The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  The ladies laughed. They ate their ices, exclaiming over the flavors. The breeze blew a strand of bright hair across Miss Sinclair’s cheek. As she tucked it back, their gazes intersected, and Randolph felt shaken, like a man who misses a step in the darkness. He needed to discover what lay behind those blue-green eyes. “What did you think of Herr Grossmann?” he asked her.

  “Think of him?”

  “Did his system strike you as credible?” The topic wasn’t scintillating, perhaps. But here in public he couldn’t ask her what she thought about deceptively charming rakes or explore the issue of kissing.

  “I suppose it makes sense that the body would reflect the brain,” she said. “But I wonder how they established the map of traits.”

  “Some sort of tests, I suppose.”

  “What kind though?”

  “They might have examined people whose proclivities were well known and collated the results.”

  “Collated… What does that mean?” asked Beatrice.

  “Put them side by side and compared them,” Randolph explained. A possibility occurred to him. “If you had detailed descriptions of a deceased person’s character—”

  “You could measure their skulls and note the shapes,” said Miss Sinclair.

  “Ugh,” said Hilda as Randolph nodded.

  “A grim prospect,” said Miss Townsend.

  Randolph could hear Robert guffawing at the notion that he was entertaining young ladies with talk of palpating corpses. Once again, he’d allowed his curiosity to meander too far. “The Greeks saw the brain as the major controlling center for the body,” he said, somewhat at random. “The Egyptians thought it was the heart.”

  “That would seem to depend on what controls you’re thinking of,” said Miss Sinclair.

  “A combination of the two is best,” Randolph replied. “Should that occur.”

  “You think cooperation is unlikely?”

  “I believe that agreement of mind and heart is rare.”

  Verity Sinclair gazed at him. “A rather sad picture of life.”

  The other ladies swiveled their heads back to him. They’d been shifting like observers at a tennis match. Randolph sincerely wished them gone. “Realistic, rather,” he said. “And often very useful.”

  “How so?”

  Lobbing ideas back and forth with her was exciting. Even more than debates with friends at university. Perhaps because none of them had been entrancing females whom he’d kissed, Randolph thought. “Much can be discovered, or revealed, through inner debate.”

  Miss Sinclair frowned over this. He waited, fascinated to hear her opinion. “Working out what is truly important to the individual, you mean?”

  “Precisely.” She looked interested. He found that curiously encouraging.

  “Well, you’re too deep for me,” said Olivia Townsend. She pushed her empty ice cream dish away.

  “And very tedious,” added her younger sister.

  “Beatrice.” But Miss Townsend’s reprimand had no force behind it.

  “Lord Randolph has a tendency to run on and on,” said Lady Hilda Stane.

  “He must have a great bump for that somewhere on his head,” Beatrice said, giggling.

  Randolph tried to shrug off the teasing. His brothers had said worse. Not in front of Miss Sinclair, however.

  “Once, in Herefordshire, he talked for half an hour about some fusty poet. With quotations,” Hilda said.

  “George Herbert,” murmured Randolph. Miss Sinclair looked surprised.

  “He’s as bad as my father,” Hilda continued, pleased to have captured the group’s attention. “Papa once lectured me for hours on the differences between Celts and Picts.”

  “Picks?” said Beatrice. “The tools miners use?”

  Hilda shook her head and pronounced the word more clearly. “They’re ancient tribesmen. Painted themselves blue. Instead of clothes. They ran screaming into battle stark naked.”

  There was an instant’s silence, as they all visualized this scene, Randolph imagined. Catching Hilda’s sly sidelong look, he pressed his lips together. Clearly, she had a trap laid for anyone unwise enough to correct her simplistic description. And she knew more about Picts than he did.

  “But wouldn’t that be—” Miss Sinclair broke off.

  “Remarkably distracting?” said Olivia Townsend.

  “I suppose the other soldiers were familiar…” Miss Sinclair hesitated.

  “With such equipment?”

  “Olivia!”

  “Well, they would be,” responded her friend with mock innocence.

  This led all four ladies to look at Randolph and then quickly away. The situation was almost too absurd to be improper. But not quite. Although shielding the youthful ears of Lady Hilda Stane seemed like a lost cause, Randolph rose. “Perhaps we should be going?” he said.

  Hilda looked thwarted. What had she expected him to do? Huff and puff like a parson in a farce? The ladies stood up and gathered their belongings.

  “You’re fond of George Herbert’s poetry,” Miss Sinclair murmured as they strolled out of the park.

  “Exceedingly.”

  “I, too.”

  “Really? What is your favorite?”

  “Are you coming, Verity?” called Miss Townsend.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  She walked faster. Randolph could only follow.

  Ten

  “You do realize that this is a dreadfully unfashionable thing to do,” said Olivia.

  “Why did you come with me?” Verity asked. She’d been wondering about this ever since Olivia declared her intention of tagging along. Her expedition didn’t seem Olivia’s sort of thing at all. On the other hand, Verity quite understood her mother’s absence. The place might have drawn Mama, but she’d trade almost any outing for a period of solitude. And in this case there’d been two letters from Papa.

  “You can’t go haring around London alone,” Olivia replied.

  Apparently her long-suffering footman escort didn’t count. “Suddenly you’re a stickler for the proprieties? Do you think the British Museum is swarming with importunate swains?” Verity smiled, rather proud of that last phrase.

  Olivia laughed. “Oh lud. I can just see it. Hordes of decrepit old sticks, snuff stained, stumping after you with their canes and urging you to come and view their antiquities.”

  Verity had to laugh as well. “You have an odd idea of museumgoers. Perhaps we’ll meet a dashing young explorer, here to examine previous finds before he sets off on an expedition to the antipodes.” Verity didn’t really expect such luck, but one could hope. She was guaranteed a look at treasures from all over the world.

  They walked across the broad courtyard between the wings of Montagu House and up a few steps to the main entrance. Inside, Verity paused to consult the thorough guide she’d purchased before even coming to London and had pored over since. “I want to begin with the collection of objects from the South Seas,” she told Olivia, and incidentally the footman, who was looking about as if he expected footpads. “Can you believe they have the actual things Captain Cook found on his circumnavigation of the globe?”

  “Circum… Verity, really, this place is turning your brain.”

  “There are also books, engraved gems, coins, prints, and drawings,” Verity told her as they moved farther inside.

  “I daresay,” Olivia said. “They seem to have a bit of everything. What a cramped jumble.”

  “And then I want to see the Greek and Roman artifacts,” Verity continued, ignoring her friend’s comment. “And the Egyptian sculptures, of course.”

  “My lord, do you mean to spend the whole day? Isn’t there a gigantic foot of… Apollo, wasn’t it?”

  Verity turned to her, surprised and pleased. “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “I can r
ead, you know,” Olivia answered dryly. “I’m not a ninny.”

  “Of course not. I just didn’t think you were interested.”

  “Many things interest me. Who could resist seeing a gigantic foot? Let us begin there.”

  “But I wanted to—”

  “We can find your South Seas bits right after,” Olivia interrupted. She looked around, spotted an official, and went to speak to him. “This way,” she said when she returned.

  Verity followed her through several rooms full of items she would have liked to examine. But Olivia was walking fast and disinclined to pause. “Aha,” she said a few minutes later.

  They’d entered a large chamber adorned with Greek sculpture, but the more surprising sight was Miss Frances Reynolds standing alone beside one of the pieces. It represented the toes of a huge foot, Verity saw.

  “Miss Reynolds, how odd to meet you here,” said Olivia.

  Something in her tone bothered Verity. Olivia didn’t sound surprised.

  The fair-haired girl flushed. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Here? Whoever would you meet here?”

  “A…a friend.”

  “Are you ashamed of them?” Olivia asked with suspicious airiness.

  “What? No, I… Of course not.”

  “It’s just that a place like this.” Olivia gestured at the statuary. “Seems tailor-made to hide a connection you don’t want known.”

  The younger girl looked stricken.

  “Fanny,” said Olivia. “May I call you Fanny?”

  “I’d prefer not,” said Miss Reynolds. “I dislike that diminutive of my name.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes at Verity, as if to say what else can you expect of such a ninnyhammer. She turned to the sculpture. “How disappointing. It isn’t the whole foot. Just a few toes. An exhibit like this is practically guaranteed to convey disappointment.”

  “There are many other things to see,” Verity said. She didn’t trust this oblique conversation.

  “The Rosetta Stone,” said Miss Reynolds. “Which allowed scholars to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

  “Indeed.” Verity nodded.

  “And the Elgin Marbles,” the younger girl added. “From the Parthenon. Byron called Lord Elgin ‘a filthy jackal’ who ‘gnaws at the bone’ of conquest for taking them away. In The Curse of Minerva.” She spoke distantly, as if thinking of something else. Something melancholy.

  “Do you admire Byron?” Olivia said. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

  “I don’t admire him. Not in the least. I acknowledge that he has a gift for poetic expression.”

  “How generous of you.”

  “We’re going to see the South Seas materials,” Verity put in. “I’m particularly interested in those. You’re welcome to come along.” She ignored the face Olivia made.

  “I think I’ll wait a bit longer,” Miss Reynolds replied. She seemed more determined than happy with her choice.

  “Is your friend late?” inquired Olivia sweetly.

  “Yes.”

  “How thoughtless.” She turned and started toward the archway that led to other rooms.

  Verity hesitated, then followed. “What was that about?” she asked when they’d left Miss Reynolds well behind.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t try to bam me. Something odd was going on back there.”

  “Oh well.” Olivia smirked. “I may have sent Miss Reynolds a note that mentioned a certain bouquet and suggested a meeting by Apollo’s foot. A great touch, the foot, don’t you think? My father says that true brilliance is in the details.”

  “That’s rather cruel, isn’t it? I should go back and tell her.”

  Olivia gave her a sour look. “Certainly, if you’re the sort of person who would betray a friend’s confidence. And you wish to humiliate me.”

  “I don’t, of course, but—”

  “She didn’t have to come,” Olivia interrupted. “Nobody is making her moon over a certain gentleman. Or pay attention to anonymous notes. She could simply invite him to call on her, couldn’t she?”

  “I suppose Miss Reynolds would see that as too forward.”

  “They’re pretty well acquainted. They portrayed lovers in a play last autumn. And it would be much more sensible than lurking by an ancient god’s foot, wouldn’t it?”

  They were fair points, but Verity remained uncomfortable. “Promise you won’t send her any more notes.”

  “Pah, you’re no fun.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Oh very well, Miss Prim. I swear.” Olivia put a hand over her heart.

  Verity didn’t like being thought stuffy, but Miss Reynolds had looked so forlorn. She still wondered about going back to tell her the truth, but just then they reached the rooms displaying items from Captain Cook’s voyages. Immediately, Olivia was full of amusing comments and charming questions, reminding Verity of why she’d liked her in the first place. She also made no complaint as Verity examined every piece and imagined what it had been like to come upon them in a newfound landscape. Still, the rest of the tour was not quite as delightful as Verity had imagined it would be.

  It was late afternoon before they returned to Olivia’s home, and when they entered the drawing room, they found Lord Randolph there, inquiring after Hilda. “She slipped away from Sebastian’s house,” he told them. “And as he is on duty, I’ve been delegated to find her. I thought she might be visiting Miss Beatrice.”

  “Who is not here,” said Olivia’s mother. “She said she was going to practice dramatic speeches in her bedchamber.” The lady sighed. “We appreciated her thoughtfulness in sparing us.”

  Olivia snorted.

  “Perhaps she’s been kidnapped by pirates,” suggested Peter, who was once again lounging on the drawing room sofa, nursing his broken arm.

  “Pirates wouldn’t want her,” replied his younger sister, Selina, looking up from her card game.

  “They wouldn’t want you!” exclaimed her opponent, five-year-old Gerard. “You’re cheating again. I know you are.”

  “I’ll search Beatrice’s room,” said Olivia above the noise of their dispute.

  “Nurse looked,” said her mother.

  “She doesn’t know Beatrice’s hidey-holes.” Olivia went out.

  Randolph was relieved that the two girls were most likely together. Hilda thought she was up to anything, an opinion for which she had some justification. She was clever and fearless. But London held hazards beyond her experience.

  “Did Olivia enjoy the museum?” asked Mrs. Townsend, amusement clear in her voice.

  “She liked Apollo’s toes,” said Miss Sinclair in an oddly dry tone.

  “You went to the British Museum?” asked Randolph. “Did you see Ramses?”

  “No.”

  It seemed she hadn’t liked the exhibits. Or perhaps she didn’t know the name. “He was an Egyptian ruler many thousands of—”

  “I know,” interrupted Miss Sinclair. “It is impossible to see everything in the museum in one visit.”

  Her friend returned, waving a piece of notepaper. “I’ve got it. They’ve gone to visit Mrs. Siddons.”

  “The actress?” Randolph was startled.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Townsend. “Beatrice saw her in Douglas. She found her suicide scene utterly devastating. People say this play may be Mrs. Siddons’s last.”

  “But how did she come to know the lady?” Randolph asked. Mrs. Siddons was a respected figure, unlike some other women of the theater, but schoolgirls weren’t likely to be acquainted with her.

  “Wrote to her, apparently,” Miss Townsend answered. “Multiple times, I would imagine. The poor lady finally gave in to the siege and invited her to call.” She brandished the page as evidence. “What a poor conspirator Beatrice is. She left this in her
‘secret’ cache under a loose floorboard. Can she have forgotten that she showed me the place? I’ll have to teach her proper plotting.”

  Randolph didn’t understand the look Miss Sinclair gave her. “Does she give her address? I’ll go and fetch them.”

  “I don’t suppose we could just let Beatrice come home on her own,” said Mrs. Townsend. She added, “No,” just as Randolph said the same. “She really cannot go haring off without telling me,” their hostess continued.

  And something might have happened to them, Randolph thought but didn’t say. Wasn’t it getting rather late for visiting? “I’ll return her to you.” He held out his hand for the note. “May I see?”

  “I’ll keep this,” replied Miss Townsend. “The address is Westbourne Green. Where will we find that, do you think?”

  “I shall go alone,” Randolph said. His parents’ coachman would know how to find the place. He suspected it would be a goodly distance.

  “If you think I’ll miss meeting Mrs. Siddons, you’re mad,” said Miss Townsend.

  “The journey could take a while,” Randolph replied. And it would be all for nothing if he missed them. He suppressed irritation. He didn’t want a long carriage ride in the company of Miss Townsend.

  “I don’t care. It will be an adventure. Verity will come, too. Won’t you, Verity?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Sinclair.

  Suddenly, the trip seemed less onerous. “About what time did she leave?” Randolph asked.

  “She went up to her room hours ago,” said Mrs. Townsend.

  Which wasn’t particularly helpful, Randolph thought.

  “I must send word to my mother,” said Miss Sinclair.

  This note was quickly written, and other necessities attended to. A few minutes later, the trio was in the duke’s carriage heading west around Hyde Park.

  “You have to admire Beatrice’s initiative,” said Miss Townsend. “I wouldn’t have thought of such a lark at her age.”

  “You didn’t have a coconspirator like Hilda,” Randolph pointed out.