The Duke's Mysterious Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  The smile in his eyes contained a sensual flame. “Indeed.”

  He strode away over the grass to the stables. With a soft moan, she watched his tall figure until he disappeared into the trees.

  “What am I to do, Ulysses?” she asked the dog. He panted and tugged at the lead. “Let’s continue our walk, what a good idea,” she said. “Walking always clears one’s head.” But what about one’s heart?

  ****

  Heads swiveled to watch them as Hugh escorted Viola into the ballroom. No surprise, in a gown of golden net over white satin, her pale hair bound with white ribbon she was stunning. His sister’s topaz necklace adorned her slender neck and matching earbobs dressed her ears.

  The room was crowded, hot and smoky, a thousand candles burning. Waiters roamed with trays of champagne. Hugh paused to take three flutes, offering one to each lady. “Shall we sit down?”

  Clarissa gave him a warning glance. “I wish Viola to meet Lady Perry.”

  Clarissa was overcautious. Annoyed, Hugh bowed stiffly and strolled away to speak to friends.

  He kept his distance during the evening, as Viola was pursued for every dance. His plan to dance with her had been swiftly dashed when Clarissa warned him not to waltz. It might be all right at Vale Park, she had said, but not here in Bath. It would set the gossips on fire, and already tongues were wagging about his argument with the Prince of Wales.

  Gossip never overly concerned him, but he would take care for Viola’s sake. He partnered her for a long, tedious country-dance and could manage only snatches of conversation, and afterwards devoted his attention to the other women present.

  It did not escape his sister that his eyes strayed constantly in Viola’s direction.

  “You may not mind what people say, Hugh, but I do,” she said, glowering at him from behind her fan. “Rumors concerning your association with Princess Caroline have reached Bath, do you know?”

  “Have sense, Clarissa, do you really believe such rubbish?”

  “Of course I don’t. She’s an awful woman, but there are those inclined to believe anything.”

  This had made him smile, for although Clarissa had bowed to convention and married prudently, she lived entirely by her own set of rules. He’d grown used to finding his sister’s dinner guests a stimulating mix from the upper and lower classes. Those whose noses might be out of joint after attending, had the good sense not to complain, for entertaining conversation and superb cuisine was always on offer. If one wanted to stay in touch with Bath society one attended. Clarissa never considered wealth or breeding to be particularly important, if she liked a person that was enough. She was determined to find Viola a suitable husband here in Bath and he had no reason to stand in her way.

  Clarissa need not have worried about him, Hugh thought, watching Jeremy Forester act in a surprising and reckless fashion.

  Jeremy had already danced with Viola twice and now claimed her for a waltz.

  ****

  Mr. Forester was not what one would call a natural dancer, but his hands were firm and purposeful as they guided Viola around the floor. When the dance ended, he escorted her to her chair, and rarely strayed far from her side. She relaxed in his company, until he brought up the question of her family again. Suddenly, the room became far too noisy and hot.

  “I am an only child,” Viola explained, going on to embellish the story she and Clarissa had created. “My mother is dead. I live just outside a village called Lower Broughton in Devon, with my father.” As her story unfolded, the image of a Tudor house swam into view, adorned with wild, climbing roses and an apple orchard where a horse’s soft nose nudged her hand, begging for a treat.

  She tried to speak but the air squeezed out of her lungs. An awful dizziness frightened her until she sank into blessed blackness.

  Viola swam into consciousness. Jeremy Forester kneeled beside her, fanning her furiously with a lady’s fan. Hugh suddenly loomed over her. Without a word, he reached down and gathered her up in his arms.

  “Miss Edgeworth is recovering from an illness,” Clarissa informed the intrigued crowd, who parted to allow Hugh to carry her out through the door into the cool night air. His deep voice resonated in her ear as he called for the carriage to be brought around immediately.

  “I’m sure I can stand,” she said, not sure at all.

  Concern darkening his eyes, his arms tightened around her.

  “No need for that.”

  As he carried her, she gave in and rested her head against his silk waistcoat breathing in his manly smell and feeling safe, if only for a brief moment.

  Nanny tucked a travel rug around her and placed a cushion behind her head in the carriage.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve spoilt your evening,” she whispered, looking up at the three concerned faces.

  “No, it is I who am sorry, Viola. I expected too much of you,” replied Hugh, looking at Clarissa.

  Viola murmured a denial and closed her eyes. As she lay there, she could not ignore the voice in her head: What a problem you are to these kind people. Hugh is merely trying to solve this mystery, to see you back where you belong.

  Later, lying in her bed with Nellie attending, Nanny entered with a hot posset to settle her for the night. At the sight of her, tears flooded Viola’s cheeks. She brushed them away with a shaky finger, ashamed of her weakness.

  “Now, now, dear. What is this?” Nanny patted her hand.

  “I hate being such a nuisance.”

  “I don’t believe you are a nuisance. I’m sure Clarissa doesn’t think so either. Why you’ve been a joy for me.”

  “But, Hugh…”

  “We’ll see, my dear, about that,” Nanny said in a vague tone.

  “I’m such a bother to him.”

  “No. Not a bother, dear girl. Now you are to drink this. It will help you sleep.”

  The next day, refreshed and surprisingly well, Viola was determined not to allow her fears to spoil Nanny’s trip. At breakfast, a plan was formed. They would spend the day shopping in Bath, with the treat of a morning tea at Sally Lunn’s teashop.

  Later that morning, walking along Milsom Street and across the Pulteney Bridge, they browsed through shops filled with thrilling merchandise. Before they left, Hugh had pressed some money upon them for ‘trinkets’ and although Viola didn’t wish to take it, she enjoyed watching Nanny. Small items were bought: a pair of tan gloves, a becoming fringed shawl Nanny adored and Viola insisted she buy, and a pretty, beaded reticule for herself, plus fine lawn handkerchiefs edged in lace, which she planned to embroider with Clarissa’s initials.

  They ate delicious buns at the teashop, and then walked across the cobbled square of Abbey Green. Laughing at an amusing thing they had seen, an organ grinder and his naughty monkey, they ambled back to where the barouche waited.

  When they approached the entrance to the Abbey churchyard, two men walked toward them. They crossed Viola’s path, and one of them peered so closely into her face she could smell the rum on his breath. She opened her mouth to rebuke his familiarity, when his gaze settled on her locket and his bloodshot eyes brightened. He turned away from her and whispered to his companion. The other man gazed at her in turn, and then they both hurried away.

  Unaware, Nanny walked on ahead, chattering away. Viola quickly followed. The men meant nothing to her, and yet they had tugged at something in the recesses of her mind. Am

  I being fanciful? She tried to shrug off the oppressive feeling that tightened her chest.

  Mr. Forester appeared, and was a welcome distraction. He swept off his hat and bowed.

  “How pleased I am to find you in much better health, Miss Edgeworth.”

  “I am, Mr. Forester. I must thank you for your kind ministrations at the ball. I’m so sorry to have alarmed you. It was nothing but fatigue and the heat.”

  “The duchess informed me that you are recovering from a malady. I do hope it was nothing serious.”

  Viola sighed inwardly. Lies followed lies and ever
ything became more complicated. “No, indeed. A touch of influenza last winter left me a little peaky. I am much better now, I assure you.”

  “Please allow me to take you both to tea.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Forester,” said Nanny, “but we have had tea and are now on our way home.”

  “This proves even more provident. I shall escort your carriage on my horse, if you’ll allow me. I’m on my way home also, and we go in the same direction.”

  The barouche traveled along Walcot Street and left the town behind. Mr. Forester reined his horse alongside the open carriage, allowing their conversation to continue.

  Viola glanced up at him from under her parasol. He really is a most personable man. He was far more graceful in the saddle than dancing, sitting astride the large animal with ease.

  “He’s a beautiful stepper, Mr. Forester,” she said, “and has a fine head.”

  “You’re quite right, Miss Edgeworth. He’s a favorite in my stable. You have knowledge of horses.”

  Viola was surprised to find that she did. “We breed them in a small way.” As she said it, she wondered why it came so easily to her lips. The carriage had rounded a bend where bushes narrowed the road, forcing Mr. Forester to fall behind. As the barouche traveled deeper into the woods, a house with twisted chimneys and a rampant garden came into her mind.

  She saw the Tudor dwelling clearly, the front steps, leading to... Viola gasped; something lay behind that door she could not face.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Nanny asked her.

  “Yes, Nanny.” Viola shut her eyes and wished it would go away. She refused to examine it further, for such pain awaited her there.

  A jolt threw them back against the seat. With a curse, the coachman pulled the horses up. Ahead of them on the road stood a pair of masked men, their pistols aimed in their direction.

  “Dear heaven!” Nanny clutched Viola’s arm.

  Despite the masks, Viola knew them to be the men she had seen earlier. One man was a giant and towered over the other.

  “The young lady is to get down,” the smaller man called out, his voice coarse and rough behind his kerchief. “The rest of ye stay put and be quiet or we’ll kill the lot of ye.”

  Viola fought to keep calm. She peeled Nanny’s grip from her arm. “Don’t you move,” she whispered. She stood and moved to the door of the barouche. “Please don’t shoot. I will do as you say. You may take the few valuables I have.”

  “Stay where you are, Miss Edgeworth.” Jeremy Forester’s voice thundered out somewhere behind them. “The lady is not giving in to your demands. Drop your guns. We have you covered.”

  The element of surprise threw the highwaymen. They muttered together.

  “I won’t warn you again,” Mr. Forester yelled. A rifle shot hit the branch above the men’s heads and fell in pieces all around them. The horses reared and whinnied.

  Losing their nerve, the robbers mounted their horses and took off at a gallop.

  “Why, Mr. Forester,” gasped Viola, as she picked up her skirts and leapt down from the barouche. “How come you had your gun?”

  Mr. Forester ran from his hiding place holding his hunting rifle. “I took my rifle into town today to have it seen to. It’s been jamming,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  Despite her pulse still roaring in her ears, Viola laughed.

  “Well, it certainly works now, and how lucky we are that it does!”

  She turned to assist Nanny, only to find she had already climbed down with the help of the groom. “Well done, Mr. Forester!” Nanny said. Far from giving in to the vapors, she leapt about, waving her parasol like a weapon. “You out did those brutes admirably.”

  The rest of the trip home was uneventful. When Viola reached the quiet of her room, she went over the episode in her mind convinced she was right. They were the men she had seen in Bath. Had they spied something of value and wished to rob her? She touched the locket. One of the men had seen it and it would fetch a pretty penny. In truth, she wore a Parisian-made walking dress courtesy of Clarissa, and traveled in the duke’s barouche, which gave her the appearance of a person of great substance.

  She trembled as the true awfulness of the situation became clear. How lucky they were that Mr. Forester had been there for they might have done far worse to them all.

  Hugh was furious. He organized a posse of men who worked on his estate and local farmers to comb the area, but the men had vanished.

  He questioned Viola and Nanny endlessly. Viola had never seen him angry, he was quite formidable. She described the men she had seen in Bath, and their reaction to her locket.

  Hugh said little, his hands clenched at his side, as he drew the details of the highwaymen’s appearance from her.

  “You will not travel without protection again,” he said. “It is fortunate that we return to Vale Park soon.”

  Viola released a breath. He meant to take her back to Vale Park, as he hadn’t said so, the possibility that he would leave her here had kept her awake at night.

  Viola saw more of Jeremy Forester at assemblies and in the card room, where gossip spread as quickly as the influenza. The holdup had advantageously wiped Viola’s name from their lips, for everyone was now talking about highwaymen. The small community was greatly alarmed that such a thing could happen so close to town. As is wont to happen in such cases, the tale was embellished, and Jeremy emerged as a hero of mythical proportions, although he modestly attempted to relate the true version of events.

  Armed, Hugh accompanied them whenever they ventured into town. Viola was sure he had better things to do than listen to Nanny’s enthusiastic descriptions of Bath. Crammed into the barouche, Viola tried to remain detached from his proximity, his knees almost touching hers. But when his gaze locked with hers, he looked fiercely protective and surprisingly proprietorial.

  In that moment, as Nanny prattled on, Viola felt something pass between them, before she looked away again, hot and confused.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Viola and Hugh’s time in Bath came to an end, Clarissa announced that she was to hold a ball and invite all of Bath Society. As if that wasn’t excitement enough, she decided on a costumed affair.

  “I think it shall be in the old style.” She walked about the room, gesturing wildly. “We shall wear those wonderful white wigs of the mid-eighteenth century with black patches on our cheeks, oh, and panniers, of course.”

  But, Your Grace,” said Viola, gently, “how will everyone obtain these things at such short notice?”

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult to have seamstresses stitch up a full skirt.”

  Viola thought of the poor needlewomen sewing by the light of candles far into the night. “I doubt the wig-makers could achieve such an order in the time allotted.”

  “Oh, tis true! How quickly the time has gone,” Clarissa cried. “I feel quite overcome with sadness at the prospect of your departure. I don’t know if I wish to have a ball after all.”

  “Oh, but you must.” Viola knew the event meant a lot to the lively duchess. She turned to Hugh for aid. “Do you not think so, Your Grace? Everyone is looking forward to it. We can just wear enticing loo-masks. It will be such fun.”

  A small smile hovered about his lips. “Viola is quite right, Clarissa. You know how much you enjoy these occasions. It will be something for us all to remember.”

  Viola sensed he hated the idea, but would do anything to make his sister happy. At Clarissa’s begging, Hugh had extended their stay another week although his impatience to return home was evident in the way he stalked about and disappeared to ride his horse for hours at a time.

  “Yes, a masquerade,” Clarissa mused. “What a wonderful idea.”

  Clarissa and Hugh broke into a lively discussion of how it should be done. Hugh tried to reason Clarissa out of the need for domino masks, but on this, she would not be swayed.

  “Hugh, you just don’t wish to wear one,” Clarissa said, with a peal of laught
er. “I might insist on the wigs instead.”

  Viola, who had been an observer of their affectionate banter, swallowed a lump in her throat, hoping they would remember her with affection, as she would them.

  ****

  After many days of disruption, the house was in readiness for the ball.

  Lanterns brightened the gardens, and the ballroom mirrors reflected the golden, glowing light of the beeswax candles in crystal chandeliers and wall sconces. The candles added their perfume to the lilacs, roses, and lavender filling the huge urns in every corner. No one declined an invitation to Whitcombe Hall.

  The guests began to arrive after nine o’clock dressed in their disguises, with the knowledge that at the stroke of midnight they must all unmask.

  The duke was distinguished in white satin and gold; Clarissa dressed in crimson and black lace, with a saucy, black loo-mask. Viola wore pale lavender. Hugh looked like a handsome pirate in black trimmed with silver.

  After a light repast, the floor filled with dancers enjoying the freedom of anonymity. The orchestra played French quadrilles, cotillions and Viennese waltzes. Some danced a little recklessly, and one or two imbibed too freely, but the night was in no way the shameless romp that might have occurred at Vauxhall Gardens, or so she was told. Everyone had an eye on the clock, and, in truth, the loo-masks fooled no one.

  Hugh waltzed with Viola. “You were very clever in persuading my sister to change her plans,” he said, smiling. “I, for one, am most grateful. I doubt I’d present well in a powdered wig and patches.”

  Viola tried not to smile. “I confess to being a little disappointed, Your Grace. I would have enjoyed such a spectacle.” She suspected he would look very good indeed.

  Hugh’s eyes gleamed wickedly behind his mask, adding a touch of rogue to his costume

  “Oh, would you indeed? Would I be wise to distrust you? Will you be encouraging my sister in some harebrained scheme in the future?”

  Viola laughed, but the mention of the future made her bite her lip.

  When the dance ended, Hugh left her and bowed before an attractive young woman. He spoke close to the girl’s ear. She giggled, with a coquettish look as he led her on to the floor.