The Legend of the Betrayed Duchess_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  That caused Lucy to blush. “Oh, no, Lady Oakley, I am Lucy Brighton. I live at Grayson Manor, and Mr. Grayson and I are friends. He has so graciously invited me for my first visit to London.”

  Aunt Hester seemed not to comprehend the relationship and questioned George, “Miss Lucy is a friend? And she lives at Grayson?”

  George explained the tragic circumstances under which Lucy came to live with the Grayson family some years ago.

  “Ah, a waif in need. I see.” Aunt Hester took her lorgnette and examined Lucy. “Pretty young thing. I suppose you wish her to be quartered with the servants?”

  “Not at all, Aunt. She is a dear and trusted friend. It is as if she is part of the family. She is to be treated as I am to be.”

  Aunt Hester examined her again. “Very well. You shall have the Battersea room.” She turned to her maid who was standing by to serve the tea. “See to it, will you, Tulk? And for Mr. George, the Davidson suite.”

  Aunt Hester Oakley, his mother’s sister, had married Sir Harcourt Oakley, a barrister and one-time member of Parliament from Knightsbridge. However, he had become the Minister of Transport and was on an official visit in Leeds for a few days.

  Aunt Hester only remotely resembled her sister. She was much more robust, with a great smile, a ready laugh, and a matronly figure.

  At that moment, a young lady entered the room. She was as light in hair and complexion as Lucy was dark. She was slim, elegant, extremely well dressed, and carried herself with the insouciant air that was fashionable in the young, London social set this season.

  “Ah, my ward, Miss Modesty Lewis. She is the daughter of my dear friend, Mrs. Agnes Lewis, who passed several years ago. We have been caring for her ever since.

  Lucy could not help but notice George’s face light up in the presence of this quite beautiful young lady. And Lucy was equally surprised to find a shock of jealousy surging through her body with a noticeable accompanying tingle and warmth—not at all a pleasant sensation.

  Miss Modesty smiled discreetly as George went over to her, took her hand, and kissed it.

  “Mr. Grayson, it is such a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your aunt has told me all about you. I hope your stay in London will be pleasurable. And if there is anything I can do make your stay more pleasant, please let me know. I am very conversant with the many London streets and would be happy to direct you to wherever you might want to go.”

  “Please, call me George, Miss Modesty,” he said as he smiled, staring into her eyes.

  Lucy cringed at the obvious flirting of the young woman. But it was not her place to protest. She was George’s friend, but they could never have a romance. They were too far apart in social station and too familiar as friends.

  Miss Modesty cast a glance at Lucy, and she nodded and said by way of introduction, “Miss Modesty Lewis.”

  “Miss Lucy Brighton—a family friend,” Lucy said brusquely and gave a curt nod.

  “Well then, it is certainly time for some tea, think you all not?” Aunt said, waving her hand to the maid to start serving.

  Meanwhile, the footmen were starting to carry the paintings in from the carriage, and George became distracted, excused himself, and left to direct the paintings to his rooms.

  Aunt Hester turned to Lucy as she picked up another tea cake from the platter on the tea table before her, and said, “Miss Modesty is most accomplished on the pianoforte, and I hope she will play for us after dinner. What are your accomplishments, Miss Lucy?”

  “I am afraid I have not been graced with the talents or training of many of the young ladies these days. However, I do consider myself a writer and have written a number of short stories for both adults and children. And I am currently working on my first novel.”

  “How charming. Might you have brought any of your manuscripts with which we might delight ourselves?”

  “Alas, it did not occur to me that anyone might be interested.”

  “And have you been published, Miss Lucy,” Modesty asked.

  “I have not. Unfortunately, there are no publishers in Dorset, and as this is my first trip to London, I have no contacts in the publishing world here.”

  “Perhaps I might help you with that,” Aunt Hester said. “My husband knows many established publishers and might be able to direct you to someone who could be interested in your work.”

  “That would be so very kind of you,” Lucy said, enthusiastically.

  At that moment George returned.

  “Is all well with the paintings?” Lucy asked.

  “I believe so. I have not unwrapped any, as they must still be taken to the gallery. I was thinking tomorrow morning, if that is not an inconvenience to you, Aunt?”

  “Not to me. You have your own carriage and you are the guest. You may come and go as you wish,” Aunt Hester said, wiping the crumbs off her fingers after a particularly delicious and crumbly scone. “However, I should like to reserve one of your evenings for a little supper party I should like to give in your honor. I was thinking to invite some artistic types, whose company you might enjoy.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, Aunt. Just let us know when and we shall reserve that evening.”

  Miss Modesty was standing by the piano and said, “I have a capital group of friends you might enjoy, as well. We are having a little outing this evening. Do you care to join us?”

  George cast a glance at Lucy, who did not respond.

  “Perhaps. Might Miss Lucy come as well?”

  Modesty hesitated, but reluctantly said, “Why, of course.”

  Lucy immediately spoke up. “I thank you, but I shall decline. I am fatigued from the journey and wish to have a quiet and early evening.”

  George seemed conflicted, but added, “Yes, that seems reasonable. Perhaps another evening, Miss Modesty.”

  “As you wish,” Modesty said as she walked around the side of the piano to the keyboard, sat, and began to play softly, as though she was just practicing. But Lucy could see she was trying to impress George with her talent.

  “Then shall you be in for supper?” Aunt asked, “If so, I should like to notify Cook.”

  George looked at Lucy who nodded.

  “We should like that. It will give us an opportunity for you and me to catch up on all the news from home. And I have a little remembrance in my bag for you from mother. I shall bring that down at suppertime.”

  Modesty threw her hands up in the air as she finished the last notes of the piece she was playing.

  “There. Enough practice for today.” She stood and turned her attention back to George. “It is such a lovely afternoon, and there is the most delightful little park nearby. Would you care to accompany me on a stroll, George? I often go by myself, but I should also like to introduce you to the park’s many charms.”

  George’s face lit up. “Yes, that sounds delightful.”

  They left—leaving Lucy behind to converse with Aunt Hester.

  Chapter 9

  There was no question for George that his primary task in London was to meet with the gallery owner. However, on this lovely summer’s afternoon, he also found he was enjoying the delightful company of this charming young woman. There were no beauties in Dorset like the intriguing Miss Modesty—except for Lucy, of course. Why, even her name suggested a young lady of breeding and quality. He decided to take it upon himself to question his aunt on her lineage and background. But then he considered—perhaps a sophisticated young lady like her might not find the Dorset countryside nearly as exciting or stimulating as the sparkle of London.

  George and Modesty linked arms as they strolled down the street and crossed the busy thoroughfare into the park.

  “These paintings that you bring with you are they for customers?” Modesty asked as they traversed through the rose garden.

  George glanced at her. “Oh, no, I have not sold any paintings yet. But I do have a gallery interested in representing me, and these are for them to examine.”

  “Oh… T
hen you are not yet established as a working artist?”

  “Not as yet. My father, the Duke, is grooming me to take over and run the family estate when he is gone, so I have not been able to devote myself entirely to my painting.”

  “But that is what you want to do, is it not—paint?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then when might you be locating to London?”

  “Move to London?” he imagined where she might be headed with this line of questioning. “I am not planning to locate in London. My home, family, and responsibilities are in Dorset. If I am to be successful as an artist, it must be from the work I do there.”

  “Ah…” She ceased her inquiry, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.

  “And you, Miss Modesty, what are your plans for the future? You play the piano quite beautifully. Might you be on a path to a musical career?”

  Modesty laughed. “Oh, George, how droll you are. Me? A career in music? I have never heard of anything so absurd.”

  “And why is that?” he asked a little surprised by her bluntness.

  “I have no intention of becoming a starving performer. I intend to marry—and marry well. I am highly positioned in London society, and I have any number of active suitors.”

  “I see.”

  They continued in silence for a while longer. Then Modesty said, “It is much warmer than I thought. Might we avail ourselves of an ice? There is a cart on the other side of the park.” Modesty removed her shawl and handed it to George to carry for her.

  “Of course, however, not anticipating any expenditure, I did not bring any change with me.”

  “What a bother. Very well, then it shall be my treat. I always carry a little pocket money in case of an emergency.”

  George felt embarrassed and found that his first infatuation with this beautiful woman was rapidly beginning to fade. She had not exhibited the qualities of modesty—despite her name—grace, refinement or humility that he found so charming and endearing in his dear friend Lucy, for example.

  “If you would like an ice I shall be happy to reimburse you upon our return to the house. I am a gentleman, after all, and cannot bear to think if you were paying for your own treat.”

  “Very well. Then what shall it be—vanilla, chocolate or strawberry?”

  Lucy, who was now in conversation with Aunt Hester, saw the two strollers when they returned to the house. George immediately went up the stairs as Modesty came in and sat in a chair near the piano. George returned and handed her a few coins.

  “Oh, George, that was really not necessary. It cost practically nothing.” But she pocketed the coins, nonetheless.

  “A true gentleman always pays his debts.”

  “Did you have a lovely stroll?” Aunt Hester asked George.

  “Most delightful,” was all he said without elaboration.

  “Your Lucy and I have been having the most delightful conversation about children’s books,” Aunt Hester said, “It seems many have been around for a long time and are out of date with the interests of today’s children.”

  George wandered over and sat in a chair next to Lucy. She gave him a quick glance, and he flashed her a most generous smile.

  Lucy could not put her finger on it exactly, but it appeared that George was no longer fawning over the delightful Miss Modesty. The two strollers sat on opposite sides of the room and just as Lucy was about to engage in conversation with Aunt Hester, once again, Modesty stood and nodded to Aunt, and headed out the door without a look, a nod or a word to George.

  Aunt Hester could not suppress a yawn. “Oh, dear… please excuse me. I am accustomed to an afternoon nap, which I have missed in greeting you. But I must retire until supper time which is at seven.”

  George stood, offered his hand to Aunt to help her out of the sofa and escorted her to the sitting room door.

  “Aunt, have a pleasant snooze, and we shall see you at supper.”

  Aunt patted his cheek. “You have been brought up well and are a charming young man.” Then she left.

  George turned back to Lucy. They were alone. He stood looking at her for a moment, but she did not regard him. She was still in turmoil over what she had witnessed between George and Miss Modesty. She had no idea what had transpired between them on their walk and could not bring herself to ask.

  George came over and sat again on the chair next to where she was sitting. And he did not take his eyes off of her.

  “You are very silent and inward. Are you feeling tired after the journey?” he asked.

  She was not certain she could look up at him without bursting into tears. What was wrong with her? She had never behaved like this before. Had never felt the gnawing pain of jealousy twisting her insides. But with great effort, she calmed herself, looked up at him with no tears, and said, “I have been a little upset.”

  “From the journey?” he asked.

  “No, from the display of you and Miss Modesty.”

  George seemed shocked. “I do not understand. What display was that?”

  “Oh, George. She was shamelessly flirting with you, and you were eating it up like a child with an ice cream.”

  That caused George to laugh. “Funnily enough, we had an ice in the park. And yes, I did eat the ice with the relish of a child, but I can assure you Miss Modesty’s flirtation ended quite abruptly when she learned that I was not what she was looking for in a husband.”

  At that, Lucy had to smile faintly. “Really?” she asked feeling an immense relief.

  George looked at her like he never had before. “Were you jealous?” he asked with a chuckle.

  Lucy blushed. “Maybe a little. But mostly I did not find her to be a suitable match for you.”

  “Oh, and what sort of match would be suitable for me?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Someone not like her,” was all Lucy would commit to.

  George reached over and poked her in the arm. “Someone like you, perhaps.”

  She pulled away and turned slightly from him. “It is not for me to say. You should ask your family about what sort of lady you should marry. I am certain your mother would have a great deal to say on the subject.”

  “I am to be Duke of Sutherland, and I shall choose what sort of lady I want as a wife.”

  “George, you are so naïve. I can assure you, your parents have strong opinions about such matters. I may not be a part of the family, but I can see and hear, and you will most certainly have to contend with them when it is time for them to choose your wife.”

  “Hmm,” George said gazing down at the floor. “My dear Lucy, you are the wisest young person I have ever known.”

  The next morning, George had the paintings loaded into the carriage once again. He was just the littlest bit nervous about showing his new work to the gallery owner. What if he did not like what he saw? But he would not allow himself to dwell on that. He must move forward and face the inevitable—whatever it might be.

  Lucy had told him she would elect to stay with Aunt Hester until he would be free to escort her into central London where she might see the palace and houses of parliament.

  However, she still had the shopping to do for Betsy and herself, and she inquired of Aunt Hester at breakfast if there were any shops close by that she might be able to visit by herself while George was at his appointment.

  George left the house at nine-thirty for his ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Seth Hardy.

  Arriving at the gallery, he had the carriage wait until he found Mr. Hardy.

  “Sir, I am George Grayson, here with the paintings you requested to view,” George said after being directed to the director’s office.

  Mr. Hardy was a short, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair, a pince-nez, and very elegantly dressed in formal attire.

  “Ah, young man, I am so pleased you made it up to London. Please, take a moment and let me finish this letter and I shall be right with you.”

  “I think I shall browse the gallery if
I might. I should like to see the other paintings you show.”

  “Please yourself. I shall be with you, presently.”

  George walked around the gallery examining the paintings. Most were landscapes. There were a number of still lifes and a few very fine portraits.

  “Mr. Grayson, where are your paintings?” Mr. Hardy asked as he came toward George.

  “In the carriage.”

  “Let my people bring them in and then I shall view what you have brought me.”