Retrieving her hand, she showed him what must be her deepest curtsy, saying, “Your Grace. My Lord Marquis.”
He then made his bow over her aunt’s hand and said, “Delighted to see you again, Lady Clarice. I don’t think I know this lady.” Standing next to her was a very small woman with bright, curious eyes, and a head full of iron gray ringlets.
“This is my companion, Lady Susannah Braithwaite. Sukey, this is His Grace, the Duke of Ruisdell. He is one of the benefactors of our soup kitchen.” He bowed over the small woman’s hand. She said with asperity. “Ah, so you are the great rogue I have heard about!”
George cackled beside him and introduced himself to the older ladies. As he made desultory conversation with them, the duke turned to the woman he had seen that afternoon on the park bench, hidden behind a veil. What had transpired to take away her grief? She was certainly the soul of self-possession now. Her dark eyes still surveyed him, but her lips twitched. Was she hiding a smile?
Well! Thinking back to the disembodied voice, he wondered if there was indeed such a thing as destiny. Was this woman meant to be his? Was Somerset right? Was she the answer to his ennui?
“Forgive me,” he said finally. “Do you ever walk in Green Park?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Your voice! You are the gentleman who sketched the picture of the tree. Old Father Tree, you called him. Or rather it.”
“And you were hiding behind a remarkably ugly veil.”
Her cheeks became rosy as she blushed. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman actually blush? She wasn’t the least coy, just embarrassed. “Trying to avoid the scandal mongers.”
He gave what even he knew was a grim smile. Before he could ask her what had changed between this afternoon and this evening that she would venture out, dressed so divinely with roses nestled in her black tresses, the curtain to the box was thrown aside. A very handsome man even taller than the duke entered, his hair a profusion of blond pomaded curls, his classically featured face set in stern, stiff lines.
“You depraved cur!” he virtually spat at Ruisdell.
Who the devil was this? He had no desire to disabuse this man of his epithet. His conscience, silent for years, told him that it might even be true. But he had experience dealing with infuriated men, though they were usually husbands. Ruisdell merely raised one eyebrow, which was enough to quell most men.
But this man turned to Elise, who had gone suddenly white. Her hands were now fists. Ruisdell moved a bit closer, feeling an unusual prompting to protect.
“Robert, please leave at once. You have no right to be here!”
“Do you know who this man is?” the man called Robert answered. The duke had never seen him in his life. But his dress was very expensive and correct, marking him as a probable member of the ton.
“Yes,” Miss Edwards said with more composure. “He has just introduced himself. He is the Duke of Ruisdell, and, my aunt informs me, the most notorious of rakes. Was it this you came to tell me?”
The man’s countenance changed before the duke’s eyes. No longer merely outraged, his face showed an ugly sneer, almost identical to the highwayman’s who had attempted to rob Ruisdell just last week on the Hounslow Heath.
He grasped the woman by the upper arms, and the duke could tell he was inflicting pain, but his Miss Edwards stood firm, raising her chin.
The tall man continued, “You are my fiancée, and you have no business slurring my family name by entertaining this disgusting article openly here at the opera where everyone is watching.”
“They are watching because they can tell I am about to be assaulted. Not by the Duke of Ruisdell, but by you, whom I know to be far more dangerous.”
Just hearing the tiny quiver in her voice was enough to move Ruisdell to action. Stepping behind Miss Edwards, he looked into the penetrating eyes of the interloper and said, “Unhand her, or I will have you hauled up for assault. You may indeed find me disgusting, but I am not without influential friends. A duke, you know.”
At these words, the former fiancé became further inflamed. Taking his hands from Miss Edward’s arms, he commenced to remove his gloves.
The man is evidently mad.
Moving from behind Miss Edwards, Ruisdell was unable to resist a tiny squeeze to the lovely shoulder of George’s fantasies. The slap of Robert’s gloves on his face stung him into assuming his most dangerous mien.
“Name your friends!” The madman growled.
“They will wait upon you tomorrow, if I might have your name?”
Evidently unaware of the irony, Robert pulled a calling card from his waistcoat. “I must warn you, I am an expert with either the pistol or the sword.”
The duke didn’t bother to look at the card, but kept his eyes on the man as he slid the pasteboard into his waistcoat pocket. Shifting his glance to Miss Edwards, he saw eyes huge with alarm. She put a hand on each of their puffed-out chests and said, “Robert, you have no right to fight this man. I am no longer your fiancée. And I am certain the duke has no desire to put his life in peril over a woman he has known but a few moments.”
Stepping closer to the duke, she bowed her head and said in a voice near to a whisper drowned by the chatter of opera-goers, “He’s not himself.” She continued sotto voce as she pulled at her gloves with long fingers, “He has these . . . these fits, I guess you would say. No doubt he will have forgotten this entirely by the time he wakes in the morning.”
Robert looked at Miss Edwards with suspicion. She said, even more quietly, her lips scarcely moving, “I beg of you, decline his challenge, for he may truly hurt or kill you.”
The desire to protect her surged more mightily within him. Taking her trembling hand in his, he drew it through his arm, pulling her closer to his side. “Whoever you may be, make your apologies to Miss Edwards and leave this moment. You are distressing her. I will send my seconds to your home presently.”
“I am your nemesis. You will escape from me only by death.” The words may have been melodramatic, but the face of the man called Robert was a rigid mask, his tone controlled.
At that moment, the Viscount Chessingden strode into the room, Violet Archer on his arm. “Waterford! How good to see you, old chap! When did you return from Italy? I’m all agog to see the pictures you have been painting.” Turning to the woman at his side, he introduced her, saying, “Violet is quite an authority on art. Her brother Thomas, you may remember, ran into you in Florence last autumn. He reported that your pictures were devilish fine.”
Waterford, as the duke now knew him, affected a change so complete that Ruisdell was forced to conclude that the foregoing violence must have been some kind of brainstorm, as Miss Edwards had told him.
“Thomas? Oh, yes! I remember him. Jolly good chap. We had oysters, and I gave him a tour of the Uffizi. Had no idea he thought so highly of my work. Thank you for passing along the compliment.”
At that moment, the first gong sounded. The emotionally fraught interval was at last at an end. Or so he thought. Chessingden, one arm linked through Waterford’s, leaned close to the duke and said, “If you harm a hair of my fiancée’s head, it will be pistols at dawn, I promise you.”
Nodding smartly, the duke said with his highest degree of hauteur, “That won’t be necessary, believe me. It’s not her hair in which I am interested. As a matter of fact, I intend no harm to any part of her person. I suggest you attend to your present companion.”
Chessingden seemed to remember Violet for the first time. Looking as frustrated as any man Ruisdell had ever seen, he allowed her to precede him, along with the Waterford devil, out of the box.
The duke then pulled up chairs for himself and the marquis, who had been shielding Miss Edward’s aunt and her companion from the dastardly proceedings by means of a quiet conversation in the corner. It was unusually thoughtful of George and put Ruisdell in humor with him.
“We’ll remain, if you don’t mind,” he said to Miss Edwards. “That Waterford is clearl
y an unbalanced devil. If you like, I will call for you in the morning, and together we can visit a friend of mine who happens to be a magistrate. We will see that he’s put in Bedlam where he clearly belongs.”
“Thank you so much. At one time I was engaged to the poor man, but I am afraid he suffers from what the doctor calls a split personality. Perhaps if he were threatened with Bedlam, he would return to painting in Italy.” Her voice was hopeful.
“Only to return again eventually, I’m afraid. Now, be truthful. Is that all?”
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. Hers were the thickest eyelashes he had ever seen, adding to the startling beauty of her eyes. The woman was adorable, her face set like a cameo in a frame of willful curls. She was beautiful but not his usual type at all. He had noted a slightly reckless air about her as she had confronted the madman, and he would have bet his inheritance upon her having been a tomboy once. This fact sat interestingly with her long, graceful bones.
“All what?” She broke into his thoughts.
“All of your former fiancés.”
The mouth that reminded him of his favorite color of rose turned down, and her eyes stared at the hands folded in her lap. “No. But, unfortunately, Joshua will not be coming to warn me against you.”
“And why is that?” He raised an eyebrow.
George intervened for the first time in the proceedings. “Dead, I told you. Dead as mutton. On the Peninsula.”
Something moved painfully in the duke’s chest. Surprised, he realized it was his heart feeling sympathy. “And what was Joshua’s surname, Miss Edwards?”
“Beynon. Sir Joshua Beynon.”
Stunned, for a moment the duke froze. As soon as her news had passed through him and become some insane reality, he turned aside, afraid that she would see his face. His feelings, a moment ago tenderly amused, underwent a radical change as fate dealt him a blow. It instantly rendered him a sick old man. The trill of the soprano on the stage irritated his nerves to such a point that he covered his ears and withdrew into that place inside himself that lived perpetually on the rocky peninsular slope covered with dead men. Men he had known, eaten with, drunk with, laughed with. And the one sight that would never leave: his adjutant and closest friend with his chest blown open. Blood everywhere, especially at night when his mind was full of the noise and stench of war.
I can’t stay here. I must have some air.
He felt George’s eyes upon him. The girl put a hand on his sleeve. “Your Grace . . .”
Standing with the aid of his stick, Ruisdell shook her off. “You must excuse me, Miss Edwards. I’m a rude, sick old man.” Then something like Beynon’s voice reminded him. “I’ll be by in the morning, of course. To take you to the magistrate.”
“But you’re ill!” she said with the forthrightness he knew she would have.
He owed her and Beynon at least part of the truth. “By morning, it will pass. Forgive me. I must have some air. George, come.”
Somehow, he made his way home, up the stairs, and tumbled on his bed, fully dressed, into his worst nightmares. The fleeting thought visited him that this woman was proving to be far more trouble than Marianne.
CHAPTER SIX
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE BECOMES ENGAGED (AGAIN)
Elise did not know whether to expect the duke the next morning or not. As she sat at her vanity table while Kitty dressed her hair, she thought about the queer turn he had taken at the opera. His face became so forbidding at the mention of Joshua that she was able at last to see past his charming exterior into the darkness beneath. The name of her first fiancé was clearly unwelcome to him. So unwelcome that he had become positively rude! She had never been on the receiving end of such a black look before. Elise appreciated the irony that Joshua had always called her “Sunshine.”
So it was possible that the duke had forgotten his promise about the magistrate. She sincerely hoped not. He was a rogue, but she hoped she might count on him in this. He was also, at the very least, an exceptionally complex man. Just the kind of person she needed to become acquainted with to give her fiction some sophistication and verisimilitude. One moment a hero, the next a cad. Well, not exactly a cad. Gregory was a cad. The duke had simply disappeared, first into some bad memory and then had rudely taken his leave.
She laughed at herself as Kitty wove through her ebony locks the daisies she had taken from the garden. Her light muslin sported a smattering of embroidered daisies as well. She looked to be not a whit older than seventeen. The age she was when she spun dark, gothic tales to Joshua as he reclined on a potato sack full of straw in their tree house in the middle of her father’s forest.
She had done far too much growing up far too fast after he left for the Peninsula. Her novels had acquired more sophistication as she tussled with the hard questions of life. But they were a way of holding at bay the blackness of Joshua’s death as well as the frightening happenings she had suffered at Robert’s hands. Gregory should be comic relief, but Elise was mortified by the way he had treated her. Her curiosity about the duke must be restrained. A rake was not at all what was called for in her life just now.
As Kitty used the tongs to create ringlets around her face, Elise realized how loath she was to consign even Robert to Bedlam. Surely, it would be best if whatever had taken the duke from her box last night kept him away from her this morning. Perhaps Gregory could prevail upon Robert to go back to Italy, using the flattery he had employed the night before with such success. Besides, even if he was a cad, Gregory was undoubtedly a safer rescuer than the duke. She didn’t wish to owe him anything. Her toilette finished, she dispatched Kitty at eleven o’clock to Gregory’s townhouse a short distance away with a note to call on her regarding Robert.
When Kitty had gone, Elise let herself out into the garden. The day was sultry, even this early, promising thunderstorms. Walking in her aunt’s rose garden, she found herself considering the duke once more. Did he perhaps have unpleasant reminiscences of Joshua? Her dead fiancé had been universally liked, of cheerful disposition, and very sound in his opinions. Perhaps it was her whimsey, but sometimes she felt he was her guardian angel. How could the duke have anything against him? If he did, as far as Elise was concerned, it was but another strike against his character.
As a contrary stroke, however, she remembered the sketch of Old Father Tree that was propped up on the mantle of her bedroom, reminding her of Ruisdell’s kindness in the park, when she hadn’t known who he was. That did not square at all with her other experiences of the elegant, haughty man. Nor did his beneficence towards the wounded soldiers and his obvious care for their welfare. And what about the entire scene in the box last night? Now that she was removed from it by a good night’s sleep, it appeared to her to be the very best of comedy—Molière, even! The duke had been overrun with fiancés and had never cracked a smile. Instead, he had been overtly protective. She was a long way from understanding him.
Using her aunt’s shears, she began cutting yellow roses just touched with red at the end of their petals. They were unusually fragrant in the humid atmosphere. She would put them in the navy blue sitting room.
Considering her desire to put the multifaceted duke into a book, for the first time since she was sixteen years old she felt the uneasy suspicion that maybe her writing was not even passable as adolescent prose. She certainly did not seem to have the knowledge or gift of making out character. Are my characters just pale imitations of those I have read about elsewhere? Are they an alternative to telling the real story, the one that is locked inside of me? What I’ve written and published seems immature and comical compared to my real life. What kind of heroine would I create if I allowed myself to explore my own past and present in prose? I have been brave in life. Why not on paper?
Her basket was nearly full when Bates showed the Viscount Chessingden into the garden.
“Good news!” he said, greeting her with a kiss on top of her head and relieving her of her basket. “After taking Violet home last n
ight, I took Robert to the club for a brandy. He was reasonable and cogent, with no memory of what had happened in your opera box. I flattered him no end. Good job that Thomas actually did like his paintings! Then he took me to his townhouse to show some of them to me. Portraits. Fancies himself a Gainsborough or a Reynolds.”
“Hmm, really?” Gregory’s free arm was encircling her waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’s good?”
“Well, at the moment his art is not original enough. He is deriving all his style from other portraitists. I think I convinced him that Italian women possess more conflicted souls—situated as they are between the pagan and the Christian traditions in Florence. I suggested he make a study of them, and initiate a whole new school of painting—sort of an English rendering of the Renaissance. He became very excited. Even started throwing things into his steamer trunk.”
“So you think he really will leave? The duke was going to introduce me to a magistrate this morning to tell my story and try to get Robert sent to Bedlam.”
“That sounds like the duke. From what I know of him, he’s a very all-or-nothing sort of person. He’d rather squash someone who gets in his way than find a way to help the poor soul.”
“That’s not true. You know it’s not. He is one of the contributors to the soup kitchen! Besides, Robert is not in the duke’s way. He’s in my way. Believe me, Gregory, I’m not being melodramatic. I am in physical danger from Robert. I just hope you are right and that he is on his way back to Italy this moment.”
“Is it not a lovely day?” her former fiancé asked, kissing the end of her nose.
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