My Dear Duchess (13 page)

It was as well for his peace of mind that he was unaware that a particular male version of Clarissa in the shape of the Comte was abroad and busily plotting his wife’s downfall.

The Comte explained to Jack Ferrand that his plan to take Frederica for a drive had gone awry. She was engaged for luncheon at the Jenningtons.

Jack Ferrand paced the floor of his study. “If we leave matters too long, the Duke will be home. I have it! I shall send our dear Duchess a note supposedly from the Jenningtons cancelling the luncheon. You will appear on the scene at the right moment and renew your offer.”

The Comte leaned lazily back in his chair and surveyed Mr. Ferrand. “It amazes me why you wish to ruin such a sweet miss. It is of no concern of mine. I am glad of the money as you know. But my curiosity, my dear sir, gets the better of me from time to time.”

“My affairs are no concern of yours,” snapped Jack Ferrand, rounding on him angrily. “Do as you are bid or crawl back to your gaming halls to scrape your living.”

“So be it,” shrugged the Comte. “I shall be off to plan our dear Duchess’s ruination. ’Tis a pity she is not more like her sister, Clarissa. Now, that one I would enjoy taking down several pegs.”

He strolled off and Jack Ferrand continued to pace up and down and back and forth. His plan must succeed. With Frederica out of the way, he could then turn his mind to getting rid of the Duke, perhaps implicating Frederica in the murder. But first he must remove the possibility of any heirs standing between himself and the Dukedom. He had been so sure of the title. All his life he had studied the family tree, watching one successor drop out after the other. How he managed to overlook Captain Henry was beyond him.

He sat down and carefully worded a note and signed it ‘Mary Jennington’. Then he rifled through his desk until he found a seal close to the Jennington coat of arms and stamped it down on the hot wax as if it were the Duke of Westerland’s neck. He was sure that Frederica would not examine the seal closely.

And she did not. But on the following morning the Comte found an unexpected obstacle to his plans. Mr. Pellington-James was there before him, and amazed at the news of the cancellation of the Jennington’s luncheon.

“I saw Lady Jennington last night,” he protested “and she said naught of any change of plan. May I see the letter?”

The Comte neatly caught the letter as Frederica was handing it over. “Ah, you are only jealous, Mr. Pellington-James, because you know I wish to take the Duchess driving.”

Mr. Pellington-James puffed and disclaimed, still holding out his hand for the letter which was being firmly crumpled in the Comte’s long fingers.

“Come, Your Grace,” pleaded the Comte. “The sun is shining and we are wasting time. You have never been to Richmond but you
have
been to many luncheons. And I am the most correct of escorts. I have an open carriage so you do not even need your groom. Quickly, now,” he added in a teasing voice, “before some less correct admirer snaps you up. I am sure your husband would not like to find you sitting at home moping.”

His remark about her husband brought a vivid picture of the Duke together with Clarissa. Her sensitive mouth folded in a firm line. “It will take me a few minutes to fetch my bonnet. Thank you for your invitation, sir.”

After she had left the room, the Comte leaned back at his ease, not deigning to make conversation with such an overdressed fop as Mr. Pellington-James. He was therefore unaware of the unusually shrewd and speculative look in his companion’s eyes.

Mr. Pellington-James was just opening his mouth to say something when Frederica tripped into the room. The Comte cast him a mocking glance and then held out his arm to Frederica.

Mr. Pellington-James could do nothing but bend over her hand and wish her a pleasant drive.

Some forty minutes later, the Duke of Westerland strode into the hall and handed his hat and gloves to the butler. “Is Her Grace at home, Worthing?”

The butler shook his head. “Her Grace has gone driving. I heard the gentleman mention Richmond as the destination, Your Grace.”

The Duke fumed inwardly. He had childishly hoped to surprise his wife and now he felt a fool for not having warned her of his arrival. “Who is escorting her?” he asked striding across the hall.

“Le Comte Duchesne, Your Grace.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Your Grace! There is another gentleman in the Egyptian Room. A Mr. Pellington-James.”

Good God, thought the Duke. I have arrived back in the nick of time. My wife’s admirers seem to be everywhere.

He was confronted by a portly young gentleman who was bent over in a deep bow. To his annoyance, the irritating Mr. Pellington-James continued to bow. Again the Duke bowed back and still Mr. Pellington-James presented only the curly top of his blonde wig.

“Enough, man!” said the Duke testily. “Can I help you in any way? Are you waiting for my wife’s return?”

“No!” said Chuffy. “I was just sittin’ thinkin’.”

The Duke found to his surprise that his hands were trembling with anger. “My dear sir,” he said icily, “I would like to know what
you
are doing here with my wife gone from the house?”

“I was worried, you see,” said Chuffy sadly. “I was wonderin’ and wonderin’ about your wife going off with that suspicious lookin’ Frenchie and.…”

“The Comte! Suspicious? Explain, or do I have to choke it out of you?”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Pellington-James soothingly. “Violence won’t get you anywhere,” he added with a gleam of humor. For all his bulk and dandified dress, Mr. Pellington-James was no coward. He went on to explain about the Jennington’s cancellation and how there was something about the Comte he did not trust. He made as if to pick the crumpled letter from the floor but the Duke forestalled him.

“Better let me do that,” he said. He straightened out the letter, then turned it over to inspect the seal. “That’s not Lady Jennington’s seal!” he said as he felt the beginnings of fear in the pit of his stomach.

“There y’are!” cried Mr. Pellington-James triumphantly. “Knewd there was something havey-cavey about the fellow. ’Course, that’s the French for you. Emigrés be damned. Damned lot of Bonapartist spies if you ask me. Now you was in the Peninsula. Tell me.…”

“Mr. Pellington-James,” said the Duke in a slow, measured voice. “Strange as it may seem, I am all of a sudden anxious for the safety of my wife. How did she come to meet this popinjay? Think, man. Think!”

The fat gentleman corrugated his brow so that little flakes of lead cracked and fell down onto the shoulders of his green silk jacket. “I’ve got it! It was at the opera. Miss Sayers introduced us.”

“Clarissa! I shall call on her directly. Good day to you, sir.”

“Wait a bit,” said his companion plaintively. “Can’t I come with you?”

The Duke looked at him coldly. “You force me to point out that this is no affair of…”

“Well, it is in a way,” said Mr. Pellington-James good-naturedly. “I have a great regard for Her Grace. We have a sort of… lemme see… what did that Greek call it…?”

“Platonic.”

“Yes, that’s it. Platonic. ’Course,” he added chattily, following the Duke into the hallway with a childlike confidence in his welcome, “Her Grace is all the crack and I was no end pleased to be able to cut a dash with her in front of the Tulips. Her Grace likes me, you know,” he added simply.

Despite his companion’s ridiculous appearance, the Duke was beginning to understand why. The fat man, for all his foppery, radiated honesty.

“Very well, then,” he said. “But we must take our horses for speed.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Pellington-James. “I’ve got Pegasus outside. Didn’t bring the carriage.”

The Duke called for his fastest horse to be brought round and then stood on the steps with his new friend and looked at Pegasus in some dismay.

Pegasus was leaning against a horse trough, fast asleep. Even in his sleep, he wheezed and panted.

Good manners stopped the Duke from insulting any man’s horse, even such a broken-winded creature as this. If Mr. Pellington-James could not keep up then he would have to be left behind.

By the time they reached the house in Clarence Square, Mr. Pellington-James and the Duke were on first name terms. The dandy confided that his name was Peregrine, but that all his friends called him Chuffy. He begged His Grace to do the same.

Clarissa was fortunately at home and all fluttering arms and melting eyes to welcome “her dear brother-in-law.”

The Duke cut through the courtesies and came to the point. “Who is this mountebank of a Comte you have introduced to Frederica and whereabouts in Richmond have they gone?”

Clarissa’s mind worked feverishly. She knew that Frederica had been taken to an inn outside Barnet and not anywhere near Richmond.

The Duke surveyed the silent girl. “I do not like the fact that you have to consider your reply, Clarissa. If anything happens to my wife, then you will be held responsible. And I shall use my new social status to make sure that any blame falls squarely on you.”

Clarissa bit her lip. This was something she had not expected. She suddenly hit on a plan to extricate herself and still smear Frederica’s character in some way.

“They have gone to Barnet,” she said suddenly. “Something was said about visiting a sick aunt of the Comte. But they did not tell me much and I was sworn to secrecy and I thought…” She let her voice trail off delicately and hung her beautiful head.

“Thank you,” said the Duke through stiff lips. “Come, Chuffy. Let’s to Barnet.”

He had expected to leave Chuffy Pellington-James far behind, but miraculously the fat, wheezing horse kept up a tremendous pace. Any time that Pegasus looked liked flagging, Mr. Pellington-James whispered something in the animal’s ragged ear which seemed to spur the old horse to positively Herculean efforts.

“I hope we are still in time,” yelled the Duke above the wind as they raced neck and neck through Highgate village scattering geese, chickens, children and dust on either side. Chuffy’s heart sank. So the Duke was thinking the same thing—that the aunt did not exist. He took a quick look round at the high hedges and sprawling fields. With any luck, Frederica would realize that she was not on the road to Richmond before it was too late.

But apart from wondering from time to time when she was ever going to see the river, Frederica did not guess that they were moving rapidly in the wrong direction. She had practically no knowledge of the countryside surrounding London… a fact of which Mr. Ferrand had been well aware.

She was wearing a Dunstable straw bonnet over a laced cap, a black and white striped gingham gown and a white Norwich shawl. The sun flickered through the trees casting rippling shadows over her companion’s face.

He had been unusually silent since they left the streets and houses of London behind, devoting his whole attention to his horses. His speed contrasted oddly with the leisurely pace with which they had left Mayfair. The Comte had encouraged Frederica to stop and speak to various of her acquaintances and each time he had laid a large hand possessively on her arm, causing several raised eyebrows. Frederica felt vaguely that it was not at all the thing, but she did not want to refine too much upon it for fear of seeming missish. When she chided her companion for his silence he only answered briefly that he was in a hurry to reach Richmond in time for lunch. Frederica was just about to ask him to slow his pace because she was beginning to feel travel sick with all the lurching and bumping of the country roads, when a village came into view at the top of a steep hill. “Richmond?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. He did not want her becoming suspicious because she could not see the river before he had her safely at the inn.

“It is a village before Richmond. We are to stop for lunch just on the other side. You are looking rather pale.”

“I am feeling unwell because of the unnecessarily fast pace of this carriage, sir,” said Frederica tartly, straightening her bonnet. Her companion did not reply, and the carriage swept through Barnet without slackening pace. They continued out into the windy fields on the other side of the village, where vast clouds of rooks soared and tumbled like so many birds of ill-omen.

“Pray, sir!” cried the Duchess. “When exactly do you mean to stop?”

He had spied the thatched roof of his destination so he promptly slackened the reins and smiled down at her. “We are just arriving. This is a simple country inn, but I can procure you a glass of lemonade.” He swung the carriage from the road and up a long, bumpy dirt lane to where the inn lay at the end. With its heavy thatched roof and the sun sliding across its windows as they drew near, Frederica felt as if the inn were slewing its eyes round to peer at her from under a heavy head of straw hair.

She suddenly realized that she was very far from home with a man she knew little of and began to feel a small knot of fear forming in her stomach. The inn looked deserted.

“I have decided I wish to return to London,” she said firmly.

To her surprise, the Comte said mildly, “And so you shall.” He deftly turned the carriage until the horses were facing back down the road again.

He jumped down from the carriage and smiled up at her, the wind ruffling his black curls and his green eyes dancing with amusement. “I declare you were beginning to be frightened of me, Duchess,” he teased. “Come! Admit it. You were beginning to wonder why this so-strange French Comte is taking you to a small out-of-the-way
auberge
. No?

“Well, the reason I stopped here is because it is but a little way off our road and this unprepossessing hostelry has a charming garden at the back. I discovered it when I was with the Des Leschamps.”

Frederica had the grace to blush at her fears. The Des Leschamps were a very high-nosed family of impeccable lineage and terrifying propriety.

She allowed him to help her down from the carriage and together they walked towards the door of the inn. The taproom was low-raftered and sunny but smelled abominably of beer and bad drainage. Frederica wrinkled her little nose and made to retreat. Just then a burly man made his appearance, stooping to enter through a narrow door at the back. He was dressed in a smock-frock, leather chaps and heavy wooden clogs. With his heavy matted hair, low beetling brows and small searching eyes, he looked remarkably like the inn.