The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Stop dreaming,” she growled, prowling the room. “Whatever Portland discovers won’t change your future. You can’t stay with John, and he won’t help you leave. No duke will provide a reference without talking to those who know you. John won’t corroborate lies, and Chester will trumpet your sins to the world.”

  So she must prepare for life as a courtesan.

  At least her unconventional studies left her with few illusions. Men used mistresses purely for their own pleasure, so her duties would be nothing like John’s lovemaking. The right protector could make it tolerable, but to find such a man, she must convince York’s gentlemen that she was an accomplished lover.

  She could do it. John had enjoyed her experiments last night, emboldening her to try others next time. The duchess had described the intimate games she’d played with her husband. And the Tableau included sultrier arts than even the duchess had noted.

  So that aspect of the business was under control. Her real problem was clothing. Courtesans did not dress like ladies, not that her wardrobe suited a lady, either. Needlework had never been one of her talents, but she must contrive something. She couldn’t afford a dressmaker.

  * * * *

  “What’s wrong?” Faith asked when John unexpectedly returned to the drawing room an hour later. He did not look happy. Had Portland returned?

  “Simmons demands to see you.”

  “Again? I told him yesterday to leave me alone.”

  “Since when does he listen to anything he doesn’t want to hear?” he said, tossing her own words back at her.

  She sighed. “What does he want this time?”

  “He didn’t say.” He handed her the note. “I can tell him you’re otherwise engaged.”

  “No. He would start screaming about abduction again, which would make the rumors even worse. I’ll have to see him.” The note infuriated her with its arrogant, petulant demands.

  “Can you discourage him this time? I’m trying to run a business.”

  “I’ll try, but you know what he’s like.”

  “Too well.” John shook his head. “You’d best come down. He should be here shortly.”

  “He’s probably already outside, hoping to accost me before I can reach your protection.” She frowned. Reginald was becoming a serious nuisance. John’s reputation could not withstand more rumors. All the more reason to leave immediately.

  “He will be disappointed, then.”

  “He will conclude that I am staying here.”

  “Nonsense. You are a lady. You would never enter my house without a maid in attendance at this time of day. People would see you. To protect your reputation – which Simmons obviously didn’t consider – I had my coachman escort you through the back door.”

  “That will only work once, though. I must convince him to leave me alone.”

  “Come along, then.” He held out his arm.

  Instead of taking it, she slipped hers around him. “He won’t add to your woes, John. I’ll make sure he doesn’t return.”

  “I’m more concerned that he’s annoying you.” He pulled her closer, nuzzling her hair.

  “He’s always been like this.” She sighed. “But I shouldn’t have to put up with it now that I’ve left Westcourt.” She kissed him lightly, then headed for the door before his nearness overset her sense.

  Reginald arrived a few minutes later, bursting into the library without even a greeting. “How did you get here so fast?”

  Faith glared. “Sit down, Mr. Simmons,” she snapped. “I had business with Mr. Lascar, so was here when your note arrived. I nearly refused to see you. I’ve never seen such arrogant drivel in my life. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  But as usual, he ignored her admonition. “What business could you possibly have with a tradesman?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “It damned well is!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.

  “Let go!” Faith slapped him with her free hand.

  “Yes, release her.” John suddenly appeared in the doorway, his face like thunder. “I don’t tolerate mishandling females, Simmons. If you want to speak with her, then do so. Otherwise, leave.”

  “How dare you insult your betters?” snapped Reginald.

  “The only insult was to Miss Harper, and you administered it. This is my office, not a place where schoolboys can throw tantrums.”

  “Both of you be quiet and sit down.” Faith rubbed her arm, unsure who was more likely to make a scene. Once they complied, she scowled at Reginald. “Say what you must, then leave. I am tired of your demands and sick of having you interrupt my life.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Oh, no. If I reveal that, you will pester me to death.”

  “Then tell me what business could keep you here so long. I was outside a good hour and did not see you arrive.”

  “Because you refuse to use your head,” growled John. “Don’t you know that ladies cannot wander about town unescorted? This isn’t Westcourt. Since Miss Harper has no maid, my coachman brought her in the back so no one in the square would note her arrival. Anyone with a care for her reputation would do the same.”

  Reginald’s eyes widened.

  Faith nodded. “As for my call, I asked Mr. Lascar to recommend a man of business to handle my affairs. I do not wish to leave my inheritance in the hands of the Westcourt solicitor. Now suppose you state your business. Then leave me alone.”

  “You have to talk some sense into that damned publisher. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.” He leaped up to prowl restlessly about the library.

  “What happened?” As if she couldn’t guess…

  “He tossed me out with barely a glance at my epic! I told him it would make us both rich, but he tossed me out!”

  John shrugged. “So try another publisher.”

  “I did! No one would speak with me, and their clerks demanded that I leave everything there until someone had time to look at it. That could take days!”

  “Or weeks. Or months.” She shook her head. “If you want to succeed, you must first find out how the publishing business works, Reginald. That is not something I can do for you,” she added when he tried to object. “Go back and speak with the clerks. Politely – you need them far more than they need you, so you must humble yourself. Ask them about proper procedures Ask them if they publish your sort of material. Then make a fair copy for each one who might be interested and wait for a response.”

  “But I need money now!”

  “Then find a job.”

  “No. I’m a poet, not a hack. I suppose it was too much to expect London idiots to understand my vision. I’ll have to go to Scotland. You must come with me, Faith.” He reached for her, but halted when John rose.

  Reginald scowled. “Tell him to leave. He has nothing to do with us.”

  “I asked him to stay because I knew you would be unreasonable.”

  “I? Unreasonable?” He backed a pace.

  “Exactly. You never listen to anything you don’t want to hear, but that will change right now. I want you to leave and never return. Scotland won’t help you. Go back to Westcourt and your silly dreams. Or stay in London and find a job. But don’t bother me again.”

  “I can’t leave you to fend for yourself. Do you know what they’re saying about you?”

  “Of course, I do. Chester hates me, so he will spread as much slander as possible. But that is not your concern.”

  “It is. The only way to make it go away is to wed me.”

  “Nonsense. It will fade as soon as people learn that Chester is lying – which will happen much faster if you stop demanding these ridiculous meetings.”

  “Ri—”

  “Ridiculous. Take my advice and return to Westcourt. I doubt that anyone will waste money on your epic. It is incomprehensible.”

  “Why, you—” He jumped forward.

  John caught his arm. “This way, Simmons.” Before Reginald could object, John esc
orted him to the street and locked the door behind him.

  “Sorry about that.” Faith joined John in the hall.

  “Someone needs to teach him about the world.”

  “He’s learning.” She leaned against him as his arm came around her shoulder. “I cannot entirely blame him, though. His mother coddled him. If he’d attended school, he would be the better for it. He knows little about people and nothing about life.”

  “He knows enough to understand that only a husband can counter Chester’s lies.”

  “Or a change of name.” She laid her fingers over his mouth. “No more, John. You have work to do.” Leaving him in the hallway, she headed upstairs.

  * * * *

  Faith could barely choke down dinner that night, too aware of John’s black mood. Was he furious that she’d again turned him down? Or was it the similarity between the sketches? He was probably the only man in England who shunned titles.

  She could understand to some extent. A title meant abandoning his dreams. The Office of Works wouldn’t accept a duke into its ranks. Unfair, but life was often unfair. John did not yet comprehend the benefits that would balance that loss. If he was the duke…

  “How are the Worthington changes coming?” she asked while Treburn laid out the second course. After Reginald’s call, he’d postponed their visit to Bullock’s, so she assumed new problems had arisen.

  “Badly.” He shook his head. “I can’t concentrate today.”

  “Why? If you’re right that Portland is chasing shadows, everything will return to normal in a day or two.”

  “Maybe. But I know Alex too well. He does not accept failure. Having been hired to find the duke, he will find one. And since he despises greed, he will find a living duke to cut Chester from the succession. Much as I admire the skill he exhibited during the war, I fear that his determination might twist facts until he shoves me into a position I don’t want.”

  So she was right. “A title offers many advantages.”

  “Not to me. Aristocrats are casually cruel all too often. I could never deal with such people on a daily basis. There is no pride in a position one holds by an accident of birth.”

  “That might be true for the title itself, but addressing responsibility is as worthy of pride as designing a building.”

  “Hardly. My successes arise as much from loving my work as from any skill I possess. I’ve no skill for other pursuits. Being forced into a position I don’t want eliminates pleasure.”

  So he’d settled for being stubborn. It was a trait every Willowby shared. Years of dealing with Willowbys told her that argument would make it worse, so she changed tactics.

  Because she loved him, she must do what she could to help him accept whatever truth Portland discovered, even if that truth was that he was Westfield. “The title offers challenges you are uniquely skilled to address – repairing Westcourt, for example. I saw how Chester’s ideas made you flinch. You love the place.”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded grudgingly. “But a free rein at Westcourt can hardly compensate for the rest. Not that it matters. I am not Montrose, and I won’t let Alex pretend that I am.”

  Treburn stepped into the dining room. “Lord Portland to see you, sir.”

  All the blood drained from John’s face. “Put him in my study. I will speak with him after dinner.”

  “He claims his errand is urgent.”

  “If he wishes to speak with me, he must wait.”

  Treburn withdrew.

  Faith swallowed food without tasting a bite. She doubted that John did, either. There was only one reason Portland would return this late.

  John’s reluctance was understandable. The dukedom didn’t just include Westcourt. It was an empire far more complex than his architectural office, encompassing agriculture, politics, manufacturing, and a host of other businesses that he knew little about. Aristocratic heirs learned early to oversee their inheritances. They were taught from birth to accept duty. Duty to the crown. Duty to their title. Duty to their family. Nothing could interfere with carrying out that duty. There was no way to avoid their destiny.

  It was the duchess’s one miscalculation. By demanding that Montrose live in anonymity, she had deprived him of the training that would make accepting duty automatic. Instead, he’d lived with boys who could choose their trades. Rather than duty, he’d embraced desire. John had become an architect because he loved designing buildings. He’d worked hard, studied hard, and succeeded with little help from others. Pride was natural.

  But Portland now threatened that pride. A duke would have little time for design. John would be miserable unless he took pride in his new position.

  Her heart went out to him. If Portland had proved that Mrs. Lascar had no connection to Francine, he would have sent round a note, then resumed his search. Instead, he’d called, interrupting dinner…

  So John must be the duke. Despite the disparity in ages. Despite a circle of family and friends. Despite everything. Thus she must leave by morning. The news would sweep London tomorrow. He would face doubt, suspicion, and outright antagonism from established peers. And he would face desperate derision from Chester. He couldn’t court further trouble by living with a lady not his wife.

  Tonight, she must help him accept the benefits of the title. He could accomplish much with the power and wealth of the dukedom behind him. Making him see that truth was the only way to express her love.

  Treburn removed the covers and set out the sweet course. Faith toyed with a lemon cream while John plodded methodically through a tart, three biscuits, and a bowl of nuts. But finally he could delay no longer.

  “Shall we, my dear?” He held out his arm.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Goodman brought Chester to Westcourt to talk sense into me, as he puts it. It proves that Richard miscalculated. Goodman never believed his warnings, attributing them to a childhood grudge. Now he ignores the avarice in Chester’s eyes. So I must persevere alone. At least Montrose is safe…

  Duchess of Westfield, July 12, 1787

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” said Alex the moment John entered the study.

  All the blood from John’s head drained out the soles of his feet, making him sway. “No. I won’t let you twist facts so you can claim success!”

  “I twist nothing!” Alex glared.

  “Please, gentlemen,” begged Faith, taking a seat.

  John sucked in a breath to steady his nerves. He’d feared this since the moment Alex had produced that damnable sketch so like his mother – if only he hadn’t suggested making one. But he would not go down without a fight. Living as someone he despised would destroy him.

  “Alex, I know you often succeed where others have failed, but not every case can end to your satisfaction. I am John Lascar and nothing you contrive can change it.”

  Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “My sympathies, but while you have lived as John Lascar for twenty-eight years, you were born Montrose Willowby, heir to the eighth Duke of Westfield.”

  “No!” John slammed his fist onto the mantel. Faith jumped, but he couldn’t consider her sensibilities just now. He was fighting for his life.

  Alex sighed. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t want a fight at the end of it. Sit down, John.”

  He hesitated, then took a seat next to Faith. She clasped his hand between both of hers, lending enough strength to clear his head.

  “What did you learn?” asked Faith.

  “I first called on Bernard. He identified your sketch as Francine DuBois, though she looked more careworn than when he’d last seen her. When he learned that she was dead, he grieved. I suspect he loved her.”

  “He loves Francine. You know as well as I that strangers can share a face. It happens too often to be ignored.”

  “That is true, and you are correct that it is Francine he loves. He would have helped her after the duke’s death, but she left without a word. It was to protect her as much as Montrose that he lied to the trustees. A man does n
ot forget the woman he loves.” He shook his head.

  “But that does not rule out similarity of countenance between Mother and Francine.”

  “Don’t forget expression,” said Faith softly. “You are enough of an artist to capture her character as well as her face.”

  He glared, torn between pride in his work and the need to deny it.

  Alex studied the picture a moment longer, then continued. “A good point, for Bernard commented on the characteristic tilt of her head in the sketch you did.” A raised hand stopped further protest. “I next called at Dingle’s tobacco shop. Mr. Dingle swears this depicts his Aunt Molly. He remembers her well, for he was ten when she arrived. He also recalls her son, Arnold. The children called him Peewee because he was small for his age.”

  John flinched as both names reverberated in his head, too familiar for comfort.

  “Mr. DuBois also remembers her, for they are of an age. He was infatuated with her as a young man, so it annoyed him that she paid more attention to his father than to him. He also recalls her return twenty years later, child in tow. He had a wife and several babes of his own by then, but he still carries a soft spot for her.”

  “Did she tell him where she’d been?” asked Faith.

  “No. He rarely saw her. They nodded if they passed on the street, but she stayed indoors for the most part.”

  “To avoid people’s questions, I suppose.”

  He nodded. “I next visited Little Bacon Street.”

  John frowned, for the name meant nothing.

  “That is where Marie and Henry Lascar lived after their marriage – the direction is in Henry’s service records. The landlord remembers them fondly. Henry was of medium height with dark hair and wiry build. Marie was tiny and dark-skinned, but very pretty. And she was eighteen when John was born…”

  Faith gasped.

  John shook his head. “After thirty-three years, it is hardly a surprise that he would confuse her with another tenant. The coloring is right, but Mother was of average height. She worked as a seamstress for ten years before meeting Da and was twenty-five when I was born. Everyone says she aged badly after Da died, so she undoubtedly looked younger than her years before then. The landlord probably equates marriage with youth.”