My Dear Duchess (10 page)

It was an almost medieval scene which met his eyes as he emerged onto the first landing of the great staircase. The lights from the arched mullioned windows shone down on the servants assembled below. Clarissa and Mrs. Sayers were standing open-mouthed at the entrance to the breakfast room. The Duke stood half way up the stairs facing his staff.

He raised an imperious hand and the assembly shuffled into silence. “My wife was locked in the ice house yesterday,” declared the Duke. “I am unable to find the culprit but mark my words… my wife has to be guarded from harm at any hour of the day. Should any harm befall her like the happening of yesterday, the heads of the household staff will be instantly dismissed. That is all.”

The servants scurried off. Clarissa looked up and saw Jack Ferrand looking down at her and she turned hurriedly away.

Despite her dislike for Frederica, she suddenly found the news that the girl was to be guarded at all times immeasurably comforting.

The Duke had questioned her closely about her story that Frederica had retired with a headache. Which servant was it? Man or woman? Could she identify the servant?

Clarissa had taken refuge in rudeness. Stifling a yawn, she had said that, really, all the servants looked alike to her and if her
dear
brother-in-law bombarded her with any more questions, why, she declared she would have a bad case of the headache herself!

It lacked but two days to the great event of Frederica’s masquerade and already the great house was abustle with preparations.

Emily and Mrs. Cholmley, complete with her holy interpreter in the form of Stafford, had arrived, much to Frederica’s delight. At first Emily had been sulky and despondent, declaring the masquerade party to be a great bore, but the arrival of Lord Archie Hefford put an end to her moping and she became as frantically interested in the subject of costumes as any other lady there.

Everyone was overcome with the desire to surprise the others and kept the subject of his costume a closely-guarded secret.

Frederica had seen little of her husband since the night of her escape from the ice house. He had taken hurried meals in his study and then spent the days riding over his land with his steward, seemingly immersed in the intricacies of agriculture. For once, Frederica had surprisingly little difficulty in arranging the great evening’s menu with Mrs. Lawton. She did not know that Mrs. Lawton feared that if she did not comply with Her Grace’s wishes, then Her Grace’s formidable and vulgar mother would be down on her like a ton of bricks.

She and her brother went about their duties with a false air of calm and willing obedience and only Frederica was not deceived. She had heard Mrs. Lawton whispering to her brother that “one day,
she
will be on her own here and then we’ll get our revenge.”

Frederica had shuddered and determined never to live at Chartsay without the escort of her strong husband. She was in no doubt that she was the “she” referred to so viciously. She had mentioned the overheard conversation to her husband at a moment when he was busy and pressed for time. He had accused her rather abruptly of being over-sensitive and pointed out if she were to take up the habit of eavesdropping, she would be in for a lot of nasty surprises. Then he had ridden off before she could protest.

She could only be glad that her husband had even less time for Clarissa than for herself, although Clarissa seemed to make the best of her few moments, always smiling, always beautiful, and always hinting at some secret intimacy with her large expressive eyes.

But Clarissa was privately wearying of the game—especially since the arrival of Archie Hefford. She also felt caged by Jack Ferrand’s perpetual stage-managing and when he informed her that the Duke was going dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh, and that she should therefore go as Queen Elizabeth, she had yawned and said vaguely, “Oh, very well.”

Her little stepsister, Clarissa was beginning to realize, could be quite charming company—although decidedly naive. Look at the way she kept working on that great horse of an Emily who was breaking her heart over Archie Hefford.

Jack Ferrand was not very worried over Clarissa’s apparent lack of interest in revenge. All it needed, he knew, with people of Clarissa’s nature, was some small slight, some prick to their vanity, to bring the wrong side uppermost. He would wait until an opportunity arose.

Little Frederica danced through the great halls, checking on the needs of her guests, and cheerfully made plans for Emily’s happiness. Her sister-in-law, she decided, should go as Cleopatra. With a black wig, and a little stain on her face to darken her skin, Frederica was sure she would look magnificent. Mrs. Sayers overheard her idea and related it to Clarissa. “Pon rep!” cried Mrs. Sayers, wiping her streaming eyes, “Can you imagine that great maypole of a girl as the Queen of the Nile?”

Clarissa gave a cat-like smile. “And wait until the great maypole hears of my betrothal to Archie Hefford.”

“Indeed!” cried her mother. “At last, my child. When did he propose?”

“He didn’t,” said Clarissa, adding with languid assurance, “but he will. I shall be the most beautiful girl present, shall I not?”

“Yes, my dear,” said her mama dutifully.

But it was not a simple little prick to her vanity that Clarissa was to experience on the night of the ball—it was a series of full-scale humiliations.

At the start, she felt that her Queen Elizabeth costume was too cumbersome and her hair scraped under the high Tudor cap was hardly becoming. She was about to remove it and wear an ordinary ballgown but then she thought, since she would be such a perfect foil for the Duke, that she would be taken to be the Duchess by many who had not yet met Frederica. And Clarissa had enough malice left in her heart to enjoy that prospect.

In order to make an effective appearance, she kept to her rooms until the last minute before descending the staircase to join the reception line into the ballroom. Almost the first person she saw was the Duke, shaking hands with his guests. To her horror, he had changed his mind and elected to wear modern evening dress, a glittering mask his only concession to the masquerade. The diminutive and exquisite figure of the little Spanish princess stood beside him and, through eyes misted with jealousy, Clarissa realized that her little stepsister had surpassed herself. Frederica was dressed in a black lace crinoline which accentuated her tiny waist and creamy bosom. Her midnight black hair which had never been cut to the modern fashion was piled high on her head and confined by an ebony comb and a black lace mantilla.

Queen Elizabeth in her massive Tudor gown, her face rigid with anger under her awe-inspiring cap, found herself in danger of being a wallflower for the first time in her life. The gentlemen took one look at that forbidding figure and began to court less terrifying-looking ladies. By the time Clarissa had fled to her room, beaten her maid, reduced the hairdresser to tears and torn every ballgown out of her closet until she could find something suitable, over an hour had passed. When she finally descended, looking her usual exquisite self, she had regained some of her former good humor. Several gentlemen who had sworn to favor the card room and not dance at all, suddenly changed their minds at her appearance and she was again courted and feted in the manner she was accustomed to. She was determined to have her revenge on Jack Ferrand for suggesting such a ridiculous costume when the music abruptly stopped.

The Duke mounted to the musicians’ gallery and held up his hands for silence. “It gives me great pleasure,” he cried, “to announce the engagement of my dear sister, Emily, to my very dear friend, Archie Hefford!” He smiled and waved his hands towards the long windows where the couple was standing outside on the terrace. Everyone applauded and Clarissa turned slowly. Could that be Emily? Good, old, plain, dull Emily? She was a real figure in her gold and black Egyptian robe with a long silky black wig and a high gold helmet. Her face was transfigured with happiness and love.

Clarissa’s heart burned with black hate. The glittering throng applauded and cheered, their masked faces glittering in the candlelight, seeming to Clarissa like so many mocking demons. She had been so sure of Archie Hefford. So sure! Someone would pay for this, and dearly. She turned and saw Jack Ferrand watching her with a malicious gleam in his usually pleasant eyes. “Come into the grounds, sir,” she hissed. “I would have a reckoning with you!”

“But of course, dear lady,” he said smoothly, offering her his arm. Clarissa walked in a seething silence, almost dragging her companion along with her until they reached the rotunda where Frederica had once sat with Mrs. Witherspoon.

Clarissa rounded on him, her eyes blazing. “Now Mr. Ferrand…” she began, and then broke off. He had drawn a pistol from the pocket of his highway-man’s costume and it was pointing straight at her heart.

“Take off your clothes, Clarissa,” he demanded.

She turned white with anger and fear. “I will do no such thing. Are you mad?”

By way of an answer, he pressed the gun against her ribs.

Tears of pure rage and fright began to roll down Clarissa’s cheeks. “No!” she cried, backing away from him. “Why do you do this to me, sir? Have I not helped you enough? My mother will.…”

He gave her a jeering laugh. “That old upstart can’t do much for you when you are lying lifeless. I repeat… take off your clothes. You do not do as I say, and I shall shoot you dead. It will be assumed that some prowler killed you in the grounds. I have alibi enough, I assure you!”

Clarissa looked into his pitiless eyes and realized she had no other choice. Turning her back to him, she fumbled with the fastenings to her dress and with trembling fingers let it fall to the ground at her feet. The moonlight illuminated the rotunda with a soft radiance, showing him Clarissa’s trembling back. She was wearing the latest thing in scanty petticoats and pale pink silk stockings delicately embroidered with silver thread, rolled below the knee.

His cold light eyes raked over her body. “Just as I had hoped,” he said at last. “That is quite a disfiguring birthmark you have on your left thigh.”

Clarissa felt the blush starting at the soles of her feet and rising to the top of her head. To think she had overcome her mother’s protests against the new flimsy, transparent petticoats!

Jack Ferrand’s voice was heavy with menace. “Now, listen to me, my girl. You will do what I say or I will tell the world and his wife that I have lain with you. I will be able to describe the little mole there… and there… and of course the birthmark. Your mother will not dare deny it. You will be labelled Haymarket ware, my dear, and never will you win your title. Now, you will entice the Duke into some compromising situation so that his little wife thinks him unfaithful. I will then persuade the hurt couple to return to London where it will be easier to keep them apart. Tell anyone of this evening and I will kill you. Put on your clothes.”

Clarissa looked at him wide-eyed. “You are not going to rape me then?” He walked round the shivering girl and surveyed her insolently from head to toe.

“Rape!
You
,” he laughed. “Good God, it would turn my stomach.” And still laughing, he turned and left her.

After he had gone, Clarissa slowly put on her clothes. Her very brain seemed to be warped and twisted with hate. First she would indeed revenge herself on Frederica. Had it not been for Frederica, she could have married the Duke. Had Frederica not interfered, then she could have married Archie Hefford. And after she was finished with Frederica and married to some rich lord and did not have to account for her expenses as she had to at the moment with such a prying mama, she would pay and pay dearly to get Jack Ferrand removed from the face of the earth.

She glided quietly into the ballroom and was soon surrounded by the group of admirers. Over their shoulders she saw the Duke dancing with his wife. He was smiling tenderly down at her. There was no time to be lost.

The Duke was at that moment remembering the feel of Frederica’s body underneath his on the bed that night they had had their quarrel and was making up his mind that it would be pleasant to repeat the experience… but in a more tranquil atmosphere. Everytime she looked into his eyes, Frederica’s heart sang with joy. They paused at the edge of the dance floor when the music ceased, pleased with their home, and suddenly very happy in each other’s company. Clarissa came dancing up and some of Frederica’s happiness spilled over as Clarissa pouted prettily and said her dance card was half empty because she had looked such a quiz as Queen Elizabeth.

“Oh, Henry will dance with you,” cried Frederica, giving Clarissa an impulsive hug. “It is the waltz and you know how you love to waltz!”

Clarissa moved readily into the Duke’s arms and, after giving them one indulgent look, Frederica went to sit beside Mrs. Cholmley.

As the dance led them near the windows, Clarissa saw Jack Ferrand watching her and shivered. “You are cold!” exclaimed the Duke. “Let us go away from the windows.”

“No, indeed, I am warm enough,” said Clarissa, “but I am in very great trouble and I need your advice. Could you step onto the terrace with me? Just for a moment.”

The heavy curtains had been drawn against the night air and the Duke hesitated a moment, doubtful of the propriety of the suggested move. But Clarissa’s beautiful eyes were bright with unshed tears and she indeed seemed to be in trouble. He pulled back the curtains and ushered her out onto the terrace.

“How can I aid you, Miss Sayers?” he asked politely. She gave a breathless little laugh. “Oh, call me Clarissa. We are related now, you know.” This was received with a stiff bow so she hurried on. “I am in such deep trouble. Mr. Ferrand has proposed to me and I do not know whether to accept or not.”

“That is surely a matter for your heart to decide.”

She moved closer to him. “But my heart is already engaged.” A perfect tear rolled down her cheek. “When you proposed to me, I wanted… oh so much… to say yes. But mama made me refuse. That is why I was so cruel. I do not care for titles or for any other man.”