The Hazards of Hunting a Duke

by Julia London

  She felt positively overheated now. “D-did I agree?”

  He smiled. “I am certain that you did.”

  “I don’t recall,” she said breathlessly.

  His smile broadened, and with the authority of a marquis, he whispered, “You will,” and pressed his lips to the bare patch of flesh between her glove and her sleeve on the inside of her elbow.

  Ava drew a steadying breath. His lips, warm and wet, seemed to burn her skin.

  He lifted his head and slid his hand down her arm, his fingers tangling with hers as he let her hand fall away. “Will you be all right from here?”

  “The church is only a stone’s throw, sir.”

  “Then I bid you good evening, Lady Ava. Do have a care not to astonish the entire town with your virtue,” he added with a wink, and handed her the empty basket. He stepped away, pausing once to look at her again before striking out, striding purposefully in the opposite direction.

  Ava fussed with her basket and reticule as she surreptitiously watched him until he disappeared around the corner. Only then did she turn and march after him, turning right where he turned left, her step amazingly light, her hand still tingling from his kiss.

  Was it possible? she giddily asked herself. Could she possibly lure a man like Middleton away from a woman like Lady Waterstone? Could she be the one to gain an offer from the highly desirable and unmarried marquis?

  Why ever not? she silently responded, and with a happy smile of hope, she quickened her step.

  Alone in his study the following morning, Jared held a letter he’d received from his butler at Broderick Abbey. The contents of the letter disturbed him, and made him think of Ava Fairchild again.

  His father was clearly determined to carry out his threat, and with that weighing heavily on his mind, Jared had privately conceded that he would have to marry to keep his father from it. Not Lady Elizabeth, however, no matter how hard the duke pushed him. But someone vibrant, someone whom he would at least enjoy impregnating.

  And that someone, he had decided, was Lady Ava. She was the perfect wife. She had the proper pedigree, but no parents or fortune of her own and was therefore in need of a fortune. She was vibrant and merry and quite pretty. He could do his duty by her, then continue on as he always had, avoiding any ugly obligations or entanglements with family.

  With that in mind, he pocketed the letter from Broderick Abbey and picked up a pen. On a piece of vellum emblazoned with the family crest and exquisitely engraved with his name—THE HONORABLE MARQUIS OF MIDDLETON, ESQ.—he wrote:

  Dearest Lady Ava,

  Thank you for allowing me to see you safely to church. Hearing of your efforts to read the Bible to the poor was as pleasurable as it was inspiring. I am delighted that amid the many parish works in which you are engaged you are able to find the time to assist us in the auction for the Foundling Hospital. Your good work is ever appreciated, my lady, but I would be remiss if I did not point out to you that St. George’s parish church is on Maddox Street, and not Burgh Street, as you seem to believe.

  Sincerely, M.

  Satisfied, Jared rang for a servant. When a footman appeared, he handed him the note. “Have this delivered at once with a bouquet of the best hothouse roses you can find,” he said. As the footman quit the room, Jared leaned back in his chair and put his hand in the pocket that held the letter from Broderick Abbey.

  Seven

  T hat very afternoon, Ava and Phoebe were suffering another of Lady Purnam’s calls. She had taken it upon herself to look in on them at least once weekly, if not more often.

  She was seated in an overstuffed chair, sipping the tea Lucy had made. “You’ve one more full week of mourning,” she said when Ava remarked she would be glad to put away her black bombazine gowns. “I know you will be tempted to enter society as soon as possible, but I would advise a period of half mourning. Perhaps three months.” She put aside her teacup, clasped her hands in her lap and looked pointedly at the two of them.

  “Half mourning?” Phoebe asked, exchanging an anxious glance with Ava. “Is it customary? We have been in deep mourning for a full year.”

  “I am aware of that,” Lady Purnam said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “But you would do your mother’s memory a great honor to continue in half mourning for a period of time. It is the proper thing to do.”

  “But…is it prescribed?” Ava asked carefully.

  “Not in so many words,” Lady Purnam sniffed. “Yet society would certainly think the better of you for it. My advice to you is to observe three months. Oh, don’t look so glum! You can go abroad in half mourning.”

  “But we can’t go to balls,” Ava pointed out.

  “Certainly not. Who can dance when a dear mother has passed?”

  “I beg your pardon, your ladyship,” Lucy said. “I’m not one to ever disagree with the need for propriety, but I believe they should be allowed in society.”

  Ava and Phoebe exchanged a wary glance. If anyone was more rigid in following the rules of proper society than Lady Purnam, it was Lucille Pennebacker.

  Even Lady Purnam seemed surprised. “I daresay it may be customary to enter society after one year where you hail from, Miss Pennebacker,” she said imperiously as she shifted again in her seat. “But I believe I am better suited to judge what is proper here in town.”

  “Perhaps,” Lucy said with a sniff of her own. “But the girl’s stepfather will return in April, and I daresay he won’t abide a longer period of mourning. It is well past the time they were married, their poor dear mother’s death notwithstanding.”

  “Oh, Lucy, please—” Ava started.

  “I assure you, Miss Pennebacker,” Lady Purnam interrupted, “that when I have had occasion to speak with Lord Downey, he will not force the issue of marriage before the period of mourning has been duly observed.”

  “Speak to him all you like,” Lucy said, and picked up the tea service. “But I believe I know my brother very well. If you will excuse me?”

  “By all means,” Lady Purnam said, and smiled so thinly that it seemed more like a sneer.

  When Lucy had left the room, Lady Purnam shook her head. “She is the most disagreeable woman to ever grace a proper salon! I suppose she is responsible for the hiring of your Mr. Morris, that fool! Do you know that he kept me waiting on the stoop while he announced me?”

  “I shall speak to him at once,” Ava said.

  Lady Purnam sighed and stood up. “You might suggest to Lord Downey that he look after the upholstering of Cassandra’s furniture when he returns. It’s in desperate need of repair. Well, then, darlings, I must be off. Shall I have a modiste sent round to measure you for half mourning?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Phoebe said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

  “Now, Phoebe,” Lady Purnam said as she moved as slowly as a barge toward the door, “have a care that you don’t do so much needlework that you mark your hands. A gentleman does not care for a lady’s hands to show the signs of toil.”

  “Yes, madam,” Phoebe said politely, and she and Ava dipped identical curtsies as Lady Purnam said good day and promised to call again in a week.

  “We will look forward to it,” Ava lied beautifully.

  When the door shut behind the departing battle-ax, Ava groaned with exasperation as Phoebe rushed to the chair in which Lady Purnam had been sitting and picked up the cushion.

  “Oh dear God,” she sighed, and pulled a crumpled linen day dress from beneath the cushion.

  “What is it?” Ava asked.

  “A trial of sorts,” Phoebe said wearily. She dropped the gown and walked to the windows overlooking the courtyard, reached behind the long, heavy burgundy drapes, and withdrew a basket that was spilling over with fabric.

  In anticipation of their coming out of mourning, Phoebe had been taking their late mother’s gowns and cutting them down to fit herself or Ava. In some instances, she took two gowns and combined them into one.

  “Are those gowns?” Ava
asked as Phoebe picked up a green silk she had combined with gold brocade. She quickly took it from Phoebe’s hand and held it up to her body. “What on earth will you do with so many? There are more here than we could possibly wear in a Season.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “I find needlework comforting,” she muttered, and turned away.

  Ava believed her, but at the same time, she was highly suspicious, for when Lucy or Sally would enter their rooms, Phoebe would quickly shove the gown she was working on under the bed, behind a cushion, or now, it would seem, in a basket behind the drapery.

  “All right, let’s have it, shall we?” Ava demanded as she turned and looked at the other gowns piled in the basket. “What on earth are you doing, hiding these gowns?”

  “I am not doing anything at all. I am only sewing,” Phoebe insisted.

  “Yes, darling, I can plainly see that you are sewing. But why are you hiding it?”

  Phoebe looked at her sister, chewed her bottom lip a moment, then glanced at the door of the salon. She suddenly rushed across the room and pushed a heavy ottoman against it and fell onto it, as if she were exhausted.

  “What are you about?” Ava demanded.

  “All right, if you must drag it out of me, I’ll tell you.” She lifted her chin. “I fancy myself a decent seamstress.”

  “Phoebe, you are an extraordinarily talented seamstress! Just look at this!’ Ava exclaimed, holding the green and gold gown up to her again. “I always rely on you to take the gown from our modiste and alter it to make it more flattering.”

  “That’s just it, Ava. I can do that. I can make my own creations. Therefore, I decided I should make them for purchase.”

  Ava blanched. “For purchase? Oh dear heart, you can’t sell them. Where would they be purchased?”

  “On Bond Street.”

  “Bond Street?” Ava cried. “Are you mad? A trade? A trade, Phoebe? You cannot possibly think to entertain a trade, not after all the work we’ve done to maintain appearances! If you were to take up a trade, it would relegate us to the very bowels of the ton, for no one will tolerate a loss of fortune and a trade! No,” Ava said firmly, shaking her head and throwing up a hand when Phoebe opened her mouth to speak. “Your idea is not without some merit, but it is absolutely insupportable.” And with that, she tossed the gown aside and folded her arms implacably.

  “If you are quite finished,” Phoebe said with a snort, “you’ve not yet heard the brilliance of my plan. No one, save you—and Greer, when she returns, naturally—shall know that I have made gowns to be sold.”

  “Indeed? And just how do you propose to perform this bit of magic?”

  “You may laugh if you will,” Phoebe said indignantly, “but I know which Bond Street shops would be happy to sell such fine gowns!” She suddenly stood up. “Just imagine it, Ava: Suppose you were to wear my gown and patronize one such shop,” she said, sweeping up the green and gold gown Ava had tossed aside and holding it up to her sister. “After many compliments are made—and how can they not be made, for this is beautiful, if I do say so myself—then you might casually mention to the shopkeeper that you happen to know the very reclusive and exclusive French modiste who has made the gown.”

  Phoebe thrust the gown toward Ava, forcing her to take it, then began to pace, her hands clasped behind her back, her brow furrowed. “There certainly will be gossip of a new modiste in London, a very eccentric modiste, one who refuses to be seen. One who refuses to create gowns for just anyone.” She stopped pacing a moment and looked at Ava. “You will make that claim. You will say that had it not been for a very good friend of our dearly departed mother, who convinced the modiste to take pity on you, you would not have such a beautiful gown.”

  Ava blinked and looked down at the gown she held.

  “Ava, don’t you see?” Phoebe cried with great excitement. “You shall pretend to be an agent for this reclusive modiste, who is, in truth, I! You know as well as I that there is not a single woman among the Quality who can bear to be left behind when it comes to the latest fashions. They shall all descend on the shop to be measured for gowns!”

  “How can you possibly accomplish so many fittings for gowns without being seen?”

  “The shopkeeper will take the measurements. The shopkeeper must be our unwitting partner, or it will never work. You must convince her of it.”

  “I don’t know,” Ava said uncertainly, but Phoebe gripped her shoulders tightly and shook her lightly.

  “Think of it, Ava! With the money we make, we shall continue to purchase our gowns in the finest shops on Bond Street, so that everyone will see us and never suspect we are behind the creation of the gowns!” She smiled brightly, clearly convinced of the brilliance of her plan.

  Ava said nothing for a long moment, mulling it over as Phoebe watched her anxiously. There was something to be said for her plan—particularly the part about being able to afford to shop on Bond Street themselves. At last she shook her head and said incredulously, “Blast it all if I can find a single thing wrong with it, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe squealed with delight. “Just wait until you see the gown I am making. It is exquisite—”

  “But how will I wear it out of this house?” Ava exclaimed. “I rather think I’d be remarked upon were I to walk into a Bond Street shop wearing a ball gown.”

  “We must be creative. You will take the gown and don it discreetly in the shop, and simply explain that you are commissioning gowns like this one for when your period of mourning is over.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “You must do it! The Season has already started, and the shops will be taking orders for the balls as we approach warmer weather. If you don’t do it within the fortnight, our opportunity shall be lost!”

  Ava had no opportunity to respond, for there was a loud and somewhat uneven knock at the door of the salon. In a flurry of satin and silk, she and Phoebe quickly hid the gowns. With Phoebe seated, Ava moved the ottoman and calmly opened the door to a very large bouquet of roses, behind which Mr. Morris stood.

  “I beg your pardon, mu’um,” he said behind the flowers. “Flowers have come.”

  “Mr. Morris! Come in, come in!” Ava said, and helped direct him to a table. The flowers were gorgeous—at least three dozen roses in a large crystal vase, the scent of them divine, the color of them as brilliantly red as rubies.

  Mr. Morris carefully situated the vase on the table, then wiped his sleeve across his forehead before handing Ava a note. “If I may, mu’um…is a footman to stand in the foyer or out of the foyer when he comes calling?”

  “If he is awaiting a reply, he is to stand in,” Ava said. “Is there a footman awaiting a reply?”

  “Oh no,” Mr. Morris said with a firm shake of his head. “I sent him on his way.”

  Ava suppressed a groan. “Very well. And in the future, sir, a lady should never be left to wait on the stoop. Do please bring her in.”

  He nodded very slowly, as if committing her instructions to memory.

  “Thank you, Mr. Morris.”

  He bowed, turned sharply on his heel as the two Mr. Pells had taught him to do, and quit the room.

  Phoebe jumped up from her chair. “Who sent them?” she exclaimed, delighted. “It is Greer! Oh yes, they must be from Greer.”

  Ava opened the note, saw the flourish of an M and felt her heart swell. She turned her back to Phoebe and quickly read the note. She laughed; a smile spread across her face. A deep, brilliant smile. She hadn’t been wrong about what she’d felt in his presence. He did esteem her!

  “Who?” Phoebe demanded.

  Ava glanced at her sister, held the note coyly to her chest, and leaned over to inhale the scent of the roses. “I do believe they are the most beautiful roses I have ever seen.”

  “Who are they from?” Phoebe demanded again, her hands going to her hips.

  “We must decide which gowns you can make ready for me, for I am coming out of mourning next week.”

  Phoebe gasped. “Lad
y Purnam will be beside herself!”

  “I don’t care,” Ava said, smelling the roses again. “You heard what Lucy said. We haven’t much time, Phoebe. We have mourned our mother properly for one full year and the Season has already begun. We must reenter society before Lord Downey returns.”

  “Not before I know who—” Phoebe abruptly snatched the note from Ava’s hand. Ava grinned as her sister read the note with widening eyes. When she finished, she whirled around and gaped at Ava, her expression full of consternation. “Dear God…Ava, what have you done?”

  Ava laughed, snatching the note back. “Nothing…yet,” she said, and grabbed Phoebe’s hand and sat her down to tell her everything.

  By the next morning, they had determined their new course of action.

  First, as Ava had no intention of coming out of mourning without the latest fashions, she allowed Phoebe to send her to Bond Street with a blue satin gown embroidered in pale gold and lavender.

  Phoebe was right—the shop mistress was awed by the gown, and really, of Ava in that gown. It went exactly as Phoebe had said it would—the shop mistress complimented the gown so profusely that Ava had reason to mention an exclusive modiste who had, unfortunately, suffered a horrible accident that left her disfigured and missing one leg. Phoebe wouldn’t like that particular description, but it was the only viable reason Ava could think to explain the modiste’s reluctance to come out herself.

  At the end of her ridiculous tale, she had an order for three gowns to be fashioned like the blue satin.

  And she had a lovely blue satin to wear to the first ball to which she could secure an invitation.

  Eight

  D uring the evening of the Duke of Clarence’s highly anticipated mid-Season grand ball at St. James’s Palace, Lord Stanhope was divested of a considerable sum of cash in a card game while at Brooks, a gentlemen’s club only a short walk from the ball’s main entrance.