The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “I’ll send a note to Alex. He can arrange something. I don’t suppose Chester will accept fate.”

  She smacked his chest. “Never. Ambition aside, he is too deeply in debt to give up the title. Nothing else can forestall his creditors or placate the trustees. If the title were his, the trustees would overlook any irregularities, for no prosecution is possible without the duke’s support.”

  “And he would never charge himself.”

  “Exactly. So he must eliminate you now. Not next week. Not next year. He will try to arrange an accident, but he will murder you outright if that is what it takes. Desperation will ignore any consequences but the one he wants.”

  John nodded.

  “How much of the diary did you read?”

  “Mostly the passages concerning Chester. If even half of what she claimed is true, I am amazed others did not see his purpose.”

  “I’m not. Chester has a great capacity to hide a black heart under a genial façade. Richard saw the truth only because Chester had attacked him since childhood. The duchess loved Richard enough to accept his word. But few others can conceive of such crimes, so they never look for evidence. And even the duchess didn’t know everything.” She met his gaze. “You should read the diary again – all of it. It contains much besides information about Chester.”

  He nodded. It was something he’d intended to do anyway. Perhaps it would jar loose another memory.

  The image of that toy dog hovered before him. Her rooms had felt special from his first glimpse. Warm. Comforting. Hardly a surprise now that he knew, for he had stayed there often, absorbing her love. She had sacrificed that love to keep him safe. He must see that it had not been in vain.

  His first step was to protect everyone at risk.

  “Read it again,” repeated Faith. “This time concentrate on Montrose. She penned long letters on your birthday each year. She loved you very much.”

  He nodded. “In the meantime, I will close my office for a week.” He would parcel the students out to his assistants so they would not be trapped in the attic if Chester attacked.

  Dropping a light kiss on Faith’s nose, he headed downstairs.

  * * * *

  John joined Faith in the drawing room after dinner, determined to renew his offer. While she willingly indulged in intimacies that would send most ladies into screaming fits, any hint at marriage made her stiffen and pull away.

  The conundrum annoyed him more with each passing hour. If she hated him, how could she give herself so completely? If she cared, why did she refuse? And why was she working so hard to help him in either case?

  He had no reservations about marriage. She was everything he wanted in a wife. Intelligent. Sensual. Well-read. Lust-crazed. Competent. Hot enough to melt his bones…

  He forced control over his breathing as he locked the door behind him. He wanted no interruptions and no escape.

  Sliding the key into his pocket, he forced his mind back to logic. Emotions would prevent a rational discussion. He’d spent the hours before dinner considering and disposing of all possible objections so they could settle the question tonight. He wanted them wed before the week was out. Even if Cunnington or the herald dragged his feet, he could get a license as John Lascar, for it was the name he was generally known by, thus satisfying England’s marriage laws.

  Self-interest alone should have made her jump at his offer, for without her virtue, she had no viable alternative. He had destroyed her chance to arrange another match. She had no money, no prospects, no home. And she might well be pregnant. Discovering he’d been born to a title should have clinched matters. He’d never met a lady who wouldn’t sell her soul for a duchess’s coronet.

  Yet Faith still refused.

  Was she in love with another? The possibility hurt, especially as the only viable candidate was Simmons. But if she loved Simmons, how could she continue lying with him? Men took their pleasure anywhere, with no thought beyond relieving a temporary need, but women were different. Only the most desperate whores would bed anyone who produced their price. Most courtesans needed more, and widows interested in dalliance demanded more yet. Every widow he’d kept over the years had been a little in love with him.

  But not Faith.

  “We need to talk,” he began, then winced at his words.

  “So you finally understand the threat Chester poses.”

  It took him a moment to follow her, for he’d accepted that threat earlier. Why else had he closed his office? “You know I do. Your eloquence convinced me even before I re-read my mother’s diary. But we are safe here. The house sports the latest locks, and my servants are more than competent.” He shrugged. “What I wanted to discuss was you.”

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “Exactly. I do not understand why you remain so opposed to marriage. It made sense when I was merely an architect. Few ladies are willing to marry beneath them, but—”

  “I never considered you inferior!” She surged to her feet, her face in flames. “Don’t you dare denigrate yourself! You know you are worthy of the highest in the land. Duke or architect makes no difference. You are the best man I know.”

  “It does make a difference. No—” he continued when she tried to protest. “I knew my place very well. I was welcomed into aristocratic homes only because my manners were acceptable, my behavior never encroached, and I kept my eyes off the females of the house. It is the way of the world and nothing you need apologize for. But that is no longer the case.”

  “That was never the case, John.” Her eyes shimmered.

  “The last time you refused me, you claimed a duke needed a high-born wife acceptable to society. It stands to reason that you refused me the first time because my breeding was inferior.”

  “Never! Living with the army taught me to judge on behavior rather than breeding. But I know society puts great store in blood, so you must find a wife of good breeding. I would not be eligible in any case. I cannot wed anyone, high or low.”

  “What nonsense is this?”

  “It’s not nonsense. I’ve known since childhood that I am ineligible. Lady Catherine was kind, but she couldn’t hide the truth. The colonel agreed, as did Chester. It is not something you can overlook, particularly now that you must go about in society. My defects would tarnish your reputation, make it impossible for society to accept you, and annoy potential patrons should you continue your business. You will have enough trouble without me dragging you down.”

  He glared. “I haven’t he slightest idea what you mean. Besides, Alex assures me a duke can do whatever he pleases.”

  “He cannot wed someone disdained by the polite world. Not if he expects to take his place in that world. Especially not if questions linger about his very identity.”

  “I don’t care a whit for aristocratic society. You know that. But even if I did, you would not be disdained. Alex has no objections, and he knows that world better than you. It seems Lady Catherine filled your head with nonsense.”

  “She did nothing of the sort. Even breeding has its limits, and one of them is deformity. Society demands perfection and ostracizes anyone who fails to meet its standards. Lady Catherine barely tolerates me, and she is not unusual. No one near Westcourt could stand to look at me.”

  “Deformity? You jest. There is nothing wrong with you.”

  “Of course there is!” She stomped to the window, then whirled to face him. “You are as aware of this disgusting limp as I am. I can’t move without revealing it.”

  “My God!” Pain slashed through him for all that she had suffered in the hands of the insufferably arrogant Lady Catherine. He moved to draw her against him, stroking her back as if she were a child. “Lady Catherine lied,” he said bluntly.

  “Never! She is a lady and has no reason to lie.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me ladies don’t lie after demolishing my claim that gentlemen don’t kill. Lady Catherine has every reason to lie. She is an arrogant witch who cannot stomach being compared unfav
orably to someone both younger and prettier than she. By pushing you into a servant’s role, she could claim credit for running Westcourt without lifting a finger. And she could abuse you without penalty, for you could not leave your post to find more genial employment.”

  “You ignore that everyone agrees with her judgment. The colonel knows firsthand how the world treats deformity. His family could not bear the sight of him, finally turning him off to protect their children’s sensibilities.”

  “For which he sought sympathy. I can see that he played on your emotions until you supplied it. But a slight limp is nothing like a lost limb, and neither necessitates ostracism. As for Chester, you know better than anyone that his word means nothing. He will do or say anything that furthers his own goals, so why would you accept his disdain? He hates you. Not because you deserve it, but because you are living proof that his brother was a good man who incited loyalty and respect in all who knew him.”

  “But—”

  “The neighbors?” He smiled. “Did they dismiss you before Catherine arrived?”

  She shook her head. “But I never really met them. No one calls on children, and the colonel discouraged visitors.”

  “I think any coolness is Catherine’s doing. Think about it, Faith. Alex’s face is badly scarred – a far more obvious deformity than your limp – yet he is accepted everywhere and found a wife who loves him dearly. I’ve seen other lords with similar marks. Lord Marsh’s limp is more pronounced than yours. As is Captain Thomson’s. I know two aristocratic gentlemen who are missing limbs. Neither is turned away when he calls.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve worked for several of them, both in my own practice and when I was apprenticing with Soane. The world is a brutal place. Few survive unscathed.”

  “But they are men, not women, and they weren’t born defective.”

  “Stop denigrating yourself!” he snapped. “I’ve seen ladies with physical problems, too, though I’ve not met them personally – not that it matters. Did your parents consider you defective?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder.

  “Did Baines or Mrs. Baines or Cook deride your limp?”

  “Of course not. They would never criticize someone above them.”

  “Look at me, Faith.” He waited until she complied. “There is nothing to criticize. I adore your limp. It imparts a delightful sway to your hips. Lady Catherine exaggerated to keep you isolated. Not only would you outshine her – inevitable, for you are beautiful – but she didn’t want to sponsor you into society. Girls must have female sponsors, so the chore would have rested on her shoulders. She was the only lady under obligation to the trustees. But accepting such a charge would reveal that her connections are not as powerful as she claims.”

  “Perhaps she exaggerated a little,” she admitted. “But that changes nothing. Yes, Portland and other gentlemen show the effects of life’s mishaps. But ladies have always been held to a different standard. And not just in physical perfection. Ladies must demonstrate accomplishments that I never learned, and they should never indulge in the sort of reading I have done.”

  “According to whom? You’ve had no chance to meet anyone who understands society.” He wanted to shake her until she saw reason. “Lady Catherine might set herself up as an authority, but she is barely accepted into society’s fringes. She eloped, which made her father disown her, and she did it before her first Season, so she’s never been to town. Her mind is both shallow and closed. There are many society ladies who are as educated as you. Ask Alex if you don’t believe me. Intellectual soirees draw ladies as well as gentlemen.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This cursed limp is not something I can hide. It prevents me from moving gracefully. I can’t even dance, which is an accomplishment every lady learns from birth.”

  John frowned. Lady Catherine would pay for her cruelty. But such engrained beliefs would take time to overturn. The word of someone raised outside of society wouldn’t do it. So he tried another approach. “Are you sure you were born with the limp? There might have been an accident when you were very young.”

  “My parents claimed I was born with it. My earliest memories are of pain – I cannot remain on my feet long before my hip begins to ache. It restricted my activity from the moment I left the cradle.”

  “Really?” He raised his brows. “Which hip hurts?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s always the right?”

  She nodded.

  “I wonder…” He backed away several feet and studied her, then returned to untie her gown.

  “What are you doing? We can’t make love in here.”

  “We could. I locked the door. But that is not my purpose.” He grinned. “Unless you wish to distract me?”

  She slapped his hand away.

  “So I thought. I want to look at you when my mind isn’t clouded with desire.” He let her gown slither to the floor, then attacked the strings that held up her petticoat.

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Her voice quavered.

  “I once knew a man who was born with one leg longer than the other. He often complained of hip pain. We relieved it by raising the shoe on the shorter leg.”

  Hope burst through her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her petticoat.

  He forced his gaze away from the breasts swelling above her corset and concentrated. Her chemise clung, teasing the eye by displaying those shapely legs. But unless her corset was skewed, one hip was definitely lower than the other.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured, positioning her so her right hip rested against the wall. “Stand on your right leg only.” He marked the top of her head, then turned her and repeated the process with the left leg. “More than an inch difference. No wonder you are in pain. Have you half-boots I can experiment with?”

  She nodded, her face a study of confusion and hope as she reached for her gown. “I’ll fetch them.”

  John paced as he awaited her return.

  Lady Catherine must pay. His immediate urge was to toss her out of Westcourt without a shilling to her name, but he reined in the impulse. It was odd to think that he had the power to actually do it, and there was no one who could stop him.

  What a terrifying idea.

  He must be very careful how he exercised that power if he hoped to live with himself. His moth— Francine had taught him to care about others, no matter what their breeding, and to treat everyone with respect. He could not insult her memory by abandoning her precepts.

  He faced a multitude of decisions in the weeks ahead, he realized. And not just familiar problems like Westcourt’s leaky roof. What to do with the ducal dependents was another.

  Lady Catherine must leave Westcourt, for he would not force Faith to deal with the woman. Somewhere among his many properties would be a place she could use. A small manor, maybe. Or perhaps a large cottage. Banishment from Westcourt would be punishment enough.

  The Westcourt dower house would go to Hortense and Esther. They would also benefit from escaping Lady Catherine’s tongue.

  The colonel could stay. He was reasonably occupied with compiling a history of the American rebellion along with a memoir of his contributions to it. Defeat made that conflict unpopular, but recording history was always worthy.

  Reginald must find a job – a clerk or secretary, perhaps. Without supervision he would accomplish nothing.

  Then there were the servants. Ned and Polly would make an excellent butler and cook. Faith would know if any of the maids should be promoted to housekeeper. He would find someone to care for Baines and his wife. Aside from their kindness to Faith, they deserved a reward for their years of faithful service. Living out their final days in comfort would be a step in that direction.

  But first he must convince Faith to wed him. Surely minimizing her limp and a serious talk with Alex would convince her that she was not and never had been a pariah.

  * * * *

  John disappeared wit
h Faith’s half-boots, leaving her to pace the drawing room, torn between hope and despair. How had he twisted her into implying that her limp stood between her and marriage. Even if it disappeared – and she didn’t believe for a minute it was possible – the polite world would still shun her. She was an unknown with marginal breeding, unfashionably red hair, no accomplishments aside from knowledge that would make the average lady swoon, and an inability to remain quiet when faced with stupidity. That last might be forgivable in a dowager, but not in someone of her age.

  Yielding to temptation would doom John to ridicule for the rest of his life.

  She should have slipped away the first time they’d stopped to change horses after leaving Westcourt. He would have forgotten her in days if she hadn’t come here. But sharing his house and his bed had strengthened his determination. It was a mistake she must rectify immediately. Promise or not, she must leave.

  The moment John fell asleep tonight, she would carry her trunks to his office. Then she could flag down a hackney – she’d seen several pass through the square. The driver would direct her to a pawn shop.

  She hated leaving John to face Chester alone, but the tale he’d started made it necessary. Too many people would try to prove which rumor was right. If society found her here without a chaperon, the scandal would destroy him. Most gentlemen kept mistresses, but the rules were clear. The woman never lived under his roof, and he never flaunted her before respectable matrons.

  John returned and held out her half-boots. “Try these.”

  Faith frowned. He had added an ungainly inch-high platform to the left sole, making it look as awkward as pattens.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much,” he said, sighing. “But try it. If it works, a bootmaker can devise a more elegant and more flexible shoe.”