My Dear Duchess (20 page)

Clarissa played her trump card. She opened her beautiful eyes and gave him a direct look. “I see I cannot fool you, Henry. The fact is I have become engaged to Lord Adderson this very morn. Any breath of scandal attached to our name and…”

She did not need to finish. The Duke vividly recalled her desire for a title. He leaned forward. “I shall go to Mrs. O’Brien’s tonight. If Frederica is there, God help her. An’ she is not… then God help you, dear Clarissa.”

Clarissa recoiled. The Duke’s eyes were blazing and she realized with a thrill of terror that he was likely to be a much more formidable enemy than Jack Ferrand. She had a sudden impulse to tell him the truth but he had risen to his feet and rung the bell for the servant to show her out.

She almost ran from the house to her carriage and nearly collided with a small female figure who was lurking on the pavement.

“Why! Miss Wheatcroft,” exclaimed Clarissa recognising the foxy face peeping out from a poke bonnet. “What are you doing here?”

“I have urgent news for Mr. Pellington-James,” whispered Priscilla, the tip of her nose twitching in an irritating manner. “Do you have his direction?”

“He has lodgings in Albemarle Street, I believe,” said Clarissa coldly. “I suggest you go there and enquire.”

The little figure scuttled off leaving Clarissa to stare after her. What was that all about? Clarissa had a comforting feeling that at least Chuffy was in for as bad a morning as she was experiencing herself.

A new Chuffy Pellington-James was at that moment ambling in a leisurely manner back to his flat in Albemarle Street. Overcome by the friendship of such a notable Corinthian as the Duke of Westerland, and tired of the malice of the Dandy set, Chuffy had decided to adopt the Corinthian mode.

He had just visited his tailors, Weston and Meyer in Conduit Street, to supervise the structure of a suit of evening clothes that even Mr. Brummell would find unexceptionable. Rigid days of sports and exercise had reduced his stomach to comfortable proportions and his rosy face, free of its customary white paint, beamed on the world.

Even a rigidly starched cravat tied in the Oriental failed to mar Chuffy’s comfort. Free of stays and high heels, he felt like a new man.

He was cheerfully whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and looking forward to changing his clothes and having a well-earned lunch at his club, when the whistle died on his lips. He found himself looking down at the unforgettable face of Priscilla Wheatcroft who was clutching the railings at the entrance to his flag.

“Oh, Mr. Pellington-James,” she gasped weakly. “Thank goodness it is you. I am feeling faint. Do you think you could procure me a glass of water?”

“Well, no I can’t,” said Chuffy baldly. “M’man’s got the day off. ‘Sides it wouldn’t be the thing to have a lady in my flat. Where’s your maid?”

“She… she fell ill too,” whispered Priscilla, swaying against the railings.

Chuffy swore under his breath and looked quickly up and down the street. No one was in sight. “You can come in for a minute,” he said. “And make sure nobody sees you leavin’.”

She nodded and clung onto his arm. Together they climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartments. He fumbled for his key and let her in to a dark hallway. “What an interesting
little
key,” cried Priscilla, holding out her hand. “May I see it?”

He handed it to her. “It’s the latest Chubb lock,” he said proudly. “No felon’s going to pick that one.”

“Really,” exclaimed Priscilla, inserting the key in the inside lock. “And when I turn it like this, there you are, all locked in, safe and sound.”

“Well… er… yes,” said Chuffy, holding out his hand for the key but she moved in front of him into his small book-lined parlor.

Before Chuffy knew what she was about she had run to the window which was open a few inches at the bottom and hurled the key out into the street.

“What the…” began Chuffy.

She turned and faced him with her back to the window, a smile of triumph curving her thin lips. “You are
compromised
, Mr. Pellington-James,” she cried. “Now you will need to marry me!”

Chuffy moved quickly to the window. The street looked a very long way down. “I could scream for help,” he remarked.

She gave a scornful laugh. “A large man like you, screaming for help! Why, you would be the laughing stock of London.”

Gloomily, Chuffy realized this to be true. The new respect and compliments he had earned since he had joined the Corinthian set were not to be thrown away lightly. He sat down suddenly and surveyed Priscilla Wheatcroft with a drawn, hard look beginning to form on his usually cheerful features.

He began to pull of his boots.

“Why, Mr. Pellington-James! What are you doing?” screamed Priscilla.

“Makin’ the most of it,” said Chuffy laconically, removing his jacket.

“But… this is not what I planned,” stammered Priscilla.

Chuffy tore off his cravat and removed his splendid waistcoat.

“I shall scream for help,” said Priscilla, breathing hard.

Chuffy removed his shirt and then his undervest. “Won’t do you any good,” he remarked cheerfully. “Nobody in the house and the window won’t open any further.”

He hitched a thumb into the top of his trousers and looked across at Miss Wheatcroft who was staring at his naked hairy chest and looking now as if she was really going to faint.

He approached her slowly as she backed into a corner of the room. “You said I was compromised, Miss Wheatcroft,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye. “But you’re the one that’s going to be compromised so you may as well make the best of it. Come here to me.”

Like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake, Priscilla moved slowly towards him. He caught her round the waist and removed her bonnet and threw it on the sofa.

“Why!” he exclaimed. “It’s beginning to snow. How cosy.”

But Miss Priscilla Wheatcroft only let out a faint moan. Things were not going the way she had planned during her long journey to town from the country. Things were certainly not going her way one little bit.

As Frederica’s carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, she was just in time to see her husband’s smart yellow curricle bowling out of the other end. She gave a little sigh. It was just as well. Confrontations were painful. When they met, he treated her with a chilling formality. He was absent most nights, not returning till the small hours. Frederica often heard him enter as she tossed and turned on her pillow, unable to sleep until she knew he was home. A fine, light snow was beginning to fall from the leaden sky. She was bone weary from the hectic round of social engagements, always hoping by some miracle that her husband would attend one of them and smile on her. But when he did attend, he afforded her no more than a common bow and promptly retired to the card room. Frederica did not know how bitterly he loathed her crowd of gallants and how desperately he wished he could snatch her from them.

She felt immeasurably weary in body and spirit as she walked into the hall. Worthing, the butler, presented her with a note folded in the shape of a cocked hat.

“This arrived for you this morning, Your Grace,” he said.

Frederica removed her bonnet and cloak and handed them to Worthing and then opened the note. The writing seemed to leap out of the page at her.

“If you wish to know where your husband spends his evenings—and with whom—pay a visit tonight to Mrs. O’Brien’s gambling house, 128 Cork Street.”

It was unsigned. Frederica rounded on Worthing. “Who brought this?”

“A footman, Your Grace. He was in plain livery and I do not know from which household he came.”

“Very good, Worthing,” said Frederica faintly. “That will be all.”

She crumpled the note in her hand and stared into space. She would not go. She would not be confronted by her husband’s latest lightskirt.

But then the thought of this agonizing marriage dragging its painful weary way on through the winter’s days was too much. She had to know the worst. Confronted by her in such a place, he must surely come to a decision—divorce… or rearrange the marriage to more comfortable terms.

The weary day dragged on as the steadily falling snow transformed London into a black and white etching, dancing, twirling, and falling in the pale flickering light of the parish lamps.

Frederica dined alone in her rooms and then rang for her maid. Dressed in a gown of white merino with silver stripes and a red velvet cloak lined with ermine, she trailed slowly down the stairs to come face to face with her husband who was also dressed in evening clothes.

“May I escort you somewhere, my lady?” he asked in a thin cold voice.

“N-no,” stammered Frederica. “I mean do not trouble. I am going to Emily’s and I am sure that it is out of your way.”

The Duke regarded his little wife speculatively. “I had forgotten, of course, that you prefer other escorts. Go on your way, madame.” He turned on his heel and walked off into his study and left her standing alone in the large hall.

Frederica half turned and made as though to run after him. But the study door shut behind him with a loud bang.

As she climbed into her carriage, a little of the fear began to leave her. Of course, it was all a hum! How could he be going to a gambling hell when she had left him at home. She would pay a call on Emily after all, and then just look in at Mrs. O’Brien’s.

She had taken the precaution of ordering the services of two burly footmen to accompany her. There would be no danger of a reenactment of the Barnet episode.

There was still enough of the child in Frederica to enjoy the sparkling snow despite her apprehension. And Emily always gave her a warm welcome.

Mrs. O’Brien’s indeed! He would probably go to his club.

The gambling hell did not present a very sinister appearance from the outside. A neat brick fronted, three-storied building with white painted window sashes and a glossy white door with a well-polished knocker, it did not seem to Frederica to be the type of mansion she had associated with the demi-monde.

But telling the two footmen to accompany her, she picked her way up the steps, which had been freshly cleared of snow.

Mrs. O’Brien put one large eye to the crack in the curtain and swivelled it round to follow Frederica’s slight figure as she mounted the steps outside followed by her footmen.

“A crest, no less,” she murmured, surveying the coach. “Some lord has sent his mistress along in fine style.”

“That, dear Mrs. O’Brien, is no mistress. That is none other than the Duchess of Westerland.”

“Lud!” Mrs. O’Brien swung her massive figure round and surveyed Jack Ferrand over her several chins. “What does Her Grace want frequenting a place like this?”

“You underrate the charms of your establishment,” he said smoothly. “Do not be put off by the Duchess’s youthful appearance and innocent air. She is a dedicated gambler.”

“So? There are fancy establishments enough in Mayfair to cater to the likes of her.”

“The Duchess,” Jack Ferrand went on, “has a certain little-known penchant for wild young men. Her husband is very strict so she cannot satisfy her… er… needs in her immediate circle. She is also exceedingly wealthy!”

“Oho! Then since she knows what she’s about, it’s up to me to supply such a plump little chicken with what she desires.”

Mrs. O’Brien moved rapidly among the tables, stopping here and there to speak with certain young men. With a snap of her fingers, a new table was set up just as Frederica made her entrance.

Mrs. O’Brien cruised majestically forward, enveloping Frederica in an air of false bonhommie.

Jack Ferrand had disappeared from view. Mrs. O’Brien sank into a low curtsy and then wheezed to her feet with great difficulty. “A great honor, Your Grace,” she panted. “Please come this way.”

Frederica decided against mentioning her husband. He was obviously not in the room. She would play one game and then make her departure.

As she followed Mrs. O’Brien, she looked around nervously. Everyone seemed to have stopped playing in order to stare at her. Many of the women wore necklines so low that the tops of their nipples showed and their transparent dresses had been damped to show as much of their form as they indecently could.

“Here we are,” said Mrs. O’Brien jovially pulling out a chair for Frederica. There were five young bucks at the table, all the worse for wine, and all sprawled at their ease.

“I do not care to join this company,” Frederica started to say when things began to move very quickly.

One of the young bucks pulled Frederica down onto his knee and she sprawled across him while his friends roared and cheered. Mrs. O’Brien knew from the look on Frederica’s face that a dreadful mistake had been made. She made a move to help Frederica but a commotion in the doorway made her swing round.

The Duke of Westerland stood there, his grey eyes like flat pieces of slate in his white face. The whole room froze. Mrs. O’Brien had one hand stretched towards Frederica and the other towards the Duke. Frederica’s skirt was rucked up as far as her garters and the Duke was to remember long afterwards that the thing that made his temper snap was the fact that this was the first time he had so much as seen his wife’s legs and it had to be in the middle of a gambling hell under the painted eyelids of half the demi-monde.

He bounded forward and delivered a smashing left straight into the face of the buck who was holding Frederica. Then with one arm he jerked her to her feet like a rag doll.

To Frederica, it was like a nightmare. She opened her mouth but no sound came. She was unceremoniously dragged from the room and bundled into her cloak, then dragged again out into the snow.

That little scene was burned into Frederica’s mind like a brand for long afterwards—the Duke with his white face and glittering eyes, Mrs. O’Brien’s great bosoms spilling over the window ledge of the club as she stared at them, the smell of whale oil from the parish lamp above her head mixing with the smells of wine, cigars and patchouli emanating from the club, and finally, the feel of the feathery snow on her face and the feel of the damp snow underfoot seeping through her thin slippers. The Duke said: “You will be removed from London to Chartsay immediately until I present suitable grounds for divorce. The servants at Chartsay will be informed that you are not to leave the grounds for any reason whatever. I wish I had never married you, madame. I most certainly never want to set eyes on you again.”