by Edith Layton
“My ladies,” Julian said with a deep courtly bow, “the pleasure of your company is requested at the Duke and Duchess of Peterstow’s gracious home.”
“And at once, and with your baggage, and so if you two prime baggages will bestir yourselves,” Arden added as the two women stood gaping at him, expecting some joke to follow the pronouncement, “we’ll arrive in time for dinner tonight.”
Roxanne recovered quickly. She preened and shot Francesca a triumphant look. Because from the way her luck was running lately, she’d never doubted this moment, or at least never doubted she’d have been asked along, eventually.
But Francesca never noticed it, for in that moment she saw only Arden, as he gave her a slow, strangely sad smile which never reached the resigned expression in his grave eyes. For he’d a favor to ask his old friend Warwick tonight, and the way his luck always ran out, he never doubted it would be granted, not for a moment.
14
Roxanne wore a wine-dark gown, and did her hair with garnet ribands, and brushed on only subtle touches of rouge on her cheeks and lips, for she was going to meet the Quality and she knew how she ought to behave. But when a look into her glass showed her a petite and dignified lady who might very well earn the admiration of the gentlemen, but not so much as an urge on their part to tweak any part of her behind the backstairs or give her a second glance in a gaming hell, she perked up her ears with a pair of diamond earbobs, and set her eyes to sparkling by applying a generous sweep of kohl to her lids and lashes at the last.
Francesca wore her dark-green gown and a faint apprehensive smile. She very much wanted the duke and duchess to like her, but not so much as to offer her a temporary home. For then she’d only enrage Arden by not accepting it. She’d known that all along, but all the long ride from the inn to the duke’s home had made it a clear and immutable fact. She’d decline respectfully but firmly. Not only did she not want to be anyone’s favorite charity, but she’d no wish to be rescued from what she now found to be her chiefest joy—Arden’s constant company. While the others chatted in the carriage, she was mute, going over a beautifully phrased and well-thought-out disclaimer as carefully as any polite lady might rehearse the way she’d turn down a respected but unwanted suitor’s proposal.
“He is a duke now, but though they dine on superior stuff, I doubt any of them have taken to chewing up young ladies,” Arden said in her ear as they neared the torch-lit castle. “Even if they did, this one wouldn’t, for he has a very toothsome duchess, you know, and since they’ve wed, I hear he’s become about as interested in other females as he might be in lepers. No, I’m out there,” he went on when she didn’t answer, “because being a charitable fellow, for all his sharp tongue, I think he’s far more interested in lepers now, actually. You haven’t died from the excitement of it all, have you?” he asked sweetly. “Now, that would fluster even Warwick, if we came pounding up his drive with a dead lady in tow.”
“I don’t wish to be an object of his charity,” she said softly and in terse accents, and then wished she hadn’t, for it was but a fragment of her really excellent speech, and it was far too soon to give it anyway.
But hearing her hoarse, panicked, whispery little denial quite took his breath away, so Arden merely nodded and said casually, “Oh, good, alive-alive, oh,” and let her alone until he could recover himself as well.
There ought to have been trumpets, Francesca thought as the great door swung open and they stepped in to the high-ceilinged vaulted reception room, and then, divested of their coats and wraps, were shown the way into the drawing room. Roxie was breathless with excitement when they were announced, but Francesca only felt a dreary sort of expectant panic as they stepped in to meet their host and hostess.
But their host was as unexpected a sight to the two women as the bright, warm room they were ushered into. There were highly patterned Turkish carpets and brightly painted yellow and rose-colored walls and ceilings, and the fires and lamps dispelled all shades of gloom in the huge octagonal room. And the Duke of Peterstow was every bit as elegant and suave as Roxie could have wished, but he was young and lean and well-dressed as well, and as he came forward to meet them it could be seen that his heavy-lidded eyes opened upon them to show sympathy and humor and a world of fellow-feeling in his clear dark blue gaze.
“The first time I was shown in here as a youth,” he confided to Francesca as he bowed over her hand, “I fully expected to be knighted. Instead I was told to take a seat and a cigar, and was offered a glass of port. I was seven at the time,” he mused. “My uncle, the late duke, was a determinedly eccentric fellow. I loved the port, but the cigar…” He shook his head and went on to be introduced to Roxanne.
She took the introduction in silence and gave him a dimple for his compliment on her looks, but she broke her silence against her will and better judgment in her surprise when she saw the duchess rise from her chair and come to take Julian’s bow and then his hand.
“But....Roxanne blurted as she saw the exquisite white-skinned, flaxen-haired young woman standing next to Julian, the two of them, light and fair and glowing like twin spirits together. “Are you two related then?”
“Ah,” Julian said on a deep, exaggerated sigh, “no. But we might have been. Susannah, ah…beg pardon, my lady, the duchess broke my heart once upon a time, and look—she does it again now.”
He held his hand to his heart and looked so stricken with mock regret that Arden and the duke laughed. Arden laughed with genuine humor. And the duke, with relief and pleasure at his friend’s evident recovery, now saw what Arden had seen earlier. For no man who was genuinely heartsick with unrequited love could act it out so well.
“Oh, fie, you’re only trying to make me feel better, Julian,” the duchess refuted him, “because no doubt you’ve heard Warwick teasing me. He’s constantly going on about me being in danger of being mistaken for one of those new hot-air balloons these days,” she complained, raising her chin and trying to look vexed, and failing, for her piquant face was not made for sullen expressions. But there was some truth to what she complained of, for when she crossed her slender arms over her obviously burgeoning midriff, she looked as comfortable as a woman with her arms up on a shelf. She was exceedingly pregnant, Francesca thought nervously, wondering as she always did when she saw such women, what she would do if the lady suddenly decided to deliver herself of a child as well as a laugh.
“But see how you rise to the occasion,” her husband commented as Julian immediately began to mutter loudly about challenging him to a duel.
“Never mind those oafs, you look beautiful, my lady,” Arden said honestly, taking her hand and smiling down at her as she tilted her chin and looked a bright grin of vindication to her husband before she pointedly turned all her attention to Arden. “Yes…” he said consideringly, “even more so now that you’ve taken lodgers, I think.”
“Oh, wretch!” the duchess cried, stamping her foot as her husband drawled, “Careful, my love, don’t overdo. Arden’s been many things, but never a midwife, I think.”
“Now, there you’re out,” Arden replied, “for my grandmother was one, you know, and I often helped her at her chores. There was once a case of triplets, now—”
“Oh, never say, or it may be,” the duchess yelped, and they all laughed together, even Francesca and Roxanne at the last, as they saw that these four people knew each other well, and well beyond the constraints of any formality they’d feared or hoped to find here.
In fact, dinner that night was nothing of the embarrassment Francesca had envisioned, or the ordeal Roxanne had feared it might be. There were laughter and wine and good food and fondness, all the luxury a duke of the realm could offer, and all the warmth of old friends met in peace again. Francesca forgot her personal problems enough to parry with Arden when he joked with her, and as the great table seemed to grow smaller as the night went on and the company drew together, she discovered that the duke and his lady had the same sort of absurd humor she
appreciated so much in Arden and Julian. It wasn’t long until she was joking with the duke and naming him “Warwick” without a stammer, and siding with Susannah in their teasing, without remembering to call her “my lady” as she did so.
Nor was it long before Roxanne gave up her staid and stiff ways and began to twinkle her saucy replies for Warwick’s pleasure, and toss her head when she rolled her eyes in Julian’s direction, the company so jovial and down-to-earth that she wasn’t afraid to let anyone know just how well they went together and why they did. She was not so at ease with Susannah, never feeling entirely comfortable with any female so beautiful. Even as enciente as the lady was, she was surely the feminine equal to Julian’s rare and startling beauty. Then too, it was clear from what lay beneath the conversation, and from bits and pieces that she’d gleaned before, that for all his jests, Julian had once thought he loved Susannah. That was enough to make her wary of the exquisite duchess for all time, however kindly a hostess she was. However blatantly expectant a mother the lovely lady was, Roxanne still considered her a potent potential rival. For Roxanne didn’t believe in pure friendship between a male and a female, and doubted its very existence, never having known such, and never having wanted it.
So when the ladies rose and left the gentlemen to their port, as was the custom, Roxanne was glad enough to see to her toilette and let Francesca do the pretty with their hostess. Fancy knew where her bread was buttered after all, slyboots, Roxanne thought with admiration as she left for the withdrawing room; just see how the girl was chatting up the duchess, as if she’d borne a dozen brats herself and was eager to talk about it.
But as neither the duchess nor Francesca had yet birthed any babies, they were actually chattering on about something Francesca knew and the duchess didn’t. They were speaking of France, which the baron’s daughter had seen, and the duchess, as yet, had not. They found themselves amazingly compatible, but then, they were close in age and interest, education, and tastes, for both, it transpired, to Francesca’s delight, liked Arden Lyons exceedingly well and appreciated all his many finer qualities.
But for all they gossiped, Francesca became aware that her lovely hostess never spoke about Arden in any detail. The duchess claimed this was because she’d known him for only a matter of weeks before he’d left England. Even if that were true, knowing that he claimed a mysterious and ugly past, Francesca knew she could hardly press the matter, so soon that topic of conversation dried up.
And as Francesca had actually seen very little of France, except in passing, unless the interior of a hotel for gamesters could be called a scenic and cultural topic, that too soon became an extinct subject. When the duchess asked Francesca how long she was staying on, and where she planned to go from Gloucestershire, the dark girl became so flustered and wretched, and unwilling to commit herself, that that subject was also swiftly abandoned.
Without barriers, Francesca thought sorrowfully, the duchess might be a lovely person to speak with. Without so much that she didn’t know if she ought to say, the duchess thought unhappily, the Honorable Miss Carlisle might be a charming companion to entertain.
So when the gentlemen joined them, the duke commenting that he cut their time short for fear his wife’s time might be on her by the time Arden and Julian finished telling him their exploits, the two ladies were sitting, looking rather sad, and speaking in tentative fashion about baby clothing, which neither was wildly interested in.
Things enlivened considerably when Roxanne returned to find the gentlemen returned. As the duchess and Francesca seemed to have fallen mute, Roxanne had the felicity of setting the tone of their entertainment. And so instead of talking, they sang, and instead of recalling the past, they invented the present and told stories and entertained themselves merrily, but like strangers met to while away the night, never recapturing the camaraderie of their dinner. Francesca felt like a reluctant bride on her wedding night when the duchess pleaded her condition as an excuse for early bedtime. For the duchess, on a soft word from her duke as he led her to the stairs, turned and offered to show her lady guests to their rooms for the night before she retired. Although the gentlemen tried to hide it, they were obviously vastly relieved. The ladies’ absence would give them the chance to confer long and quietly, as they might have done after dinner had the duke not been unwilling to leave his wife alone so long. Even Roxanne, who clearly would have wished to laugh away the night with them, gave in gracefully, and rose to be taken to her room.
Francesca left with many a rueful backward glance, if for different reasons. She didn’t wish to entertain the gentlemen, she only didn’t want them attempting to settle her future for her.
“My study, I think,” the duke said briskly, when he’d done bidding his wife good night, promising to come to bed at a decent hour. “For all my domesticity, that’s the one place that’s entirely mine. Mind,” he said as he led the gentlemen to the huge book-lined study made intimate by the staggering number of books that brought the walls inward upon them, and by the two fires burning brightly in the twin fireplaces on either end of the circular room, “it’s a bit difficult to stage my orgies properly in here, and the light’s more for reading than for a proper nude revel, but I make do. Here, have a seat,” he said, dragging another leather chair up to the two arranged near a nicely mumbling fire. “No one will disturb us here unless Susannah decides to add to the company tonight. All my wild stories about the wild revels in here seem to discourage the servants. Or at least,” he admitted, smiling gently as he sat in the middle chair, “I like to believe they do.”
“You’ve taken to domesticity beautifully, Warwick,” Julian said on a grin. “It’s almost as amusing as it is incredible.”
“I’ve taken to Susannah, lad,” Warwick sighed, “and I find, like any wolf become a fireside dog, that being tamed is a small price to pay for my content. But one of the drawbacks of that blissful state is that now I have to live my daring adventures through these books, or through more venturesome friends. So not another word from me, gentlemen, until you tell me some of your wilder wanderings. Begin!” he commanded imperiously as his two guests laughed.
But it wasn’t long until they did, Julian telling one tale, Arden another. Their adventures, Arden and Julian soon realized, became more amusing with the telling now that they’d lived through them, far better if only because they were more coherent than they had been in the living, and fueled by good port and a receptive listener, the night went by with laughter and thoughtful pauses and storytelling.
When the fire had burned low, they sat in companionable silence until Warwick said softly, “Admirable work. Within, yet without the law. Patriotic yet lucrative. Charitable and clever. Well done, my children.… And now? Come, every good saga has an ending sometime. But are your travels ended? I’m more delighted at your return than you can believe, for I’ve not so many friends that I can afford to have two of the best sort decamping for the Continent and leaving me here to wallow in domesticity alone forever. The best of treats are better shared. As are the most thorny problems.”
He grew still, and then fixed his stern blue stare on Arden.
“For example,” he said softly, “I understood from your letter that you’ve a gentlewoman to unload, Arden, but from the looks she bends upon you when she thinks no one watches, she no more wishes to be gone from you than…you wish to discomfort her,” he finished politicly.
“Do you want me to leave?” Julian asked Arden, half-rising from his chair. “I could go through a charade of yawning, but I’m too tired to act that well, and, well…dammit all Arden, but I’d think hard of it if you banished me now. But I’d go,” he admitted.
“And listen at the wall with a wineglass at your ear, just as I taught you,” Arden sighed. “No, lad, stay. There’s little I can say that you don’t know, or won’t know soon enough, and you’ve earned the right to my secrets.”
“Thank you,” Warwick said before Julian could speak. “I’m flattered to know you think I
have as well, Arden.”
“Ah well, Duke, you’re a canny fellow, and I’ve always admired you. Had I your education, no doubt I could have risen high enough to become a duke myself, sir, but aside from the Bible, they only used books for pressing flowers at the orphanage, you know,” Arden said wistfully.
“Arden,” Warwick said simply, and only that, and after a moment Arden shrugged.
“My father is dying,” he said at length, “the one that conceived me, that is. And I must to Cornwall to add to the lamentations. His, I expect, for I can’t for the life of me think of anyone else that will regret his passing.”
“And the lady…” Warwick prodded, and then paused before he complained, “You know, my friend, unlike you, I’ve had only one occupation—that of wastrel and gent-about-town. I’ve never been a tooth drawer. So please, spare me the effort, will you? You told your tales of derring-do in a way to make Mr. Keane weep with justifiable envy, and now, here, I can’t get a few decent sentences out of you without cajolery. Coyness does not suit you,” he snapped.