How the Duke Was Won (18 page)

“You might ask your daughter why she came here wearing only a scrap of satin and lace and a liberal dousing of perfume,” he said.

The countess swept an arm around Dorothea's hunched shoulders. “She's an innocent. She doesn't know any better than to go wandering about in her nightclothes.”

He'd been on the verge of asking for her, but having his hand forced in this sordid fashion made him angry. “Did you have to resort to trickery?” he asked Dorothea.

She didn't answer, didn't deny anything, and she still wouldn't meet his eyes.

“How dare you,” the countess exploded, not giving her daughter a chance to respond. “She is sullied, compromised. I found her bed empty and was forced to go searching. This is a mother's worst nightmare.”

“You win,” he said.

The countess fixed him with a cold stare. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You win. Lady Dorothea will marry me. I expect an heir within the year.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Now leave.”

Lady Dorothea stretched her hand toward him with tears in her eyes, and the tightness in his chest loosened a fraction. Then, as if a steam valve had been adjusted, she dropped her hand, exhaled, and met his gaze.

“I accept your proposal,” she said coolly.

“Fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We'll be married in three weeks, by license, here at St. Peter's of Warbury.”

“Three weeks?” The countess's eyes widened. “That's not nearly enough time to plan a wed—­”

“I only have a few months left in London. I set sail before the hurricane season. Expect me to call upon Lord Desmond next week regarding the articles.”

Lady Desmond regained her composure. She inclined her head. “My lord husband will be pleased to receive you.”

“I'm quite sure he will,” James said sarcastically. He sketched the barest of dismissive bows.

Dorothea opened her mouth to speak, but her mother gripped her arm. “Come along, Lady Dorothea. There's been quite enough excitement for one evening.”

“Goodnight, James,” she whispered before her mother pulled her away, into the darkness.

 

Chapter 20

T
he countess had won her prize. Lady Dorothea would be a duchess.

Charlene was nothing more than a guilty secret shrouded in black and smuggled out of the house before dawn, before anyone but the maid-­of-­all-­work was awake. The countess sat in silence across from Charlene on the padded silk carriage cushions, and it was clear there would be no discussion of what had transpired.

The velvet green Surrey hills would soon give way to narrow streets hemmed in by gray stone and closed shutters. Every revolution of the carriage wheels carried her farther from James and Flor.

She told herself she didn't care. She tried to hate him. But he'd done those things. Those wicked, revelatory things.

Did you have to resort to trickery?

He'd been furious at their deception. Pain stabbed her chest when she thought of it, as if one of his knives was lodged there.

Would the reward be worth the price?

She'd repeat the question again after the debt to Grant was paid, when her mother stopped coughing, and Lulu was happily up to her elbows in paint in Essex.

Charlene squeezed her eyes closed, imagining Lulu breathing pure country air and painting meadows dotted with purple flowers, like the meadow James had found after he'd rescued Charlene from drowning. He'd lifted her out of the river, only to throw her into something deeper, a treacherous current of longing that had eroded the embankment around her heart and swept her back into his arms.

She leaned her head against the cream silk brocade caught in festoons along the walls. Her world was toppled end over end. What was bad now? What was good?

Surrendering control could feel good.

Dukes were not all bad.

It was time to set her world back to order. This had only been a means to buy back their freedom from Grant and give Lulu the chance at a new life, away from the perils of the bawdy house. When Lulu was ensconced in her new life, Charlene would have the satisfaction of knowing she'd done what she'd had to do to provide for her sister's future.

“We've nearly arrived, Miss Beckett,” the countess said. “I expect you to depart for Essex with your sister the day after tomorrow, before the duke arrives in London to meet with Lord Desmond. My family can have no further association with you.”

Charlene gripped a silk tassel that hung near her head. “I doubt the duke and I run in the same circles.”

“One never knows. Gentlemen of his ilk do frequent houses of . . . houses like yours. I can't run the risk.”

Charlene hadn't even thought of that. “Of course.” She matched the countess's wintry tone of voice.

The countess returned to staring out the window.

The situation was more complex than Charlene had anticipated. Now James was angry with Dorothea for manipulating him, when Dorothea had done no wrong. Charlene wanted the chance to explain everything to her half sister.

No, not
everything
. Not the lapses when Charlene had allowed her heart to open. But certainly she wanted to explain about Flor and about the workers at the duke's factory.

She wrapped her arms tighter around her chest. “I must speak to Lady Dorothea when we arrive in London.”

The countess's head swiveled. “Out of the question.”

“But I have so much to tell her.”

The countess's blue eyes frosted over. “I can't have you associating with my daughter,” she said, as if the very idea made her skin crawl.

Stung, Charlene's breath puffed out her veil. “I see. I was good enough for your purposes, good enough to impersonate your daughter, but I couldn't possibly be allowed to speak with her.”

“Miss Beckett, do try to view matters from my perspective. Unfortunately, news of the duke's gathering spread, and I'm told wagers on the outcome were placed in all the clubs.” She shuddered. “Utterly distasteful that my Dorothea was the subject of such lurid speculation.”

“But I must speak with her, only for a moment.”

“Absolutely not. Whatever you think you have to tell her is irrelevant. Your work is finished.”

“Maybe he'll be able to tell she's a different person,” Charlene muttered. “If I don't prepare her.”

“What did you say?”

Charlene lifted the veil and swept it over her bonnet. “I said perhaps the duke may discern that Lady Dorothea is not
me
. Have you considered the possibility?”

“I expect he'll find her vastly improved.” Lady Desmond's lip curled. “The refined duchess he always desired. Infinitely more suitable for his purposes.”

“I'm sure you're right.” Charlene couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. It coated her throat, like tansy tea. It might never wash away.

“Even if he does find her changed, that's only natural,” said the countess. ­“People alter from one day to the next. They grow distant . . . keep secrets. Disappoint you.”

Charlene sensed she wasn't talking about the duke anymore.

“The duke said he'd be leaving for the West Indies soon,” the countess continued. “He will leave and Dorothea will remain in London, the duchess, with the respect and privileges she's due.”

To the countess it was the ideal marriage—­a husband who hid his infidelity across oceans, instead of flaunting it in her face.

“No one will laugh at my daughter now. No one will call her a wallflower. He may be uncivilized, but he's a duke.” The countess slashed a hand through the air. “They'll have to genuflect and bow to her. It will be ‘
If it please Your Grace
' and ‘
Please attend our ball, Your Grace
.' ”

“I'm sure you're right,” Charlene repeated dully. She replaced the veil and sat back against the cushions. There was no use reasoning with the countess. She could never understand the urgency of Charlene's need to speak with Dorothea. The needs of illegitimate daughters weren't to be considered.

If she couldn't tell Dorothea about the conversations she'd had with the duke, he would marry a complete stranger who had absolutely no knowledge of Flor's fragile emotional state and need for sympathy and guidance.

Guilt cramped her stomach as familiar streets unfolded and the old watchfulness returned, sharpening her senses for the battle to come, steeling her for combat. She didn't know how Grant would react when she repaid the loan, and whether he would attempt to find another way to control them. Leaving London and traveling to the countryside would take Lulu out of harm's way, at least.

The carriage jolted to a stop, springs jouncing and horses whinnying. Charlene realized they were already on Henrietta Street, across the Covent Garden piazza from home.

The countess slanted her eyes at the carriage door. “You may keep the cloak and gown—­ Blanchard burned your old clothing. Good-­bye, Miss Beckett.”

Never bother me again, Miss Beckett,
Charlene supplied to the end of the countess's cold dismissal as a footman handed her down. The carriage door slammed and the wheels began to turn.

The piazza was still uncrowded. Evidence of last night's festivities clogged the gutters. Empty gin bottles, theater bills, a lone white glove muddied by boot heels.

Vendors set up stalls overflowing with flowers and vegetables. As Charlene walked by, a bird seller tipped his broad-­brimmed hat and smiled, revealing a row of rotting teeth.

“ 'Ere, miss, see the pretty goldfinches.” He pointed to a cage. “If you don't like finches, try a lark.”

Charlene slowed, her mind racing. She stared into a cage. Finches with red masks and velvety-­white underbellies balanced on perches, their small heads bobbing and tilting in constant motion, except for one little bird that cowered in a corner of the cage.

She'd taken the employment for Lulu's sake, and now she would be able to change her sister's life.

“Them finches are a bob apiece, and thrupence for the cage,” the seller said, sidling up to her, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Why do the other birds peck at that one?” she asked, watching as one of the birds swooped down to peck at the poor bird shivering in the corner.

“Dunno.” The seller shrugged.

One of the birds burst into an aria. “teLLIT-­teLLIT-­teLLIT,” it sang.

“That's a champion, that one,” the man said.

Yesterday flying free over a meadow and today beating their wings against a wooden cage, sold for sport.

“I'll take the lot,” Charlene said, following a sudden impulse.

“You won't be sorry, mum.” The seller pocketed her coins and handed her the cage full of finches. She took a few steps, then set the cage down on a pile of crates and opened the hatch.

“ ‘Ere now, what you doing?” the seller called after her.

Charlene reached into the cage and shooed the birds toward the door. They burst through the opening in a flurry of gold and red, warbling as they rose into the wide sky.

Even the injured bird escaped. He was soon a speck over the rooftops of Covent Garden.

The seller cursed and his friends laughed.

Charlene hurried across the piazza to set her sister free.

She reached the house and paused on the front steps, gathering her resolve. When she entered, she would be Charlene again. She'd scrub the last trace of roses from her skin, remove the fine muslin, and never dream of glittering green eyes again.

Lulu's soft hazel eyes filling with joy would be her reward.

She took a deep breath. Inside, all was quiet. Charlene saw the house as if for the first time. The overstuffed pink chairs gossiping in the front parlor. The gaudy gold paint peeling from the staircase banisters. The way the stairs groaned and wheezed as she climbed. Everyone except Lulu was still abed at this early hour, even Kyuzo.

Lulu sat in her sitting room, thin shoulders bent over the wooden artist's box that doubled as an easel. As Charlene watched, Lulu dipped a slender brush into a porcelain palette, choosing a vivid blue to paint sky onto the back of the playing cards she used for backings, since they couldn't afford ivory for her miniature paintings.

Charlene didn't want to startle her and make her brush slip. She quietly set her bonnet and cloak on a chair, struck by the way the morning sun caressed Lulu's russet hair, stoking it to the crimson of autumn leaves.

A rush of love and pride flooded her chest with hope. After her apprenticeship, Lulu would be able to make an independent income from her painting.

Lulu set her brush down and turned her head. “Charlene!” She leapt from her seat and flung herself into Charlene's arms. “You've been gone so long.”

“Only a few days,” Charlene laughed, stroking Lulu's soft head. “How are you, my love? What are you working on?”

“The Wellington portrait, only I can't make his eyes come out right. They're not nearly noble enough. At least not as noble as I imagine them to be.”

“I'm so glad you are safe.” Charlene breathed in the familiar sharp smell of paints and the heavy scent of the linseed oil her sister used to clean her brushes. She never would have forgiven herself if Grant had harmed Lulu while Charlene had been at the duke's estate.

Lulu's eyes clouded. “Why wouldn't I be safe?”

“No reason, sweetheart.” Charlene kissed the top of her head and set her at arm's length. “Now cover up those paints and let's have some tea.”

Lulu tilted her head, for all the world like one of the bobbing finches. “You look different somehow.” She contemplated Charlene's face. “There's something about your eyes. I'd have to use new colors to paint them. They have mysterious shadows. As if you know a secret.”

Charlene tried to laugh, but the sound stuck halfway. She'd always marveled at how Lulu was so intuitive and sensitive to emotions and so completely oblivious to the reality of their lives, preferring to live in the worlds she conjured in her paintings. “Same old Charlene,” she said. “Nothing mysterious about me.”

“But where did you go? Mother wouldn't tell me. You
must
have a secret.”

Charlene smiled. “You caught me.”

“I knew it.” Lulu's eyes danced with curiosity. “You finally found a handsome suitor, and that was his mother I saw you with the night you left. He took one look at your heavenly blue eyes and golden curls and was hopelessly smitten.”

Charlene shook her head. “Guess again.”

“No handsome suitor?”

“Not a one.”

“Hmm.” Lulu tapped a finger to her lips. “A benefactor, then? A distant relation who bequeathed you a vast fortune and a crumbling old castle haunted by hundreds of ghosts. Oh how I should love to live in a castle.” She sighed, her eyes shining. “Tell me I've got it right.”

Charlene laughed. “You've been reading too many novels, sweetheart.”

Lulu wrinkled her nose. “I give up.”

Charlene took her sister's hand. “Remember when I said I wanted to find you a painting apprenticeship?”

Lulu's eyes widened. “Yes,” she breathed.

Charlene squeezed her hand. “I found a perfect one.”

Lulu stared at Charlene, a million questions shining in her eyes.

“You're to be apprenticed to Mrs. Anna Hendricks,” Charlene said. “An elderly painter with failing eyesight who needs you to help her complete her paintings. You'll be able to learn from her tutelage, and she may be able to help launch your career.”

“Is it really true?” Lulu breathed.

“Absolutely. I'm to take you to her in Essex. She has a lovely stone cottage and a pretty garden.” Charlene had received more details from the countess about her situation. “You'll have ivory and fine French pigments, and you can take rambles in the countryside. It will do you a world of good. I'll stay with you for the first weeks.”

Lulu clasped Charlene's hand even tighter. “I can't believe it. It's more than I ever dreamt of . . . but . . .” Her face fell. “Mama is worse, Charlene. She coughs all night long. I can't leave her.”