by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
He was ready to be a more tolerant husband, but he didn’t know if she could regain the liking and trust with which she’d entered their marriage. He wondered if he would have another chance to win her love.
Chapter Eight
‡
Two weeks of festivities at the houses of the Dukeries began with an afternoon affair at Sedgemere House. The new Duchess of Sedgemere had assembled an enormous party from her own houseguests and those of the neighboring estates. On arrival they learned the principal entertainment was to be a scavenger hunt, which Linton muttered was a silly idea. Althea thought it sounded fun.
She was aware that the united appearance of the Duke and Duchess of Linton aroused intense curiosity among the guests. All eyes were on them as they joined the party on the terrace. Were they together or not? They didn’t feel united to Althea. Linton hadn’t offered his arm when they approached their hosts. Looking like a happy couple would hardly be a true representation of the state of affairs, but she could have used the sanction of his approval when entering the lion’s den of polite society.
When the Duke of Sedgemere expressed his pleasure at Linton’s prolonged stay in the county, he merely replied that he was here for the Dukeries Cup, not a ringing endorsement of his duchess. He then wandered off with Sedgemere. The Duchess of Sedgemere was a kind and gracious lady, but clearly as nervous as Althea would be, giving her first important gathering, and had many guests to attend to. She presented Althea to Lady Susan Frobisher and her daughter Miss Tamsin Frobisher, a golden-haired giggler, and the latter’s bosom friend Miss Pendleton. The two younger ladies stared as though in the presence of a fantastic creature; they knew all about her. Althea had met Lady Susan before, at the house of her sister-in-law Lady Mary Poole.
“What a surprise to see you here, Duchess.” Lady Susan’s eyebrows shot up toward her forehead, forming deep wrinkles, cracking a badly applied layer of powder. Since Lady Mary had berated Althea for her eyebrow blacking, she rather enjoyed this evidence of cosmetics on the face of one of her critics.
“No great surprise, since I spend every summer at The Chimneys.”
“I mean with the dear duke. We dined together with the Pooles only a fortnight ago, and he said nothing of coming to Nottinghamshire.”
“I daresay he doesn’t feel he needs to inform you of his every movement.”
Lady Susan showed her teeth. “Of course not. It’s always a pleasure to see him so content with life after all the distress he has suffered. I haven’t seen you in town this age. I trust you haven’t been unwell.” Meaning that, like her friend Mary, she hoped Althea would contract a double dose of smallpox and measles and die.
“I have rarely felt better.”
“Some ladies thrive on late nights. I need my beauty sleep.”
“I am sure you do.” Althea smiled sweetly. “How are you, Miss Frobisher? Did I hear that you are betrothed?” Immediately, she was sorry for her question, since the young lady remained unwed after three seasons. As she knew better than most, the sins of the mother should not be visited on the daughter.
But like Althea, Miss Frobisher was more than capable of committing her own trespasses. “I think it is better to wait and make sure one contracts a compatible marriage, not merely one of worldly advantage.”
Althea would have agreed with the sentiment, had the young lady meant it. But she’d noted the way the latter’s eyes darted whenever a gentleman hove into view and how they brightened when the gentleman was especially eligible, like the Dukes of Stoke Teversault or Wyndover. Wyndover was ridiculously good-looking and could set any lady’s heart aflutter, but Althea would wager a goodly sum that either Miss Frobisher or Miss Pendleton would accept a one-legged octogenarian if he were rich and a member of the peerage.
She bit back another uncharitable response. She too had been a young thing desperate to find a husband, probably even more than these ladies, who at least had parents who cared for them. Who was she to blame Miss Frobisher for wanting the security and stature that a woman could gain only through marriage? Althea had thought herself the luckiest girl in the world to attract the attention of the wealthy and attractive Linton. And she had hoped for compatibility, even love, as well as the advantage of escaping her older brother. Whose fault it was that the marriage failed no longer seemed important. The fact was, through her own behavior, she had lost her right to be an accepted member of the kind of female society gathered here today.
The gentlemen, on the other hand… Viscount Ormandsley was making eyes at her. Worst of all, she spotted Nigel Speck hovering at the edges of the party. How he’d received an invitation she didn’t know, but it meant he remained in the neighborhood, a lurking threat to her peace of mind. If ever she had needed the support of a husband, it was now.
She turned away sharply and looked for hers. Linton was in deep conversation with a cluster of fellow dukes. What did dukes talk about when they congregated? Surely not the shortcomings of their social inferiors. Why comment that cats could see in the dark or that water was wet?
Partnerships and groups were forming for the scavenger hunt, and no one had asked her to join theirs. Despite his dismissive remark, she hoped Linton would suggest they play together. She tried to catch his eye, but he remained engrossed and didn’t look her way. Another minute and she’d be forced to spend the whole afternoon with the Frobishers.
A burst of masculine laughter arose from the group around Ormandsley. She excused herself from the ladies and joined the viscount, and some other young men, all of whom she knew in London and some of whom she even liked. Jermand Hunslinger, for instance. The Bavarian ambassador’s half-English nephew drank too much and was as idle as a midsummer day was long, but he was amusing and good-natured and exceedingly good-looking.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “May I join your side for the scavenger hunt?”
*
Linton was in a good mood that the prospect of an idiotic game couldn’t dull. He was in the company of friends he’d known all his life, on a fine summer’s day. Rushing around in search of meaningless objects might even be fun in company with Althea. If he had her alone, who knew what might happen? Snatching a kiss while rifling the garden shed for a trowel or some such thing. The scavenger hunt suddenly seemed less absurd and rife with possibilities.
He stood with a huddle of dukes. Was there a collective noun for his ilk? Huddle would do well enough. There were fewer duchesses in the Sedgemere gardens, and his was by far the prettiest. He surveyed the other ladies in his view, including the group she had joined, and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. Lady Susan Frobisher was a tartar, as befitted one of his sister Mary’s best friends, but of high ton. It was good to see Althea at ease in her proper setting.
The dukes, of course, were talking about the Dukeries Cup, which would cap the social season, followed by a ball at Sedgemere that night.
“It’s splendid that we have a full field this year,” Stoke Teversault said.
“Pity Sedgemere doesn’t have a better entry.” That duke shook his head sadly. “Bourne agreed to come down and row, but he sprained his wrist last month, and he’s not up to strength.”
“My cousin John Fletcher is little better than a dabbler,” Oxthorpe said. “I doubt he’ll even finish the course.”
“William won handily last year, but he refuses to practice,” was Stoke Teversault’s contribution to the litany of pessimism.
Any of these statements might or might not be true. Disparaging one’s entry was part of the tradition, as everyone tried to get the best odds in the betting.
“Nicholas Maxfield looks strong,” Sedgemere said. “He’s the man to beat.”
Spying on the opposition was also part of the game. Practices were supposed to be private, but doubtless the bushes around the lake had been bristling with observers when he and Nick did their trial runs. Linton had already talked to his head groom, a veteran observer of years of races, about scouting the opposition as they took their turns.
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” he said. “Nicholas hardly out-rowed me, and I hadn’t handled a pair of oars in years until last week.” He bent over in exaggerated decrepitude. “Whatever I could do at the age of twenty, these old bones are scarcely up to the demands of three miles.” He looked over at his wife and felt like a boy of twenty again.
After another ten minutes of enjoyable posturing, he realized that the party was dispersing in groups. The hunt was up, and he needed to claim his partner. But Althea was nowhere to be found among the chattering swarms of brightly clad ladies and their escorts, until he heard her musical laugh. Swiveling, he was just in time to see her slipping between a pair of large rhododendrons, followed by three men. He recognized them. All men, all young. Hunslinger and Ormandsley were worthless fribbles, but innocuous. Greenover, on the other hand. He might be the heir to an earldom, but he had a nasty reputation.
The arrival of the Duchess of Sedgemere and a diminutive lady of extreme old age halted his pursuit. It was all he could do not to paw the ground like an eager racehorse while courtesy forbade him from ignoring them.
“Duke,” the duchess said, and laughed. “I could be addressing anyone, couldn’t I? Your Grace of Linton, I should say. Since your wife has joined another party, would you be good enough to lend Sedgemere’s Great-Aunt Lavinia your escort? She doesn’t have a partner.”
He cast about wildly for a plausible excuse and failed miserably. Instead of charging off into the shrubbery, he accepted a list of the objects to be retrieved and offered Lady Lavinia his arm.
Sedgemere and Stoke Teversault smirked at him. He had no doubt the pair of them had taken preventive action to avoid the same fate. “Take care of Auntie,” Sedgemere whispered. “She’s a family heirloom. And don’t, whatever you do, leave her alone with that lecher Greenover. I’m sorry we had to invite him, but we all have some rotten branches in the family tree. No woman of any age is safe with him. Don’t worry,” he said in response to Linton’s glare. “She’s so deaf she can’t hear anything less than a shout. Lucky your lungs are in good fettle from all that rowing.”
He thought he was being terribly amusing; Linton found nothing to laugh at. The good manners that he regarded as essential to the functioning of decent society had become a curse.
“What’s on the list, Linton?” Lady Lavinia seemed bright enough, like a small and slightly decrepit bird.
Summoning patience, he read from the sheet of paper, inscribed in an elegant hand. “A horseshoe, a feather, a pink rose, a smooth round stone for skipping, a puce ribbon, a sprig of heather, a hen’s egg, a silver ladle, a stick of sealing wax, and a pair of spectacles.” Wonderful. The list was designed to send them hither and yon all over the house and grounds. The last should be easy, at least. “Do you have your spectacles with you?” he roared.
“I’m deaf, not blind,” the old lady said with a cackle. “We’ll have to steal them from the butler’s pantry.”
“Good. That’ll take care of the ladle too.” He planned a strategy that would cover the ground with the least waste of time and effort. The stables for the horseshoe, the garden for the plants, then the butler’s quarters, which were no doubt close to the kitchens for the egg. No need to make a side trip to the hen house, wherever that was, as long as they were lucky enough to find a feather somewhere along the way. The other objects should be found indoors, except the skipping stone. The lake. Perhaps they should start there, and then Lady Lavinia would be exhausted, and he could find her a comfortable place to rest and leave her to find Althea.
“Can you manage the walk to the lake?” He seemed to be speaking loud enough to make himself understood.
She cackled again. “I’m deaf, not lame. No need to go there, though. There are plenty of stones in the paths in the sunken garden.”
What a splendid old lady! He’d enjoy her under other circumstances, when he wasn’t wishing he had Althea as his partner instead of the oldest guest at the party. At least Lady Lavinia wasn’t Lady Susan Frobisher. “That’ll take care of the rose too. Do you have any idea where to find heather? I wouldn’t think it common in Nottinghamshire.”
“Nonsense, Linton. We’ll get a piece of leather when we go to the stables. I don’t know where we’ll find a leg.”
“Not a leg. A hen’s egg.”
Lady Lavinia went on without hearing him. “Old General Mosley at the Willow House had a wooden one, but he died years ago. Pity. A very handsome man, and he hopped around on that leg like a young rabbit.”
Without too many more misunderstandings—he finally convinced her that there was no need to call on the late general’s nephew in hope that the wooden leg had been stashed in the attic—they managed to collect most of the items on the list. During their wanderings, they encountered other players, but never once the Duchess of Linton. Her party must have taken a different route, and doubtless made the long walk to the lake since she lacked his partner’s useful inside information.
“Your wife’s a beauty,” Lady Lavinia remarked as they left the kitchen with an egg in hand, along with a basket to carry their booty. “And a nice gal too. Whatever quarrels you have with her, you should make up. Serves you right for choosing such a young ’un, but youth is an affliction from which we all recover, more’s the pity.” She cackled loudly.
She was right. He should stop worrying, because Althea was a sensible woman now and quite capable of fending off Greenover. Besides, even a rakeshame wouldn’t assault a lady in the presence of two other men. Damnation! Why hadn’t she made sure there was a lady in her party? Gallivanting around the place with three men was just the kind of indiscreet behavior he abhorred.
Correction: two men. Leaving Sedgemere’s study with sealing wax in hand, they met Ormandsley and a couple of others laying bets on the Dukeries Cup. She was alone with Greenover and Hunslinger now, or maybe with only one of them, and he wasn’t sure which was worse: to think of her fighting off the former or flirting with the handsome German. Then Greenover joined the betting party.
She was alone with one man.
“One last thing to collect,” Lady Lavinia said gleefully. “I do believe we’ll win, and Anne has promised a handsome prize.”
Linton didn’t give a damn about the prize. “Do you happen to own a puce ribbon?”
“Hideous color. Never wear it, but Susan Frobisher loves it. Her dressing room will be full of puce. Gowns, bonnets, slippers, and the dreadful turban she wore at dinner last night.”
“Ribbons?” Normally, he’d hesitate to invade a lady’s chamber with larceny in mind, but these were desperate times.
“Of course. I know the way.”
They weren’t the only ones to have noticed Lady Susan’s taste for that noisome shade. A door off her bedchamber was closed, presumably leading to the dressing room, but not empty. He heard a man’s laugh, followed by a feminine shriek and words from a voice he knew only too well. “For Lord’s sake, stop tickling me.” More shrieks, then the door flew open, and his wife emerged, followed by Jermand Hunslinger, also laughing maniacally. Clutching an ugly length of ribbon to her stomach, she would have fallen had her pursuer not grabbed her waist to steady her.
“Linton,” she said, mirth fading away. Shock and guilt were written all over her face.
“Madam,” he said. “I will speak to you alone, if you please.”
Seizing her wrist, he pulled her away from her unresisting swain, dragged her out into the passage and into an empty room where he turned the key in the lock.
*
Althea had been having a wonderful time. Once she got over the disappointment that Linton hadn’t invited her to join the hunt with him, rushing around the beautiful Sedgemere grounds in search of unnecessary objects was fun, especially when Nick joined their group and the dull Ormandsley and lecherous Greenover became bored and went off to find liquid refreshment. At one point she, Nick, and Hunslinger had hidden in a shrubbery and listened with glee to Linton shouting at his elderly p
artner. How sweet he’d been, patiently trying to make himself heard by the tiny old lady. Her team hadn’t been above using their eavesdropping to avoid a walk to the lake. All was fair in love and scavenger hunts, according to Nick.
Raiding Lady Susan’s wardrobe had seemed particularly amusing. By this time, Nick was pretending to compete with her for the prize and tried to tickle the puce ribbon away from her. She’d torn out of the dressing room to find Linton looking absolutely furious. He found her antics reprehensible, it seemed. Why did he object to such innocuous fun?
And that wasn’t all. Once he’d locked them in another room, she rubbed her bruised wrist and waited for the expected scolding. It saddened her that he hadn’t changed a bit.
It was far, far worse. Towering over her at his most haughty, he spoke with dangerous calm. “Will you explain, madam, why I find you hidden in a bedroom closet alone with another man?” She was too shocked to speak. “I knew you for an unrepentant flirt, but this is beyond anything. I suppose I know what would have occurred had I not happened by.” Whiteness around the mouth proclaimed his anger, but it could be nothing to the disappointment that possessed her. Her vision blurred with rage.
She declined to defend herself. “Divorce me then,” she said, tilting her chin. “I don’t care.”
“Now that you’ve given me indisputable cause, I may act on your suggestion.”
“Do it then, and I hope you enjoy the scandal. I doubt the hypocrisy will trouble you. You convict me of adultery on the slenderest of evidence, while everyone knows that you keep a mistress and have for years.”
