A Debt of Dishonor

by Marek, Lillian

  “Do not be foolish, child. You heard the duke—I have been in need of company, of a companion. You will be doing me a favor by staying with me.” She gave her niece an impish smile. “Now, let us put those pearls of yours in the safe—and yes, I do have a safe. Your treasures can keep mine company.”

  Kate shook her head. At the moment, she desperately needed the sanctuary her aunt offered—she was not foolish enough to pretend otherwise—but she could not live on her aunt’s charity forever. For the time being, she had to remain hidden. But sooner or later, she would have to find some way to support herself.

  Chapter Two

  Franny looked at her niece critically, tweaked the limp ruffle at her neckline, and sighed. “We will need to do something—and quickly—about providing you with a decent wardrobe. This is hopelessly out of style, and far too worn to be worth refurbishing.”

  Kate looked down at her old pink muslin that had faded to almost white and added a theatrical sigh of her own. “This gown has seen plenty of dinners with the vicar and the squire. You would think it would perk up at the prospect of dining with a duke, but no. It is just hanging here limply. It has no pride at all.”

  Franny looked at her for a moment and then smiled. “That’s the spirit. We are the grantors of a favor this evening, not the recipients of one. We are the ones condescending to dine with the unpleasant Lady Wilton and her even more unpleasant son. Anyone who sees only your garments and not your sterling worth is not deserving of our notice.”

  The two women nodded at each other approvingly, donned their cloaks—Franny’s a rich green velvet lined with cream satin, Kate’s a sturdy brown wool—and set out for the duke’s carriage, waiting at the gate. Kate was almost giddy with excitement. Her life in the past year had been such a series of disasters that to think she might really be safe now seemed almost like a fairy tale. Yesterday, she had been stumbling along a strange road, hoping for nothing more than a safe place to hide. This evening, she was riding in a duke’s carriage, sitting in luxury on a well-cushioned seat covered in leather as soft and smooth as silk. This was not simply safety, this was the stuff of fantasy. She was laughing when they arrived at Kelswick, but when she stepped out of the carriage, her breath was taken away. She had seen glimpses of the house from the drive, and she had expected it to be a large building, but this was well beyond large.

  Aunt Franny’s home, a three-story stone house—it was three, she now knew, and not four—appropriate for the wealthy merchant Andrew Darling had become, was by far the finest house Kate had ever been in. Her home in Yorkshire may have been the largest house in the area, but it didn’t even have a name. It was just the manor, shabby and so close to tumbling down that many of the rooms were uninhabitable. Squire Grant’s house, where she and her mother had often visited, had been nearly as large as the manor and was more impressive, having been well cared for, but it was not nearly so fashionable as Aunt Franny’s.

  Kelswick, however, was something quite outside her experience. It must be at least four times the size of the manor, if not more. And “well cared for” did not begin to describe it. The setting sun was glinting off endless rows of windows that sparkled as if they had all been washed that very day. The pale gray stone of the facade looked as if it had been quarried only yesterday. Nothing looked worn. The very steps were as clean and white as if no one had ever trod on them. Even the gravel of the drive was perfectly raked.

  Footmen in black and silver livery, complete with powdered wigs, appeared almost magically to open the carriage door, lower the steps and hand them out.

  Kate tried not to stare. She had not expected anything like this, not when the duke who had come to call on her aunt had been dressed so simply. She hesitated to take the hand offered by the footman when the glove covering her hand was worn and mended and his was so pristine.

  Suddenly, the gap between the Duke of Ashleigh and the runaway sister of Viscount Newell grew into a chasm.

  She looked at her aunt, who was going up the steps as if she entered such houses every day. It suddenly occurred to Kate that this might actually be the kind of house Aunt Franny and Mama had known when they were girls. Mama had spoken of dinners, house parties, glittering affairs. Kate had assumed those memories were colored by nostalgia, but perhaps they had been nothing but the truth. In that case, Mama had indeed been thrust out of paradise when she was married off to Newell, who pocketed her dowry and then left her to molder in that shabby manor house near Grassington, married off by a father who saw no further than a title and thought a viscount was a good match for the daughter of a country baronet.

  Kate shook off those thoughts and held up her head. She might never before have entered a building this impressive, but she was not about to let anyone know that. She walked in as proudly as a queen, allowed a servant to take her outer garments, and followed her aunt into the drawing room.

  There, Kate blinked. She could not help it. The austere grandeur of the outside of the building had been bad enough. Here, there was warmth and color, but on such a scale that the people seemed almost insignificant. Crimson brocade draperies swathed windows at least ten feet high. Panels of silk in the same shade covered the walls. Chairs and settees upholstered in apple green velvet were arranged in groups scattered around the room, a crimson and green carpet covered the floor, and dozens of wax candles, in sconces and chandeliers, reflected over and over again in huge gilt-framed mirrors, lit the room even though it was not yet dark outside. Two fireplaces, on opposite sides of the room, gave out enough warmth to make shawls unnecessary.

  Kate blinked again and tried to find the people in all this grandeur. She noticed Ashleigh at once, of course. He was even more austerely beautiful than when he first appeared at Aunt Franny’s door. But, this evening, no one could have taken him for a farmer. With hauteur in every line of him, dressed impeccably, with black coat and breeches, a silvery brocaded waistcoat, and a cravat so white it almost glared, he was the very pattern of a duke, superior to all about him and perfectly aware of that fact. He looked straight at her, unsmiling, and she could not look away for a long moment. Was he finding her faded gown disgracefully inadequate to this splendor? So much the worse for him. She raised her chin and held her head even higher. She would not be intimidated.

  Near him was the Earl of Merton, looking far less polished despite the fineness of his garments. He kept darting glances at a lady reclining on a settee who seemed to be laughing at him. That, thought Kate, must be Lady Merton. She was talking with a gentleman who bore some resemblance to the duke, though he was less striking. His hair was not so dark, his clothes were less perfectly tailored, and he lacked the air of being monarch of all he surveyed. Instead, he had a kindly look about him. A gentleman but not a nobleman, she thought.

  At the moment, the duke was standing stiff and unsmiling between two women. One was a thin woman who looked at the newcomers as if they had brought an unpleasant smell into the room. Her gray hair was styled in an elaborate concoction of curls, ribbons and feathers, and she wore a gown of bright scarlet satin trimmed with gold lace. Its alarmingly deep décolletage might have looked attractive on a woman thirty years younger. The other woman, who was a good thirty years younger, looked too much like the duke to be anything but his sister. She had his almost black hair and clear gray eyes. She wore a fashionable dress of deep blue silk and a matching turban with a plume of white feathers. Beside her stood a young girl with the same dark hair, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, in white muslin. The girl looked at the newcomers with a delighted smile, and came hurrying to them, followed more slowly by Ashleigh and the other women. Merton seized the opportunity to travel to his wife’s side.

  “Mrs. Darling, I am so pleased to see you,” said the girl. “And you must be Miss Darling.” She turned to Kate with a smile of unaffected pleasure. “My uncle told me you were coming. I am Lady Clara Grammont, and it will be wonderful to have someone young in the neighborhood. I am sure we shall be great friends.” She was a
bout to take Kate by the arm and lead her away when her mother gave a slight cough. Lady Clara halted and gave Kate a rueful look. “I am running ahead too quickly again. I do that, I fear.” She sighed as she turned to face her mother and uncle with an apologetic look.

  Looking less frigid, though not quite smiling, Ashleigh bowed a greeting to the newcomers, who curtseyed in return. “Alice, Lady Wilton, I believe you already know Mrs. Darling.” Mrs. Darling and Lady Wilton exchanged frosty nods. “May I present her niece, Miss Darling? Miss Darling, my sister, Lady Talmadge, my aunt, Lady Wilton, and, as you already know, my niece, Lady Clara.” Lady Wilton offered an even frostier nod, but Lady Talmadge’s smile of welcome seemed genuine.

  The encounter drew the attention of a gentleman who had been holding forth to an elderly man who must, by his dress, have been the vicar. The gentleman turned away to stare at the newcomers through his quizzing glass. Having apparently decided that they were worth further investigation, he strolled over to them and struck a pose. It was obviously intended to display his padded shoulders and excruciatingly high collar points to best advantage. Kate found it difficult to restrain her amusement, especially when she saw Ashleigh’s pained expression.

  “And who might this be, Cuz?” the man drawled, looking Kate up and down in a way that drove all amusement from Kate’s face. It was too much like the way Farnsworth had looked at her, as if she were an item being considered for purchase, not a person.

  Nor did Ashleigh look amused. He drew in a sharp breath before he spoke tightly. “Miss Darling, may I present my cousin, George Wilton? He and his mother are paying us a brief visit.” Kate was certain that she heard a stress on the word brief.

  Wilton leaned over in a semblance of a bow and started to reach for her hand. Kate managed to bob an acknowledgement of the introduction while stepping back, putting herself just out of reach, and giving Wilton a freezing look.

  Lady Talmadge took Kate’s arm and said, “You will excuse us, Wilton. I wish to introduce Miss Darling to Lady Merton.” The women were off before Wilton could protest, leaving only Lady Wilton behind.

  “Now that’s a pretty little slip of a thing,” said Wilton, keeping his quizzing glass on them as they walked away. “I don’t recall being shown anything that attractive the last time I was here. Have you been keeping her hidden away?”

  “Miss Darling has just come to stay with her aunt,” said Ashleigh stiffly. He felt a totally irrational impulse to punch Wilton in the nose. “I would ask you to remember that they are gentlewomen and should be treated—and spoken of—as such.”

  “Gentlewomen!” sniffed Lady Wilton. “Cits, you mean, and stinking of the shop. It is an insult to expect us to dine with them.”

  “Feel free to depart at any time, Aunt,” said Ashleigh. “I would not wish you to stay when you feel uncomfortable with my guests.” He turned to Wilton. “I would, however, remind you that they are my invited guests and I will not have them treated with discourtesy.”

  *

  Lady Merton was, indeed, the woman receiving Lord Merton’s hovering attentions. She was an attractive woman, not much older than Kate, with a laughing face. Merton was tucking a cushion under her feet when Lady Talmadge arrived with the newcomers. “Forgive me for not rising,” Lady Merton said, smiling at Kate, “but Merton is being earl-like and insists I stay put.”

  “And we all know what an obedient wife you are,” said Merton dryly.

  She smiled fondly at him before confiding to the women, “I am hoping he will get all his fussing out of the way soon. Six more months of this will drive me mad.”

  “It’s your own fault,” said Lady Talmadge with a laugh. “If you didn’t want him to fuss, you should have waited until the ninth month to tell him. Miranda, I would like to present Miss Darling. She has come to live with her aunt, and I thought to remove her from George’s rather repulsive attentions.”

  Lady Merton made a face. “He is a loathsome creature, isn’t he?” She turned to Kate and smiled. “I assure you that most people in the neighborhood are far more pleasant, and he is here only occasionally. We never need to suffer his presence for long.”

  A bit confused by Lady Merton’s American accent, and not certain how to respond to such frankness, Kate ventured, “There are more offensive people in this world.”

  “No doubt.” Lady Merton gave an airy wave. “However, I do not see why anyone should be required to suffer the bad simply because things could be worse. They could also be a good deal better.”

  Lord Merton smiled down fondly at his wife. “We are well aware of your limited tolerance for the bad.”

  “And this gentleman is Stephen Bancroft, a cousin of ours who is the steward for the estate.” Lady Talmadge, still holding Kate’s arm, introduced the gentleman who had been speaking with the Mertons.

  Bancroft smiled and murmured the appropriate greetings, to which Kate murmured the appropriate responses. The duke’s cousin. That explained the resemblance. But Mr. Bancroft seemed a far more comfortable personage, not nearly so forbidding, not nearly so overwhelming. What Kate noticed most about him, however, was the way his eyes kept turning to Lady Talmadge, even when he was being introduced to Kate. Whether Lady Talmadge was aware of his attention, Kate could not say. Perhaps she was since she seemed to carefully avoid meeting his eye.

  Just then, a butler appeared, indicating that dinner was ready.

  “We need not stand on ceremony when we are all friends here,” Ashleigh announced to the room at large and walked over to offer Mrs. Darling his arm to lead her in to dinner. Wilton, under his mother’s glare, stepped over to lead Lady Talmadge in, but too late. She was already going in on the arm of Mr. Bancroft, who had quickly stepped in as Wilton approached. So he seized on Kate, to his own pleasure but no one else’s.

  The dinner was excellent, Kate noted with delight, well prepared and well served, with nothing pretentious or excessive, and no more silver on the table than had been found at the squire’s home. She had been afraid, given the overwhelming splendor of the house, that dinner would consist of a sequence of exotic and unrecognizable dishes that would make her feel like a country bumpkin. Instead, she could enjoy every bite, with honest pleasure.

  She was, unfortunately, seated next to Wilton, who seemed convinced that she must feel honored by such proximity. His hands had a regrettable tendency to find themselves resting on her person. Neither glares nor icy looks made any impression on him, and each time she picked up his hand and removed it, he seemed to think this was some game they were playing.

  The conversation, with so small a party, was general and, for the most part, pleasant. Mr. Chantry and Dr. Goddard—the vicar and the doctor—were both intelligent and cultured gentlemen, dealing comfortably with the duke, neither toadying nor denying him the deference due his rank. Ashleigh, in turn, displayed no condescension in his attitude, no arrogant assumption of superiority, but seemed to genuinely enjoy their company and conversation.

  Wilton, on the other hand, endeavored to impress all present with his wit and sophistication. His comments, uttered in a loud voice with smug self-satisfaction, frequently had the effect of bringing any discussion to a halt. When the conversation turned to the controversy surrounding the government’s purchase of the sculptures Lord Elgin had brought back from Greece, he said, “Ah, yes, beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” While everyone paused, trying to puzzle out what, if any, relevance that remark had to anything that had been said previously, he turned to put his hand on Kate’s arm yet once more and said condescendingly, “Homer, you know.”

  Kate had had enough. She was tired of being pawed. She was tired of being patronized. She turned to him and said, “Virgil, actually.”

  He looked startled, then laughed and patted her again. “Silly girl. Homer was a Greek chap. Wrote about the Trojan War.”

  “Indeed,” said Kate, “but it was Virgil who told the tale of Laocoön warning the Trojans against taking the wooden horse into their city. The line you ar
e thinking of is ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’—‘I fear the Greeks, even when they are bearing gifts.’ You will find it in Book II of the Aeneid.” She removed his hand from her arm, turned back to her dinner, and took a sip of wine.

  Mr. Chantry and Dr. Goddard were looking at her in surprise. Merton was bent over with his face in his napkin, trying to choke off his laugher. The rest of the company displayed various degrees of amusement except for Ashleigh, who looked enigmatic, and Lady Wilton, who looked outraged.

  Merton recovered his composure and smiled. “Sorry, Wilton, but I’m afraid the lady is correct. The reference is indeed to Virgil.” He lifted his glass and dipped his head to Kate in a silent toast.

  Lady Clara turned to her uncle, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Uncle Peter, I think I must spend more time on the classics myself. I should hate to appear foolish when I find myself in educated and cultured company.”

  Ashleigh looked at his niece impassively. “I trust that whatever company you find yourself in will be sufficiently well-bred that no one will ever be discomfited.”

  At that, Kate felt her face reddening in embarrassment. Yes, it had no doubt been rude and impertinent of her to point out Mr. Wilton’s ignorance, and worse to have been feeling a bit smug about it. Nonetheless, what she had really wanted to do was stab him with her fork. Mr. Wilton’s wandering hands had been far more than impertinent. That remark about discomfiture should have been directed to him. Why had the duke not chastised him? But then, she thought angrily, why would he? Wilton was a gentleman, cousin to the duke. She was a creature of no importance, a woman, someone who could be abused with impunity.

  All her pleasure in the dinner and in the conversation evaporated. She kept her head high but held her tongue and simmered in silence until it was time for the ladies to withdraw.

  Once they had reached the drawing room, however, Lady Wilton saw no need to hold her tongue. She turned to Mrs. Darling. “I am sure you must be mortified by the outrageous behavior of your niece.” Mrs. Darling raised her brows as if she could not imagine what Lady Wilton meant and looked not in the least mortified, so Lady Wilton turned to Kate. “Miss Darling, whether real or pretended, a familiarity with books suitable only for gentlemen is hardly the sort of accomplishment that is becoming to a young woman. Even less becoming is your presumption in attempting to correct one who is your better. Such behavior will make it extremely difficult for you to find a husband.”