The King's Doll

by Elizabeth Chater

  “You think that a sudden and mysterious disappearance from the ball will cause no gossip?” prodded the Duke—unfairly, the girl thought, since it was his cavalier snatching of Bertram's handkerchief which had created the problem. This she tried to tell him, but he meanly refused to understand, saying he could not make out her words through the cloth. He did, however, lead her back to a side door of the mansion, from which unobserved vantage they were able to make their way up to the Duke's private suite.

  Once safely behind closed doors, Daral rang for his valet and shared the problem. With a discreet glance at the stained corsage, the valet suggested an array of flowers.

  “It would take a large bouquet to cover those spots,” gloomed Tiri, now quite despondent at the tragedy. “I should feel and look a fool presenting myself to the company with a flower garden on my bodice!"

  “A shawl? Lace?” inquired Tippen hopefully. “You have such? For a lady, I mean,” demanded the girl.

  “Alas, no,” mourned Tippen.

  “Then what use to suggest them?” asked Tiri, with some justice.

  An interruption occurred at this instant as the Duke discovered that his own white satin waistcoat had also received several large dark red spots. “Get me a fresh waistcoat,” he instructed Tippen, beginning to slip out of his coat and the offending garment. “Too bad we can't deck you out in some of my clothes,” he grinned, with what Tiri felt was cruel levity.

  Desperately wishing that her clever maman were present, Tiri asked her host if he thought he could get the Countess up to his rooms without rousing too much hubbub and public attention. He agreed to try as soon as he had donned a fresh waistcoat.

  This was accomplished almost immediately, and the Duke was just being helped into his coat again when the door flew open and Lady Letitia burst into the room.

  The look of satisfaction upon Lady Letitia's face struck fear into Tiri's heart. “So! You would insist upon foisting this adventuress upon the Ton—and now we see what comes of it! What are you doing, Daral, undressed in your bedroom? Or do I need to ask?"

  In a faintly weary tone, the Duke told the story briefly. “So it is your precious cousin Bertram, with his usual lack of finesse, who is responsible for ruining Mademoiselle de Granville's gown and my waistcoat. Now if you will remain here to chaperone our guest, I will seek out the Countess,” he concluded.

  “What can she do?” snapped the Duchess. “Unless you mean to spirit the two of them out of the house?"

  “I hope her clever fingers can arrange some drapery or device which will conceal Bertram's clumsiness and permit Mademoiselle de Granville to return to the ball,” said the Duke sternly. “Await me here!"

  Since she had never heard quite that iron note in her son's voice before, the Duchess was reluctant to disobey. She spent her time asking probing and incredulous questions about the incident in the garden, until Tiri was ready to shout at her. Before such a crisis was reached, fortunately, the door opened again to admit the Duke and a worried-looking Dani. Her gaze flew to the slender girl standing by the great fourposter. In a swift dart, she was there and had the girl in her arms.

  "Ma pauvre petite! Ma chérie!" she murmured, patting Tiri's shoulder gently.

  It was apparent that the Duke had informed her of the crisis upon the way upstairs. She surveyed the stains upon Tiri's bodice carefully. “Two ideas,” she murmured. “One: We might merely escort Tiri back to the ball and explain that she has had a nosebleed. But since this is a simple, direct, and truthful explanation, nobody will believe it. Second: We can find something to drape over the spots.” She glanced around her inquiringly.

  The Duchess drew herself up forbiddingly. “I cannot permit you to vandalize my costume for such a purpose,” she began.

  "Mon Dieu, non!" agreed Dani, with a repulsive look at the red, green, and blue garment which the Duchess had considered suitable for a Grand Ball. Dani herself was costumed most elegantly in the gold satin which exactly matched her unpowdered hair, and decked with the topazes which had been a wedding gift from the ‘Sieur de Granville. She stared around her, trying to discover some sort of material which would serve to conceal the blood spots. And then she smiled that mischievous little gamine grin which had so enchanted Louis.

  “I have it!” she cried. “You, sir, must turn your back!"

  “He must leave the room!” hissed his mama, foreseeing the event.

  “I am going nowhere until this matter is settled. If the chit is not suitably chaperoned with you both here, she never will be!” He did however turn away from the girl and her mother.

  Before the Duchess could protest further, Dani had whipped up her own skirt and slipped out of her white silk underskirt. It was one of several petticoats, each, it seemed to the fascinated observers, finer than the last. “Scissors! and some pins!” she demanded, and the Duke went at once into his dressing room, where Tippen waited anxiously. Within seconds he was back with his booty. Dani merely nodded and cut the delicate silk quickly into two long rectangles. These she held together and then draped them around Tiri's shoulders. The impromptu fichu came well down below the girl's waist. Dani crossed the two ends over the girl's breast, and pinned them under the russet velvet ribbons which tied around the slender waist.

  "Voilà" Dani stepped back triumphantly.

  Even the Duchess had to admit that the lushly draped, thick silk folds were quaintly pretty on the girl—and they covered every sign of the nosebleed.

  “At this time of night, after the champagne they have drunk,” said the Duke cynically, “no one will remember what Mam'selle's gown looked like. My congratulations, madame!"

  “I am sure the Countess could make herself a good living designing clothes here in London,” added the Duchess, waspishly.

  “Ever tactful, Mama,” murmured her son, with a glance of apology toward the Frenchwomen.

  These two were so relieved at the happy outcome of the dilemma that they scarcely heeded the Duchess's remark. It was in almost perfect charity that the party of four descended the stairs to the ballroom. Indeed, their relief made them reckless. As they moved across the wide landing in front of the entrance to the ballroom, Prinny and his friends emerged to confront them.

  “Aha! So there you are, my young friend!” announced the Prince, in a loud, pleased voice. “Having a cozy tête-à-tête with our adorable little Frenchwoman, were you?” He seemed to become aware of the utter silence as everyone within earshot strained to hear his words. “Both the mamas with you, of course! Very proper, dear boy! And when are we to hear the good news?” The Prince beamed fatuously at the two young people he had hoped to bring together.

  In the waiting silence, the Duke's voice was clear and firm. “We shall be announcing our engagement tomorrow, Your Highness,” he said. “I know we have your good wishes, Your Grace. Of course, you will keep our secret until the proper time!"

  This was received with laughter, cheers, and some applause. Quite a number of observers noted that Lady Letitia had turned an unbecoming shade of puce; Dani was flushed; and Tiri was as white as her fichu. Only the Duke presented to his world an imperturbable countenance.

  CHAPTER 8

  The following morning there were more callers than had ever before drummed upon the knocker at Mall House. Not the last of these was Lady Bridget, accompanied, reluctantly, by her brother. “Mama,” said Bridget in a tight, disgruntled voice, “is laid down upon her bed, you must know. She cannot believe the news!"

  “I cannot believe it myself,” snapped the Duchess with more candor than courtesy, since Dani and Tiri were standing nearby, chatting with two inquisitive matrons. Letitia was under severe restraint. The Duke had reminded her of the penalties that could follow if she refused to accept the situation. It was indeed a rare case. The chit's sponsor was King Louis of France, and both of Their Britannic Majesties and the Prince of Wales approved of both the little French miss and the match. These were powerful advocates who must not he affronted. Since the Duke had publicl
y announced the engagement, no slanders must be circulated about his future Duchess.

  “I shall dwindle into a dowager,” mourned Lady Letitia.

  Lady Bridget wasted no pity on that. “Mama says you should have found a way to avoid the French trap,” she muttered angrily. “She says she would have warned you if she had not had some respect for your judgment!"

  This was plain speaking indeed, and the Duchess bridled.

  “Since it was Bertram who brought the whole thing about, your mama is placing the blame in the wrong quarter!” She glared at the wretch, who quickly sauntered off to chat with Lady Stavish and her pug-nosed daughter.

  This craven flight left the ladies with no immediate target for their venom. Lady Bridget remedied that by calling out to Tiri in a tone intended to sound archly teasing, but which only succeeded in sounding nasty, “How did you do it, Miss de Granville? You must tell all of us less artful females!"

  There was a mild titter of laughter from those ladies close enough to overhear the challenging remark. Dani and Lady Letitia, each for her own reasons, approached the two antagonists, for such they were universally acknowledged to be: the successful and the unsuccessful candidates for the Duke's hand.

  Tiri seemed to have herself in control. She smiled, and her fine blue eyes were sparkling. “But it was your own dear brother Bertram who played Cupid,” she said. “He caused the nosebleed that shocked His Grace into realizing the true state of his own feelings for me."

  Her small lovely face was at once the focus of dozens of eyes. It could be true. The small straight nose was slightly swollen and red. The more charitable had supposed that Mam'selle was suffering a heavy head cold—not unusual at this season of the year. There was a general movement towards the two girls.

  “Can you tell us how Lord Bertram—ah—caused your nose to bleed?” quizzed an older lady in a pink redingote.

  Everyone held her breath.

  “Surely you have all seen Lord Bertram dancing?" Tiri asked with a gurgle of laughter.

  This was greeted with general mirth. Even those who had not personally suffered his misguided enthusiasm had certainly observed it on the dance floor. “He charges through the gavotte as though he were riding to hounds!” giggled one miss whose toes had suffered Lord Bertram's painful attention.

  But Lady Bridget, who would have been wiser to let the matter drop, persisted in her attack.

  “Now why should a nosebleed cause my cousin to propose marriage?” she mused aloud. “Was it because Prinny caught you in a compromising situation?"

  Tiri's little face became sweetly solemn. “I believe it was because His Grace felt bound to comfort my distress, and so discovered the attraction."

  This was the very stuff of Romance. All the ladies were now unashamedly agog and listening.

  Lady Bridget plunged onward to her doom. “I was not aware that physical attraction was considered necessary in a marriage between two persons of our class,” she said viciously. “Of course your mama would perhaps feel differently!"

  There was a gasp at this slander, but Dani, smiling, rose to the occasion. “Physical attraction is a bonus,” she said pleasantly, as though the other woman had paid her a compliment. “As for her class, Therese's father's line goes back to 1342, all well documented. It is an honored name."

  “But the fortune, if any, belongs to the present holder of the title?” sneered Bridget.

  This was felt to be very bad form; the high sticklers in the party began a withdrawing movement.

  Dani was not disconcerted. “True,” she admitted. “Still, youth, beauty, and an impeccable lineage have value, even in these rather—commercially minded days."

  “Bravo,” said the Duke, entering his mama's drawing room unannounced. He made his way slowly through the now nervously chattering groups, speaking pleasantly to everyone, and accepting their fulsome congratulations with smiling ease. There was a general movement to leave the two newly engaged persons to whatever privacy the Duchess would allow them. The guests were really not too reluctant to depart, since there had been no offer of refreshment from Lady Letitia—"such a clutch-fist, my dear!"—and even more urgently, the need was felt to discuss the fascinating disclosures that had been made during the last half hour.

  The Duke's mother perceived, if no one else did, the furious white flare of his nostrils, and read the threat in his narrowed green eyes. Lady Bridget only hoped that he had not been lingering outside the drawing room, as Bertram often did, to catch the gist of what was being said. She realized that she had lost her cause forever with today's unguarded remarks; it was too much to hope that the whole story would not be racing around London by tonight. Tossing her head haughtily, she went to him, offered her hand for him to bow over, and said, “I'm sure you'll be as happy as you deserve to be!” and stalked from the room.

  Bertram was nowhere in sight. It was the final straw that Lady Bridget had to wait for Fallow to summon a hackney for her.

  Flowers arrived soon after, and Fallow brought them into the drawing room where two elderly ladies, too deaf to be aware of the nuances of the situation, still lingered on. Dani thought the flowers would be for her daughter, but Fallow brought them directly to the Countess. They were deep red roses, very fragrant and lovely. Dani extracted the card so eagerly that the others glanced at her.

  “They are from Sir Hilary, with an apology for missing the ball last night,” she explained. “He hopes to call upon us very soon.” She tucked the small note into her reticule and handed the flowers back to Fallow to be taken to her room. Soon after this the elderly ladies took their leave, and the Duchess hardly waited until they had left before turning upon her son.

  “Perhaps you will take the time to explain to me what is going on?” she snapped.

  The Duke looked at her coldly. “You wish me to confront you before witnesses?” His glance indicated the Frenchwomen.

  Dani, only too anxious to get away, said that they would of course retire so that the Duke and his mama might have a comfortable tête-à-tête.

  The Duke uttered a bark of laughter at this euphemism.

  Dani and Tiri escaped thankfully.

  The door had hardly closed behind them when His Grace went on the attack. “I cannot believe what I heard just before I entered the room,” he began. “If you have no care for my reputation, one would think you might be concerned for your own!"

  “I have done nothing!” his mama stammered.

  “Your protégée, Lady Bridget, was trying her best to discredit not only me and my fiancée, but you as her sponsor. Are you so blind that you cannot see that your bosom bow, Cousin Amelia, has been jealous of you and hated my father since the day my father married you rather than her?” At her incredulous glare, he went on ruthlessly, “If I knew of her rancor, believe me that everyone else in the Ton did so! I could never understand why you persisted in making her your confidante, when all her advice and counsel was deliberately given to do you disservice!"

  “That is a lie!” gasped his mother. “She thinks only of my own good!"

  “Is that why she has been thrusting Bridget down my throat for the last five or six years? The girl's an ape-leader; she's been on the town for eight or nine years, and no one's offered for her. Can't you think why?"

  “Because everyone thought you would be offering for her?” faltered Lady Letitia.

  “Because no man wanted to leg-shackle himself to a bitter, sharp-tongued female with little beauty and less grace!” said the Duke. “You have made us both a laughing stock with your tireless efforts to push her off on me. Her performance today, deliberately trying to insult your guests, and through them yourself and me, must surely show you how little she values your reputation in the Ton."

  “You misjudge her!” protested Lady Letitia, but her voice showed that she herself doubted what she was saying.

  The Duke shrugged. “If we have settled that matter, may we now summon the de Granvilles and discuss this business of my marriage?"


  Chastened, Lady Letitia asked if he wanted her to be present during the discussion. The Duke frowned.

  “I suppose you should be. If you have not completely alienated the Frenchwomen, they will benefit from your knowledge of our English modes and manners."

  Grateful for that much forbearance and finally accepting that it was Bertram Mall's bungling which had betrayed them to Prinny's snare, the Duchess rang for Fallow and instructed him to request the French ladies to join them in the drawing room.

  As they reentered the gloomy room a few minutes later, Dani was inquiring, and Tiri was sullen. The Duke did not waste time.

  “I have asked you to join my mother and me here so that we may discuss this matter of the wedding between Mademoiselle Therese and me,” began the Duke, a trifle pompously. Tiri found that, much as she disliked the man, she could not take her eyes from his handsome face and tall, well-shaped body. The candlelight was reflected in his strange green eyes, which were fixed upon her own face at this very moment. He was addressing her particularly.

  “Now that we are alone, the four of us most closely concerned, I should like to ask you, Mam'selle, what you feel about this engagement? Honestly, if you please."

  “I was surprised,” began the girl hesitantly, trying to meet the challenge of those compelling eyes. “I felt unhappy that you had been trapped, as it were, by the combination of your Prince's romantic fancies and Lord Bertram's heavy-handed awkwardness."

  “So,” said the Duke coldly, “your first emotions were surprise and unhappiness. Not a very promising combination."

  Tiri's quick temper began to prickle at his summary evaluation of her feelings. Arrogant Englishman! What did he expect her to say? That she was swooning for joy at the thought of marrying him?

  The Duke noted that militant sparkle with pleasure. The plan that he was considering would not work with a meekly submissive girl.