“I said to let the footman do it,” Frampton reminded her. “Why is he just standing there? Though at least he’s not swaying and looking as if he’s about to faint or flash the—”
“Miss Logan,” Dane called out to her, as he rose from his chair. “Let me help you—” He froze as a keening wail suddenly skirled out of her, and she finally sank to the floor.
“I beg your pardon, ladies, but—the Almighty’s wounds!” He bounded across the drawing room to the corner where Cecily was now crumpled in a quivering ball of lugubrious, lachrymose lamentation, or so the author of that ridiculous broadside might describe it. Or even Dane, in a clear sign he was about to lose his mind.
He crouched in front of her. “Miss Logan,” he murmured. “Are you quite all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”
She lowered her hands to gaze up at him with a face that was now neither gray nor green, nor any variation or combination of the two. Instead, it was quite pink and streaked with tears.
And then she shrieked and hooted—with laughter. Relief washed through him.
Cordelia said, “I’d hate to send someone to the village for Dr. Platt, and make him come out in this rain, and just for a lady’s companion. Is she seriously ill, Your Grace?”
“She’s not seriously anything,” Dane answered. “Indeed, I’m relieved to announce she’s not serious at all.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Won’t you join us for tea, Miss Logan? The marquess and I agree that the footman should pour.”
“Is she laughing?” Lady Frampton queried. “But at what?”
“Sempiternal sibilance!” Cecily cried, and she burst into another spate of laughter.
That was the moment Dane wanted to wed her for more than just protecting her from the scandalmongers and the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortunes he caused her.
He wanted her because he was falling in love.
Chapter Nine
Cecily didn’t know if she was laughing at the absurd speculations over the author’s identity, the dreadful alliterations on that broadside, or just the way Bradbury read them aloud and commented on them. She was only glad—nay, thankful—that she hadn’t written them.
Standing so close to her that she could feel his warmth, he said, “Why don’t you join us for tea, Miss Logan? I see an ideal spot for you on that sofa next to Lady Cordelia.”
Lady Cordelia, as he called the dowager countess as if she were still only the daughter of a fellow duke, instantly bristled and pursed her lips in indignation at the very idea of having to share a sofa with a spinster far beneath her touch. “Not if she’s going to laugh uncontrollably and for no reason at all.”
“Very well, then I will share the sofa with you, and Miss Logan may sit here.” Bradbury guided Cecily over to the chair he’d just vacated to come to her rescue, though she still managed to stumble and nearly upset the tea tray, where the harried footman was attempting to pour tea for everyone.
“Are you foxed, Miss Logan?” asked Lady Cordelia. “Pray, what were you doing all afternoon in the library? Imbibing the earl’s brandy?”
Now that was a tempting idea. Cecily needed to return to the library anyway to retrieve her unfinished letter to Bradbury. She saw no point in trying to finish it now. Let them think Cassandra Frey was the author, publishing it in collaboration with her latest lover, Harcourt Armstrong! In the meantime, she wanted to remain in the drawing room to learn more about what was being said of The Duke Is a Devil and its presumably mysterious author.
Cecily could only wish she were that mysterious. “No, my lady, I am exceedingly amused by what the duke was reading just now.”
Bradbury helped her into the chair, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out the broadside. “You may see for yourself, Miss Logan. I would be very interested in hearing your thoughts about this. The illustration would seem apropos of some casual observations you made about me earlier.” He unfolded it and handed it to her.
“Perhaps Miss Logan might know the identity of the author,” Lady Frampton surmised. “And are you really my husband’s niece?”
“Yes, my lady. My mother was born Lady Honoria Randolph, daughter of the previous Marquess of Frampton, and was married to Mr. Matthew Logan, younger brother of the previous Earl of Ashdown.”
“I fear I lost all contact with both of my sisters after they married,” Lord Frampton said ruefully. “Of course, our father never approved of either of them—or of you, my dear.” This to his wife. “’Tis why so many years passed before we could finally marry.”
Cecily had heard that her maternal grandfather despised all women, but for now she was more concerned with the broadside. Through the blur of mirthful tears in her eyes, she studied the caricature of Bradbury with the long pointed tail, and the nondescript female with both hands over her face. She’d had her own hands over her face only moments ago as she fought to suppress her laughter—and right after she thought she was going to cry.
Ever since Harry stole the manuscript from her, she’d feared its publication would be a disaster—for her as well as Bradbury. But if he persisted in being amused by the whole thing—then why couldn’t she?
Because there were some passages that she didn’t want him to find amusing—or even infuriating. Because those had been written from the heart. Readers might think the author had set out to seduce and consequently entrap Bradbury, much as Catriona had enchanted and won the devilish heart of Madfury.
Thus sobered, she scrutinized the text below the cartoon. “Whoever wrote this must be trying to scare readers away.” She could only hope. “It certainly scares me.”
“It should,” said Lady Cordelia. “For it does not strike me as the sort of thing any young lady should be reading.”
Bradbury, now sitting next to Lady Cordelia, roared with laughter and even slapped his knee for extra effect. The entire sofa trembled, but Lady Cordelia didn’t seem to notice. She obviously didn’t mind sharing the sofa with someone laughing uncontrollably at nothing at all, as long as that someone was a duke.
Cecily slapped the broadside down on the low table between the two sofas. “For what purpose do you suppose people wish to know the author’s identity? Mere curiosity? According to this, she’s already ruined.”
“Yes, but ruined by whom?” Lady Frampton asked.
“People will assume she was ruined by the Duke of Bradbury,” Lord Frampton put in. “And if that’s the case, then he needs to know who she is so that he might make amends.”
That was the last thing Cecily ever intended—next to seeing it published. She was about to sit forward in the chair when it suddenly came to her attention that someone was holding a full cup and saucer under her nose. She followed the large fingers on an equally large hand attached to a long arm, covered by a dark blue sleeve, all the way up to the broad shoulder of the duke, who was now utterly expressionless as she met his gaze.
She had no idea if that was good or bad. She only knew to thank him as she took the proffered tea and sipped before saying, “What sort of amends?”
“He can’t marry her,” said Lady Cordelia. “For then everyone will know.”
“Know what? That she was the one he ruined?”
“If it’s true that he did,” Lord Frampton said. “Whom have you ruined, Bradbury?”
“Oh, as if I would admit to such a thing in front of the ladies,” Bradbury scoffed, setting his cup in the saucer with a testy clatter. “Besides, to even suggest that I would marry her because of this smacks of blackmail. And I do not submit to blackmail.”
That was just what Cecily feared if he learned she was the author.
“How can anyone be certain that it’s even written by a woman?” queried Lady Frampton. “’Tis more likely the author is a man only pretending to be a woman. Surely there are men out there looking to wreak vengeance on you for one perceived slight or another to their honor.”
“A great many, I should think,” Bradbury agreed. “But I still believe the wisest
course of action is to ignore the whole thing as if it is nothing. Indeed, that would be my advice to anyone who objects to the publication of the book. If I ignore it, perhaps everyone else will, too.” As if to punctuate that, he sipped his tea.
As if she didn’t know what else to do or say—and she didn’t—Cecily sipped hers.
“My dear Cecily,” piped up Lady Frampton, “if I may call you that as you are now my niece—how did you come to be Lady Cordelia’s companion?”
Cecily opened her mouth to respond, and Lady Cordelia quickly said, “She’s not. Her Armstrong relatives left her here while they went on to London, despite the fact I have no need of a companion. If you’d like to take her on, you’re welcome to do so. I was hoping to go to Bath in the next few days to meet friends. A companion would be in the way.”
“I have no need of a companion myself, now that I’ve married again,” Lady Frampton replied, as she continued gazing at Cecily. “Why did the Armstrongs leave you here, when I’m sure Lady Cordelia must have made it quite clear to them that she had no need for you?”
How to explain that she was in disgrace after being all but jilted by a vicar? Directly, of course. “I had an understanding of sorts with our vicar. But then he switched his affections to my cousin Rebecca, who reciprocates his feelings. Her parents do not approve of that. So they whisked her away to London where they plan to find a more suitable husband for her.”
Lady Frampton knit her brow. “I see. But that still doesn’t explain why you only came as far as Tyndall Abbey with them. Why did you not go all the way to London with them?”
How to explain that her own relatives didn’t want her anymore? Directly, of course, but—
“Didn’t you injure your ankle, making it difficult for you to walk around?” Bradbury asked. “Isn’t that why you stumbled over the tea tray on your way to that chair?” He loudly guffawed and slapped his knee again, as Lady Cordelia looked up at him in utter raptures.
Cecily ventured another sip of tea. “I don’t know why Your Grace finds that so droll.”
Lady Cordelia gasped, and Bradbury said, “Well, you never! Did you, Cordelia?”
Cordelia glanced at him, utterly confused.
But Cecily laughed.
“And what do you find so droll, Miss Logan?” demanded Lady Cordelia.
“He only said what you were about to say, my lady.” Cecily took another sip of tea.
Bradbury turned to her. “How odd, Miss Logan.”
“Yes, I know, Your Grace. How odd that I find it droll when you do that to others, but I’m all indignation when you do it to me.”
“No, I mean how odd that you anticipated what I was about to say—as if you, too, have the ability to read minds.”
To Cecily’s secret delight, the duke—quite unwittingly, she was certain—mimicked Lady Cordelia’s look of utter confusion, but for no more than a few seconds before he roared with laughter again.
Feeling better, Cecily returned her attention to Lord and Lady Frampton. “To answer your question as to why they didn’t take me to London, they never meant for me to have a season. They only brought me this far in hopes of finding another situation for me since Vicar Eastman is no longer going to marry me. Once their younger daughter marries, which they hope to see happen before season’s end, they shall have no further use for me.”
“Then it isn’t your ankle at all?” Lady Frampton looked aghast. “But how dreadful. And you’ve never had a season?”
Cecily shook her head.
Lady Frampton set down her cup and saucer. “I always wanted my daughter Evie to have a season, but it never happened. Instead, her uncle—Cordelia’s late husband—arranged a marriage for her, to a man old enough to be her grandfather. I eloped with him, instead, and he passed away only a few years later. Evie never had a dowry until her brother inherited the earldom a few years ago, but fortunately for her, she married rather swiftly after that and without benefit of season. She married Bradbury’s younger brother.” She nodded toward the duke, then picked up her cup and saucer again. “I never had a season, either, for similar reasons—my family arranged a marriage for me to a much older man, and I was barely sixteen at the time. Would you like to have a season in London, my dear?”
“For what reason, my lady? I have no dowry, and I’m seven and twenty. And my family is—well, people might say I’m not quite the thing, especially if they’ve cast me out because they don’t know what else to do with me.”
“What do you say, Bradbury?” asked Lord Frampton. “You’re a bachelor. Surely it’s past time you settled down and started your nursery.”
“It would certainly give me another reason not to marry the author of that book, whoever she is,” Bradbury said dryly.
Cecily hoped she didn’t look as panicked or horrified as she felt. But I’m the author, you bufflehead, and why haven’t you deduced that already?
Lord Frampton turned to her. “What do you say to that, my dear?”
“If His Grace is—whatever that book says—then naturally I should balk at marrying a man who has ruined a lady, perhaps even more than one lady, even if he is a duke.”
“And that would give me one more reason to support its publication.” Bradbury chortled. “I shan’t be plagued with clamoring chits and their matchmaking mamas.”
Lady Frampton drained her teacup. “Oh, well. You may come with us to London, Cecily, and stay with us at our house in Berkeley Square. Or you can even stay with my daughter and her husband at their house in Park Lane. You’re the same age as Evie and I’m sure the two of you would get along famously.”
Bradbury cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Lady Frampton, but I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that the Park Lane house of which you speak happens to be my London residence.”
She smiled over her teacup. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten at all, my dear duke.”
At length it was settled. On the morrow Cecily would join Lord and Lady Frampton on their journey to London, and Bradbury would accompany them in his own carriage, weather permitting. She would no longer be stranded at Tyndall Abbey, but what would happen if they found out she was the author of that dreadful book? They might as well leave her at the side of the road—or even some other earl’s estate where they might stay en route. Bradbury had mentioned staying the next night at Ashdown Park near Northampton, where Cecily had other long-lost relatives on her father’s side. She’d never met the current Earl of Ashdown, who was her father’s nephew.
It was still raining after dinner, and both Lady Frampton and Lady Cordelia chose to retire early. Cecily took this as a signal to retire as well and leave the duke and marquess to their brandy and cigars.
Candle in hand, she made her way down a gloomy corridor in a gloomy wing of the abbey to her gloomy bedchamber. Only after she removed her shoes and took down her hair did she remember the letter she’d left downstairs in the library when Bradbury unexpectedly arrived this afternoon.
What were the chances of anyone seeing it between now and tomorrow morning? Probably nil, but only if she were anyone other than Cecily Logan. She’d have to go back downstairs for it. On the bright side, she hadn’t yet undressed for the night. She had to marvel at that. Under the usual circumstances, she wouldn’t have remembered the papers till after she was in her night rail. Then she would have had to steal downstairs in said night rail, where she would likely be caught by that devil of a duke and forced to marry him.
She didn’t want to be forced to marry anyone. Not even the Duke of Bradbury, especially because of That Book.
She tied back her hair with the ribbon she used to secure it at bedtime. Still wearing the pink frock she’d worn at dinner, she picked up her candle and hastened down the corridor to the staircase, the flame wavering. No one would hear her stocking feet on the stairs as she carefully descended them into the dark front hall, clutching the banister. Faint light glowed from the drawing room, but the library door opposite was closed.
It was also locke
d. No matter how many times Cecily tried the knob and pushed into the door with all her weight, it wouldn’t budge.
“Is it thundering again?” came Lord Frampton’s voice from the drawing room.
“If so, then we may be staying here another day,” replied the duke. “By the bye, whatever happened to Mr. Gerald Benedict? Is he still here? I seem to recall he was brought here to recover from his accident the same day your stepdaughter jilted me for my brother.”
“He’s now living with his widowed mother in Northampton. He’s lucky to have lost just a leg in that carriage wreck, when one thinks of what happened to his wife. Broken neck and an almost unrecognizable face, Gareth said.”
“Alas, their marriage ended as it began,” Bradbury said morosely. “In disaster. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“You and Gareth and even Ross have told me about that,” Frampton replied. “’Twas at a house party, and she followed a blond man into a bedchamber thinking it was you. Instead it was poor Gerald. And you caught them and made them marry, you devil.”
“They themselves considered it a match made in hell.” Bradbury chuckled.
“I wonder if that’s in the book?” Frampton guffawed. “Mayhap his late wife is the one who wrote it and ’twas found among her effects after her death.”
Cecily huffed at that, hard enough to extinguish her candle.
“Lady Flora never struck me as the sort who would even read a book, let alone write one,” Bradbury scoffed. “Besides, who would be having it published on her behalf?”
“Why, Gerald, of course, to pay for his medical bills. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s addicted to laudanum by now. He was in a great deal of pain for many months.”
“I thought his cousin Ross was helping him financially?”
“He is, but maybe not enough to suit Gerald or his mother. Then again, you may be right. Someone else wrote it.”
“But not someone I’ve already ruined,” Bradbury asserted. “I trust she’s not seeking my notice, thinking I’ll be enraged enough to retaliate by—what else? Ruining her in truth. Then I would have to marry her.”
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