The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  “Of course I’m not!” It was a revolting idea.

  “Well, someone seeing this might conclude that you thought you were.” She tapped his grid again.

  “I wouldn’t show it to anyone else,” he said defensively.

  “I should hope not.”

  Randolph writhed a little as he retrieved the chart. Perspicacious as his mother was, she didn’t seem to understand. He wasn’t some romantic youngster. He needed a clear-eyed goal and a plan. He folded the page and returned it to his pocket. “If you don’t wish to help me—” he began.

  “Oh, of course we will help you,” said his mother.

  Randolph felt a spurt of optimism. Surely he couldn’t fail with the Duchess of Langford solidly on his side.

  * * *

  It was very pleasant, Verity Sinclair thought as she walked into her second ton party, to see someone she knew, and liked, at once. She went to join Lady Emma Stane, standing with a group of young ladies near the center of the crowded reception room. Emma—they had already agreed to abandon formality between them—introduced the others, and Verity committed their names to memory. Her mother claimed that an intelligent person had no excuse for forgetting such things. Verity had refrained from pointing out that Mama had lived her life in a small social circle.

  “Ooh,” said the small, slender girl in the center of the group. “There’s Rochford.”

  Since Verity was facing in the opposite direction, she couldn’t see the object of this remark. However, she could appreciate, and envy, the speaker’s perfectly cut silk gown, cropped and crimped brown hair, and air of careless sophistication. Verity sighed, feeling slightly dowdy despite her new dress. Miss Olivia Townsend had the elfin figure best suited for current fashions. Verity could never wear such a low-cut bodice, even if Mama would allow it. With her ample bosom, there was too much risk of mortifying accidents.

  “He’s an out-and-out Corinthian,” Miss Townsend added. “And a terrible rake.” Startled murmurs greeted this piece of information. “I overheard my older brother say that two slatterns fought over Rochford in the street. Like shrieking, snarling alley cats,” she said, clearly relishing the phrase.

  Gasps of delicious horror went ’round the circle—at the picture she painted and her use of the word slattern.

  “They say he fought a duel when he was nineteen,” Miss Townsend added. “Imagine, just our age.”

  Well, their age, Verity thought. But five years was not so very much older.

  “With swords, not pistols. Like in a novel.”

  Verity edged around. “Which one?” she murmured to Emma.

  “The light-haired man.” Emma’s eyes flicked right.

  Verity followed the line of her glance to a tall, blond gentleman in impeccable evening dress. He moved across the room with careless grace, a mocking half smile on his face. He looked as if he knew people were talking about him. And enjoyed it.

  “But what’s he doing here, if he’s so wicked?” murmured one of the other girls.

  “Oh, wicked.” Miss Townsend was dismissive. “He amuses the ton. Everyone loves gossip.”

  “Which we never get to hear,” complained another girl.

  “Not officially,” replied Miss Townsend with a sly smile. “I can usually pry the best stories out of somebody.”

  Mr. Rochford wasn’t as handsome as Lord Randolph Gresham, Verity thought. But he drew the eye. The people around him seemed to become background.

  “Girls swoon over him,” Miss Townsend continued. “And he doesn’t care in the least. He leaves a wake of broken hearts.” She mimed ocean waves with one hand.

  Here was the very opposite of a worthy clergyman, Verity thought. Though not precisely what she was looking for, he might know all sorts of bold people.

  “That sounds rather wicked to me,” said Emma.

  Olivia Townsend shrugged. “It’s not as if he encourages them.”

  “Will we meet him?” Verity asked. What did one say to a rake? It must be a very different sort of conversation than what she was used to. She wouldn’t mind trying it out.

  “Oh, no one will introduce him to us.” Miss Townsend sounded disappointed. “We’re meant to find husbands, not…adventure.”

  Expressions around the circle showed varying reactions to this truth—from regret to satisfaction. For her part, Verity was transfixed by Miss Townsend’s final word. Here was a fellow seeker, it seemed. She decided that she wished to become better acquainted with Olivia Townsend.

  There was a stir at the entrance. Verity turned to watch Lord Randolph enter, in the company of a striking older couple. Overhearing murmurs of duchess, she concluded that they were his parents. She saw a resemblance to the poised, patrician duke.

  Candlelight glinted in Lord Randolph’s auburn hair. He had the shoulders and torso and muscular legs of an athlete, not a country clergyman. Verity bit her lower lip. The bishop back home would be shocked if he knew Verity was admiring a man’s leg.

  Lord Randolph bent his head to catch some remark, and smiled in response. Verity caught her breath. She hadn’t seen him smile during their ill-fated conversation. Well, of course she hadn’t. Not with the way she’d spoken to him. His smile transformed his coolly classical features. His face lit with warmth and sympathy and humorous intelligence. Verity’s heart exhibited a disturbing tendency to yearn toward him.

  Lord Randolph looked around the room and caught her staring. Their eyes locked for a riveting moment before Verity flushed and turned away. All right. He was…beguiling. That was too bad. If she’d wanted to settle in a country parish, she needn’t have come to London at all. She could have accepted one of the extremely worthy offers she’d received in her father’s house. In which case she wouldn’t have met Lord Randolph. And it wouldn’t matter either way, and she was getting tangled up in useless conjecture. I have a plan, Verity insisted silently. She was determined to lead an expansive, exciting life. Lord Randolph’s bewitching smile was a distraction that she simply couldn’t afford.

  “Everyone. Your attention, please.” Their hostess stood at the center of the crowded room, her hands raised to catch her guests’ eyes. “I have a treat for you tonight.”

  Verity knew that London hostesses competed to offer novel entertainment. Mrs. Baines’s triumphant smile suggested that she had scored some sort of coup. Verity moved closer, wondering what was coming.

  “We have a very special guest with us,” Mrs. Baines continued, candlelight reflecting off her jewels. “Herr Doktor Grossmann.” She moved aside, like a magician pulling back a curtain. A plump gentleman of medium height stepped up beside her. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat and narrow trousers. Curly brown hair and a bushy beard wreathed his round face. Some here would dismiss him as foreign-looking and unfashionable, Verity thought. She found the look in his blue eyes shrewd and tolerant. He offered the crowd a crisp bow, not quite clicking his heels. “Herr Grossmann has the most fascinating system for judging character,” said their hostess.

  “Not judging, dear madam,” said the man. His voice was deep, tinged with a German accent. “I discover propensities only.”

  Puzzled murmurs suggested that others shared Verity’s uncertainty about this word.

  Mrs. Baines waved it aside. “He’s going to explain it all to us. Come along.” Beckoning, she led her guests down the room. Footmen opened a pair of sliding doors, revealing rows of gilt chairs facing a small podium.

  Dismay on a number of faces made Verity smile. Clearly they hadn’t come here for a lecture. Several young gentlemen hung back and slipped away; others appeared resigned, or resentful. Lord Randolph, on the other hand, strode eagerly to a seat near the front.

  Herr Grossmann took his place on the podium with an understanding smile and waited for the crowd to settle. When it had, he pulled a cloth from an easel at his side, exposing a large, complicated diagram.
>
  Randolph leaned forward. The image showed a man’s bare head in profile. All over the dome of the skull, sections were marked out and labeled with words like hope, combativeness, self-esteem, parental love, acquisitiveness, and benevolence. Too many to take in all at once.

  “This is a map we use in the practice of phrenology,” said Herr Grossmann. He picked up a wooden pointer.

  Randolph analyzed the unfamiliar word. From the Greek, it meant “study of the mind.”

  Herr Grossmann gestured with the stick. “I am sure all of us have observed that human beings have various tendencies. To be greedy, say, or proud or unusually kind. Each person possesses a different, ah, constellation of propensities. It has recently been discovered that each one of these is situated in a different area of the brain.” He tapped the pointer on the diagram. “For example, as you see here, the love of offspring is located centrally at the back of the head.”

  The crowd murmured, peering over one another’s shoulders at the diagram. Randolph leaned forward to read more of the labels.

  Herr Grossmann appeared gratified at the reaction. He moved the pointer around the pictured head. “Now, the cranium, the skull, reflects the relative sizes of these areas of the brain, revealing the potential influence of a given trait.”

  “You mean the shape of the head defines character?” Randolph asked.

  “Rather the other way about, sir,” responded the German. “The relative strength of propensities is reflected in the bone.” He tapped on the diagram again.

  “Herr Grossmann can lay bare the truth of our inner selves for all to see,” put in Mrs. Baines. She gave a delighted shiver at the idea.

  The gentleman in question frowned and shook his head. “By careful measurement and assessment, an expert can deduce a great deal about an individual’s propensities. This does not necessarily predict behavior. Each of us can control our impulses, can we not?”

  From the buzz around him, Randolph concluded that no one had really heard this caveat. “I take it that you are such an expert, Herr Grossmann,” he said. “How is the assessment made?”

  Seemingly grateful for a sign of serious interest, Grossmann spoke directly to Randolph. “The phrenologist palpates the skull, feeling for the pattern of enlargements or indentations. He can then compile a report on the person’s natural tendencies.” He raised his voice a bit to add, “Not, I must emphasize, on any absolute limitations or strengths of character.”

  “So phrenology is not destiny?” Randolph asked with a smile.

  “Precisely,” the German replied. He offered a small bow at this evidence of understanding.

  It was quite an interesting idea, Randolph thought. Up to now, the only way to study the mind had been through introspection. A rather circular process, he’d found. If there was an effective scientific alternative, that would be a step forward.

  Their hostess clapped her hands to regain the crowd’s attention. “Who will volunteer to be examined by Herr Grossmann?” She gave her guests an arch glance. “Who dares to reveal their innermost secrets?”

  The German’s objections to this phrase were lost in her guests’ response. Everyone seemed to have a comment, but no one appeared ready to volunteer.

  “I will.” The murmurs intensified as Thomas Rochford strolled forward, a wicked smile on his handsome face.

  Herr Grossmann held up his hands. “I had not planned to do an assessment here and now. This is not really a proper venue. I do not have my calipers. And I require—”

  “Oh, but you must.” Mrs. Baines gave him a glittering smile, her narrowed eyes promising vengeance if he spoiled her party. “We are all so interested.”

  Grossmann grimaced. “Well, perhaps a partial…” His deep voice trailed off under the battery of eyes focused upon him.

  Rochford stepped up beside him. “What shall I do?”

  One could hardly have arranged a greater contrast, Randolph thought. The tall, exquisitely dressed Corinthian loomed over the plump, unfashionable foreigner with his untidy beard. And yet Herr Grossmann retained a curious dignity. “We will need a chair,” he said.

  One was thrust up from the front row. The German gestured Rochford into it. He sat with careless grace.

  “I shall have to touch your head, sir.”

  Rochford nodded permission.

  Herr Grossmann stood straighter. Delicately, he placed spread fingertips on Rochford’s skull. People crowded forward to see. Randolph watched with interest as the German traced the contours of Rochford’s head, mussing his artfully arranged blond hair. The room grew silent, Rochford increasingly bland.

  “Strong predispositions to self-esteem and firmness,” Grossmann said after a while. His deep voice was clear and confident.

  You could look at the man and deduce that, Randolph thought.

  “The amative bump is pronounced.”

  A titter circulated through the room. Perhaps the German knew Rochford’s rakish reputation?

  “A deficit in mechanical ability,” Grossmann added. “Only moderately acquisitive.”

  “You have not seen me at the gaming tables, Herr Grossmann,” said Rochford. Onlookers laughed.

  The German simply continued his examination. “A decided bent toward mirth,” he said, making Randolph suspect a sly commentary. “Overbalanced by secretive tendencies and the urge toward self-preservation.”

  Randolph caught a flash of surprise on Rochford’s face, quickly masked. The man shifted out from under Grossmann’s fingers and rose. “Fascinating. But I mustn’t monopolize the Herr Doktor’s attentions.”

  Others surged forward, eager to hear about themselves. Randolph watched Rochford fade back into the crowd. He looked unsettled, which was the most interesting thing about the whole incident.

  “Please,” Grossmann protested. “I have consulting rooms in Harley Street. A much better…situation for a thorough examination.”

  No one listened. The German was engulfed in a sea of waving arms and escalating demands.

  “Aren’t you going to try it?” asked a female voice at Randolph’s elbow.

  He turned to find Miss Verity Sinclair beside him. “Not just now.” He’d visit Grossmann’s premises if he decided to test out the procedure, Randolph thought.

  “Afraid?” she asked.

  Randolph gazed down at her. What was the matter with this girl? Why was she talking to him? Had she decided, for some unfathomable reason, to make a hobby of taunting him? “Discretion rather than fear,” he answered.

  She nodded as if she’d expected this response. “A timid and parochial attitude.”

  “I beg your… I don’t see you rushing up to have your character dissected.”

  Miss Sinclair shrugged. “I don’t care to call attention to my hair. Any more than usual.”

  Randolph glanced at her deep-red curls, then down into eyes the color of tropical seas. She was making no sense. She looked vivid and beguiling in white muslin.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rochford?” she went on, with a glint in those extraordinary eyes. “He was quite courageous.”

  Randolph experienced a surge of irritation quite out of proportion to the inquiry. He practically bit off his reply. “No.”

  “That’s right, you live buried in the country. I don’t suppose you know many interesting people.”

  For perhaps the first time in his life, Randolph was struck speechless. It wasn’t due to a lack of arguments. In fact, words crowded forward so thickly that they immobilized his tongue. Not know interesting people? His parents epitomized that phrase. His brother Robert set fashions. Sebastian was a convivial favorite of the haut ton. With these and other family connections, Randolph knew, or knew of, everyone who was anyone. Which did not include Miss Verity Sinclair.

  He glared at her. She gazed back with the oddest look. Confused? Frightened? Her expression w
as at odds with her impertinent remark. Randolph puzzled over this, and realized that the pause had saved him from sounding like a perfect coxcomb. A coldly courteous bow would be much more effective. He offered her one. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked away.

  Randolph left the knot of people still besieging Herr Grossmann, paying little attention to where he was going. Near the doorway, his mother caught up with him. “Randolph, there’s a young lady here I think you would like. Come and I’ll introduce you.”

  “Not just now, Mama.”

  She raised her eyebrows at his sharp tone. Randolph didn’t blame her. She was doing as he’d asked, and he’d practically snapped at her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He’d simply had enough conversation for now.

  “Was that Miss Sinclair you were talking with?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “What would you call it?” the duchess asked, with an inquisitive tilt of her head.

  Randolph gathered his faculties. “I beg your pardon, Mama. I’m just…thirsty. I need a glass of wine. Would you like something?”

  She shook her head, releasing him with a wave of her hand. As he walked away, Randolph thought he heard her murmur, “Thirsty? Is that the term for it these days?”

  Three

  The following morning, Verity finally had the chance to make her expedition. Her mother was occupied with some important letters and wouldn’t notice a short absence. Indeed, she was so engrossed that she didn’t even acknowledge Verity’s departure from their rented drawing room. The landlady, always interested in their doings, was out. Verity knew how the hackney coaches worked, and she had money. She was aware that young ladies didn’t customarily wander about London without a maid or footman, but as she had neither, she’d have to do without. Such a small thing couldn’t intimidate her. Wearing her most severely cut pelisse and plainest bonnet, she set out.

  It wasn’t difficult to find a cab. She flagged one down and climbed in, giving the address with an anticipatory thrill.