The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  “True. If only we had known each other then, Verity.”

  Miss Sinclair made no reply. She was gazing out the window at the passing scene as they veered away from the park. Randolph admired her profile, wondering what she was thinking.

  “I’ve never been out this way before,” Miss Townsend commented after a while. “It’s a bit dreary, isn’t it?”

  The houses seemed commonplace to Randolph. It wasn’t Mayfair, but neither was it a slum.

  Conversation became sporadic as they rattled on. The light grew more golden as afternoon turned to early evening. Randolph thought of requesting more speed, but his father’s coachman knew his business and would be as eager as he was to get this over.

  “Wait, stop!” cried Miss Sinclair some time later. “There they are.”

  The driver heard and pulled up. When Randolph looked, there indeed were the miscreants, heads down, trudging along the side of the road. The girls eyed the carriage warily, until Hilda perked up and shouted, “It’s Randolph! Thank heaven.”

  Randolph jumped out and herded them into the backward-facing seat. The coach made the awkward turn to reverse their direction.

  “There are no cabs to be found way out here,” Hilda declared. “And Beatrice wouldn’t go back and ask—” She bit off the sentence as she apparently remembered the clandestine nature of their outing.

  “I don’t care,” said Beatrice. “I don’t care if I get a thundering scold. I’ve met the greatest tragedienne of our time.”

  It sounded like a quote, Verity thought.

  “And she told me I would do very well on the stage.”

  “She said you were a dramatic young lady,” Hilda corrected. “Lud, my feet hurt! These new half boots fit dreadfully. And I’m starving. The greatest tragedienne of our time didn’t give us as much as a biscuit with our tea.”

  “She is above food,” Beatrice retorted.

  More likely she hadn’t wanted to prolong the visit, Verity thought.

  Lord Randolph leaned forward and produced a packet of sandwiches from a cloth bag at his feet. “I’ve found that a bit of sustenance comes in handy on rescue missions.”

  Verity admired his foresight, as well as his calm assurance—just the sort of attitude one needed to weather the hardships of exploration. This was not, of course, a voyage to the far side of the globe. It barely qualified as a mild adventure. And Lord Randolph was unlikely to have true ones, she reminded herself. Ever. He was a country parson. She really must stop forgetting this crucial point.

  “You are a trump,” said Hilda, unwrapping the sandwiches and handing one to Beatrice. “And not ringing a peal over us either.” She bit into her own.

  “Not my job,” said Lord Randolph. “You may be sure Georgina will. And Mrs. Townsend.”

  “Mama will laugh,” said Beatrice. “And admire my panache.” She made a sweeping gesture with her sandwich.

  “No, she won’t,” said her older sister. “She’s very cross with you.” She rather spoiled the effect by adding, “I cannot believe I missed meeting Mrs. Siddons.”

  This set Beatrice off on a paean that lasted for the remainder of their journey and left her sandwich largely uneaten.

  When Verity reached her lodgings later that evening, her mother was sitting in the drawing room with a book. “Is all well with the girls?” she asked.

  “Yes, we found them safely.”

  “Oh good. You have a letter from Papa. It was enclosed in one of mine. I didn’t see it until I opened them.”

  Verity eyed the packet on the writing desk. “Is he angry about the singing?”

  “A little concerned. We told him it was just the once.”

  Apprehensive, Verity went to unseal the letter. But when she began to read, she found he had another concern entirely. After the usual salutation, he wrote:

  I was startled to receive a missive from Lord Randolph Gresham enclosed with your mother’s last. And distressed to hear that you were to be paired with him for this ill-advised concert.

  Verity blinked. Lord Randolph seemed just the sort of man her father would like. She read on.

  I have confirmed that this young man is the one who caused the Archbishop of Canterbury considerable embarrassment. I will not repeat the story. Unlike certain frivolous persons, I do not consider it amusing. And it is certainly not suitable for your ears. I will say only that Lord Randolph’s carelessness undoubtedly damaged his prospects in the church. It would be best to avoid any further linking of your names.

  Her father finished with his dear love, and so on.

  Verity contemplated the words. What could Lord Randolph have done to earn this warning? If frivolous persons—Papa privately referred to the Bishop of Chester that way at times—thought it amusing, it couldn’t be so very bad. The Lord Randolph she knew seemed quite unlikely to embarrass the archbishop. Could Papa have mistaken him for someone else? Or perhaps Lord Randolph wasn’t as staid and parochial as she’d thought.

  Eleven

  Verity stood before the long mirror in her bedchamber and evaluated her appearance. Her dress for her first London ball was white. The dressmaker had advised that this was the most suitable color, even though Verity was well past eighteen. She had found a fabric with a silvery sheen in the dressmaker’s shop, however, and Mama had agreed that it became her. Her hair was gathered in a knot on top of her head with a few wispy curls drawn forward, making its bright hue less noticeable, she thought. Her pearl drop earrings and necklace completed a picture that would definitely do. No one would call her a diamond of the first water, perhaps, but she looked well.

  She couldn’t count on throngs of dance partners. She didn’t know enough young men for that. Olivia thought that Verity’s small notoriety from singing would attract interest and lead some to ask the hostess for introductions. They would see about that.

  Verity knew that Lord Randolph would be at the ball. Surely he would ask her to dance! He’d sent her some lines of George Herbert’s poetry after their recent outing. Verity retrieved the folded page from her dressing table and read it again.

  Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

  The bridal of the earth and sky;

  The dew shall weep thy fall tonight.

  She smiled. She knew the poem, and the rest wasn’t so sweet. Some people might call it grim, actually. She’d twit him about that. And perhaps about the archbishop as well. She looked forward to it. To a surprising degree. Gathering her gloves and wrap, she went to join her mother.

  Sitting in the line of carriages waiting to discharge their passengers, Verity breathed in the smoky scent of the torches flaming beside the front door. She watched beautifully dressed guests step down from their vehicles and enter in a swirl of colors. She ran her fingers over the silky fabric of her gown and listened to the clop of hooves and jingle of harness. And she gathered these details into one of her moments. The scene was all she’d imagined back in her provincial home.

  As she moved up the stairs to greet the hostess and pass into the ballroom, this seemed like the glittering center of the world.

  “All these grand people,” murmured her mother. “And scarcely one word of sensible conversation among them.”

  “Mrs. Doran will be here,” Verity said.

  “That’s right. She’ll help me look after you.”

  Verity hid a grimace. She’d endured an intrusive scold about Rochford from Mrs. Doran because she was Mama’s friend. The line moved up two steps, and then another.

  The wait seemed long, but at last they were exchanging greetings and moving on. Verity drew in an appreciative breath when they entered the ballroom. Swags of flowers adorned the walls, filling the air with scent. A trio of musicians tuned up on a small dais in the far corner. Everywhere, members of the ton chattered and flirted.

  She scanned the rows of gilt chairs lining the walls, foun
d Mrs. Doran, and settled her mother beside her. Before they could insist that Verity join them, she said, “There’s Lady Emma. I must say hello.”

  Emma, lovely in rose pink, stood with her older sister by one of the long windows. “You look perfectly splendid,” Verity told her when she reached them.

  Emma looked down at her gown. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Hilda said I looked like the top of a chocolate box.”

  “I expect she’s jealous,” said Verity.

  “She could never bear to wait her turn,” sighed Emma’s older sister. “And now I’ve had to confine her to her room as punishment for sneaking off. Lud knows what revenge she’s plotting. Oh. Wait here, Emma, I’m going to speak to someone.” She moved off in a rustle of cobalt silk.

  “Is the rest of your family here?” Verity asked Emma. She hadn’t spotted Lord Randolph in the crowd.

  “Sebastian escorted us.” Emma heaved a great sigh. “I shan’t be able to waltz,” she said. “We haven’t been to Almack’s. I don’t see why we must all wait to be approved there.”

  “We don’t aspire to vouchers,” Verity replied.

  “I could see if Georgina would ask for you.”

  “I don’t care about going.” Verity spotted Olivia and gave a little wave. “What a beautiful dress,” she said when that young lady joined them. Olivia wore a gown of pale-blue tissue over white satin with a rather daring neckline. A sapphire ornament sparkled in her brown hair, matching a lovely bracelet. The ensemble referenced her father’s wealth without flaunting it, Verity thought.

  Georgina came back with a young gentleman in tow. “Emma, this is Mr. Lionel Packenham. Mr. Packenham, may I present my sister, Lady Emma Stane?”

  Verity felt a pang of envy over Georgina’s social expertise. She sometimes felt she was guiding her mother through the season rather than vice versa. Although Mr. Packenham wasn’t terribly handsome, he had an engaging smile. Emma seemed pleased, and that was the important thing.

  The two went off to join the set forming in the center of the large room. Georgina was summoned by her husband to do the same.

  “What a wet fish,” said Olivia.

  “Olivia!”

  “Packenham,” Olivia added. “Oh, Packenham. Impeccable pedigree and tub loads of money. He doesn’t require a chin.”

  “Someone will hear you.”

  “In this din? Never. But I must tell you my great coup.” She leaned a little closer. “I’ve gotten a copy of Herr Grossmann’s notes about Mr. Rochford.”

  “Did you bribe his assistant?” Verity asked.

  “You’re too clever. You’ve spoiled my story. But yes, I did. And now I know all of Mr. Rochford’s innermost secrets.”

  “Really? Such as?”

  Olivia made a face. “Unfortunately there wasn’t much more than what Herr Grossmann said in public. But I can pretend there were desperate revelations.”

  “Mightn’t that make Mr. Rochford angry?”

  “I hope so. One strong emotion leads to another.”

  As Verity considered this dubious proposition, the musicians showed signs of beginning. Olivia surveyed the room. “We don’t want to be labeled wallflowers. Ah.” She summoned a tall young man with a gesture. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Ronald?”

  “Naturally,” he said with a bow.

  “A crony of my older brother,” Olivia told Verity. “Known him since I was seven. Do you have a friend with you for Miss Sinclair, Ronald?”

  Verity would have preferred to find her own partner, had she known anyone.

  “All engaged for this set, I’m afraid. I hope I may snag you for the next, Miss Sinclair.”

  Verity smiled and nodded. One of the few advantages of Chester was her broad acquaintance there, built up over a lifetime. She never lacked dance partners at the country assemblies. She’d resigned herself to going back to her mother when Olivia said, “Oh.” She waved, discreetly, then more broadly, attracting a good deal of amused attention before she was noticed by the young man who seemed to be her target.

  With what Verity thought was reluctance, an athletic-looking fellow with dark hair and eyes came over to them.

  “Have you no partner for this set, Mr. Wrentham?” Olivia said. “May I present my friend Miss Verity Sinclair?”

  Mr. Wrentham was attractive, but his expression was closed. Verity felt thrust upon him as he bowed and requested the honor. She wanted to dance, however. And it wasn’t her fault that Olivia had dragged him over.

  They moved onto the floor. Mr. Wrentham danced well and even smiled once or twice as they exchanged commonplaces. Half the set had passed before Verity made the connection. This was the man Miss Reynolds was mooning over, according to Olivia. She eyed him with greater interest and indulged her curiosity. “I believe I know a friend of yours,” she said.

  “Indeed?”

  “Miss Frances Reynolds.”

  He looked down at her, true interest flickering in his brown eyes for the first time. His hand tightened on hers. “She spoke of me?”

  Verity wasn’t quite prepared for the strength of his reaction. She couldn’t repeat what Olivia had said. “Your name was mentioned.”

  “Where? How?”

  “At, er, an evening party, I believe.”

  “Miss Reynolds is in London? What is her direction?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked annoyed. He might as well have said, “What use are you to me then?”

  An irritating man, Verity thought, doubting Miss Reynolds’s taste. Still, the girl had seemed so melancholy. “Surely you have mutual acquaintances who could supply that information,” she said.

  “Hah. Yes. Probably.” He said little else before the country dance ended, and then he left her with a cursory farewell.

  “Good riddance,” Verity murmured under her breath.

  Ronald did not reappear. Her next partner requested an introduction from their hostess and said flattering things about her singing. His gaze kept sinking toward her bodice, however. And lingering. It was a nearly unredeemable black mark in Verity’s book. She insisted upon conversing with a face, not a forehead.

  And then the musicians were striking up a waltz, and Verity found Mr. Rochford bowing before her.

  His tall, fair-haired figure defined elegance. Some men just seemed made for evening dress, she thought. No doubt he danced exquisitely. His brows were raised, his expression challenging. Of course he was aware that he’d presented her with a conundrum.

  Verity hadn’t determined in advance whether she would waltz tonight. Mama had doubts about the dance, though she admitted that it was accepted among the ton. Verity had decided to wait and see how she felt when the time came. And here it was. In an untenable form. Waltzing with Mr. Rochford was a step further, so to speak, than she was willing to go. She’d have to refuse.

  She wasn’t particularly sorry. Mr. Rochford had proved to be a disappointment. He might be handsome and polished, but he wasn’t an adventurer. An acknowledged rake was actually a rather conventional creature, she thought. He simply turned conventions upside down. And his air of lazy impudence felt both dismissive and artificial. His eyes might twinkle, but they were hard. She opened her mouth to deny him the dance.

  A broad-shouldered figure stepped between them. Lord Randolph Gresham grasped her hand. “I believe this dance is promised to me,” he said.

  “I suppose the lady would know best about that,” replied Mr. Rochford, looking down his nose even though Lord Randolph was a hair taller. They shifted slightly, gazes locked, poised to jostle and posture like…men, Verity thought. Or dogs growling over a tidbit. “I am not a bone,” she said.

  The declaration startled them out of their pose. And then Olivia was beside Rochford, her fingertips brushing the sleeve of his coat. “This must be our dance,” she said.

  “M
ust it?”

  “Oh yes, I think so.”

  “How did I miss all these arrangements, I wonder?” But he looked more amused than angry, and he led her onto the floor.

  The music had started. Couples swayed and turned. Lord Randolph still held Verity’s hand. She made no objection when he set the other at her waist and steered her into the waltz. Her free hand found his shoulder. Nearly as close as when they’d kissed, they moved down the floor in tandem. He pulled her into a twirl. Her skirt belled out. It was exhilarating.

  “Miss Townsend’s behavior is quite fast,” he said. “You’d be well advised not to pick up her habits. She’s…unwise to dance with Thomas Rochford.”

  In the blink of an eye, Verity was incredulous with rage. She’d never felt like hitting a man until this moment. Did he ask if she’d intended to accept Rochford’s invitation? Did he expect her to have the sense God gave a goose? No, he assumed she was a fool. He pushed in and tried to make a decision for her. And then he criticized her friend. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I don’t require your advice,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Lord Randolph looked surprised, which only compounded his offense. If he said he knew better because of his position or wider experience, she’d…spit.

  He did not. He danced. They turned at the end of the room and moved up the other side. Verity’s temper cooled somewhat. “Did you like the lines of Herbert I sent?” he said finally.

  “That poem is about death,” Verity replied curtly.

  “Yes. And the words are beautiful. ‘The dew shall weep thy fall tonight.’ I’ve always found that phrasing lovely.”

  “Recording the presence of beauty, even though death is inevitable.”

  “Precisely.” Lord Randolph nodded. “I should have known when you said you liked Herbert that you’re a thoughtful person. I can see why you don’t require advice.”

  Mollified, Verity said, “I don’t say I never do.” She almost added that she’d been about to refuse Rochford. But he spoke first.

  “Herbert was such a master. He finds the words even when he acknowledges there are none.” Softly, he recited: “‘Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise for my rough sorrows; cease, be dumb and mute. Give up your feet and running to mine eyes, and keep your measures for some lover’s lute, whose grief allows him music and a rhyme; for mine excludes both measure, tune, and time.’”