Duchess Decadence

by Wendy Lacapra

  “The wager? Was that real?”

  She bit her bottom lip.

  “Good God!” She hadn’t come back on a wager, hopeful of a second chance. She’d come back with deliberate intention, to fulfill a duty.

  “I asked you not to look at me that way. Please. Please understand. Everything I’ve said since has been true. Everything we’ve shared, everything we’ve done—”

  “True, was it?” he paced to the door and back. “A public wager. Return for the summer…or discuss a Parliamentary divorce. You never intended to stay, not if I no longer needed protection.”

  She bit both lips this time.

  “St. Swithin!”

  “I hate when you say St. Swithin,” she said. “If you must swear, why not with a more common oath?”

  He ignored her irrational plea. “How did you win the game?”

  “False,” she hiccupped, “dice.”

  “Thea Marie.” His jaw hadn’t opened.

  “Stop!” She put her hand to her mouth. “I was protecting you. I do not deserve your wrath.”

  “Did it ever occur to you to come to me with the truth?”

  “Not in the beginning. I knew Eustace was a lying bastard. He—he drove a wedge between us before. I did not take those sapphires—you know now I did not. But then…then you were not sure. You—you forbid everyone from speaking with me.”

  Wynchester stepped back. “I sent Eustace away. For you.”

  “You chose my part over Eustace because in him you had only one heir, but in me you could have had many—”

  “What,” he exploded, “kind of an inhuman ass do you think I am?”

  “I do not think that at all.” She swallowed a sob. “Harrison said—”

  “Harrison,” he interrupted derisively, “You take Harrison’s council and no doubt the whole lot of the Furies. But do you ever listen to me?”

  “Harrison would have told you…I would have told you, but the Privy Council did not wish to prejudice you against—”

  “The Privy Council is looking into Eustace’s dealings?”

  She nodded.

  Too much. Far, far too much. If he’d had any hope he could clear his name, it bled from his body. He had even less time than he’d thought.

  “The Privy Council,” he repeated, defeated.

  A whirlwind of dates and times and places—snippets of conversation, heads put together at different parties—all laid out across a checkered board. The East India Company. The fall of the Fox-North Commission. William Pitt. The recall of Ministers. The collapse of the government. Eustace. Kasai. The Under Secretary.

  Eustace’s plots had been stalled, but who knew how high the conspirators ranked? Only he could put a definitive stop to his brother’s treachery. Eustace had played him for a fool. He’d been as predictable as his father—so blinded by sentiment he’d missed the conspiracy beneath his nose. Even if Thea Marie had returned for all the wrong reasons, he could not let Eustace’s crimes against her go unavenged.

  “Wyn,” Thea Marie cried brokenly, reaching out with one shaking hand.

  He should have cast aside her hand, but he did not. She’d only confirmed what he should have known, after all. Deep down, she had never been his of her own volition… Which should have made ordering her to leave easier.

  It did not.

  He’d wanted to see her in his bed just once. All the splendor that might have been his—and the reason he must not lose his resolve. How could he resist her outstretched hand, now? In repetition of their very first meeting, he took her perfect hand in his over-large and awkward fingers.

  He’d piled mistake on top of mistake. He was the one who had sent Eustace to India, where Eustace had built a fortune with blood. He was the one who had left his pregnant wife with just servants to face four days of riots alone. He was the one who had served her what he’d thought was medicine, which had caused the loss of their child.

  It had been bad enough when she believed his absence was to blame, but it had been by his own hand. His awkward, ugly hand. He ran his thumb over her fingers.

  “You are right, my darling.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I have been unnecessarily cruel.”

  She sniffled. “I am so sorry I deceived you.”

  The ice he needed solidified in his blood and his heart and his bone.

  “You did what had to be done.” With effort, he infused ice into his gaze and lifted his eyes to hers. “Just as I will do what must be done.”

  “Wynchester,” she shrank, “I don’t like your tone.”

  “You will ready yourself to flee. Any coin I can collect I will deliver to the dowager duchess tomorrow night. That, along with your jewels, will allow you modest comfort abroad.”

  “I do not understand—”

  “Treason,” he said harshly. “They will take my name, my home, and, finally when I have suffered every humiliation, my life. But I will not let them take you.” His fierce expression softened and he ran his knuckle down her cheek. “You, my darling, are going to run.”

  Her eyes widened. She shook her head no.

  “You have no choice.” He kissed her forehead, dropped her hand, and strode to the door.

  “Wait!” she cried from the bed. “What are you going to do?”

  Without turning back he answered. “I am going to put a definitive end to Eustace’s scheming.”

  Without a look back, he strode through, and then locked, the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thea leapt to her feet, but as she flung herself against the door, the lock clicked ominously.

  She hit the wood panel with her fist. “Wynchester!”

  “Shhh, it is already done,” he spoke through the panel. “After I have gone, Mrs. Wheaton will release you. You will collect your things and go directly to the dowager. She will have further instruction.”

  “No! No! Don’t do this.” A frantic shake entered her voice. “Please. Whatever Eustace has done, we’ll undo. Do not leave me.”

  “I am sorry, Thea Marie. I cannot tell you how much. Things could have ended differently, but for my arrogance.”

  His calm was unnatural. Chilling, even. “Know this, if the price was these last two weeks with you. I would not buy back my name or position.”

  “Wynchester!” She pounded both fists on the door.

  Silence.

  “Wynchester!”

  She lifted her skirts and ran through the passage. He’d locked her door as well. She kicked it with her heel. Not even an infinitesimal budge.

  She sank into her favorite chair. The Clodpate of Colossal Proportions was gone. Gone, damn him!

  He loved her, too. He’d all but said so. He loved her and now he was gone. She held her cheeks as if she could stop the cracks in her mind—her heart—from widening.

  She had suspected Eustace of treason, but never dreamed he’d tie his plot to Wynchester. If Wynchester were tried and convicted, Wynterhill would be confiscated. And Wynchester would be sentenced to death.

  Absurdly, she thought of the fine-lady figurine of china cracked in a million pieces…

  Four-score Men and Four-score more,

  Could not make Humpty Dumpty as he was before.

  She would go out of her mind if she could not act. But what was she to do?

  He’d ordered her to run. Run from the mess and the death. Run from the broken, rage-filled expression that had haunted Wynchester’s gaze. She’d recognized his look at once—hate blended with terrible resolution. She had seen such an expression before, in the eyes of the man who had hatcheted her mews gate, leading the Gordon Rioters into her home.

  She’d sent Bates for pistols, rushed the rest of the servants to the front hall. But she had been unable to leave. Telling herself the rioters would not harm a woman with child, she had faced them as they poured in from the mews.

  Amid the sweltering heat of a burning city, she’d tried to reason with madness and anger and want. But she’d been helpless against that look—that
horrible look—that harbinger of terror to come. Were it not for Emma’s men…

  She closed her eyes, pushing tears out to her cheeks.

  …Were it not for Emma’s men, she would be dead.

  The leader who’d wanted her dead had been tried and sentenced to death. She had not run then, but she’d run thereafter, and had been running, running, running…until caught in Wynchester’s arms.

  Run. Run. Run.

  Run now. Run fast. Do not look back.

  If she had run during the riots, all would be different. Perhaps she would have her child.

  Run. Run. Run.

  A familiar refrain. But where could she run? No place concealed the truth.

  If she had run during the riots, the riot leader would have escaped. Justice would not have been served, and there would be no house left at all. No secret passage for Lavinia. No roses left for Wynchester to rescue.

  No Broadfield. No Folly.

  No love.

  She loved Wynchester—reason enough for her to stay—but what was more, he loved her. He may not have been able to speak the words, but would a man convinced of his own destruction, choose as his last wish the sight of his wife on his bed?

  She could not…she would not run again.

  Stillness wound round her, warm as a woolen cape. She had the Furies. The Furies had Randolph and Harrison. And Wynchester, he’d have them all.

  “Your Grace,” Polly banged on the door. “Are you inside?”

  Thea rushed to the door, brushing away her tears. “Polly, thank God! Do you have a key?”

  “I can set you free,” Polly answered. “Not to worry. Just give me a moment.”

  Inside the lock, metal clinked against metal. More clicking and then a happy cry. Polly swung open the door, clutching three hairpins in her hand.

  “No key, then,” Thea said, with a raised brow.

  “Best not to ask.” The hairpins disappeared into Polly’s apron pocket. “What has happened? Mr. Countway says the duke had his fastest horse saddled and took two loaded pistols but no bag.”

  “Wyn has gone a little mad, I think.” She bit her lip. “He’s read letters Eustace wrote to his nurse. He believes he’ll be charged with treason.”

  “Your Grace,” she breathed. “It is not true.”

  “Not in the least. Lord Randolph and Mr. Harrison have been trying to discover Eustace’s plans. They’ve run out of time, I am afraid. Wynchester is out for Eustace’s blood.”

  “A fast horse could overtake him still.”

  Thea frowned. “He believes he has nothing left to lose. He would resist with his life.” And if she had not convinced him to change course here, she had no faith her pleas would be heard on a dusty, dark road.

  “Is there no way to stop him?” Polly asked.

  Thea chewed on her nail. “Whatever he has planned, I do not think he will harm Eustace until he believes I am safely gone.” Emma had told her she could understand Wyn, if she put her mind to the task. Was there a way to stop Wynchester? What would he do?

  When she left him, he solidified alliances, forbid contact with his friends. And, when faced with Eustace’s insinuation she carried a bastard child, he stemmed damage by ordering an affidavit.

  She paced back and forth, playing their conversation back over in her mind. Solidify alliances. “I need to speak with the doctors who gave Wynchester the letters. Then, we’ll go to Lord Randolph and Mr. Harrison. There must be people Wynchester can trust. As to stemming the damage….”

  Polly grabbed Thea’s arm. “I swear on my babe I can help.”

  “How?” Thea asked.

  “I worked in the Under Secretary’s madhouse.”

  Thea’s eyes widened. “Then the Under Secretary is your babe’s father?”

  “No,” Polly’s cheeks darkened. “But the baby’s father would help you. I know he would help you.”

  Thea narrowed her eyes. “How much that I know of you is true, Polly?”

  Polly’s expression grew apologetic. “I will explain the whole, I promise. I did work in the Under Secretary’s madhouse and I do have a babe on the way. When I met your Lady Randolph, I truly believed the father would not claim us.”

  “And now?” Thea asked.

  “And now,” Polly replied, “there are more pressing concerns.”

  “Very well,” Thea said. “For now, I will be grateful you are here. Will you send for the doctors?”

  “Yes. You will not be sorry, I promise,” Polly vowed. “Lord Eustace should have known better. From what I have seen, no one escapes a Fury.”

  …

  In a private room in the back of a semi-respectable public house, Wynchester nursed a tepid brown ale and waited for Harrison to answer his summons. The road from Wynterhill had been a thigh-bruising blur. Physical pain was welcome, however. It drew attention away from the ache in his heart.

  Over and over he’d turned the details; his dice had turned up blank. He did not know the names of Eustace’s conspirators. He did not know what other traps his brother had set. Eustace’s conspirators could turn at any moment. They’d both be arrested for treason. Or, Eustace’s plan to kill him would succeed. Eustace would become the Sixth Duke of Wynchester and with the Wynchester resources and influence, he’d reorganize, and attempt to destroy the government again.

  Wynchester had been painted into a corner. Only two things of value remained. His honor as an Englishman, and…

  He downed another loathsome swallow of tepid hops.

  …And his devotion to his wife.

  He lifted his draught to the heavens in a silent toast. To you, Pater—Latin eased the sting—and to sentiment. Would that he had seen sentiment’s advantages sooner. Would that he… His grip tightened on the pewter mug.

  No matter what the end, he’d known bliss few men would ever experience. Corporal, of course—but even more. The sensation of being held in her arms. The satin-soft touch of her fingers. The soul-splitting truth in her carnal cries.

  He looked up from utter desolation to see Harrison enter. Harrison’s steady gaze swept the room, and then he ventured toward the table. “I understand you are,” Wynchester said dryly, “somewhat more than you seem.”

  Harrison took off his hat and slid into a chair. “And you are not?”

  Wynchester took a drink, saying nothing.

  Harrison held his breath for a moment, and then sighed. “When you have finished your sulk,” he motioned to the bar maid, “you can tell me what has happened.”

  Wynchester squinted. “I have summoned you, in part, to warn of your pending eviction.”

  Harrison lifted his pint and sipped. “Good stuff.”

  “Is not some reaction in order? Or do you not understand the depth of my fury?”

  Harrison sat back in his chair. “Damned inconvenient, fury. A waste of vigor, don’t you think?”

  Wynchester snorted. “So says a man I’ve seen shake with the sentiment.”

  “Which is why,” Harrison leveled his gaze, “you should heed my warning.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “When?”

  “You suggested you could heal Eustace.”

  Harrison hummed a contrary note. “As I told the duchess, I split very fine hairs. I told you I thought I could prevent Eustace from future violence.”

  Wynchester stewed in the silence.

  “The duchess,” Harrison continued, “has told you the full.”

  “Against the warning of the Privy Council, if she is to be believed.”

  “Friends have proven their concern for you.” Harrison’s expression was one of mock-shock. “How offensive and ghastly.”

  Wynchester slammed down his ale so hard it sloshed.

  Harrison shook the beer off his hand. “Feel better?”

  “You,” Wynchester said, “were supposed to come here and grovel.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint.”

  “Remind me why I tolerate you?”

  “You like me,” Harrison
smiled for the first time that evening, “besides, I am dammed loyal.”

  “Right.”

  “Now, what has you looking like a penitent at death’s door?”

  “As it happens, I am,” Wynchester said. “My brother has implicated me in a treasonous plot.”

  Harrison lifted his brows. Wynchester pulled out a pamphlet and slid it across the table.

  “Our property and charter are forcibly invaded,” Harrison read with theatric relish, “look to your own!” He set aside the pamphlet. “Ah yes, printed by proprietors of the Company during this past election. Whipped the populace into quite a frenzy, as I recall.”

  “The papers suggested the Company brought down the government.”

  “In a manner, it did.” Harrison sighed. “In the frenzy of sentiment, Fox put forth a bill, arguing Parliament must bring the political arm of the Company under full control, on passionately moral grounds.”

  “Both King,” Wynchester said, “and Company resisted.”

  Harrison shook his head. “You know it was not that simple. Company directors and Company proprietors fell on both sides of the issue. I have close Company ties and I voted for the bill—with your approval, I might add. I was not the only one.”

  “Yes, but most of the Company went to great lengths to oppose further Parliamentary regulation.” Wynchester fixed Harrison with the full weight of his stare. “What if there were elements in the Company who wanted Parliament to take control?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Company proprietors are not separate from Government. You could say they are increasingly one and the same.” Wynchester gritted his teeth. “More simply put, if that bill had passed Lords, all Company resources would have been under Parliamentary control. …Resources like armies.”

  “The king has armies. What need has Parliament?”

  “Yes the King has armies,” Wynchester agreed. “But Parliament, in this case, would have the East India Company armies loyal to them—not to the King. Once the Company’s resources were under Parliamentary control, Eustace and his conspirators planned to murder the King, forcing the start of a second revolution.”

  “Treason,” Harrison whispered.

  Wynchester tapped his fingers on the table. “You were not imprisoned by accident. Your incorruptibility was well known.”