The Wicked Duke (15 page)

She remembered how she used to mind that deeply, how she had cried over him, too, because he never displayed any special affection for her.

She no longer cried or dreamt. That had stopped three years ago, when Nora changed. He arranged to visit them all in Wiltshire as soon as he could, and he wept after spending an hour alone with his sister and her blank, lifeless stare.

Marianne had comforted him, and seen his grief and his anger. What she had not seen, even as she embraced him while he wept, was a man thinking of her as more than the only chance Nora had of the help his career meant he could not give himself.

He looked over at her now, with warm affection, but nothing more. It was still enough to raise her heart, however. To bring her some joy. Still enough for her to rather wish things had been different.
It is better to have loved and lost . . .

“I have been gardening,” Nora told him.

“Have you now? Mucking in the dirt and such?”

“Don't be silly. That would never do. I garden in my chamber. I have some pots there with plants in them. I take care of them.”

“It sounds to be a good pastime. Perhaps you will have one of those glasshouses just for your own plants someday, or convince your father to add a conservatory to the house.”

Nora considered that. “I wonder if Papa would agree. Probably not. He is cross with me because I would not get married.”

Vincent almost stopped walking. His expression darkened. He looked quizzically at Marianne.

“He has given up the idea,” she reassured him.

“Was he mad?”

“I would say he was too optimistic. Nora convinced him to abandon the notion, I think. At least for now.” She did not want to promise that Uncle Horace had given the idea up for good. For all she knew, once Nora's
attempted suicide became history, her father would warm to making a good marriage for her once again.

“Papa is in love,” Nora said. “I think he hoped I would marry well enough to raise him enough for the lady he wants.”

That astonished Marianne. For someone barely noticing the world, Nora had surmised a great deal.

“Is that true?” Vincent asked Marianne.

“Fairly close, I think. I do not always understand my uncle's reasons for what he does.”

“You are not alone. I never understood the man.”

“Perhaps, if you called, I could convince him to receive you. It would be better if your relationship with your sister were not a matter of subterfuge.”

Vincent looked at Nora, then at her. “The last time I called, he would not allow me to see her, despite her illness. Had he not sent her to live with you in Cherhill—” His jaw tightened. “He only did that for his own purposes, but good came of it. She has you, Marianne. You cannot know what comfort it gives me to know she does still.”

She strolled on while Vincent described where his ship had been. He regaled his sister with descriptions of foreign lands and people. Marianne listened, but her thoughts dwelled on Vincent's last words to her.

He assumed she would always be there for Nora. He thought she would never marry, would never be faced with a choice between her cousin's care and life with a man. He had no reason to believe it would go that way, but he did.

To Vincent, she was not almost on the shelf. She had
been nailed there by her age and her lack of fortune several years ago.

*   *   *

V
incent arranged a ride on the river the next day. As a naval officer, finding a vehicle that floated was easy. He procured a fancy pleasure boat that looked like a barge decked out for a party. On it they floated up the river as far as Vauxhall Gardens.

“I want to go with you when you go back to your ship,” Nora said, right in the middle of Vincent's explanation of the fireworks held in the pleasure garden on some summer nights. “I can dress like a boy, and be your servant.”

Vincent laughed. “That would be a fine thing. What if you were found out?”

“I suppose I would be sent home.”

“Indeed you would be. Alone. I could not accompany you on the voyage back.”

Nora pursed her lips. “We could make very sure I am not found out, couldn't we?”

He realized she was serious. “Darling, it is not done. You can imagine why. Sometimes, on very large ships, the captain's wife joins him if the voyage will be a long one. No one else has such privilege.”

“Does your captain bring his wife? Maybe I could be her servant. She surely does not use a boy for it.”

Vincent looked at Marianne helplessly.

“Nora, you are only sad because your brother must leave us today. You do not really want to do this, do you?
Who would take care of the plants in your chamber then? I will not have the time for it.”

Nora's eyes misted. “If you become a captain someday, could you bring your sister instead of a wife?”

Vincent hesitated in answering. Marianne assumed that meant that perhaps maybe he could. Only he did not want to, did he?

“I expect someday I may have a wife, Nora. I could not leave her behind and take a sister instead. She would not like that.”

“When? When will you have a wife? I keep waiting but you never do it,” Nora said. “You promised once that when you married, you would take me out of Papa's house to live with you. Remember?”

Nora's good memory discomforted Vincent. “I will marry when I meet the right woman, I suppose. That often takes a long time.”

“A very long time, it appears.” Nora chewed on her lip, thinking. “I think you should marry Marianne. She would be perfect, and she is very pretty. Then we could all live together.”

He did not laugh. Marianne gave him that. Instead, bemused, he looked at her with an expression that assumed she saw the humor in such a notion as much as he did. He expected her to jump into the conversation and tell Nora her suggestion was too strange to be tolerated.

Marianne said nothing. She just waited for Vincent to get himself out of this.

His expression fell. He looked away, embarrassed. “I
do not think Marianne thinks of me as a potential husband, Nora. We have been like brother and sister for too long. Besides, she can do much better.”

Nora reacted little. After a few minutes, she spoke as if no time had passed. “That is true, I think. She can do better. After all, she has danced with a duke. With a wicked Hemingford duke. With the new Duke of Aylesbury.”

It was Vincent's turn to just wait, with astonishment in his gaze. Marianne rather liked his dumbfounded expression.

“Do not put too much weight on that dance, Nora,” she said. “He was only being polite, since we had met. Although Mama insists that thus does a woman's value improve, I doubt that is true.” She looked at the bank of the river. “What is that over there, Vincent, with the big garden?”

He returned to explaining the sites, but for the rest of the day, Marianne would find him looking at her in a different way than he had in the past.

*   *   *

A
t dinner that night, Uncle Horace announced he would be returning home in the morning, but that the ladies should remain in London for the full fortnight so they could have some fittings.

“How good of you, Papa, and how generous.” Nora's response took Uncle Horace by surprise. She never spoke at meals, let alone to him.

Marianne could see that the time with Vincent had yielded wonderful fruit. Nora remained animated and
talkative. She did not stare out her window. She seemed very normal this evening.

“Thank you, daughter. I am glad to indulge you. Perhaps one day when you are ready, you will in turn indulge me.”

Marianne wished she were close enough to kick him under the table. Could he not just accept his daughter's gratitude, and be glad in turn that Nora had shown improvement?

As she expected, that vague reference to his plans for Nora sent Nora back into silence.

“That is too bad, that you must depart, Sir Horace,” Mama said, her eyes glittering the way they did when she was fit to bursting with something too delicious to keep to herself. “I was so hoping that you would be here, so I could share anything we learned when we dine with Aylesbury.”

Marianne stared at her mother. Uncle Horace did as well. Nora ate her dinner.

“When will this illustrious event occur?” Horace asked.

“In three days. I received the invitation today. By messenger, no less. It will be an informal dinner. His brothers will be there, and their wives. And Marianne and me.” Mama said the last triumphantly. “Lord Ywain's wife is hosting, but she assured me, in her private letter written in her own hand—and a very good hand it is—that the duke himself would bring his coach here, and escort us personally.”

Uncle Horace's fork had paused midway to his mouth
while he listened to this litany of aristocratic condescension. He set the implement down. “Then I must stay, it appears.”

“It is not necessary. The invitation was to me and my daughter.”

“I still must stay. To hear all about it, as you said.”

“I can write to you.”

“It would be rude not to welcome the duke when he calls for you.”

“I do not think he plans to sit and chat.”

“
I
will stay
.”

Mama shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, our new dresses will not be ready in time for this dinner. We will have to buy a few items to update our old ensembles. I know you won't mind. You will want us to do you proud, I am sure, and not look like women from a family of no means.”

Uncle Horace's eyes narrowed on Mama. Marianne could almost hear the rude things he thought, and the calculations he made.
There goes another fifty pounds, at least.

Mama locked her gaze with his, daring him to object. She knew she had him cornered. He did too.

“Just try not to overdo it,” he muttered. “I want to see two-thirds of it spent on the girl, not you, too.”

Marianne assumed she was the girl. How generous. How fun. How odd.

She returned to her meal, picturing a coveted, expensive headdress that she had denied herself up until now.

“P
lease do not insist on this.”

Lance ignored the request as he hopped out of the coach. If he did not know it was Gareth with him instead of Ives, the words alone would have told him. Ives would not have included the
Please
.

“It is necessary. It is the only way to deal with such ill-formed gossip.” He headed into the gambling hall that he knew too well.

Gareth caught up. “It is only that last spring this is where Ives thrashed a man to protect your name. There is too much drink and not enough good sense here. Why not brave it out in your club instead?”

He had already done that. The experience had not been pleasant. No one had said a word to him, but he
passed by a low drone of whispers wherever he walked, much like a sailor might be forced to walk a gauntlet.

A firm believer that pain should be endured all at once, rather than suffer a thousand small cuts, he decided he would risk a few sword thrusts this evening, before calling for Marianne and her mother. Hopefully the more stupid of the men would not be foxed yet, and keep their distance.

Alas, it was not to be. No sooner had he walked into the hall than a clutch of men at the faro table noticed him. They watched him, grinning, jabbing each other and mumbling in ways that had them roaring with laughter soon.

“Please do not go over there,” Gareth said at his side.

“Of course I won't. Now go ask them not to come near
me
, why don't you?” He took his place at the wheel. The others there eased away, and not out of respect for his station.

As if that were not bad enough, he kept losing. Within a quarter hour he dropped five hundred pounds.

“Are you done?” Gareth asked. He stood back a little and to the side. Lance suspected that position was to try to intercept anyone looking to make trouble.

Unfortunately, the trouble came from the other side, and not the kind either of them expected.

“Aylesbury.” The deep voice sounded lowly, and seriously.

He did not look over, but kept his gaze on the wheel and the bets. “Carlsworth. Odd to see you here.” The Baron Carlsworth had political ambitions of the sort that were not enhanced by being seen in democratic gaming
halls. Especially not at a time when democracy was not popular with those wielding power.

“I accompanied a nephew at his father's request, to keep an eye on the family purse.” Carlsworth deigned to place a bet of his own. A very small one.

“You have never met my brother.” Still playing, he made the introductions. Carlsworth, a stiff man by nature, got stiffer.

“I would like to have a word with you, Aylesbury. Privately.”

“I cannot imagine why. It would be the first such word we have ever had. If you want to complain about my votes on the stupid laws passed in December, I promise you that better men have already burned my ear about it.” Few of the lords had liked his vote, or his speech, the only one he had given yet in Parliament. That bill had been the only time he wished he had lived a better life. His opposition might have carried more weight if he had.

“It is in your interest, I promise you.” Carlsworth murmured the words right into his ear, like a lover.

He pushed Carlsworth away. “Oh, hell, fine. Gareth, keep an eye on my winnings.”

“There are no winnings.”

No, there were not. He was down by hundreds more.

He strode off, gesturing for Carlsworth to follow. He found an isolated corner.

He did not dislike Carlsworth. He simply never much noticed him. He did now. Thin and frail and middling in height, Carlsworth's most notable feature was a very large forehead that loomed above eyes a tad too small to
carry it. Since his red hair had begun receding, that forehead grew larger by the month.

“I want you to know that I speak as a friend,” Carlsworth said. “I hope you will think of me as one. I risk the displeasure of important men by telling you what I am about to reveal.”

He wanted something. Lance half expected to hear an overture to blackmail next.

“I have learned—please do not ask me to tell you from whom—that the recent discussions about your brother's death have brought the matter again to the attention of the prime minister and others in high station.”

“It is said the king is on his deathbed, and they worry about me? Better they should be planning the transition to a new monarch.”

“They worry about the perception of the matter, as it happens, not about you.”

He did not like how Carlsworth said that. So seriously. So confidentially. “Go on.”

“Liverpool has asked Eldon to consider appointing a lord high steward.”

A thickness lodged in Lance's chest. The Lord Eldon was the lord chancellor. He presided over the House of Lords. If a lord high steward were appointed, it would be for a trial of one of the peers. Most likely Eldon would be given that role, too, for the duration.

“Go on.”

“He—Liverpool—thinks that the death of a peer should not go unresolved so long. Nor, considering the mood abroad in the land, should it be thought that a peer
can escape judgment due to his rank.” Carlsworth made a face of both apology and regret, as if he wished he did not bear such unfortunate news.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Carlsworth flustered. “I thought you should know. Once the king dies—that is, soon after, a move may be made.”

What do you want in return for warning me?
He did not have to ask. Like so many people, Carlsworth wanted a duke as a friend. As a connection. Or, in this case, maybe in his pocket should he catch a cold that only a ducal handkerchief would alleviate.

“Your consideration will not be forgotten.” With that, Lance strode back to the roulette table.

“Did you win anything?” he asked Gareth.

“I am not going to gamble with your money.”

“You could have gambled with your own.” He picked up what was left on the table.

“I have a family now. I don't gamble.”

“You don't do lots of things anymore. How can you stand it?”

Gareth just smiled like a man with a secret he would not share.

Lance aimed for the door, and his coach. The pleasant mood he had worn leaving his house this evening deserted him with each step.

He did not know what disheartened him more—that the lord chancellor might begin advocating for a trial in the House of Lords, or whether Gareth Fitzallen, infamous sensualist and curse of aristocratic husbands everywhere, had been thoroughly domesticated.

*   *   *

L
ance sat in the library of Radley's hired house, thinking he would not mind getting drunk. Sir Horace sat with him. They awaited the ladies' descent from above after the ladies completed all the things ladies did to prepare themselves.

“I will be returning to Gloucester tomorrow,” Radley said.

“To consult with Peterson?”

Radley looked aghast. “What do you mean?”

“According to a Mr. Tewkberry, the coroner thinks the question over my brother's death will be resolved soon.”

“Who the hell is this Tewkberry, that is what I'd like to know.”

“Not more than I would.”

Radley tried an appeasing smile. “I assure you that if Peterson has some intention, he has not informed me of it.”

“You said you could influence him. Since it sounds as if he thinks developments are afoot, I simply wondered if you had done so.”

“See here. I am a man of my word.” He looked at the door to make sure it was closed and no one was about to enter. “I will confess that I wish you had given my niece more attention than one dance at that assembly. However, when I learned of this dinner party—I am not an impatient man, and it appears matters are progressing nicely.”

“You may not be impatient, but others are. As for this Tewkberry, he should pray I never meet him.” After leaving Gareth at his house to make his own way to the dinner, he
had spent the time mentally detailing the indignities he would visit on the troublemaker when he found him.

“The talk will die down. It always does. And once things are settled with my niece—”

The door opened then. The ladies entered.

Mrs. Radley could not be described as anything but handsome. Today she had taken great care with her dress and appearance, most notably in a patterned silk shawl that dripped expensively down her shoulders to her knees, over a dress the color of parchment.

She entered first, obscuring her daughter. Once inside the chamber she stood aside, in a bit of theater, to reveal Marianne.

Even his mood could not defeat his reaction to seeing her. She looked lovely in the same ice blue dress she had worn to the assembly. It had been enhanced with silver trims. A thin wrap hung in a liquid flow on her arms, its color changing from gray to blue as she moved.

His whole being warmed. An arousal simmered, threatening to become more.

He walked forward, and offered one arm to each of the ladies.

*   *   *

T
wo sons of the old duke had married very interesting women. Marianne guessed that other words were used to describe them in some drawing rooms.

Mr. Fitzallen's wife, Eva, visibly pregnant, refused anyone's attempts to treat her like a fragile decoration or, worse, an invalid. Except for the obvious effects on her
silhouette, one would never guess she was well along. She painted, her husband mentioned, and they had even visited Italy so she could study with some famous artist. She still took lessons, despite her condition.

Lord Ywain's wife might be considered odd in every way, although it could not be clearer that her husband adored her. A very tall woman, she did not appear to notice that her unusual stature might be thought unattractive. Indeed, unless Marianne had not seen correctly, she stood taller than normal tonight. Marianne had noticed little heels on her shoes.

Mama commented on Padua's given name before dinner, and received a brief explanation of how her parents had met in that city, and fallen in love, while her mother studied at the university there.

“She wants to do the same thing,” Aylesbury said, joining the conversation as he walked by. “You have convinced my brother that it is a splendid idea, haven't you, Padua?”

“As it happened, your brother insisted we go, and that I devote myself this winter to preparing for my studies there.” Her dark, glittering eyes did not waver under the duke's gaze. “He even demanded it be part of our marriage settlement.”

To conclude they did not like each other would be putting too much weight on such a brief exchange. All the same Marianne sensed a fragile truce between them, as if there had recently been a row.

Aylesbury moved on. Padua shook her head. “He is like a boy sometimes,” she said. “He thinks I am taking
his brother to the ends of the earth, and he will never have the use of Ives again.”

“‘Use of him' is a harsh way to put it,” Eva said.

“Is it? The duke keeps getting into scraps and Ives keeps getting him out. Or trying to.”

“They are comrades as well as brothers. Aylesbury is going to miss him, that is all. He won't admit it, but that is the source of any pique with your plans.”

Padua began to say something, looked at Marianne, and thought better of it. “See how informal we are, Miss Radley? We bicker in front of new friends, we are so at ease in each other's company.”

“I think it is wonderful. It is rare for me to meet so many new people and have them act so naturally in front of me. I think even a bit of bickering reflects warmth and care.”

Just then a melodic laugh drifted to them. They all looked at its source. Mama sat with Mr. Fitzallen, and he had her all aglow with delight.

Eva cast a sidelong look at Padua. They both bit back smiles. Marianne felt her face getting red.

Eva noticed. “Please do not look so embarrassed. He charms ladies without intending to, and ladies respond in the normal way. I certainly did.”

“I was not familiar with either of you at the time, but I think it is safe that any charming he did of you was most definitely intentional,” Padua said.

Mama had launched into some story. Mr. Fitzallen listened closely, as few men ever did to women. That was part of his charm, Marianne guessed. He actually
listened
.

They went down to dinner. Padua mercifully put Mama at the end of the table away from Marianne. Unfortunately, she found herself sitting right next to Aylesbury.

“What a fascinating family you have,” she said.

“You mean my brothers' wives? My mother would not have approved of either one. My father would have raised some objections too. Poor as church mice they both were. Not at all appropriate, but Eros was busy, and here we are.”

“Did you object too? Both unions are recent, and you were the duke. I would think your opinion would matter too.”

“Someday I will tell you about my parents' marriage. Most appropriate, it was. No one objected. Indeed, machinations were involved to arrange it. Gareth's existence is testament to how well that worked. No, I did not object. Either brother would have ignored me, and possibly broken with me, if I had.”