The Desirable Duchess (18 page)

“Poor Doggie is on his way to America,” said Edward one day, “and does not know that his wife was murdered.”

“Oh, dear,” said Alice. “Isabella has gone to America as well and does not know the reason for her grandmother’s death, either. We must write to them.”

At that moment, Humphrey Dogget-Blythe was having his first dinner in the captain’s cabin despite having been at sea for a week. He had fallen prey to dreadful seasickness and this day was the first that he had begun to feel human again, and, what was more, actually hungry.

It struck him as he sat down to table that he could eat what he liked. There was no Mary to criticize him. Mary would never allow him to drink anything stronger than tea or lemonade. The captain’s claret, thought Humphrey, half closing his eyes as he savored it, was excellent.

Then he had time to take stock of his companions. Apart from the captain and the officers of the
Belle Rose
, there was a clergyman, small and precise, wearing his black clericals and an old-fashioned wig, a Virginian tobacco merchant who looked more scholar than merchant, and a pale and beautiful young lady called Isabella Tregader, who, he learned afterward, was traveling alone with her maid.

Over dinner, he appreciated her beauty in an intellectual sort of way, but that was all. Humphrey had never been at ease with the ladies, and, after his marriage, he privately thought that even under the most beautiful exterior probably lurked a hellcat.

It was only gentlemanly, however, to talk to Isabella, but she answered all questions in monosyllables and with lowered eyes.

The following day was relatively calm and sunny, and Humphrey felt like a new man. He was strolling on the deck when he saw Isabella coming toward him with her maid following behind.

Humphrey raised his hat and said it was a fine day. Isabella blushed and agreed.

Encouraged by her shyness and by the calm weather, Humphrey said that he was bound for Virginia. No, he did not know anyone there but had some letters of introduction.

At that moment, the captain came up and suggested they might like to sit on the deck. Both were suddenly struck with shyness, which the captain took for assent. Two large Jacobean armchairs upholstered in tapestry were carried out from the captain’s sitting room and placed on the deck, and the couple sat down side by side. There was something so odd, so novel about sitting in such landlubber furniture on a sailing ship, watching the sun sparkling on the waves, that their shyness suddenly went. Isabella told Humphrey of the death of her grandmother, and Humphrey told her of the death of his wife—and both agreed comfortably that it was all very sad.

By the end of another day, they had confided in each other that the respective deaths were a merciful release. By another day, they had explained to each other—in bursts of confidence—that the deaths had released both of them from a type of hell. By the end of yet another day, they had both come to the conclusion that they were meant for each other.

“Those deaths were the hand of God,” said Humphrey as he held Isabella in his arms under the blazing stars.

And by the time the happy couple found out that the deaths had been the hand of Sir Gerald Warby, they were well and truly married.

Alice was reconciled with her parents, who had traveled to London immediately after hearing about the attempt by Sir Gerald on the duke’s life. Alice could hardly berate them for having driven off Sir Gerald and married her to a man with whom she was deeply in love. But the Laceys stayed with them in London until Alice began to wonder who was the mistress of the duke’s establishment, herself or her mother. The duke, who had been treating Alice like glass, began to become tetchy, particularly after several evenings when he had gone to make love to his wife and found Mrs. Lacey sitting by Alice’s bed reading to her.

The Laceys accompanied them to all social events, Mrs. Lacey saying frequently that it was not very fashionable for a duchess to look so, well,
doting
when she surveyed her husband.

At one ball, Mrs. Duggan took Alice aside and said, “I am off to Paris at the end of the week to join the colonel and I thought all was well with you. But your mama do go on running your life and Ferrant ain’t looking too happy. And do remember that mothers can sometimes be jealous of daughters.”

“What can I do?” asked Alice helplessly.

“What can a duchess do? A duchess can send her parents packing,” said Mrs. Duggan.

“I must, I suppose,” said Alice. “Oh, look! Mama is talking to Ferrant and goodness knows what she is saying, for he is looking like thunder.”

Mrs. Lacey did not know she was jealous of her daughter. Such a thought would never have entered her mind. Her background of merchant class, however, often made her sensitive to what she saw as not enough respect in servants, and she was piqued that her many commands to Alice’s servants were then taken to Alice herself, for her blessing, before any orders were carried out. She had just been telling the duke to be on his guard against Dunfear and Donnelly, particularly Donnelly. “For you know how silly Alice can be,” she said, with an indulgent smile. “Did not Mr. Lacey and I try to save her from Sir Gerald?”

The duke, who had hitherto looked on Mr. Donnelly and Lord Dunfear as friends and saviors, began to think that young Donnelly paid just too much attention to his wife, and, what was more,
Donnelly had all the lethal charm of the Irish—and he was nearer Alice’s age than the duke was himself. The jealousy that he swore would never plague him again engulfed the duke in a great green wave.

The trouble started in earnest on the following day when Alice learned that Mr. Donnelly and Lord Dunfear had called and had been told she was not at home when, in fact, she was dressed and waiting to go driving with them.

“His Grace’s instructions,” said Hoskins sadly.

Alice took a deep breath. She remembered her mother talking to the duke and how the duke’s face had darkened. She now knew her mother very well—and knew instinctively that Mrs. Lacey had probably poisoned the duke’s mind against Donnelly and Dunfear.

“Send Mr. Shadwell to me,” she said coldly.

When the secretary came in, Alice said sharply, “As you are so good at arranging things, Mr. Shadwell, I wish you to tell my parents that their stay with me is at an end. You will then instruct the maids to pack their belongings and have the traveling carriage brought round. That will be all. I am going out shopping, and when I return, I want them gone.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the secretary’s face. “Very good, Your Grace. But if Your Grace would be kind enough to write these instructions for me, that would be a great help. Mrs. Lacey will not believe me, else.”

Alice made an impatient noise and wrote down a terse set of instructions and handed them to him. Then, accompanied by Betty and a footman, she went off to look at the gewgaws at Exeter Exchange. She was being driven back by a groom in a light open carriage when she saw Mr. Donnelly and called to the groom to stop.

“Now what have I done wrong?” Donnelly said, smiling up at her.

“I fear my mother may have been warning Ferrant against you,” said Alice, with a sigh. “Mama is leaving today. I confess her visit has been a great strain.”

“Tell you what,” said Mr. Donnelly, jingling change in his pockets, “had a lucky win at cards. Treat you to an ice at Gunter’s.”

“Good,” said Alice. “That will give Mama more time to pack and leave.”

The duke was strolling across Berkeley Square, feeling more at peace with the world and himself than he had felt for some time. Had he not vowed that he would never be plagued by this dreadful jealousy again? How on earth could he believe anything bad of those two Irishmen who had been instrumental in saving his life?

And then his eye fell on the window of Gunter’s—and there was Alice, in a brand-new bonnet he had not seen before, laughing and talking to… Donnelly!

His first blind impulse was to run in and confront the pair. Common sense took over. There had been scandals enough. He could not bring himself to join them and talk to them civilly. The fact that it could hardly be an assignation—as Alice’s maid, one of his own footmen, and a groom were waiting in the carriage outside—did nothing to damp his temper.

On his return home, even the news that his wife had sent her parents packing did not cheer him. He paced the drawing room, watched by the cynical eye of Oracle, reinstated in a large gilt cage.

The duke tortured himself with pictures of Alice in Donnelly’s arms, the pair of them entwined in a passionate embrace. Alice
was
passionate. Alice did not behave like a lady. Had not Alice, dressed as Columbine, paraded the streets of London
showing her ankles
?

Alice arrived home. She learned the glad news that her parents had left and that her husband was waiting for her in the drawing room.

She tripped into the drawing room, swinging that new and frivolous bonnet by the strings—that bonnet that she had not worn for
him.

Alice took one look at her husband’s furious face and stood still. “What is the matter, dear?” she asked.

“What is the matter? You ask me what is the matter? You have the gall to parade about the streets of London—in a new bonnet—on the arm of that penniless Irish mountebank!”

“If you saw us, why did you not join us?” asked Alice.

“I could not
trust
myself to join you. What exactly is going on between you and Donnelly?”

“Nothing,” said Alice, suddenly as angry as he. “May I remind you he saved your life.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” he jeered. “Wrap you up in a parcel and hand you to him, saying, ‘Take my wife with my grateful compliments’?”

“Now you are being silly,” snapped Alice.

“How dare you address me in such a manner, madam!”

“I shall address you any way I like if it will bring you to your senses, although I am seriously beginning to doubt if you have any… senses, I mean.”

He looked at her levelly. “This marriage was a mistake.”

Alice gasped with hurt.

“Mr. and Mrs. Vere,” announced Hoskins.

The duke and the duchess pinned social smiles on their faces. “Lucy,” cried Alice, “you are looking so well.”

Edward beamed with pride. “That’s what a happy marriage does.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said the duke evenly.

“Neither would I,” put in Alice, not to be outdone.

Lucy and Edward exchanged anguished looks. “May I offer you some wine, Edward?” asked the duke sweetly. “My father-in-law presented me with a case of claret.”

“Are your parents still here?” asked Lucy.

“They finally left,” said the duke sourly before Alice could speak, “after having stayed about a century.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Alice.

“It felt like a century.”

Edward, who had been about to lower his bottom into a chair, stood up again. “My stars!” he said. “I quite forgot we were to call on Mrs. Duggan to say good-bye.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy eagerly. “Dear Mrs. Duggan.”

“Let’s hope she takes
dear
Mr. Donnelly with her when she goes,” said the duke.

“You are stupid and childish,” said Alice after they had left. Angry tears stood out in her eyes. “I will never speak to you again.”

“Good!”

They faced each other like enemies, neither one wanting to be the first to quit the field of battle.

“You,” said Oracle suddenly, “are a pair of twat-faced scullions.”

“What did you say?” shouted the duke.

“Scullions. Twats,” said Oracle. “Not a brain between you.”

The duke stared at Alice and a sudden smile lit up his eyes. “What have you been saying to that bird?”

“It was not I. It must have been Sam, the groom, at Clarendon. He took care of Oracle when I was away. Oracle has learned the language of the stables.”

“And the wisdom of the ages,” said the duke softly. “He said we had not a brain between us.”

He held out his hands. “Come to me, Alice. Come here to me and say you forgive me.”

She flew into his arms.

“It was my mother, was it not, John?”

“Yes, and I was a fool to listen to her. Kiss me, Alice.”

An hour later, she lay naked in his arms and murmured, “We were supposed to go to the opera tonight.”

He kissed her breast.

“So we were.”

“Much pleasanter here.”

“Mmm.”

“And we will never, ever quarrel again.”

“Alice, my love, I swear it.”

Three months later, Mrs. Duggan sat in her apartment in Paris and read a letter from Mr. Donnelly. “I am sure you are anxious for news of our duchess,” he had written.

“Now that’s what I call a happy marriage,” said Mrs. Duggan, and began to laugh.