My Dear Duchess (6 page)

There was much cheering and clapping for Henry Wright was a popular figure. “But this is an evening of surprises,” she went on. “Our Duke has chosen his Duchess.”

Clarissa let out a little sigh of relief. Who could Lady Falconer mean except herself. Why he had been
crying
with disappointment over her rejection of him. Clarissa had the enviable talent of believing her own lies as soon as she had uttered them. She fixed the Duke with an excited and predatory stare like some exotic bird spying a particularly large and tantalizing worm.

“May I present our future Duchess… Miss Frederica Sayers!” said Lady Falconer, holding out her hands to the Duke and Frederica. Blushing at the cries and applause, Frederica mounted the platform with the Duke and then suddenly felt herself being wrenched to one side.

Clarissa was seizing the Duke’s arm with fingers like claws digging into his evening coat. “What a silly mistake, Lady Falconer,” she cried shrilly. “
I
am his affianced bride.”

The Duke looked at her with something like loathing. “You are standing in the way of my fiancee,” he said brutally, extricating himself from her grasp. He stretched his hand out to Frederica. Clarissa was bundled unceremoniously away by two large dowagers who kept shaking their turbanned heads over the scandalous lack of breeding in the younger generation. Clarissa was so mad with rage that she would have returned to the attack had not a stentorian voice announced, “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.” The band struck up “God Bless The Prince of Wales,” as the portly figure wearing the Order of The Garter descended the stairs. With the ease of long social practice, the company had formed themselves into two long reception lines in order of importance.

At the very bottom was Clarissa. At the very top was her stepsister. His Highness was laughing and clapping the Duke on the back and chucking Frederica under the chin. Clarissa writhed in misery. But His Royal Highness would surely notice
her
. As yet, her great beauty had not gone unmarked. But the bluff Prince went no further than the beginning of the line and then retired to the card room followed by his cronies.

Clarissa’s bitter cup was full. She longed to murder Frederica. Murder her… but see her disgraced first. Hard glances were being directed at her as loud murmurs of “What do you expect from the mushroom class,” assailed her burning ears.

“Control your fury. You’ll win no battles that way,” said an amused voice at her elbow. Clarissa swung round. The Honorable Jack Ferrand was standing smiling at her. He was a square-built, soberly-dressed young man with a pleasant, open expression in his light blue eyes.

“We have not been introduced,” snapped Clarissa fanning herself vigorously with her ostrich feather fan.

“Come now,” he said, not in the least put out, “our paths run together, yours and mine. You wish revenge and I, my dear… er… wish for revenge as well.”

Clarissa, who had started to move away, stopped still. “You are talking fustian, sir,” she said, yawning, “but do proceed.”

“Come sit beside me behind this wilting palm,” he said, “and I will elaborate.”

Beginning to be intrigued and anxious to escape from public view, Clarissa complied.

He began without preamble. “The title of Duke of Westerland should have been mine. I am of more noble birth than
Captain
Wright and just as close to the title in line of descent. For reasons that I do not wish to bore you with at the moment, I do not wish that marriage to prosper.”

“What will you do?” asked Clarissa eagerly. “Stop the marriage from taking place? Arrange some accident?”

“What a bloodthirsty and vindictive girl you are,” he said matter-of-factly. “No, nothing so dramatic.

“I am merely anxious that the marriage should be so unhappy that your sister would remain childless, if you take my meaning.”

“And what satisfaction do you get out of it?” demanded Clarissa. “Even if they had no children, you cannot inherit unless the Duke dies.”

“I shall get the same satisfaction as you… revenge,” he said bluntly. “The other reasons are my own affair.”

Clarissa blinked her beautiful eyes and stared at the reflection of her feet in the polished floor. This seemingly amiable and correct young man exuded a strange menace. But the longing to see the Duke and Frederica humiliated was too much for her.

“What can I do?” she asked suddenly.

“Leave it to me,” he rejoined with a smile of satisfaction. “I will tell you when the time comes how to play your part. The lawyers told me that under the terms of the will, Westerland must be married within the month. Therefore, I should think the so-happy couple are not in love.”

“Of course not,” spluttered Clarissa. “Why, only last week he proposed to
me
and was rejected. I… I left him on his knees and he was
crying
and…”

He interrupted her rudely. “If we are to deal together, there must be no lies between us. I have some small acquaintanceship with the Duke and, for all I wish him harm, I know he is the last man to cry over anything, even rejection by such a diamond of the first water as yourself.”

Clarissa looked at him sulkily. “Well, he was not exactly crying, but he
did
propose.”

“Splendid,” said Mr. Ferrand, “We progress amazingly. Now, for the moment, go back and congratulate your young sister as prettily as you can.”

Clarissa stared at him, “I confess I do not understand how I became involved in this conversation in the first place.…”

“To harm your victim you must first get close to him… or her.” He leaned forward and stared into her eyes with a peculiar intensity that was almost hypnotic. “Now, you will do exactly what I say.”

Clarissa was suddenly frightened. She did not know what on earth she was doing discussing insane plans of revenge with a virtual stranger. With a mental wrench, she turned her face from his and rose to leave. Only a few feet away from her was Frederica on the arm of her Duke. She was laughing at something he had said and gazing up adoringly into his face. Clarissa found that she was trembling with rage and jealousy. Not pausing for any further thought, she tripped forward lightly and flung her arms round the surprised Frederica.

“Darling Frederica, I am so pleased for you but it is the
gentleman
who is to be congratulated. Am I not right, Your Grace?” Her beautiful face was alight with happiness and good humor. His Grace found it almost impossible to imagine that this was the girl who had rejected his offer so vindictively. He looked at her in some surprise and Frederica, with some trepidation.

“You must let me help you choose your bride’s clothes,” she prattled on to Frederica. Clarissa was suddenly conscious of the approving stares of several of the immediate guests and became positively radiant. She chattered lightly and easily and then departed after giving her stepsister a farewell hug. Over Frederica’s little shoulder, Clarissa looked across into the eyes of Mr. Jack Ferrand. As he gave a slow nod of approval Clarissa experienced a slight shiver of fear that she had committed herself to some game even more dangerous than the ruin of Frederica’s marriage.

The carriage rattled over the cobbles on the rode back to Hartford Street. Emily sat opposite Frederica, slumped ungracefully against the squabs, the dashing young lady of the earlier evening having been undoubtedly transformed back into a pumpkin. Emily had been in high alt at the unexpected attention paid to her—particularly by Lord Hefford. But Lord Hefford had unaccountably neglected her towards the end of the evening to pay court to that upstart, Clarissa Sayers.

For once unaware of her new friend’s distress, Frederica chattered happily about the ball until she noticed her fiancee stifling a yawn. He smiled his apologies at her. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening to you, Frederica. God. I’m tired. What a curst dull evening!”

Poor Frederica. The glittering evening of her engagement, her gown and jewels, her meeting with the Prince Regent—all shattered like fragile glass and lay in ruins at her feet.

In the darkness of the carriage, she surreptitiously wiped away a tear. In all her excitement and joy of the evening, she had forgotten that, to the Duke, it was just a tedious legal move to be endured to secure his fortune. She became as miserable and silent as Emily and it was a sorry pair of damsels who trailed into the Cholmley home.

Since the Cholmleys rarely entertained, the small drawing room with its spindly, shabby furniture always smelled of damp and disuse. The bulbous eyes of the Cholmley ancestors, who all appeared to have suffered from goitre, seemed to follow Frederica as she walked slowly into the room, goggling and damning this miserable product of the mushroom middle-class.

“I’ll leave you two,” said Emily abruptly. “Not as if you need a chaperone now you’re engaged.” With that she strode from the room, her long, mannish strides at odds with the remains of her new-found elegance.

The Duke looked thoughtfully at his fiancee. She was staring down into the empty fireplace with her face turned away from him. He felt suddenly at a loss as to what to say. Perhaps she was already worrying about the more intimate side of marriage. He had better set her mind at ease.

“Frederica,” he began, addressing her unresponsive back, “we have not had time until now to discuss our marriage. I wish to assure you that I will keep to the idea of this marriage of convenience at all times. You may have your friends and amusements and I promise not to interfere.”

She still remained with her face turned away from him so after a moment’s hesitation he went on. “I planned that we should spend our honeymoon at Chartsay which will be our country home. You shall have your own apartments of course.” He felt as if he were putting it badly, but goaded by her lack of response continued with, “You shall not be troubled by me
in any way
. In our peculiar situation, it is not necessary that we… er… we be intimate as man and wife.”

Frederica had been so delighted in her new freedom at escaping from Mrs. Sayers that she had thought life would go on like a story book. Henry would fall in love with her, the marriage bells would ring and life would stretch out in one long happy road. She realized with an odd maturity that nothing she could do would force this man to fall in love with her. She could only behave lightly and happily and hope some-how that the miracle would happen.

She forced a smile on her face and turned round. “How
serious
you are, Henry.
I
am not worried about the terms of our marriage. I am only a little tired.” But Frederica could not resist just a little dig. “Getting engaged seems to be an everyday affair for you. Curst dull, you called it, if I remember rightly.”

His thin face flushed under his tan. “I did not mean that, Frederica. We are friends, are we not? I would as lief be married to you as to any other girl in London. There!”

This was said in a gentle, affectionate voice, and with that Frederica had to be content and cease dreaming that one day his eyes would burn with the fire and passion that they once held when he looked on Clarissa.

“I really fail to understand you, Mrs. Sayers,” said Mrs. Byles-Bondish. “Apart from a singular outburst of hysterics over Frederica’s wedding which, by the way, was a resounding social success, you no longer seem to care a rap for her.”

Mrs. Sayers sulkily jabbed her needle into a tired piece of petit point and did not deign to answer.

“Further,” pursued Mrs. Byles-Bondish, “I find it odd that when the girl ran away from home, however much it was glossed over by Mrs. Cholmley’s belated invitation, you did not turn a hair or call in the Runners.”

“She is an odd child,” snapped Mrs. Sayers. “When we were in Harrogate, she was always escaping from the house. I am well rid of her.”

Mrs. Byles-Bondish shook her head in amazement and appealed to Clarissa who had just come into the room after driving with the Honorable Jack Ferrand. “Dear child! Do speak to your obstinate mother. She will have nothing to do with Frederica and as Duchess of Westerland the girl holds a powerful social position which could be of inestimable value to
you
.”

“I do not need help to attract suitors,” said Clarissa.

“That I grant you,” said her mentor. “But with the exception of Mr. Ferrand, your suitors are not exactly of the first stare. The Marquis of Blandhaven has a doubtful reputation to say the least. The Westerlands will be entertaining at Chartsay. It is of the first importance that you invite yourselves for a visit.”

“Toady to that chit? Never!” declared Mrs. Sayers.

Mrs. Byles-Bondish smiled thinly. “I should also conceal your very unnatural feeling toward Frederica,” she advised.

Clarissa unexpectedly came to her aid. “I declare I miss my little sister,” she said in a sweet voice. “Do let us go to Chartsay, mama. They say it is prodigious grand. Would you not like to stay in an abbey?” she wheedled.

Her voice oozed charm but Mrs. Sayers heard the hint of steel in her daughter’s voice. To refuse would be to endure one of Clarissa’s famous tantrums.

“Oh, very well,” she said, giving in with bad grace.

Mrs. Byles-Bondish smoothed down her serviceable walking dress and tucked an errant strand of grey hair under her feathered bonnet. Her long nose quivered in distaste as she surveyed the loud stripes of the drawing room. She, for one, had every intention of cultivating the new Duchess. She wondered fleetingly how Frederica would fare in the magnificence of Chartsay. Then, with a feeling of relief, she left the Sayers’ mansion.

She would not have been very surprised to know that at that moment Frederica was feeling completely bewildered and that she had a feeling that her husband was overawed by the first sight of Chartsay as well.

The old abbey had been redesigned and rebuilt in the Eighteenth Century by James Wyatt, an architect who favored the gothic style. It looked for all the world like a huge sprawling castle with its multitude of towers and battlements in mellow Portland stone.

To Frederica’s bewildered eyes, the park seemed as large as a whole country. She had never felt so small or insignificant in all her life.