by Allison Lane
Faith raised her brow. “Why would he call here?”
“Perhaps he found Francine. Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
He understood buildings far better than he understood people, admitted John as he escorted her from the dining room. Even the beginnings of decay left clear signs, but people habitually hid thoughts and feelings behind social masks, making it impossible to know what they wanted. Especially Faith. All he could do was guess, which didn’t help his temper.
A night alone had given her too much time to think. His biggest fear was that she was willing to bed him but still wouldn’t accept marriage. It wasn’t a concept ladies approved, but her education had been very different from what other well-bred girls received. Had she learned the consequences of flouting society’s expectations?
Yet even Faith couldn’t be that ignorant. Joining him last night should have meant accepting his suit. Unwed ladies did not risk pregnancy. A reputation for being fast was bad enough. Bearing a bastard would sever all contact with the polite world. Despite her unconventional upbringing, she had to know that. Even the servants who’d raised her understood that much, for it was a concept that applied to many classes.
So more than disparate breeding must stand between them. She couldn’t have responded with such enthusiasm if she disdained his blood. So what was wrong? Wedding a monster was better than trying to live on her inheritance, and he was no monster.
“I spoke to Bernard again,” announced Alex once they reached the drawing room, “and introduced him to a friend who is skilled at sketching faces. Thank you for the suggestion.”
“So you have Francine’s likeness now?”
“Possibly.” Portland shook his head. “Bernard is not satisfied – it’s been thirty years since he last saw her, so his memory might be off. But perhaps it is good enough to jog memories among the Dingles’ neighbors. He made a copy for you, too, if the offer remains open. Spitalfields is far enough from Mayfair to offer a measure of safety to someone avoiding society, but I have no contacts out there.” He held out a small sketch.
“Of course.” He reached for the picture, but Faith beat him to it.
* * * *
Faith’s mouth gaped as she stared at the woman who figured so prominently in the duchess’s diary. “It’s your mother,” she blurted out.
“Impossible.” John glanced at the sketch and shrugged. “There is a superficial resemblance, I suppose, but no more. You are not thinking clearly, my dear.”
“Certainly I am. It looks just like the sketch you have of your mother.”
“Impossible,” he repeated, glaring. “Half the women in London look like that sketch. You know I’m no artist.”
“I’ve never seen a finer painting of my estate than the one you did,” said Portland.
“Buildings are easy. Straight lines. A little decoration. Anyone can draw them. People are trickier, which is why so many artists start with generic types that could fit a host of subjects. Mother and Francine have the same basic facial shape, but they cannot be the same person. To begin with, Mother was years younger – not yet forty when she died. And we lived with my father’s aunt. She and half the neighbors attended my christening.”
“You are sure?” asked Portland.
“Of course, I’m sure! They never tired of telling me what a feisty baby I was, screaming loud enough to wake the dead when the water touched my head. I was thirteen when Aunt Frobisher died, so I remember her well.”
“You needn’t snap at me, John. It was a reasonable question. I have to consider even remote possibilities, so let’s dispose of this one once and for all.” He picked up the sketch. “May I see the picture of your mother?”
John sighed. “Get it for him, Faith, though I don’t see what good it will do. Since Bernard admits that this is not a good likeness of Francine, even the similarities mean nothing.”
Faith frowned as she hurried upstairs. Granted, she’d seen the sketch only once, but there was more than a superficial resemblance. John must recognize that as well as she did, so why was he protesting? Most men would leap at the possibility of noble blood, especially when a fortune came with it.
But John wasn’t most men.
She studied his sketch as she lifted it down. Yes, there were differences. Quite a few, actually. But the similarities were strong. High cheeks. Rounded chin. An odd bump in the nose. The unusual shape of the ear. Finding all those features in one face was not common.
Was Marie Lascar actually Francine DuBois, born Molly Dingle? The extra years could account for the weariness, and Francine might well have chosen another French-sounding name so the mannerisms she’d cultivated wouldn’t draw notice.
Yet John’s objections were sound. Living with family who had known him from birth was a huge obstacle. Francine had vowed to reveal Montrose’s identity on his twelfth birthday. John had been thirteen when his mother died. And it was hard to see a puny, sickly child in tall, broad-shouldered John.
She carried the sketch downstairs, but paused outside the drawing room. John was staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Portland strode toward him, sketch in hand.
“I just realized why Bernard doesn’t like this,” he said, shoving the sketch at John. “The first time I interviewed him, he mentioned a mole beneath Francine’s left ear. He forgot that when describing her to the artist.”
John tensed.
Faith stepped forward and handed John’s picture to Portland. It clearly showed a mole beneath Mrs. Lascar’s left ear.
“Many people have blemishes,” insisted John, shrugging. “I don’t recall anyone on our street who wasn’t marked. You cannot ignore facts. I had a father, mother, great-aunt, and friends who knew me from birth – as in, they knew me long before Da died.”
“Any evidence to support that?” asked Portland.
John glared.
“If this is a false lead, then let’s prove it so I can get on with my job,” Portland repeated. “I will doubtless have to eliminate a host of women who bear some resemblance to this sketch. I might as well start here.”
Faith laid a hand on John’s arm, shocked at how tense he was.
He finally nodded. “Horse guards will have Da’s service records. He wed Mother in 1782. I was born in November of 1783. I have their marriage lines and my baptism certificate. Both are registered at St. Matthew’s, Spitalfields. We lived across from the church until Da died. Then we moved in with Aunt Frobisher, two streets over.”
“Get the records.”
John left.
Faith remained silent.
Portland studied the two sketches, nodding from time to time as he noted the same similarities she had seen.
John returned with a sheaf of records. “Mother had more than I thought – I’ve never really looked at her papers.” He laid them one at a time on the table. “Her marriage lines. Da’s enlistment papers. The baptism certificate naming my godparents – I’ve no idea who the men are, since I never met them. Probably soldiers from his regiment. My godmother was Aunt Frobisher. And here’s the lease agreement for the rooms my parents occupied. The letter informing us of Da’s death… My life is an open book.”
“So it would seem. But the resemblance is uncanny. I’ll verify these papers. And I want to show both pictures to Mr. Dingle. He remembers Francine well and will know if the similarities are coincidence. It might help me hone the sketch of Francine.”
* * * *
John shook his head the moment Alex left. Only effort kept his hands from shaking. “I always thought him intelligent. Now I have to wonder. Why the devil would he waste time on something so obviously ridiculous?”
“You know he has to check all possibilities.”
“What possibility? A vague resemblance between a twelve-year-old boy’s sketch and a picture no one believes is accurate? I will accept that Francine had a history of lying about her age, though it is hard to believe anyone could subtract that many years without drawing notice
. But she couldn’t produce a family and a dozen neighbors, all willing to lie about knowing me.”
“Not easily, but it’s not impossible, either.”
“Not you, too! Think, Faith. She can’t have used the duchess’s money to bribe them into supporting her. I know those people. At least half a dozen would have extorted every shilling she had, then trumpeted her scheme to the world, hoping to find another pigeon they could pluck. Spitalfields isn’t the stews, but its residents aren’t always upright citizens.”
She bit her lip, for he had a point.
“And if there was any chance my mother was Francine, don’t you think she would have said something? I was thirteen when she died. Montrose would have been at school by then. At the very least, she promised to raise him as a gentleman. I grew up in the working class – toward the bottom of it, if truth be told.”
“Did you? Think, John. That may be where you lived, but your manners, your accent, your sense of honor, even your attitudes are those of a gentleman. I noticed from the first that you are more a gentleman than Chester or any of his friends. Few from the working class share those traits.”
He glared. “You insult me. Or maybe you don’t understand what gentlemen’s attitudes really are. Chester is a prime example. Arrogant. Selfish. Uncaring how his behavior affects others. He expects instant, unquestioning obedience from all inferiors and insures that he gets it by punishing every transgression harshly.”
“You’ve described him perfectly, but he is not typical.”
“Isn’t he? What about your grandfather? The man arranged your father’s life to his own advantage, then disowned him and you because your father refused to go along with his plans.”
“Yes, there are so-called gentlemen who are selfish – Chester, Grandfather, Bitstaff, and several others I’ve met. But most gentlemen are responsible, caring men concerned more with protecting their dependents and improving their estates than with their own pleasure. They adhere to their duty to provide for future generations and are honorable men who avoid causing harm. And that describes you.”
“If you consider me a gentleman, then thank Soane. He taught more than architecture, especially to me, as I came to him so young. He lectured constantly on the behavior expected of a professional. To be successful, one must share the manners of one’s patrons despite always remembering one’s place.”
“Did your mother enforce different standards?”
He frowned. “I don’t remember – it’s been twenty years since she died, and that first year with Soane is a blur. Between grief and fear that I couldn’t keep up with the work, I didn’t notice much – he would have tossed me out if I hadn’t maintained his standards. He can be harsh to anyone who disappoints him, even his own sons.” Soane hadn’t spoken to them in years.
“Perhaps Soane taught you manners, or perhaps he merely polished what you already knew.” Faith studied him closely. “But my point remains the same. There is a very real possibility that those sketches depict the same woman. You should at least keep an open mind until Portland finishes his investigation.”
“No! I refuse to waste more time on this rubbish.” He headed for the door.
“What’s wrong, John?” Faith grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her. “Why are you so angry?”
“I hate to waste—”
“That’s not it. You act as if I’m holding a knife at your throat.”
“You are.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. Only then did he realize that she’d equated his words with his marriage offer, which gave him no choice but to reveal the terror swirling through his breast. “Don’t you understand, Faith? All my life, I’ve had to fend for myself. And I did. I avoided the workhouse by impressing Soane with my skill. I won scholarships and awards, then established a respected practice despite my youth and breeding. I’m very close to winning a post with the Office of Works. I’m proud of those accomplishments.”
“You should be proud.”
“Really? How can you say that after telling me that my breeding puts me above those I’ve always considered my peers, that all my work was for nothing, that my accomplishments will wind up under the rug with all the other dirt?”
“What rubbish is this?” she demanded, shaking him.
“Everyone knows blood defines one’s station. If you toss an aristocrat into a group of working men, he will outshine them every time. It is the way the world works. So how can you expect my thanks when you’re stripping away every scrap of my pride by insisting that an accident of birth means more than my work?”
“I’m not.” She gripped his head so he couldn’t turn away. “You aren’t thinking clearly, John. While it’s true that high breeding provides advantages not available to most, it cannot guarantee success. It cannot even guarantee respect. Think about it. If breeding is everything, then Chester would be an honorable man, and you would gladly invite Bitstaff into your home.”
John shuddered.
“But breeding is only the beginning. Even the most rigid members of society judge on more than blood. Honor, fortune, and any defect in body or soul count as much. Sometimes more. I saw many aristocratic sons in the army, for they comprise most of the officer corps. And I saw many common soldiers. If breeding determined success, then dividing the army by merit, setting the best men on one side and the worst on the other, would separate them by blood as well. Yet in reality, you would find officers and soldiers in both groups, and in equal numbers.”
“The army does not operate the same way society does.”
“No, it doesn’t. Birth means less, for when your life rests in the hands of others, you care only for their abilities. The ladies who control society’s drawing rooms might call me a heretic, but I believe that talent exists separately from breeding.”
“To some extent.”
“To all extent. No exceptions. Many men cannot develop their talents because their station in life prevents it. Others lack the funds for suitable training. But that does not mean the talent doesn’t exist. So whatever rank a man holds, he should take pride in his accomplishments, whether they involve well-run estates, effective leadership in Parliament, or designing functional buildings that appeal to the eye.”
“Any aristocrat can manage all of those.”
“No!” She stamped her foot. “Does Byron’s poetry please because he’s a lord? If so, then anyone of decent breeding should write as well. But I saw you cringe at Reginald’s words, and there are others who are even worse.”
“True.”
“And what about Wellington? Is he a brilliant general because his father was a marquess? If so, then duke’s sons should achieve even more. Do you think Chester could have defeated Napoleon faster or with fewer casualties?”
“Of course not.”
“The army would be awash with brilliance if breeding guaranteed success. But it doesn’t. So no matter what Portland discovers, take pride in your work, John. You deserve it.”
He shook his head, wondering where he’d lost control of the conversation. It wasn’t like him. “I will agree that my beliefs might be too rigid,” he said with a sigh. “But they are mine and cannot be changed by a word. And in the end, it doesn’t matter, for you’ve sent Alex haring off after a fantasy. I can only pray he accepts the truth quickly so he can return to his job and let me return to mine.”
“Whatever he finds, you will deal with it.” Her arms slid around his waist. “No one promised that life would be fair, but I’ve no doubt you will succeed at whatever you try.”
He kissed her briefly, then headed for the door. He needed time alone to shore up his defenses before he could again consider courting her. “I have work, Faith. We’ll visit Bullock’s after lunch. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”
“No.”
“Come down if you want additional books.” He escaped before she could try again to convince him. She had to be wrong. He would die otherwise.
* * * *
Faith fr
owned at the door, her brain so full she couldn’t think.
To give it time to settle, she stared at the carpet, counting the strands that formed the largest rose in its pattern.
Five thousand twelve, she decided at last.
The exercise calmed her. Inhaling deeply, she considered the ramifications of today’s revelation.
The moment she’d picked up the sketch of Francine, euphoria had burst through her breast. They had actually found the duke, thwarting Chester’s ambitions and discrediting his spite. Once that news swept society, no one would believe a word of his attack on John.
Then the ramifications had hit. If John’s mother was Francine, then John was the duke. That’s what had halted her outside the drawing room.
Despite her decision to find a protector, she’d clung to her hope that a living duke would sweep away her problems. But John would never write the character reference that would assure her of a respectable position. Aside from that finicky sense of honor that demanded marriage, he knew beyond all doubt that she was ruined. No man would perjure himself by lying in writing.
Which made leaving more urgent than ever.
If he was the duke.
She hoped fervently that he was not.
Calming him had been an automatic response to his need for comfort. But comfort was only the beginning. His disdain for the upper classes must change if he hoped to gain that seat at the Office of Works. The men he would have to please were not arrogant idiots. Treating them as such could only cause trouble.
Now she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. He was right that the similarities might mean nothing. One of the peddlers at last summer’s fair had looked enough like Colonel Parker to be his brother. So Molly’s mole might be coincidence. And the sheer number of people who claimed to have known John since his birth was daunting.
Please be wrong, she prayed as the consequences became clear. Whoever had said that love made people blind was right. Love created fantasies, like hers of somehow correcting her defects so she could wed him without ruining him. But while that might be possible with a mere mister, it would never happen with a duke. People were far more critical of duchesses than of architect’s wives.
