The Duke's Undoing (Three Rogues and Their Ladies) (22 page)

“You fabricated the entire story! I don’t believe you!”

From his pocket he extracted a carefully cut piece of newsprint. “Read that!” Throwing it on the table, he strode out of the dining room. She stood staring at the cutting as though it were a cobra poised to strike. Turning her head to one side, she stuck out a blind hand, found the piece of newsprint, and crumpled it without reading it. Had she not learned just yesterday how unreliable the newspapers were? Flinging the wad of paper in the grate, she sat down, head in her hands.

Little by little, she took Gregory’s revelation apart and examined it. Was the tale about cheating at Oxford true? Was that where the rumors that Ruisdell was the worst rogue in England had begun? No, it could not be so. Gregory was the one without honor. She would stake her life that it was Gregory who had substituted the marked cards and framed the duke as a cheat.

If one took that as a fact, one could easily understand the duke’s animus. She could actually relive the moment in her mind when Ruisdell had insulted Gregory by telling him, in essence, that he was too small and weak to take on her defense against Robert. A well-placed barb, to be sure. She had been surprised at his championship but had later put it down to his friendship with Joshua. Had she been wrong?

Remembering her encounters with the jealous Lady Marianne, she wondered suddenly how she ever could have thought the duke enamored of her when he had spurned such a magnificent woman. If Elise had thought at all, she had thought Ruisdell loved her enough to marry her. What folly! If he would not marry the daughter of a duke, a diamond of the first water, why would he marry ordinary Elise Edwards? What had she been thinking? When had her conviction that he was nothing but a gambler, womanizer, and all-over hedonist begun to falter?

When he talked about the war. When he talked about his friendship with Joshua. In other words, when I connected with him emotionally. Is he nothing more than a master seducer? Probing and probing until he found my weakness?

Reaching into the grate, she pulled out the scrap of newsprint and smoothed it on the table.

The marquis of S— bets 5,000 guineas with Duke of R— that seducing Miss E— will cure the duke’s well-known ennui. Shall Miss E—’s charms succeed where Lady M—’s have failed?

Elise winced as though she had been struck. Her body, formerly reveling in the joy that the duke was alive, now contracted all over. Her eyes filled with hot tears of humiliation. She could not even stand. A sentimental, green girl! That’s what she was! Not only had he fooled her completely but he had used Joshua to do it. Nothing was sacred to that devil. Nothing.

Dashing upstairs to her bedroom, she grabbed hold of the manuscript that lay on her desk and began tearing it across, sheet by sheet. She would rewrite it. And this time, it would be a cautionary tale for all unwary, silly virgins like herself.

She sat to the task immediately. She would not return to London until she had completed it and sent it to her publisher.

How and when does a gentleman of high birth commence to become a rogue? Perhaps there is no better breeding ground than the University of the Privileged—Oxford. Perhaps it is there that he learns the fine art of cheating at cards, beginning by taking in his friends who think he is a jolly good fellow. Surely this deceit prepares him for anything! To take in those who trust you—that is at the very center of a rogue’s heart
.

IN WHICH THE DUKE TRACKS DOWN HIS BELOVED

Ruisdell had kept his ear to the ground for notice that Viscount Chessingden had returned to Town. One morning in late August, when he should have been, according to his normal routine, in Brighton, the marquis (who had also stayed in Town) paid him a visit just as he was preparing to leave for Tattersall’s. He had in mind to buy a fine mare to breed with Jupiter when he went up to Derbyshire.

George entered his dressing room, eyes alight with familiar mischief. “Chessingden’s back,” he announced. “Had it from Chatfield at White’s last night. Viscount dined with him. Rotten humor.”

“Ah!” the duke said. “Sounds like he came back with his tail between his legs. I knew that woman had sense.”

As Richards put the finishing touches to his cravat, Ruisdell instructed his valet, “Go to the mews and find Harris. Ask him to insinuate himself into a friendship with Chessingden’s coachman.” Handing his valet a pile of shillings, he continued, “Drinks are on me. Object of the exercise is to find out where the devil Chessingden has been. In as much detail as possible. Suggest to Harris that once he finds out the general neighborhood, he pose as a relative of someone who lives thereabouts, and then get the best directions he can manage.”

“Right you are, Your Grace. ’Twill be a pleasure.”

With that operation in hand, the duke decided to put off his visit to Tatt’s. “I’m dashed if I’m not in the mood to go a round with the Gentleman.”

“Your shoulder!” the marquis protested.

“Time I was getting my form back. Coming?”

After a punishing round with Gentleman Jackson, the duke threw several buckets of water over his head and body to wash away his sweat. “Want to see Elise Edward’s little operation in the East End?” he asked George.

The marquis nodded his consent as he watched the duke dry himself off.

Today they found Lady Susannah, and two other women the duke did not recognize. To his surprise, Chessingden was there in the role as protector. He greeted the duke and marquis with a false smile that did not reach his hooded eyes.

“Well met,” he said, shaking hands. “I do not believe you know Miss Elphinstone. She is a particular friend of Miss Archer's who is filling in for her. Undoubtedly you know Lady Harriet who is taking Miss Edwards' s place while she is out of town.”

Ruisdell and Somerset introduced themselves to Miss Elphinstone, a short woman with sandy hair and lashes and a pair of speaking green eyes. Obviously overwhelmed by the presentation, she gave a deep curtsey, and ignoring the soldier who stood before her with his bowl, she offered them soup. “It’s a fine lamb stew today,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Elphinstone, but I think this soldier was here before us. Perhaps you had better serve him.” The woman blushed so unbecomingly it was painful to Ruisdell. Giving her a reassuring smile, he bowed to Lady Harriet and walked down the waiting queue, shaking hands with those soldiers who still had them, inquiring as he had before about their service.

This simple act brought him much satisfaction, as well as making him feel bound in some important way to Elise. Most young women were not allowed by their parents even to discuss the war and certainly not the government’s failure to provide for these unfortunate men. But his Elise had not only possessed herself of the facts but had done something concrete to help.

As he was leaving with Somerset, he thought it natural to ask Chessingden, “Have you any idea when Miss Edwards will return?”

Chessingden looked at him with eyes hard and bright with some kind of satisfaction. His smile twisted as though he tasted something bitter. “I would not be surprised if Miss Edwards never returned to London.”

Years of practice hiding his emotions came to the duke’s rescue. He gave an easy smile. “Well, Miss Elphinstone, it looks as though you have a new job. It’s a worthy cause. Continue your excellent work.” He tipped his top hat to them all. “Miss Archer, Lady Susannah, Lady Harriet, wonderful to see you, as always.”

It wasn’t until he got into a hackney with George that he said, “What would you like to bet that weasel of a viscount said something poisonous about me to upset Elise, because she wouldn’t have him?”

“No takers. Must have been a corker. Never saw anyone so distraught as Miss Edwards when you were knifed. Wanted to stay and nurse you. Aunt wouldn’t let her.”

“Maybe she still thinks I’m dead,” the duke said, his voice grim. At that instant, there wasn’t another man in the world that he hated like he did the viscount. “I’ve got to find her, Somerset.”

He spent the afternoon at White’s, too distracted for cards. Instead, he managed only a fair game of billiards. Returning home to change for a solitary dinner, he went by way of the mews first. Harris popped his head up from the loose box where he was currying one of the duke’s bays.

“I did whatcher wanted, yer grace. I found where the viscount went.”

“Good man, Harris.”

“Yorkshire. Near little village called Whitcombe. Grand manor. Middle of a forest.”

He very nearly threw his hat into the air. His heart sped like a racehorse. “Harris! Tomorrow we leave for Whitcombe. Have my traveling carriage ready. I’m not certain how long we’ll be gone.”

“Will take about three days to get to Yorkshire by carriage.”

“Right you are.”

During his journey, the duke had far too much time to think. Silent though his friend was, he wished the nature of his errand had allowed him to bring Somerset. He found himself lost in memories of Elise—the way her grace had bewitched him the first time he had seen her serving soup at the canteen, her hair in a knot, her dress with its chemisette making her look like a schoolmistress. A very appealing schoolmistress. Then the day he had come upon her in the park and the strange bond he felt, not knowing she was reading a letter from him to her about Beynon’s death. After that, there had been the opera, when she had looked not only lovely with the pink rosebuds in her hair but sweet as well, arousing all his protective instincts . . . He continued his review of all the occasions they had spent together, performing it like some kind of catechism once a day. Always ending in the last time. After the knife struck. Had she really said, “My love, my darling,” or was that just a memory of something he dreamed of during his fever?

They reached the village on the evening of the third day. There he, Harris, and Richards found a small but adequate inn, the Black Ox. It was crooked with age, constructed of local gray stone but scrubbed clean inside. Richards always insisted that the duke travel with his own sheets and pillow, so they had no problem with damp bed sheets.

The supper of a game pie, local ale, and an apple turnover was adequate, if not grand, and after standing Richards several games of darts, he retired to bed in a hopeful mood. He dreamed steamy dreams of Elise and rose anxious to see her at last.

Following the innkeeper’s directions, he arrived at The Larches, Lady Clarice’s property, and was surprised by the loveliness of its classical architecture and its stunning setting. As he gazed at the heavy, dark green wood, he saw a path that led him to hope he and Elise would have many walks together. Yorkshire was known for the beauty of its wild landscape, and he imagined that the wood contained a gem or two in the form of a pool or waterfall.

Leaving his servants with the carriage, he rapped on the door sharply with the brass knocker. A short, wizened man opened the door, looking him up and down suspiciously. The duke offered his calling card. “I’ve come from London to call on Miss Elise Edwards.”

The man took the card, but said nothing. Opening the door wider, he admitted the duke and showed him into a downstairs sitting room. There Ruisdell removed his top hat and stood nervously turning the brim in his hands. The room had Lady Clarice’s touch. Like the gentleman’s sitting room in London, it was hung with pictures of naval battles, but the walls here were gray. The furniture was solid Sheraton with navy blue upholstery.

At first, while he peered at the seascapes, trying to identify the artists, he kept himself occupied. But then it began to seem to him that he had been waiting a long time. He became uneasy. What did it signify? Shouldn’t she be anxious to see him?

Finally, the door opened, but instead of Elise, the wizened man came forth with an envelope on a salver. His unease grew. Taking the envelope, he opened it hastily. There was a note.

The enclosed will explain why I never wish to see you again.I had come to believe that there was more to you than the legendary rogue. Now I have learned, in the cruelest manner, that you are wicked and debased.Would that Robert’s blade had killed you! But no, that would have been too quick. Would that it were you who was hanged on Tyburn Hill. E
.

Fluttering to the ground was what appeared to be a newspaper cutting. Numb with shock, he bent to retrieve it. He read:
The Marquis of S-----bets 5,000 guineas with Duke of R---- that seducing Miss E---will cure the duke’s well-known ennui. Shall Miss-----‘s charms succeed where Lady M----‘s have failed?

At first, it made no sense to his battered brain. Gradually, however, he recalled the bet as having been made that long ago night when George had lost 10,000 guineas to him over a fight at Gentleman Jackson’s. The bet was made in jest. For his sins, he had not connected the name with Beynon’s Sunshine. At that time, he had never even met her.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Chessingden must have seen this bit of gossip and cut it out. Hadn’t George said that she had just broken her engagement to him? Like the sneaky cobra he was, the viscount had saved it for just such an occasion as this.

Collapsing on the couch, he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. She hated his gambling, which didn’t make it any easier. He must make her understand. He must see her!

Spotting a small desk, he rose and opened its single drawer. There he found ivory vellum stationery. Using the quill provided, he dipped it in ink while he thought. Finally he wrote.