The Duke Suggests a Scandal

by Gemma Blackwood

  “Let her go, my dear. What harm can she do on a short country walk? Let her have an hour of fresh air. It will do her no good at all keeping her cooped up in here, and you cannot mend her reputation by hiding her away.”

  “Very well,” said Agnes. “One hour. Go.”

  She turned away from Catherine with a careless shrug, as if her younger sister were of no more account than a slug she had kicked aside with her shoe.

  Catherine knew that Agnes’s censure came from the burden of responsibility. As the older sister, Agnes had longed to see Catherine securely married and had almost achieved her goals. It was a bitter disappointment to her to see Catherine behaving so recklessly.

  Still, Catherine had hoped that the bonds of sisterly affection would see her forgiven sooner. Alice, after all, was the most affected by any scandal on Catherine’s part – who would marry the sister of a ruined woman, after all? – but Alice had forgiven easily, and embraced the prospect of Harry as her brother-in-law.

  The gentle air blowing across the hilltop did much to soothe Catherine’s spirits. She almost expected to find Harry waiting for her in their usual spot, but there was nobody there.

  On wandering past the cherry tree, however, she did come upon a tightly wrapped package with Miss Sharp written on the paper. It had been tucked into the crook of a bow just low enough for her to reach. She wondered whether she should take it back to the house, but thinking on Agnes’s rage she thought it better to open it then and there, and tore the paper apart quickly.

  It was a little book of poetry – a collection of all her favourite poets, and certain others she had never heard of. The inscription inside read:

  I hope you still admire the poets as you once did.

  When we are married, I want to hear you reading aloud every day.

  Westbourne

  Catherine clutched the book to her chest. It was good to know that Harry was still thinking of her. How had he remembered the exact poets she admired the most – Wordsworth, Coleridge and Blake? They wrote of nature like no other. The simplest countryside scene was transformed into a sublime delight under their pens.

  It must surely be a coincidence. There was no way that Harry could have remembered after all this time…

  As she opened the book in the middle, to read whichever poem came to her eyes first, something else fell out from inside. Catherine picked it up and gasped.

  It was a beautiful golden necklace with six rubies embedded in the locket. She had never touched anything so fine in her life.

  She searched the book for another note, but there was nothing to explain it. She almost believed that it had fallen inside by mistake – but no, here was a little compartment cut into the back cover to hold it tight.

  Catherine held the necklace against her collarbone and wondered how it must look. Her plain dress, set off by rubies!

  She had known Harry was rich, but to give a gift such as this… To leave it balanced in the crook of a tree where anyone might take it… It was as if the rubies came easily to him. A casual gift, one to be handed out without a care for the price.

  For a brief moment she tried to picture herself decked out as the Duchess of Westbourne. The fine clothes she would wear – the silk dresses – the jewels –

  It was too much to picture.

  Catherine considered how she might get the necklace back into the house without Agnes discovering it. She tucked it back inside the book and experimented with methods of holding it that would hide the cover from prying eyes. When she was satisfied that no-one would be able to read the title, she set off immediately back towards the house.

  Tension thrummed in her every limb as she approached the front door. If Agnes should see the book she would surely want to confiscate it. Agnes would not hear of any further communication between the young couple until Mr Sharp had written back with his solemn word that he supported their engagement.

  But Catherine was not prepared to let her gifts go without a fight. Better to keep them hidden, and hope Agnes had paid little attention to the covers of her sister’s books.

  She entered the house without drawing anyone’s attention, and was about to run upstairs when a voice called her from the drawing room.

  “Catherine? Catherine, is that you?”

  “One moment,” she said, placing her foot upon the first step. Once the book was in her room, she would be able to conceal it, and it would be safe.

  “Catherine, please.” Catherine was shocked to hear Agnes’s voice sound quiet and broken. “I need you.”

  She obeyed immediately, finding Agnes very pale and sitting at the desk with a letter in her hand.

  “Are you well?” asked Catherine, concerned. “Let me ring for the maid – tell me what you need! Some tea, perhaps? Shall I open the window?”

  “I am quite well,” said Agnes. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “But it is…” Helplessly, she gestured at the letter. Catherine understood – or thought she did – at once.

  “It is from Papa?” Agnes nodded. An awful sinking feeling opened a hole in Catherine’s chest. “He – he has refused his permission?”

  That would mean worse scandal. Defying her father’s wishes – would it save her reputation, or condemn her forever? That was if Harry agreed at all. Their marriage of convenience was looking less convenient by the moment.

  Agnes shook her head. “He writes nothing of you. He says only that he is taken grievously ill. Oh, Catherine, Papa complains so rarely… I am frightened for him! It really must be very serious in order for him to write.”

  Catherine snatched up the letter and scanned it at once. Her worst fears were confirmed the moment she read the salutation. Her father’s hand, usually so strong and firm, was crabbed and shaky in a way that could speak only of great infirmity or pain.

  He said nothing of his own suffering. He merely wanted to inform his girls so that they might not be unduly concerned should they hear of his illness from another quarter. He asked nothing for himself.

  “Oh, god! What can have caused this?” asked Catherine. The answer seemed to her all too clear. Agnes was too kind – or perhaps too engulfed in her own worry – to answer.

  Their father was an elderly man. He lived a life of quiet retirement. The shock he suffered on hearing of Catherine’s behaviour must have been tremendous.

  “I will never forgive myself,” said Catherine softly. “Never, never – oh, Papa!”

  He had always enjoyed the most perfect health. She could see no cause for his sudden decline beyond the shameful blow of her wanton actions with Harry. Coming only a few days after he had given his consent to Mr Hinton – yes, she could see exactly how sharply, how unexpectedly the blow had fallen. It was a trauma fit to break anyone’s heart, let alone that of a loving and unsuspecting father.

  If he was dying – pray God he would survive! – the fault would be entirely her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Harry had just returned from a very pleasant morning’s ride with Captain Kirby. The latter gentleman had attempted to outdo him as they sped around the park, but owing to a sore head after the previous night’s excesses, he had been forced to concede to the Duke.

  They were warming themselves by the fire – the day having taken a turn for the breezy – and congratulating each other on a race well ridden, when Harry’s butler announced a Miss Sharp at the door.

  Captain Kirby burst into laughter at Harry’s changed expression. “Good god, man! He said he’d seen Miss Sharp, not the ghost of your dead father!”

  “Bring her in immediately,” Harry demanded. He flung himself into a chair in an attitude of repose, then, thinking better of it, sprang up again and went to stand by the fireplace, first leaning against the mantelpiece, then standing straight with an arm tucked behind his back. All the while, Kirby was doubled over in hysterical laughter. “Oh, do shut up, Kirby. If you must stay, be silent. I am not of a mind to be mocked. Why don’t you find yourself some pressing task to perform somewhere else?�
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  “What, and leave the estimable Miss Sharp in your villainous clutches unchaperoned? My dear Westbourne, I’ll do no such thing.” Kirby plumped himself down onto the sofa, looking at Harry with barely contained mirth.

  Harry was about to respond with a foul-mouthed retort when Catherine entered the room, bringing with her the sensation of an early summer breeze whipping up into a storm. The hem of her dress was muddy and her cheeks were flushed with exercise. She had evidently walked a good way, and in something of a hurry.

  “Miss Sharp,” said Captain Kirby, rising to his feet. “Always a pleasure.” He spoke as evenly as if the only scandal attached to her name was that she took too much sugar in her tea. Harry was grateful to him for that. Kirby being no stranger himself to scandal, it stood to reason that he knew the kindest way to behave.

  “Cathy,” said Harry, her name leaving his mouth in a hoarse cry, and ran to take her in his arms. He could not care less that Kirby was watching. It was plain to see that Catherine had undergone some trauma, and was in a state of deep shock.

  She pushed him aside. “I have come to tell you that I must leave Larksley immediately. I am going home to Devon. Please tell no-one that I have come here – my sisters know nothing of it.”

  “Devon?” cried Harry. “Why Devon? Has your father summoned you home? Cathy, do not go – or let me go in your place – this can be fixed, I swear it. I will see that all comes good.”

  “It is my own choice,” said Catherine. Her voice faltered a little, seeing the wildness in Harry’s eyes. “We – I am afraid we have done a dreadful thing, Your Grace.”

  “Come now,” interrupted Kirby. “A little kiss is nothing to be ashamed of. Westbourne means to marry you, don’t you see? Though God in Heaven alone knows why he wants to give up his freedom so. You must be brave a short while longer, Miss Sharp, and he will put everything right for you. Don’t you want to be a Duchess?”

  “I have no pretentions to His Grace’s title,” snapped Catherine. Kirby took a step back from the fire in her eyes. “I have come to tell you that on hearing the news of my actions my father took to his bed and has not recovered. He is terribly ill and the blame is all mine. No, Harry.” She held up a hand to ward him away. The sound of his first name on her lips should have been the most delightful music, but here and now it only filled him with pain. “I am going to Elmston to care for my father. Follow me if you must. Stay here if you will. I do not care what you do. I regret ever meeting you at all. If Westbourne Hall and Larksley were further apart, we would not have embarked upon such a foolish scheme and perhaps my father would… would…”

  “Do not say it,” Harry pleaded. “Do not tell me you regret what we have done. Your father will recover, Cathy. I am sure of it. Nothing but good can come of what has passed between us.”

  “You have tempted me into distressing my sister, ruining my father’s health, and destroying the chances of my dearest Alice,” said Catherine. Her eyes were bright – perhaps with tears, perhaps with anger, but she held herself straight and tall and she did not falter. “You will tempt me no further, Your Grace. I am going to Devon. It is my duty. I hope I will hear from you again, but –” Here she could not meet his eyes. “But I understand that my position was precarious to begin with. All the same, I would rather be a fallen woman than become a possession that you can keep here at your will.”

  “You will be neither,” said Harry, taking her hand in his and pressing it fervently. “Go to Devon. Follow your heart. I will write to you.”

  She squeezed his hand back. Now a single tear fell, but it was a tear of gratitude. “You say so many kind things, Your Grace. When you speak, I feel as if nothing in the world can stand in my way. How is it that nothing but sorrow has come of our engagement?”

  “You must only have patience,” said Harry. He raised her hand to his lips.

  Captain Kirby coughed from the corner. “We ought to send for a carriage to take Miss Sharp home,” he suggested. “She will want to begin her journey as soon as possible.”

  “Of course!” Harry rang for his butler at once.

  “No, please, Your Grace – I cannot accept this hospitality,” Catherine protested. “If my sister Agnes should see me arriving in your carriage –”

  Kirby waved her concerns away with a roguish grin. “Westbourne will instruct his man to drop you off a little way from the house. The carriage will be quite out of sight. What do you think, Westbourne?”

  Harry could not help his sly grin. “I think you are entirely too practised at this sort of thing, Kirby.”

  When Catherine was gone, Harry felt his entire heart leave with her. Could it be possible that only a week or so had passed since that fateful garden party at Lady Hendrington’s? Already the prospect of Catherine being so far away from him seemed wholly unnatural.

  He thought about the long years they had spent separated from each other by his marriage and his unrequited heart.

  He dropped onto a chair with a miserable expression on his face.

  “Have you told her that you love her?” asked Kirby suddenly. Harry gave a guilty start.

  “Is it so obvious?” He coughed, trying to regain his composure. “I would not put myself through all this if I did not.”

  “Quite so. I thought when I first met the lady that it was the other way around. Now I see it is you who has been bitten by that buzzing pest of a Cupid.” Kirby paced about the room a few steps, disturbed by something he did not wish to say aloud. “Westbourne…have you seen signs of love in the girl yourself?” He paused at the fireplace, staring into the flames to avoid Harry’s eyes. “I don’t mean that foolish love which every young girl fancies herself prey to when she sees the fine Duke ride by. We have seen off enough of those. But if you intend to marry, I must know… Do you believe she loves you?”

  “Not yet,” Harry admitted. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he spoke. He was reluctant to form the words. “But rest assured, Kirby, she will not withstand me for long.”

  “Hmm.” Whatever Kirby saw in the flames vanished in an instant. He resumed his pacing. “It is more than I would dare to do, Westbourne. Hazarding my happiness on the whims of a young girl who saw me as nothing more than an escape from penury.”

  “How lucky that you have no fortune to speak of,” said Harry, with a weak smile. “You are in no danger of being squeezed for the few pennies that would fall from your pockets.”

  “I am serious,” said Kirby. “You have known great unhappiness, my friend. My greatest concern – indeed, the only concern in life I am unlucky enough to possess – is that you do not endanger yourself again with an imprudent match.”

  “She will come to love me.” Harry spoke as if he meant every word. As if not even the possibility of doubt had entered his mind.

  But beneath it, he was most terribly afraid.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Catherine arrived at her Devonshire home much fatigued by the long journey, but nevertheless before she had even removed her shawl she was running up the stairs to see her father.

  Mr Sharp was lying in his bed with a grey face and his eyes half-closed. One hand lay upon the counterpane, and she was disturbed to see it trembling as he lifted it to wave to her.

  “Ah, here’s my little hoyden,” he said weakly. “Here’s my troublesome Cathy. What scrapes you have gotten into of late!”

  Catherine sat on the edge of the bed and clasped his hand in hers. “Papa, tell me what has happened. What did the doctor say?”

  “Oh, he was most reassuring, my girl. Dr Flint is a very good man. I am in safe hands, you see. And Robson has been taking good care of me.” After this exertion, Mr Sharp sank back into his pillows, exhausted by the effort of speech. Catherine pressed his hand more tightly, making a note to herself to speak to Robson, her father’s valet, as soon as possible to find out the truth.

  “Well, I am here now, Papa. I shall take excellent care of you. You will soon be better.” She gently touched his forehead. T
here was no fever. The question of what was the nature of his complaint began to worry her enormously. Mr Sharp was clearly in a severely weakened state.

  He managed to nod. Within the space of a few moments he was dozing again, the sound of his breathing steady and even. Reassured by this, Catherine crept outside.

  She learnt from Robson that Dr Flint had diagnosed a complaint of the heart, had mixed him several tonics, and had ordered complete rest. The doctor was coming again to his patient later that evening.

  Her curiosity satisfied, but her guilty heart close to breaking, Catherine went about the house, unpacking her things, speaking to Robson and the housekeeper, and seeing that everything had been done as it should. There were a thousand small adjustments to be made to get everything quite in order. She could not help but think for one fleeting moment of the enormous task it would be to run the household at Westbourne Hall. A house of such great size must occupy a great many servants, and there were so many rooms…

  The memory of Westbourne Hall could only bring Harry’s face to mind. His jaw, lightly tinged with stubble, his eyes, so piercingly blue – his mouth as he kissed her –

  Catherine shook her head firmly, driving such foolish notions from her mind. It would not do to dwell overlong on the Duke of Westbourne and the rakish ideas which had led her astray.

  Her father had laid no blame at her door, but Catherine had an awful suspicion that such a serious complaint of the heart could have only one cause.

  Dr Flint came very late that evening, with many apologies, having been held up by an emergency on the other side of the village. Catherine’s father had woken up no more than twice since she arrived, and she was awaiting the doctor in a state of some anxiety. She hovered outside the door as he examined the patient.

  “There is no change,” said Dr Flint, closing the door carefully behind him. “His heartbeat remains irregular. There is nothing to be done but wait and see if it regains its proper pace.”