The Debonair Duke (19 page)

She digested this remark while dancing and weaving through the reel, until she lightly clasped her partner’s hand again. They skipped down the line to the bottom of the set and faced each other. Pamela noted his eyes were sparkling with what she suspected was mischief and resolved not to make an issue of the gossip.

Upon returning to her mother, Pamela was glad to rest a few moments while the musicians selected the next music.

“My dear, I heard the strangest thing,” her mother said, looking confused. “Rumor has it that you are to be the next Duchess of Wexford. It seems His Grace has never shown quite so much interest in a young, unmarried, and highly eligible woman before.” It was plain that the Lady Gresham couldn’t fathom the duke’s interest in her daughter.

“Do not bother your head about it, Mama. The duke is merely being kind. I think he believes he can bring me into fashion—it is but a whim of his.” Pamela would have liked to explain about the necklace, but she was too involved at this point to make a simple clarification of the matter.

“Well, he comes again, no doubt to claim your hand for the next
dance. It will add fuel to the fire,” her mother murmured to the air, for Pamela had risen to accept the duke’s hand. She found she really did not care what the gossips said. She knew
the circumstances, and she was going to enjoy herself while she could.

Robert gave her a quizzical look. “And did you find out anything more from Algie?”

“No,” she admitted. “I decided to leave well enough alone, although my mother heard a few rumors that I suspect would match his. I know the truth, therefore I shall ignore all gossip.” She darted a prim little smile at him, then added, “You might pay attention to one of the diamonds that shine here this evening. That would drive the gossips into a tizzy.”

He gazed at her perfectly beautiful bosom and sighed. “If I do, it will be under protest. I would rather enjoy our repartee than the trite remarks of those beauties.” He discovered that this polite observation was quite true, much to his surprise. He gave her a thoughtful look. “Egad, why don’t they have two original thoughts to rub together?” he complained in a highly improper confidence. “How is it that you have such delightful conversation?”

“I suppose it is because I am not trying to impress you,” she said when next she took his hand in the dance. “You see, I have no expectations where you are concerned. I think of you more as a brother,” she concluded in what had to be the most outrageous lie she’d ever uttered.

The duke looked annoyed, frowning in that way he did from time to time. Pamela couldn’t begin to guess what went on in his mind.

* * * *

The baron again claimed Pamela’s hand, but requested they seek refreshments instead, for the room was stuffy—as crowded as it was. “I feel certain that you must desire a glass of lemonade or orgeat, my lady,” he concluded suavely.

She sensed he wished to converse, so agreed to his suggestion. “Indeed, they never open the windows here, and it can be a trifle warm. Now, if they could chill the lemonade, it would be quite nice.”

She walked at his side in silence, waiting.

“You are rather different from the other young ladies,” he began.

Pamela inwardly agreed, for none of them had received a package with a priceless necklace inside it.

“You do not prattle nonsense, nor do you simper and sigh. It makes for pleasant conversation,” he said with a civil smile at her.

The duke had remarked on a similar vein. Perhaps she ought to rent herself out as a conversationalist? Then she took pity on the baron and smiled gently at him. “It cannot be that bad, surely?”

The baron chuckled, a low growl, actually. “You are most amusing. I have a friend in the German court much like you,” he confided.

“Do you miss your home?” Pamela said. “Or is it quite similar to London?”

“The climate, the people, the atmosphere is all different, although there is a similarity in some of the court—your king being of German descent. And yes, I miss it very much. At times, being an ambassador for one’s country is lonely.”

“I suppose you are required to seek out helpful information for your government?” she asked in what she hoped was an innocent manner.

He gave her a sharp look, then relaxed as though he decided a young woman was not to be feared. “Indeed. It is time-consuming.” He picked up a glass of lemonade and handed it to Pamela. “Would that this be vintage champagne, my lady.”

She accepted the glass, not commenting on his courtly remark. “But you must have staff from your homeland with you—people with whom you may share a liking for particular foods and habits. Even a newspaper from home must help,” she observed.

“Ah, newspapers,” he exclaimed softly. “That is how one finds out a month or so after the fact that a dear friend has married or died.”

From the wistful expression on his face, Pamela wondered if perhaps a particular woman he found to his liking had married in his absence. “That is a pity. I have never traveled, although I believe I might enjoy it, given the right circumstances.”

“And they would be?” he asked as though surprised at the direction of her conversation.

“I might wish to explore the world were it at the side of my husband,” she said softly, unable to refrain from a darting glance at the duke. Then she resolutely turned her back on him, which was a shame, for she missed his concerned stare in her direction. She placed an empty glass on the table, then said, “Perhaps we could stroll about the room. I enjoy watching the dancers.”

“I am yours to command,” he said, offering his arm.

They did not wander very far, for the prince came to her side, followed by the vicomte. Both men had outdone themselves in dress this evening. The prince, in white with dazzling embroidery and a display of medals guaranteed to impress all but those who knew what each medal signified, was complete blond effervescence. He almost shimmered, to Pamela’s way of thinking.

The vicomte was French understated elegance and of a certain dark moodiness this evening that must have caused a number of female hearts to beat more rapidly.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Pamela said, smiling on all three men. She caught a glimpse of the duke studying the foursome with hand at his chin, looking almost as moody as the vicomte. The other men appeared to discreetly study the necklace, and she longed to tell them that it had not altered since the last time they ogled it.

“It is not fair of the baron to monopolize you, Lady Pamela,” the prince protested.

“How fortunate I had the foresight to ask your lovely mother if I might have your hand for the next dance,” the vicomte inserted.

“The sapphire lady will be mine after that,” the prince added with a dazzling smile at Pamela. She was certain that a good many other young ladies must utterly hate her for cornering three of the most entertaining gentlemen at Almack’s, if not necessarily the most eligible.

Upon leaving Almack’s that evening, Pamela felt no closer to knowing which of those three had been the sender of the necklace, much to her disappointment. She could only hope the following evening at the opera would bring better results.

She wondered if the duke would again share his box with the spectacular Lady Smythe.

* * * *

Lady Vane called upon Pamela and her mother the next afternoon with an invitation for dinner the coming week. “If you must know, I shall invite His Grace, the Duke of Wexford—for he quite makes a party—and if you attend, he will as well,” she confided to Pamela in a soft aside.

“We do not live in each other’s pockets,” Pamela protested. She exchanged a look with Lady Vane, thinking that was quite the oddest invitation she’d received in some time.

The widow smiled with gentle charm, then turned the subject to Pamela’s modest success. “I suspect your jewels must play a part in your conquests. They are truly magnificent. Would that every young lady might have such a great-uncle as yours.”

“But then, none of them would be unique, would they?” Pamela replied with amusement at the notion.

“They would have to be endowed with your other assets, as well, to achieve your
succès fou
.
”

“What a lovely French accent you have,” Pamela noted, wondering if she was not being overly aware of anything French nowadays.

“I spent a brief time in Paris when I was a girl,” the widow admitted. “And a good governess does wonders. Do you also speak the language?”

“Of course,” Pamela said simply. Every young lady of the
ton
sought to acquire a basic knowledge of French. It was the language of fashion and food.

“How nice. Perhaps when this dreadful war is ended, you will have an opportunity to use your language skills.”

The duke was ushered in just as Lady Vane was about to depart. They exchanged polite greetings, and the quiet woman exited the room, head meekly bowed.

“She was here before, I believe. A friend of yours?” the duke inquired with a frown.

“Not actually,” Pamela said. “She is charming, but I confess I do not know why she has sought us out.” And yet she did
know. Had the lady not admitted that she sought the Duke of Wexford and thought to reach him through Pamela?

The duke chatted briefly, asking Pamela to accompany him down the stairs when he left.

“Did you learn anything at all last evening?”

“The baron misses his home, and perhaps a certain lady who married after he left. Maybe that explains his foray into the petticoat line while here in London.”

“I’ll pretend you did not say that,” he scolded.

“Nevertheless, it may be so. Lady Vane is sending you an invitation to a dinner next week. We are to attend as well.” Pamela paused at the bottom of the stairs to examine his face when he turned to look down at her.

“I shall be there, then,” he said, flashing a grin at Pamela that quite melted her heart.

Since his acceptance was precisely what Lady Vane hoped for, Pamela merely nodded. Truth be told, she’d welcome him, too, but only because she valued his opinions she told herself. Then she wondered if Lady Smythe would be at the dinner as well.

* * * *

The duke left the house, jauntily swinging his cane while examining the odd feeling he realized when he’d chatted with Pamela. It was not brotherly in the least. Rather, he’d wanted to hold her, and know the feel of that delightful form in his arms again.

Then—rather than dwell on something that might prove impossible for one who always had his own way—he wondered about the woman who had left as he entered. He knew next to nothing about Lady Vane and thought it might be prudent to look into her background since he had the time.

Some hours later the duke had his information, but was puzzled as to what to do with it. Lady Vane—as so many widows today—had been left in a precarious situation by her late husband. She lived on the fringe of society, accepted mostly because of her agreeable company. The only point that seemed odd was her befriending Pamela. Doubtless he was making a mountain from a molehill, but he took few chances. The lady would bear watching.

Chapter Eleven

The opera glittered more than usual, or so it seemed to Pamela that following evening. It was not simply the gentle glow she felt around her from wearing the magnificent necklace again with the soft luminescence of the silver tissue gown to enhance it. It was the first evening she had been the cynosure of all eyes—at least for several moments. She shifted uneasily under the probing gaze of so many of society, even though she well knew that the attention would transfer to another shortly. Still, she found it auspicious in her future search for a husband that she had gained the attention of so many, at least for the nonce.

It took her awhile to examine all the boxes to see a familiar face she had met in her recent forays into the upper strata of the
ton.
Fans fluttered before faces of women she recognized. Gentlemen turned aside to comment on something to their companions. She was silly, for it was unlikely they spoke of her—yet she wished she knew the topic of their gossip.

Suddenly, a disturbance occurred in the box across from the Gresham’s, and her attention immediately focused there. She watched as the duke entered his box, ushering the splendidly enticing and lushly endowed Lady Smythe to a chair. Garbed in deepest red that surprisingly flattered her hair, the lady wafted a large black feathered fan that matched the black plumes in her hair. She smiled and chattered away sixteen to the dozen to those in the party.

Pamela froze, nose tilted slightly in the air. She would not permit a soul in this theater to guess her reaction to the scene—should anyone be curious.

Scolding herself, she remembered that she had told him she thought of him as a brother, a friend. A gentleman did not lavish attention on someone who regarded him like that. And in addition, all he agreed to do was to try to solve the mystery of the jewels. Nothing more. If she had been so foolish as to tumble into love with the man, it was not his fault. Nor could he be expected to notice the quiet, well-bred young woman who at times assisted him in his quest.

“I see His Grace has arrived,” Lady Gresham pointed out—most unnecessarily. “Lady Smythe joins his group this evening. He is polite, but I believe I detect a lack of ardor in his attentions. Sometimes a gentleman escorts a lady for other than the obvious reason, my dear,” she said softly to Pamela.

She was astounded that her mother would be so perceptive as to realize that her daughter was distressed by what she saw. Usually, Mama fixed her interest elsewhere.

“The duke is merely a friend, Mama,” Pamela said quietly, turning her gaze toward the stage, where the curtain began to rise while the orchestra struck up an overture.

A rap on the door was followed by the return of the baron. Pamela was ashamed that she had briefly forgotten he joined them this evening. He placed a box of comfits in Pamela’s hands, then offered a glass of ratafia to Lady Gresham.

“Fraulein, I trust these are as sweet as you,” he said in a smooth manner, glancing at the pretty box.