This Duchess of Mine Read online

  “You had other concerns.”

  “I deserved to lose you. And I did.”

  “I’m here now,” she said, smiling up at him. “And I’ll be at Vauxhall tonight, masked, of course. You do have a domino, don’t you, Elijah?”

  “I believe so,” he said. “Will you wear a domino as well?”

  She nodded.

  “What color?”

  “That is for you to find out,” she said, laughing. “The first lesson in courting is to be able to identify the woman you wish to woo!”

  “But you are wooing me,” he said rather smugly. “I shall just wait until a beautiful woman in a mask approaches me and begins a flirtation.”

  “You do that,” Jemma said, laughing.

  He eyed her suspiciously, so she gave a little shrug.

  “Of course you’ll be able to identify me immediately, Elijah. Who else would try to flirt with you?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Duke of Villiers, known to himself as Leopold and to everyone else as terrifying, had made up his mind. The one woman he really wanted, Jemma, wasn’t his to win. His old friend Elijah had her, and for all Elijah’s ideas that he might follow his father’s early death, Leopold didn’t think so.

  At any rate, some small foolish part of him wanted to be loved by someone who hadn’t loved Elijah better.

  After all, the first woman he loved in the world had been a winsome barmaid by the name of Bess. But once Elijah crooked a finger, she traipsed after Beaumont without a backward glance.

  ’Twas all the fault of Villiers’ face, no doubt. It was a harsh type of face, and not softening with the years. The silver streaks in his hair didn’t help, and neither did his great beak of a nose. In fact, he looked like the damned beast he was, and the hell with that.

  He was done with women. He revised that thought. Not done with women until—God forbid—his loins withered. But he was throwing away the idea of a good woman, by which he meant a marriageable woman. Not that Jemma was ever marriageable, given that she was married to Elijah.

  So, not marriageable, but otherwise a woman like Jemma. A woman who was worth giving a damn about.

  Villiers was very good at dismissing his little black moments. He generally took that sort of emotion and shoved it away with a pungent curse.

  His butler, Ashmole, entered the library. He had been in the household for years and grown slope-shouldered and sunken as he grew old. His skin was the color of a wilted celery leaf.

  “Would you prefer a pension or a cottage?” Villiers asked, before Ashmole could say anything. He asked him periodically, as a matter of course.

  Ashmole gave him the ferocious look of an aging vulture, all bony beak and chin. It struck Villiers that he would probably look the same in his seventies. It was an unpleasant thought.

  “Why would I do that?” the butler replied. “Just when you’re having a fit of the vapors and planning to make things interesting around here?”

  Villiers eyed him. There was something distinctly disadvantageous about inheriting a butler who had spanked you as a lad, ignoring the fact that you were the future duke and focusing merely on your sins to do with stolen blackberry tarts. The man had never formed a proper sense of awe. “You look like something that fell off a tinker’s cart.”

  “You look like a damned parrot,” Ashmole retorted. Then he pulled his shoulders back, which signaled that their charming preliminaries were at an end. “Your Grace’s solicitor, Mr. Templeton, awaits Your Grace’s pleasure.”

  “Send him in,” Villiers said. “And for God’s sake, go take a nap. I don’t want to frighten Templeton by the thought you might expire while handing over his cloak.”

  Ashmole retired without a word, which meant that he would take a nap, and knew he needed it. Villiers sighed. It was just as well that he hadn’t the faintest inclination to invite anyone to visit his house.

  Templeton was a miracle of legal sobriety. His long, jutting chin had surely never lowered to emit laughter. Given his superior attitude, it was hard to imagine him taking a piss. He looked like a mourning bird hatched from a somber black legal tome, and due to be buried in the same.

  Villiers nodded, indicating that Templeton might stop bowing and take a seat. “I’ve decided to house my bastards,” he said without further introduction.

  Templeton blinked. “I assure Your Grace that they are housed.”

  “Here.”

  Templeton was the sort of man who had a huge desk containing at least forty pigeonholes. Each of those would be assigned to part of the duke’s estate: bastard children likely off in a lower corner somewhere, in a position of shame. The horror in his eyes surely resulted from a confusion of pigeonholes.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Collect them,” Villiers said briefly. “Wait—isn’t there one of them living with its mother?”

  Templeton coughed. “If you’d given me some warning, Your Grace, I would have brought the list.”

  “There aren’t that many, for God’s sake,” Villiers barked. “Surely you know their situations?”

  Even a duke could read the criticism deep in Templeton’s eyes.

  “I handed those children over to you,” Villiers said.

  “They are well cared for,” Templeton said, a little bluster entering his voice. “You can find no fault in the record.”

  “I’m not looking to do so. I’ve simply changed course. The children are coming to live here. All but, perhaps, the one who lives with the mother. I’m not having any mothers.”

  Templeton cleared his throat, took out a small notebook. “No mothers,” he said weakly.

  “Should be easy enough to round them up. Simply go to their addresses, relieve their current minders of responsibility, and bring them here.”

  “Here?” Templeton looked around the room a bit desperately, his gaze skewing upwards.

  Villiers had to admit that his library almost veered into a parody of himself—but then, so did he. Last year he’d had the vaulted ceiling painted with a riotous mural depicting life on Mount Olympus. He had long thought of Greek myths as a storage house for the male imagination (Jove’s seduction of Danae in a rain of gold coins was a particularly efficient fantasy). It struck him as amusing to house his literature collection in a room that implied it was all about the bed.

  Jove was here, there, and everywhere. Now a bull, now a swan, but always in pursuit of a lushly nubile (and naked) nymph. He had instructed the artist to forget the idea of painting any of those little Italian cupids, the ones with limp, small penises, and concentrate on breasts instead.

  The painter had taken to his task with a great deal of enthusiasm. Villiers was still discovering new breasts that he hadn’t noticed previously.

  Templeton clearly did not approve. Unfortunately for him, Villiers didn’t give a damn about his opinion.

  “That will be all,” he said, looking back down at the papers on his desk.

  “Your Grace,” Templeton implored.

  Villiers layered his voice with a combination of irritation, annoyance, and possible violence. “Yes?”

  “Who shall care for these children?”

  “Mrs. Ferrers will manage them. You might mention it to her. She’ll hire some nursemaids or some such, I’ve no doubt.”

  Templeton gulped.

  Villiers raised his eyes again. “If you’re afraid of my housekeeper, Templeton, just let me know and I’ll inform her myself.”

  Templeton rose to his feet, regaining a semblance of dignity. “I bid Your Grace a good morning,” he said, bowing.

  A thought struck Villiers. “Templeton.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Bowing again.

  “Would a sensible—nay, a charitable—person believe that I ought to recover these infants myself?”

  Templeton’s mouth hung open.

  “I wonder what Miss Tatlock would say?” Villiers mused to himself.

  “Miss Tatlock?” Templeton stammered.

  “Actually, her nam
e is now Mrs. Dautry, since she married my heir,” Villiers murmured. “I did give you that letter, didn’t I? Yes, I surely did. With instructions to change the details of my will, I believe. I am quite certain that the line of descent is now assured. She will likely produce any number of clucking infants—and all within the bounds of wedlock, which is surely more than I can say for myself.”

  “Yes, Your Grace—that is, I am aware of that, Your Grace.”

  “She would think I should fetch the children myself,” Villiers said, making up his mind. “Very well, Templeton. Send me a note in the morning with the relevant names and addresses. I shall try to fit it in. I have a very busy few days ahead of me. I promised the Duchess of Beaumont I would visit Vauxhall tonight; I am promised for several games of chess at Parsloe’s, and now this.”

  He lowered his chin.

  His solicitor’s voice was a predictable squeal, but there was an extra edge of scandalized horror there. Villiers heard it with interest. Why should his solicitor be afraid at the idea of him rounding up his illegitimate infants?

  “Your Grace cannot mean to—”

  Villiers fixed him with a look. “I can indeed,” he said softly. “And on second thought, I should like that list delivered to me within the hour, Templeton.”

  Templeton scurried from the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that evening

  The Marquise de Perthuis was feeling miserably uncertain. “This costume makes me feel like a circus performer,” she told her companion, pulling her purple domino more tightly around her body.

  “You look ravishing,” Lord Corbin said, bracing himself as the carriage went around a corner. “I promise you, Madame la Marquise, everyone at Vauxhall will think that you are utterly exquisite.”

  “But isn’t this Vauxhall a place of ill repute? I seem to have been told something like that. I remember now; it was Balthazar Monoconys. He said there was a miscellany of persons there and a wench in a mask asked him, in the most familiar way, if he would drink a bottle of mead with her.”

  Lord Corbin leaned forward and patted her hand. “It is true that without the affectation of black and white, you are alarming beautiful, marquise. But I will ward off anyone asking you to share a bottle.”

  “Do you really think this color suits me?” Louise was aware that she shouldn’t reveal her insecurities to Corbin. But he was so sympathetic—and besides, she had seen him exchanging intimacies a thousand times with Jemma. First, she planned to usurp Corbin, and next, the duke himself.

  “Absolutely. That bluish-purple is perfect for you,” Corbin said. “Black is too harsh. It can have an aging effect.”

  The marquise was silenced by that revelation. Though she would never forgive the Duchess of Beaumont for her grotesque impoliteness, perhaps it was just as well that she had discarded her penchant for black and white.

  She smiled at Corbin. “What does one do at Vauxhall?”

  “We’ll take a table near the orchestra,” he told her.

  “There’s a raised building in Moorish style that you’ll find very interesting. And truly, there’s no need for concern. I shan’t leave your side.”

  That would never do. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, snapping open her fan. “I am not an enfant who needs to be coddled, Lord Corbin. In fact, I am hoping to see a particular friend of mine.”

  He didn’t look in the least insulted by this revelation. It was just as she suspected: Corbin understood that he had no real hope that she, a marquise, would take his charms seriously. He was very attractive and well-dressed, with an easiness of manner that made him seem almost French, but still…if she, the Marquise de Perthuis, decided to stray from the marital bond, it would not be into the arms of a man of his rank.

  “You see,” she continued, leaning forward as if confiding a deep secret, “the Duke of Beaumont and I are dear friends.” Corbin was a notable gossip, which was one of the reasons she had chosen him to escort her. All of London needed to know of this night.

  “My goodness,” Lord Corbin said with his charming smile. “I must compliment you, Marquise. I confess that I viewed the duke as something of a Puritan. But of course, no man is invulnerable before a woman of your beauty.”

  “You are too kind,” the marquise said, settling back on the seat and rewarding his compliment with a smile.

  “Do you find the duke an easy conversationalist?” Corbin inquired. “I’m afraid that I know little of the state of the government, and he, of course, is an expert.”

  “I never discuss such matters,” Louise said. “For one thing, I never read the English papers. I am not very good at reading the language, and they’re so depressing, always. It’s the same with the French papers, but at least I can understand the words.”

  “I absolutely agree,” Corbin said. “These newspaper people write only for themselves, and with no thought about what is really interesting in life. It’s a wonder anyone reads them at all.”

  “They are always writing about obscure people,” Louise said fretfully. “Savages and the like.”

  “I can’t abide reading about the Americas,” Corbin agreed. “They sound quite unsanitary. And full of people murdering each other for the most extraordinary reasons.”

  “No, I refer to savages living in the next street,” Louise corrected him. “If you believe the French papers, there are astonishing kinds of people anywhere one looks. The papers positively delight in telling one loathsome details about poisoners and the like. It’s enough to make one quite nervous about the cook.”

  “How exceedingly thought-provoking,” Corbin said. “And boring. I expect the Duke of Beaumont is very glad to have a change of subject when he talks to you.”

  “Naturally,” Louise said, wondering just what she should talk to Beaumont about. Perhaps she should have perused the Morning Chronicle.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the duke’s familiar name?” Corbin asked.

  Louise narrowed her eyes at him, but he gazed back innocently. “I never address any man by his first name,” she pronounced.

  “My apologies!” Corbin cried. “I recall the Duke of Villiers addressing you as Louise…”

  “I myself do not engage in such intimacies. At any rate, Villiers is my cousin. He’s not a man.”

  “Contrary to what everyone thinks,” Corbin said, sounding delighted.

  When the carriage stopped, Louise tied on her mask and they strolled toward the center of the park. There were some young couples embracing rather ardently in the shade of the poplar trees.

  “It’s nothing more than one might see in the environs of the Bois de Boulogne,” Corbin said, after she pointed out this vulgarity.

  “I have never entered the Bois de Boulogne,” Louise remarked. “And now you tell me that, I never shall.”

  Corbin immediately commanded a supper box in just the right spot with a minimum of fuss, ordering two bottles of Champagne and a plate of delicacies.

  “Two bottles?” Louise said, trying to adjust her mask so she could see a bit better.

  “We might as well make ourselves comfortable,” Corbin said. “I’m afraid that the Duke of Beaumont does not appear to have arrived yet.”

  “I didn’t come only for that purpose,” Louise said loftily (and untruthfully).

  Corbin didn’t seem to mind. “I should hope not. It doesn’t do for ladies to track men down like hunting dogs. It would make my whole sex far too vain to even know of the possibility.”

  Louise took a desperate swallow of Champagne. “These masks make everything rather difficult,” she said. “I certainly hope I recognize those people I know.”

  “There is no need for introductions at Vauxhall,” Corbin assured her.

  She digested that in silence. Truly, the English were a different race than the French. No French nobleman would attend an uncouth event of this nature. Still, she ought to be polite, since Corbin was kind enough to accompany her. “Those lamps shaped like stars are quite beautiful,” she
told him. Corbin filled up her glass again, and she clutched it like a precious elixir. “Do you see any sign of the duke?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Look at that!” Louise exclaimed. “I do believe there are courtesans here.” The woman in question had thrown off her mask, if she ever had one.

  “Dear me,” Corbin replied. “That is an elegant dress. I wonder if she knows that her entire bosom is visible?”

  “Of course she does,” Louise retorted. “One doesn’t skimp cloth in that particular area unless one has made up one’s mind to do so. I must admit that I’ve never seen the demimondaine very close. Of course, one jokes about people such as the Comtesse de Montbard, but there is a difference.”

  “Yes, the countess is liberal with her affections but entirely free,” Corbin murmured.

  “I wonder how they phrase the request for money,” Louise said, drinking again. “I would be quite embarrassed at the need to price myself, so to speak.”

  “I suspect they are used to it,” Corbin said in a companionable sort of way. They sat in their small box and observed the dancers for a time. Then Louise found herself watching a very tall man with an air of natural command and a beautiful profile, even masked. There was no question: the Duke of Beaumont had arrived.

  “I beg you to excuse me for a moment,” she said, rising. She swayed a bit but caught herself. “I see a friend of mine. I’ll just take a glass of Champagne with me.”

  “I will be right here,” Lord Corbin said, with just the right note of reassurance.

  Louise headed directly across the dance floor. The duke appeared to be in a veritable nest of courtesans, and she thought she ought to make haste. The duchess was certainly wrong about her husband’s faithfulness. But then, Louise thought with a pang, she’d had the same illusions about her own husband.

  “Peter, what on earth are you doing here?” Jemma said, sliding into the marquise’s chair as Louise wavered away from the table. “You find yourself in the midst of a play of my making, though now that I think of it, it’s entirely appropriate. You instigated the plot, after all.”