Barbara Metzger (24 page)

“No, no, a purge is what she needs, to cleanse the system of its poisons.”

“Cold baths, of course.”

“Hot compresses, I insist.”

When they were gone, the butler regretted that Sir Alfred was not receiving visitors. Prostrate with grief, he was, Pomfrey reported. It was more likely that Findley was in a stupor, St. Sevrin decided, knowing his only hope of maintaining this lifestyle was upstairs sick in bed. If Sir Alfred couldn’t get Esmé buckled to a wealthy peer, he was up River Tick.

Nigel was not at home, not that St. Sevrin wanted to speak to that chinless clunch. From the odd word or two he’d heard about Town, Sloane concluded the sprig had most likely taken himself off to some low-rent brothel rather than be exposed to his sister’s contagion. He’d rather have the pox, it seemed.

And Lady Alfred? She was suffering spasms and swoons.

Well, St. Sevrin couldn’t throw them out, and he’d be damned if he’d pray for the chit’s recovery, but he saw nothing else to do.

Lisanne did, of course. She told Aunt Hattie not to cancel her friend’s invitations, not quite yet. She was going to Neville House to see for herself how matters stood.

St. Sevrin was adamant. “No. I forbid it. You are not putting one foot under that man’s roof. A ball is one thing. Not even Findley would dare insult you in front of three hundred guests. I don’t care if that coxcomb Nigel is away from home, I don’t want you breathing his filthy air. Besides, we are supposed to attend Almack’s tonight. Aunt worked hard enough to get you those vouchers, and the old harpies’ noses get out of joint when someone refuses the invite.”

He was still adamant three hours later, after he’d made the third trip back to Berkeley Square fetching books, bottles, and bundles of dried twigs and weeds from the stillroom she’d somehow found time to set up at St. Sevrin House. The Findleys’ servants would never find what Lisanne needed, and she had to have Mary with her to help.

The duke didn’t know what his wife was doing in Esmé’s bedchamber, and he didn’t want to know. He also didn’t want any of Sir Alfred’s staff to know. Bad enough Lisanne had tossed the two surgeons out; St. Sevrin didn’t need a bunch of underpaid ignoramuses carrying tales of witchcraft and sorcery to the pubs. So he sat in a chair outside the room, or installed Kelly there when he was on an errand. Sloane even slept in the damned chair and got a crick in his neck. Heaven knew where Lisanne slept, for she refused to come away and leave Mary in charge, or the girl’s mother, by George.

No, the girl’s mother was less than useless with her weeping and wailing. If Lisanne hadn’t dosed her with laudanum and sent the skitter-wit off to bed, Sloane would have ordered Kelly to take Lady Cherise for a soothing ride in the country. One way.

Even the food was terrible. How the devil did they think to feed the most demanding palates in London with this tripe the sulky servants fetched up? Sloane had meals brought over from St. Sevrin House to make sure Lisanne ate properly. If the Findley chit survived, they were holding that ball, and Sloane wasn’t having his wife disappearing through the cracks in the floor.

The only good thing was that Sir Alfred and Nigel stayed away. Actually Sloane wished one of them would arrive and make some snide comment about Lisanne’s untoward knowledge of herbs and healing. By the second day, the duke was itching for a fight. By the third, he would have strangled the Findley chit himself, to put them all out of their misery.

Then Lisanne came out of the room, looking exhausted but happy. Esmé would recover. She was out of danger and should recuperate in time for the ball. Of course Esmé had lost a deal of weight, which St. Sevrin thought might improve her figure, and she would be interestingly pale, but Esmé would be ready to dance in ten more days of careful nursing. Lisanne was willing to take turns with Mary now, so they both could get some rest. She didn’t trust the Findleys’ servants, and neither did the duke.

There were ten days before the ball, and nothing was being done that he could see. The chandeliers weren’t being taken down for cleaning, the rugs weren’t being lifted for beating. A few questions revealed that the guest rooms hadn’t been aired and the silver hadn’t been polished. Damn, that silver would have Sloane’s wife’s crest on it! The devil take it if he’d let her come to such a shabby affair.

So the duke planned the ball, with Trevor and Aunt Hattie assisting while Kelly watchdogged Lisanne and Mary. St. Sevrin’s own housekeeper came to oversee the cleaning while his own kitchens were busy preparing the menu. Trevor handled the guest lists, and Aunt Hattie selected flowers and ribbon decorations—more lavish than Sir Alfred would ever have permitted. The baronet slunk around, keeping out of the way of his nephew-by-marriage and that dangerous glint in St. Sevrin’s eye.

Lady Findley dithered around, clutching a vinaigrette. She might be useless, but she was grateful.

“And I am so sorry I let those dreadful rumors make the rounds,” she confessed.

“You? You were the one who tried to ruin your own niece?” St. Sevrin couldn’t believe his ears, or that he was pulling this shrew’s chestnuts out of the fire.

Cherise clutched her smelling salts. “Oh, dear, it wasn’t that I was trying to ruin Annie, exactly.”

“Her name is Lisanne, and what were you trying to do, exactly?”

“I didn’t have any goal in mind, Your Grace. I…I was just upset. I knew what the servants were saying, of course, and then, when people started asking me about the new duchess, I simply told them what they wanted to hear.”

“Do you dislike your own niece so much, then?”

“Oh, gracious no, I like her very well. But she wasn’t an easy child to deal with, you know.”

St. Sevrin could imagine. She wasn’t an easy woman to deal with, either. He nodded for Lady Findley to go on. Guilt and gratitude made her want to explain.

“I never expected to take the place of her mother, you must understand. But Annie—Lisanne—hardly let me into her thoughts, much less her heart. And then she
would
go her own way. Sir Alfred really only wanted her to be like other children, but then he couldn’t bear to be bested by a little girl. I suffered greatly from my nerves when they brangled.”

What about how Lisanne suffered? St. Sevrin wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“Then she grew up all of a sudden and married you. And she was beautiful and titled, smarter than both of my children combined, and wealthier than Golden Ball. Meanwhile she had left us on the brink of ruin, according to Sir Alfred. How could I not resent her good fortune?” Cherise mopped a tear from her eye. “It was so easy not to rebuke the servants for their gossip, or to recall one of Annie’s odd starts for an interested ear. But I’ll make it up to her, I swear. Everyone at the ball will know how good she is, how kind and wise, how hard she worked at her studies. If she hadn’t spent all that time with her plants and such, and wasn’t so sweet a girl to come help us, my Esmé might have perished.”

The thought alone sent Lady Findley to rest on her couch, a hanky soaked in rosewater upon her furrowed brow, until she remembered that frowning caused lines.

*

Lady Cherise was as good as her word on the night of the ball. She replied to every guest passing through the receiving line that, yes, Esmé had made a remarkable recovery and, yes, she was in looks tonight, with all credit to her cousin. To hear her aunt, Lady St. Sevrin had snatched Esmé back from the jaws of death. An angel, she was, a saint.

Esmé added her bit about her kind and gentle cousin, who knew everything there was to know about herbal teas and tisanes. If anyone complimented Esmé on the decorations or the refreshments for the party, she was quick to heap accolades on the duke, too. Without her cousins, Esmé told everyone who would listen, there would be no ball at all. Instead the party was a success beyond everyone’s expectations, except Aunt Hattie’s.

Whereas the guests arrived at most of the humdrum debutante balls, greeted the hosts, sampled the refreshments, and had a drink or a dance or a hand or two of cards before moving on to the next, livelier entertainment, tonight everyone stayed at Neville House, waiting for its mistress.

Aunt Hattie had their entrance timed to the last second. The receiving line had been disbanded, the dancing had begun. Not many of the gentlemen had retired to the card rooms yet; not many of the chaperones along the walls had dozed off. Lady Comstock fussed with her turban a moment outside the ballroom until she heard the current dance set draw to a close. Then she had the butler announce them. She kicked the man halfway through, and hissed, “Louder.”

Pomfrey started again. “My Lady Harriet Comstock, the Honorable Lieutenant Trevor Roe.” Aunt Hattie and Trev moved off to the side to watch, Trevor using just one cane now. Hattie whispered, “Louder still,” to the butler. She needn’t have, for there wasn’t a sound in the room as all eyes turned to the door.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of St. Sevrin and Baroness Neville, His Grace, the Duke of St. Sevrin.”

Lisanne looked up at her husband inquiringly. He patted the hand resting on his arm. “You were a lady before I met you.”

Pomfrey the butler nodded. He’d been one of those quick to spread tales about the odd little hoyden running wild in Devon. Tonight there was a lady, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Lisanne was wearing a gown of azure tissue-silk, almost the color of her eyes, with a silver gauze overskirt that was strewn with star-shaped brilliants. The neckline was cut low enough that St. Sevrin wanted to take her home to bed, but high enough that Aunt Hattie wouldn’t let her insert a lace filler. With the most beautiful gown she’d ever owned, Lisanne wore the fabled St. Sevrin sapphires. Instead of wearing the pendant as a necklace, however, Lisanne wore it as a headpiece woven through her pinned-up golden hair, with the magnificent central stone hanging onto her forehead. No milk-and-water miss, no ordinary young female here. Everything about her, the soft smile, the straight back, the outrageous display of gems, bespoke wealth, breeding, and confidence in her own unique character. If a flock of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, only St. Sevrin knew, by the trembling of her fingers. He squeezed her hand.

Esmé skipped up to them and kissed Lisanne’s cheek as Lady Findley made her way to them. On cue, waiters circulated with glasses of champagne and Sir Alfred, by arrangement and under extreme duress, proposed a belated toast to the newly married pair. Every word Findley spoke might have been a drop of hemlock on his lips, but not a soul in the room could suspect that the exquisite young duchess was anything but a beloved member of the family.

As the orchestra struck a waltz, St. Sevrin took his wife’s hand, but she wanted to introduce Trevor to her cousin first.

“You must be sure to rest, Esmé. I recommend Lieutenant Roe as an admirable companion to sit out the next dance.”

Esmé was agreeable. She hadn’t been given approval to waltz anyway, and Lieutenant Roe was tall, dark, and heroic. Besides, he was the son of a viscount. She led him to a row of gilt chairs.

“Well done, Duchess,” St. Sevrin congratulated. “And now I believe it is our dance.” They came together as if the room were empty, with no one else for either of them. The gliding movement, the closeness, the way their thighs touched occasionally, or their chests—oh, how St. Sevrin wished they were not in a ballroom. Lisanne could only marvel that waltzing with her dance instructor was never like this.

All too soon the set was over and the duke had to lead
Lisanne back toward his aunt and hers. The cream of Society was waiting to meet his duchess. He smiled and kissed her hand. “It’s your night, sweetheart.”

Before she was home in Devon Lisanne had a lot of miles to travel, and one more hurdle, Almack’s. Aunt Hattie insisted they attend, despite Lisanne’s success at Esmé’s ball. Everyone near enough to get an introduction had come away from Neville House declaring the new duchess an absolute delight. The very next day some of Lisanne’s admirers started coming to her with odd complaints and illnesses, until the doctors set up a cry that she was practicing medicine without a license. Now debutantes and dandies brought her their bilious bulldogs and felines with fur balls. They all stayed to tea, of course. St. Sevrin House was suddenly the place to be seen, with the most eligible
partis
hoping for a smile from the newest Toast, with the Season’s debs hoping for a chance to imitate Lisanne’s style.

Kelly had to find the duchess space in the stable mews for treating her upper-crust patients, in addition to the injured birds, broken-down carriage horses, and stray mongrels she seemed to acquire the way other ladies acquired new hats.

Trevor was a help and, not so coincidentally, Esmé, who had never touched a four-legged beast except with a fork before this. Lisanne was pleased at their growing friendship, but not counting her chickens until they hatched egg-shaped betrothal rings.

St. Sevrin had taken himself off to consult a shipbuilder in Folkestone. It was either that or cause chaos in Lisanne’s parlor by bodily ejecting all those young pups drooling at her skirts. Skirts which he, incidentally, had not been able to get near.

The night of Esmé’s ball, when they were all buoyed with success and champagne, he’d decided to visit his wife’s bedchamber. That poise, that gown, left no doubt of Lisanne’s womanhood; Sloane was ready to prove his manhood. He was more than ready. He was eager, aching, and panting as badly as those adoring mooncalves at the very thought of making Lisanne his.

Unfortunately she was already asleep when he pushed open the connecting door to their rooms. After nursing Esmé and preparing for her first major ball, Lisanne looked exhausted in the light of his candle. Sloane could see the shadows under her eyes and didn’t have the heart to waken her. The next day his house was filled with callers, his desk was hidden under stacks of invitations, and the place was turning into an infirmary for asthmatic lapdogs. Let her enjoy her success, St. Sevrin decided, as long as he didn’t have to watch. He’d be back for Wednesday’s crucible at Almack’s. Then they were leaving, no matter what Aunt Hattie said.