The Dangerous Duke (11 page)

The green gown looked very well on the milksop. Too well. There was something familiar about the style that registered in the back of Lady Penelope’s mind. The fabric was amazingly beautiful. Her chagrin flared.

How can it be that this nobody has such an exquisite dress, so finely cut? I could swear it has the touch of my own
modiste
about it.

Of course, it’s not possible she told herself, savouring the pastry that melted in her mouth.

It’s impossible that this bland little creature could have access to the attentions of such a woman as Madame Celeste; impossible too she would have the money to pay for such a dress. It’s obviously a hand-me-down from one of the old woman’s young relatives.

However, the colour became the girl incredibly well, highlighting her flawless complexion and offsetting the dusky burnish of her curls. As Lady Penelope studied her rival further, she became conscious that Fenella’s beauty was entirely natural. The faint blush of pink on her cheeks, the dark wings of her brows and the fringed fan of her eyelashes owed nothing to artful cosmetics. She was irked beyond repair to admit to her own attempts at keeping the ravages of time at bay. If the soft mellow light of the candles showed her beauty to advantage, it did so even more for Fenella, who was unconscious of the storm she had awakened in the breast of her enemy and the Duke.

Eschewing the usual brandy, port and cigars at the behest of the Dowager, the company gathered in the drawing room. Devlin sipped coffee while Freddie played the piano forte and sang one of the latest music hall ditties. When the last tinkling notes faded away, Lady Penelope drew closer to Fenella on the sofa.

“Dear Miss…Preston, isn’t it?” she cooed. “You must tell me all about yourself.”

Her turquoise eyes glittered dangerously, like those of a snake when confronted with the trembling tid-bit of a terrified rabbit. Before Fenella could reply, she caressed the fabric of Fenella’s dress. “What a beautiful dress. You must give me the name of your
modiste
.”

Fenella cast a frightened, anguished glance at the Dowager and opened her mouth.

The Dowager forestalled any need for speech by saying smoothly, “Dear me, Lady Vane, so many questions. I declare you are becoming a regular quiz.”

Lady Penelope flushed with chagrin but caught herself in time by laughing her well-known, trilling laugh. “You are quite right, Your Grace.” She bowed her head in mock remorse. “I dare say I must appear to be vastly curious. Do forgive me.”

She dimpled enchantingly at Fenella, who gave a weak smile in return.

Lady Penelope patted Fenella’s hand and smiled. “’Tis just that I do so love to make new acquaintances. One knows all the gossip in London and it has become so boring. La! But I would love for us to become friends while I am here at Deverell House.”

She stroked the material of Fenella’s gown again. “This fabric is quite wonderful. Pray do tell me your secret?” Her dazzling gaze was hypnotic.

The Dowager intervened with serene aplomb. “I am afraid you will be disappointed, Lady Penelope, if you persist in trying to winkle information from dear Fenella.”

The turquoise eyes darted from Fenella to the Dowager. “Why is that?”

“Fenella does not even know from whence the dress comes.” The Dowager stroked Scheherazade with a satisfied smirk.

Lady Penelope lifted her arched brows and stretched her lips in a strained smile. “Pray tell.”

The Dowager shook her head. “No, no, it was a gift to Fenella, and so it would not do to reveal the details.”

Lady Penelope bowed her head with a rueful smile. Inside she seethed at being denied the particulars of this superb dressmaker—she would see Madame Celeste when she returned to London and demand a dress of exactly the same fabric.

Fenella’s reprieve, however, was short-lived. Lady Penelope was tenacious and she was determined to corner her prey.

“Forgive me, my dear Miss Preston,” Lady Vane purred, as she leaned forward and lifted Fenella’s right hand for a closer examination of her bracelet and ring. “I could not help noticing what very fine jewels you have and.…” She hesitated a moment, affecting reluctance. “I could not help wondering how is it that, in your circumstances, you are the proud possessor of such lovely gems.”

“In all honesty, Lady Vane, this is the first time I have seen and worn these gems and the locket.”

Lady Vane raised astonished eyebrows and turned a surprised face to the company. “Good gracious, Miss Preston. It sounds like a stage theatrical, a mystery!”

“It is a mystery to me,” Fenella admitted, “for these obviously belonged to my mother, and my father asked my aunt to keep them safe until such time as I would have need to wear them. The ring, bracelet and earrings were his wedding gift to my mother and the locket, I believe, belonged to her family.”

Lady Penelope’s sharp eyes had spied the worn motif. “Pray tell, was your mother of noble birth? It seems to me the emblem on the locket closely resembles a family crest of some kind.”

As she spoke, Lady Penelope was acutely aware that if this was true and the chit was of noble birth, her troubles had increased manifold in an instant. It was imperative to go through with the rest of her plan to secure a proposal, and quickly.

Fenella fingered the locket. “I don’t know and since neither my father nor mother is alive to reveal much more to me, it seems there is no answer to your question.”

“You have not been much in Society, I gather?” A self-satisfied purr underlined the pointed question.

“Alas, no, ma’am,” Fenella replied truthfully. “Since my parents’ deaths I have lived a quiet life with my aunt in London and have not had much opportunity for social intercourse.”

When Lady Penelope opened her mouth to question Fenella further about her parentage, the Dowager reminded the company that being an orphan was so very distressing she was sure it was not a topic for discussion; and since one’s Mama usually left family jewels to an only daughter, Fenella’s finery was unexceptionable.

Finally, Lady Penelope was persuaded to give the company a recital on the pianoforte. To her surprise, Devlin asked her to sing and play for them, declaring in solemn tones that her talents would be the apogee of the evening’s pleasure. Preening in triumph, Lady Penelope seated herself at the instrument. She was flattered and delighted at this almost-public recognition of her talent, which would imply their relationship was intimate enough for Devlin to be aware of her skills as a songstress and pianist. Devlin then begged for the privilege of turning the music pages. Freddie’s added clamouring for that boon had the desired effect. Lady Penelope dimpled prettily, basking in what she perceived to be male adoration. Her malevolent thoughts toward Fenella were quelled by the flattering attentions of her lover and his friend. She had won. Her heart sang in victory as she cast her eyes up at Devlin. He smiled at her, albeit a little uneasily, she thought, but that was probably because the poor darling was stiff in the company of his formidable Mama. Soon, she vowed, soon she would bed him once more and then if she had her way, wed him.

The recital over, the two gentlemen retired to the balcony to enjoy a longed-for cigar and glass of brandy, leaving the ladies alone for a few minutes. Lady Penelope sashayed back to the sofa. She sat down next to Fenella and renewed her attack.

“So, Miss Preston,” she gushed. “Have you made many friends around these parts?”

Her eyes gleamed as she stretched out a delicate hand to pat Fenella’s arm. Her gesture was warm, welcoming intimacy between the two women, but hardness lurked in the depths of her gaze.

“I fear Miss Preston is much put upon by my illness,” sighed the Dowager. “Alas, we do not have much in the way of social events these days.”

Lady Penelope’s glance flickered around the room. “Such a pity Devlin should not be able to hold the functions and balls that are worthy of him.”

Her words had entirely the wrong effect on the Dowager, who sat up at once, her back ramrod stiff with indignation although her tone remained silky.

“When I said we do not have much in the way of social events, my dear Lady Vane, I did not mean we are
incapable
of hosting such occasions, but that we no longer desired them.” Her steely glance bored into Lady Penelope’s stricken face.

“In its heyday, Deverell House had such balls and grand occasions as were spoken of in the next three counties. We have even been graced by Royalty on several occasions.” She tossed out this last retort with a perfunctory wave of her hand that vastly belied its importance.

Lady Penelope flushed. “I beg pardon, ma’am.” She stumbled over her words as her thoughts flew around her brain in confusion. She could not at any cost anger Devlin’s mother. Appearing to be the socially adept, perfect wife was one way of ensuring acceptance by Devlin’s formidable parent.

The Dowager did not give her an opportunity to continue. “In fact, I was just saying to Devlin the other day that perhaps we should go to London in search of entertainment; now I think it would be better if London came here to us, to Deverell House. A ball is a splendid plan!”

Lady Penelope was delighted; she could have shouted her triumph to the rooftops if it were possible. The old fool had played right into her hands. She did not even have to suggest a ball to Devlin; his Mama, anxious to best her, had done it for her. Her plan was coming to fruition. A glow of happiness spread through her whole body—she had won, without having to strike a single blow.

“What’s this about Deverell House?” Devlin asked, as he and Freddie stepped back into the room.

Lady Penelope rose to her feet and clasped his arm. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful? Your Mama has graciously decided to throw a ball at Deverell House. How splendid!”

Devlin’s reaction was not what Lady Penelope expected. He stood as if turned to stone. “A what?”

“A ball!” The Dowager’s reply was calm and measured. “I was just thinking how boring we have become, immured in the countryside like this, and dear Lady Vane has put the idea into my head. I would like to see Deverell House restored to the glory of its heyday.”

“Mama, you cannot be serious!”

“No, Devlin,” his mother replied, in composed, clear tones. “This is no mistake, and my health has never been better. I am perfectly capable of playing hostess at my own functions.”

“As you wish, Mama.”

“I do.”

Fenella hardly slept that night. Her muddled and feverish thoughts consumed her as she tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot in her usually very comfortable bed. Her pillow seemed to be made of wood as she thumped it repeatedly in her attempts to form a soft cushion under her head. It was as if her brain was filled with a confusion of passion and memories. The shock of receiving her mother’s jewels, the childhood remembrances that had returned to her, the sense of an identity, albeit a mysterious one, the Duke, her feelings toward him and her physical desires, the woman who flaunted herself so brazenly as his future wife…it was all too much to comprehend. Fenella felt emotions whirling inside her—the joy of calling something her own was overtaken by anger at feeling so vulnerable in the grip of an unbearable physical longing; that was soon replaced with a sense of helplessness that she could not simply run away from it all.

Trapped by her feelings and lack of finances, Fenella finally admitted she was a prisoner, no matter which way she looked at the situation. A prisoner in an invisible cage. No bars held her there; there was no chain to bind her to the place and Devlin, just her own circumstances. Then she rebuked herself; she should be grateful for the opportunity of advancement in the world. And what had she done? The most foolish thing possible—she had allowed this man to take liberties that were unheard of; she had allowed him to begin a campaign of seduction. Now whatever she felt, it was her own fault. Having berated herself beyond bearing, Fenella gave up on the idea of sleep.

Finally, she had sat at her window, watching dawn’s rosy fingers streak the fading night sky with swathes of tender pink and soft violet. The red rim of the sun peeped over the dark treetops as scudding night clouds fled to make way for a perfect day. Fenella’s eyelids felt leaden as she watched the dawn break. She longed to return to her bed, but such an action was impossible. Besides, her thoughts of the Duke would rampage through her head again, so there was no point in trying to escape. There was nothing else to do but to present a brave face. She put on a plain gown, since she intended to change again into a habit for her morning ride, and went down to breakfast.

* * * *

At the table, the assembled company, comprising the Duke, Freddie and Fenella, spoke little and applied themselves to the delicious breakfast at hand. The only sounds were the muted clatter of knives and forks and murmured requests for more marmalade or butter. Fenella found that if she avoided looking at the Duke she was capable of controlling both her emotions and breathing. The Dowager had decided to take her breakfast in her bedroom. She left a message for Fenella to come see her the moment her ride was finished. No doubt, the old lady was already drawing up lists of chores to be done, rooms to be aired and guest requirements for the coming ball.

All because of that woman.

While Fenella was more than a little excited at the idea of a ball, she was angry (although she admitted to herself that she had no right to be) that Lady Penelope had managed to manoeuvre everyone into doing her bidding. Fenella was relieved to find her enemy absent…but alas, it was not for long.

Soon Roberts bowed Lady Penelope into the room. Fenella had to admit Lady Penelope always managed to attract attention, and it was not difficult to see why. A vision of loveliness with golden curls and porcelain complexion, wearing peach taffeta and trailing gossamer scarves, she affected no appetite at all and merely sipped hot chocolate while crumbling a roll between her long white fingers.

“I am of mind to ride this morning, Devlin. Will you accompany me?” She gazed at the Duke with a bright smile.

“I have a few papers to attend to; however, if you will be patient, I am at your service in half an hour,” he replied, pushing back his chair and standing up. Lady Penelope made a little
moue
of impatience.

“Do you ride, Miss Preston?” she asked Fenella and, without waiting for a reply, gave a scornful laugh. “I suppose not. I mean, your position would hardly allow it.”

Freddie opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word, the Duke intervened.

“I am afraid you are mistaken in that regard.”

Fenella looked up at Devlin, startled to hear his voice. He cast her just a brief glance before addressing Lady Penelope again. “Miss Preston has won the admiration of our dour Finch when it comes to her skill in the saddle.”

A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. He looked back at Fenella and raised his right eyebrow. She reddened, partly from pleasure at this encomium, partly from embarrassment at his singular attention. She dropped her eyes to her breakfast.

“Yes, she’s a capital rider!” Freddie exclaimed. “I daresay we’re going out as usual this morning, Miss Preston?”

Fenella looked up at Freddie. “Why, yes of course,” she stammered, wishing with all her heart that both men would drop the subject of her equestrian prowess at once. She could see from Lady Penelope’s expression that here was a woman unused to attention being drawn away from her.

Here was a woman accustomed to complete domination of any male interest.

“Excellent!” Freddie shot a smug glance at Lady Penelope, who sat with a fixed smile on her face.

“How…unusual.” Her tone of voice managed to imply that such a skill was obviously wasted in someone of Fenella’s low social standing. She tossed her blonde curls with a sniff of disdain, thereby relegating Fenella to the level of absolute unimportance.

Fenella stood up. “I shall be ready in fifteen minutes.”

* * * *

A short time later, Fenella emerged from the front door and waited for Finch to bring Butterball round to the drive. The crunching of hooves on the gravel heralded his approach. Butterball seemed strangely agitated, unlike her normal placid self. She snorted, arching her back and kicking out her back legs. Fenella smoothed the horse’s mane and felt in her pocket for a lump of sugar purloined from the breakfast table. Butterball chomped on the sweet treat but continued to display unusual restlessness.

“I’m not sure, Miss,” said Finch, a worried expression creasing his brow. “She seems a bit fidgety today.”

“Never mind, Finch, she’s probably feeling out of sorts. Horses have feelings too, you know.” Fenella patted Butterball, who was sniffing at her skirts in the hope of more delicacies.

Finch chuckled. “If yer say so, Miss. I never thought of it like that. She could jes’ be eager for a good run.”

He handed Fenella up into the saddle. As Fenella settled into the seat, Butterball stamped and kicked, giving a little squeal of irritation.

“Will yer need me, Miss, or will yer be ridin’ with Mister Perivale this mornin’?”

“Mister Perivale will accompany me, so there’s no need for you to come along, Finch. Thank you.” Fenella replied.

Finch continued to hold Butterball’s reins, reluctant to release them. “Mebbe I should, Miss. I’ve never seen ’er like this before.”

From the stables, there came a fierce and angry neighing and the rapid thudding of hooves on the ground. Finch stared past Fenella’s shoulder, and his eyes grew large and round, as if transfixed by a horrible apparition.

“Dear God in ’eaven,” he muttered. “What’s she doin’? The master will kill me!”

Lucifer raced round to the front of the house, his hooves flying and gravel scattering in his path. He was stamping, bucking, and twisting his head round in his attempts to bite his rider. Perched on his back, Lady Penelope sat sidesaddle, slashing at him with her riding crop.

The moment Fenella saw Lady Penelope’s stylish riding ensemble, she felt more like a poor cousin than ever. Lady Penelope wore an exquisite, amber-coloured velvet riding habit. Tan leather boots and gloves, and a small perky hat with an elaborate feather curling over her shoulder completed her ensemble. Fenella’s own habit was a hand-me-down that Mrs. Perkins had discovered in the attic. It was of faded blue velvet, worn in several places and well past its former glory. Fenella had been grateful for it and since she often returned from her ride with spatters of mud along the skirts, did not care about elegance while riding.

However, her thoughts were now more concerned with the imminent danger facing her as a potentially hazardous situation unfolded. Butterball began to edge backward, giving nervous snorts and rolling her eyes in fear. Lucifer was always stabled well away from the other horses and for good reason. He was a powerful, aggressive animal with only one master. The irritating creature on his back had to be disposed of and Lucifer did his best to dislodge it. He began to buck and lunge, swishing his tail and tossing his head, snapping his teeth and squealing in anger.

As Lucifer leaped toward Butterball, Fenella steered her nervous horse away. She was shocked to see Lady Penelope riding the Duke’s horse. Not only was he dangerous, but the entire household was under strict instruction that no one besides Finch, whom Lucifer tolerated, and the Duke, whom Lucifer adored, was to lay a hand on him.

“Take that, you disobedient beast!” Lady Penelope swished the crop down hard on Lucifer’s rump.

That swipe was the final indignity. Lucifer reared high in the air with an outraged squeal, his hooves flailing. Lady Penelope slid off his back and thudded onto the gravel in a flurry of petticoats and skirts. However, far worse was still to come. As Fenella tried to control a now panicked and skittish horse, Butterball’s rear came within striking distance of Lucifer’s lethal hooves. One hoof struck a sharp blow on the aggrieved Butterball’s rump. She gave a loud shriek and reared up in indignation. Fenella felt herself rise high in the saddle, as to be almost unseated, and then came down with a hard thump.

* * * *

The effect on Butterball was astonishing. With a scream of pain, Butterball galloped off, leaving behind an open-mouthed Finch, an irate, screeching Lady Penelope and an enraged, bucking stallion. Finch made a grab for the loose reins, but Lucifer, maddened and confused, reared up at him, thrusting out his razor sharp hooves and forcing the groom back. Lady Penelope moaned in fear and tried to crawl to safety as Lucifer thundered around her body.

“Lie still, Miss!” an exasperated Finch yelled at her. “He won’t trample ye if ye lie still!”

Within minutes, the commotion had drawn the entire household. The servants gathered on the front steps, gazing goggle-eyed and open-mouthed at the chaotic scene before them.

“Get ’is Grace,” Finch shouted, real fear breaking through in his voice. “Quickly, or else the beast will kill someone.”

Freddie trotted round the corner on a grey mare just as the Duke pushed his way through the gaggle of servants.

“What in God’s name is going on?” he yelled. “Finch!”

Lady Penelope, upon hearing the Duke’s voice, reached up a weak hand from her supine position.

“Devlin! Help me!” she cried, but he made for the enraged horse, ignoring Lady Penelope’s plight.

“Sorry, Sir,” gasped Finch, warily circling Lucifer and waiting for an opportune moment to grasp the reins. “But Miss Fenella’s gone. Lucifer kicked Butterball an’ she’s bolted. Ye’d better send someone after ’er before she ’eads fer the woods.”

“Let
me
go,” Freddie urged, wheeling his horse round. “I’ll catch up with her in minutes.”

“No, you won’t.” The Duke flung himself into the saddle and grasped Lucifer’s reins with firm hands. “Sort out this mess, will you? I’ll need all the speed I can muster to catch a horse that’s run mad.”

He glared down at Lady Penelope. “What the
devil
have you done now, madam? This is your mischief, I’ll warrant.”

Then, whirling Lucifer round, he spurred the horse on in the direction Butterball had taken. Lucifer leaped forward and, within minutes, horse and rider had disappeared from view.

Lady Penelope sat in the dusty gravel, her hat askew, the fine feather crushed and her habit rumpled and filthy from her fall. Finch bent down to help her up but she slapped his hand aside.

“Get away from me, you…you peasant!”

She heaved herself to her feet and stamped into the house, tears of frustration coursing down her cheeks in dirty rivulets.

* * * *

Fenella had never been so frightened in all her life. She was a skilled horsewoman, but even her years of experience could not help her now. Butterball thundered in a frenzied, careering path that Fenella feared would take them straight into the woods. The countryside flashed past her in a chaotic blur. Butterball ignored Fenella’s frantic yanking against the rein and raced headlong. Fenella considered letting go and falling from the maddened animal, but she was afraid she might break a leg or worse, cripple herself. She hung on grimly, her hair streaming out in a dark swathe behind her. Her worst fears were realised when Butterball made for the woods, leaping over fallen logs and stumbling into hidden holes.

“Oh, dear God, please don’t let her fall and break a leg,” Fenella prayed.

She put her head down but it was hard to duck the young branches that swished back, slapping her face hard and leaving great red welts on her skin. She gritted her teeth and clung on, feeling as if every bone in her body was being pulverized into splinters. Fenella could not see anything clearly as Butterball wove a crazy, erratic path splashing through streams and galloping around trees. Fenella hoped the horse would tire and finally come to a halt without killing them both.

* * * *

Devlin rode like a madman. For a few minutes, he could not see the horse and her rider. Somehow, Lucifer instinctively headed in the direction Butterball had taken. Devlin tried to turn the great stallion, but the horse ignored his master and soon he saw the creature was right—ahead he caught a glimpse of Butterball galloping into the woods.

Devlin leaned forward and patted Lucifer’s neck. “Good boy. You’re cleverer than me.”

Lucifer whinnied in response, as if trying to make amends for his previous conduct.

They headed into the woods, slowing their pace to avoid stumbling into a hole. It was the worst route possible. Devlin swore under his breath. Not only could a hidden hollow bring a horse down, injuring it fatally, but also overhanging branches could nearly decapitate an inexperienced or frightened rider. He hoped Fenella had the sense to put her head down. She did, but in one fateful moment Butterball soared over a fallen log and Fenella flew up in the saddle, straight into an overhanging branch. The solid wood thwacked into her forehead with enormous force and she toppled off the horse, falling unconscious into a gulley.