What the Duke Wants (7 page)

“What mud? Do you mean to say that you have already demonstrated the
common
blood running through your veins by behaving with your usual graceless comportment? I only knew that you had not bothered to join us at the breakfast table where you should have been on hand to meet Beatryce’s future husband. Am I correct in saying that not only did you miss breakfast, but that you have further embarrassed this family with some sort of incident involving mud?”

Grace noticed Aunt Mary did not mention whether or not the duke had made it down to breakfast. Instead, Aunt Mary maintained her look of distaste and arrogance as Grace waited silently in the tub, trembling from the cooled water. Aunt Mary beheld Grace as if the mud were still present, tainting the room and the very air she breathed. Then, she proceeded to look about the room with determined eyes, as if additional mud might be lying in wait, ready to contaminate her when she least expected it.

Aunt Mary returned to the screen, refocused her gaze on Grace, and continued, “I can only be glad His Grace was not on hand to witness such unladylike behavior…”

Grace looked tellingly at the water, wishing she could hide beneath the surface. At Grace’s betraying blush, her aunt cut her own words short with a gasp followed by, “No!”

Aunt Mary stopped talking, and for a moment, her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as she struggled with what to say. It was quite comical, actually, to witness this unusual occurrence. Aunt Mary always knew what to say and had plenty to say. The entire situation must be inconceivable to put Aunt Mary at such a loss for words; Grace could never have predicted this scenario.

Aunt Mary turned to leave the room, her tolerance at an end. She spoke to the room at large as she headed toward the door, “I don’t think my constitution can handle any more abuse at the moment. Beatryce, my dear, I shall return to my room for a lie down until my nerves recover. Grace, you had better be back to rights and downstairs without a moment to spare or I shall not be responsible for my…
Aieeee
!”

Grace winced. Apparently a little patch of mud had managed to escape everyone’s notice after all, and puddle in the perfect location just inside the door to Grace’s room. As if lying in wait for Aunt Mary to attempt to exit.

Fortunately for everyone present, Aunt Mary caught herself in time on the door frame, but it was a near thing. Grace leapt out of the tub and threw on her dressing gown. Cautiously, she peered around the bathing screen.

Aunt Mary glared back from across the room, gripping the door frame for a moment longer before she turned on her heel with a “Humph” and stormed out. It took all of Grace’s composure to keep from laughing aloud at the sight.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Beatryce had sat upon a low stool by Grace’s vanity. She hadn’t uttered a single word, nor had she attempted to help her mother. No, Beatryce remained poised on her stool, the picture of the composed debutante with an affected air of boredom about her as if she found the entire episode tedious. Beatryce sighed as if coming to some sort of important realization.

“Oh Grace, I really do not know how or why you manage to infuriate her so readily. You must know by now she is all that is delicate,” commented Beatryce, breaking her silence.

Delicate? Ha!

It took all of Grace’s self-control not to respond to that, though in her mind, she rolled her eyes. How could Beatryce say that with a straight face? If her career as a Duchess failed, she might find success treading the boards.

“Really, Grace, you look so unrefined standing there with that ridiculous grin on your face.” Beatryce perused her nails as she spoke, belying the fact that she noticed anything outside of herself. “Yes, I've noticed you trying to hide your amusement, and I don’t find it humorous in the least. You’re lucky I don’t tell Mother.

“But I’m warning you now—” Her voice hardened as she spoke. “—don’t mess this up for me.”

Beatryce stood and glared at Grace with that last statement. Then her face changed completely as if another, happier thought had suddenly come to mind, “By the by, I found this on top of your writing desk this morning…”

Grace grew alarmed when she saw the familiar sketch book held firmly in the grip of Beatryce’s left hand. A lifetime of sketches representing all her ideas for clothing styles and designs, painstakingly drawn out in detail from her own imagination, filled the pages of that leather-bound book. Not to mention the encouraging notes from her father and mother tucked between the pages. The book and its contents represented a large part of her plans to secure her livelihood after her twenty-first birthday, and there it was. In the hands of her spiteful cousin. Grace knew she hadn't left it out for Beatryce to find; she wasn't stupid, for she knew what Beatryce would say if she came upon it, as she apparently had.

“I must say my mother would find the contents of this book very…interesting.” Beatryce paused dramatically before continuing, “I find it difficult to believe you would ruin your own family by following in your father’s footsteps and going into trade, but you’ll be happy to know I am here to prevent you from making a dreadful mistake that you’ll one day regret. Honestly, it’s for your own good and because I love you that I do this, you know.”

Grace couldn't breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest over what she suspected was about to happen. Her heartbeat reverberated in her ears, drowning out the sound of Beatryce making her way across the room. Everything about the situation felt unreal, as if the events unfolding were happening to someone else, and she was simply there as witness. Grace was wholly unable to believe what she assumed her cousin was about to do. Absolutely, there was no love between them, despite Beatryce’s words to the contrary, but this?

Grace watched as Beatryce approached the fire burning in the fireplace, too stunned with disbelief to move and put a halt to what was about to happen. She simply couldn't fathom anyone being so deliberately cruel, even though she knew. Oh, God, she knew.

Beatryce looked over her shoulder, back at Grace, and offered a small, regretful smile. The look in her eyes suggested she was aware of how painful this would be, yet it mattered not, for she just as quickly faced forward again and unerringly tossed Grace’s journal into the fire.

Grace closed her eyes and fought back her tears. Her eyes burned. It always seemed to make Beatryce happy to see Grace cry, especially when Beatryce was the cause of her tears. Grace battled to deny Beatryce that one, simple pleasure.

Once the tightness in her face began to ease and she was confident she held her emotions in check for now, Grace opened her eyes and sought out Beatryce, who studied her from across the room. Probably hoping to see the revealing signs of moisture trailing down her cheeks and brightening her eyes.

Beatryce would be out of luck today.

Suddenly, Beatryce’s innocuous grin returned as if she hadn’t just been viciously cruel. “If you need anything, Grace, please let me know. I am perfectly willing to lend you some of my old things if you have need of them. In fact, just tell your maid to find mine, and she will be happy to help yours out in any way necessary.” Beatryce said it all with a look that suggested nothing whatsoever could help, and with that thought left hanging in the air, she glided out of the room with a mostly concealed smirk. Her words were ironic in light of this morning’s theatrics over the dancing slippers.

Grace wrapped her robe tightly about her as she slid to the floor; her knees finally giving away their strength. She was stunned and horrified over what had just happened. Why, oh why had she not leaped to action and prevented Beatryce from throwing her beloved journal in the fire? Or at the very least said something, anything, in some attempt to redirect Beatryce from her intent? She was used to Beatryce’s mercurial mood changes, but she still couldn’t understand them.
My God, the loss of my work…
It was still too unbelievable to fathom.

Grace cried in earnest now that she was alone. Her eyes were drawn to the fire, and her vision blurred from the moisture as she watched the pages with her sketches on them curl and burn. All her designs? Gone. All those dreams on paper, stemming all the way back to when she was a young girl dreaming of her future? Fuel for the fire. A lifetime lost in but a brief moment in time. Then there were the silly little notes from her parents: words of encouragement offered up when her doubts threatened to overwhelm her confidence.

The room was brighter now as the fire was bolstered from the added fuel. How curious it was to see the fire flare with brightness, when the added light was the result of destruction that might lead to dark times in Grace’s future, should she not find a way to recover from her losses today.

Grace pulled herself together. She wiped her eyes on the edge of her robe as she thought about what to do. She was a woman of strong will and knew she couldn’t allow this setback to defeat her, and as the light began to dim whilst the last of the pages turned to ash, she knew she would persevere because no one could forcibly take away her hope or determination to succeed.

* * * *

“Ambrose Philip Langtry, by my eyes,” boomed Clifford Ross, Dansbury.

Stonebridge, who had been gazing out the windows of the private sitting room adjoining his bedroom, glanced over his shoulder. He obviously hadn’t heard the door, engrossed as he was in his private thoughts.

Cliff sauntered across the room. His friend smiled at him, raised his brow in question, but didn’t rise in greeting. And without saying a word, the duke turned back around and resumed his study of the view outside.

Cliff was not offended. They had been friends for far too long. He proceeded directly to a side board to procure them both a drink.

“Yes, I had a pleasant journey south, thanks for asking,” he said with a devilish grin as he walked across the room. His smile was lost to Ambrose’s back.

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, wonderful, wonderful,” responded Ambrose, perfectly distracted.

Ambrose? Preoccupied? This was new. Ambrose was the most focused man in existence. Cliff abandoned his plans for a drink and approached his friend instead. He considered his friend’s profile as he said, “Yes, ahem, well, my mother fell in a ditch, you see, and I thought perhaps I should finally just pay the Prince Regent to haul her away. Clap her in irons and place her in the Tower, I say. She is far too much trouble to be sure, what? Ten pounds ought to do it, I should think. What think you, Ambrose?” He tried valiantly to keep a straight face as he watched his friend for any sign of awareness. Not only had he spoken utter nonsense, but he had spoken like a complete dandy, which was uncharacteristic of him and Ambrose knew it.

“Hmmm? For certain, yes, excellent decision,” replied the duke without a blink.

“Ambrose!”
That should get his attention.

“What?”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. What’s going on? You seem distracted.”

Ambrose pulled his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything will be just fine once this damned house party is over. That’s all.”

Hmmm…
Ambrose Langtry, the Duke of Stonebridge, well known for his vocal eloquence and composed demeanor, was anything but calm at the moment. Curious. Cliff turned and headed to the bar after all.

“Here,” he said to his friend as he handed over a snifter half-filled with brandy. “It sounds like you might need this.”

“Indeed. Thanks,” replied Ambrose, again with that distracted air, but he wasn’t finished. “I’m not sure what has gotten into me, really. I think I just wish this party were through already, and I could continue on to my duties in town. I dislike jumping through these hoops to betroth myself to Beatryce. We’ve known each other for years and it is expected. Everyone knows. Why can’t we just make it so and move on? Yes, that was rhetorical.”

“Are you sure this betrothal is the right move for you just now?”

Ambrose stood and began to pace before the windows. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve known Lady Beatryce my entire life. She’s composed, prepared, beautiful, intelligent,
graceful…
Really, she’s the perfect duchess to stand by my side, host my parties, woo my political rivals…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off. Cliff couldn’t help but notice the emphasis placed on the word graceful. But the duke wasn’t finished. “And when this party is through, Lady Beatryce will head off to London with that cousin of hers and enjoy spreading the news of our impending nuptials, and that will be that.”

That cousin of hers?

“Cousin?” asked Cliff out loud. He was a good agent and had known his friend a long, long time. He knew how to pick out the meaningful words in his friend’s response.

“Yes. Cousin. One Miss Grace Radclyffe, daughter of Leanne and John Radclyffe, both deceased. Are you familiar with the name? For some unknown reason, I find myself wondering why I feel as if I should be familiar with that name.”

“I don’t recall anybody by that name.”

“From what I understand, Leanne, the mother, is…was…sister to Swindon’s first wife, Lady Florence Beckett, Lady Beatryce’s real mother. I believe Mr. Radclyffe was a commoner in trade, a bookseller, somewhere in Oxford, I think? Most importantly, Miss Radclyffe is a walking hazard to sane peoples everywhere.” Ambrose pointed his snifter as if warning of some dire threat. “This, I understand both through rumor and direct observation.”

Cliff watched and waited as his friend paused to sip his drink. He clearly had more to say on the subject. “Of this, I can say for certain, I shall be relieved to depart this madness on Sunday.”

Cliff chuckled. “Well, I, for one, cannot wait to meet this walking safety hazard. And it sounds like this week is going to be amusing, rather than the staid ton event I was expecting. In fact, I think I shall retire to my room to refresh myself posthaste. I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of tonight’s entertainment.”

“Hold! Might I assume there’s nothing new to report on the other matter?”

“Oh, you mean work? You actually want to discuss work? No. Nothing. I’ll check on our friendly neighborhood assassin this evening. I plan to steal away after dinner.”