Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  The duchess replied, “That is the question of the Renaissance, is it not? How did it happen? How did Michelangelo learn to sculpt the David?”

  “That is what I wonder. There is something divine about it, do you not think so? I love Florence and the Renaissance because it makes me stretch. It makes me believe that anything is possible.”

  “You are an artist, perhaps?” Jack inquired.

  “I try,” she said. “My dream is to live in Italy and study painting.”

  “And what do you plan to do with your husband and children?”

  “Oh, I believe that the man I marry, and my dear children, will all see it as a grand adventure!”

  “Of course,” he said.

  The duchess chuckled. “Can it be that you have discovered today that there is more to life than sport? My goodness, Jack. There is hope for you.”

  * * *

  During a fine luncheon at Grillon’s Hotel, he watched Lady Kate, intrigued. She gave off waves of excitement as she talked to the duchess about Florence and art. Could there ever be room in her life for him? She was oddly self-sufficient for such a young person. Yet, Caro had told him that she must marry in order to receive any of her fortune. How that must chafe!

  In that moment, she turned to him, her eyes still sparking with the fire of enthusiasm. He asked, “Can a mere man ever hope to inspire such excitement in you?”

  Tipping her head to one side, she reverted to the minx she was. “That, my lord marquis, completely depends upon the man. Does it not?”

  “I take that as a challenge.”

  “Bravo!” said the duchess.

  * * *

  By the time Jack returned to his townhouse that afternoon, he had reserved the first waltz that evening with Lady Kate and felt that after an initial hitch, his courtship was proceeding swimmingly. The challenge to inspire the lady’s passion was a serious one. While he contemplated her goddess-like form over a glass of whiskey, he felt a heady desire that went far beyond what he felt for his mistresses in the demimonde. Then his butler handed him a note.

  With a sigh, he recognized the handwriting as that of Jerome: Another drop planned for the night of the 16th. J.M.

  Confusion reigned in his breast. He had vowed that this time Walsingham would not give him the slip. He would capture him as he received his payment and imparted any further secrets to his middleman among the smugglers. But could he attend the ball tonight? He dare not stand up Lady Kate for a second time. It was the fifteenth today. He could not accomplish the ride to Devon in a single day. And he had no idea when Walsingham would appear. Confound it!

  Perhaps what he should do was appear at the ball, perform the waltz with Lady Kate, and leave immediately afterwards, riding through the night. She was worth it.

  Supping alone before the fire in his library, he thought further about the woman he was trying to win. The need to keep his other life confidential prevented him from demonstrating that his life as a careless Corinthian was a cover for his more passionate career as an agent for the Home Office.

  He could, he had realized after today, most likely learn to appreciate her world. But could she appreciate his? How could he expect a woman like Lady Kate to fall in love with a man who appeared totally devoted to the sporting life?

  At least he did not have the constitution to be a gambler or a dandy, obsessed with cards or dress. But he needed action the way Lady Kate needed art. Could they lead a life satisfying to them both? That was a question that truly deserved his attention.

  Passion was the wild card here. He knew instinctively that Lady Kate was no shy miss. She was not afraid of her emotions. However, he did not know if she was as drawn to him as he was to her. Perhaps he could have a little test tonight? He seriously did not believe he could hold her in his arms during the waltz and not attempt to kiss those inviting lips later on the terrace. His entire being warmed at the prospect. Lady Kate would begin her lessons in passion tonight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN WHICH LADY KATE MAKES UP HER MIND

  When the party returned to Blossom House and after Kate and the duchess bade their au revoirs to the marquis, they adjourned upstairs to the pink saloon, where they found Aunt Clarice working a needlepoint design.

  “Oh, Aunt, show it to me! You are such an angel!” Elise said.

  “This one is almost completed,” Lady Clarice said, holding up an intricate design of yellow roses tipped with crimson.

  Kate exclaimed, “Aunt you are an artiste! That is gorgeous. You must teach me.”

  “It is meant for the dining room chairs at Ruisdell Palace,” Elise told her.

  “How was your visit to the National Gallery?” Lady Clarice asked, resuming her needlepoint.

  “I was never so surprised in all my life,” the duchess said. “Jack must be totally smitten. I cannot otherwise account for his sudden and apparently very real interest in Renaissance art!”

  “You think he was really as interested as he seemed?” Kate asked.

  Elise turned to her. “Oh, yes! One of the really lovely things about Jack is that he has such an honest and open countenance. More to the point, he could not have spoken so intelligently about that painting had he not cared about it. Do you not think so?”

  “I confess, I was a bit surprised at his enthusiasm,” Kate said.

  “It was not simulated, I assure you,” Elise said. “I know Jack well. He and Peter are fast friends.”

  “Oh, splendid,” Kate said. “Do tell me a bit about him. The fact that the duke thinks well of him is promising.”

  “Do not let his pose as a Corinthian put you off. We tease him about it, but the fact is, he is actually very solid in other areas. I do not know if Aunt Clarice has mentioned it, but I began a soup kitchen for wounded soldiers in the East End. Jack is a devout patron.” Pausing, she gave Kate an almost conspiratorial smile. “Believe it or not, he rides over there most afternoons to talk with the soldiers. Before our marriage, he pledged to help the duke find work for the men. I think he has continued the project on his own. Many of the soldiers are amputees. Jack is very good with them. Very compassionate.”

  “How wonderful,” Kate said. “Those facts begin to give me a different picture of him than I had before. Tell me, do you know anything about his ox in the mire?”

  “What?”

  “Caro suspects him of having a secret life. She has known him forever.” Kate explained about the note she had received, cancelling their riding date.

  “How very odd! No. I am afraid I have no notion to what he may have been referring.”

  Kate’s aunt chuckled, “I find a little mystery always adds spice to a relationship.”

  “Oh, Aunt,” Elise said. “I cannot believe Uncle Stephen ever had a secret from you! You would have winkled it out of him in no time!”

  Queen Elizabeth, Aunt Clarice’s Siamese cat, yowled her agreement. They all laughed, and then the duchess declared that she needed to get home for tea with the duke.

  When she left, Aunt Clarice said, “Dear, I am a little worried about you and Caro. Have you had a spat?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that I cannot trust her to keep what I tell her private. She told the marquis all about my father’s will. Who knows how many others she has told?”

  Her aunt put her head on one side, raising her eyes from her work. “I can see where that would be disturbing. I know from Sukey that Caro is very anxious that you and Northbrooke make a match of it. How do you feel about the matter, if you do not mind sharing your feelings?”

  “I am not certain feelings really come into it. Until seeing that painting together today, I had come to think of his pursuit of me as rather a cold-blooded sort of thing. But perhaps there more are sides to him I have not seen. I admit he is more complex than I thought him in the beginning.”

  “Do you think you could love him, my dear? I long to see you happy.”

  “Please do not discuss this with Lady Susannah or Caro, Aunt, but I look only for a mar
riage of convenience as soon as may be.” She confided her urgent concerns about Joey. “I must make a home for him. Do you understand?”

  “I do, but Kate, dear, marriage is serious business. You must not rush into it merely for Joey’s sake. Would that be fair to your husband?”

  “I think the marquis is in a similar situation to mine. I truly believe that he looks for a marriage of convenience himself, so that he may secure his fortune.”

  “All throughout my aria, to keep from being overwhelmed by the idea that I was actually performing, I watched him watch you, Kate. I think you wrong him. I think him in a fair way to loving you, if he does not already.”

  Kate wondered if she should confess that she was already in love. That she never expected to find anyone who could match Francesco.

  Watching her phrasing, she said, “I do not think I could love an Englishman. They are far too phlegmatic. They do not properly understand passion. If my inheritance had not been left as it was, I would be living in Italy now, married to an Italian.”

  Lady Clarice drew herself up and looked more stern than Kate had ever seen her. “An Italian!” She sniffed. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I am afraid your father spoiled you dreadfully. It is my belief that you have set your heart on Italy and have made up your mind not to be pleased.”

  Kate stood up angrily, eyes stinging with tears. “What you say of me is beastly and unfair!”

  “Well, it pains me, as well. It would do you good to work in Elise’s soup kitchen so you could see Englishmen who have given all but their lives for this country you think so stultifying.”

  Overwhelmed by this unlooked-for criticism, she could not formulate words. Kate made her way out of the saloon and slammed the door in a most unladylike manner. Caro was coming up the stairs.

  “Whatever is the matter, Kate?”

  The sympathetic query was all that was needed for Kate’s tears of frustration to overflow. She ran up the stairs to her bedroom and closed and locked the door.

  Sitting at her little desk, she took out Joey’s letter and read it once more.

  Dear Kate:

  Things here at Eton are very different from home. I miss you and I miss my horse. I even miss my tutor. I hope that you will write me soon.

  I am doing well in my subjects, I think, but the boys here do not care much for learning. For them it is all sport and high jinks.

  Love,

  Joey

  For the first time, Kate noticed that his hand had not been steady when he had written the words. Either he had been injured, or in the grip of some strong emotion. How she longed to see him! Surely the poor boy is miserable. Anxiety and grief consumed her heart.

  Why did her father have to die and leave her and Joey at the mercy of people like Freddie and Aunt Clarice, who did not understand them? Papa would never have spoken to her as her aunt had.

  She was to waltz with the marquis tonight. She was unused to hiding her feelings. How could she ever disguise this agitation? It went so deep and was so tangled up with those she loved most—Joey, Papa, and, of course, Francesco, whom she knew she really must forget in time. But not before she was ready. His last letter had hinted at the possibility of coming to England. Not knowing Papa was dead, he had planned to make another appeal to him for her hand. But the Horrible Will had made his plan futile. She had written to tell him so. But one did not overcome a grande passion so quickly.

  Papa had forbidden a marriage to Francesco, but her father had understood her art and her love of Italy. He had shared it. She suspected that he was even in love with Francesco’s mother, the dowager countess Irena. It was only the religion problem that had kept him from declaring himself.

  But he had not. At heart, Papa was an Englishman first. And he expected her to marry an Englishman.

  Gradually, she came back into possession of herself. She had not been lying when she told the marquis that if her father were young and alive today, he would have wanted to be a Corinthian. He would have liked Northbrooke. Especially the Northbrooke she had glimpsed today, intrigued as he was by Botticelli’s masterpiece.

  Nevertheless, Kate felt as though there remained a gulf between them. She would not, after all, be very good at a marriage of convenience. She could not imagine living with someone as different from herself as the marquis. So much of the life she lived was internal, and he seemed to be concerned with externals. Could he ever really understand her? More importantly, could she ever learn to understand what was important to him? What made him get out of bed every morning?

  Were it not for Joey, she would forego her inheritance, as Francesco had urged her to do. He had pledged himself to come for her and take her safely back to Italy. He was a wealthy man. She had no need of her money.

  But, now with this letter from Joey, it was more important than ever that she marry. At this juncture, she had only two choices: the Marquis of Northbrooke or the Earl of Walsingham. The latter repulsed her, so she must square her shoulders and take the only other option. Force herself to do something she found difficult. Northbrooke needed a wife. She needed a husband. She would learn to understand him. Or perhaps, and this was the future she preferred, he would maintain his life in London and allow her to live on his Wiltshire estate with Joey and her painting. She would be content.

  Tonight, she would propose a marriage of convenience. Surely it would be best to spare themselves the awkwardness of a courtship when they both knew what they were about.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN WHICH OUR HERO IS ASTONISHED

  There she is! Jack had to admit that Lady Kate fairly took his breath away. In her simple gown of cream-colored silk, studded with what appeared to be tiny gold sequins, she shimmered across the room, evidently returning to her aunt after a dance with the skinny, red-haired dolt at her side. He approached after her partner had left.

  “Good evening, my lady. You have written me in for the waltz, I trust?”

  “Oh, yes.” She studied her dance card. “You are in time. It is to be the next dance.”

  It had taken longer than he expected to make the arrangements for his foray into Devonshire. When he learned of Jack’s proposed trip, the Home Secretary had sent for him to call at his home that evening. Upon his arrival, they had shared a whiskey while the man informed Jack that Walsingham did indeed have contacts in the War Office. More disturbingly, these contacts had weighty debts to him at cards, debts which they could not hope to repay. The two men concerned had confessed to passing along what they had thought as harmless details, but had since lost their positions and were under house arrest for treason, awaiting trial in the House of Lords. Each man’s information had fit into the other’s, piecing together the puzzle that resulted in a larger picture. It must not get into French hands. The men’s arrest, although kept quiet, rendered this the last chance to entrap Walsingham. Jack must retrieve the information the traitor was attempting to pass on, and he must place Walsingham under arrest for treason. Jack carried the warrant in a packet next to his skin.

  It was a weighty assignment, and he almost decided that a waltz with Lady Kate was a pleasure he should forego. He had, however, had a taste of her temper. It warned him that this may be his last chance of fixing his interest with the woman he intended to make his own. Thanks be to Providence that he had not been so late that he had missed his opportunity.

  Leading Lady Kate out onto the floor, he smelled her sweet jasmine scent. Just putting his arm about her slender waist was an intimate act. He looked into her eyes, surprised to find them a bit red-rimmed. “Are you quite well, Lady Kate?”

  “Why do you ask?” She was sober-faced.

  “You do not seem to be in your usual high spirits.”

  “One cannot be in high spirits all the time, my lord.”

  Evasive. What had gone wrong in her young life? Confound it! He wanted her to enjoy this waltz.

  “I have been looking forward to this dance all afternoon. It is the first time I have held you in my arms.
I have longed to do so since we first met.”

  “You do not need to make pretty speeches to me, Lord Northbrooke. I know you are on the lookout for a wife.”

  Drat Caro!

  “If you knew me better, you would know that I never say what I do not mean. I speak from my heart.”

  She rested her eyes on the stick pin in his cravat. “I would like to ask you something, my lord. Following this dance, could we take a stroll on the terrace?”

  “That accords beautifully with my desires, Lady Kate.”

  What had happened between their lovely museum interlude and this evening? All her beautiful energy had dissipated. He was alarmed at what appeared to be her almost stoic determination.

  “Did you enjoy meeting the duchess? She is an extraordinary woman. I am very fond of her and her duke.”

  “Yes. She told me of your involvement with her soup kitchen and the soldiers. I find that very commendable, my lord.”

  “Why are we being so formal? I have the idea that you are holding me at a distance this evening.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Perhaps it is time that you called me Kate. I do not like to stand on ceremony with those of whom I am fond.”

  Her words did not at all suit her demeanor. “Are you really? Fond of me, I mean? You act rather as though you were considering a venture into some sort of distasteful business with me, Kate.”

  She merely smiled, and he saw a bit of his minx return.

  “You are contemplating something of moment. What is it, I wonder?”

  “Something that will be to your advantage, I pray.”

  “That piques my interest strangely, Kate. I do like your name.”

  “Are you fond of Shakespeare?”

  “Not overly.”