The night had been clear when Carlyle had left Beauchamp, but now, as he neared London, clouds that promised rain moved across the sky, hiding the moon and stars. He urged his mount on, hoping to reach Grosvenor Square
before he was drenched.
If only Jeremy had come to him about Miss Raff. His Grace’s anger at the betrothal paled beside the hurt he felt over Jeremy’s failure to tell him about the wretched doxy. Until now he had enjoyed an extraordinarily close relationship with his son. Never before had Jeremy kept a secret from his sire, and the duke attributed this uncharacteristic behaviour to the power that evil Jezebel had over his besotted young son. One thing was certain: Before he was done with Miss Alyssa Raff, she would regret the day that she had met his son.
Chapter 3
One of Alyssa’s economies was mending torn garments instead of discarding them. When her mother returned home that evening, she was in the drawing-room repairing a petticoat of Rosina’s. Hearing Mrs Raff’s shrill voice in the hail, Alyssa lifted her head from her sewing and looked about the room. Her mother had insisted upon jamming every piece of elaborate, oversize furniture from the much larger drawing-room of her previous home into it, giving it all the homely charm of a storage shed.
In the hail the maid-of-all-work told Mrs Raff about the marquess’s second visit. She rushed to her elder daughter, demanding to know whether she had rejected Stanwood’s suit.
“No, but...”
“I declare you have at last developed a little sense!” her mother exclaimed.
Alyssa, who had no intention of revealing her strategy for handling Jeremy to her mother, hastily changed the subject. “Do you and Rosina go to Vauxhall tonight?” The pleasure garden was one of Mama’s favourite places, and she went there frequently with her younger daughter.
“Yes.” Noticing for the first time what Alyssa was doing, Mrs Raff demanded irritably, “Why do you bother with that? Rosina wishes a new one.”
“We cannot afford a new one,” Alyssa said calmly, continuing to ply her needle.
“It is not fitting for a future marchioness to be mending petticoats,” Mrs Raff complained. “When will the marquess tell his father about your betrothal?”
“He won’t. I made him promise that he would not.” Mrs Raff stared at Alyssa as though she had taken leave of her senses. “In heaven’s name, why?”
Alyssa sighed. Her mother was a foolish woman, but surely even she must realise that only grief would come to them if Carlyle learned of his son’s offer. Alyssa tried to explain this, but her mother brushed aside her concern, saying smugly, “The duke will drop his opposition when he sees what a scandal I will create if his son tries to renege on his promise.”
“Oh, Mama,” Alyssa said pityingly as she thought of Carlyle’s notorious reputation, “the duke does not care a whit what the world thinks of him, and I warn you that he would be a lethal adversary.”
“If you are so afraid of him, I am surprised that you accepted his son’s offer.”
“I did not accept it.”
Mrs Raff’s face was bewildered. “But you said...”
“I said I did not reject it. Although he considers us betrothed, I have no intention of marrying him.”
“You provoking chit!” Mrs Raff cried angrily, stalking from the room. At the door, she paused to screech, “I wish, Alyssa, that you would go back to your grandfather!”
If only she could! But Alyssa knew that it would be months before Lord Eliot’s temper cooled sufficiently to permit her to return to him. How Alyssa regretted her decision to disobey him and come to her mother.
After Mr Raff had been so disobliging as to die last year with an estate shockingly depleted by his wife’s years of extravagance, she and Rosina, unaccustomed to economy, soon became mired in debt. Mrs Raff wrote her elder daughter, who was living with her grandfather at Ormandy Park, his country house in Northumberland, begging her to save her mother, who was about to be thrown in to debtors’ prison.
“My finances and my fate are in your hands,” Mrs Raff had written. “I beg of you not to desert your poor, loving mama in her time of dire need.”
Although the poor, loving mama had been happy to relinquish Alyssa to be raised by her paternal grandfather, she had not severed all association with her. Realising that a well-connected daughter could be useful some day, she had insisted that her “beloved’ child be permitted to visit her for two weeks each year. To her amazement, Lord Eliot had readily agreed. Alyssa understood very well, although Mrs Raff did not, why he had done so. Those visits, which Alyssa had dreaded and loathed, revealed to her with far more clarity than anything else could have her mama’s vulgar, selfish, scheming nature.
Yet Mrs Raff was her mother, and her frantic pleas for help sorely troubled Alyssa. She could not permit her own mother to rot in debtors’ prison. But Alyssa had no money of her own and was entirely dependent upon her grandfather. He, of course, would never give Mrs Raff a shilling. So the only help Alyssa, who was a notable manager, could offer was to go to London to try to straighten out her extravagant parent’s
finances. Alyssa had not wanted to leave Ormandy Park, but she had felt it her filial duty to do so, a view not shared by her grandfather. He had pointed out that her loving mama had had no compunction about abandoning Alyssa on his doorstep.
When Alyssa had persisted in her determination to go to her mother, Lord Eliot, a domestic tyrant of the first water, had flown into a towering rage, swearing that he would have nothing more to do with her if she went to that scheming, vulgar hussy who had robbed him of his favourite son, then despatched the poor boy to an early grave. Not only would he not allow Alyssa to return to Ormandy Park, he would not permit her to disgrace his name by using it while residing in that hussy’s house. Alyssa must assume her late stepfather’s name and never mention her connection with the Eliots.
Her grandfather had been so apoplectic that she had finally agreed to this unreasonable demand, fearing that if she did not, he would suffer a stroke.
Although she thought his demand silly, she was a woman of her word. Since coming to London, she had scrupulously adhered to her promise, carefully avoiding everyone who might know her true identity, except the Hagars, who obligingly kept it secret, introducing her as Alyssa Raff.
The Duke of Carlyle arrived at his mansion in Grosvenor Square
that night just as Jeremy was leaving.
“Papa, you are back!” Jeremy cried, his face lighting up with unmistakable delight at the sight of his father in the elegant entry with its shimmering crystal chandelier, beechwood chairs, and marble floor. “I have missed you so.”
“Have you?” The duke smiled affectionately at his son, who bore little resemblance to his father except for his dark, curly hair and elegant, upcut nose. Jeremy had the round face and protruding lower lip of Carlyle’s late duchess, but his amiable nature, so unlike hers, and his passionate enthusiasms reminded the duke of the sunny, innocent boy that he himself had been at sixteen.
Noticing his father’s travel-stained riding coat, breeches, and boots, Jeremy frowned. “Surely, Papa, you did not ride up from Beauchamp on horseback?”
“It was a nice night for a ride,” Carlyle said dryly. “Where are you bound now?”
“To show George Braden the town. He arrived only today from Northumberland and has never been to London before. Would you like to join us?”
“No,” the duke said, losing interest in the expedition when it did not include Miss Raff. “I have someone I must see tonight at Vauxhall. What have you been doing in London during my absence, Jeremy? Anything of import that I should know of?”
The marquess blushed guiltily. His gaze dropped to the polished marble floor, and he did not see the angry tightening of his father’s lips. The duke’s tone, however, remained light. “What is it, Jeremy? Do you have something to tell me?”
The youth fidgeted with the buttons on his waistcoat and looked miserably unhappy. “No, sir.”
Stu
ng by his son’s failure to confide in him, the duke silently cursed Miss Alyssa Raff. Lifting a questioning eyebrow, he asked, “Nothing at all?”
Instead of answering, Jeremy burst out, “When will you be seeing Mr Page?”
“I have seen him, and I am disappointed, Jeremy.”
Carlyle’s voice was gently reproachful. “I had thought that when you decided to wed, I would be the very first to hear of it, and from your own lips.”
The youth’s gaze flew up to the duke’s eyes. “You know! I am so glad!”
The relief that shone on Jeremy’s face was echoed in his father’s heart as he realised that his son had not wished to keep the betrothal secret from him.
“I wanted more than anything to tell you, but Alyssa made me swear that I would not.”
“How very odd that she would want you to keep your happy news a secret from your own father.”
“I think she fears that you will prohibit me from marrying her.” Jeremy looked suddenly worried. “You won’t, will you?”
Carlyle longed to issue just such a prohibition, but he knew the boy’s obstinate streak too well to do anything so foolish as that. Instead, he would have to handle Jeremy with the greatest of tact. Concealing his seething anger at the vulgar hussy who had entrapped his son, he said, “Of course not.”
Relief shone on Jeremy’s face. “I knew that you would not, but she did not believe me.”
Although her scepticism was well founded, Carlyle asked innocently, “Why not? Does she think herself beneath your touch?”
“Oh, no, not at all!” his son replied with greater haste than accuracy.
“I thought not,” his father said with heavy irony.
“Tell me about her.”
“I cannot find words,” began Jeremy, who then proceeded to find a great many of them, mostly effusive adjectives, to describe his intended. He painted her as such a paragon of beauty, virtue, intelligence and wit that his father raged silently at how completely Jeremy, normally an intelligent boy, had been blinded by the trollop. Carlyle knew how vulnerable and sensitive a young cub in the throes of first love was, and his heart ached for the heartbreak and humiliation that Jeremy would inevitably suffer at Miss Raff’s callous hands. “How old is the divine Alyssa?”
Jeremy ran a finger between his neck and his cravat as though that garment had suddenly grown exceedingly tight. “A trifling older than I.”
“What is a trifling—a week or two?”
Jeremy’s face reddened. “She is five-and-twenty.”
“What an odd definition you have of a trifling,” the duke observed wryly, wondering again under whose protection the doxy had been living the past nine years. “How is it, if she has been on the town all these years, I have never met her?”
“She dislikes society and avoids it.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. No doubt she did so because she feared recognition by someone who knew her sordid past and would reveal it to his son. “When shall I meet her?”
Jeremy said evasively, “Perhaps in a few days.”
“Why not now? I confess to a great curiosity about any woman possessed of so many charms as the divine Alyssa, especially when she will be the future Duchess of Carlyle.”
“I dare not introduce you because she said that she would end our betrothal if I told you of it. While it was not I who did so, I fear that she will be very angry when she learns you know.” Jeremy’s face suddenly brightened. “But surely she will forgive me when I tell her that we have your permission to marry immediately.”
Reluctant as he was to tell his stubborn son so, the duke said quietly, “But you do not have that permission yet.”
“Why not?” the boy demanded indignantly. “Surely you cannot wish me to marry one of those odious young ladies at Almack’s who have been casting lures for me. You yourself pointed out what silly creatures they are.”
At least his son had learned to appraise correctly the overeager young ladies of Almack’s. Too bad, Carlyle thought wearily, that he had not also schooled Jeremy about cyprians. Forcing a smile to his lips, the duke said, “Gudgeon! I do not at all wish you to rivet yourself to one of them. Such a foolish, insipid creature would never make you happy. And, believe me, all I want for you is happiness.”
“If that is the case,” Jeremy cried passionately, “you will give me your permission to marry Alyssa!”
“Before I have met her?” the duke asked gently, deciding to use Miss Raff’s insistence that he not be told of the betrothal to his advantage. It gave him a way to buy time, and given enough time, he would see that Jeremy came to recognise the Jezebel for what she was. “Surely, you cannot expect me to give my permission until after I have met her?”
The love-struck youth reluctantly agreed. “No, Papa.”
His Grace observed gently, “I would think a woman of five-and-twenty would find a youth barely nineteen too young for her.”
“Don’t tell me that I am too young to wed,” Jeremy cried, firing up. “You were married by my age!”
“I was a widower with two children to raise by your age, and it is not an experience that I wish for you.” A wave of profound bitterness swept over Carlyle at the memory of himself as a bridegroom, so young, so in love, and the humiliation and heartbreak that followed.
“I will marry Alyssa!” Jeremy cried rebelliously. “You cannot stop me from doing so.”
“I did not say that I would, so pray do not fly into the boughs without reason,” his father said calmly. “I would, however, prefer that you wait a few months.”
“Why?” Jeremy demanded mulishly.
“Most importantly, for your bride’s reputation. Such a hurried march to the altar as you propose with a woman so many years your senior will convince the world that you compromised her and were forced to wed. I am persuaded that if you love her, you would not wish to cast such a black shadow upon her virtue.”
“No, of course not!” Jeremy exclaimed, instantly contrite. “Oh, Papa, once you meet Alyssa, you will find it impossible not to love her as much as I do.”
More likely, thought His Grace, he would find it impossible not to throttle the strumpet.
Chapter 4
When Mrs Raff and Rosina came down the staircase that night, bound for Vauxhall Gardens, Alyssa stared at them in speechless dismay, giving silent thanks that she was not accompanying them.
Although simple muslin gowns like those that Alyssa wore were now the style among the ton, her mother’s notion of fashion was based on what had been the mode twenty-five years ago. Mrs Raff firmly believed that ladies of quality wore only the most elaborate of satin and silk gowns. Although fate and that spiteful old Lord Eliot had denied her her rightful place in that company, she was determined to dress the part.
She had outdone herself tonight, choosing a polonaise gown in brilliant red satin. Its three enormous panniers had been drawn up by gold cords that ended in long tassels and exaggerated her ample proportions. Despite the evidence in her mirror to the contrary, Mrs Raff was blind to the substantial increase over the years in her girth. But no one else who saw her tonight would be.
Her elaborate, heavily powdered coiffure, which was as out of fashion as her gown, depended upon several hair-pieces for its height. Her face was painted a sickly white, enlivened by two brilliant patches of colour on the cheeks and a large black patch near her mouth.
The late Mr Raff, constantly harassed by his wife’s demands for jewellery, had discovered that she lacked an eye that could discern real gems from paste, and thereafter he had frequently gifted her with baubles as gaudy as they were fraudulent. Tonight she had contrived to load her person with an astonishing number of them.
Rosina’s purple satin gown clashed violently with the red that her mother wore, and its circassienne style, too, was outmoded. Her waist was laced so tightly that she could not take a deep breath, and the bodice was cut so shockingly low that Alyssa blushed.
When at last Alyssa recovered her voice, she said fain
tly, “Your dress is very bright, Mama.”
“I have always preferred vivid colours,” Mrs Raff replied proudly. “They capture a man’s eye.”
“But is it not too elaborate for Vauxhall?” Alyssa asked, tactfully trying to prevent her mama from making a cake of herself.
“The mother-in-law of the future Duke of Carlyle must look the part,” Mrs Raff said grandly.
Alyssa refrained from pointing out that her mother was not now, and never would be, that.
Mrs Raff continued, “It shall not be said that I look dowdy.”
“No, Mama,” Alyssa said, knowing with embarrassed certainty what it would be said that she did look like.
After Mrs Raff and Rosina departed, Alyssa went slowly up the narrow staircase to her bedchamber, threw herself down on her bed, and wondered morosely what would happen to her if her grandfather did not relent and permit her return to Ormandy Park. Since coming to London to help her mother had cost her, perhaps permanently, the only real home she had ever known, Alyssa had been more than a little angry to discover that, as usual, her mother had exaggerated her situation in the hope that her daughter would wheedle a handsome sum from Lord Eliot so that Mrs Raff could continue to live in the style to which her late husband had accustomed her. It astounded Alyssa that her mother could have been so foolish as to think that anyone could prevail upon His Lordship to give his detested former daughter-in-law a groat. But Mrs Raff was an exceedingly foolish woman.
Although she was in no immediate danger of debtors’ prison, she would be soon if her extravagances were not curbed and her finances put on a more solid basis. Alyssa set about doing this. Mrs Raff, eager to escape the bill collectors who were constantly pounding upon her door, was only too happy to turn her financial affairs over to Alyssa until she arranged to sell Mrs Raff’s big house in Bloomsbury for a handsome profit. The furious widow agreed to the sale only after her late husband’s solicitor warned her bluntly that if she did not do so, she would indeed find herself in debtors’ prison before long. Alyssa used the proceeds to pay her mama’s debts and to buy her this much more modest dwelling in a less expensive neighbourhood. The remainder Alyssa invested in the funds to supplement Mrs Raff’ s tiny income.
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