by Joan Smith
“I should think you’d be relieved,” Cicely said with her customary frankness.
Debora was so shocked to hear the truth that she was momentarily stunned into silence. “Indeed I am very sorry,” she repeated.
“Let us not waste time in fustian. We have only a moment to talk. I’m sorry if I have inadvertently caused you dismay. Your husband was not giving me that diamond brooch, Debora. You misjudge me if you think I would accept such a gift from a gentleman.”
“I know it,” Debora said. “It’s not your fault. He is always chasing after some woman. If it’s not you, it will be someone else. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Why do you put up with it?”
“Because I love him.” Her bottom lip began to tremble, and she added in a low voice, “I’m afraid of losing him, and I am enceinte.” Then she burst into a fit of moist tears.
“Enceinte! Does the duke know?”
Debora drew out a dainty lace-edged handkerchief and sniffled into it. “I haven’t told him. The truth is, Dick and I don’t see much of each other these days. He is very busy,” she added in a pathetic attempt to whitewash her gallivanting husband.
“I see.” Cicely sat a moment, digesting this state of affairs. Her heart went out to Debora in her sorrow. She was every bit as witless as Eugenie Beaureport. Something must be done, and before long Cicely had come up with a plan.
By the time Meg made her grand entrance, the duchess’s violet eyes were not only dry but sparkling with mischief. Meg had to be taken into confidence, as she was to be involved in the plan’s success. Her job was to keep Fairly out of the house that afternoon. Debora and Meg were off to rifle the shops. When the duke arrived an hour later, he was told that Miss Cicely was out but would be home at three.
“Tell Miss Cicely I shall pop ‘round at three, then. There’s a good fellow.”
Cicely dashed a note off to Montaigne, canceling her drive with him. To insure that he didn’t come pouncing in to destroy her plan, she told him she had a meeting with Mr. Moore that afternoon. She would explain the matter to him that evening. She spent the remainder of her morning finishing her revisions to Georgiana and sent the manuscript off to Mr. Murray via a footman.
After lunch, Meg took Fairly to view the latest exhibition at Somerset House. The duke arrived at three on the dot, carrying a monstrous bouquet of flowers. To his delight, he found Cicely alone in the saloon. She greeted him with a warm smile and indicated a seat beside her on the sofa in front of the blazing grate. She called the butler.
“Will you please put these flowers in water, Coddle. And if anyone calls, I am not at home. You may close the door after you.”
Morland could scarcely believe his ears. He hadn’t expected such cooperation from Cicely. In fact, he was a little disconcerted at it. Pretty fast for an unmarried lady! He soon came to terms with the new situation, however—bluestocking, up to all the rigs—and sat beside her on the sofa.
“Now what is this nonsense of your not coming to Hastings, Sissie? Do come. It won’t be any fun without you. Dash it, I only arranged the do to get to know you better.”
“We can get to know each better here,” she said leadingly. “After that embarrassing episode with the diamond brooch, I didn’t think the duchess would want me to go.”
“Much difference it will make to her,” he pouted. “She’ll probably take to her bed the minute we reach Hastings.”
“Is she ill?”
“She’s turning into a chronic invalid. That’s what it is. Be buying shawls and ordering possets and catlap, next thing you know. Of course I still love her,” he added, lest Cicely take the notion he was contemplating divorce, or some such thing. He had no desire to be cut off from Society by a divorce.
“She is very beautiful.”
“Aye, she was. Is! But she don’t have your life, Sissie. You are always up to something exciting. Dashing off books and plays and I don’t know what all. I haven’t been able to see you all week.”
“You are seeing me now,” she pointed out.
He took the hint and moved closer. “I’m very angry with you,” he said, shaking a finger in mock scolding.
“Why, what have I done to displease you?”
“You know perfectly well, minx. That diamond brooch. Rubbishy trinket, and you wouldn’t accept it. I’d like to shower you with diamonds.”
Cicely batted her lashes shamelessly. “It is very improper of you to say that to me. Gentlemen only give diamonds to their chères amies.” Her straining ears heard the approach of a carriage in the roadway. Debora was right on time.
The duke uttered an uncomfortable laugh. “Good God! Is that what you thought I was up to! Nothing of the sort. You ain’t even married. I just wanted us to be good friends.” As she obviously suspected him of being a much more dashing fellow than he was, he felt he ought to make some token of living up to her expectations. “Mind you, I am tempted.”
She smiled encouragingly as the echo of the front door quietly opening came to her ears. “That would be very naughty, Dickie.”
“Just one little kiss. No harm in that. Won’t take no for an answer.”
He lunged at her and got his hands on her shoulders. He was leaning awkwardly forward, trying to apply his lips to hers, when the saloon door opened and the duchess stepped in.
Morland froze, his hands on Cicely’s shoulders. Cicely clutched onto his waist, in case he tried to get away. “Debora!” he gasped. Debora advanced, purple eyes flashing fire. “It’s not what you think! We were just—practicing.”
Her chin rose and she spoke with commendable disdain. “You hardly need practice at seduction, Duke! If you haven’t mastered the art during all the years you have been working at it, you are beyond hope. I shall be leaving for my father’s estate today. Your lawyer may contact him there about arrangements for our separation.”
She turned to sweep from the room in a fine fling of sable. There wasn’t a sign of a tear in those violet eyes that watered up so easily. The duke was horrified. To add to Morland’s consternation, Debora ran smack into Montaigne in the doorway. He stood blocking her exit like a jailer, a most murderous fire in his eye. The duke uttered a strangled gasp and stared helplessly, like a rabbit hypnotized by a weasel.
* * *
Chapter 18
The duke disentangled himself from Cicely’s arms and leaped to his feet.
“It ain’t what you think, neither of you!” he said. “Tell them, Miss Cicely.”
“I was just telling Dickie it would be most improper of him to shower me with diamonds as he wants to,” she said with an innocent smile.
Montaigne pounced forward, his hands already balled into fists. He didn’t usually strike a gentleman smaller than himself, but his temper was so hot that he didn’t hesitate a moment to land the duke a facer.
Debora gave one wince as the sound of flesh striking flesh hung on the air, and the duke crumpled to the sofa. Blood began to ooze from his nose. Cicely handed him her handkerchief. She didn’t want to destroy Meg’s nice satin striped sofa. The duke was fully conscious—and fully aware that flat on his back was the safest place for him to remain. He moaned, holding the linen to his nose, thinking Debora might come to his aid.
“Well done, Monty!” the duchess declared and flounced from the room.
“Debbie! Wait! I say!” The duke struggled to his feet and slunk out the door. Cicely had to suppress an eruption of laughter. Morland’s awkward gait, knees bent, gave him the air of a monkey as he peered fearfully over his shoulder to see if Montaigne was coming after him.
Only then did Cicely look to Montaigne. He stood, arms akimbo, glancing at her with an expression very similar to that he’d worn just before striking the duke.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Instead of answering, Cicely rushed to the window to look out and see if Debora got into the carriage with the duke or went to her own rig. The couple stood on t
he street, arguing. The duke’s hands rose in silent supplication. The duchess tossed her head in rebuke. Cicely wished she could hear them.
“Cicely, I’m speaking to you!” Montaigne roared.
“I am not deaf, Montaigne. Do be quiet,” she called over her shoulder.
His patience broke, and he lit into a tirade. “Have you lost the use of whatever wits you possess? Carrying on like a light-skirt! I might have known when I brought you here! I warned you against this sort of carry-on. You’ve been encouraging that mawworm behind my back.”
“Well of course I have, stoopid!” she said, just glancing at him. She looked again to the street, where Debora was tossing her head petulantly. But she let the duke put his arm around her. Excellent!
Montaigne’s wrath was further aggravated by this cavalier response to his rant. “You have the bold-faced gall to admit it! Carrying on with a married man. Encouraging him to give you diamonds.”
“No, trying to discourage him, actually.”
He strode to the window, clamped his hands on Cicely’s shoulders and turned her around to face him. His angry face, flushed with fury, loomed over hers. She could hear his heavy breaths, feel their warm rush on her face. Montaigne’s eyes glowed like live coals. It was very gratifying, but Cicely could not stop to appreciate it. Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the duke staring in disbelieve at Debora’s stomach area. She had told him that she was enceinte, then. Ah, good! Dickie was kissing her.
Oh, dear. Cicely feared the violet eyes were watering up again. Morland was daubing at them with Debora’s handkerchief. The duchess was led into the duke’s splendid carriage with the strawberry leaves on the door with all the care afforded to an invalid queen. A dazzling smile settled on Cicely’s face.
“Sorry. What were you saying, Monty?” she asked calmly.
He quelled the urge to strangle her and said, “Did you accept diamonds from him?”
“Of course not! I told him it would be quite improper!”
“You let him put his arms around you.”
“Well of course I did.”
Montaigne’s jaws tightened. He growled through his teeth, “I’ll challenge the bastard to a duel.”
“How can he be a bastard? You told me there are strict rules about such things.”
“Much that would matter to him—or you!”
“Surely you are confused, Montaigne. It would be his mama who had misbehaved, would it not?”
“This is not a joking matter, Cicely. Have you any notion of what will happen to your reputation when this scandal gets about? You’ll be ruined.”
She walked to the sofa, sat down, and began tidying her skirt unconcernedly. “Do you seriously believe the duke will spread this particular piece of gossip? It makes him look an ass.”
“Their separation can hardly be kept secret. Debora will certainly broadcast the tale.”
“Oh no. She has agreed not to say a word. It was all to be kept en famille—until you came along,” she added with a scowl. “What are you doing here? I told you I was busy.”
“You told me you had a meeting with Moore.”
“Well, I had to make some excuse.”
“Lying, on top of the rest! I don’t understand you, Cicely. London has totally corrupted you.”
“I am not made of such stern stuff as you, Montaigne.” Then she laughed. “Don’t be such a clunch. It was all arranged.”
Montaigne’s nostrils thinned to slits. “An assignation? How did you get rid of Meg and Fairly?”
“Meg has taken Fairly to Somerset House, but they should be back soon.”
His outrage soared. “You admit you schemed to meet Morland alone?”
“Of course I did. There was no counting on him to misbehave if there were other people present.” Her lips moved unsteadily, for she was perfectly aware of Montaigne’s confusion and consternation. He would not be so furious if he didn’t care for her more than just a little. When he continued glaring, Cicely laughed aloud.
Montaigne began to understand there was more to the debauch he had just observed than he realized. The violent upheaval in his chest eased noticeably.
“Perhaps you could control your hysteria long enough to explain this unsavory affair to me?” he said grimly.
“Well, I shall try, but it was really very funny when you came pouncing in and drew Dick’s cork. We hadn’t anticipated that. Did you hear Debora? ‘Well done, Monty!’ she said.”
“This scheme was engineered by you ladies, I take it?”
“Yes, to teach Dickie a lesson. He has been ignoring Debora quite shamefully, carrying on with any lady who will give him the time of day—and in her condition. She is enceinte, you must know, which is why she has been spending so much time in bed. It took Mrs. Hennessey the same way. She felt dreadfully ill for the first three months, too. Though why she didn’t tell the duke—Debora, I mean—except that he was so seldom home. And making her have all those horrid parties on top of the rest. It was really the outside of enough. Something had to be done, so we did it. She is going to cancel the pre-Christmas party and the Christmas party at Hastings, by the by. It is to be a condition of her remaining under Morland’s roof.”
“Shall we begin at the beginning?” he suggested, reining in his impatience.
“I thought I had. He was behaving badly, and we decided to show him a lesson. That’s all. I was to meet him unchaperoned and let him kiss me. Debora was to catch us in flagrante delicto—or whatever it is called. I am not exactly sure what the phrase means. Then Debora was to announce she was leaving him, to scare him into behaving properly. And it worked. You saw them leave together.”
Montaigne was not only mortified at his attack on Morland but miffed that he hadn’t been allowed in on the plan. It sounded an excellent caper. He was also relieved and amused and felt a lingering desire to strike something or someone to relieve the pent-up aggravation.
“You might have let me know, and I wouldn’t have come charging in, making a jackass of myself.”
“You made a splendid jackass, Monty.”
He glared. “Thank you. One does one’s poor best.”
“I think even Dick might have eventually figured out it was all put up if you hadn’t come in at just that moment. That lent just the air of spontaneity the thing required. And he deserved that clout on the nose, too. But why are you here?”
“I hoped Meg would be home. I planned to visit with her until you arrived.”
“Was there some particular reason you wished to see me?”
“Do I need an excuse?”
“No, I said a reason.”
“Castlereagh is just back from Paris. I expect he was recalled to deal with this Holy Alliance business.”
She frowned. “I am greatly interested to hear it. Thank you for rushing to me with that tidbit. I should hate to have to wait until the journals arrive to know of his return.”
“Sarcasm ill becomes a young lady. What I was trying to say is that Margaret—Castlereagh’s wife—is having a do this evening.”
“Ah! And does she invite Whigs?”
“It is a purely social do. I am invited, along with a guest. I thought it might provide good research for you.”
“I shall be happy to attend. Thank you, Monty.” She waited, then said, “Was there anything else?”
A reluctant smile quirked his lips. He studied her a moment, his eyes brilliant with some constrained emotion. “You have had enough seduction for one day. I shall call for you at nine.”
“Actually you misconstrue the matter. I had to seduce the duke a little.”
“I’ve created a monster! What am I going to do with you? If word of this gets about—”
“My reputation will be ruined!” she said, putting her hand to her brow in a melodramatic manner and swooning against the cushions. Then she looked up brightly. “But only think how it will sell books. There is nothing like a whiff of scandal. See what wonders it works for Byron.”
“Yes, it is much more dashing for a lady to be a flirt.”
“You waste your talents writing pantomimes, miss. You ought to take to the boards. I shall call for you this evening.” He bowed and left; Cicely sat on alone, thinking.
* * *
Chapter 19
Naturally Lady Fairly could not keep such a prime story as the duke’s comeuppance to herself. She related it to half a dozen of her bosom bows that same evening over dinner. By the time Cicely and Montaigne arrived at the Castlereaghs’ party, it was the evening’s prime on dit. Eyebrows rose and nostrils pinched in disdain as she passed. There were enough of Montaigne’s Whig friends present that Cicely was not sent to Coventry, but she certainly noticed her popularity had plummeted from its former height.
It was in the ladies’ retirement parlor that she overheard two grand dames discussing her. She had gone behind a screen to adjust her stockings. Lady Spingle and Lady John Ashmore, née Alice and Susan McCurdle but still called jointly the McCurdle sisters, were famous gossips.
“I cannot imagine what Montaigne sees in her,” one haughty voice complained. “A provincial nobody who fancies herself a bluestocking because she wrote one wretched novel. She was never even presented at Court. Let us hope Montaigne doesn’t make the mistake of offering for her. She would be the ruination of his career.”
“Oh my dear, you need not worry. Montaigne is too clever to make a mistake like that.”
“Eldon says his work at the House has fallen off badly since she has come to Town. He is always in her pocket. It could well happen by accident—or design on her part. She arranged that unchaperoned tryst with Morland herself, you must know. No doubt that was an effort to get herself compromised and weasel an offer out of Montaigne. He feels responsible for her, as it seems he brought her to Town. A country neighbor. She stays with the Fairlys.”
The ladies began walking toward the doorway. “And Lady Fairly is no better than she should be.” The voices faded and vanished with the closing of the door.
