R.
It took him a bit more than a day and a half, for he did not like to push the stallion. On the evening of the second day, the duke arrived at Shearings, putting his skeleton staff in a quake at his unexpected arrival.
“Don’t bother taking the Holland covers off. I’m just camping here for a few days and taking my meals at the club while I see to some urgent business,” he told his butler. “Then I will be leaving for Derbyshire once more.”
So saying, he changed from his riding clothing into evening dress and strolled to St. James’s Street for dinner at White’s.
He had been away from the club for less than a week, but he noticed a change almost as soon as he entered its portals. To his astonishment, as soon as any member saw him, the man would turn his back to him, administering the cut direct. The duke’s brows flew up in astonishment. What the devil? He went in search of Somerset in the card room. When he saw his friend, George did not let him down. His face was troubled, but he folded his cards, tossed some guineas into the center of the table and stood up. Taking the duke’s arm, he led him out of the club to the street.
“What the devil is wrong with everyone?” he demanded of his friend. “What do they think I’ve done?”
George cleared his throat and continued to walk until they were well away from other pedestrians. “Confounded book!” he said.
“What confounded book?”
“Called The Duke’s Indescretions.”
This did not elucidate matters at all. “If you’re not ashamed to be seen with me, let’s go for a meal at Grillon’s. I’ve been riding all day, and I’m devilishly hungry. We can discuss it over dinner.”
“Bad idea. Best go to a pub somewhere you’re not known.” Signaling for a hackney, the marquis climbed aboard and gave the name of The Five Bells in Wimbledon where the duke had never been.
“Since when did the members of White’s read anything but the newspapers?” he asked. “I have not been gone a week! I cannot comprehend that they have all taken to reading novels at the same time during that short period.”
“Business at Oxford with Chessingden. First paragraph. Facts wrong. Went through Mayfair like wildfire. People say you cheat at cards.”
At Chessingden’s name, the duke jerked his head around to stare at Somerset. “Don’t tell me. The author is ‘A Gentlewoman.’”
George turned a haunted face toward him. “Betrayal of worst sort. Damned sorry, old man. Feel it’s my fault. Should never have mentioned her name.”
Ruisdell’s emotions were frozen. He recognized the feeling from the battlefield. Shock. The sort of shock he had endured when a battle left so many of his men dead that he could not even comprehend the depth of the tragedy.
The thought of dinner, especially pub fare, nauseated him.
“So all of the ton bought Chessingden’s version of the incident, as told by my beloved fiancée?”
George nodded.
Blind fury overtook him. “This is the last straw, Somerset. I’ll call him out for this.”
“Only thing you can do.”
“Have any idea where he is?”
“Allesbury’s rout, possibly.”
“Turn this hackney about and take me there. I want to settle this at dawn tomorrow.”
When they arrived at the rout, Ruisdell was relieved to see that it was such a crush that he could sneak in with no one being any the wiser. Lady Marianne noticed him almost immediately. She did not give him the cut direct, but hastened to his side. “I knew that little prude was not the woman for you. Imagine her actually believing you could cheat at cards!”
Remembering his fiancée’s soul-searching dismay the day he had encountered her outside Chessingden’s rooms in Chelsea, he said, “It was Chessingden’s doing. He told her lies about me, trying to turn her against me. It worked. She was so furious, she wrote that book. But she never could have known what the result would be, I’m convinced.”
“Well, I am not!” Marianne said stoutly. “I never would have believed such a thing, no matter who told me. She has as good as thrust a knife into you, but you won’t see it!”
Is that true?
Marianne led him back into a hall, unprotesting, as his mind endeavored to discover the intent of Elise’s actions. When the woman had him in what looked to be the library.
“What are you doing?” he asked, suddenly looking at her for the first time. Her face was alive with desire—lips parted, eyes hot.
“I want you. I want to comfort you.” She led him to the leather couch, pulling at his hands, so that he sat down next to her. She leaned into him, throwing her head back, crying in ecstasy. “Ahhhh. How I’ve missed you. I do not care if you never marry me, Peter. I do not care if you are a cheat, a liar, a murderer. I am yours forever. Just take me. Take me now!”
Her impassioned words finally penetrated his mind. He moved back, as though he had been burned. What am I doing? Standing up, he looked down at her in horror.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “You want her after she has done her best to ruin you? How can you?”
He realized at that moment that Elise Edwards was sewn into his soul. Even in her absence, even after she had caused the ton to turn its back on him, desire for her and her alone had overmastered him in such a way that even Marianne’s magnificent body, freely offered, affected him not at all. The whole idea of taking her was repugnant to him. “I not only want Elise, Marianne, but I love her. I love her body. I love her good heart. I love her mind. I know that she tried to stop this. She even warned me.” He walked to the door. “No, it is Chessingden who is at fault. I am here to find him.”
“You will challenge him?”
“Yes.”
Sadly, she pulled up her bodice. “I see.”
“Farewell, Marianne.”
The encounter had the effect of clearing his thoughts. Elise had betrayed him, it was true. But it was done when she felt he had betrayed her in an even worse way—using memories of Beynon to seduce her for a wager. And Chessingden had played right into her vulnerability with his lies. Well, it was time the man was exposed.
Somerset was waiting for him at the entrance to the ballroom. “Found Chessingden. Card room.”
“Really? How very ironic.”
Taking his gloves out of the outside pocket of his jacket, he followed the marquis to the card room. When he walked in, Hemingford stood at once and pointed to the door. “You’ve got a nerve, Ruisdell. Get the devil out of here!”
“I am no cheat,” he said, as he walked to where the viscount sat. “This is the end of the road for you, Chessingden.” He slapped him across the face with his gloves. “I will meet you at dawn tomorrow on Wimbledon common. You know where your friends can find me.”
The viscount had lost all his color. “You would add murder to your crimes?”
“I should have murdered you when we were up at Oxford, the last time you contrived to set me up as a cheat.”
There was a gasp in the room. He knew that Chessingden was popular with their peers and he was not. But that did not matter. The man must take responsibility for his actions.
When he left the room, he thought to ask Somerset, “If the book is just out, how did everyone come so swiftly to the idea that it was about me? I assume Elise’s identity is safe and that she called me by an alias.”
“Chessingden spread it about. Told everyone who wrote it and who it was about.”
“My poor darling. She will be upset!”
Somerset looked at him keenly. “Standing by her, then?”
“Yes, George.”
“I’m glad. Hope you kill the perishing viscount.”
* * *
When dawn came, the duke and the marquis drove to the chilly common that was enshrouded in mist. This would add to the drama, the duke thought. Chessingden was late. Hopping out of Somerset’s carriage, he took the box containing the dueling pistols from George. They were freshly cleaned and loaded. Returning them, Ruisdell stamped up and down
the clearing, pacing to try to warm himself. Was there anything more chilling and foreboding than a grey dawn mist on a November English morn? If there was, he did not know of it. The damp penetrated even his greatcoat.
He thought of Elise and how she had been used by the viscount and became angry all over again. Seeing her face that morning he had taken her up in Chelsea, he knew that she suspected what might happen. How was she expecting Chessingden to repair the damage? Evidently, the viscount had not only failed her in that respect but had used what she told him to further defame him the instant the book was released. Without him, the identity of the duke in the story and certainly the identity of the author would quite possibly never have been known. Except by himself. And that was what had so upset Elise.
Finally, he heard hooves and the muffled jingling of harnesses. Chessingden’s carriage pulled up, and the swine stepped out with his second, a Whig Ruisdell knew from the House of Lords—Lord Feversham. The duke frowned. When he killed the viscount, he would have to take to his heels. Feversham was so opposed to dueling he had sponsored a bill in the Lords to make it a hanging offense. To the best of Ruisdell’s knowledge nothing had come of the bill, however, but one could never be too careful.
The doctor’s trap followed. Good. Now they could proceed. Somerset huddled with Feversham briefly to attempt reconciliation, but it seemed that Chessingden was every bit as intent on killing him as the duke was on killing him. George returned to him, shrugging. “It’s a go. His funeral.”
During the time since he had arrived, most of the mist had lowered to the ground, swirling eerily about his ankles, and shrouding the sunrise. The trees dripped their moisture. Somerset and Feversham had agreed upon a spot of ground. Grinding his jaw, and never for a moment doubting that he could kill Chessingden, the duke stepped to the fore, removing his gloves.
Feversham spoke. “My lords, you will stand back to back and count off ten paces. Then you will assume firing position. Do not proceed until I declare the word fire.”
Ruisdell stood back to back with his much shorter enemy. At a signal from the seconds, they began counting off paces until they reached ten. The only emotion the duke felt was profound disgust for the worm of a man who had used Elise so.
“Ready?” Feversham called.
The duke and his opponent turned sideways and raised their pistols, sighting each other along their arms. The duke aimed for the viscount’s rib cage, hoping to hit his heart.
“Aim!”
Before the command to fire sounded, a flash, a bang, and a sting in his thigh threw the duke backwards. “Cheat!” he bellowed, struggling to rise. Balancing on one knee, he fired at Chessingden’s back just as he was turning away. “Go to the devil!”
His opponent fell. The two seconds and the doctor ran to his side.
In a matter of moments, Somerset moved back towards Ruisdell faster than he’d ever seen him. “Dead or dying. Blood coming out of his mouth. Hit his lung. How bad are you, Ruisdell?”
“Well enough. I’m hit in the thigh. Let’s go. I don’t trust Feversham.”
“Came prepared.” George began pulling linen strips out of his pockets. “Surgeon’s taken up with Chessingden.” Somerset fashioned a tourniquet and tied it tightly above the wound. Then he made a pad and pressed it firmly over the wound, binding it securely with another strip. “Throw your arm around my shoulders. I’ll get you to the carriage. Have a doctor waiting at my house.”
“We’ve got to hurry out of London as quick as may be. The Great North Road.”
“In time,” Somerset soothed him. “Got to get the ball out. Fever.”
George sprang his horses.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE HEARS GRAVE NEWS
Elise had effected her move into the duchess’s apartments, trying to keep herself busy while the duke was gone. Expecting to find them well appointed, she was surprised to discover them dingy and dreary. The bedroom, sitting room, and dressing room had dark, wood-panelled walls. The furniture was dark mahogany in some ancient style from before Queen Anne. Everything seemed heavy and foreboding. With her fanciful writer’s mind, she almost could fathom her aunt-in-law-to-be hiding in the giant wardrobe, watching her through the key hole.
The first thing she and Kitty did was to pull down the dull red bed hangings, coughing at the dust. “Burn these,” she instructed her maid. “They are probably full of germs. And let us get rid of the bed linens as long as we’re at it.” Wishing she had asked the duke to bring sample fabric books from London, she tried to reconcile herself to the situation. Fortunately, she had brought her own newly monogramed linens and pillows (at the duke’s suggestion). When she left the depressing rooms for luncheon, the chambermaid was making up the bed.
Her spirits took a further dip at the luncheon table where Eunice and Alice conversed solely with one another, as though Elise’s little group were not in the room. Her aunt and Sukey prodded her into conversation. “The duke’s chef is certainly an improvement over his predecessor. This cassoulet is quite excellent,” Sukey said.
“How are your rooms?” Elise asked.
Her aunt had a martial look in her eye. “I hope you will let me help you refurbish this place, my dear. My fingers are itching to have at it. I’m making a list.”
“What a good idea! Let’s do a self-guided tour and take notes of our impressions. The duke and I are going to the Continent for our honeymoon, and we plan to purchase all manner of things—tapestries, carpets, paintings, fabric.”
“Well, then,” Lady Clarice said, “we need to come up with a theme for your redecoration and then do a palette. I brought my watercolors.”
In this way, Elise occupied herself for the next three days, at which time she began to look for the duke’s return. It was impossible even to imagine what it would be like to be a married woman so near a time in the future. She’d never gotten this close to actually being a wife.
At night, she lay in bed under her goosedown quilt with several hot water bottles warming her feet and legs. Soon the duke would share this bed. The very thought made her blush from head to toe. She could not help but think about Lady Marianne and her vast bosom. Would the duke be disappointed in her less lavish charms?
Then she recalled his arousing kisses. She did not doubt that she would go up like straw to his flame.
The duke’s aunt plagued Sukey to take her to Chatsworth house, so that dear friend complied on the fourth day, getting Lady Eunice and Lady Roger and their disapproval out of Elise’s life for a day.
What would it be like to be mistress of this place? The duke had not yet broken it to his brother that his family was to be cast out. The only sight she had of Roger was at dinner. She had no idea what he did with his days.
While Lady Roger was at Chatsworth, Elise decided to visit the east wing to see the condition of that part of the palace. It was like entering a different building. The entire wing was painted a soft yellow with white cornices. The upholstery was gaily flowered chintz in the more informal rooms and watered apricot silk in the drawing room. The nursery was at the end of the wing, and she surprised the six year-old twins at a game of blind man’s buff.
Her heart melted at the sight of the two blond little boys with ringlets all over their heads. Their little round faces, soft brown eyes, and rosy lips gave her an idea of what her future husband must have looked like as a child.
“Hullo! Who are you?” said the one without the blindfold.
“I’m to be your new aunt,” Elise answered. “My name is Elise. I’m marrying your Uncle Peter in a few days. What’s your name?”
“I’m David.” Then to his twin. “C’mon, silly, take the handkerchief off and meet the pretty lady.”
“I’m Charles,” the other twin said.
“Have you ever seen a tortoise?” Elise asked.
They spent a delightful half hour together with Henry Five. Elise had not ever thought about actually having children, but the little boys recommended
the idea to her most emphatically. They were pure joy, at this age anyway. She would be sorry to have them move out of the palace.
The sixth day brought no duke with it, and it was at this point that Elise began to worry. What could have happened? Had Jupiter gone lame? A horrible possibility occurred to her, one that she wished she had thought of before. Her book. It should be on the shelves now. Had some freak coincidence brought it to his attention? Had he read the very first paragraph and become so incensed that he wanted nothing more to do with her? Was he going to renounce her? Had he turned to Lady Marianne for comfort?
As her imaginations raced through these possibilities, she wilted. Looking at the palette and list she and her aunt had made, she pushed it into the desk drawer of her sitting room. Her fertile imagination had the duke, completely foxed, losing himself in the charms of his former mistress when she finally heard the muffled clop of hooves on the gravel of the circular drive. Running to a front facing window, she saw a plain black coach. Had he come back by coach? Trepidation overtook her. Was he ill? Injured?
Emerging from the carriage were two men in red waistcoats, wearing matching pork pie hats. She recognized at once that they were dressed like the Bow Street Runners who had guarded her house from Robert. What were they doing here? Her heart pounded with a new kind of anxiety. The only possibility that occurred to her was that they were looking for the duke. Bow Street could have no acquaintance with anyone in this house except her.
Seemingly from out of nowhere, Roger appeared, going to meet the Runners. Had he sent for them for some reason? The three men entered the house. Not ten minutes later there was a knock on the door of her suite. Inhaling deeply, Elise opened the door to a footman.
“My lady, you are wanted in the hall downstairs.”
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