The Duke's Undoing (Three Rogues and Their Ladies) (3 page)

“You are doing a great work here, ladies,” he said, at last. His voice was a rich, reverent baritone. “I’m a wounded soldier myself.” He indicated his walking stick. “However, Providence has blessed me with ample means. Thank you for taking such an interest in these men and their families.”

“Thank you for your generous support, Your Grace,” Elise said. Ladle in hand, she sketched a curtsey and gave him her nicest smile.

With a brief smile and a tip of his top hat, he left them and walked down the queue, shaking hands and greeting the returned soldiers. Elise was able to hear him asking where and under whom each had served.

Once he moved on, Aunt Clarice whispered so only Elise could hear, “That man! I don’t believe it! Why, Ruisdell’s the worst rogue in England!”

Elise changed her favorable opinion of him on the spot. A rogue. Therefore engaged in womanizing, heavy drinking, and gambling—all the things she most despised about the gentlemen of her class. Gregory always told her she was a Radical because she was of the opinion that her male peers lived expensive, dissolute lives off the work of the poor. Perhaps she was so vehement because her own father was such a poor landlord, putting little back into the estate, blind to the needs of his tenants. And he was a gamester. In one night, he might lose more money than his tenants’ hard work paid him in a year. Her mother’s sharp tongue was the only thing that kept him in line and preserved their mediocre fortune.

She wondered what kind of landlord the duke was. He showed great interest in the soldiers, tousling the heads of their children, lifting his beaver top hat as a salute to their ladies, even though most were dressed in rags.

Relenting a bit, Elise allowed that he did care for the wounded soldiers. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge. But a rogue! How could she reconcile the two faces of the man? Maybe he was more complex than most people she knew.

Her author’s instinct came alive. She was going to put him in a book. Maybe even write a whole book, just about him. Elise hoped that chance would throw him in her way again so that she could make out his character.

The third contributor to arrive was the fat, redheaded Earl of Southwick who, as usual, had his handkerchief out, dabbing futilely at the perspiration on his forehead. He also had visited before. This time he asked, “Might I have a bowl of that soup? It smells excellent, and I missed my breakfast.”

Curbing her desire to tell him to go to the end of the line, Elise ladled him a bowl and handed it to him wordlessly.

“Ah, excellent!” the Earl said as he tasted it. “I must give my compliments to those wonderful cooks!”

*

When they were safely back inside the doors of Aunt Clarice’s town house, had removed their hats and gloves, and settled in Aunt’s pink saloon with reviving cups of tea, the older woman said, “Well, Elise! I was watching the viscount like a hawk, my dear. He never looked at Violet. And she seemed to be completely unaffected by his presence. It is my belief that you were overhasty in your decision. A third broken engagement is going to take some explaining. I’m four and fifty, and never have I heard of such a thing. What am I to tell your mother?”

Her mother would not take it well. Lady Hatchet had been overjoyed that her daughter was finally to be settled with a viscount. Elise was vastly tired of the abuse she had suffered at Mama’s hand because of her unmarried state.

Was not the real problem that no man could live up to Joshua and the future they had planned together? Life on his lovely estate, next door to where she had grown up. A continuation of their mutual discovery and discussion of things political, scientific, and especially literary. They would have held musical salons in their London house. And a continuance of the hours upon hours of time they spent together reading from her manuscripts, sharpening their wits against all the ironies of polite social intercourse . . .

“We needn’t tell her just yet,” Elise said. “I haven’t made a clean break. There’s always the possibility that I was mistaken, you know.”

“I’m afraid I’m counting on it, Elise. And that the poor man won’t have taken offense at your high-handed treatment.”

Elise shrugged. “Oh, Aunt Clarice! Shouldn’t you love to have me here to live with you, taking care of you in your old age, supporting my expenses with my quill?”

Her aunt tut-tutted. “My desires are not to be consulted here. How do you know that your mother won’t tear me limb from limb?”

Finishing her tea, Elise stood up and kissed her long-suffering aunt on the cheek. As usual, Queen Elizabeth, now tucked under her arm, growled with jealousy. “I’m going up to my novel now, ma’am. Put your feet up as Doctor Finch told you to do. There’s a good aunt. I won’t let Mama tear you limb from limb, and neither will Queen Elizabeth. She’s as fierce as her namesake.”

Later, when she was settled at her desk, quill in hand, she considered again the comparison of Joshua to Gregory. Surely, it was foolhardy. Who could ever match Joshua? Why did she keep getting engaged? First Robert, and now this. She should rig herself out in full mourning for the rest of her life and experience love only by way of Joshua’s cherished memory and the one medium she could control—her writing.

Returning to that occupation, she tried to wield her quill to pull herself out of her confusion. Writing always worked to relax her. Everything else retreated before the tale she was telling about the scandals erupting in the small town of Stanton-at-Liechmere. She even asked Kitty to have her dinner sent up on a tray so she could ply her quill far into the night. When she at last went to bed, she tossed and turned until the wee hours, tormented by thoughts of Joshua’s gentle kisses and laughing green eyes. He had aroused passion in her that no one else had been able to equal.

Gregory’s caresses had never had the same effect. Aunt knew nothing of what had gone on at the Gaskills’ when Gregory had led her out to the terrace that first night. It had been their first time alone. Strolling with her away from all the other couples, her fiancé had seized her with a passion that she had never known he possessed. His kisses had strayed into forbidden territory, and it was only with great difficulty that she had detached herself from him. Would he have used Violet in such a manner? Would Joshua ever have insulted her in such a way? Definitely not. On both counts.

*

In the following days, her erstwhile fiancé showered her with gifts, flowers, and daily epistles, telling her of his love and admiration. He even begged her pardon for his “impetuosity,” claiming he couldn’t be blamed for loving her body and soul. Violet was beside herself and, according to Aunt Clarice, could not imagine why Elise would not receive her. This state of affairs continued for two weeks. Suddenly, the letters stopped. Even more ominously, Violet ceased to call.

One day, two days, three days, a full week. Elise tried to congratulate herself on her perspicacity but found it difficult to face her lonely future. She sent back Gregory’s engagement ring. He did not return it.

This was the longest span of time she had passed without seeing, writing, or speaking to Violet, and she missed her friend more than she missed Gregory. She missed attending the musicales where her talented friend would sing with her bewitching coloratura soprano voice. She missed attending lectures with Violet on social reform. Most of all, she missed their spirited debates and conversations. The sad fact that she missed Violet more than Gregory was telling.

As far as the rest of the world knew, a putrid sore throat explained Elise’s seclusion. Sukey took her place at the canteen (not without complaint), and Elise sent notes to acquaintances expressing her regrets that she was too unwell to attend their ball, rout, dinner, tea, or musicale. She absolutely could not set eyes on Gregory and Violet, together or apart.

Her Aunt lived in a dreamworld of her own. Childless, she used her vast inheritance from her husband to endlessly redecorate her home according to her present fancy and to entertain Whig luminaries, whose company she and Sukey sought to further their own schemes for social reform. In addition, she was writing an opera and had formed several charities to promote literacy among the lower classes. She held board meetings for these in her home. Elise refused to participate in any of these gatherings to the point that her aunt began to despair over her behavior.

Sukey was another matter. “Elise Edwards!” she exclaimed one afternoon when Elise came down to take tea with her aunt and companion in the newly redecorated Chinese saloon.

“I cannot believe you are eating your heart out over that fribble! Where is your sense of proportion, your taste for irony? It is so much a part of your prose, my dear, I cannot believe it has deserted you entirely over this paltry issue.” She raised her Imari teacup to her lips and took a large gulp. Sukey gulped everything, including life. Always thoroughly involved in some entomological enthusiasm, she had no time for fits of melancholy.

“My darling,”Aunt Clarice added, “I agree with Sukey. You simply must pull yourself together.”

“Aunt, Sukey, try to understand. This isn’t just about Gregory. It’s about Gregory and Violet together. Don’t you see? Violet has been my dearest friend since we were in the nursery. I want to wish her well, but I just cannot seem to manage it. I am afraid that when I am confronted with a vision of the two of them I will just . . . dissolve!”

Sukey shook her head until her gray ringlets bounced. “Rubbish!” she said.

Her aunt said, “Sukey, dear, he may seem a fribble to you, but he was Elise’s fiancé. It is a loss, you know. However you look at it.” Then, to Elise, “He still doesn’t look at Violet the way he looks at you. I saw them together just last night at a musicale.”

Elise felt a jab to the heart. This was her first real confirmation that Gregory and Violet were an item.

Her aunt, undoubtedly reading her face, said, “Well, for my part, I always did think you came alive as soon as he entered the room. I realize that this doesn’t march well with your intent to mourn poor Joshua all your life, but you should not have treated the viscount so shabbily, you know.”

Elise blinked quickly, hoping the women did not detect her tears. “Let us change our topic of conversation. How does Queen Elizabeth feel about her Chinese surroundings, Aunt? I believe the red silk walls to be a little much for a room this size. Gold would be nicer, I think.”

“Just what I told her,” Sukey said emphatically. For a little dab of a woman, she was emphatic more often than one might suppose.

*

When Elise had gone an entire week without hearing from the viscount, she determined, at last, to take the air. She would take her maid and venture out, wearing a veil of course, to Green Park—not the fashionable Hyde Park. Aunt Clarice declared she looked like a widow, but Elise didn’t want assaults by either well-wishers or gossips. The creatures had been busy enough this week—resulting in several items in the society pages that noted Elise’s absence from the viscount’s company and the presence of Violet on his arm.

In order to place things in some sort of proportion, she took with her the letter that Joshua’s commanding officer had written to her upon the death of her first fiancé two years ago. Once seated in the park, a distance from the hoofbeats, cries of itinerate tinkers, and clatter of carriage wheels, she took the letter out of her reticule and read.

My dear Miss Edwards:

This is the most difficult task I have ever faced. I am writing to tell you that your fiancé and my best friend in the world was killed two days ago in the miserable heat of battle. I only wish I were there to cushion this terrible blow by sharing our memories of this outstanding soldier.

He spoke of you to me every night in the tent we shared. He was my adjutant, and I am convinced that a finer man never breathed. You were his “Sunshine” still. He told me of your secret tree house that he built in the forest between your homes and of all the games you played there. We laughed together about so many instances of your unconventional behavior that I feel I know you. In a way it comforts me to know that somewhere under this night sky we are both grieving the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Beynon. I can only hope that it is of some comfort to you.

With sincere regret,

General P. Northcott

IN WHICH THE DUKE IS INTRIGUED

The Duke of Ruisdell heard all the gossip about Somerset’s poor Elise Edwards, as everyone was calling the woman he had met during his visit to the soup canteen. He had found her entrancing when he thought he was past being entranced. But apparently her strategy with Chessingden was not working, for the trial month had only a week left and, according to all reports, the viscount seemed transfixed by Elise’s closest friend, Violet Archer. George was at a loss to understand it and continually aired his feelings on the subject. The duke agreed that Miss Archer possessed a decidedly unfashionable plumpness. To his mind, however, she showed excellent sense and a great deal of talent. He had heard her sing once at a musicale. Her voice had an intimacy and a range not often heard in drawing rooms. She did not wear pink or ruffles and dressed in rich colors. Her face was charming and full of genuine sweetness but nothing out of the way where true beauty was concerned.

What he really could not comprehend was his own interest in the affair. A tiny part of him longed to lay eyes on Miss Elise Edwards and take up George’s challenge. During a walk in Green Park (the duke was shunning Hyde Park until he could walk without a cane), the marquis said, “Was at Gaskill’s house party with the three of them. Archer woman and Chessingden did Romeo and Juliet. Thought it could only be good acting. I mean, Violet Archer! You saw her!” He appeared to ruminate. George’s brain obliged him to mull the evidence of his eyes and ears a good while before it pronounced an opinion. “Maybe wasn’t acting. Lovesick idiots. Disgraced poor Miss Edwards bang in front of
ton
.” He paused again, shaking his head while raising his walking stick and examining it absently. “She came into room in time to see it. Turned and left in a twinkling. Followed her. Vanished. No sign of her.”