Duchess by Night Page 6

  “Villiers’s valet drew them on,” Harriet said. “His name is Finchley, and he’s going to help me dress when necessary.”

  “It adds a masculine touch,” Isidore said. She peered closer. “Did he do something to your chin as well?”

  “He put some dots here and there that are supposed to make me look as if I have a beard coming.”

  “Less successful,” Isidore announced. “Though it looks as if you might have spots, which would make sense if you’re a very young man.”

  Harriet decided to forego the nearly-beard spots in the future.

  “What are you going to wear tonight?” Isidore enquired. “I was so disappointed that there weren’t any Paphians languishing around the entranceway, weren’t you? I mean, there was that statue, but given that the bottom half was all one blob of marble, you couldn’t really see the relevant bits.”

  Harriet thought the relevant bit was the look on Venus’s face, but she didn’t say so. Isidore, after all, was a virgin. Which brought her to something she wanted to say. She propped herself up on her elbow.

  “You aren’t really thinking of bedding someone, are you, Isidore?”

  “I might,” Isidore said, pinching her cheek to make it a bit pinker. “If there is someone truly delectable. Let’s face it: since I’m here, ruining my reputation, I might as well have fun.”

  “Don’t,” Harriet said, catching Isidore’s eye. “I’ve been married before, and I know what I’m talking about. Please don’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Isidore turned around, hands on her hips, and there was a flash of genuine rage in her eyes. “You can’t tell me that my husband has been parading around foreign parts like some sort of eunuch.”

  “Eunuch?” Harriet said, before she realized what Isidore was talking about.

  Isidore gave her a wry smile. “The truth is that you are far more innocent than I am, Harriet.”

  “Perhaps about some things, but I know marriage. I understand it. Unfair though it may be, your husband will be sorely disappointed if he finds you are not a virgin.”

  “If he interrupts his travels long enough to return and discover the state of my body,” Isidore pointed out. “At this rate I’ll be a withered virgin of eighty.”

  Harriet shook her head. “I think your instinct is right, and the dowager duchess will force her son to return. But in the longer sense, what you really want is a successful marriage. Chastity is a very good way to start it on the right foot.”

  “No one is chaste in their marriages these days,” Isidore said. “Look at Jemma.”

  “Jemma was entirely faithful to Beaumont until she interrupted him making love to his mistress. And I believe she was chaste for years when she first moved to Paris, and was waiting for him to fetch her.”

  “But he didn’t fetch her, did he? She was his virgin bride, and he didn’t give a damn. Which just shows that your rosy idea of marriage is far from the reality of things.”

  Harriet didn’t think anyone who had survived her own particular marriage could have a rosy view. “Jemma gave it her best possible try. If you come to the marriage with experience, you risk not having a chance at success. And then you might wish that you had.”

  “It depends on how you classify success,” Isidore said. “I define a successful marriage as one in which people live together without too much acrimony, long enough to have children. I would like that. A successful marriage is not necessarily one in which there is no scandal. I would judge Beaumont and Jemma to have a very successful marriage, for instance, although she disappoints me.”

  “How so?”

  Isidore’s lip curled. “I didn’t want to tell her, but it’s paltry the way she has bowed to her husband’s demands. If she wants to play chess with Strange, she should have accompanied us. I am not one to accede to foolish commands.”

  Harriet looked up at the ceiling. It was impossible to explain the dance of will and compromise that had been her experience of marriage.

  “Was your marriage a success?” Isidore asked, uncannily echoing Harriet’s own thoughts.

  Isidore’s maid, Lucille, pushed open the door. “I need to get you into pantaloons for this evening, Your Grace,” she said, looking faintly harassed. “Mr. Finchley, the duke’s valet, has given me a list of what you should wear. He’ll be stopping by later to arrange your cravat.”

  “I can’t wait to see you!” Isidore said, nipping back into her own chamber. Leaving Harriet with her question. Was your marriage a success?

  She and Benjamin had no children. Her mother-in-law saw it as a utter failure on those grounds alone.

  Then her husband committed suicide. That fact would make most of London unhesitatingly condemn her marriage as a failure. Surely a good wife, a beloved wife, would be enough to keep a man from shooting himself.

  But…

  Life was so much more complex than markers of that type. Was your marriage a success?

  “Yes,” she whispered to the empty air.

  I loved Benjamin. And he loved me.

  He didn’t love me enough to live. But he loved me. Surely that was the definition of marital success?

  Chapter Nine

  Of Mathematical Angles and Men in Flesh-colored Silk

  Jem was unable to focus on his structural drawings when he returned to his study, and so spent a grueling three hours with one of his secretaries, the one in charge of foreign investments. He agreed to sell a grove of Italian olive trees, confirmed the purchase of two Flemish brigantines (to be used to haul cotton from the East Indies to his cotton mills), signed a sharp letter addressed to the House of Lords complaining of increasing privateer action, and approved expenditures of twelve hundred pounds in the next year towards armor-plating his trading vessels.

  He finally retreated to his chamber with a headache. After a quick bath, he pulled on some clothing and went to the nursery.

  The west wing of the house was, as always, locked away from the greater house. At two o’clock every afternoon, all doors leading that wing were locked and guarded, forestalling the possibility that a drunken guest might wander toward the nursery in a state of disarray or worse.

  As he approached, the footman standing at the door bowed and unlocked the door. He nodded at him, and then remembered Eugenia’s comment. Did he really not observe people? The footman had a rather shaggy peruke, a bovine look, sweet eyes.

  “Is your name Roberts?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t.

  “James, my lord.”

  “James,” he said, committing it to memory. James: the bovine footman with the bedraggled peruke.

  Eugenia was sitting in front of the fire, skirts spread out on all sides. “May I come downstairs?” she asked, jumping to her feet. “Look, Papa!”

  “No,” he said automatically, coming over to look. “What are you drawing?”

  “I’m ciphering,” Eugenia said. “It’s so much fun, Papa. I learned it in this book. If you take an angle here, and add that outside one together, and divide it by this, it ends up at 360. And it does that over and over. Isn’t that fascinating? I’m trying to figure out what else comes to 360.”

  Jem squatted down. She was working on the same angles he’d been playing with as bridge supports. “It’s very interesting,” he told her. “Here’s another fun thing. You take a five-sided shape.” He quickly drew it on her foolscap. “Now extend all the angles. What do you think the sum of all five of these outside angles will be?”

  “360?”

  “Good guess. Try it out and see.”

  She bent her head over the paper, clumsily moving the brass protractor into place.

  Jem made a mental note to have a protractor made to her measure. “Where’s your governess, sweetheart?”

  “I told her she could go have her supper downstairs,” Eugenia said absently. “She doesn’t like angles. She’ll be back upstairs in a while. She’s reading me Chapman’s Homer.”

  “The Iliad?”

  “We finished that. It’s the O
dyssey, and I like it much better.”

  “You are frightening sometimes, Eugenia. Do you know that?”

  “Well, you say so, Papa,” Eugenia replied, with complete unconcern in her voice.

  He walked out wondering, once again, whether he ought to have—or ought to now—provide a playmate for his daughter. She never showed any signs of loneliness, but surely children were supposed to play, not sit around splicing angles for fun. But then, she seemed happy.

  And, in truth, providing a playmate, an appropriate playmate, would mean sending Eugenia away, to school or to a relative. Parents of a properly brought up little gentlewoman would never allow their daughter to visit Fonthill.

  The idea of sending her away was impossible, and he shook it off. Still…it was a nagging thought. Eugenia was the dearest person in the world to him. Why was he raising her here? A better man would turn himself into a model of ethical standards, dismiss all his guests and half of the servants, and replace them with puritanical types with pinched noses and pure souls.

  The problem was that he didn’t value moral qualities as he should. In fact, he thought they were damned boring.

  It was a conundrum and made him wish that Sally hadn’t died. If he had a good woman around Fonthill, it would all be easier. Women were so good at lecturing. Sally could lecture him into obedience, and he would complain to the fellows behind her back, and that would be that.

  The picture of English marriage.

  The real problem was that he was free to please himself. Pleasure was vulgar—and generally wicked—but so interesting.

  As he entered his study, Povy came forward to give him his nightly report. Jem threw himself into an armchair and gratefully took the glass of wine handed him by a footman.

  It was his indulgence and (if he admitted it) one of his passions. He drank sparingly. But he began most evenings with a small glass of the very best wine. He raised an eyebrow at Povy.

  “A French claret from Bertin du Rocheret. I will serve it with the beef. The menu tonight: turtle Madeira soup, followed by relevé de poisson, or salmon in champagne. To be followed by roast beef, lamp chops, capons with a béchamel sauce, and a plate of roast goslings with puréed apples.”

  Jem nodded.

  Povy turned to another piece of foolscap, though he had it memorized. “Some comments on a few guests. Mrs. Sandhurst left this morning, sending you her most fervent gratitude. She wished to speak to you herself, but I indicated that it wasn’t possible.”

  Jem raised an eyebrow. “And is she?”

  “Indeed, I believe that she returns to London to seek consultation with an accoucheur; the child is hardly imminent, but naturally she will need to inform Mr. Sandhurst of the event.”

  “Or not,” Jem said. “Did she leave Troubridge behind?”

  “Indeed,” Povy said. “Troubridge declared himself desolé, but he spent the day hunting with one of the Graces.”

  “So far this sounds terribly tedious.”

  Povy turned the page. “Miss Moll Davis and Mr. Cooling are practicing their performance of The Five Hours’ Adventure. Monsieur Batelier, Sir Carteret, and Mr. Pedley stay on.” He looked up. “I believe that Sir Carteret may be drawing Mr. Pedley into an unlikely and improvident endeavor, something to do with the Committee of Tangier.”

  “He’s of age,” Jem said. “Are the Oxford scholars still here?”

  “Yes, there was a most lively discussion of glass-making at breakfast, and then they all repaired to the dairy, which has been temporarily transformed into a glass-blowing studio. They are trying the effect of adding lead oxide in combination with a touch of copper. The Spanish ambassador was much taken by the idea, and has spent the day with them in the dairy, though he will be at the Game tonight, of course.”

  “Excellent,” Jem said, feeling a spark of interest. “I shall stop by the creamery tomorrow.”

  “As you know, the commissioner of the navy brought in three wagonloads of prize goods last week; the Duke of Wintersall wrote with the request that he bring the commissioner to the Game in the near future. I took the liberty of replying in the affirmative.”

  “Good,” Jem said. These days the Game—the heart of his house party—tended to populate itself.

  “Tonight is a simple dinner, with a mere thirty-three to sit,” Povy said, turning the page. “Your valet has laid out your flowered tabby vest and the coat with gold lace at the wrists.”

  “That seems rather grand,” Jem said, watching the wine swirl in his glass.

  “We have a duke and a duchess in the house,” Povy said with mild reproach. “Although His Grace the Duke of Villiers is feeling poorly and won’t join us. He doesn’t have a fever, but is much pulled. I asked the cook to make him an eau de poulet rafraichissant.”

  “Chicken tea?”

  “For the unwell, there is nothing better,” Povy said. “Beetroot leaves, yellow lettuce and chicken, skimmed of course.”

  “You are a miracle of knowledge, Povy.”

  Povy put aside his book and Jem finished his wine. At the end of their evening talks, Povy generally added a few valuable particulars about his guests, tips that he had not committed to paper. But tonight he hesitated.

  “Don’t tell me that you are undecided about something,” Jem said.

  “I am not entirely comfortable with Mr. Cope’s presence at Fonthill. Your Grace has always ensured that no innocence is besmirched under your roof.”

  “I share your concern,” Jem said, swallowing the last few drops, “but I promised Villiers I would look out for him, and I will.”

  “I believe that he might find himself an object of interest to many,” Povy said.

  Jem raised his eyes. “Oh?”

  “That particular kind of near-feminine beauty will find many admirers.”

  “I shall watch my little chicken carefully then,” Jem murmured. “Damn Villiers for bringing him here anyway.” He hesitated. “Villiers seems to want his ward introduced to the pleasures of female company, but…”

  Povy didn’t blink an eye. “It may be that Mr. Cope has another inclination.”

  “Well, I’ll ensure that he makes his own choices,” Jem said, hating the fact that even the slightest hint of desire had crossed his mind when he saw this Cope. It was enough to make him dislike the man, but that was unfair.

  “The Duchess of Cosway’s reasons for visiting Fonthill were initially unclear to me,” Povy said, with just a hint of frustration in his voice.

  “You surprise me, Povy, you do. I thought nothing in the human heart was unclear to you.”

  Povy allowed himself a small smile. “However, I now surmise that she intends to create a scandal, thus drawing her husband back to this country.”

  “Ah.” Jem nodded. “It will probably work.”

  “She sent out some twenty letters this afternoon, asking me to frank all of them for you. Since she could easily have had her traveling companion, the Duke of Villiers, frank those letters, I gather she wanted your stamp on the letters, thus establishing her residence at Fonthill.”

  “Well, the scandal-broth brewing in this house ought to be good for something,” Jem said. “Is that it, Povy?”

  “A final thought about your new secretary, Miss Caroline DesJardins. I am slightly worried that her ideas may be too outré.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “For the entertainment tomorrow night, she is employing several footmen—those with the better physiques—as ‘primitive men.’”

  “And what does that entail?”

  “Flesh-colored silk with a small apron of fig leaves embroidered on the front.”

  Jem barked with laughter.

  “The silk is sewn to fit the body with the utmost exactitude,” Povy said a bit gloomily. “The effect is indelicate, to say the least.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” Jem said, chuckling. “No, I think that Miss DesJardins is a welcome addition to the household, Povy. I loved her stories of the fêtes she designed in Par
is for the Duchess of Beaumont.”

  Povy bowed and retired. Jem made his way upstairs to put on the suit with gold lace at the wrists (for he never disobeyed Povy), thinking all the time of wild French designers and errant duchesses.

  Chapter Ten

  In Which Plans are Made for Lord Strange’s Enticement

  Harriet looked at herself in the glass and felt as if she’d drunk too much champagne. Staring back at her was a beautiful young man. Really. Beautiful. He was wearing a velvet jacket of a dark lilac, over which spilled the finest cream-colored lace. Little epaulets at the shoulders gave him form, and the jacket laced in the front in a manner which (incidentally) concealed the so-called man’s breasts.

  But what Harriet kept staring at was her face. She never felt beautiful as a woman. She always felt overpowered by the huge hair styles demanded by fashion, by her panniers and multiple petticoats, by the way her corset pushed up her breasts and made them seem plumper than they were in truth.

  But in a simple pair of pantaloons and a velvet jacket, with her hair pulled back in a ribbon, you could see her face.

  Harriet just kept looking at it. Without all those powdered curls towering over her forehead, her face looked both delicate and strong. Her mouth was actually quite a nice shape, though she shouldn’t be the one to say so. The way the valet had colored her eyebrows showed that their arch was a graceful wing that emphasized her eyes. She’d always liked her eye color, but thought they looked faded to the same tired brown as the rest of her. But now they picked up the color of her coat, and her eyes seemed almost purple. Exotic. Utterly unlike her in every way.

  The only problem was…her rear. Harriet turned around and peered back there again.

  She could hardly believe that she was even contemplating walking through the door like this. Her breeches fit her body like a glove. That was one thing from the front, but when she craned her neck to see her behind, she felt palpitations coming on. Her bottom…her bottom was exposed. Very exposed.

  It was round. She had a very round bottom, as it turned out. Who knew that? With all the petticoats, and panniers, she’d never given her bottom a second glance. But there it was.