Lady Hope and the Duke of Darkness: The Baxendale Sisters Book 3

by Maggi Andersen

  “And assorted weaponry,” Miles continued in a mock-grave tone, not trying to spare him. “Cost the public purse close on fourteen hundred pounds.”

  Daniel gave in and chuckled.

  “But the government grows nervous about a matter looming between England and France,” Miles continued in a graver tone. “Canning wishes your help on a matter of diplomacy.”

  That meant returning to England, something Daniel had no desire to do. He gestured to the leather sofas facing the fireplace. Then he approached the sideboard and held up a crystal decanter. “Cognac?”

  “The king’s standing within the Congress of the Great Powers is not strong and Wellington has been unable to deter the allies who have pledged their support to French intervention in Spain.” Miles accepted the snifter of Cognac with a nod of thanks. “As a Frenchman brought up in England, you are in a unique position. Your friendships with both the French Prime Minister and the French Ambassador are of great value to us. With a foot in both countries, your voice will be influential. Can I persuade you to come to England?”

  Daniel had known such a request was forthcoming, but his whole body stiffened with resistance. He took a mouthful of the dark-honey-colored Cognac, allowing the hint of vanilla and spice to linger on his tongue, but the liquor failed to smooth his apprehension.

  “You can be of service to both England and France should you wish to become involved. England holds a great deal of sadness for you, I know,” Miles continued. “You may tell us all to go to the devil, but I hope you will not.”

  Daniel nodded and forced a smile. “Très bien, mon ami.” To see his country at war again was inconceivable. The two countries had far more in common than they did differences. He could not refuse. It was his duty to help if he could.

  “Of course I shall come, Miles.”

  Miles finished his Cognac in several swallows and put down his glass. “Excellent. When can you leave?”

  Some Englishmen treated Cognac like ale with a decided lack of appreciation. “Tomorrow. I’ll have a valise packed. My trunk can be sent on.”

  “You are welcome to stay at my townhouse. Anne will be delighted. She has many friends keen to meet you.”

  Daniel resisted clenching his teeth. The prospect of being thrust into a noisy, demanding household made his nerves jangle. “Merci, mon ami. But unnecessary. I shall be quite comfortable at a hotel until my house is made ready.” He summoned Alphonse. “And tonight, I shall have my chef cook you a superb meal.”

  Miles’ eyes twinkled. “I was counting on it.”

  At least Madame Bonnaire’s ardor would cool in his absence. Daniel did not intend to marry madame or, indeed, anyone. He would find himself a mistress, a woman who wanted little from him, and lose himself in soft flesh for a while.

  Chapter Two

  London, February 1823

  Hope had intended to form firm friendships with the other debutante’s at her first ball. But her attempts to discuss anything of interest beyond fashion and the gentlemen present, drew blank stares and a few titters. Later, in the ladies withdrawing room, Lady Pamela Dalton’s spiteful insinuation that Amy Tyndale’s grandmother had been a notorious demirep, had sent poor Amy rushing away in tears.

  Pamela had merely shrugged and patted her hair. She gazed at Hope as if she was about to bestow a vail on a servant. “I daresay you wish for a more successful Season than your sisters?”

  Hope turned back to the mirror. “Lady Pamela, both my sisters married into the Brandreth family.”

  “But not the heir, I believe. Lady Faith refused many offers before marrying one of the sons, who lacked an estate. Lady Honor caused quite a scene here in this very ballroom when she entered through the French doors with her future husband. They’d been away for hours. Your father sent her home in disgrace.” She tucked the loop of her fan over her wrist. “It was most diverting.”

  “I’m suddenly struck by an interesting fact, Lady Pamela,” Hope said, observing her through the mirror as she secured a silk rose in her hair.

  Pamela’s plucked eyebrows rose. “Oh and what is that?”

  “It’s said that every claw on a cat’s paw points the same way.”

  Pamela’s eyes flashed. “Are you comparing me with a cat?”

  “Not at all. I like cats.”

  Pamela snatched up her reticule and left the room.

  Pamela bared her claws at anyone she saw as a possible rival, and Hope had no illusions that she was the current mouse in the other woman’s sight.

  Hope’s feet ached. She removed a slipper and rubbed her toes as the carriage took her and her mother back to Mayfair. The streets were quiet in the early hours, with only a little traffic about and gentlemen strolling home from their nightly pursuits. Her first ball had proven somewhat anticlimactic. She’d tried to remain bright and sparkling but, instead, had spent the last few hours yawning behind her fan.

  “Your introduction to the ton has been a success.” Mama nestled in the corner of the carriage, limp and exhausted.

  “It could have been better,” Hope said thoughtfully.

  “Early days. Many of the beau monde has yet to return from their country estates.”

  Hope examined the tear in her fragile white net gown. She liked this one, especially the bodice sewn with seed pearls. Some clumsy oaf had torn the hem. It was hard to remember which of her partners the culprit was. No one stood out for none had raised her interest. Her attempts at vivacious conversation appeared to fall on deaf ears. One man talked about his set of bronzes, another listed the contents of his wine cellar. And when another spent the entire waltz staring down her neck, she’d felt quite dispirited. She’d gazed over Lord Hogg’s shoulder and attempted to distract him by introducing about the subject of George III’s library, which had been offered to the British Museum. She’d read about it in her father’s newspaper. Hogg had stared at her and burst out laughing. “You need hardly concern yourself with such matters,” he’d said. “Leave it to men.” She’d been sorely tempted to stamp on his foot.

  Hope eased her shoulders. “Dance partners were knee deep around Lady Pamela Dalton.”

  Her mother nodded. “But are they the right suitors to please her father? He is a marquess, and she sets her cap high. She is not as pretty as you, my dear. Your dress was a brilliant choice if I do say it myself.”

  Hope held out the skirt. “Can it be repaired?”

  “Yes. But you can’t be seen wearing it for a while. We’ll have the gown altered; otherwise, it will be remembered. We mustn’t let the beau monde think we can’t afford a decent wardrobe for you.”

  Hope shrugged. “Haven’t you always told us it’s the person inside the dress that matters most?”

  “Of course character matters, but beauty is currency, Hope. It’s the reason Lady Pamela has failed to make a good match. Such is the way of things. Here we are at the house. I can’t wait for my bed. Our social engagements are increasing by the day. Tomorrow night we attend Lady Lieven’s soirée at the embassy with your father.”

  Hope followed her mother inside the townhouse. She thought Pamela’s failure to marry well, was more about her attitude than her looks. In the bedchamber, she began to undress. Charity raised her head from her pillow and blinked in the light. “Was it wonderful?” she asked sleepily.

  “I hope you haven’t got a painting in here,” Hope said. “I can smell oil paint.”

  Charity yawned. “No, I did have but just to study it. One of the best I’ve done. I’ve learned so much from visiting the art gallery. The painting is downstairs now. I had another French lesson today. Shall we just speak in French to practice?”

  “No thank you. I prefer English.”

  “You don’t sound thrilled. Didn’t the evening go well?”

  “I’m sorry. Not as good as I expected. No one of consequence was there. I danced with a viscount, but he wasn’t at all nice.” She still wished to make friends amongst the other young ladies, but the jealous and desperate Lady Pa
mela had quite put up her hackles.

  “It’s your first ball. You have a whole Season ahead,” Charity mumbled. “But if it’s a duke you’ve got your heart set on, you may well be disappointed.” Her head fell back on the pillow.

  “I expect I’ll meet one before long.” Hope wrinkled her nose at her sleeping sister and climbed into bed beside her. She snuffed out the lamp, and lay staring into the dark. It would be a perfectly glorious Season. She would make it so. If a duke asked her to dance, she would double her efforts to be enchanting.

  In the morning at breakfast, Hope nibbled a bread roll. Her father was in his study, and her mother took hers in her bedchamber.

  Charity put down her teacup. “I had a letter from Mercy yesterday. She asked me to send her some strange chemical called acetone. I haven’t a clue where to find it.”

  Hope frowned. “What does she want that for?”

  “I don’t know. I wish she’d come to London with us. I don’t know if Aunt Amelia’s able to control her. Shall I tell Father?”

  “No. He might drag us all back to the country and be in a fearful temper.”

  “I’d hate to get her into trouble with Father,” Charity said, buttering a roll.

  “Better just to ignore her request,” Hope said. She sipped her tea and went over the last evening again. It didn’t improve in daylight.

  ****

  It was raining, and a dreary fog sat heavily over London, blanketing the Thames. The weather matched Daniel’s mood and did little to raise his spirits. He was only too aware of what he’d become. His father had been a bitter, silent man, and at his lowest, Daniel feared he was tarred with the same brush. He didn’t believe in happiness, but he could settle for a peaceful life.

  As his tenants were yet to move out of his Mayfair townhouse, he put up at Reddish’s Hotel in St James’s Street. Daniel disliked hotels; even the grandest of them was impersonal. The walls seemed to close in. He’d hire a hack and ride in Hyde Park every day to be out in the air. The prospect of riding hack horses brought his gelding, Tonnerre, to the forefront of his mind. He’d left instructions to be kept informed of his injured horse’s progress. Sighing, he sat down at the desk and wrote to accept an invitation to a meeting this evening with Canning and the French Ambassador, Jules de Polignac.

  Daniel had noticed a young woman in the foyer of his hotel earlier. She’d hung back, but he sensed her interest in him. That evening, when he left the hotel to join Miles, Jules de Polignac and George Canning at in the Countess Lieven’s salon, she was there again dressed in servant’s garb. As he walked to the Russian embassy in St. James’s Square, her footsteps echoed somewhere behind him. He turned with the intention of addressing her, but at that moment, a hackney pulled up and deposited George Canning and Miles onto the pavement, and when Daniel looked back, she had gone.

  Music and a buzz of conversation drifted into the square as they peeled off their coats and loaded them into a footman’s arms in the entry. Guests mingled in the elegant rooms lit by gaslight. The countess was famous for her salons. She would have made a splendid diplomat with her deft political skills, and she was fond of gathering an odd mix of interesting people together. Philosophers, artists, poets, and politicians often attended.

  Countess Lieven greeted them. She was handsome rather than pretty, and as usual, she’d flaunted fashion with her odd choice of dress, inspired perhaps by a naval uniform.

  “Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you in London. As you see, there is a crowd here.” She extended an arm to encompass the well-dressed throng of people. “I pride myself on the diversity of my guests and trust you will find them entertaining.”

  “I’m sure the evening will prove vastly entertaining as always, Countess,” Daniel said, as he kissed her hand.

  After a lengthy private discussion in one of the rooms set aside for the purpose, the men joined the guests. A few débutantes stood out in their white gowns, their hands clasped tight, their gazes darting about. One young woman caught Daniel’s eye. She coolly nodded to him while the other young women around her blushed and dropped their gaze. They’d met before. He remembered those eyes of the purest blue. She had a pretty mouth, which would curl up at the corners if she smiled he felt sure. She was not smiling now. The heavy coil of hair exposed a swan-like neck. His gaze dropped to her softly rounded bosom displayed by the low neckline of her gown and the pale expanse of skin between her glove and her capped sleeve. A desire to stroke that skin, which would be velvet soft, shot through him. The flash of lust, hot and heavy, surprised him.

  He turned to Miles at his elbow. “Who is that young woman with the gold sash? I believe I met her in Paris.”

  “Lady Hope, one of Baxendale’s pretty daughters.”

  “Ah, yes.” Something about Lady Hope made her stand out amongst the other attractive ladies in the room. The confident lift of her chin, perhaps, and her challenging gaze, unusual in one so young. Feigned perhaps. She was an innocent barely out of the schoolroom, here to find a husband. He could not slake his lust with that pretty armful. “Can you see our hostess?” he asked Miles. “I wish to take my leave.”

  As they left one room and threaded their way through another, the dark-haired woman who’d followed him earlier, stepped into Daniel’s path. Her black eyes flashed, before she fell into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”

  “You followed me from my hotel. Did you not?”

  “Yes. I needed to speak with you.”

  “How did you manage to get inside?”

  “I came through the servants’ quarters. No one stopped me.”

  He cocked a brow. “Forgive me, I’m about to leave.”

  She stood her ground, defying him to push past her. “It’s to do with your father, Your Grace.”

  Daniel stared, nonplussed. “My father?” Some sort of ruse he had no time for. He would send her on her way. Daniel touched Miles’s arm. “I shall be with you shortly.” Miles nodded and left the room.

  The woman led Daniel to a deserted corner and turned with a swish of her black skirts. She was no ingénue, in her mid to late twenties. Prepared to repel her, he paused, caught by her novel approach. “Who are you?”

  A slight smile hovered on her mouth, making her somehow familiar. “Your father, Your Grace, is also mine.”

  “Pardon?” He stared at her, his shoulders tightening at her effrontery. He was about to move away, but again, something held him back. He’d discovered another similarity in the diamond shape of her face. The portraits of du Ténèbres women in the picture gallery in France had the same broad cheekbones and pointed chins. Could she be his father’s by-blow?

  She gave him a level glance. “I am not what you think. Your father married my mother here in England. I am the result of their union. My name is Lester, but I was born a du Ténèbres.”

  Daniel huffed out an exasperated laugh. “That’s absurd. I would know of it.”

  “After my mother died in childbirth, I was sent away to be reared by a family in the country.”

  “My father would never do such a thing.” Marry an Englishwoman and keep the marriage secret from his son? Unthinkable.

  She gazed around. “We cannot talk here. Meet me tomorrow. I have a room at The Feathers, an inn near Russell Square. I shall be there to receive you at noon.”

  Would she indeed? Bemused, Daniel shook his head. “Mademoiselle, if you wish to put your case to me, I am staying at Reddish’s Hotel in St James’s Street. I shall receive you tomorrow at noon.” He bowed and left her. There were always those seeking to improve their lot. He hoped she would think better of it before he was forced to prove her ridiculous claim to be false. He hesitated. What could she hope to gain by such a ruse? He wanted no complications, no attachments. Was the world conspiring against him?

  ****

  The French duke was in London. Hope fought to slow her breath. He remembered her, of that she was sure. She hoped it was favorable and he was not recalling how awkward she’d been in Paris. His s
low appraisal from her head downward quite made her toes curl. For a moment, their gazes locked and something lingered in the air between them. Hope was sure of it. But then he’d turned away as if dismissing her very existence. Of course, he wasn’t interested in her. He considered her a green girl. She would bore him. Annoyed, she shut her fan with a snap. Well, she did not want him. To leave her family and live in France was unthinkable. And he obviously had no such intention. She watched his broad shoulders as he disappeared from the ballroom. If they met again, she would take care to show him what he would miss!

  Chapter Three

  The young woman shown into his rooms at Reddish’s Hotel looked different today. The servant’s attire gone, she wore her simple clothes, with a proud, ladylike air. Her lively black eyes challenged him, her hair as dark as his. Again, something stirred within him, some tiny recognition, which perplexed him, and he softened his stance toward her. He’d been about to send her packing.

  “Please sit, mademoiselle. May I offer you tea or wine?”

  “Coffee, thank you.” She sat on one of the brocade-covered chairs by the fire.

  Daniel signaled to his servant and took the seat beside her. He tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “Now, your story, if you please. I promise to listen.”

  “I am exceedingly grateful, Your Grace.”

  Ignoring the trace of mockery in her tone, Daniel sat back and folded his arms.

  “My mother’s father was a member of the clergy,” she began. “Mother was only seventeen when she met your father.” She paused. He supposed his face betrayed his doubt. The social divide would have been impossible to cross. “It was after your father’s carriage lost a wheel on the road north,” she explained. “My grandfather, who was traveling with his family, came to the duke’s rescue, and they subsequently put up at the same inn. After that, your father pursued my mother with the intention of taking her as his mistress. But when my grandfather resisted, your father married her.”