The Duke's Undoing (Three Rogues and Their Ladies) (5 page)

Why have I spent so much time grieving over him? He is a worthless scoundrel! Poor Violet. I doubt I have done her a favor
.

IN WHICH APPEARS A SURFEIT OF FIANCÉS

Ruisdell was certainly not a spiritual man, nor even prone to premonitions or the slightest bit of intuition. But if he had not wanted to keep the experience private, he would have sworn an oath in court that what happened to him on the fifteenth of June, 1809, in Covent Garden Theater was not the result of wishful thinking or any kind of superstitious claptrap.

It was the same voice he had heard in the park, referring then to the mystery woman. It seemed to him now that it was a real voice, a familiar voice, disembodied, but nevertheless real. It said,
Your time is at hand, Ruisdell. That is the woman you’re going to marry
.

He was staring straight across the hall at the time, using George’s opera glasses in an effort to relieve his ennui by detecting some amusing action on the part of his aristocratic fellows.

Then he saw her. He knew he had seen her before. If the voice were to be believed, she was the veiled woman from the park, but he knew her from some other place and time. She was not the sort he would refer to as a diamond of the first water. She was too far out of the common way, which dictated that blondes were the fashion. Add to this the fact that, judging by the fichu covering her breasts, she was certainly virtuous. He could also swear that the woman shone, as though surrounded by a peculiar halo, so that the voice could leave him in no doubt to whom it was referring.

“George, old fellow,” he said, handing him the opera glasses, “who is that delicious brunette across the way? Dressed in dark blue with pink rosebuds in her hair?”

After a moment, his friend chuckled. “I knew she would catch your eye. That’s poor Elise Edwards. This is her first time out since her break with Chessingden, I believe. And she appears to be blushing furiously.” He put the glasses down and eyed his friend. “I think she has detected your regard, and her aunt has surely warned her against you.”

Ruisdell winced. Though he was not about to marry, no matter what the phantom voice had said, it was the first time he had ever regretted his reputation. This was “Miss Edwards.” Surely, she must be the woman he had observed at the soup kitchen. He had not realized at the time that she was George’s obsession.

Dressed in an evening gown and softer hairstyle that displayed her charms to a much greater advantage (not to mention the rosebuds), she was truly lovely. And part of that loveliness was her selfless concern for the wounded soldiers, who would always be of concern to him.

It struck him forcibly that here was a woman not to be soiled by him. George was bound to lose his bet. Curiosity growing, he was relieved when the curtain dropped, signaling the interval. Rising to his feet with the help of his cane, he walked out of the box, anxious to intercept the intriguing woman before she could disappear. George, of course, followed.

When he showed up in her aunt’s box, Miss Edwards was standing. She gave him a level, unwelcoming glance.

Bowing deeply, he said, “Good evening, Miss Edwards. We met at the soup kitchen. May I say how delighted I am to see you again? I am but recently returned from fighting on the Peninsula and haven’t been on the town these three years.”

Taking the gloved hand that hung at her side, he felt a peculiar current travel through his frame. That had not happened in many a year. He had been planning to kiss the knuckles, but refrained, looking instead into her midnight blue eyes. They showed an impersonal curiosity, as though he were some kind of specimen. Bowing over the hand he held, he said, “You will remember that I am the Duke of Ruisdell, and this scamp with me is, I believe, already known to you.”

Retrieving her hand, she showed him what must be her deepest curtsy, saying, “Your Grace. My Lord Marquis.”

He then made his bow over her aunt’s hand and said, “Delighted to see you again, Lady Clarice. I don’t think I know this lady.” Standing next to her was a very small woman with bright, curious eyes, and a head full of iron gray ringlets.

“This is my companion, Lady Susannah Braithwaite. Sukey, this is His Grace, the Duke of Ruisdell. He is one of the benefactors of our soup kitchen.” He bowed over the small woman’s hand. She said with asperity. “Ah, so you are the great rogue I have heard about!”

George cackled beside him and introduced himself to the older ladies. As he made desultory conversation with them, the duke turned to the woman he had seen that afternoon on the park bench, hidden behind a veil. What had transpired to take away her grief? She was certainly the soul of self-possession now. Her dark eyes still surveyed him, but her lips twitched. Was she hiding a smile?

Well! Thinking back to the disembodied voice, he wondered if there was indeed such a thing as destiny. Was this woman meant to be his? Was Somerset right? Was she the answer to his
ennui
?

“Forgive me,” he said finally. “Do you ever walk in Green Park?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Your voice! You are the gentleman who sketched the picture of the tree. Old Father Tree, you called him. Or rather it.”

“And you were hiding behind a remarkably ugly veil.”

Her cheeks became rosy as she blushed. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman actually blush? She wasn’t the least coy, just embarrassed. “Trying to avoid the scandal mongers.”

He gave what even he knew was a grim smile. Before he could ask her what had changed between this afternoon and this evening that she would venture out, dressed so divinely with roses nestled in her black tresses, the curtain to the box was thrown aside. A very handsome man even taller than the duke entered, his hair a profusion of blond pomaded curls, his classically featured face set in stern, stiff lines.

“You depraved cur!” he virtually spat at Ruisdell.

Who the devil was this?
He had no desire to disabuse this man of his epithet. His conscience, silent for years, told him that it might even be true. But he had experience dealing with infuriated men, though they were usually husbands. Ruisdell merely raised one eyebrow, which was enough to quell most men.

But this man turned to Elise, who had gone suddenly white. Her hands were now fists. Ruisdell moved a bit closer, feeling an unusual prompting to protect.

“Robert, please leave at once. You have no right to be here!”

“Do you know who this man is?” the man called Robert answered. The duke had never seen him in his life. But his dress was very expensive and correct, marking him as a probable member of the
ton
.

“Yes,” Miss Edwards said with more composure. “He has just introduced himself. He is the Duke of Ruisdell, and, my aunt informs me, the most notorious of rakes. Was it this you came to tell me?”

The man’s countenance changed before the duke’s eyes. No longer merely outraged, his face showed an ugly sneer, almost identical to the highwayman’s who had attempted to rob Ruisdell just last week on the Hounslow Heath.

He grasped the woman by the upper arms, and the duke could tell he was inflicting pain, but his Miss Edwards stood firm, raising her chin.

The tall man continued, “You are my fiancée, and you have no business slurring my family name by entertaining this disgusting article openly here at the opera where everyone is watching.”

“They are watching because they can tell I am about to be assaulted. Not by the Duke of Ruisdell, but by you, whom I know to be far more dangerous.”

Just hearing the tiny quiver in her voice was enough to move Ruisdell to action. Stepping behind Miss Edwards, he looked into the penetrating eyes of the interloper and said, “Unhand her, or I will have you hauled up for assault. You may indeed find me disgusting, but I am not without influential friends. A duke, you know.”

At these words, the former fiancé became further inflamed. Taking his hands from Miss Edward’s arms, he commenced to remove his gloves.

The man is evidently mad
.

Moving from behind Miss Edwards, Ruisdell was unable to resist a tiny squeeze to the lovely shoulder of George’s fantasies. The slap of Robert’s gloves on his face stung him into assuming his most dangerous mien.

“Name your friends!” The madman growled.

“They will wait upon you tomorrow, if I might have your name?”

Evidently unaware of the irony, Robert pulled a calling card from his waistcoat. “I must warn you, I am an expert with either the pistol or the sword.”

The duke didn’t bother to look at the card, but kept his eyes on the man as he slid the pasteboard into his waistcoat pocket. Shifting his glance to Miss Edwards, he saw eyes huge with alarm. She put a hand on each of their puffed-out chests and said, “Robert, you have no right to fight this man. I am no longer your fiancée. And I am certain the duke has no desire to put his life in peril over a woman he has known but a few moments.”

Stepping closer to the duke, she bowed her head and said in a voice near to a whisper drowned by the chatter of opera-goers, “He’s not himself.” She continued
sotto voce
as she pulled at her gloves with long fingers, “He has these . . . these fits, I guess you would say. No doubt he will have forgotten this entirely by the time he wakes in the morning.”

Robert looked at Miss Edwards with suspicion. She said, even more quietly, her lips scarcely moving, “I beg of you, decline his challenge, for he may truly hurt or kill you.”

The desire to protect her surged more mightily within him. Taking her trembling hand in his, he drew it through his arm, pulling her closer to his side. “Whoever you may be, make your apologies to Miss Edwards and leave this moment. You are distressing her. I will send my seconds to your home presently.”

“I am your nemesis. You will escape from me only by death.” The words may have been melodramatic, but the face of the man called Robert was a rigid mask, his tone controlled.

At that moment, the Viscount Chessingden strode into the room, Violet Archer on his arm. “Waterford! How good to see you, old chap! When did you return from Italy? I’m all agog to see the pictures you have been painting.” Turning to the woman at his side, he introduced her, saying, “Violet is quite an authority on art. Her brother Thomas, you may remember, ran into you in Florence last autumn. He reported that your pictures were devilish fine.”

Waterford, as the duke now knew him, affected a change so complete that Ruisdell was forced to conclude that the foregoing violence must have been some kind of brainstorm, as Miss Edwards had told him.

“Thomas? Oh, yes! I remember him. Jolly good chap. We had oysters, and I gave him a tour of the Uffizi. Had no idea he thought so highly of my work. Thank you for passing along the compliment.”

At that moment, the first gong sounded. The emotionally fraught interval was at last at an end. Or so he thought. Chessingden, one arm linked through Waterford’s, leaned close to the duke and said, “If you harm a hair of my fiancée’s head, it will be pistols at dawn, I promise you.”

Nodding smartly, the duke said with his highest degree of hauteur, “That won’t be necessary, believe me. It’s not her hair in which I am interested. As a matter of fact, I intend no harm to any part of her person. I suggest you attend to your present companion.”

Chessingden seemed to remember Violet for the first time. Looking as frustrated as any man Ruisdell had ever seen, he allowed her to precede him, along with the Waterford devil, out of the box.

The duke then pulled up chairs for himself and the marquis, who had been shielding Miss Edward’s aunt and her companion from the dastardly proceedings by means of a quiet conversation in the corner. It was unusually thoughtful of George and put Ruisdell in humor with him.

“We’ll remain, if you don’t mind,” he said to Miss Edwards. “That Waterford is clearly an unbalanced devil. If you like, I will call for you in the morning, and together we can visit a friend of mine who happens to be a magistrate. We will see that he’s put in Bedlam where he clearly belongs.”

“Thank you so much. At one time I was engaged to the poor man, but I am afraid he suffers from what the doctor calls a split personality. Perhaps if he were threatened with Bedlam, he would return to painting in Italy.” Her voice was hopeful.

“Only to return again eventually, I’m afraid. Now, be truthful. Is that all?”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. Hers were the thickest eyelashes he had ever seen, adding to the startling beauty of her eyes. The woman was adorable, her face set like a cameo in a frame of willful curls. She was beautiful but not his usual type at all. He had noted a slightly reckless air about her as she had confronted the madman, and he would have bet his inheritance upon her having been a tomboy once. This fact sat interestingly with her long, graceful bones.

“All what?” She broke into his thoughts.

“All of your former fiancés.”

The mouth that reminded him of his favorite color of rose turned down, and her eyes stared at the hands folded in her lap. “No. But, unfortunately, Joshua will not be coming to warn me against you.”

“And why is that?” He raised an eyebrow.

George intervened for the first time in the proceedings. “Dead, I told you. Dead as mutton. On the Peninsula.”