The Art of Duke Hunting

by Sophia Nash

  The only problem was that it was not doing the job. No matter how much he consumed, he remained stone cold sober. He was methodical in his efforts. He could not drink too quickly as he would become ill. He could not drink too slowly for then there would be no effect. And he could not offer a drop to Jem to act as a drinking companion for then he would not be able to carry through with the rest of the damn plans.

  “Yer Majesty,” the young man said with deference befitting a crowned head of Europe. “Does you wants me to open the wine?”

  “Perhaps that will finish me off. Have at it, Jem.” He watched with amusement as the boy attacked the cork with vigor. But his gut clenched as he felt the pitch and sway of the ship as they departed the harbor.

  For the third time in an hour a knock sounded at the door. A muffled female voice seeped into the room. “Montagu. I would have a word with you.” Silence. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re in there. And I know what you’re doing. Let me in.” More silence. He was sure he heard an exasperated sigh. “You owe me, remember?”

  Of course she would throw that in.

  “I have the key and I’m not afraid to use it,” she finally said, her voice very clear.

  “Lean against the door,” Roman whispered and pointed to the threshold. The first threads of silken oblivion were finally taking hold.

  “But—” Jem began.

  “Do it,” Roman insisted.

  The young deckhand shook his head and mumbled something but did as he was bid.

  The sound of a key being inserted in the lock was quite clear. Jem leaned against the door and rolled his eyes.

  A moment later Jem was flat on his bottom, the door open. “I tried to tell yew, Yer Majesty. Them doors here open outwards.”

  “I don’t think you told me that precisely Jem. But that’s all right. Never been able to keep a lady away when she had her heart set on finding me.” He slurred the last two words. “Well, now that you’re here, my dear, make yourself useful, will you? Would you like to go on as we did before or would you prefer to uncork the wine?”

  “Jem,” she directed to the young man, “you may take your leave. I’ll call you if we need you.”

  “Well, I like that, undermining my authority with the shervants now, are you?” he said it with as much dignity as a man about to pass out could muster.

  Jem knew when he was outgunned. He did the right thing by tucking his tail between his legs and getting the hell out of the way. “I’ll be right outside the door, Yer Majesty.” He backed out of the cabin, in the manner of a commoner taking his leave of his sovereign.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said quietly as she turned to lock the door and slid the key into her half boot.

  “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, pleased he did not slur. “A goddamned platitude?”

  “At least it’s far more polite than you can manage in this state.”

  “And you don’t even possessesss (why were there so many bloody esses in that word?) the, the originality to hide the key in a different place than the last time, do you?”

  “You want originality?” She said it so softly it masked the anger in her voice. “I’ll show you bloody originality if you don’t apologize.”

  “For what?” His head was spinning as he ground out the words.

  “For suggesting I would ever offer to you again what I was kind enough to share with you once.”

  He would have apologized. Really he would have. It was just that the entire bottle of whiskey chose at that precise moment to alter the delicate alchemy of his brainbox and he passed out cold on the bunk beside him.

  Chapter 6

  Esme wondered under which star she had been born to anoint her the Patron Saint of All Drunkards. At least this time, she did not have to talk, or cajole, or even comfort.

  In this tiny cabin on some ship the name of which she was not even certain, there would be no repeat performance of the events on The Drake. The Duke of Norwich was so deep in his cups that his lips were resting on the bottom of the glass, or bunk as it were. She sat beside his prone form.

  Well, after this voyage, she would never see him again. It was a promise she made to herself here and now. She forced away all her old romantic dreams she had formed the first time she had seen him in that ballroom all those years ago. No man would haunt her dreams ever again. Her only passion would be her art.

  The voyage wasn’t long. And so she sat watching him the entire journey, after she had dismissed Jem from his post with the promise that she would not breathe a word to His Grace.

  When they docked, she watched Jem put him in a common hack carriage and give directions to his famed townhouse.

  Esme turned from the sight and allowed one of the ship’s officers to hail another hack for her. She was going to the lovely Derby townhouse in a less prominent address in Mayfair. Oh, it was still very fashionable, but it was not Number 1, Wyndam Square. The new earl was a kindly relation who always welcomed her and, indeed, had invited her to reside at any of his estates at any time she wished. Peter March was of the mind that dowager cottages were frightful things and he would brook every argument on her side to remove from Derby residences to live with her mother, the Dowager Countess of Gilchrist. And so Esme had chosen to reside on Derby property. There was the added benefit that her mother often came to stay for long visits.

  When Esme laid her head on a pillow at Derby Hall after a surprised yet delighted greeting by the new earl that night, a list formed in her head of all the things she had to accomplish on the morrow to resume as soon as possible her trip to see the vast, marbled art museums in Prague and Vienna. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have guessed that she would wake only a few short hours later to meet her future husband.

  It began with a discreet royal summons. An anomaly if ever there was one. A royal summons was usually accomplished with much fanfare. Not that she knew much about royal summonses, but she could imagine them. Peter March, dressed in proper nightclothes since it was three o’clock in the morning when they were awakened, was vastly impressed, though left stuttering by the request that she should wait on the Prince Regent that instant. He wanted to accompany her, but the summons clearly stated that she was to come alone. Reassuring Peter with a promise to return or send a note, she took her leave, with haste.

  Bewigged coachmen in light blue satin livery nearly threw down a roll of carpeting as they escorted her into the gold dipped carriage fit for a queen. Indeed, it looked very much like the Queen’s favorite barouche, if Esme was to hazard a guess.

  The only problem was that Esme looked nothing like a queen. She feared she looked very much like a dairymaid. The Prince Regent’s messenger had insisted they depart without a minute to spare. Esme had been roused from her bed, her hair in rolling rags no less, with nothing more than a thin, pale lavender robe covering her fine lawn nightclothes. There was nary a scrap of lace or ruffle in sight. Not even Betsy, her very young maid, was allowed to accompany her wherever they were taking her.

  Within a quarter hour they drew into the mews of Carleton House, and Esme’s spirits sank. She supposed she had known the minute she had seen the coat of arms on the side of the carriage what might be the cause of Prinny’s demand.

  A dozen servants hurried her through the vast, elegant tunnels to His Majesty’s chambers; their footsteps echoed off the walls, magnificently decorated with portraits of eight hundred years of royalty.

  She was pushed over the threshold of the royal chambers and a light click proved a lock had been engaged behind her. There were three people there—and only two did she know.

  Roman inhaled sharply when he saw her and stepped back. A man dressed in the ways of the church stayed rooted to his spot but gazed skyward as if asking for a miracle.

  She could have told him it was a useless cause. She had been praying for various miracles for nearly two decades without a single response. First she had prayed that beauty would creep up on her in her second decade. In
her next decade she prayed that she possessed the sort of raw talent necessary to succeed at the highest levels of her craft. In her—

  “Good evening, Lady Derby,” the Prince Regent said, his fat hands beckoning her forward.

  “Sire,” she said, curtsying deeply. “Please excuse my appearance. I was told there was not a moment to lose and that it did not matter how I was garbed. I would never—”

  “Never mind that, my dear,” Prinny said. “I will see to it that you are gowned befitting your station shortly. Now then, please do stand next to your good friend Norwich, will you?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” She walked to Roman and nodded to him under her lashes.

  He appeared dead on his feet, but he did not sway.

  “Hello, again,” he said simply.

  “Hello, to you, too.”

  The prince clapped his hands. “You see, I knew it. You both will do very well together I am certain. You even speak to each other like an old married couple. You are to be—”

  Esme’s mind stuttered. Yes, her mind. And she did the unpardonable. She interrupted the ruler of Christendom. “I beg your pardon? Did Your Majesty just suggest we will do well together? In what fashion could you mean, sire?”

  The prince gestured wildly with his hands, but said not a word. Roman spoke clearly. “You heard correctly. He means to marry us off.” He paused. “To each other.”

  A chill down her spine chased away the heat from her nerves. “What?” She whispered much louder than she had meant to do. People did not interrupt the Prince Regent nor did they exclude him from the conversation. “I-I don’t understand.” She was dreaming. Having a nightmare.

  “You understood, March.” Roman scratched the back of his head restlessly. “It’s that bloody Mr. King’s doing. He came to His Majesty straightaway yesterday with a host of half-cooked suggestions and innuendos.”

  Prinny cleared his throat. “Are you two finished? Did not your parents teach you it is unforgivable to interrupt your sovereign and then continue the conversation in a manner that speaks of indifference to my being right before you?” The older man’s wig slipped and a half-shaved head was revealed.

  Esme bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

  “Now, then. You are to be married in an hour’s time.”

  She bit her tongue harder so she would not start to cry.

  The prince’s voice turned sour. “And I’m certain that vulgar little columnist, whoever he may be—and I fear it’s a very rude woman, I do—will eventually report your marriage with great pride, which will be a balm for our nation. Of course I will choose the best moment to impart the news as we are all of us balancing—balancing, I tell you—on a very, very high bundle of twigs which could collapse at any time given the gravity of the moment.”

  Esme didn’t bother to try to dissuade the Prince Regent from his silly ideas. She knew when a man was at his maximum limit, unable to see anything clearly. She knew the best course was to say not a word.

  “Your Highness,” Roman said rubbing his forehead with one hand. “This is impossible. I am certainly not the man for Lady Derby. And she does not want to marry me.”

  “And what does it matter what anyone wants these days? Do you think I want rotten potatoes thrown at my head every single morning? Do you think I want talk of revolution spreading through the country like a wildfire on a summer afternoon? You are to be married, I say. Right this blooming moment, sod it all.”

  Esme’s heart was pounding so hard she could swear she could see it beating on her breastbone. She looked up to see the prince staring at her.

  “Have you nothing to say about this, Countess?”

  “May I be so bold as to ask if there is any other possible recourse? May I ask what happened precisely?” She tried to remain cool despite the fact that it was the first time she had spoken directly to the future king.

  “Of course, my dear. Our dear Mr. King fancies himself the keeper of the moral code in Christendom. And . . .” He studied her with hooded eyes.

  “And?” she urged.

  Roman took over the topic. “And Mr. King will tell the world that we had a liaison and that he saw us touching hands and worse on that bridge on Wight.”

  “But we did nothing scandalous there. What did he suggest exactly?”

  “He said we were carrying on in an infamous fashion, as he put it—despite His Majesty’s threats and . . .” He looked at his sovereign.

  “Oh, might as well tell her. Even my bribes these heat-riddled days appear to be far less enticing than in the past. When one is out of favor with the populous, one is truly out of favor. And that idiot of a man is poised to tell everyone and their dog about your, ahem, affair. Not that I would dream to suggest that either of you engaged in—in . . .” The prince looked at first one then the other of them.

  Esme prayed that her face would not give her away. She tried to imagine herself as stone. The prince leaned forward and peered closer.

  She blinked.

  “Well.” The Prince Regent shook his head slowly. “That is certainly a letdown. So you must look at it this way, my dear—while your last husband’s reputation was in shreds by the time he died, yours is unblemished. In fact I am not sure I have ever heard of you before now, if you will forgive me for saying.”

  Would anyone ever remember her except for Mr. King?

  “You will both make a splendid match. The people of London will rejoice on the day I impart the good news. And I, for one, could not be more delighted. The thing of it is this. While Mr. King has promised not to say a word, I am willing to wager he will be able to glue his fleshy lips together for only so long. Maybe six weeks at the utmost?”

  “How ridiculous,” she muttered. “Please . . . please help me. I was planning on departing the country for at least a year in any case. This really isn’t necessary. If you do not want me to depart, Your Majesty, I could instead take a carriage to my former residence, the Earl of Derby’s manor in Derbyshire. I could remain there for a decade. Or two. And what should I care for what is said of me in London? But, surely there is no need to—”

  “Oh surely there is, my dear,” the prince repeated. “Now you, Lady Derby, are to follow Madame Cooper, a delightful émigré, who is waiting for you right outside these chambers. She will see to you and dress you properly. You shall adore her, I assure you.”

  “Pardon me?” She could not understand what the prince was saying.

  Roman cut in. “He wants us to be married by the bishop”—he nodded to the thin man standing slightly behind him—“within the hour.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Oh you can and you will, my dear,” the Prince Regent interrupted in a mollifying tone. “Indeed, I command it. Think of it this way. You will be doing me a favor. And I reward those who do me favors. And there is also the fact that you, ahem, made your own bed.”

  She pinned Montagu with a glare, which he returned balefully.

  She could not think of a single argument. But she could run. Yes. She would smile, agree to anything and everything and then she would run. All the way to Prague and Vienna if needed. She was not the sort to be told what to do.

  She curtsied without a word and backed out of her sovereign’s chambers. Unfortunately, there were so many royal footmen lining the hallways she had not one chance for escape.

  “I do not like to be kept waiting, Lady Derby,” the prince called out to her. “I expect you to return within a half hour’s time.”

  Esme choked on a retort. And she dragged her heels every moment to avoid the inevitable. The lady’s maid assigned to her had other ideas. In an astonishingly short period of time Esme was stuffed, trussed, and plucked. She rubbed a spot between her eyes. “Why are you doing that?”

  “It is attractive to have fewer hairs between your eyebrows, my lady,” Jacqueline Cooper insisted.

  “I don’t care if there is a jungle growing between my brows. Stop that.”

  The royal lady’s ma
id ignored her and kept plucking. And that was the least painful part of the skilled torturer’s plans to transform her in twenty-odd minutes. The lady was ruthless. She tore out the rags in her locks and brushed her hair until it crackled. The maid said two or three little French curses while she curled Esme’s light brown hair into a style that added twice as much volume as Esme had ever seen on her head. Her hair was actually the only feature she had that she liked. It now looked . . . quite beautiful.

  Esme was so stunned at the vision staring back at her in the looking glass that she couldn’t find the words to stop the woman from applying rouge to her cheeks and lips followed by some sort of charcoal to her lashes.

  My God.

  She looked like a tart.

  Well, perhaps not exactly like a tart. Maybe more like a well-preserved pie. She giggled once. It was the absurdity of the entire hellish nightmare. Here she was at a quarter to four o’clock in the morning at Carleton House preparing to wed one of the most famous dukes in England.

  It was going to be a disaster. And all her dreams of travel? Of painting in cities all across Europe? Of following through with all the plans arranged during the last year? Well . . .

  As the maid corseted her with a force that rivaled a prizefighter, Esme remembered one thing. Important ton unions were very unlike the marriage she had had. They were like two countries forming an alliance but with distinct and separate borders, and completely independent of one another. Who said she could not follow through with her original ideas?

  She would just have a word or two with Mon—

  After an insistent knock, two footman appeared and in their impatience, nearly dragged her back to Prinny’s chambers. When she re-entered, the future monarch was snoring on his throne. All the servants removed.