death but the degradation of the body. As if Margaret would be reunited with Randall on some higher plane.

  She did not agree. In the past, she’d attended church every Sunday because it made Margaret happy—not because she believed in the scriptures. It was unwise to trust anything that could not be proved by science. Early alchemists had mixed their work with theology, unable to explain otherwise what they achieved.

  Felicity knew better. Science was the true faith—alchemy was an extension of that. There wasn’t a great beyond waiting for Margaret. Once her body passed the point Felicity could no longer reanimate it, there’d be nothing.

  And she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—allow Margaret to stay in eternal blackness.

  But she was running out of time.

  Frowning, Felicity pushed away the copy of Albertus Magnus’s De Mineralibus she’d been reading. Legend claimed that Magnus had possessed the Philosopher’s Stone, and passed it to Thomas Aquinas, but Felicity couldn’t find anything in either man’s writings to indicate this was true.

  “This place feels different.” Mallory sat atop a three-legged wooden stool, next to the long slab table Felicity used for her experiments. The table was currently cluttered with test tubes, various glassware full of clear, black, or amber-colored liquid, and dried plants she’d gathered from the beach.

  “How so?” Felicity asked, though she knew she wouldn’t like the answer.

  If it wasn’t for Mallory’s gift, she wouldn’t have brought her to the
laboratory again, fearing she’d react the same way Tressa had to her new pursuits.

  Maybe, just maybe, Mallory might see the answer to her current problem in one of her visions, and all of Felicity’s attempts at recreating the Philosopher’s Stone wouldn’t be for naught.

  “Are you having a vision?” Hope sprang in her voice—an almost foreign emotion to her these past six months.

  Because without Margaret, Felicity had no hope. Nicholas would take her to London, and find her someone dramatically unsuitable on the marriage mart.

  “Everything feels…darker. But no, I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Try, then.” Felicity’s demand came out sharper than she’d meant it to, too ripe with all her concerns.

  Mallory’s brows rose. She didn’t need to say anything for Felicity to realize she’d sounded irritable.

  Well, that was progress in understanding people’s reactions, at least.

  “I meant, would you be so kind as to try? It is very important.” She set down the pear-shaped crucible she’d been filling with mercury to heat over the burner. That was the beginning of the process to make sophick mercury, as dictated by the great alchemist Eirenaeus Philalethes.

  “Of course.” Mallory set her hand down on the table, her forehead wrinkling as she concentrated.

  For a minute, nothing happened. Felicity’s stomach plummeted.

  Despondently, Felicity lifted up the glass again.

  Mallory’s eyes turned to that cloudy gray that always signaled a vision. Felicity held her breath, not daring to move until Mallory’s eyes returned to normal again.

  “What did you see?”

  Mallory blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Hand me some foolscap.”

  Felicity moved to the cabinet against the back wall, pulling out the second drawer from the bottom and removing some paper. She selected a quill and ink pot from atop the cabinet, passing all three materials to Mallory.