The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  “Miss Sinclair.”

  Verity turned to find her hostess beside her, along with a tall, exceedingly handsome man. He had wonderful shoulders and intense blue eyes. Compared to the fellows she knew, he looked polished and sophisticated. More than that, he met her gaze, with only the briefest straying to other regions of her anatomy. Verity smiled. This was promising.

  “May I present Lord Randolph Gresham,” the woman continued. “Lord Randolph, Miss Verity Sinclair.”

  A lord, Verity thought. Not a requirement from her list, but nothing to sneeze at either.

  “I think you will have much in common,” their hostess added. Addressing each of them in turn, she said, “Lord Randolph is vicar of a parish in Northumberland. Miss Sinclair is the daughter of the dean of Chester Cathedral.”

  When the woman left them together, Verity’s budding elation collapsed. It could not be that the first man she met in London—and such an attractive man—was a clergyman. Were there so many in the world that she couldn’t be spared another? Possessed by an oddly urgent sense of danger, Verity blurted, “I could never abide life in a country parish.”

  He blinked, clearly startled.

  “I would find the limited society unendurable.” Her comment came out sounding like an accusation. Verity bit her lower lip. There was no reason to be this keenly disappointed. What was the matter with her?

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he said.

  “The isolation makes people narrow-minded.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He looked offended. Verity couldn’t blame him. She was right, of course; she’d observed the tendency often enough, but there was no need to say it aloud. Or to continue this conversation. She should move away, find a more promising prospect. Instead, she said, “And quite behind the times. Antiquated, even.”

  “Indeed?”

  His blue eyes had gone cool. What had come over her? She was never rude. She ought to apologize.

  “If you will excuse me, I see that some friends have arrived,” he said.

  Lord Randolph gave her a small bow and walked away. Which didn’t matter, Verity thought. She’d meant to stop talking to him. And yet a pang of regret shook her. Stop it at once, she told herself. That was not the sort of man who searched for the wellspring of the Blue Nile, or discovered unknown species or peoples. Silently, she repeated her talisman phrase—Twelve Waterloo Place—and turned to find other town dwellers to meet.

  Randolph crossed the room to join his brother Sebastian’s party. They’d come in at just the right moment to cover his escape from the opinionated young lady. Who had asked what she thought? Who did she think she was? “I’ve just met the most fearsome girl,” he said.

  “Really?” His military brother looked sleepily formidable, as usual.

  “Which one?” asked Sebastian’s lovely blond wife Georgina, resplendent in pale-green silk. Her sister Emma stood just behind her, a younger, less self-assured version of Stane beauty.

  “The one over there, with the extremely vivid hair.”

  “And the generous…endowment?” Sebastian said. When Georgina elbowed him, he added, “I was only making an observation. It’s nothing to me.”

  The pair exchanged a lazy smile that told anyone with eyes of their marital bliss. Randolph envied both the fact and the ease of it. “That’s the one. Miss Verity Sinclair. Daughter of the dean of Chester Cathedral, if you please.” Which had seemed promising. Until it turned out that it wasn’t.

  “Cathedral? I would have thought that was right up your alley,” his brother replied. “What’s so fearsome about her? She looks harmless enough.”

  “She imagines that I am narrow-minded. And antiquated.”

  “What? Why would she think that?” Sebastian frowned.

  “Whatever did you say to her?” Georgina wondered.

  “I had no opportunity to say anything. She…graced me with her opinions all unasked.”

  “Will there be any dancing?” Emma asked.

  Georgina turned to her sister, shaking her head. “Not tonight. This is a small party, a chance for you to make some acquaintances before the big squeezes later in the season.”

  Emma scanned the crowd. “Everyone looks old.”

  “Not everyone. You’ll meet plenty of young people.”

  “Georgina’s been studying up,” said Sebastian proudly. “She means to give Emma a bang-up launch into society.”

  “You make me sound like some sort of ship,” Emma replied. But she smiled.

  Scanning the crowd, Georgina did look rather like a canny navigator plotting a course. “Come along,” she said to Emma, ready to plunge in. Then she paused. “Sinclair,” Georgina said. “Wouldn’t she be a connection of the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  “Would she?” It needed only that, Randolph thought. Given his unfortunate…incident with the archbishop, the chit was a walking recipe for disaster. It was fortunate that she’d put him off. Who knew what trouble he might have fallen into otherwise! Now he could make a point of avoiding her.

  The ladies went off to begin Emma’s introduction into the ton. The Gresham brothers snagged glasses of wine and stood back to observe.

  “Did you meet Georgina at an evening like this?” Randolph asked after a while.

  “At a ball,” replied Sebastian.

  “Dancing is a good way to become acquainted.”

  “I had to fight my way through a crowd of fellows to snag one.” Watching his wife, Sebastian smiled. “Say, Georgina could give you a few pointers.” He offered Randolph a sly grin. “Bring you out along with Emma.”

  “I’m no bashful eighteen-year-old,” replied Randolph, revolted.

  “Or you could marry Emma. Two birds with one stone and all that.”

  “No!” The word escaped Randolph without thought. “I mean, she’s a nice enough girl, but—”

  “Only joking,” Sebastian assured him. “You’ll want a serious, brainy female. Likes poetry and that sort of thing. Emma’s more along my line, a bit dim.”

  “You aren’t dim,” said Randolph. Unwillingly, he found his gaze straying back to Verity Sinclair. At first glance, she’d seemed so beguiling, her eyes brimming with interest and…a crackle of spirit.

  She turned, and he looked away before he could be caught staring at the archbishop’s relative, for goodness’ sake. It was a sign, he concluded, a warning to be careful on his hunt. One spent one’s whole life with a wife. A mistaken choice would be disastrous. He returned his attention to his brother.

  Toward the end of the evening, Verity found herself briefly alone. Even though this had been called a small party, her mind whirled with names. It seemed as if she’d been introduced to scores of people, more than she met in a month at home. The buzz of conversation was positively thrilling.

  Verity ran her eyes over the crowd. She noted the colors in their clothes, particularly the ladies’ dresses, the sparkle of jewels and candlelight. She breathed in the mingled scents of perfumes and pomades and hot wax. She absorbed the oceanic rhythm of talk. The taste of lemonade lingered on her lips. She gathered all these details into one impression and fixed it firmly in her mind. Then she added this moment to a string of such memories stored in a special place in her mind—a string of vivid scenes that punctuated her life. She’d been creating moments since she was quite young. She could move down the string and revisit each epoch of her life. And before long, she’d be adding far more dramatic, exotic moments to her collection. She was absolutely resolved on that.

  Verity looked about her. The blond girl nearby was Lady Emma Stane. Verity remembered her not only because Emma was one of the few here near her own age, but also because she was part of the group Lord Randolph had joined when he abandoned her. Not abandoned, Verity thought. What a poor choice of words. She’d wanted him to go away. Indeed, she’d repelled
him. On purpose. A country clergyman! Still, she drifted toward Emma. They’d been introduced as cohorts, both at their first ton party. Emma was obviously younger, but Verity had as little experience of high society. “Have you enjoyed the evening?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” Emma replied. “I’ve waited so long to be in London!”

  “I, too. I had such a time convincing my parents to give me a season.”

  “Mine just refuse to come to town,” said Emma with an incredulous smile. “They are absolutely fixed in Herefordshire.”

  “And so you are here with—?”

  “My sister Georgina.” Emma indicated the beautiful blond woman Verity had noticed earlier. “She married Lord Sebastian last summer.”

  Following Emma’s gesture, Verity eyed the two handsome men in the corner of the room. Lord Sebastian and Lord Randolph then. They were clearly brothers.

  “And now she’s brought me to London just as she promised. I intend to have a splendid time. The duchess has promised me an invitation to her ball.”

  “Duchess?”

  “Lord Sebastian’s mother. She’s positively the height of fashion.”

  The man was a duke’s son? As well as handsome and obviously self-assured? Why bury himself in a country parish? Not that she cared. It had nothing to do with her. Verity turned her back on the impossible Lord Randolph. Her mother was beckoning. It was already time to go.

  Two

  The Duke and Duchess of Langford arrived in London three days later, in the early evening, trailing a cavalcade of carriages bearing a small mountain of baggage. With a clatter and bustle, Langford House came to life around Randolph. “There you are!” he exclaimed from the stairs as his parents strolled inside, arm in arm.

  They stopped to smile up at him—a tall woman, rather angular, with arching brows and an aquiline nose, and a taller, distinguished man of sixty, with a lazy assurance that made him formidable. He could hardly have been more fortunate in his progenitors, Randolph thought. He’d inherited Mama’s hair, a rich, deep color between chestnut and strawberry, and Papa’s intense blue eyes and rangy frame. But it was so much more than that. These two people had taught him, by example, nearly everything he knew about being a worthwhile human being.

  Mama had shown him that an inability to tolerate fools did not prevent one from being kind. Papa had demonstrated that immense dignity and presence could coexist with compassion and a wicked sense of humor. And the two of them together embodied the reality of enduring love. Randolph had admired his parents’ marriage since he was old enough to notice such things. He’d had hopes of finding a similar combination of passion and companionship, tenderness and support through life’s challenges. Must he really abandon the idea?

  “How lovely this is,” said his mother as she kissed his cheek in greeting. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a son living in the house. You look well.”

  Randolph met her discerning gaze. As children, he and his brothers had decided she could see through walls. “And you are as beautiful as ever, Mama.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “The truth is not flattery,” said the duke as they walked together up the stairs to the drawing room.

  The duchess’s eyes danced. Decades of laughter crinkled the skin around them, but this mark of age suited her. “So you’ve come to London in search of a wife,” she said.

  “I have,” Randolph replied. “And I will be glad of your help.”

  “None of your brothers wanted any,” said his father.

  “Ah, but I have always been the wisest of your sons.”

  Smiling, the duke raised an eyebrow. “The most earnest certainly. I seem to remember that you once tried to reform a cat.”

  Randolph burst out laughing. “Ruff! I’d forgotten about him.”

  “A disturbed animal,” said his father.

  “Ruff was taken from his mother too early,” said the duchess. “He suckled people’s fingers as a form of comfort.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  “That was his excuse,” Randolph replied. “Or your excuse for him. Robert thought that cat knew quite well what he was doing. Ruff always chose people who hated cats, you know.”

  The duke nodded. “Old Dalby leapt from his chair with a shriek like a steam whistle. Not long after that, I found you trying to make Ruff see the error of his ways.”

  “I used pictures,” Randolph recalled. “Since words never had the least effect on him. James helped me draw them. But Ruff couldn’t seem to grasp their significance, no matter how many times I sat him down and took him through my demonstration. Finally, I put his front paw into my mouth.” Randolph smiled at the memory. What a ridiculous little boy he’d been.

  “You what?” said the duchess.

  “To show him, literally, how he made his victims uncomfortable.”

  “And did he, er, get the point?” asked the duke.

  “He clawed several furrows into my tongue, which bled copiously, all down my chin,” Randolph recalled. “James nearly choked me with his handkerchief. I wonder if he remembers? My tongue hurt for days.”

  “You never said a word.” His mother shook her head.

  “I didn’t want to admit my…miscalculation. And watch Sebastian laugh himself sick. You’d have laughed, too.”

  “I would not,” declared the duchess.

  “Oh, not out loud,” Randolph said. “But your lips would’ve twitched. And Papa’s eyes would have twinkled as he said something…dry. It’s a terrible trial to be amusing at seven years of age.”

  “Humor was a…bastion against the antics of six boys,” observed his father.

  “I’m sure it was,” Randolph replied, remembering some of his brothers’ wilder pranks.

  They enjoyed a mutual laugh, and Randolph savored the moment. With two older brothers and three younger ones, he’d seldom had his parents to himself. He was going to enjoy spending time in their company. “In any case, I learned a useful lesson,” he added. “Cats are not good candidates for reformation.”

  Amid more laughter, they settled in the drawing room. The duke poured small glasses of Madeira from a decanter awaiting them. “So how are we to help in your quest for a wife?” he asked as they sipped. “Introductions, I suppose?”

  “Indeed. I hope Mama will make them. Judiciously. Not the pert London misses.” Miss Verity Sinclair would fit right into that group, Randolph thought. But Miss Sinclair had made herself irrelevant to this conversation. “I intend to take a systematic approach,” he added.

  “Systematic?” his father repeated.

  “Yes. I mean to meet all the eligible young ladies currently available. I shall make my choice from among them.”

  “Do they have anything to say about this?” asked his mother.

  “Of course. Finding me charming is the chief criterion.” Randolph smiled wryly. “Which has already eliminated one candidate.” The duchess looked inquiring, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “That sounds rather clinical,” said the duke.

  Randolph felt a trace of impatience. “I can’t wait any longer, Papa. I’m thirty years old. I have to take a hand in my future.”

  “Yes, but Randolph…” began his mother.

  He evaded her understanding gaze; he didn’t wish to think of Rosalie again. “The thing is, Mama…” He hesitated over how to put it. “I’ve waited for years. No girl has…wandered into my life in Northumberland.” He smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps I’m just not as lucky as my brothers. I’ve become quite lonely.” His voice wavered slightly on the last word, and he tightened his jaw. Couldn’t have that!

  “Oh, Randolph.” His mother’s expression was suddenly all sympathy.

  He cleared his throat and frowned to show that this was no great matter. “And so I have determined to use all my…faculties to remedy the matter. Systematic thought is merely one of the
m.” Randolph pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. “A quite effective tool. I’ve begun a list.”

  “Of eligible young ladies?” his father asked.

  “That’s it. Georgina was a great help. She’s going at it from the other direction, you see.”

  “The other direction?”

  “Likely husbands for her sister. But she noted the daughters as well when she was looking over the families.”

  “So she is also being systematic?” asked the duke.

  “You may laugh, Papa, but you will see that it works.”

  “I shall enjoy that very much.”

  “Let me look,” declared the duchess, holding out an imperious hand. Randolph gave her his list, and she scanned it. “Good Lord.”

  The duke raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s made a chart.” She showed her husband the page, with its lined grid. Some boxes held notations; others were empty.

  “I shall fill it in as I gather more information,” Randolph said. His clever organizational methods, of which he’d been so proud, suddenly seemed less appropriate.

  His mother read the labels in the top line. “Family, fortune, appearance, temperament, reputation. Randolph! Young women are not commodities.”

  “I know that, Mama.”

  “Do you?” She tapped the page. “This implies otherwise.”

  “It is just a…a mnemonic of sorts. To keep track.”

  “Will you also give them high or low marks, like a schoolmaster?” asked the duke.

  Randolph wilted a bit under their combined gaze. He’d meant to do so, to decide where to concentrate his wooing. It wasn’t designed to be an insult. But it seemed that he’d carried a subject too far once again.

  “You are not some godlike being, looking down on mere mortals and passing judgment,” said his mother.