Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  As expected, he was admitted at once, despite the early hour. The butler showed him directly to the countess’s bedchamber, where the lady was still in her dressing gown. “Gerard, you naughty boy,” she cried, holding out her hands to him. “You’ve been in town several days and not come to see me!”

  He laughed, kissing her cheek. “But here I am now—and surely sooner than Edward or Charlie.”

  She made a face and waved one hand. “Edward will call in due time. I expect he has a list of tasks to accomplish, and somewhere on that list is written ‘Visit elderly aunt.’ Come, sit, we must have tea—and breakfast, if you are hungry.”

  Gerard pulled out a chair for her. “Then you may wait a while. Edward always attends to business before pleasure, and visiting you brings nothing but pleasure.”

  She laughed and settled into the chair he held for her. Without asking, Gerard plucked up a fluffy shawl from a nearby chaise and draped it over his aunt’s shoulders. She gave him an exasperated glance but left it around her. At her gesture, he took the chair opposite her.

  “Now, what do you want to know?” she asked, when her servants finished laying out breakfast and bowed out of the room. “I know you and your brother never have time for an old lady unless you need something.”

  “I’ve always time for the most beautiful lady in London,” he protested. “More likely you haven’t got time for me, with all your beaux around here. I don’t know how Dowling stands it.”

  Margaret smiled. Even at seventy she was still very handsome. Her hair had faded from golden blond to pure silver, and her face had settled into a webbing of fine lines, but she was as slim and erect as in her bridal portrait, painted some forty years ago. It was hard to believe she had almost been a spinster, unwed until she was thirty, when her older brother Francis, Gerard’s father, unexpectedly inherited the dukedom of Durham. Overnight Margaret became one of the most eligible ladies in England, with a generous dowry from her brother, and snapped up the Earl of Dowling in a matter of weeks. “Beaux! Those are my grandchildren, you scamp.”

  Gerard laughed. His cousin Philip, Margaret’s only child, had four sons, all under the age of twelve. “I daresay those aren’t the only ones who call.”

  “Your brother Charles is the only handsome fellow who is not my son or grandson who calls on me regularly,” she said, pouring a cup of tea and setting it in front of him. “And even he comes only to share the gossip.”

  “Charlie?” He was honestly astonished that his indolent brother found time to call on their aunt—but then again, Gerard had decided sometime ago that anyone who tried to decipher Charlie’s actions and motives was asking for madness. “He forgot to mention he’d seen you.”

  “Every other Tuesday he comes, always with a lovely bouquet of flowers.” She fixed a glance on Gerard’s empty hands, which he instinctively put in his lap beneath the table. Margaret laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m delighted to see you, with or without flowers. But I know you, young man; Charles comes because he has nothing better to do with himself. You, on the other hand, always have something to do and can hardly wait to do it. So I ask again, what do you want?”

  “I think I came to apologize for taking you for granted,” he said, humbled again by his aunt’s sharp perception. “But I did hope you might be able to help me, yes.”

  “Of course I will, if I am able.” She raised her eyebrows. “What is it you need to know?”

  “Do you know anything about Viscount Howe of Sussex? The title recently changed hands from uncle to nephew.”

  “Is it the uncle or the nephew you want to know about?”

  “The nephew, Lucien Howe,” said Gerard. “Although anything you can tell me about the uncle or his widow would also be welcome.”

  Margaret dipped a spoon into her poached egg and took a delicate nibble. “The uncle, Thomas Howe, was a wastrel. I believe his particular vice was horses, but I’m not certain. Philip once had a near run with him over a horse race, and Howe came to the house breathing fire over being owed money. Dowling sent him off with a flea in his ear about taking advantage of lads not in charge of their fortune yet—Philip was barely eighteen and wrongly thought he was too old to be thrashed.”

  “And Philip was always held up to us as such a good example!” Gerard shook his head in mock sorrow.

  She wagged her finger at him. “Philip’s a very good man. Marriage settled him so admirably. You ought to consider it yourself.”

  “I am thinking of it.” He grinned at his aunt’s astonished expression. “Which is why I need to know about Lady Howe, as she’s the bride under consideration.”

  Slowly Margaret put down her spoon. “Really, Gerard?”

  “Yes, Aunt, really.”

  “Well, I must say she’s about the last woman I would have expected you to choose,” she murmured, still studying him in surprise. “Lady Howe . . . Much younger than her husband, I believe. A merchant’s daughter? Or perhaps a tradesman’s? Howe married her for the money, of course, but I can’t say I ever met her. She certainly never figured much in London society.” She turned a full frown on him. “But if you want to marry the lady, Gerard, you had better know more about her than I.”

  “Don’t fret, Aunt. I’m trying to learn.”

  Margaret sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You’re marrying her for the money as well, aren’t you?”

  Gerard loved his aunt and had enormous respect for her, but his temper roused at her tone. “Not entirely,” he said tightly. “I would be a fool not to take her fortune into account, though, particularly given my new circumstances.”

  Her expression changed. “Oh yes,” she said with a lilt of embarrassment. “I’d almost forgotten that.”

  He should be so fortunate. His father’s scandalous bequest had never been far from Gerard’s mind since the moment the solicitor reluctantly revealed it to him and Edward. His father had begged their forgiveness with his last breath but he hadn’t had the courage to confess the sin himself. Durham left it to his solicitor to tell his sons they might be disinherited bastards, shorn of the Durham name and estate and all that went with them. “Yes,” he muttered. “If only we all could forget it. But failing that, I must consider Lady Howe.”

  “Of course,” she said at once. “Of course you must. I don’t know what your father was thinking . . .” She shook her head. “When I heard the rumors, I tried to recall anything I might have heard, but I was young then. It was so long ago.”

  Gerard fiddled with his teacup. Margaret, of course, had been there sixty years ago when his father allegedly married an actress named Dorothy Cope. She was his sister. Durham might have told her something, anything, which could explain what he did. “Did you never have any idea he’d married?”

  “None at all—but then, I was a child. Francis went off to London when I was nine years old, perhaps ten. We none of us heard much about him, although it was no secret he was hotheaded and somewhat wild when he was a young man.” She sighed, then rallied a bittersweet smile. “I was a good sister. I knew nothing of what he did and asked no impertinent questions. No doubt the answers would have scalded my ears in any event.”

  “They’ve certainly burned us.” He ran one hand over his face, fighting down his simmering fury at his father.

  “He was extremely hesitant to marry, though,” Margaret went on, more slowly. “When the title came to him, I remember teasing him he would have no choice but to take a wife, and he was quite adamant he would not. I thought he had suffered a broken heart in his youth—men can be so hurt by those, no matter what they say to the contrary—but when he met your mother . . .” A faint smile lit her face. “He was a different man with her. It was clear to see he loved her deeply, and she him. The years he had with her were the happiest I ever saw him.”

  Gerard bowed his head, struck again by someone else’s memory of his mother. It quite hamstrung his anger at his father. Still, it didn’t change his situation now. “Edward’s
hired a solicitor to try to straighten the mess.”

  “I shouldn’t think it will take much!” She drew a deep breath and gave a decisive nod. “Who was the woman, anyway? Nobody. What court would invalidate your mother’s marriage—and offend all her family—to name you illegitimate? This will all be settled as it should be, in favor of you three. Anything else is simply inconceivable.”

  “Not really, if Cousin Augustus shows up and makes a strong case.”

  Margaret shuddered. “Heaven help Durham if Augustus gets his filthy fingers on it. Such a terrible young man he was. That entire branch of the family was rotten, through and through.”

  Gerard privately thought his own suffering would be just as bad as the dukedom’s, if not worse, should Augustus succeed to the title. “I share your hopes, Aunt, but cannot share your confidence. So about Lady Howe . . .”

  “Oh! Yes,” she murmured, her gaze growing distant. “Howe died last year, I believe—I can’t recall of what, or precisely when. The new viscount is a handsome fellow, young and serious. Old Howe was a bit of a devil, and his heir is rather the opposite, I gather.” She looked at him, a pleased smile breaking over her face. “But of course: you should ask Clarissa! She knows everything about everyone and loves nothing more than sharing it. She usually calls in the mornings; why don’t you wait and ask her?”

  The very last thing on earth Gerard wanted to do was sit and chat with his aunt’s bosom friend, Lady Clarissa Eccleston. Lady Eccleston was an inveterate spy who always managed to know far more about other people’s lives than any disinterested person had a right to know. There was no possibility she wouldn’t be brimming with curiosity about his father’s scandal, but perhaps she would rein it in out of respect for Lady Dowling, if nothing else. Otherwise, he hated to admit, she was practically ideal for his purposes. If anyone could tell him about Lady Howe, it would be Lady Eccleston. “Very well,” he said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  His aunt merely smiled and shooed him out the door. “Trust me,” she called to him as he headed for the stairs. “Clarissa will know.”

  Chapter 5

  Gerard went to the drawing room to await Lady Eccleston while his aunt dressed. The butler brought him some coffee, steaming hot and very strong, and he took it to the window to sip while he reviewed the morning so far.

  First, and most importantly, Lady Howe was as wealthy as she’d promised. That really was her main attraction, even allowing for the unpleasantness of the unpaid twenty thousand pounds. Gerard thought he could manage well enough on six or seven thousand a year, which would be the income from her inheritance combined with the share of his mother’s dowry left to him. He could pursue his army career unhindered, and most likely his wife would prefer it as well. There was obviously no affection binding them together, and the lady gave no sign she hoped that would change. Katherine Howe looked as if she didn’t want to be touched, which had the unfortunate effect of making him want to try it, just to see. She’d worn her cloak through their entire interview, so he had no idea of her figure. Wouldn’t it be a fine joke on him if he married a plain-faced woman for her money, and she turned out to have a bewitching body that left him tied in knots of lust?

  But that was neither here nor there. She had the money he needed; what else would she bring him? A secure, uneventful life, or endless headaches over that damned loan? What sort of woman was she—snappish and controlling, pious and delicate, meek and quiet? Gerard admitted he didn’t have a lot of choice, but he wanted at least to know what he was getting into before he bound himself to her.

  Lady Eccleston arrived just as Margaret came down to join him. She was very much as Gerard remembered her, as plump as Margaret was slim and twice as talkative. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, and he endured several minutes of her fussing as she asked after his health, his brothers, his spirits since his father’s death, even his commanding officer’s compassion in the wake of the Durham uproar. As if army men routinely retired into seclusion to mourn anyone’s passing. They’d granted him leave, but only once Gerard explained the knotty circumstances and how they would oblige him to sell out if he couldn’t settle the matter. There was a war going on, after all.

  “Gerard has condescended to sit with us today because he needs you, Clarissa,” said Margaret, with a smiling glance at him.

  Her mouth formed a perfect O of delight. “Indeed! How so?” Gerard opened his mouth, but she wasn’t done. “Is it anything related to that dreadful business with your father? Such a dreadful shock it was to your dear aunt, to hear such things about him. She was quite undone, young man, quite undone! I do hope you and your brothers have taken steps to banish such talk from London. It’s not good for dear Margaret’s health!”

  Gerard glanced at his aunt in wary alarm, and she waved one hand with a sigh. “Pish, Clarissa,” she said. “My health is fine. And please don’t speak of . . . all that disgraceful gossip. He wants to know about a lady.”

  “A lady!” Clarissa Eccleston breathed. Her false sympathy brightened back into delight. “Which one, dear?”

  “Now, Lady Eccleston, you mustn’t say a word of this to anyone,” warned Gerard. “I really must insist.”

  “Of course, of course,” she cried. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

  He feared she did dream of just such things and wouldn’t be able to stop herself from telling everyone in London he was after Lady Howe. “I do want to know about a lady,” he said with a flash of inspiration, “but if she should reject me . . . As you know, my father’s troubles—” He stopped short, affecting a burst of emotion.

  “Oh!” she breathed, her eyes rounding. “I quite understand. Of course I won’t say a word.”

  He didn’t have much choice. Gerard shot a suffering look at his aunt, who had gotten him into this, and said a prayer she would be able to impress some discretion on her friend. “Thank you, Lady Eccleston. It’s such a relief to know I may rely on your understanding.”

  “Well! Let’s hear it, then. What do you want to know? Who is the fortunate girl?” She wriggled in her seat, her nose practically quivering, as she sat at attention like an eager retriever pup.

  “Lady Katherine Howe,” said Gerard, trying to banish the thought of Lady Eccleston as a dog. “Anything and everything.”

  “Howe, Howe,” murmured Lady Eccleston, her face fierce with concentration. “I do know that name . . .”

  “You remember, Clarissa,” said Margaret. “The young zealot.”

  “Oh—Lucien Howe!” Her eyes gleamed in victory, and she beamed at Gerard. “Of course I remember. What about him?”

  “Really it was Lady Howe I wished to know about,” he replied, “but what of Lucien Howe?”

  “A Puritan,” she said at once. “He really ought to have been born a century or two ago. He’s with the Calvinists, or the Methodists, or whichever group it is that doesn’t want dancing or singing or ribbons on ladies’ bonnets. Such a pity, really, for he’s a handsome fellow and far too young to be such a dried-up stick about life.”

  “So he’s not a fribble.”

  “No, no, no, not at all.” Lady Eccleston held out her cup for more tea, which Margaret poured, and reached for another biscuit. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I hear he’s utterly devoted to his new title and responsibilities. Bit of a shame, really, for a handsome young viscount to be so dull. What’s gotten into young people these days?” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, setting her faded red ringlets bobbing. “In my day, a handsome young gentleman of means would no more have spent his evenings at devotional meetings than he would have taken to plowing his own fields. It weakens the spleen, my father would have said, to sit and ponder sermons all day. But then, my father was a Whig, and you know they never did run much to religion.”

  “It’s a prosperous estate, then?” He sensed the conversation could very easily spiral out of control, and he would be trapped for hours by good manners if he didn’t make efforts to keep things in lin
e.

  “Hmm.” Lady Eccleston’s round little chin jerked rapidly up and down as she chewed her biscuit. “I think so—no one’s talking about ruination, and as you know, the only thing more exciting than a new fortune is imminent ruin.”

  “Yes,” said Gerard dryly. “So I have learned. But what of Lady Howe?”

  Lady Eccleston popped the last of the biscuit into her mouth. Her eyes grew faraway with thought. “I don’t know very much,” she said at last, sounding surprised and disappointed by her own failing. “I don’t think she’s been much in London. Howe was here every Season, of course, but if he ever brought his wife, I can’t recall it. He certainly gave everyone the impression she was delicate, or painfully shy, or some such thing. There were rumors she was deformed or disfigured, but I doubt that; Howe was much too proud to marry a gargoyle, even one with a large fortune. But I’ve never met her. I know of her mother—Mary Hollenbrook. Would you like to hear about her?”

  Gerard hesitated, then nodded. Every little bit was important, given his complete lack of knowledge.

  Lady Eccleston flashed him a bright smile and took a deep breath. “She was quite a beauty! No money in her family, of course, but her father was a baron, which made her proud. Well, not too proud, for she married a tradesman of some sort, although he was rich when she married him, then grew exceedingly richer. I must say, those marriages rarely work out; it’s much better when the bride brings money into a noble family, then everyone is happy. If she marries down just because he’s rich, why, what’s the result? They might have connections because of her, but really the result is the same, merely more tradesmen.”

  “Which is precisely what Lady Howe did,” Gerard interrupted. “And I gather it wasn’t terribly happy.”

  She shrugged it off. “Oh, well, at least it was the proper order of things! One can never account for happiness in marriage anyway, it’s too unpredictable—anything with men always is. But Mrs. Hollenbrook—I think she must have been disappointed in her daughter. All the beauties are when their daughters are plain. No doubt that’s why she was in favor of the Howe marriage. Howe was a handsome man in his youth, but by the time he married he was forty or more.” She paused for breath.