The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  “A son of my friend Langford,” His Highness continued. “One of the many.”

  The crowd laughed politely.

  “And the lovely Miss Verity Sinclair, daughter of the dean of Chester Cathedral.”

  A small sound from his companion let Randolph know that she didn’t appreciate the label.

  “People will write to Papa,” she whispered. “I thought it would be a few days before they connected me with him.”

  The prince stepped back with a wave of his hand. Randolph sat at the pianoforte. And they began.

  After a slight quaver from Miss Sinclair at the beginning, they fell into the harmony that seemed natural to them. The melodies and variations they’d rehearsed chimed out, with further embroideries that came in the moment. Randolph was soon lost in the music. They might have been singing alone in the music room at Langford House, for all that he noticed of his surroundings. The lingering feel of their kiss made the experience even more intense.

  The applause at the end of their program was loud and prolonged, punctuated with bravos. It was exhilarating. Randolph took his partner’s hand as they made their bows.

  People surged forward to congratulate them. They were gradually driven apart by the press of the crowd, but Randolph tried to keep an eye on Verity. If she showed signs of being overwhelmed, he intended to go to the rescue. His parents approached, all smiles, flanked by the prince.

  “Oh, Randolph, that was exquisite,” said his mother.

  “Very well done indeed,” agreed his father.

  “Far better than their previous outing, I daresay,” gloated the prince. He beamed at the chattering crowd.

  Randolph stepped to the side as he thanked them. He’d lost sight of Miss Sinclair, and he found he didn’t want that. But there were so many people in the way.

  “That was…extraordinary,” said a deep voice at Verity’s back. She turned to find Thomas Rochford gazing down at her, tall and blond and handsome. He looked utterly at home in evening dress. His blue eyes seemed…speculative. That was the word that came to her. As if she’d well and truly caught his interest.

  Elation bubbled through Verity’s veins. She’d sung before royalty, and people had cheered. She was wearing the most beautiful dress she’d ever possessed. She’d kissed Lord Randolph! And now here was an acknowledged rake at her disposal, just the sort of opportunity she’d hoped to find at Carleton House. He must be an adventurous man, to flout convention and do exactly as he pleased. And even if his exploits were only amorous, he would know all sorts of unconventional people. “You’re very kind,” she replied.

  “Most people will tell you otherwise.”

  “I suppose I can judge for myself.” She could spar with words. At this moment, she felt she could do anything.

  “Do you?”

  “You think women can’t make judgments?”

  “I think most people don’t bother. And I know you have a beautiful…voice.”

  His gaze roamed to other parts of her anatomy, but she wasn’t going to be flustered. “As does Lord Randolph,” she said.

  Mr. Rochford made a throwaway gesture. “The Greshams have all sorts of talents. And there are so many of them. Have you heard about Hightower’s Brighton race?”

  It took Verity a moment to place the name. Lord Randolph’s oldest brother was Viscount Hightower. She shook her head.

  “I put him up to it, I fear,” said Rochford. He described a careening melee of high-perch phaetons, making her laugh more than once.

  A rake would have to be charming, she told herself. It was no surprise that he was. But she was more interested in his taste for action. This race sounded promising. Aware that she had limited time, Verity asked, “Have you been to Africa?”

  “What?”

  “Or Egypt? Well, that is in Africa, I know, but I always think of it as a separate place. Imagine standing inside one of those ancient monuments.”

  He looked bemused. “Sketches in travel journals are enough for me.”

  “Do you like travel writing? I found Captain Cook’s voyages riveting.”

  Mr. Rochford shrugged.

  He wasn’t being very helpful. And Verity knew her conversation would be interrupted soon. “Are you a member of the Travellers Club?”

  “I don’t know it.” His tone suggested it couldn’t be worth knowing, in that case.

  “It’s new,” she told him. “For men who have journeyed five hundred miles from London. Or more, of course.”

  “Nothing worth visiting is five hundred miles from London,” he declared. “Even Edinburgh is closer than that, for God’s sake.”

  He obviously found this remark witty. To Verity it was merely disappointing. “Perhaps you have friends who have made great journeys?”

  “My friends have good taste, Miss Sinclair.”

  She supposed that was a setdown. She was too impatient to care. “Well, that’s useless.”

  Mr. Rochford was visibly nonplussed.

  Her mother’s friend Mrs. Doran appeared at Verity’s left side. Mrs. Doran’s boon companion, Fannie Furst, planted herself on the right. They stood close enough to brush Verity’s shoulders and glared at Mr. Rochford as if he’d insulted them.

  “Ladies,” he said.

  The defending duo stuck out their chins and said nothing.

  Their outraged silence appeared to amuse him. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

  Mrs. Doran grasped Verity’s arm and tugged. Verity resisted.

  Thomas Rochford laughed. “Of course you must have. All the world did.” He gestured gracefully at the crowd around them.

  “The infernal gall,” muttered Mrs. Doran.

  Mr. Rochford did not roll his eyes, but he gave the impression of doing so. Then it seemed his amusement, or his patience, was exhausted. He produced a bow rather like a shrug. “Your servant, Miss Sinclair,” he said, and departed.

  Verity’s unwanted guardians vibrated with pent-up emotion. She stepped back and slipped from between them before they could begin to scold, or whatever they planned to do. Moving quickly out of reach, she looked for someone she knew, and spotted Lord Randolph moving toward her. He was practically pushing people out of his way in order to reach her, and Verity felt a thrill at the sight. He was better looking than Rochford, she thought, in a completely different style. She smiled at him.

  “You should not speak to men unless you’ve been introduced,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Rochford.” He spat out the name.

  “I have been introduced to Mr. Rochford.”

  This brought him up short. “Who dared do that?”

  Verity didn’t intend to expose Olivia by explaining the circumstances. And then have to justify them. She waved the question aside.

  “You mustn’t talk to him again.”

  He put a hand on her arm. It felt proprietary. Verity shook it off. “Why not?”

  “He is not a proper person for you to know.”

  “Oh, don’t talk like a fusty country parson.” She’d been so happy, and now he was spoiling things. Did he imagine she didn’t know what she was doing?

  Lord Randolph looked angry. Dauntingly so. “You kissed me!” he hissed in her ear.

  “Well, and so what if I did?”

  “Are you in the habit of kissing random gentlemen?”

  Now he was just offensive. “Do you call yourself random?”

  “Are you?”

  Verity longed to hit him. “Perhaps I shall be. What’s in a kiss?” The last sentence came out tremulous. Because there had been a great deal in it. As she’d meant there to be. But she wouldn’t be scolded when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Except with him. And he wasn’t talking about that. Blindly, she turned and moved away. People gave her curious glances. He’d exposed her to the stares of the crowd, anoth
er mark against him.

  Just when Verity thought herself lost, she saw a friend not far away. She hurried toward her, nodding and smiling at compliments from those she passed. “Oh, Olivia,” she said when she reached her goal.

  “What a night you’re having,” came the slightly mocking reply.

  Her friend’s light tone was a relief. Nothing tragic had happened, Verity told herself. She hadn’t made a fool of herself, except in her own mind.

  “What did Rochford say to you?” Olivia asked.

  “He was just being polite. Praising the performance.” If he’d intended anything else, Verity meant to ignore it.

  “Which made Lord Randolph furious?” her friend asked with an arch glance.

  “He wasn’t… What makes you say so?”

  “I think everyone with eyes saw that he was furious.” Olivia looked around as if gauging opinions. “It was rather obvious.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, are we to expect an engagement?”

  “No!”

  Olivia examined her as if she was an unusual specimen.

  “He’s insufferable. If he thinks he can dictate to me…” Verity got hold of herself. “You can’t sing your way through life,” she added, which sounded cryptic even to her.

  “You might want to speak more softly,” Olivia suggested. “And I’m not trying to marry you off.”

  Verity bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to be so dramatic. And she certainly did not feel despair. That was ridiculous. She was at Carleton House, and she had scored a palpable hit. She had kissed… Perhaps she shouldn’t have. But she’d wanted to. So much that she’d forgotten to make a follow-up plan. Would Olivia know how to manage men one had kissed? Not accidentally, but…inevitably?

  But Olivia had turned her mind to her own concerns. “I need something to catch Rochford’s attention,” she said. “I can’t sing like you. And anyway, that’s been done.” She acknowledged Verity with a smile. “I’ve heard he prides himself on his skill at cards. Perhaps I’ll challenge him to a game.”

  “Could you?”

  “Why not? I’ll just have to think of a wager he can’t refuse.” Her smile this time was impish.

  “Where would you play?” Ladies were banned from clubs, as Verity knew all too well, and the card rooms at evening parties were always filled with the older generation.

  “It would take some arranging. I’ll have to think.”

  “You could get into trouble.” Olivia couldn’t play Rochford in public without rousing a minor scandal.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Verity discovered that the teachings of her youth had made a strong impression on her. She worried that Olivia was making a disastrous mistake.

  “Verity!” Her mother bustled up. Mrs. Doran had undoubtedly poured out the tale of Rochford, and Verity was in for a scold. Briefly, she envied Olivia her easygoing mother. But of course she wouldn’t trade her family for any other.

  There were times when a large, voluble family was a blessing, Randolph thought on the opposite side of the room, and others when it seemed he had a few too many brothers.

  “What do you mean, now it’s Randolph’s turn?” asked Sebastian.

  “To be the goat,” replied Robert.

  “The…” Sebastian frowned at Randolph as if he was taking the expression literally.

  “He’s lost his heart to his singing partner,” Robert added.

  “I have not,” said Randolph.

  “Have too,” said Robert, mimicking rhythms established twenty years ago. “And she’s making difficulties.”

  “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I know she made you mad as fire a few minutes ago.”

  He’d allowed his emotions to overcome him, Randolph admitted silently. And he regretted it. But seeing a man like Thomas Rochford flirting with Miss Sinclair—with Verity, such an unusual, pleasing name—had revolted him. Rochford treated women shabbily; shameful cases were known. Randolph would have warned any young lady about the fellow. That was all he’d been doing. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. The encounter was all muddled up with her flippant dismissal of their kiss and being called a “fusty country parson.” He was certain, however, that he had not lost his heart to Miss Sinclair. This…turmoil was nothing like what he’d felt with Rosalie. Randolph’s hands closed into fists at his sides. He saw Robert notice, and forced his hands to relax.

  “Anyone in the room who was paying attention knows that,” added Robert.

  “Don’t tease Randolph,” said Sebastian, going elder brotherly.

  “Why not? You all teased me about Flora.”

  “You have a thicker skin.”

  Randolph and Robert stared at him.

  “He’s sensitive. Chafing rolls off your back like water off a duck.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” said Robert. But he looked amused.

  One could drift into thinking that Sebastian was an amiable dolt, Randolph observed. Sebastian had often applied the label to himself. He wasn’t anything of the kind though, and since his marriage, he seemed to realize it. “I didn’t tease you about Flora,” Randolph said to Robert. “I did my best to help you.”

  “It’s true, you did. Shall I return the favor?”

  “I’m not doing anything. I don’t need any help.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Says he doesn’t,” replied Sebastian. He nodded at Randolph. “But if you find you do, just say the word.”

  And they would rally ’round, Randolph thought. If he needed them, Nathaniel would come down from the country and Alan from Oxford. James would sail home from halfway across the globe if word somehow reached him. They’d join a phalanx of Gresham brothers against the world. The knowledge was touching, and a little daunting. Like owning Aladdin’s magic lamp, a power to use sparingly. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said. “No help required.”

  From another corner of the large, overheated chamber, the Duke and Duchess of Langford watched three of their offspring converse. “I’m worried about him,” said the duchess.

  After more than thirty years of marriage, they usually understood each other without much explanation. The duke merely said, “Randolph? Why?”

  “All of them learned the veneer that’s so useful in society. But underneath, Randolph takes things harder than the others.”

  “Things?”

  “If his heart should be broken.” The duchess shook her head. “Again.”

  “You’re thinking of Miss Delacourt?” The duke had heard the story of Rosalie after the fact. The delay had rankled a little at the time, but he was resigned to the knowledge that his duchess received confidences from their sons that he was denied. He supposed he knew things she didn’t as well.

  “Her loss brought him very near despair. To lose your love right on the verge of marriage—”

  They looked at each other, their eyes mirroring the knowledge of what it would have meant to them.

  “He struggled back to a kind of happiness,” she continued. “Indeed, I’m sure he’d say he’s very happy. To me, he has never seemed the same.”

  “Have you been fretting all these years?” her husband asked with concern.

  “I’d feared he’d never fall in love again. Now I’m worried that he will…unluckily.”

  “Miss Sinclair?” The duke looked and found the young lady with the bright hair and lovely voice. “Is music the key there?”

  “As much as any one thing ever is in mysteries of love.”

  The duke nodded. “They seem very harmonious together.”

  Though she smiled at his word choice, the expression was fleeting. “I can’t make out how she feels. We were talking of James at one of their rehearsals—”

  “She knows James?” he asked, surprised.

  “
No. But she came alive all at once when we were speaking of him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I.” The duchess shook her head. “I only know that I couldn’t bear to see Randolph as he was after Rosalie Delacourt’s death. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “We would step in.”

  She looked up. She couldn’t count the times she’d been thankful to have a partner she could rely on absolutely. “We agreed not to interfere in our sons’ private affairs.”

  “And we were right. Look at how well they’ve all settled.”

  “Except Randolph.”

  “The exception that proves the rule.”

  “But what would we do?”

  “That will depend on circumstances.”

  One brief glance was enough to forge a silent agreement. The duchess immediately felt better, recalling all the occasions when her husband had known best.

  Nine

  Walking through the London streets toward Olivia’s house, accompanied by her borrowed footman, Verity was conscious of a slight…melancholy? No, that was ridiculous. Not the right word at all. She never brooded.

  She admired a froth of pansies in the window box of a stone house they passed. The June morning was balmy. She was on her way to see a friend. She was to attend a soiree that evening and her first grand ball in a few days. Such events would provide a host of opportunities to further her plans. There was absolutely no reason to feel as if something was missing from her life. And so she wouldn’t. She refused. Verity walked faster.

  Olivia’s tall, apparently always tipsy butler admitted them and took Verity upstairs to the drawing room. The youngest Townsends weren’t present today. Mrs. Townsend lounged in her customary spot, while Olivia and Beatrice faced off in front of the hearth. “I don’t see why you had to stick your nose in,” Beatrice declared.

  “You told me about it,” Olivia replied.

  “Not so that you could betray me!” was the dramatic reply. Beatrice struck a pose. She stamped on the hearthrug.

  “Oh, take a damper,” said her sister.

  Their mother’s calm, amused voice intervened. “If you wish to go—and you notice I am not forbidding the outing—Olivia must accompany you,” said Mrs. Townsend.