The Duke Suggests a Scandal

by Gemma Blackwood

The Ridleys were very good people and did not dream of mentioning the damage their niece’s presence caused them. They amused themselves with card games rather than company, and turns at the pianoforte in the evening rather than dances with friends. If Catherine had been in better spirits she would have relished the chance to spend time so intimately with her beloved relations. As it was, she thought of Harry and chafed at her solitude.

  Seeing her pain and wishing a quick solution to her troubles, Mr Ridley had called upon Harry at his London residence the day after Catherine arrived. He was told that the Duke was not at home, and thus far his visit had not been returned.

  Catherine did not even know what she would say when she saw Harry again. She was not master enough of her own emotions to predict what her reaction would be. She might treat him with icy politeness, scorning him for abandoning her in Devon after promising to stay. She might fling herself into his arms and beg him to tell her why he had left.

  She might, if she were brave or foolhardy enough, even confess to him that she loved him. She could not imagine the circumstances which would allow for such a confession to take place. She only felt it, every second, bubbling up inside of her, ever on the brink of spilling out through her lips.

  She loved him. Despite it all, she loved him. It was a fire that burned inside her endlessly. Through all her solitude she clung to it as the one light of hope that remained.

  If she could but see him again… If he were only true to his word… If she could but convince him to forget Miss Hendrington and think only of her…

  She tried to abstain from such imaginings. They were fit to drive her to complete distraction.

  Thus far her tears had been wept alone, and private. To admit such pain to anyone – even to Harry himself – was more than she could contemplate.

  Revealing her inner agony to the world would be the greatest shame of all.

  “It seems to me I have a choice to make, dear aunt,” she said to Mrs Ridley, after thinking on this for a while. “I have been hiding all this time, hoping for things to come around. That, I must admit, is not in my nature.”

  “I agree,” said Mrs Ridley. “And I have been sorry to see it.”

  “It is possible that the ton may find something else to whisper about,” she continued hopefully. “Then again, it is quite likely that no-one will forget. What appears certain, however, is that by moping indoors I am neither helping my situation nor demonstrating my courage.” She raised her chin proudly. “I am courageous. I know I may not always seem it, but –”

  “Hush. Coming to London was brave in itself. A coward would have stayed home – you have come to seek out a solution for your troubles.” Mrs Ridley patted Catherine’s arm. “The fact that you have not found it does not reflect poorly on you, my dear, but on the cruelty of the world – and of men!”

  “I have thought again,” said Catherine firmly. “I would very much enjoy a walk about in the park. Perhaps St James’s? If you are certain that it will not reflect ill on you to be seen with me?”

  “And what if it does?” laughed Mrs Ridley. “I am an old married woman, and not wealthy enough to attract the notice of the ton. There is very little they can do to me. What is a snubbing? It does not take the food from my table or the comfort from my fireside. I can withstand it very easily.”

  Catherine’s smile was full of gratitude. Relief was plain on Mrs Ridley’s face. It had been too long since she had seen her niece’s smile. “Then let us take a little air together,” said Catherine, “and if we are ignored by all the ton – so be it! They shall see how little I care for their regard.”

  “Bravo!” Mrs Ridley went immediately to fetch their shawls. Catherine’s gaze flickered towards the note from Almack’s, now turned to ashes in the fire.

  “Oh, Harry,” she murmured softly. “I have not yet given you up. But I will wait with patience. More than that – with courage.”

  And she followed Mrs Ridley into the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was a fine and breezy morning. The trees rustled with a low rushing sound like the whispers of children sharing a secret. Everything was luxuriantly green and fresh, alive with the approaching spirit of an early summer. Catherine tasted sun-warmth and new flowers on the air and revelled in it.

  They walked slowly down the wide open promenade, enjoying the sensation of sunshine on their faces. Mrs Ridley kept up a steady flow of chatter which almost – but not quite – distracted Catherine from the fact that while a few gentlemen had tipped their hats on passing, they had been greeted by nobody.

  It could have been a coincidence. Perhaps there was no-one of Mrs Ridley’s acquaintance in the park today. It was more likely a deliberate snub. Regardless, she was determined to let her exile from Society eat at her no more. She kept her head high and averted her eyes from the various fine ladies passing so that, if they made a hushed remark, she would not see it.

  Catherine was very much surprised, therefore, to find a young gentleman approaching her at quite a pace. He had almost reached the two ladies by the time she noticed him, riding up from the direction of St James’s Street and its gentleman’s clubs, and was waving eagerly from atop his sturdy grey horse.

  “Miss Sharp! Mrs Ridley! How charming to meet you both!”

  “Cathy, who is this young man?” whispered Mrs Ridley. “He greets us as an old friend, but I am sure I do not know him from Adam.”

  “It is Mr James Marsden,” answered Catherine, feeling a stab of nerves in her stomach. “Do you not recognise him, aunt? The Marsdens were your neighbours as well as ours when you lived in Devon.”

  “Of course! But he is quite changed now. Quite the handsome fellow. I should never have known him for that little scrap of a boy who used to trample my flower garden.”

  James was, as Mrs Ridley said, handsome and tall, with a strong jaw and an easy seat on his mount. But Catherine would never have remarked upon his looks when all she could see in his face was the faint shadow of Harry.

  “Good day, Mr Marsden,” said Mrs Ridley cheerfully as James swung down from his horse. “A very pleasant morning for a ride.”

  “Indeed,” he said, rubbing his hands together anxiously as he turned to Catherine. “Miss Sharp, I am very surprised to see you here.”

  “I hope the surprise is as pleasant for you as it is for me,” Catherine answered politely. James waved the compliment away, a furrow lining his brow.

  “May I speak plainly, Miss Sharp?”

  “There is nothing you can say to me that I wish to hide from my aunt.”

  All the same, he moved towards her and spoke in a low tone as if wishing to draw her apart. “My brother has recently left for Devon thinking to find you at your father’s house in Elmston.”

  “Oh!” gasped Mrs Ridley, clapping her hands together as if all were suddenly well. Catherine swallowed.

  “I am sorry that His Grace will be disappointed,” she said coolly. “I hope he finds Devonshire otherwise to his taste.”

  “I am sure he will not. Surely you must know –” James broke off, frowning. “I apologise, Miss Sharp. I was given to understand that you and Harry were all but engaged. I was hoping to greet you as a sister.”

  Catherine glanced around to check that no-one was close enough to overhear them. “I beg you, do not speak of such matters. They are between His Grace and myself.”

  “There is some great distance for them to occupy, then, with him in Devon and you in London. You did not see fit to wait for him? He believes he gave you his word that he would return.”

  Catherine looked away. “I am sorry to disagree with you. His Grace gave me his word that he would stay. And…and I have recently received correspondence which indicates that he is not always to be trusted.” She closed her hands into fists at her side in the struggle to keep her tone even. “I pray you, do not ask me anymore. The matter of my engagement is a painful one, as you must clearly see.”

  “That much is plain,” agreed James. “Wh
at I do not understand is why such a happy occasion causes you so much pain…” He noticed Mrs Ridley, listening in with eager ears, and cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of walking with me awhile, Miss Sharp? There is much here that I do not understand, and for the life of me I cannot see how things have reached this state. It ought to all be quite simple.” He shook his head, perplexed. Catherine hesitated before taking his arm.

  As children, she and James had been closest in age. He had not been her confidante as Harry had, but they had played together and laughed together nonetheless. When they got into scrapes, James was always perfectly willing to accept the blame, where Harry might try to talk his way out of it. She was loath to offend James now.

  Mrs Ridley took the hint and fell back behind them, leaving Catherine on James’s arm quite out of earshot of anybody.

  “How has my brother offended you?” asked James. “Was it his coming to London that pained you so? That is easily explained. It was not at all his fault.”

  “I was surprised to hear that he had left so suddenly and with no explanation. But that is not what chiefly worries me. I have no wish to entrap His Grace in another undesirable marriage.”

  “Tush! What on earth has given you the impression that your match is not desired?”

  “I… I do not quite know how to explain.” In truth it was the burning in her throat which prevented her from speaking further. James nodded as if in grim understanding.

  “You do not love my brother.”

  Catherine’s mouth fell open. “That is not the case!”

  She had never yet intimated her hidden love to anybody but her father. The force with which it sprang from her chest knocked the wind from her.

  James smiled. “You are not certain of his regard for you? My dear Miss Sharp, allow me to reassure you –”

  “Forgive my interruption, but I fear you cannot know your brother’s heart in this.”

  “I cannot?”

  “His behaviour has not been…gentlemanly.” Seeing James’s face darken, Catherine scrambled for the words to make it all clear. “I mean that a certain letter I received paints his advances towards me in quite a different light. I fear I can no longer accept him. Regardless of my own feelings.”

  “Tell me more of this letter.”

  She faltered. James sighed. “If it pertains to my family – to my brother’s honour – then it is of great importance to me. I am sorry, Miss Sharp, but I cannot let this pass without endeavouring to discover the truth.”

  “It is nothing so very grave as all that,” she said, though her aching heart told her otherwise. “It is only that His Grace has been courting another. A certain Miss Hendrington, of Larksley. Knowing this, how can I think of marrying him?”

  “I see. And who wrote you this letter? Anonymous, was it?”

  “Oh, no. It came from Miss Hendrington herself. She did not wish me to come to further harm at his hands.”

  “Miss Hendrington,” James repeated quietly. “Harry has never mentioned a Miss Hendrington.”

  “I can’t imagine why he should.”

  “Can’t you? He has certainly spoken of you. Often, and with great fondness.” James’s frown deepened. “This would be Miss Christine Hendrington, daughter of Lord and Lady Hendrington? I think I am acquainted with her parents.”

  “I should imagine so. There is not much society at all in Larksley. The Hendringtons are some of Westbourne Hall’s closest neighbours.”

  “I admit that I have not spent a great deal of time with my brother since he became Duke,” James admitted. “He has been busy in Surrey, and I am a Londoner at heart. But I do know these Hendringtons. Miss Hendrington’s Come Out was quite the event, if I recall.” His face brightened. “Now I begin to see a way through this sorry mess. Miss Hendrington tells you that Harry’s affections are engaged elsewhere? Well, we shall have to see what comes of that. Are you fond of the opera, Miss Sharp?”

  “Passing fond,” she said, startled by the change in subject.

  “Excellent. There is a performance of The Barber of Seville which you ought to attend. I will send you a note to let you know as to when.” A smirk wrinkled his mouth. “Lady Hendrington is very much delighted by the works of Rossini.”

  “Do you know what delights every lady of the ton?” asked Catherine sharply. “Or is it only those with whom your family is embroiled in intrigue?”

  James laughed heartily. “I am a London bachelor,” he said, shrugging. “It is my business to know what delights every member of the fairer sex. Now, do not preoccupy yourself unduly, Miss Sharp. I will see that everything comes right and that my hapless brother brings you nothing in future but joy.”

  He bid the ladies good day with such charm and grace that Mrs Ridley had to hide a girlish giggle behind her hand. “Such a well-mannered young man. What did he have to say to you, Cathy?”

  She walked on ahead of her aunt in something of a daze. She could not begin to imagine what James had in mind. “He invited me to the opera.”

  “How charming! When are you to go?”

  “I do not know. He did not say.” Ignoring Mrs Ridley’s bemused expression, Catherine quickened her pace and strode ahead across the sunlit grass. Though she could not say why, for the first time in what seemed a great while she felt the glimmerings of hope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Harry had returned from Devon that afternoon hot, tired and dusty from the journey. His spirits were in no better state. He had passed a most frustrating few days in Elmston, first entreating with Mr Sharp to admit him at all, then meeting with an unexpected resistance on that gentleman’s part when he asked for the hand of his daughter.

  “I have decided it is unwise to meddle any further in my daughter’s affairs,” Mr Sharp had said. “She has proven that she will follow her own mind no matter what the consequence. Suffice to say that if you can persuade her to look past whichever of your many flaws has upset her lately, you may have her with my blessing.”

  Why on earth should Catherine be upset with him? And why had she left Elmston when he’d asked her to stay? Mr Sharp was not at all forthcoming on the subject of her whereabouts. Harry was on the point of writing to Agnes and begging for her help.

  He did not enjoy the prospect of begging, no matter what the cause.

  Thus it was that James found him in his study at his London residence, slumped into a high-backed chair and drinking whisky at an early hour.

  “The servants said you had returned,” said James, with an unreadable twinkle in his eye. “How did you find Devon? A productive trip, I hope?”

  “Far from it,” said Harry, thumping his glass down. “And I do not wish to speak of it.”

  If he had been paying attention to anything other than his own sorrows, he would have been puzzled to see that James did not look at all surprised.

  “Never mind,” his brother said, perching on the edge of the desk. “I have just the scheme to raise your spirits.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “Now, now. An open mind will serve you much better than a sulk. I have reserved a box at the opera tonight. Won’t you come along?”

  “Certainly not!” snapped Harry. “I can think of nothing worse than parading myself about in front of all the ton.”

  “And what do you intend to do instead? Sit here and drink yourself into a stupor? No, Harry, you must come with me. If for no other reason than to keep an eye on William. He is hoping to see Celia there, you know, and we must guard against him stirring up the Earl’s temper again.”

  Harry reflected on this. It was true that, despite all his endeavours, relations between William and his future brother-in-law were far from sunny.

  “Drat and blast. I’ll come. Only to stop that foolish boy from tying another noose for his own neck. Why must you do this to me, James? Why inflict me with responsibility when all I wish to do is drink and forget myself?”

  “I would not wish you forgotten,” said James, with that
same inscrutable and infuriating smile. “Now hurry up and get properly dressed. We cannot have you out in Society looking like a wastrel.”

  The King’s Theatre was full of the bustle of excited chatter and elaborate dresses when Harry and James took their seats in their box. Four empty chairs stood beside them. William had dashed off the moment they arrived to connive his way into the Earl of Scarcliffe’s box so that he might while away his time murmuring sweet nothings into Celia’s ear. Their wedding was set to take place as soon as possible, but in Harry’s mind it could not come quick enough. The sooner it was over the better. Not only in deference to his own troubled heart, but in the hope that William would be infected swiftly with the sobriety of a married man.

  He leaned his arm upon the gold-painted balustrade and ran his eyes wearily over the selection of heads in the audience below. As long as he gazed outwards, the eyes of others made no impact upon him. The moment his head was turned, however, he felt the prickle of a hundred eager stares.

  There sits the Duke of Westbourne, he imagined them whispering, the dreadful rogue who ruined Miss Catherine Sharp!

  Or worse still, There sits the Duke who wooed a lady, and kissed her, and could not persuade her to wed him!

  He half-hoped to see Catherine’s face shining up at him from among the crowd, but had no such luck.

  Rather, his fortunes took a turn for the worse. Barely had they settled in their seats when James was rising again to greet two fine ladies who took two of the remaining chairs as boldly as if they had been invited. Which, apparently, they had been.

  “Lady Hendrington,” said Harry, as politely as he could manage. “Miss Hendrington. What a delightful surprise. You must forgive me, I was not expecting…” He shot a stern look in James’s direction. His brother responded with a grin of complete amusement.

  “I thought it might be pleasant to have a little company,” said James gleefully. “Lady Hendrington, I must entreat you to explain to me the story of this opera, for I am woefully unschooled in music and I cannot understand a word of Italian.”