The Debonair Duke (28 page)

“And you love her quite passionately, do you not?” Pamela said in a soft, gentle, probing voice.

“Indeed,” he murmured, then realized what he had admitted almost at once. “What have I said?” he muttered with a disgusted shake of his head.

“I am not surprised, you know. After all
,
you have far more in common with a Russian lady than with an English girl. It is only reasonable to surmise that you would have an inamorata in your homeland.”

“But,” he paused, then slowly continued, “you are also lovely and to be admired.” For a moment he truly looked sincere, and for that she blessed him.

“Thank you. Perhaps you will find a way to attain your lady without a sapphire-and-diamond necklace?” Privately, Pamela thought a Russian lady might welcome the handsome prince even lacking such an inducement.

He stared longingly at her for a moment, then sighed. “Since it is not logical that you would bestow a jewel on me, I must look elsewhere.”

“You thought I might give you my great-uncle’s jewels?” Pamela didn’t know whether to laugh or ridicule the prince. Could he really be that foolish?

“Many women bestow jewels on me as a compensation for favors given,” he said without a trace of embarrassment.

“That might be. However, you have given me no favors.” She was truly amazed at his ingenuous impropriety.

“I would, were it permissible,” he said in the same silky manner Lord Raeburn had used not too long ago.

Pamela laughed, knowing the prince might be offended, but unable to hold in her mirth at the ridiculous notion he presented her. “Your Highness, I am an unmarried lady, the daughter of an earl reared to be of highest propriety.” She ignored the niggling admonition that she had been highly improper with the duke on any number of occasions. “It is inconceivable that I might consider such behavior.”

The prince nodded sadly and sat with her awhile longer before he rose, bowed over her hand, then sauntered off toward a very wealthy young woman who had an insipid face, an abundance of freckles, and a large ruby pendant.

* * * *

Lady Vane flinched when a servant brushed against her
arm. When the lady saw Pamela’s sympathetic look, she joined the little group beneath the oak tree.

“Are you enjoying your outing
,
Lady Pamela? I hope your company has proven entertaining?”

Wondering if the lady referred to Lord Raeburn and was jealous of his attentions to Pamela, she said, “It has been lovely, truly it has. Everyone has been so kind. I trust you did not injure yourself while arranging our picnic?” she said with a gesture toward Lady Vane’s arm. There was the faintest of bulges under the long, loose sleeve of her gown, most probably concealing a bandage.

“It is a mere bruise, nothing more. I tripped on a hall rug and fell against that dreadful statue my late husband kept in the hall. Fortunately, it will be there no longer, for it tumbled and broke,” her ladyship said with a light laugh. “Nothing is so bad, but what it isn’t good for something.”

“True,” Pamela said, thinking that it was unfortunate the statue had been destroyed, for she recalled the duke saying it was a prize example of antique sculpture.

The vicomte came over at that moment to join Pamela, bowing first to Lady Vane, with smooth compliments on the picnic, then to Lady Anne, with flattering words on her looks and liveliness, then to Pamela, with a request that he be allowed to join her.

“But of course,” Pamela replied, curious to see if the vicomte might be lured into revealing an interest in her necklace as had the prince. Since Vicomte Reynaud had not been in France—by his own admission—for many years, she doubted if he had a
bien-aimé
awaiting him there. So what attracted him to Pamela? With the vicomte, as with the prince, she was not so naive as to believe he merely sought her for her sparkling wit or her beauty.

“You do not eat enough to keep an
oiseau
alive,” the vicomte scolded when he saw her barely touched plate. “Allow me to fetch you another glass of wine. That will encourage a
bon appétit.”

“I am quite satisfied with what is on my plate, thank you. Relax and enjoy your own food.”

“Lady Vane does not have the French cook,” he complained in an aside to Pamela, leaning back against the tree and watching her with a speculative look on his handsome face.

“Perhaps not, but she tried to please us, and I think it is lovely to eat out in the fresh air surrounded by country beauty.” Pamela nibbled at a piece of chicken to prove her point.

“You would like the south of France,” he said suddenly. “The war is bound to be over before too long, and then you might travel there to see the lovely countryside.”

His accent was more pronounced when he spoke of his homeland, and she wondered what he would find when, if ever, he returned there. He seemed like a fish out of water here. Although accepted by most of society, there always remained a hint of suspicion in people’s minds, knowing he was French and the French was the enemy.

“I very much doubt if I shall see France. Most likely I will eventually marry and settle in the English countryside to rear a family. It is the accepted role for the daughter of a peer, and as a countess, I would wish for an heir.”

“Your husband would not be an earl, however?” He gave her an arrested look, almost considering.

“Not unless I marry an earl,” she agreed. “But in that case our children would have the same style as though their father had been an earl.” An Englishman would have known all this, but she was curious why the vicomte would ask. By now he ought to be aware of English peerage styles.

“Ah,
chérie,
were we to wed, I could look forward to a restoration of prestige.”

“I am not your dearest, and we are not likely to marry,” she said without any anger. “But why do you need prestige? Surely as Vicomte Reynaud, you have sufficient respect in society?”

“Never enough.” He frowned at her, then his gaze roved over her gown. It was not an insulting look, but rather one of taking stock of what he saw. Most curious, indeed, to Pamela.

“You have such lovely jewels,” he said at last.

The non sequitur threw her for a little, coming as it did following a reference to titles and marriage. “Indeed, I do, at least for the time being.” She wondered how long it might be before she must hand it over to the true owner—if, indeed, he or she ever showed up.

“It must be returned? Soon?” he said, a note of alarm creeping into his voice. When he saw her expression, he added, “It is only that you do sapphires and diamonds great credit.”

Since that was a lot of nonsense, Pamela turned to the contents of her plate and picked up a pastry. “Do not think that I shall part with the necklace for any reason, unless my great-uncle should request its return,” she said before taking a bite of pastry.

“Your great-uncle may do this?”

“He is very old,” Pamela knew this for a fact, “but he is still capable of doing a great many things, among which is to request that the necklace be returned to him at any time.”

“But you stand to inherit it, surely.”

She was fast becoming tired of the necklace, beautiful though it might be. To be sought after merely because she wore such magnificence became distressing after a time. “I have no notion of what may be in his will.”

“I see,” he said, plunging deep into thought while Pamela proceeded to eat the excellent food.

Finishing her meal and thanking Lady Anne, Sir Cecil, and the vicomte for their company, she said, “I believe I shall stroll about. There might be a few wildflowers begging to be picked.”

Absentmindedly, the pair murmured agreement, totally absorbed in one another, discussing plans for the future, while the vicomte sought more promising company.

Pamela had not gone far when she heard the swish of grass and the impatient snap of someone’s fingers.

“How are you going along? Highly entertained by the gentlemen, no doubt?” the duke inquired with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

“It has been illuminating,” she admitted, somehow unsurprised to see him here at her side again.

“How so?”

“The prince desires the necklace so he might make an impression on his adored Russian lady. The vicomte seeks a title—along with the wealth represented by the necklace—to restore his prestige. I am becoming tired of the type of man the necklace attracts. I would far prefer a modest swain who desired my company merely for me.”

“I can see that,” he agreed with a thoughtful frown settling on his brow.

“And I believe we must look elsewhere for the man we seek. Actually, I believe we must look for a couple. Do you not recall? The note was addressed to Lady Pamela from J.R., indicating they are a
pair.
If some mistress received the necklace from Lord Chudleigh—somehow it landed in the hands of a man who wanted this Lady Pamela to keep it safe for them. Oh, it all is so muddled and confusing.”

He touched her arm, wishing he might draw her into his arms to comfort her, for he sensed she desired comfort. He wished for more, but wondered if she would be receptive, given her behavior earlier.

“I have a feeling it will all be over soon.”

Chapter Sixteen

Pamela mulled over the notion that the ordeal—if one might call it that—would be over on the way back to the city. Her silence was interrupted by Lady Anne.

“We have decided to give a grand ball,” her ladyship bubbled with a conscious look at her husband. “A celebration.”

“Wonderful
,
” Pamela said with delight, for it was enjoyable to see how happy these two were.

“You shall come, and of course, Wexford,” Lady Anne said, then enumerated other guests she intended to invite until the list was indeed a long one. “Shall I include the prince and the vicomte?” she said with a mischievous glance at Pamela.

“Well, I will wear the necklace again. As the Season is drawing to a close, our chances of luring the culprit into the open will soon cease. The duke agrees with me that the prince and the vicomte are not likely suspects. For one thing, they flutter around opera dancers, but have no mistress in keeping,” Pamela concluded without regard for Lady Anne’s possible sensibilities. “And while they both want the necklace, I do not think they would steal it. It would be beneath them…at least I think so.”

“On the list they go
,
in any event. Young ladies never give up hope of snaring a title, and the prince is exceedingly romantic, particularly when he is attired all in white.”

“Another thing,” Pamela said, ignoring the bit about the prince, “both of the gentlemen remained at the Chetwynd-Talbot ball. I checked later. They couldn’t have shot at the duke.” She frowned, feeling that something she ought to see was eluding her. Was there someone who’d left the ball?

The carriage rattled to a halt before the Gresham home, and Pamela momentarily put aside the frustration of locating the true owner of the necklace and the identity of the person who sought to steal it. She had felt for some time that the thief who broke into her room and the would-be robber were one and the same, even had she not seen his face.

“Thank you for taking me along and for the invitation to your ball. I’m sure it will be utterly splendid. If there is any way I might help, do not hesitate…”

“Invitations,” Lady Anne interrupted. “Do say you will help me write them. And the menu—your suggestions would assist me with that as well. I want everything to be special,” she concluded with a fond look at her husband and a smile when he squeezed her hand in response.

“I’d be delighted,” Pamela said, suppressing a grin. “Tomorrow?”

“Sunday afternoon, I believe. I know you spend a quiet day, and your mother ought not object to your writing invitations.”

Pamela nodded, knowing her mother would be most agreeable to her plans.

* * * *

The following Sunday afternoon she sat in the Radcliffe library, addressing invitations and occasionally allowing her thoughts to drift back to the days when she had been installed in this room with the duke for company. It took hours to inscribe the names and direction on each invitation, especially since Lady Anne kept placing additional names on the list.

“Your house will overflow,” Pamela protested with a rueful smile.

“Pooh bah,” Lady Anne said gaily. “A number of them will possibly be occupied that night, I make no doubt. We will have the cream, and that is what counts. My friends would never let me down.”

How marvelous to have such confidence in friends, Pamela thought. And yet, how good and kind Lady Anne had been, and Sir Cecil as well. Even the duke, while revealing a propensity for stolen kisses, had stood by her in the search for the criminal. Pamela had never been allowed to form friendships at home, for there was no one of suitable rank for her to befriend. School had been different, but the girls had all married, now occupied in other pursuits.

She was nearing the last of the crisp white vellum sheets when Sir Cecil and the duke entered the room. “Good afternoon,” she said politely.

“How comforting you are.” the duke said. “One can always count on you to do the polite, no matter what.”

“Far better that than to be rude.” she retorted with a pointed glare. “
I
am comforted by your remark that this will all soon be over. I do not see how or when the thief will attack again. As you know he must, with the Season so near the end.”

“Perhaps at the coming ball?” the duke joked.

“I hope not,” Lady Anne cried. “I’d not have our ball turned into a scandal or worse.”

“Maybe an
on-dit
for a few days,” the duke amended when he received a look from Sir Cecil.

“What do you intend to wear?” Lady Anne inquired of Pamela. “More blue and white?”

With a hasty glance at the duke, Pamela described the dress. “I have a gown of white Florence satin trimmed with Mechlin lace. The neckline is properly low to display the necklace.”

“Improper, should you ask me,” the duke murmured—at least that’s what Pamela thought he said.

“You will glitter, I am sure, and the dress sounds interesting. Tell me more,” Lady Anne begged. So the two women left the table to sit on the window seat and discuss their gowns, quickly absorbed in flounces and tucks.