The Accidental Duchess (3 page)

With Mr. Trilby appeased for the time being, she aimed for the door, to find Penthurst and his aunt.

 • • • 

A
mbury’s house lay no more than five blocks from Mrs. Burton’s. They were, Penthurst decided, the longest five blocks he had ever ridden in his life.

To say his aunt was displeased by Lydia’s company would be generous. If given the opportunity, she would have refused to allow it. He therefore presented Lydia as a fait accompli. Now his aunt sat beside Lydia, face pinched and eyes flashing cruel lights while she took stock of her young companion with critical sidelong glances.

“It is a dinner party, you said when you collected me. Is that so, Lydia? Are we taking you to a dinner party? It is quite late for that.”

Lydia remained motionless and expressionless, her dark eyes opaque with indifference. Her face displayed no reaction to the continued examination. She might have lost the ability to hear, she sat so impassively.

“Will this dinner party not think it odd if you arrive late, wearing that silk? It is far too elaborate, and not suitable for much other than a ball.”

“I am sure they will think it odd,” Lydia roused herself to say. “It might be better if I return home instead. Perhaps, Penthurst, you would direct the coachman to go to the other side of Berkeley Square so I can do that, rather than bringing me to Ambury’s side.”

“I fear Lady Ambury would never forgive me, or you, if I helped you jilt her,” he said.

“Lady Ambury?” Self-satisfied comprehension settled on his aunt’s expression. “Ah. Of course.”

That brought the sphinx to life. Lydia turned her head and caught the disapproving glance aimed her way. “Of course
what
,
Lady Rosalyn?”

His aunt sniffed and raised her chin. “Nothing, nothing.”

“I entreat you to tell me. You are fair to bursting with the desire to do so, it appears.”

No glance this time, but a direct, astonished stare. Her deep-set eyes went deeper yet beneath a furrowed brow.

He knew that look. “Aunt Rosalyn—”

“Please do not interfere. The girl demanded that I burst forth, so I shall.” She turned her whole body in order to meet Lydia’s challenge head on. “Your friendship with Ambury’s wife does you no credit. Your brother forbade it once, and his friend’s amorous adventures should not have dissuaded him from that sound judgment. Since they did, and you are now friends with her again,
of course
you are going to dress in thin silk and visit a gaming hall alone. Her influence on you would have distressed your mother to no end, and I would be remiss in my duty to her memory if I did not say so.” The flourishing gesture with which she ended her speech managed to encompass not only Lydia’s dress, but her entire character.

He felt for his handkerchief, ready to comfort Lydia when she began weeping. He gave his aunt a hard look of disapproval. Her ability to reduce women to tears was infamous. This was hardly the time or place, and Lydia was not her ward.

Lydia did not weep. She did not even show anger, except for the way her eyes flashed. “You do not approve of Cassandra, I can see. Or of me, I deduce. You would have preferred if we both lived ordinary lives, rather than embrace a more worldly independence. You are correct that she influenced me, but all to the good. I rather wish she had not married Ambury and become domesticated so I would have her company as I go to the devil.”

His aunt’s mouth gaped.

“Selfish, willful girl,” she sputtered, patting her chest as if her heart palpitated. “Your mother was my dearest friend, and this is not worthy of her daughter. Go to the devil, indeed! Amelia confided her concerns, but clearly was too timid to admit the worst of them.”

“My aunt Amelia barely knows me. We have had little time together for almost two years. When my brother requires a gaoler for me now, it is Aunt Hortense.”

“Hortense! As if she is of much use! She is formidable in manner but empty of resolve and judgment. She is so certain she is shrewd, but she would not even notice if a merchant shortchanged her. I am sure you lead her on a fine dance on those occasions when she chaperones you. Did you ask for Hortense so you could run wild right under her nose?”

“Now you insult my aunt. Are you finished, or are there others on your list?”

He looked out the window. Another block to go. There might be fisticuffs by then. “Ladies, I believe it would be best to end this conversation before you both need salts.”

His aunt turned her fury on him. He met it with a steady gaze. She swallowed whatever she intended to say.

Lydia did not. “I think it was very unkind of you to drag my mother into this at all, let alone use her as an excuse to upbraid me. You can have no duty to her that includes insulting me.”

His aunt fairly rose out of her seat. “Can I not, you bold, bold girl? She and I were of one mind where you were concerned and in everything else. It grieves me that I am actually relieved I was spared my duty by my nephew’s stubbornness. At least when you go to the devil, you will not drag down my family too!”

With an outraged huff of finality, his aunt faced forward and dismissed Lydia’s existence. Lydia angled her head quizzically.

He realized that she had never been told of that old pact between her mother and his aunt. He had never wondered whether she knew or not, but it made sense that she remained ignorant. She had been five years old when he disavowed it.

The coach finally stopped. More than glad for a bit of fresh air, he stepped out and offered his hand to Lydia. Inside his aunt remained an imperious statue of stone staring straight ahead.

Lydia looked across the square to her brother’s house. “It would be less embarrassing to just go home.”

“No one will mind, surely.”

Their arrival flustered the footman who opened the door. He looked over his shoulder toward the sounds in the dining room, confused. He excused himself and ran off.

“I told you I should have gone home,” Lydia said. “I am causing a scene coming this late.”

The footman returned with Lady Ambury. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, and too voluptuous for her own good, the former Cassandra Vernham greeted Lydia with delight. “I insisted on coming out, so you would know you are still welcomed.” She gave Lydia a kiss, then turned those blue eyes on him. “I see you had a prior rendezvous, Lydia. How good of the duke to share you with us, and deliver you before the first course finished.”

“Not a rendezvous,” Lydia said, her color rising. “I— That is, he—”

“No need to explain to me, darling. At least not until after dinner. Would you like to join us, Penthurst? You can balance the table.”

“Regrettably, another lady awaits.” He took his leave of them, and returned to that lady, steeling himself for the ride back to Grosvenor Square.

Halfway there, Lady Ambury’s last words penetrated the endless stream of indignation spewing from his aunt.
You can balance the table
. That meant Lydia had unbalanced it, which meant she was not expected after all. She had not forgotten the date. She had begged off, in order to go to Mrs. Burton’s.

To gamble? Or to have an assignation with Algernon Trilby? Not the latter, he hoped. If she wanted to go to the devil, she could find a better devil than that.

“W
hy are we walking so fast?” Sarah hurried to keep up with Lydia’s purposeful strides.

“For the exercise. A bit of flush is healthy, Sarah. We are too indolent in our habits.”

They were also in danger of being late for her rendezvous with Mr. Trilby. After due consideration, she had concluded it would be unwise to make any reference to her novel in writing, and therefore had only requested he meet her this morning in the park for further discussion.

“If you needed to work up a flush, we could have walked around the square three times,” Sarah grumbled. “You said we were going to enjoy the early morning air, not conduct a foot race along the Serpentine.”

“Here I arrange for you to get out and enjoy a fair day, and all you do is complain. Next time I will leave you at home.”

“So I can be scolded by your aunt Hortense? No thank you, milady. She burned my ears for a good half hour when she learned you went to the bookstore alone two days ago.”

Reference to burning ears reminded her of the argument with Penthurst’s aunt in the carriage two nights ago. There would be a scold coming about that, she was sure. It would arrive after circulating through the family until someone was designated the agent to apply some corrective persuasion.

Who would it be? Not her brother. He had to be highly provoked to address her on her behavior. Aunt Hortense? Her lessons had not stuck well in the past, so consensus might turn elsewhere. Emma? Her brother’s wife would not scold as such.

At least Emma recognized that she was not a child, unlike the others. However, Emma’s very forthright manner of speaking might be more discomforting than a scold. One can ignore scolds, while it could be difficult to dodge Emma’s direct gaze and questions.

No one would blame Penthurst’s aunt, of course. She was a bulwark of society, and the whole world deferred to her. No one would believe she had attacked someone’s character, her upbringing, her behavior, and her virtue, all in the space of six or seven sentences. Those who did believe it might well assume it had been deserved.

She strode on, feeling aggrieved. The situation with her family reminded her of this new one with Mr. Trilby. People assumed the worst of her, when she had never even had the opportunity to be bad! Somehow she had become the problem sister of Southwaite, simply because she avoided marriage and wanted a bit of—something different. Anything less predictable. A touch of adventure every now and then. A reason for excitement. Was she so wicked for desiring some experiences out of the ordinary ones decreed for a woman of her birth?

Her gaze scanned the park as she led Sarah deeper. A citizen’s militia drilled as they did almost every day. Some gentlemen rode their horses in the distance, taking advantage of the early hour and dearth of visitors to get in some hard riding.

Ahead, behind the militia, she spied Mr. Trilby pacing back and forth, hands grasped behind his back. It did not appear he would have the sense to walk her way, so they could meet as if by accident.

As she guided Sarah around the militia, one of the citizen soldiers noticed Sarah and gave her a winning smile. Sarah pretended not to see him, but she blushed.

Lydia walked on another fifty yards so they were a respectable distance away. “Why don’t we catch our breath here? We can watch the drills. Do you mind, Sarah?”

Sarah shrugged, but watched the drills closely. Especially the movements of a certain tall, sandy-haired young man with nice blue eyes. Every time he turned to face them, he flashed that smile again. Sarah got redder and redder.

Trilby took the hint, and walked in their direction. Before he got too close, Lydia waved, and eased away from Sarah. Standing beside Mr. Trilby, she continued watching the militia.

“Did you bring the money?” he asked.

“Do you think me a goose? How would I bring it here? In my reticule?” She held up the small, drawstring pouch.

“I thought a bank draft—”

“I cannot do that, even on my portion, without my brother learning of it. You have clearly never lived as a woman, Mr. Trilby, and know nothing of our limitations.”

“I should hope not.”

“You should indeed hope not. I did not ask to see you in order to hand over ten thousand, it should go without saying. I would have demanded that you bring the manuscript then, would I not? I asked to meet you so we could discuss this further.”

Trilby threw up his hands, walked away a few paces, then turned in exasperation and strode back. “There is nothing to discuss. The journal cost me—”

“Novel. It is not a journal.”

“The
novel
cost me ten thousand. I must see that much out of it. Within the week, Lady Lydia. I am strained by this purchase on your behalf, and cannot wait beyond that.”

Her mind raced, trying to calculate how much she could raise in a week. Not ten thousand, that was certain. Not if she pawned every jewel and sold every silk. “It is not possible in a week.”

“Make it possible. Tell your brother a story he will swallow. Borrow from friends. You live a privileged life and should be able to put your hands on that amount with ease if you only give it some thought.”

Mr. Trilby was displaying more confidence and spine than he had on Mrs. Burton’s terrace. She wished Penthurst had not interfered there. She might have negotiated less money, or more time, if this man had not had two days to fortify his courage and practice his lines.

He raised his chin in the direction of the militia. “Such as them would not look kindly on your keeping watch on the fleet, no matter who your brother might be. They would take even less well to the descriptions of their kind on the coast. Oh, yes, I read that too, while I awaited word from you. Could be you might have to flee to France whether you were spying or not if those pages become common knowledge.”

She did not need this man to describe the mood abroad in the country, and the misinterpretations that might arise from it. At the dinner at Cassandra’s house, the men had talked a lot about the war, as everyone did. Her own brother, as best she could determine, was involved in an unofficial system of watchers on the eastern coast, in the hopes of keeping agents from infiltrating.

Even if she did survive the worst Trilby threatened, there would be enough whispering to taint everyone—her brother, her aunts, Emma. And that was before anyone read those other chapters, the ones that would be considered shockingly descriptive of the arts of Venus.

What had she been thinking?

That no one would ever see any of it, of course. Yet Mr. Trilby had. Only him?

“The manuscript was stolen. If not by you, how did you get it?”

“I cannot say.”

“I want to know how many have seen it. Unless you are the thief, it came to you from another. How many hands passed it before it arrived in your own?”

“Better you should be thinking about how to have it now passed to your hands, it seems to me.”

“If half of London has already paged through it, why would I pay to keep it private? Put yourself in my place and you will understand why I need to know.”

“Not many hands passed it. You do not need to worry about the discretion of those who had it before me, either. I promise you that.”

The promise of a blackmailer should not reassure her, but she hoped it was the truth. She wanted it to be. And truth or lie, she remained in the same predicament.

“A week, Lady Lydia. I require a message from you before the end of seven days, informing me of where you will reimburse me. I remain at my cousin’s house at least until then.” He walked away on those words.

Lydia strolled back to Sarah, whose gaze had never left that young man. “Have you caught your breath, or lost it entirely, Sarah?”

“He is a fine looking fellow, isn’t he? Tall and strong and quite handsome.”

“He has a very nice smile. What is his name?”

“How would I know?”

Lydia laughed. “Are you saying you have spent the last quarter hour flirting with a complete stranger? Really, Sarah! I am shocked.”

“I didn’t mean to. I sort of lost awareness of where I was.”

“Aunt Hortense will be horrified,” Lydia teased. “She will insist we put you on bread and water for at least three days.”

Sarah puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes. “Only if she hears of it. I doubt you will be telling her. If I am quizzed on my behavior, I might find myself explaining how you spent that quarter hour while I was so negligently distracted.”

Another blackmailer. Sarah could be forgiven for playing that ace, however. Too many people put demands on her, most of which, if she obeyed, would require her to betray Lydia’s trust and privacy. She did not envy Sarah and the way she had to juggle so many mistresses.

She hooked her arm through Sarah’s, so they walked the way they often did when girls. “You will probably want us to walk in the park every morning now.”

“I do not think the same company musters here every morning. They take turns, I believe.” She glanced over her shoulder for one more look. “There’s probably a list somewhere of which citizens’ militia uses the park each day. The sort of list that someone like an earl might be able to see.”

“I will put it to my brother, but I will have to explain why. Otherwise he may conclude that I lost my breath this morning, not you.”

“Which you did not do, since you mention it. If anything, you looked vexed. I hope you will forgive me for saying, but between my strapping soldier and your pale, thin gentleman, I think I had the better morning walk.”

 • • • 

V
iscount Ambury reined in his horse alongside Penthurst’s when they crested a low rise at the back of the park. Their mounts showed sweat from the hard gallop, and stepped high with excitement.

They proceeded at a more leisurely pace, inserting themselves into the riders and walkers who also sought some morning refreshment. Few did, which was a pity, and even those who had ventured out now streamed toward the gates as dark clouds moved in, heralding rain.

They stayed to the side of the carriage path when they reached it. A few rolled past. One caught Penthurst’s eye. The man inside looked like that Trilby fellow. A woman faced him. He only glimpsed her, but saw enough to know it was not Lady Lydia.

“How did your dinner party proceed, Ambury? With good cheer, I trust.”

“It was deemed a success, despite the unexpected arrival of Lydia.”

“That sounds more unkind that you intended, I hope.”

“Damn, so it does. She had sent late regrets, is what I meant, so her attendance was peculiar. Since it was mostly family and close friends, that was not too awkward. And it resolved the pressing question neatly and quickly, and exactly as I expected it to.”

“What question was that?”

“Whether Lydia would favor a certain gentleman. Cassandra is playing matchmaker.”

“I suppose someone has to.”

“My wife’s sentiment exactly. Since Southwaite lacks subtlety on such matters, and his two aunts’ tastes are hardly those of a young woman’s, Cassandra has turned her own attention to the duty. As a result, the only person at that table who was not family or close friend was a man invited for Lydia’s better acquaintance.”

Which man? He almost asked. Cassandra had ended up with Ambury, who had loved and left many before her, so her own tastes might not be appropriate either. Not that it was any of his business, of course.

“Then, after all of Cassandra’s arrangements, Lydia begged off at the last minute. Said gentleman—a Scot of good blood and vast wealth of the MacKinnon family—came expecting to impress the sister of an earl, and ended up sitting next to Cassandra’s dotty aunt Sophie. So while also awkward, Lydia’s late change of heart was a relief for Cassandra.”

“And a fine dinner was had by all. Did he impress her?”

Ambury laughed. “You know Lydia. Making her better acquaintance these days is like dragging a cart through mud. She was polite. She favored him with three smiles, I believe. Yet I fear the poor fellow thought he was talking to someone half dead. I do not understand her. No one does. She was such an imp as a girl. Now, the ladies say they see life in her all the time, in private. The rest of us, however . . . As for that poor dinner partner, it must have been a very long meal for him.”

She
had
been an imp as a girl. Animated, loud, and often naughty. Very different from the Lydia she showed the world now. Unless she was gambling. Otherwise she hid behind that aloof mask and cloaked herself in a hard shell. He wondered why.

“Did you mind that you were not invited?”

Ambury’s question startled him out of his thoughts. “Why would I mind?”

“We were all there otherwise. I just thought you—”

“Since you were all there otherwise, that means Kendale was too. While you and Southwaite have forgiven me in your own ways, he has not.”

An awkwardness descended, such as always did when any of them broached the subject at hand even obliquely. The truth was that a year ago he and Ambury would not have been riding together, let alone discussing social niceties. They had all been friends for many years—he, Ambury, Southwaite, Viscount Kendale, and Baron Lakewood. But everything had changed the day that Lakewood died—at Penthurst’s hands.

“There was much about that day that surprised me,” he said to Ambury. “The matter that brought Lakewood and me to that field was not worth being killed over.”

“I am relieved you speak of it, finally,” Ambury said. “I know more than you think.” His remarkable blue eyes, usually filled with sparks of humor, now flashed colder lights.

“Have you been investigating?” Ambury had a talent for such things. He had even conducted investigations for pay, very discreetly, when his father, the Earl of Highburton, had severely restricted his income.

“I have resisted the temptation. However, let me say that I now understand what you meant when you once told me Lakewood was not what he seemed. He could be opportunistic, and even dishonorable, I am sorry to have learned.”

A few drops of rain fell now. They did not spur their horses, however. This topic, finally opened, begged for more airing.