Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Do not worry, my dear.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Something will change.’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine bowed her head, misery filling her by degrees. ‘Everything will become inevitably worse.’

  She ignored Lydia’s gentle sigh. As much as she attempted to view her own sentiments with the clear-eyed lens of logic, everything burst into flames whenever she pictured James’ face. James Hildebrande, the man she had wanted for so very long, looking at her…

  … Looking at her as if finally, finally, she was the most important woman in the world.

  It was ridiculous. An illusion born of lust, and desperation. As much as Catherine tried to tell herself these salient facts, something within her whispered that she was undervaluing her feelings.

  She jumped, gasping, as a stone hit the window. Lydia did not seem in the least bit perturbed. Catherine, wild hope filling her heart, wondered if it could be him… but as Lydia approached the window, a child’s voice floating from the unseen ground, Catherine felt her house of cards collapse.

  ‘Miss?’ The boy’s high voice sounded like a village bird. ‘Is Miss Wentford with you?’

  ‘Yes. As she normally is at this hour. Look.’ Lydia looked down at the boy as Catherine came to the window. ‘Why?’

  ‘Can I give this letter to her here, then?’ The boy bobbed his head at the sight of Catherine. ‘It’ll save me a job.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lydia nodded. ‘I’ll get the bucket.’

  As Catherine watched, astonished, she went to her bed. Reaching underneath the frame, she pulled out a small bucket tied with string.

  ‘Lydia, I…’ She looked on as Lydia dangled the bucket out of the window, the boy waiting expectantly below. ‘When did you begin this unorthodox habit?’

  ‘I have all post delivered in this manner.’ Lydia’s voice was briskly practical as she pulled up the bucket, although her eyes were sad. ‘My father reads my post.’

  Catherine looked at her friend, shocked. ‘He should not do that. Even my father does not do that.’

  ‘All fathers have flaws. The flaws of your father, although grave enough, are more manageable than those of mine.’ Lydia smiled with triumph as she pulled a letter out of the bucket, reaching into her reticule to deposit a coin where the letter had rested. ‘At least I have found a way around it.’

  Lydia’s resourcefulness was notable. Catherine, pushing aside her unpleasant conclusions concerning Lydia’s father, leaned forward as her friend gave her the letter.

  Familiar handwriting. The handwriting from, of all places, the Cappadene Club. Catherine tore open the letter with unseemly haste, frantically reading the first few lines, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down.

  ‘An invitation from Mr. Weeks. A meeting.’ She said the words slowly, ignoring Lydia’s gasp. ‘A chaperoned meeting, including His Grace, to… to discuss terms.’

  ‘It sounds like a criminal enterprise.’

  ‘No.’ Catherine sighed wistfully. ‘It sounds… reasonable.’

  ‘It sounds scandalous beyond measure.’ Lydia moved closer, attempting to read the words before Catherine snatched it away. ‘By which I mean that we should definitely attend.’

  ‘I do not think we should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we should consider the matter logically.’ Catherine put her hand to her chin, staring intently into the middle distance. ‘I already know the idea of marrying James Hildebrande to be a forlorn hope. Not enough time has passed in the preceding days for the man to have changed his character--’

  ‘Not his character. You know his character to be good at heart.’ Lydia held up a precise finger. ‘You wish to say his reputation.’

  ‘Reputation, character--in the eyes of the ton, they are very much the same thing.’ Catherine sighed. ‘In either case, he has not had the necessary period of renewal a gentleman would require to undertake a complete adjustment of his character.’

  ‘I consider this point somewhat murky, but I shall allow you to continue.’

  ‘I thank you.’ Catherine blinked, shaking her head with a sad smile. ‘The only truly murky part of the matter is His Grace’s financial state. That cannot have changed since I--since I came to know him as I now do.’

  Once again, not entirely true. How many cases does one read in the papers detailing the sudden discovery of wills, or the timely deaths of wealthy relatives? Gentlemen of his class are practically falling upon enormous sums of money every day.’ Lydia spoke with such authority that Catherine quailed at the thought of replying. ‘I believe that particular problem can be discounted.’

  ‘And the problem of meeting him in a notorious brothel in the middle of the afternoon?’

  ‘A considerably more colourful matter. I would be tempted to term it exciting, if I wished to offend your delicate sensibilities.’ Lydia smiled, her gaze warm. ‘I shall, of course, act as your chaperone.’

  ‘And if someone sees us entering?’

  We shall wear our drabbest garments, conceal our faces as much as possible, and use the servant’s entrance. Or, indeed, the client entrance--I doubt very much that any of the ladies and gentleman that patronise such an establishment use the front door.’ Lydia leaned out, taking Catherine’s hand and squeezing it gently. ‘As much as you wish to find a logical reason not to go, my dear, I fear that there is none.’

  ‘I have already told you the logical reason not to go. James Hildebrande is not a secure choice of husband.’

  ‘Because you logically know it to be so?’ Lydia’s voice was as penetrating as it was pleasant. ‘Or because you are afraid that your logic, astonishing as it is, fails you when it comes to His Grace?’

  Catherine looked at her friend, wordless. With her usual acuity, Lydia had put her finger upon the crux of the matter.

  ‘I am worried about who I become, when I am with him.’ She sighed. ‘Illogical. Irrational.’

  ‘Catherine, I am going to say something that you may very well take offence to.’ Lydia paused. ‘You have been forced into cold reason by your straightened circumstances. A certain measure of it in matters of the heart is welcome--but your quantity is wildly exaggerated.’

  ‘And what must I do?’

  ‘I have already told you. We must go to the meeting, and see what is said.’

  ‘And if it is unsatisfactory?’

  ‘And if it is not?’

  ‘I do not need to consider that outcome.’

  ‘You spend your life considering the worst outcomes.’ Lydia sighed. ‘You imagine the worst very consistently, Catherine. Why can you not imagine the best? What is the best outcome, under such circumstances?’

  Catherine closed her eyes. She forced herself beyond the chattering of her fear--beyond the soft, constant drip of panic that she had mistakenly believed was reason. Slowly, with many false starts and pauses, she began to speak from the soft, vast space where the last of her hopes were housed.

  ‘That James Hildebrande has turned over a new leaf. That he is--that he is making every effort he can to meet my expectations of him.’

  ‘And if he is?’

  ‘Then…’ Catherine sighed, a wash of feeling moving through her. ‘Then I will be happy beyond measure.’

  ‘That is what I thought.’ Lydia smiled as Catherine opened her eyes. ‘So you must help me with my gowns, dear. We need to find something suitable for a secret encounter.’

  The meeting had all the charged mystery of a gathering of London’s underworld. The fact that it was being held in the middle of the afternoon, complete with gaily singing birds and the cries of excitable children from the street outside, did little to detract from the air of tense emotion that filled the receiving room of the Cappadene Club.

  One one side sat Catherine, clad in a pale blue gown that accentuated the darkness of her hair. Next to her sat Lydia Holt, her widened eyes and barely-suppressed excitement only increasing the feverish atmosphere that currently held sway.

  On the other side of the ro
om sat Arthur Weeks, Marcus Bennington, and James Hildebrande. James, putting a trembling hand to his forehead as he ran his fingers through his hair, wondered why he was sweating despite the cool air blowing from the slightly opened window.

  It had to be the presence of Catherine. Every breath she took, every guarded glance she gave him, made James more and more contemptuous of his former self.

  How had he not seen her? How had he not noticed her from the very start? Because he hadn’t known her then; hadn’t heard evidence of her wit and skill and kindness from every corner of London and beyond. Knowing of Catherine’s excellence, her unassuming splendour, only made her beauty more apparent.

  That, and the memory of her body against his. The way she had moaned; husky, frustrated. James blinked, his eyes straying to the paintings of amorous couples cavorting on the wall, before hurriedly collecting himself as Arthur Weeks cleared his throat.

  ‘Well.’ Arthur looked guardedly at Catherine, then James, his eyes straying to Lydia Holt for a second more than was warranted. ‘I am sure we are all more than aware of how unusual this meeting is. I can only urge for patience on both sides.’

  ‘While I am aware of the… strangeness of all this, I can only welcome the logic of it.’ Catherine nodded primly; James watched, slipping into a soft, dreamy smile at the earnestness in her tone. ‘Sometimes, pure sentiment is not what is warranted.’

  ‘Your Grace?’ Arthur looked steadily at James. ‘Is this manner of meeting agreeable to you as well?’

  James sighed, resting his head on his fist as he stared at Catherine. ‘I am all sentiment. Every inch of me. I will submit to any logic that the lady thinks fit.’

  Reactions to such a full-blooded display of tenderness were mixed. Arthur looked down at his moustache, Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Lydia visibly held back a gasp… but Catherine, Catherine looked at him as if he had said exactly the right thing, and James thanked God with all his heart.

  ‘This is not quite the moment for passionate declarations.’ Arthur looked narrowly at James before adjusting his papers. ‘We are here to discuss the marital fitness of this gentleman, and the suitability of the match between His Grace and Miss Wentford.’

  ‘Wentford! Wentford.’ James shook his head, tutting. ‘It began with a bloody consonant, I knew it--’

  ‘Your Grace!’ This time Arthur’s voice held a note of real warning. ‘Enough.’

  James, folding his arms, tried his best to look attentive.

  ‘Given that this is not a performance of Shakespeare, we will attempt to keep to brute facts.’ Arthur looked at Marcus Bennington, who inclined his head. ‘I understand that Sir Marcus wishes to furnish us with the details of His Grace’s current financial state, his own, and changes and improvements thereupon. Is that agreeable to you, Miss Wentford?’

  Catherine slowly nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Good.’ Arthur gently inclined his head as Marcus stood. ‘Begin.’

  For someone afflicted with timidity for so much of his life, Marcus was growing surprisingly comfortable with being the centre of attention. James watched his young friend begin detailing the plans for the Cappadene Club, for the part he himself would play in it… explanations which necessitated, of course, exactly how much money was in play.

  Catherine, to her credit, was clearly attempting to keep composed. James watched her carefully, wondering if she would demonstrate any open surprise when Marcus began to say specific numbers…

  Aha! Her eyebrows rose. She hadn’t been able to stop herself. Meanwhile, her well-upholstered friend gasped openly as Marcus revealed the extent of his wealth. As his friend came to a close, James couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘Well, Miss Wentford?’ Arthur turned to Catherine. ‘Does this arrangement sound agreeable to you?’

  Catherine kept silent for a long moment. Eventually, clearing her throat with a soft, patient sound that had James on tenterhooks, she turned to him.

  ‘I… I am more than content to hear that you are beginning to lead an industrious life.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘It is more than I hoped for.’

  ‘I thank you.’ James paused. ‘Are you concerned at its lack of respectability?’

  ‘No.’ Catherine blinked. ‘I am more than respectable for the both of us, if we--’

  ‘Yes?’

  Catherine paused. James watched her shift in her seat, aching for her to continue her sentence. ‘At the moment my point is immaterial.’

  ‘It is not immaterial. It is the very furthest from immaterial that it could possibly be. Your words have the potency of Scripture for me.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ Arthur looked disapprovingly at James. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am exercised.’ James looked piteously at Catherine. ‘Please finish what you were going to say.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Why?’

  Catherine bit her lip. James watched a complex interplay of sentiment dance across her face. ‘Because… because I am angry with you.’

  This was so unexpected that James couldn’t even taken offence. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We have been apart for a week and you…’ Catherine attempted to compose herself, but failed as her tone grew more strident. ‘You have not attempted to contact me, or search for me. I have heard nothing from you.’

  ‘Of course I have been looking for you. I have been searching for you desperately.’ James looked at Catherine, all pretence at dignity stripped away. ‘I have asked so many people about a mysterious woman named Catherine that I fear I have been placed in the role of ton madman.’

  ‘You were perfectly capable of coming to my home, as a gentleman should, and making the acquaintance of my parents!’ Catherine rose, hands moving to her hips, frustration lacing every word. ‘I fail to see why it was impossible!’

  ‘Of course it was impossible!’ James stood as well, Arthur’s warning look failing to stop him. ‘Today, Miss Catherine Wentford, is the first day that I have been aware of your bloody surname!’

  A stunned silence greeted his words. For a moment the room seemed preserved in aspic; everyone still, staring, shocked…

  Then, with a shaking of her shoulders so strong as to seem convulsive, Catherine burst into laughter.

  Her joy was as captivating as her passion, her seriousness--why, every part of her was perfect. The tension in him collapsing, all worry drowned in a waterfall of mirth, James began laughing too.

  It didn’t matter that Marcus Bennington was looking at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. It mattered not a whit that by choosing this one woman, this one laughing woman with compassion in her eyes, he was stepping away from what he had spent so many years becoming.

  A rake. A reprobate. An incorrigibly scandalous, scandalous soul.

  He was so much more than that now.

  In the end, only Arthur Weeks’ raised voice was enough to quell the laughter. ‘Am I to take it, then, that the meeting has reached a satisfactory conclusion?’

  ‘It has not concluded yet.’ James held out his arms; Catherine, to his relief, came running to him. The feel of her in his arms, as strangely right as it had been the first time he had held her, only made his gratitude more potent.

  ‘Catherine, will you--’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine smiled, laughing again. How beautiful her face was when she laughed. ‘Yes, yes, a hundred times yes.’

  ‘One is plentiful, but I admire your enthusiasm.’

  ‘You are ridiculous.’

  ‘I know.’ James smiled, pressing his forehead to hers despite the other people in the room. ‘And I am also yours.’

  The man with the moustache was looking at her. Lydia Holt, for all her appetite for scandal, rarely found herself in an environment where she was looked at by men of a disreputable character. Still, with the finely-honed instinct of a woman soon to be trapped in a deeply unhappy marriage, she felt the gentleman’s gaze on her as she turned her head.

  She could not, of c
ourse, look back. That would be the very worst course of action to take. She shouldn’t be here at all, if she were ruthlessly honest with herself. She shouldn’t be in this small, dimly-lit room that smelled of vanilla and attar of roses, as her best friend passionately pledged herself to the most disreputable duke in England…

  Oh, but it was magical. They were so clearly, tremendously in love. Their marriage would be relatively easy to organise; Catherine’s parents were in no position to refuse, a special license could be easily located, James Hildebrande had clearly discovered that he could make something of himself… Lydia sighed softly, turning away from the couple in slight embarrassment as James moved to clasp Catherine’s hand.

  This was not to be her life. Her future. She was to be shackled to a man she felt nothing for--nothing but indifference.

  The man--Mr Weeks, was it?--was approaching. Lydia restrained a gasp.

  ‘Do you require anything, my lady?’ Mr. Weeks’ voice was gruffer than Lydia had expected; there was a dark, thrilling roughness to it. She felt a shiver run along her spine, and cursed herself for it. ‘Some tea? Someone can open a window, if you find the air too hot.’

  ‘No. No thank you.’ Lydia could barely stammer out the words. She had dreamed for so long of an encounter of this kind, somewhere appropriately sordid with someone thoroughly unsuitable, that its occurrence in reality was a shock. ‘I am quite comfortable.’

  ‘I am glad of it.’ Mr. Weeks’ eyes had a glint to them; a warm light that Lydia hoped was mirrored in her own, unblinking gaze. ‘If that changes, let me know.’

  Lydia could do nothing but nod. Despite all her imaginings as to how she would react in such circumstances, she found herself turning away from Mr. Weeks as if she were the most gently-bred lady in Christendom.

  She moved away from her chair, studying a small picture of a flower with apparent fascination. Only when she realised that the flower resembled a highly indecent piece of human anatomy did she avert her gaze, thanking the Lord she wasn’t the blushing kind.

  She could change her mind right now. Turn back, walk across the libidinously-decorated room, grip Mr. Weeks by the collar of his coat and say the words she felt burning in her heart.