Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel

by Audrey Ashwood

  I do not know what is happening with Julianna. Since she decided to emulate Mrs Radcliffe’s success and began her work on her novel, she has changed. She is retreating from me more and more. Where at the beginning we still read what she had written together and come up with the next part of the story, she is now closed off and only reluctantly reveals what she puts on paper. I have considered gaining access to her work and reading it behind her back, but, I do not want to betray her (nor my dignity) by doing so. I shall be patient.

  Hmm. Who had told her that the duke’s first wife had also liked to write? She could not think of it – although she knew that it had been merely a few days ago, if not hours.

  My brother and his wife came to visit. I was surprised at how pleasant the new Lady Beaufort is – I expected a more adventurous woman, who only married my little brother for his title and money. Despite her past as a stage actress (which she doesn’t seem to be concerned about – quite the opposite, she seems outrageously proud of it), Julianna and I have enjoyed these past few days together very much. To see my younger brother cheerful and away from the gambling tables, which could have been his ruin, makes me indulgent in a manner our father would never have been. Also, it is quite apparent by the way they interact with each other, that their feelings for each other are heartfelt and true, as is the case between Julianna and me.

  A thick blotch of ink had made the next two words unreadable. However, what followed after, was clearly written, although in an agitated hand.

  … how it once had been, I should rather say. My wife is becoming more and more estranged. She is increasingly retreating from me and even denies me. It has probably been a month since we last shared our bed, and I must admit that it was a rather unpleasant affair. Instead of accepting me with all of her passion as I was used to, she seemed to endure my affections, rather than to yearn for her release.

  Minerva did not fully understand what he was talking about, and she would have gladly skipped this particular passage, if it had not been for the feeling that she was closing in on something important.

  I have asked her over and over why she was changing, but she refuses to give me an answer other than “You will not understand”. In a marriage, which started as lovingly as ours, is there any worse sentence than this? I do not understand her any longer, and she does not think it worthwhile to share her worries with me. All I know is that, in a bewitched way, it has to do with that book of hers. There are times when I catch her staring at the empty pages with despair, as if she hoped that they would magically fill with words. At other times she writes furiously to the point of absolute exhaustion, and she will not eat, and just drinks tea, all the while getting thinner and thinner.

  This was followed by yet another long pause, where he had not written anything.

  Thomas and his wife came to visit, but only stayed for a short time, before they left for Beaufort House in London. During their visit, it seemed for a while that Julianna was again the woman, whom I fell in love with. She was cheerful, almost happy, and she devoted only one or two hours a day to writing. But only a few days after Thomas and his wife left, everything changed. It seems to me that Julianna is seized by a strange restlessness that can not be restrained. She cries, or she is unusually harsh to the servants – or she allows them a familiarity that is inappropriate. There are hours when I am certain that she is mentally unwell and in need of treatment, and yet I can not bring myself to consult a specialist.

  Minerva swallowed hard. This meant that the duke’s love for his wife was cooling off, even though it was not completely gone. Still, he did think about having her committed. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered reading half an article in the newspaper, before her father had taken it away from her. Bedlam, the big insane asylum in London, had been opened to visitors for a viewing, which is what the unscrupulous reporter had done, and he had not held back about what he had seen. Hastily, Minerva kept on reading in the dwindling candlelight. There was another long gap before the next entry. She closed her eyes for a second, imagining the misery, the lack of love, in a marriage that had started so lovingly.

  I forbid her to write.

  It was just one sentence on that date, and it cut Minerva right to her core. After this, six weeks passed without an entry.

  Thomas says that I should leave her be and that there is no point in opposing the will of a woman. This seems to be the secret of his marital bliss, but he has always been the more lenient of us. I cannot sit back and watch my wife sink into ill health and misery, without trying to do something about it. In a way, he might be right, since my writing ban has done nothing other than making Julianna even more restless and irritable. The presence of her sister-in-law seems to do her good, just as much as that of my easy-going, always cheerful brother. We spent a few days together and her carefree demeanour reminded me of our first year of being married. However, as soon as the two had said their goodbyes, she immediately fell back into her old ways and retreated from me.

  Five weeks later, Julianna informed him that she was expecting his child. His exuberant words burned themselves into Minerva’s memory, and although she knew the outcome of the story, she hoped for a happy ending for the two of them, regardless. His deeply honest, direct way of writing evoked so many emotions within her that it was hard to bear.

  And of course, the next blow followed.

  She told me that she wants to leave me. She does not love me anymore, I am not the man with whom she can be happy for the rest of her life. I am too shallow, and I do not understand her way of living. She says that she had to deny all her true feelings in my presence. I have asked my brother and his wife to come and visit, hoping that they can exert their moderating influence on Julianna and dissuade her from leaving me. The scandal does not scare me, but I worry that she will not be able to live without my help. Even now that I no longer love her the way I once did, I cannot look upon her with indifference.

  The last sentence made Minerva cry.

  Julianna was buried today, and I’m to blame for her death.

  Chapter 16

  Who was this man, who acted dark and unapproachable, and who hunted her mercilessly like a hunter hunts its prey?

  Minerva’s thoughts were making her dizzy.

  How much of the loving man, who the Duke of Scuffold had once been, was still in him today? And how much had died together with his first wife? She closed the book and put it back into its hiding place. The journal had closed some gaps, but not all of them. Minerva finally had an idea what had sparked his interest in her. It had been the one similarity, the one thing she and Julianna had in common: writing.

  The most important question remained unanswered, namely, whether he had murdered his wife. The duke had written that he was guilty of her death, but that only meant that he felt guilty. He had prohibited his wife from writing, and in the end, he had lost his love for her. These things were enough to burden a sentient man’s conscious reason. After all, he had been capable of deep and passionate love. From each line, from each of his words, spoke a man who was not unfamiliar with emotions.

  She shook her head when another thought came to her, and she quietly closed the library door behind her. A little more than three years had passed since his wife’s death, and now he wanted to marry again. Not her, but Lady Annabell Carlisle – but apart from the two of them, no one else knew. Everybody considered her the bride of the duke. Her mother had been poisoned, and to Minerva, there was only one conclusion: Someone did not approve of his marriage plans. It seemed all the more obvious to Minerva that the death of his first wife, who had been hovering on the verge of insanity, was somehow connected to the events of the last few days. If only she could discover what the connection between the present and the past was! Another detail was clear to her: The duke could not have poisoned her mother, since he knew that their supposed engagement was not real. If he was not the murderer, it had to be someone else – someone who had been present – both back then and now.

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nbsp; She had reached her mother’s room and knocked quietly before entering. Everything was peaceful. Sister Mary Magdalene nodded towards her, put her finger to her lips, and got up. Sally looked so exhausted that Minerva felt yet another stab of bad conscience. She had burdened Sally with too much in her new role, first as a maid, then as a chaperone standing guard by her mother’s side.

  Sister Mary Magdalene drew Minerva outside into the corridor. “Your mother is doing well. I think that she will wake up sometime tomorrow. If you wish, you may go to bed and rest.”

  “Thank you, that is very kind of you,” she replied. “... but I would like to be with my mother, just in case she wakes up.” In addition, she had promised Sally that she would switch places with her, which seemed necessary at this point. The young woman may have still been awake, but Minerva noticed that her eyes kept falling.

  So, she sent Sally to bed and got comfortable in one of the chairs. The faint smell of camphor, the darkened atmosphere, and the regular, soft breathing of her mother felt like a balm for her shaken soul.

  * * *

  She felt as if she had fallen only shortly asleep when sister Mary Magadalene gently touched her arm. “Your mother is awake, and she is asking for you,” she said. Immediately, Minerva’s tiredness gave way to relief. She suppressed her rising tears and went to sit by her mother’s bedside.

  Her mother gave her a weak smile, which she returned.

  “Are you thirsty? Would you like something to eat?”

  Sister Mary Magdalene cleared her throat. “I shall inform the kitchen personnel to send a broth or a light pudding. In the meantime, Miss Honeyfield, please be careful not to overly exhaust the patient. She is still very weak.” This meant that her mother was not yet able to travel. Their departure would be delayed by at least one more day.

  “Would you please also send for Doctor Springfield?” Minerva asked the sister and handed her mother a glass of water, which she drank in small sips, with Minerva supporting her. Her mother’s appearance almost broke Minerva’s heart. Mrs Honeyfield had always been a lively woman, full of vitality – but, right now, Minerva glimpsed how her mother would look as an old woman. The lines around her mouth had deepened, her face was pale, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. The quiet clicking of the door let Minerva know that she and her mother were now alone.

  “How are you feeling, Mama?”

  “Better,” her mother answered, unusually sparing with her words. She asked Minerva to fluff up her pillow at her back, so that she could sit up a little more. “Thank you, darling.” Not only Minerva, but her mother also seemed to be as soft and yielding as she had not been for a long time. For a short while, neither spoke, both sunk into their own thoughts. Minerva feverishly tried to think of a way to ask her mother about the events prior to her being poisoned, without upsetting her unnecessarily. Then again, it seemed almost impossible not to tell her mother about the danger she had been in – and possibly still was.

  She was just about to say something, when there was a knock at the door and a servant appeared, closely followed by Sister Mary Magdalene. “His lordship requests your presence in the library, Miss,” the servant said, seeming to wait for an answer. Minerva asked him to tell the duke that she would be with him in a short while.

  She released her mother into the sister’s care and was grateful for the delay that the duke’s command had given her. After all, it was no easy task to tell her own mother that someone had tried to murder her. Minerva hurried into her room, washed her face, and put on a new dress, with Sally’s help. The green batiste dress was light and quickly put on, without her and her maid having to waste endless minutes with long ribbons or tiring rows of buttons. Sally held out the matching slippers, and Minerva thanked her.

  “Have you had anything to eat yet? If not, go to the kitchen and have them bring you something to my mother’s room. I do not want you to pass out from exhaustion.” Sally looked as if she wanted to ask Minerva if everything was all right but decided against it.

  “Are you sure that you do not want me to accompany you to the Duke of Scuffold?”

  Minerva shook her head. “No, that will not be necessary. My mother needs you more than I do,” she said and left the room. Her feet almost found their way to the library on their own, or at least that is what it felt like to her. A servant was waiting in front of the door and opened it for Minerva.

  The duke stood with his back towards her, and he was staring outside the window, engulfed in his thoughts. “I hear that your mother has woken,” he said without looking at her. He reached out and motioned her to come to him. Hesitantly, she stepped closer. The blood rushed in her veins and as always in his presence, he claimed all her thoughts for himself. “I shall wait for Doctor Springfield’s report, however, I would like to see you gone from this house sooner rather than later.” His words sounded bitter.

  In light of what she had learned about him during the past night, it was not surprising. Every room, every hallway harboured memories of his first wife and of their failed marriage, as well as her tragic death.

  “I would prefer to stay,” she replied, her heart pounding in her chest, moving so close to him that only an inch separated them.

  “Even now, after your mother was poisoned and you read my diary?”

  Minerva flinched and retreated back a step. “How did you find out?” she gasped.

  The duke followed her. “I shall be damned, if I tell you. What were you thinking, doing such a thing?”

  “I could ask you exactly the same thing,” Minerva returned haughtily, and she refused to take another step back from him. She raised her head and looked directly into his eyes. “There is not one question that you have bothered to answer me,” she said.

  “Your claim is incorrect. You once asked me what I wanted from you, and I have answered that I would like to court you.”

  “Of course,” Minerva replied, “... and you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you promised to marry the daughter of a friend. That was just the kind of answer aimed at distracting a young woman from asking too many questions.” The more she spoke, the lighter her heart felt. “I do not believe one word you say, your Grace. Please excuse me. I have to go and look after my mother.”

  “You will stay,” he ordered and led her to one of the chairs. “You want to know the truth?” He laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. “Then let me repeat the question I asked you at the very beginning of our acquaintance. Are you brave? More specifically, are you brave not only when it comes to the characters in your novel, but also to yourself?”

  What did he mean by that?

  “I do not understand what you are asking. Tell me why I am here. Please tell me what you are planning with this sick little game of yours.”

  “I am trying to expose the murderer of my wife.”

  Minerva was glad that she was sitting. Her head spun, but her uppermost feeling was the realisation that he had not killed his wife. Assuming it with her heart was one thing – hearing it straight from his mouth was another. She wanted to cheer, to cry, to reprimand him, all at the same time. The rising emotions were so intense that she felt dizzy.

  “What role do I play in this scenario?” she asked.

  “You, Miss Honeyfield, are the bait.”

  Chapter 17

  The duke sneered down at Marianne, who lay before him in chains. “Now you are finally mine,” he said. His laugh echoed gruesomely off the walls of the dark dungeon.

  “Explain yourself.”

  The sentence sounded much harsher than she had wanted it to, but how else was she supposed to react to his shocking admission? The Duke of Scuffold had an extraordinary talent for knocking her off balance. If she was completely honest with herself, she had anticipated something of this nature… just not this extreme. It also meant that his affections towards her had only been a pretence.

  Even the kiss had been part of his plan. As soon as the message had reached him that his friend, the Duke o
f Evesham, and his daughter’s arrival would be delayed, the Duke of Scuffold needed someone else to play the role of his future wife. The realisation left a bitter taste on her tongue, but it was nothing compared to the acidity of the bitter treachery that spread throughout her body.

  “At first it was nothing but a ploy,” he said, and got up to instruct the man waiting in front of the door, in a low voice that she could not hear. When he returned, he moved his chair closer to hers and took her hand. “I saw you in the woods and was angry at the audacity with which you seized my wife’s favourite spot. When I learned that you were also writing a novel, well… my first instinct had been to simply chase you off my land. However, then I saw that you were different – different from Julianna.” He did not take his eyes away from her for a moment, as Minerva had expected at the mention of his wife. Again, Minerva wondered if he was perhaps versed in the art of mesmerism, because she was unable to avert her gaze away from him. “Young and innocent and full of life. For you, writing is more than just a way to escape from life. You actually put all of your heart into your words – I can feel that.”

  Maybe it had been the same for Julianna, Minerva thought, and he had taken away the foundation of her life by forbidding her to write. But no, she shook her head – it had been different. Julianna’s personality had already shown signs of change before that. His ban had been nothing but a desperate attempt to protect her from something. But from what? Had it really been just the writing that had had a detrimental effect on her, and which had caused her to become more and more estranged from her husband?

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and after a discreet moment, Johnson entered the room, carrying a tray on his arm. Without a word, he served the tea and left silently. “However, we had not been appropriately introduced, and once I discovered that you were the Buckleys’ niece, I saw only one possibility to get to know you better.” Minerva felt heat rise in her body, which was not only due to the tea. Nervously, she put down her cup and folded her hands in her lap, so he wouldn’t notice how much she was shaking.