The Accidental Duchess (16 page)

Lydia’s own chambers in comparison had not been decorated since the reign of Queen Anne, from the looks of them. Since they lay beside the duke’s dressing room, she assumed no one had made use of them since the last duchess passed away.

They finished with the cousins. Lydia prayed there would be no more cases or portraits or heirlooms.

“Let us sit a while in the library, Lydia. I would speak with you about your duties.”

The tone of voice reminded her of her old governess, who preferred firm persuasion to scolding. It was the voice of a woman who could afford to be generous, because she knew she held the power.

In the library, Rosalyn sat in a straight-back chair. Lydia chose the divan. She tucked her feet up beside her on the cushion. Rosalyn’s eyebrows rose a fraction. Lydia pretended she did not notice.

“For the last twenty years, since the passing of the duchess, I have supervised the household. That is now your duty. I will have the ledgers and books brought to you. Mrs. Hill can be relied upon if you keep her as housekeeper. She is honest, at least, and fairly diligent.”

“Then there is no reason to make any changes.”

“I am not so sure. She has expressed some concerns to me about the changes you have already imposed. In particular, regarding the woman you brought with you.”

“Sarah.”

“She is not really suitable to be your lady’s maid now. For a young girl, perhaps. But for a duchess—” She tsked her tongue, then shook her head in dismay.

Lydia did not mind too much walking for miles through this house while inspecting every piece of silverwork and receiving a full history of its makers and marks. She had tolerated the verbal delineation of the family tree, standing in that gallery until her feet hurt. She had acted demure and grateful for all of the help being given by the duke’s aunt, help she never wanted and even found insulting. She would not, however, keep silent while this woman and the housekeeper plotted to deny her Sarah, the only friend she had in this strange place.

She sat up as straight as she could. She smiled as sweetly as possible. “Rosalyn—you do not mind my addressing you informally by your given name, do you? Your use of mine suggested not, and we are family now—I want to make something very clear. Sarah will not be leaving. She is suitable because I choose to have her serve me, and my preference is all that matters. Please explain this to Mrs. Hill so there is no misunderstanding that causes unpleasantness. She is to ensure that Sarah feels welcomed, and is treated well and kindly too. The duke promised me this on our wedding day, you see. I am sure neither Mrs. Hill nor you would want to involve him in household affairs, but I will not be gainsaid on this matter.”

Lids lowered halfway over Rosalyn’s eyes. A bit of color tinted her white cheeks. She eyed Lydia carefully, like an animal judging its prey’s weaknesses before attacking.

“Of course, if she is your preference, there is nothing to discuss,” she said with a little laugh. “We only sought to help you receive the service that would spare you much time and worry in your new place.”

“That was kind of you.”

They sat watching each other. Lydia wondered if Rosalyn would pounce, or bide her time.

“Do you mind that he left tonight?” Rosalyn asked. “After all, you are so recently wed and just arrived in this house.”

“I do not mind. He will go his own way most evenings, I expect.”
And I will go mine
.

“It isn’t a woman, if you were wondering about that.”

An unexpected lightness entered her on hearing that. She had been wondering, and minding, a little. Stupid of her to bother herself with such concerns. What did she care about that? And yet, the little glow of contentment said she had cared, a little.

“He has gone to his clubs, to face them down,” Rosalyn explained. “To silence the talk about this elopement, and the rumors out of Buxton about your rendezvous there, and that magician’s interference, and the challenge. He is doing this for you, of course. His own position is unassailable.”

“Surely no one will speak of it to him.”

“There is no surely to it. Too much drink and some fool may. Let us pray not, however. Should something be said, let us hope others end it before he must. That he might find himself in a duel over such—” She closed her lips into a firm, resolute line and looked away.

Over such as you
. That was what Rosalyn almost said. Over the bold girl who had announced mere weeks ago she intended to go to the devil.

“He will not duel,” she said, to try to relieve his aunt of her worry. “He knows I do not like it.”

Rosalyn’s mouth opened in astonishment. Then she laughed. “Do you think you have such influence over him that he cares what you like or do not like? Oh, dear. You are still such a child, and that alone tells me your power is too small to make a difference. He may have done the right thing by you, for whatever reason he felt he must, but he cannot be enthralled enough to ignore a matter of honor for you.”

“You really do not know what he thinks of me, Rosalyn, or what he might do at my request.”

“I know this. My nephew has never had any interest at all in young innocents. None at all. I suspect he has even less in innocents of more advanced years, such as yourself.”

“And yet, he married one.”

“Indeed. One wonders why. Let us hope no one else wonders as I do, and looks too closely at the story of this elopement.” She stood. “Come now. I will show you your coronet, and explain the ceremony by which you will be received as his duchess at court.”

 • • • 

“S
o?”

The slow, low question came just as Penthurst lifted a wineglass to his mouth at Brooks’s. It slid to him from Kendale, who sat to his right. Ambury heard too, and his gaze brightened expectantly.

He drank the wine. “So?” he responded.

“He is waiting for you to reveal the story of your marriage,” Ambury said. “As am I. Since Southwaite is not here, you do not have to worry about his reaction. In the event there is something in the tale that he might react to badly, that is.”

“I have told you the story. I trust everyone has heard it by now.”

“Not that story,” Kendale said. “The true story. The one not prettied up for the matrons and bishops.”

“You might as well tell us,” Ambury said. “Cassandra is bound to get it out of Lydia eventually. Both she and Emma are very skeptical about what they have heard.”

“As are some others,” Kendale said. “It does not make sense. Oh, B follows A and C follows B just fine. But there is much that is missing or odd.”

Just his luck. Ambury, the investigator, and Kendale, the man who saw only blacks and whites, had mulled over the plot and found it lacking. That meant others had too.

“What is missing?”

“Any indication that she noticed you were alive before a month ago,” Kendale said. “Evidence that in the last month she enjoyed your company rather than suffered it.”

“You are being overly blunt again, Kendale,” Ambury scolded. “What have I told you about that? A little finesse is in order.”

“Hell, you are the one who said she looked like riding back in the rain with him was a fate worse than death.”

“I did not put it quite that way. I said I would have suspected they went there to meet each other, except that she did not appear happy to have to ride back with him. Perhaps that was not because she did not favor him. Maybe she was afraid someone would start suspecting their secret tendre if she was seen like that.” Ambury sighed. “You keep missing the nuances.”

“Well, you just touched on another thing to make one skeptical. If there was a tendre, why would it be a secret?” Kendale asked. “Not because Southwaite would not approve. Not because Penthurst has a wife who might complain. Not because she is of low birth and his friends would object. Why would there need to be a secret rendezvous in Buxton, for that matter?”

Penthurst kept his silence and let them make the arguments being made, no doubt, at dinner tables all over town this week.

“I’ll not be saying what is missing from this story, but there’s those who think they know what it is,” Kendale concluded.

Ambury gave Kendale a scowl, then smiled broadly. “More wine, I think.” He hailed one of the club’s servants.

“What do some think is missing?” Penthurst asked.

Ambury waved the question, and Kendale, away as so much bad air. “He is just being Kendale. You know how he is.”

“I do indeed. Regrettably, among his worse qualities there dwell a few superb ones, such as a talent for analysis and incisive deduction. So, Kendale, what is missing?”

“Do. Not. Answer. That,” Ambury ordered, firmly.

“He is right,” Kendale said. “We can’t have you dueling with another one of us. You might end up the one dead this time, and the realm needs its dukes more than its viscounts.”

The reference hung there like the dangling sword it was. How like Kendale the Implacable to bring it up casually, as if it did not threaten to slice at all of them, including him.

“I will issue no challenges. I should know what is abroad, however, so I can counter it as best I can.”

Ambury appeared skeptical. Kendale just drank his wine.

“What is missing, but some think is implied,” Ambury began. “Not by us, of course, and I am sure it has not entered Southwaite’s head at all— What is missing is a seduction.”

“A ruthless seduction,” Kendale elaborated.

“Here in London, with a later secret rendezvous in Buxton, but not for an elopement,” Ambury said.

“Of a somewhat addled woman who some think has not been right in the head for years now,” Kendale threw in.

“In this thinking, which I repeat none of us believe for a minute—isn’t that right, Kendale?—in this thinking, the sudden appearance of Trilby forced your hand. With the Buxton assignation exposed, you had no choice but to marry her fast.”

Hell and damnation. He had saved her from ruin, and now he was being painted a scoundrel.

“Who is saying this? Who? I insist you tell me the blackguards’ names.”

Ambury grimaced. “Ah. Well, see, I can’t do that. And I will thrash Kendale if he tries to. If you learn any names, you are going to confront them, and there will be the devil to pay. Then Southwaite will hear it all, and maybe start wondering, and that will be the end of a lot of friendships.”

“I thought you should be told, since it involves your honor,” Kendale confided. “I was just saying so before you arrived. Ambury convinced me we don’t need more duels, however, and I would not want this to get back to your wife and it would if you started killing men over it.”

He was not convinced these two did not believe the scurrilous explanation conjured up by malicious minds. They both agreed his own plot did not entirely hold up to close scrutiny, after all.

He looked at them. Honorable men, both. Old friends, for all that had happened and despite Kendale’s lack of total forgiveness.

“I will tell you two the true story, and rely on your discretion.”

Surprised, both leaned toward him, curious.

“There was no seduction, but also no tendre. Lydia did not go to Buxton to meet me. I followed her there, because I suspected she was up to some reckless scheme, such as she has been known to engage in. No sooner had I arrived than I saw Trilby’s attempted abduction. I interfered, issued a challenge in my anger, and brought attention to Lydia’s presence in that town, and mine, and Trilby’s. Rumors were bound to fly, most of them about her, so—”

“You married her to spare her,” Ambury finished.

“Damned decent of you,” Kendale muttered. “What was she doing there?”

“She will not say, except to insist she did nothing wrong. I think she went there to gamble, but do not know for certain.”

Kendale rolled his eyes. “Make her tell you. Hell, the actual true story may be the easiest to explain.”

“Don’t be brutish. He can hardly beat it out of her,” Ambury said.

“Who spoke of beating? He is her husband. Just demand she tell you.”

“You speak as if such demands always result in compliance. That is newlywed bliss speaking. Trust me, Kendale, within a year you can demand all you want, and if your wife wants to keep a secret, she will do so.”

“Speak for yourself. Marielle and I have no secrets. At least not anymore.”

Exasperated, Ambury threw up his hands and turned his attention away from Kendale. “Your actual, true story is safe with us. He is correct, however. If you can be sure her reason for going to Buxton will not reflect on her even worse, letting it be known may be the wisest course.”

He did not relish the notion of trying to pry that information out of Lydia, but he knew he would have to try. In the meantime—

“You can tell whomever you choose the following. If I learn any man has said I seduced Lydia, let alone with dishonorable intentions, I will call him out. If I hear any woman has spread such a rumor, I will see she is not received in any house worth visiting. We fell in love and eloped because we thought it would be romantic. It is not a very dramatic story, and perhaps too simple for minds looking for intrigue, but there it is.”

Kendale left soon after, and he and Ambury joined others at a card table. An hour later Ambury also took his leave.

Penthurst walked out alongside him. “Before you go, take a turn with me outside.”

Ambury followed him out of the club. They strolled along the street, shrouded by the mist.

“I have decided to accept your offer to do some investigating for me,” he said.

“Do you want me to find out what Lydia was doing at Buxton?”

“It isn’t that.” Not yet, at least. “It has to do with Lakewood. I need you to find a man for me. His name is Michael Greenly. I believe he is of a gentry family in Yorkshire. He was in the Life Guards for a few years, but is no longer.”

“That last bit should help. Why would he give up a plum commission such as that?”

“It was discovered that he bought the favor that had recommended him for it. His choices were selling out, or scandal and possibly a trial.”

Ambury paced along a good hundred feet before asking the inevitable question. “Are you saying he paid Lakewood for that favor? That Lakewood was selling commissions?” His tone carried censure. Influence came into play all the time in such things, but should not be sold.