My Dear Duchess (22 page)

“What a pair you are,” said Chuffy. “Never seen a marriage like it, beggin’ your pardon and all that.”

The Duke was opening his mouth to make an angry reply when the butler entered and announced that there was “a woman to see Your Grace.”

“What kind of a woman. You know better, Worthing, than to open the door to… er… never mind, who is it?”

“The person calls herself Mrs. O’Brien.”

“She does, does she,” said the Duke grimly. “Show her in.”

Mrs. O’Brien sailed into the room and sank into a deep curtsy from which she was unable to rise without the assistance of two footmen. “Did I look like that?” asked Chuffy gloomily.

A great wave of patchouli spread itself around the room reminding the Duke vividly of the night of Frederica’s disgrace.

“Why have you come?” he asked, levelling his quizzing glass at the huge bulk of the gambling house owner.

“I’ve come about your dear wife,” she wheezed. “I’ve got something here,” she patted a huge reticule, “that I believe will show there was a plot afoot to discredit the Duchess.”

“Hand it over!” snapped the Duke.

“Not so fast,” said Mrs. O’Brien, clutching her reticule tightly to her massive bosom. “I come out in this dreadful dirty snow all for the sake of your good lady’s name. I paid for the hire of that there carriage outside. I…”

“How much?”

“One thousand guineas,” said Mrs. O’Brien calmly as her large eyes in a face empurpled with the cold took a careful inventory of the furnishings.

“Five hundred,” said the Duke, “and not a penny more.”

“I’m a poor woman, Your Grace, what with the price of suppers and candles and…”

“Four hundred.”

“Eight hundred, your dukeship, and the letter is yours.”

“Three hundred.”

“You’re a hard, hard man. A rich aristocutt such as yourself should be prepared to shell out proper for to protect such a sweet angel as his lady wife.”

“Be off with you.”

“I’ll take the five hundred,” said Mrs. O’Brien quickly, opening her bag.

She handed over the letter. The Duke smoothed it out and read it carefully.

“Who wrote this?”

“Well, your dukeship, for another few guineas I could…”

“Who wrote it, you bloodsucker, or do I have to choke the information out of you?”

“Jack Ferrand,” she said sulkily. “I recognized his hand cos’ I hold several of his I.O.U.’s. Furthermore, when I asked him what the Duchess was doing at a gambling hell, he like tells me she has the gambling fever and a punshunt for young bucks. I was only trying to supply the demand when you came charging in.”

The Duke stood up. “You may go, Mrs. O’Brien.”

“But Your Grace, it’s an uncommon cold day and I was hoping to moisten my lips with a little something.”

The Duke pulled the bell rope hard. “I have never yet struck a woman, Mrs. O’Brien, but if you do not take yourself off I shall moisten your lips with the back of my fist. Ah, Worthing, take this person to Mr. Dubble and see that she receives her money.” He gave Worthing a note and stood silently looking into the fire until Mrs. O’Brien had gone.

“I’ll kill him,” he said simply.

“Good,” replied Chuffy matter-of-factly. “Let’s go. We’ll probably find him at Brooks.”

The famous Whig club was thin of company, but Jack Ferrand was seated at one of the windows with Archie Hefford and Lord Sackett. All were silent, looking out at the steadily falling snow.

The Duke strode up to their table with Chuffy close behind him. Lord Sackett began to giggle. “How martial you look, dear Chuffy. Is this your new image?” Then his painted mouth fell open in surprise for the Duke of Westerland had removed his York tan gloves and struck Jack Ferrand across the face with them.

“You have plotted and schemed against my wife,” said the Duke. “I demand satisfaction.”

“You’re mad,” declared Jack Ferrand with a fixed smile. “I refuse to talk to you. You are quite mad.”

The Duke threw Jack Ferrand’s glass of wine full in his face. “What do I have to do to make you accept my challenge, you coward?” he demanded. “I believe you are in some way related to me, which makes it worse. You are a disgrace to the Westerland family.”

“I’ll meet you. And God in Heaven, I’ll kill you,” hissed Jack Ferrand. “How dare you say I am not worthy of the Westerlands. Were it not for you, you miserable crawling half-pay Captain. I would be the Duke.
I
would hold the title. Not you. Yes, I will kill you. Did you think I would stand by and see you father brats by that common little slut you married… stand by and see them take
my
title. Name your seconds.”

Chuffy and Archie Hefford promptly volunteered to second the Duke and Lord Sackett, twittering with excitement, said he would act for Mr. Ferrand and that his friend, Mr. Gordon, who was shortly due to arrive, would act as well.

They silently elected to walk, each one trudging through the sooty snow of London, each one wrapped in his own thoughts. Chuffy was the first to speak. “They say Jack Ferrand’s a good man with a sword.”

“So am I,” remarked the Duke and both fell silent again. Melting snowflakes ran down his face like tears and glinted on his snowy cravat. Fear and worry for his little wife consumed him. He remembered all her shy and hesitant approaches and how he had brutally snubbed her, hiding his hurt feelings behind a chilly mask of formality. Then he stopped stock still while Chuffy ambled aimlessly round him in the snow like a pet dog.

“Clarissa!” cried the Duke. “She must have been a part of this plot. She told me about Mrs. O’Brien’s.” He swung off in the direction of Clarence Square with Chuffy trotting at his heels.

Mrs. Sayers and Clarissa were seated over their needlework in the drawing room and both fluttered to their feet as the Duke strode into the room followed by Chuffy.

“I would beg a word with you in private, Miss Sayers,” said the Duke, pointedly holding open the door for Mrs. Sayers.

But Mrs. Sayers stood her ground. “I am tired of being ordered out of my own drawing room,” she snapped, all poses from the girlish to the languid fled to reveal the tough and brutal north country woman underneath.

But Clarissa was made of stronger stuff than even her formidable mother. Her eyes had flashed to the Duke’s face and from the look in his eyes, she feared the game was up. There may yet be a way to save the day but only by getting rid of her mother.

“Go, mama,” she ordered.

“I’ll not go, my lass. Ah’ll stay reet here alongt you and his nibs,” said Mrs. Sayers, her normally refined accents disappearing in a burst of rage.

Clarissa flew at her like a wild cat. “Get out of here, you stupid woman. You make me sick!” She gave her mother a stinging slap across the face. Mrs. Sayers began to scream but the undaunted Clarissa tugged the bell and ordered the butler to summon madame’s maid on the double.

All three waited in silence as Mrs. Sayers’ noisy sobs could be heard disappearing up the stairs and along the corridor to her room.

Clarissa turned to the gentlemen with a light laugh. “You must forgive my dramatics. I fear mama needs a strong hand to control her.”

“So, it seems, do you,” said the Duke moving towards her. She backed away before the fury in his face.

“I have just discovered that Jack Ferrand has been plotting against my wife. He sent her a note to lure her to a certain Mrs. O’Brien’s. Now it was you who so touchingly told me that I would find Frederica there. What do you have to say to that?”

Clarissa thought quickly. He obviously did not know of her complicity, else why would he ask? She gave him a tremulous smile and said, “How horrible! I never did like that man. Poor little Freddie! My dear Henry, it was, of course, Mr. Ferrand who told me all about Frederica’s going to Mrs. O’Brien’s gambling house and suggested that I tell you. He was so convincing that I did not suspect a plot. Oh, please believe me.”

Her beautiful mouth was trembling and her large eyes shone with tears. The Duke could see no trace of deceit on her face.

“Very well, Clarissa,” he said heavily. “It appears that you have been tricked the same as I. Come Chuffy.”

After they had left, Clarissa sat alone for a long time wondering when it would all end. She was sure the Duke would challenge Jack Ferrand to a duel if he had not already done so. She was soon to receive her answer.

Jack Ferrand burst into the drawing room without even pausing to remove his snow-covered benjamin. “Have you heard from Westerland?” he asked coming to stand over her.

“Yes,” said Clarissa, barely able to conceal her fear and dislike.

“Does he know of your part in this?”

Clarissa shook her head.

“Good! You will do one more thing for me. The Duke is meeting me to fight a duel at Chalk Farm at five in the morning. You must alert the authorities and have the duel stopped.”

Clarissa surveyed him with contempt. “You are frightened of Henry.”

“Do as I say and spare me your insults,” he snapped.

“Oh, very well,” sighed Clarissa.

But after he had gone, she stared out of the window as he climbed into his carriage. A slow smile curved her lips. “No. I shall not alert the authorities, Mr. Ferrand. I hope to God he kills you.”

The first thing the Duke did on his return to Grosvenor Square was to send for his steward, Benjamin Dubble. He explained as briefly as possible that his wife was alone at Chartsay and, because he was unable to leave town due to a pressing engagement, he wished Mr. Dubble to ride poste-haste and bring her back.

“I shall give you a letter…” he began and then paused. There was too much to say. What if he were killed? “No,” he said slowly. “On second thoughts, do not bring her back. Tell her I shall be joining her tomorrow. Take Entwhistle, my secretary with you. Should any accident befall me, I shall leave a letter for the Duchess on my desk.”

Benjamin Dubble hesitated. “I don’t know if we shall manage to reach Chartsay, today, Your Grace. I fear the roads will be blocked.”

“Do your best,” he said wearily, “And Dubble…”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“If my wife is experiencing any embarrassment or difficulty with Lawton, give him his marching orders.”

“
Certainly
, Your Grace,” said Dubble, his face creasing in a smile.

The Duke was left alone to draw forward several sheets of letter paper and to stare down at them, seeing only the image of Frederica’s face. What if she did not love him? What if he were too late?

The weary winter day stretched on as he searched for the correct phrases to explain what was in his heart in case he should not return alive from Chalk Farm. Sheet after sheet of paper was crumpled and torn up as he slaved over the delicate task of explaining to his wife that he had fallen head over heels in love with her: that, in retrospect, he must have been in love with her for a long time. Finally as the parish lamps were lit in the square outside and the butlers stood out on the steps of the various households to exchange gossip and take the evening air, he finally finished by confining himself to a few simple and direct sentences.

A weight suddenly seemed to have been lifted from his soul. There was nothing left to do but retire to bed and pray that he would acquit himself honorably on the morrow.

But just before he closed his eyes, he decided that he would fight as he had never fought before to avenge all the heartbreak and shame that Jack Ferrand had caused his little wife.

His little wife was, at that moment, settling down to sleep and planning vengeance of her own. Despite the loyal servants, the pompous Lawton and his sister had managed to make the great mansion thrum with an atmosphere of hate and venom. Foul practical jokes had been the order of the day, culminating in the presentation of a covered dish on the dinner table which, when opened, had revealed a live rat. She could not flee for even the loyal members of the staff knew of the Duke’s ruling and would not go so far as to let her make her escape. Tomorrow, she decided, in some way she would trap Lawton. All she needed to do was to bait the trap. She lay on her pillows staring out at the snow swirling outside the windows and tried not to think of her husband. All her troubles had really begun the day she was locked in the ice house. The ice house! She sat bolt upright as a plan began to form in her head.

She rang the bell and summoned her maid.

Benson found her mistress already getting dressed. “Quickly, Benson,” said Frederica turning round to the sleepy maid. “You must somehow get me the key to the ice house.”

Benson yawned, “That’s easy, Your Grace. After all the trouble there was last time about you being locked in, I remember one of the servants saying that anyone could have got hold of the key seeing as how it was hanging on a nail in the stillroom. Then she came fully awake and stared at Frederica. “Whatever does Your Grace want with a key at this time of night?”

“Don’t ask questions,” said Frederica imperiously. “Bring it to me immediately and make sure that every servant you meet knows that I am going to lock my jewels in the ice house. You will say that I do not trust Lawton and that I fear he means to rob me. No! Don’t argue with me. Go directly.”

Benson went off grumbling to change her clothes and collect the key. She returned some time later with an even gloomier look on her face. “I hope you know what you’re doing, ma’am. All Lawton’s lot was hanging around with their eyes popping out of their heads.”

“All the better,” said Frederica. “Help me on with my pattens.”

When she was finally well wrapped up, she gave her heavy jewel box to the maid and together they quietly crept from the apartment.

The snow had stopped falling and a small winter’s moon raced high above.

The world looked as if it had been washed clean and the very act of taking some sort of action made Frederica’s heart lighter. Benson struggled along behind her, her long skirts hampering her progress through the snow. “Ma’am!” she whispered to Frederica. “There’s always duplicates of these keys and the Groom of the Chambers has them all.”

“I know,” said Frederica simply. Their heavy skirts and wooden pattens left a long trail stretching behind them to the house. Frederica looked behind her with satisfaction. “There are no clear prints,” she murmured. “If we wait long enough, they will think we have returned to the house.”