Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  New York City

  Monday afternoon, August 19th

  In a stately stone mansion across from Central Park, the wealthy, handsomely gowned madam of the city’s most renowned brothel had called together a half-dozen of her most beautiful girls.

  Miss Abigail, the rotund, milky-skinned, raven-haired madam, had christened her establishment Palmetto Palace in honor of her Alabama roots. An aging southern belle, Miss Abigail had made her way east after the War Between the States had left her once prominent family destitute.

  Intelligent, charming, and a shrewd business-woman, Miss Abigail had turned the world’s oldest profession into a near respectable livelihood. Palmetto Palace had earned a reputation for employing only the most ravishing of women. And the most expensive. A gentleman without a large bank account need not venture into the establishment.

  But if a visitor was wealthy enough and generous with that wealth, he would find that his carnal tastes—no matter how depraved—would be cheerfully indulged by some of the most beautiful women in the world. Sexual fantasies became thrilling reality behind the closed doors of the plush upstairs boudoirs in the imposing park-side mansion.

  Now as the madam invited six carefully hand-picked girls to take their seats on the tapestry-covered French sofas and armchairs in the drawing room, she was bubbly with excitement.

  The women, in varying states of undress, were annoyed that Miss Abigail had interrupted their slumber. None had gone to bed—at least not to sleep—until well past dawn. They were accustomed to sleeping late into the afternoon. It was not yet 1:00 p.m. Yawning and stretching, they grumbled that they hadn’t gotten enough rest.

  “Girls, girls,” Miss Abigail scolded, clapping her hands for quiet. “You’ll be glad I awakened you once you hear my news.” Beaming, she looked from face to face and announced, “On Wednesday of this very week we will be welcoming a most generous guest back to Palmetto Palace. The wealthy gentleman will arrive sometime around—”

  Interrupting, a regal beauty with pale shimmering tresses that reached to her waist, asked, “Do you mean the patron we’ve all heard so much about? The notorious Dr. Clean?”

  “The very one,” assured Miss Abigail. “Now you know what that means. His taste in women is varied. One year he prefers only redheads, the next brunettes. This year, he has informed me through his trusted emissary, it is the blondes who rule.”

  The girls looked at each other and nodded. All were blondes. Both the gleaming locks on their heads and the short curly coils of their groins were regularly bleached by a professional to varying shades of blond.

  “I have chosen you six because you are blond and bold and gorgeous. I shall inform Pierre that he is to come in tomorrow to carefully lighten any dark roots he might find among you.” The girls groaned and muttered, hating the time-consuming procedure. Miss Abigail ignored the protests. “Once you are blond all over, the gentleman caller will be more than pleased with any or all of you.”

  A leggy amazon in a black kimono said, “Cherry told me a girl can make more money in just one night with Dr. Clean than she can in—”

  “It is true,” the madam confirmed. “The girls who have pleased him have had princely sums settled on them.”

  “Of which you took the lion’s share,” needled Simone, the Palmetto’s cynical comic.

  The girls giggled.

  So did Miss Abigail.

  “As an added bonus,” Miss Abigail said, her round cheeks dimpling, “Dr. Clean’s been known to gift the lucky lady or ladies with a precious gem or two.”

  “I want emeralds!” stated the lovely Lulu, sweeping her shimmering blond hair back off her face.

  “I prefer diamonds,” said the young, angelic-looking Jennie.

  “If I may finish…” said Miss Abigail. “This year, some of you will be joining the gentleman in Saratoga Springs. Suites have been reserved at the cottages of the United States Hotel.” She again looked from face to face and said, “While you’ll be wearing expensive gowns and dining on caviar and champagne, you will not be allowed to go outside your assigned cottages. He’ll want you waiting at any hour of the day or night that he might desire your company.”

  “I’ve never been to Saratoga,” said Lulu.

  “I want to go,” said Jennie. “I’ll make him like me so—”

  Interrupting, Miss Abigail said, “I’m quite sure he’ll like you, Jennie. Very, very much.” Jennie smiled, pleased. “The rest of you may go back upstairs now. Jennie, you’ll kindly stay behind for a moment, please.”

  “I sure will, Miss Abigail,” said Jennie, visions of a handsome client making thrilling love to her then showering her with diamonds filling her head.

  When the others were gone, Miss Abigail sat down on the French sofa beside the glowing Jennie. She took Jennie’s hand in hers and said, “Aren’t you the fortunate one? You will be the first to entertain the esteemed guest who, as you may have noticed, the girls refer to as Dr. Clean.”

  Jennie’s large eyes grew larger still. “Then he’s a prominent physician? A handsome and immaculate doctor with a surgeon’s beautiful, artistic hands?”

  “Not exactly,” Miss Abigail said with mysterious smile. “But just remember, my dear, you’ll be paid handsomely for the evening. And, you will not be expected to work again for at least three months.”

  Jennie frowned, puzzled. “But why, Miss Abigail? I don’t understand.”

  The madam squeezed Jennie’s hand. “You will when I explain what Dr. Clean expects.”

  Twenty-Seven

  It was nearing noon on Wednesday when a shiny black carriage rolled to a stop before the majestic Waldorf Hotel in New York City. Two baggage-filled conveyances followed close behind.

  The hotel’s smartly uniformed doorman quickly snapped to attention, summoning a platoon of bellmen before rushing forth to meet the illustrious arriving guests.

  Smiling sunnily, he was reaching a gloved hand out to the carriage door when it burst open, hitting him in the chest and very nearly knocking him on his backside. A chubby young boy with uncombed brown hair and soiled white shirtfront leaped out and laughed when he saw the pained expression cross the doorman’s face.

  Tumbling out behind the ill-mannered youth was another boy, this one two or three years younger. This lad was even more pudgy than the first and more unkempt, though the clothes both wore were noticeably expensive. The knee of the younger boy’s dirty trousers was ripped and buttons were missing from his stained shirt. He giggled and kicked the doorman in the shins, then stuck out his tongue.

  “Now you boys behave yourselves,” came a none-too-stern voice from inside the carriage, a command neither child obeyed. “I’ll make you go without dinner,” threatened the father of the unruly pair as he swung down out of the carriage with a groan and a grunt.

  “Welcome to the Waldorf, Lord Nardees,” said the doorman, bowing grandly before the corpulent baron who wore an expensive, finely tailored suit which, unfortunately, was too small. The jacket could not be buttoned over his massive girth and the trousers rode low beneath his huge overhanging belly. Worse, the costly clothes were smudged with grease and grime.

  “Kindly give Lady Nardees and my sweet little daughter a hand,” ordered the obese lord, scratching an itchy underarm through the fabric of his wrinkled jacket.

  “Certainly,” said the doorman. He leaned in to offer assistance and was once again assaulted when a tubby little girl leaned out, grabbed him around the neck and jumped onto him like a monkey swinging onto a tree limb.

  As diplomatically as possible, the doorman unwound the dirty-faced child’s short, gripping arms from around his neck and gingerly set her on her feet. Her nose running, she stood there right at his elbow, refusing to move back, tugging on his uniform sleeve, whining.

  “You’re mean!” she accused, her face screwing up into a frown as if she might cry. “Why did you put me down? Pick up me! Carry me inside! I’m tired and I do not wish to walk!” She stomped on the doorman’s
foot, rubbed her runny nose on the sleeve of her soiled organdy dress, and said, “Father said I wouldn’t have to walk!”

  “Move back a little, Katherine, sweetie,” said Lord Nardees. “Not to worry, someone will carry you inside.” He patted her atop the head and said, “Let your dear mother get out of the carriage.”

  Maintaining the habitual calm he had over the years trained himself to project, the doorman reached in to assist the last discharging passenger. A woman as broad as she was tall. She was very short in stature, but so chunky she could hardly clear the carriage door.

  A frown on her round, perspiring face, Lady Nardees, wearing costly designer clothes that looked as if she had slept in them, began scolding the doorman before her small feet ever touched the sidewalk.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she snapped, “Help me out!”

  “Yes, of course, Lady Nardees,” said the dutiful doorman, offering her a hand.

  She didn’t take it. She shook her head, setting her drooping sausage curls astir, and huffed with annoyance. “Can’t you see that I’m a tiny little woman? Do you expect me to jump to the sidewalk?”

  “No, I—”

  “Put your hands to my waist and lift me down, you dolt!”

  The doorman wasn’t sure where her waist was. But he gave it a shot. Only to be scolded again. Forcefully shoving his hands down a couple of inches, she snapped, “Not so high up! That’s not my waist! I am highly insulted that you would attempt to touch me inappropriately! Must I inform your employer of this outrage and insist that you be let go? Surely the Waldorf does not condone such conduct.”

  “Lady Nardees, I humbly beg your pardon. I had no intention of—”

  “You were attempting to get familiar with me and I’ll not tolerate such behavior!”

  “Again I offer my apologies, Lady Nardees,” he said, hoping his face was not red with rising anger.

  “Very well, but just be more careful where you put those reaching hands of yours! I shan’t have the hired help groping me and patting me down as if I were a loose-moraled creature of the lower classes.”

  “I understand, Lady Nardees,” he said.

  He staggered under the weight when she leaned out, wrapped her arms around his neck, and fell into his arms, much like her daughter before her. Struggling to keep his balance, he took a couple of uncertain steps backward, then one forward, before gaining control and carefully unburdening himself of his heavy load.

  The cloying scent of her sweet perfume combined with pungent body odor threatened to sicken him. He held his breath while she adjusted her wrinkled clothing, turned about and marched inside.

  He shot a glance at the spoiled little girl still standing at his elbow and stiffened when she put her hands on her hips and said, “My father said you are to carry me up to my room!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

  The doorman looked up and signaled a big, burly bellman over. “Mac, the young lady wishes to be carried inside.”

  “Certainly,” said the bellhop.

  The hotel staff had been briefed prior to the arrival of the British nobleman and his family. It was not the first time the baron and his brood had stayed at the Waldorf. They had chosen the Waldorf two summers ago when it had first opened its doors. They had so enjoyed their stay, they had returned the next year. This was their third visit to the grand hotel.

  Everyone knew what to expect of the visiting aristocrats. Three servants came with them, a number not sufficient to fully meet the demanding family’s needs. Therefore, as ordered, a quartet of hotel employees were present, lined up to welcome the esteemed guests and to make their stay as enjoyable as possible.

  The Nardees brothers raced around through the opulent lobby, shouting and chasing each other and raising eyebrows of other hotel guests, before the entire family was herded into the elevator and taken up to their suite of rooms on the hotel’s top floor.

  Insisting she wanted to ride piggyback, Katherine squealed with delight when the muscular bellman indulged her. Her arms clasped over his throat, her knees gripping his ribs, she kicked her heels into his sides as though he were her own personal pony.

  It took a good hour to get the Nardees five settled into their various rooms. In the suite’s two sitting rooms—one small and intimate, the other quite spacious—fresh-cut flowers and gold-covered boxes of fine Belgian chocolates graced polished tabletops. The four hotel employees were on hand to help the Nardees’s personal servants unpack the many trunks and valises and to make the family comfortable.

  Lord Nardees marched about barking orders at the harried staff. He informed the maître d’ that he wanted a seven-course dinner served in the suite at precisely 7:00 p.m.

  While the children ran through the rooms shrieking and roughhousing, Lady Nardees took off her hat, tossed it aside, and sank down into an overstuffed easy chair. Grumbling that it was too warm, she raised her rumpled skirts to her knees and, straining to bend over, rolled her garters and stockings down to her ankles.

  Oblivious to the chaos around her, she reached for a box of chocolates and lifted the lid. She sighed with satisfaction as she popped a bonbon into her mouth, rolling her eyes with pleasure.

  The children fought over which room would be theirs. The disagreement became so spirited, the two boys wrestled and punched each other as they rolled around on the plush wine-hued carpet.

  In the fracas of gouging and kicking and hitting each other, the porky pair slammed into an antique drum table which had once graced the summer palace of Napoleon. The priceless piece overturned, toppling an expensive porcelain vase and sending it to the floor where it broke into a dozen pieces and scattered flowers and splashed water across the carpet.

  Lady Nardees heard the crash, but didn’t get up from her chair to investigate. She shouted, “What on earth have you two done now? I swear, you’ll be the death of me yet.”

  Lord Nardees walked into the room where the boys were still fighting amid the broken porcelain and scattered flowers. He exhaled heavily, rubbed a hand over his big stomach, shook his head and called for a servant to clean up the clutter.

  When finally the very last employee departed the suite, Lord Nardees withdrew his gold-cased watch from the linen vest which was riding up over his ballooning belly, revealing a wide portion of his rumpled shirt above his sagging trousers.

  It was 1:00 p.m.

  “Beatrice, where are you, my dear?” he called out to his wife.

  “In here, Wardley,” came the choking response.

  He followed the sound to one of the suite’s sitting rooms. His wife looked up when he entered. Smears of chocolate ringed her mouth and the gold-covered box at her elbow was half empty. She smiled at him. Her teeth were coated with chocolate.

  “I have to go out for a while, my dainty pet,” he said.

  She reached for another piece of candy, popped it into her mouth and chewed. Her mouth full of chocolate, she said, “Very well, dear, but have you seen to dinner?”

  Twenty-Eight

  At one o’clock on that Wednesday, Claire, Olivia and the dapper Fox Connor were having a late lunch served on the estate’s side veranda overlooking the lush private gardens.

  Fox ate with gusto, commenting that the broiled salmon sprinkled with toasted almonds was absolutely delicious. Olivia wholeheartedly agreed, then graciously pointed out that the bottle of chilled white wine that Fox had brought along complemented the succulent fish perfectly.

  Claire nodded, smiled at them both, but didn’t speak. She picked at the salmon and green salad, but had no real appetite. She sipped the wine, but ate very little. Finally she gave up. She carefully placed her fork on the china plate, lifted her linen napkin, patted her mouth, and laid the napkin on the table.

  “Will you two please excuse me?” she said, looking from one to the other.

  Olivia frowned, “Why, Duchess, you’ve hardly touched your food. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, not a thing,” Claire said. “Just not much of an appeti
te today. I think I’ll take a walk in the garden.”

  Fox quickly rose to his feet. He came around to pull out Claire’s chair and help her up. “My dear, if you’re not feeling well, perhaps I should go and—”

  “No, no, sit down, Mr. Connor,” Claire said and smiled at him. “I’m fine, really. Enjoy your lunch and forgive me for being rude.”

  Fox stayed on his feet as Claire turned away. She left the table, stepped down off the veranda and walked out into the gardens, her arms hugging her sides.

  Fox and Olivia exchanged glanced. Fox sat back down. The pair watched as Claire strolled away, ignoring Olivia’s call to put on a bonnet lest she blister. Claire raised a hand and waved away Olivia’s warning.

  Olivia shook her head. “She’s a trifle stubborn at times.”

  “Aren’t we all, my dear?”

  Olivia nodded. And the conversation quickly turned back to horses and racing. Since becoming friends with Fox, Olivia had developed a genuine interest in Thoroughbred racing. With Claire’s permission, she had gone to the races on occasion, hurrying to the ladies’ betting circle to make her wagers. Armed with tips from Fox, she had chosen winners almost every time and had won a respectable amount of money.

  “…and in tomorrow’s third race, we have Eastern Dancer entered. I expect him to go off at two to one odds.”

  “I’ll have my money on him,” said Olivia with a smile.

  But even as the pair continued to discuss one of their favorite subjects, Olivia was distracted. She was growing increasingly concerned about Claire. She hoped that Claire was as impervious as she was stubborn.

  When the two of them had cooked up this Duchess of Beaumont farce, Claire had vowed that, like the real duchess, she could take a lover, enjoy a brief affair, then walk away with no regrets. Olivia was beginning to doubt that declaration.

  Nodding and listening as he spoke, Olivia wished that she could confide in the levelheaded Fox. She longed to tell him the truth about everything. But, of course, she couldn’t. She didn’t dare divulge to him or to anyone else that the golden-haired charmer claiming to be the whimsical Duchess of Beaumont was actually a straitlaced young woman who had never done anything like this before.