The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Very well.” She tied them on, wondering if the ribbons could support the additional weight. And it was weight. She nearly stumbled on the first step.

  “Take my arm,” he suggested. “It is bound to feel odd at first. The sole will never be as flexible as the other one. But with practice, you can walk smoothly, and you will no longer tug crookedly on your hip.”

  “It’s heavy,” she said, taking his hand.

  “This one is, because the only material I had was wood. Leather with a hollow center will create a lighter product.”

  She circled the room once on his arm, then let go and tried it alone. The oddness receded as she became accustomed to the new feel. And he was right about her hip. Already it felt better.

  By the third circuit, she’d discovered that short, ladylike steps eliminated any stiffness. They also made her glide smoothly. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she gasped. “I look like a lady!”

  “Of course you do. You’ve always looked like a lady, Faith.” He pulled her against him. “A perfect lady. A lady I love to distraction.”

  “Not now.” She covered his mouth, unwilling to listen to whatever lies he’d devised to force her into marriage. “Let me celebrate walking limp-free.”

  “And how do you suggest we celebrate?” He nipped her nose.

  She smiled provocatively. “I once found a very suggestive engraving tucked into a history of Rome. Shall we see if it is possible?”

  Chapter Twenty

  My marriage seems so short now. How can I go on without Richard? People hammer at me night and day, and there is no one I can trust. I try to ignore them, as Richard would want. Going back is impossible. But how am I to endure without husband or son?

  Duchess of Westfield, Sept 1787

  With his employees gone, John settled at his desk to sketch designs for the gentlemen’s club. It had been years since he’d last had the luxury of working without distractions.

  But his solitude didn’t last long. He’d been there barely an hour when someone pounded on the window.

  Simmons.

  He’d break the glass if given half a chance, so John opened his private door.

  “Bastard!” Simmons shouted, slamming John into the wall as he surged into the hallway. “How dare you pass yourself off as a nobleman. You are nothing but a filthy tradesman.”

  “If this is how gentlemen behave, then I would love to renounce any connection. Sit down, Simmons,” he added, ducking a swing, then all but pushing him into his office.

  “You dare to touch—”

  “Sit down! Do you think I want to have anything to do with you? But circumstances leave me no choice.”

  “Hah!” He spun away from the chair. “I won’t let you get away with fabricating evidence, sirrah. You shan’t steal Faith so easily.”

  “I can’t steal what was never yours. She made it clear enough that she wants nothing to do with you.”

  “Because you made her think you could offer a title.”

  “Sit down.” The cold fury in John’s voice finally made Simmons comply. “You insult Miss Harper with every word. She turned you down at Westcourt and again in town before she had any inkling I might be the missing heir. It’s time you grew up, sir.”

  “You dare—”

  “Much as I might wish otherwise, it appears that I am Westfield.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that bothers you?”

  “Your beliefs don’t matter. What does matter is that one of the many duties I will face is responsibility for a pack of relatives I’ve never known, the least likeable of which is you. I strongly suggest you take Miss Harper’s advice and find a job, for I detest leeches.”

  “I have as job. I’m a poet.”

  “Until you can support your own establishment with the proceeds of your writing, you are a leech. I will never house an artist unless he shows talent, and I’ve seen no evidence of talent in you. And don’t cite that weak chest. I’ve seen no evidence of that, either.”

  “I’ve always been weak. I nearly died as a child.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but many a sickly youth grows into a robust man. And many more are sickly only in their mother’s eyes. If you expect to waste the rest of your life in idleness, then you’d best pray I escape this title. Or find yourself another patron. Because if the Westfield title comes to me, my first act will be to find you a post, then wash my hands of you.”

  Simmons’s mouth worked several times, but no sound emerged. Finally he drew himself erect. “Don’t think you can get away with this, Lascar. Dealing with publishers has kept me too busy to consult Mr. Goodman, but I can assure you that he will expose you for the fraud you are. You’ll spend the rest of your life in Botany Bay.”

  He slammed out harder than he’d entered.

  John followed to check the locks, then shook his head and returned to work. Simmons was worse than a leech. Perhaps he should send the fellow to India or the Caribbean where he wouldn’t be able to annoy Faith.

  John bit back a sigh when Treburn again interrupted dinner, yet another letter on his salver. Faith had been right that servants knew everything. His staff had become insufferably formal, treating him like royalty. He had no doubt they were already rubbing their improved consequence into the noses of neighboring staffs, especially the ones who had looked down on those who served a mere architect.

  God deliver him from snobs…

  “From Lord Portland, Your Grace.” Treburn bowed obsequiously.

  John waved him away before cracking the seal. He hated people who hovered. There would be mass departures if this kept up.

  “Don’t scowl at him, John,” said Faith once they were again alone, then cursed her sharpness. It did no good to be irritated at him. He was coping as well as could be expected.

  “He’s changed.”

  She caught his hand before he could slap the table in frustration. “He can’t help it. Servants have a very keen sense of what is due their masters.”

  “I know their standing derives from mine, but—”

  “Accept it, John. Arguing serves no purpose. Servants have a more rigid hierarchy than even the stuffiest aristocrats, and they don’t ignore consequence. No one knows that better than I, for I was raised by them. The Westcourt staff loved your father because he was a good man. They adored you because you were a delightful child. They prayed that you would return safely, and they tried to keep your inheritance safe until you did, but they stayed on after the duchess’s death mainly because leaving would have diminished their credit. They had no chance of moving to another ducal household.”

  “That may be true, but it is ridiculous to treat me different because of an accident of birth I neither asked for nor enjoy. I am the same man I was a week ago.”

  “Are you?”

  He glared, unwilling to argue.

  “I don’t imply that you are better or worse, but shock changes people. You cannot look at the world in the same way. You ask different questions when making decisions. You even see your own past in a different light.”

  “Perhaps I do – or will once I have time to think.”

  She nodded. “You are as aware as I of how your position compares to those around you. No craftsman can succeed without knowing who he must defer to and who he can dominate. You are good to your servants, and they appreciate it. You pay them well, and I’m sure they appreciate that, too. Now you’ve handed them a bonus. A duke’s title adds benefits they will enjoy wherever they go. You can’t blame them for reveling in it, especially since it was unexpected.”

  John cursed, though he knew she was right. No one would treat him the same again. Nor would they speak honestly to him. He must now weigh every word against the speaker’s motives.

  “What does Portland say?” Faith asked, glancing at his letter.

  Sighing, he unfolded the page. “He will call in half an hour, accompanied by the witnesses Cunnington requested.”

  “That was fast.”

&
nbsp; “He’d sent a man to Westcourt to seek old servants the moment he suspected I was the duke. They just arrived.” He could never accuse Alex of slow thinking, but he wished the man was a little less efficient. Keeping up with all these surprises made him dizzy.

  “The trustees will be back in town, then.”

  “Undoubtedly, but until my identity is proved, they cannot discuss the duke’s business with me. Nor will they wish to. They need every hour they can muster to devise explanations for their laxity and to replace missing funds.”

  “Which means their first call will be on Chester to demand restitution.” She bit her lip.

  “It can’t be helped. You said yourself that he knows about me by now. Simmons certainly does.”

  “But another demand for money can’t be good.”

  “There is nothing we can do about Chester until I have the title,” he reminded her.

  She sighed. “What witnesses did Portland find?”

  “He doesn’t say, but we’ll find out soon enough.” He tackled his tart.

  “Does he always work this fast?” asked Faith, choosing a cream from the sweets tray.

  “He didn’t when I first met him, but he was retired then, exhausted from years of chasing spies. He had a reputation at the Home Office for determination and efficiency. His recent investigations confirm that.”

  “I hope he shares our fears about Chester.”

  “How can he not? He read the diary. And I would wager he saw the trustees the moment they returned, so he will know the full story of Chester’s defalcations, too.”

  * * * *

  Alex arrived promptly, accompanied by five people. John recognized two of them. Ignoring Ned for the moment, he seated the other, bowing over her hand.

  “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Parker. How is Wesley?” She and her son had been childhood neighbors.

  “Good. He drives a delivery wagon for Grayson Imports. His four sons are the delight of my old age.”

  “Not old,” he swore, squeezing her fingers. “You’ve a good many years in you yet, I’d wager.”

  “Too many shocks like this, and I won’t. Who would have thought I smacked the behind of a duke all those years ago?” She’d often looked after him when Mrs. Frobisher was ailing.

  “I deserved it.” He glanced around, but Faith was murmuring with Ned instead of pouring coffee, so he turned back to Alex.

  Alex motioned the others forward. “This is Mrs. Truitt,” he said, presenting a stout woman with callused hands. “She was the nursery under-maid before wedding the innkeeper’s son. They now run the Blue Stone in Westcourt Village.”

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” she exclaimed. “His lordship’s claims seemed so fantastic, but you have your father’s cleft chin. He was so proud of you. Spent as much time in the nursery as in his office.”

  “Mrs. Truitt,” John replied, unable to think of a better response. Perhaps if he’d studied the pictures in the Westcourt gallery this wouldn’t be such a shock. He remembered seeing the Blue Stone across the village green from the church. “Your inn is lovely,” he said now, unsticking his tongue. “Blue shutters, as I recall, and a neat yard. I hope the trustees inspected the stables during their visit.”

  “You sent them.” Her face lit. “Truitt insisted Chester had finally forced them to listen, but I knew it wasn’t possible. That man is evil!”

  He nodded before he could catch himself. “We’ll straighten out any problems once this other business is concluded.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and backed away as Alex drew the next witness forward, an elderly woman with rheumatic hands, a face like a dried apple, and a stoop requiring support from a cane. But he recognized her eyes. He’d last seen them as his mother’s life faded away.

  “This is Molly Dingle’s sister, Rose Kemp,” Alex said. “She married the chandler across from her father’s tobacco shop and occasionally looked after Molly’s son.”

  Recognition tickled John’s mind in a quick flash of a woman, hands on her hips, berating him over a broken bowl. “Mrs. Kemp,” he said, bowing over her hand. “You bear a strong likeness to my— Molly.”

  “And you’ve grown quite tall.” She craned her neck to meet his gaze. “We worritted a bit, for you was small for your age. Why my William was inches taller for all he was a year younger.”

  “I was younger, too.” He shook his head, still unused to that oddity. If Soane had known—

  “You don’t say!” She laughed. “How like Molly, though she’d have raised fewer brows by saying so. But it does me heart proud to see what you’ve come to.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t notify you of her death.” He grasped her free hand, battling renewed grief. “I’m afraid I had no memory of her family by then.” His throat closed.

  “No need to fret,” she said comfortably. “His lordship explained how it was. And it was like Molly to hide what she didn’t want known. Always swore she’d be important one day, and she was right.”

  “I’m sorry just the same.” But it was true that Molly had hidden much. Her only mistake had been not anticipating that she might die. If she’d left him a letter…

  Again he recalled her desperate attempts to speak in those final hours. Now that he knew the truth, he could pick out several messages beyond his identity. A warning against Chester. Orders that he return to the Dingles – she’d probably feared that he might fall into the workhouse without help.

  Faith noted his hesitation and moved to Mrs. Kemp’s side. “Come and sit, ma’am,” she murmured. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  John watched her hobble away, then turned back to Alex.

  “And this is Bernard,” said Alex.

  Bernard was in his sixties, with gray hair and a careworn face. But he stood ramrod straight, his eyes sparkling with intelligence.

  John held out his hand. “I owe you much. Without your misdirection, they would have followed, thwarting Her Grace’s plan.”

  “You are alive. That is payment enough.” His grip was firm.

  “Hardly. Chester tried to ruin you. It leaves a huge debt.”

  “Not huge. I’ve enjoyed many of my students.”

  John nodded, liking that the man had made the best of his situation. Bitter whiners were not to his taste. “Would you consider returning to secretarial work? I will need help from someone familiar with the ducal business.”

  “It must have changed considerably in thirty years.”

  “Undoubtedly, but you still know more about it than I do. Once this business is complete, I’d like to discuss it.”

  “I would be honored.” He suddenly looked ten years younger. “You’ve your mother’s eyes, though your brows turn up like the duke’s. A delightful combination.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Alex. “What now?”

  “A necessary formality. Each has already described your scar before witnesses. It is distinctive enough that I have no doubt they know you, but they must actually confirm that it is yours before they can swear to your identity. Your study would be the most suitable location, I believe. If you will be so kind…?” He gestured to the door.

  Refusing to grimace, John headed for his study to bare his behind.

  * * * *

  Faith forced calm over senses that were again whirling. Or tried.

  How could she have been so blind? Her instincts had warned her the moment John had walked into Westcourt, but she’d ignored them.

  Idiot!

  How often had she studied the portraits in the gallery, particularly those of the eighth duke and duchess? She knew his chin and eyes, knew the odd way the duke’s brows turned up. But she’d believed Montrose was dead and hadn’t even entertained the possibility that John might be related in a natural way – the sixth duke had reputedly sampled every female for miles, giving half the villagers ducal blood.

  Only a naïve fool would have attributed that niggling sense of familiarity to passing him unnoticed on the street. Talk about absurd!

&n
bsp; John was a man who demanded notice. She could never have walked past without wondering who he was.

  Her willful blindness would cost her dearly. If she’d questioned his identity from the beginning, she could have started the identification process before she’d sacrificed her virtue. John would not feel honor-bound to wed her, and she could have found a position that would keep her content. Surely there was someone who might appreciate an educated companion who could also run a household.

  But she hadn’t, and it was too late to repine.

  At least Portland’s efficiency would settle John’s identity quickly, so she could leave tonight with a clear conscience. Portland could keep John safe and see that Chester paid for his crimes.

  Treburn summoned the witnesses. As they filed out, Faith brought Portland a glass of wine. “Do you know where Chester is?” she murmured.

  “I have a man watching him. His knocker remains down, and he is avoiding his clubs, which I find suspicious. He may be planning some trick for which he can avoid blame by claiming to be out of town.”

  “Or he may be ducking creditors. Bitstaff wants payment of that vowel, and the trustees will demand repayment for what he stole. But how is he spreading slander about John if he doesn’t go out?”

  “By post. He sent a dozen letters from Westcourt.”

  “Which makes his charges sound more plausible.” She nodded.

  “A second batch went out from Oxford, implying that he’s headed west.”

  “How—”

  “Valet. His man is not currently in town.”

  Faith glanced at the drawing room door, which remained firmly closed. “I fear what Chester will do now that John has blunted the gossip. Murder is no stretch.”

  “He won’t have long to consider it.” Portland set his empty glass on a table. “His money woes are the least of his problems. I’ve discovered half a dozen accidents involving men who irritated him, and I’ve barely begun to look. Two of the victims are powerful lords.”

  “Chester will never change his ways,” she warned quietly. “Something isn’t right with his head. If he discovers your interest, he will move faster against John and attack you as well.”