“I am glad you liked the nosegay,” he said looking over her head, plotting their course through the crush on the ballroom floor with gliding steps. “You put Aphrodite to shame. I am sure I am not the first to comment on your ravishing good looks this evening.”
“If I please your eyes, then I have succeeded. I care nothing for other opinions.”
Before a polite mask of pleasantry fell over his features, she was the recipient of a highly charged glance of blatant carnal desire. His voice became intimate. “I will not feed your ego by telling you the extent of your success. Suffice it to say, were my circumstances different, I would have you out of that dress and beneath me before another hour elapsed.”
“I would not impede you, Captain, as your desires march in line with mine.”
He twirled her in a sweeping turn and pulled her closer to him than propriety considered appropriate. “Minx.”
Had it not been for the over-crowded floor, she might have regretfully put more distance between them for he held her so tightly that she rode his muscled thigh, the hollow of her hip pressed into his groin and against that part of his body that affirmed his physical want of her. It was vastly provocative. Before she was required to bow to decorum, however, he swore softly and created a separation between them, holding her in a manner that the most stringent of chaperones could not have found fault with. They proceeded a full circuit around the ballroom thusly.
“Good God… it’s Edgar… ah, the Duke of Chelsony. Miles told me he would be here. I never considered Edgar a handsome man, but even so, the years have treated him harshly.”
Florence craned her neck to look in the direction of Duncan’s nod. “La, Captain Everleigh, when did you last see your brother?”
“It has been many years.”
“You have confused your brother with another man. That gentleman is not the Duke of Chelsony, but rather the honoree of the ball, the Marquis de la Forte. The Dacostas introduced him at the beginning of the evening.”
Duncan slowed such that he fell out of rhythm with the music and stalled them in the middle of the floor as he stared. “Lord Miles and I came late to the function…” His words emerged disjointed and halting. “We were expressing our… apologies to Lord and Lady Dacosta… when you found me.” He stared harder.
Florence turned out of his arms to follow Duncan’s stare and noticed Lord Miles had slowed his steps to stop beside them, his head also turned in an unwavering stare. Lady Dacosta could be heard admonishing him.
“I will be most glad to introduce you, my lord. The gentleman is the Marquis de la Forte. I know this without question as he has been our houseguest for the past three months. The poor man has lost everything—his lands, his fortune, his wife, his children. He arrived on our shores with literally the clothes on his back and a small valise. I grant you he has an unfortunate arrangement of facial features and a speech impediment that could easily make him a figure of fun, but I will not have you make a mock of him. His circumstances make him an object of pity.”
The four of them stood as an island surrounded by a current of swirling couples, the two men never taking their eyes off the marquis and his partner.
“Your kindness of heart does you credit, Lady Dacosta, and I hope my behavior is always above reproach,” said Lord Miles. “Let me set your mind at ease. I wish an introduction to inquire about the Marquis’ history. His resemblance to our brother, the Duke of Chelsony, is too striking to go without remark.”
“I agree with Lord Miles. I should like an introduction as well, Lady Dacosta,” echoed Duncan.
As the music slowed to a halt, Duncan pulled Florence across the floor in the direction of the Marquis, followed closely by Miles and Lady Dacosta. Surrounding the older gentleman and his partner, both Duncan and Miles glanced impatiently at Lady Dacosta.
“My lord, I trust you are enjoying tonight’s entertainment?” said Lady Dacosta brightly.
“Oui, madam. C’est la perfection,” the Marquis responded with a bow and a pronounced lisp which transformed all the “s” sounds in his speech to “th”. The marquis was small in stature with a prominent, hooked nose and a nonexistent chin. Now that she considered it, she could understand Duncan’s confusion. He did resemble the Duke of Chelsony.
“I should like to present to you some good friends of mine. Lady Lloyd-Smith you have already met, but let me make known to you Captain Duncan Everleigh, and Lord Miles Everleigh.”
“Gentlemen, the Marquis de la Forte and his partner, Mrs. Wallhem.”
For the next few minutes, pleasantries were exchanged while Florence shifted on her feet, made somewhat uncomfortable by the intense questioning to which both the Everleigh men subjected the marquis. It bordered on rudeness, though it seemed the nobleman either did not notice or noticed and chose to take no offense.
“My lord, if you would be so kind, there is someone I very much want you to meet, our older brother, the Duke of Chelsony,” said Duncan.
“Bien sur,” the marquis said agreeably.
“He and his wife are standing by the refreshment table,” offered Lord Miles.
The group navigated through the press of guests to the equally mobbed tables holding the punch bowls and glasses of champagne where the Duke of Chelsony stood gossiping with some of his cronies. Lord Miles laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Your Grace, there is a gentleman I particularly wish to you meet.”
“Lord Miles.” The Duke of Chelsony turned with a sneer on his face. His mouth opened as if to spew forth some insult, but then his eyes landed upon the Marquis de la Forte standing beside Miles.
What happened next remained so vivid in Florence’s mind that she was able to describe it moment by moment many hours later to Mr. Greyson and then the next day to Eleanor.
The Duke of Chelsony’s eyes flew wide as his mouth snapped shut. His head turned from side to side in denial as a horror-struck expression fixed itself upon his face.
“Mon dieu. It is my face that you have. Ta mère ... elle est qui?” blurted the marquis. “Who is your mother?”
“How can it matter? She is dead,” snapped the duke and attempted to sidle away only to be halted by Duncan’s firm grip on his arm.
“Don’t leave, Edgar. Not just now,” threatened Duncan in an undertone. “Her maiden name was Georgeanna Olivia H—”
“Hartwell,” murmured the marquis as his face lost some of it ruddiness. Now he, too, stared at Edgar. “Can it be? Your age, if you will.”
Edgar stood silently and glared.
“He is forty,” said Lord Miles.
“Quarante. Oui. Ce doit être. There is no other answer.” The Frenchman swallowed heavily, pulled himself erect and then bowed with elaborate ceremony. “Je suis le Marquis de la Forte and I believe… non…j’ai confiance, I have confidence, you are my son, the child I make with my beloved Georgie. My son!” The Marquis stepped forward as if to wrap his arms around Edgar in an expression of unrestrained passion.
With a snarl, Edgar jerked from Duncan’s clasp and bolted through the well-dressed crowd to a set of French doors leading outside, his progression marked by exclamations of feminine alarm and male irritation.
The marquis held up his hand and shouted, “Non! Edgar! Mon fils. Reste s'il te plait! Attends!” lifting up on the tips of his toes to see, before turning to Lady Dacosta and begging, “Please, madam, to find him, il est nécessaire. He is all that remains to me of my blood.”
Chapter Eight
“My lord, please do not upset yourself so. The Duke of Chelsony is easily found as he has extensive estates quite near to London and a private residence within the city. You have not lost him,” consoled Lady Dacosta.
The reverberations of the Marquis’ statement, if true, would profoundly rearrange the fortunes of one Captain Duncan Everleigh. Florence observed him closely, though Duncan allowed little of his emotions to show.
“Can it possibly be true?” murmured Miles.
“It would explain quite
a lot,” replied Duncan in an undertone. “The resemblance between them is uncanny.”
“If the Marquis is truly Edgar’s father, that will set the cat amongst the pigeons,” returned Miles in an equally low voice.
Duncan became suddenly aware that around them, several groups of couples had stopped conversing and were doing a poor job of hiding their sudden interest in the conversation between the Marquis, Miles, Duncan and Lady Dacosta.
Miles addressed his hostess, “Lady Dacosta, is there somewhere we may be more private?”
“Of course, gentlemen. If you will come with me.”
She placed them in a room that saw use as a library at the opposite side of the house from the ballroom and settled them comfortably in the chairs and sofas furnishing the room. Lord Miles glanced at Duncan with an unspoken question. The barest of smiles crossed the captain’s face, and he nodded. Florence approved. Lord Miles presented a more diplomatic, polished demeanor and would be the better man to question the marquis. Florence perched beside Duncan, erect and upright. She didn’t want to miss the smallest detail.
Lord Miles turned to regard the marquis with an expression of mild inquiry. “Other than the obvious physical resemblance, do you have any way to substantiate that Edgar Everleigh, the brother we know as the Duke of Chelsony, is your son?”
The marquis drew up in surprise and some affront. “You think I tell the lie?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Miles hastened to reassure him. “It is simply the House of Lords and the Crown will require more proof than your word. A significant estate and a noble title hang in the balance.”
The marquis slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead in a dramatic gesture. “Alors! But of course. I had not considered… Je suis trop bête. Stupide! My son, he is born the wrong side of the blanket. He cannot be an English duke.” The nobleman made a gesture of dismissal. “Pffft It is of no consequence. To be the son of the Marquis de la Forte—” He drew erect. “Of the honor, it is sufficient.”
Miles tilted his head in acknowledgment and smiled. “Of course, my lord, but have you some way to prove your relationship?”
“Oui. My journal, my memories of those days of bliss. From Georgie, I have the billet-doux. From her, I have the pledge of her eternal love despite her oh, so cruel marriage. She tells of the child we had made together. I have cherished her words of love near to my heart as I treasure those days spent with her, those days of heaven on earth…”
While the Marquis was lost in dramatic recounts of the rapture of times long past, consoled by Lady Dacosta and Mrs. Willem, Duncan leaned and murmured in Miles’ ear, “I cannot reconcile the marquis’ memories with the cold and bitter female who resides in mine. The first I knew of maternal love came from Julia, your maman.”
Lord Miles faced the marquis and asked in a level voice and with what Florence considered extraordinary patience, “My lord, may we please see the letter and your journal?”
“Certainement. Wait here, and I will provide them to you.”
The Marquis left the library and returned not many minutes later holding a scarred, leather-bound book that had seen much hard duty. The formerly square corners were bent and much of the interior contents of the journal at one time had been wet as a good half of the pages were crinkled and fat.
Fanning the pages, he stopped and plucked a folded missive from within the journal. With a flourish, he presented the letter to Miles. “Voila!”
Miles scanned the note quickly and handed it to Duncan. Florence couldn’t contain her curiosity, and although it was a violation of Duncan’s privacy and none of her business, she maneuvered until she could read the contents written in a looped hand.
September 23, 1774
My beloved,
You will not understand my actions, but I could do nothing else, and I cannot imagine the devastation you must have felt as you waited for me in vain. I could not escape my parents, and ten days after they ripped me from your arms, I found myself married to Victor Everleigh, the Duke of Chelsony. I can only speculate that my father rewarded him handsomely as our wedding was graceless and perfunctory. I’ve witnessed more emotion spent on the purchase of a horse.
The Duke is an indifferent and cold husband but believes the babe quickening in my body to be his. My situation is made tolerable only by the knowledge our child, should it be a boy, will supplant the Duke’s own seed and inherit the Chelsony title and estate. In this fashion, I will have my revenge for the utter cruelty inflicted upon us.
I will try my utmost to put aside my bitterness and love this child, but I fear, be it son or daughter, I shall only be reminded of the grievous injury wreaked upon me. From henceforth, as I cannot have the only man I shall ever love, my days will hold nothing but bleak duty.
My eternal love,
Your Georgie
Duncan sat mute, gazing ahead but seeing nothing. Florence quite understood his silence. It was one thing to witness firsthand the resemblance between Edgar and the Marquis de la Forte and to hear the Marquis’ avowals. It was quite another to hold the absolute proof of Edgar’s illegitimacy in his hand and realize all that it implied.
“My lord,” said Duncan to the marquis, “may I borrow this letter to show it to our family solicitor and barrister? As you must realize, the issue of Edgar Everleigh’s legitimacy has thrown into question the rightful succession and demands a closer examination.”
“Yes. Myself, I accompany you and bear my most cherished letter and my accounts of those days to your barrister.”
Three days later:
Duncan stood in Florence’s drawing room and gazed pensively at the street scene beyond the glazed windows. Deeply engaged in his thoughts of his meetings of the last three mornings with the barrister, Penwick Elsington, he registered none of it.
“...can? Duncan?” A soft hand wrapped a part of his upper arm and tugged gently. “Captain Everleigh, please return from wherever it is you are gathering wool.”
Distracted from the turmoil in his brain, he looked down at Florence. “I’m terribly sorry. Did you address me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ve attempted conversation with you for these past several minutes and been comprehensively disregarded. I vow, I’ve been less hurt by a cut direct. You cannot call on a woman and then stand in her drawing room and ignore her. It is very poor form and shabby treatment even for someone who is just a ‘friend’. I realize you have had much on your mind of late, but I haven’t seen you since the Dacosta ball and curiosity has eaten holes in me. Miles has told Eleanor nothing, saying much is in the air, so she has been of no enlightenment.” She gave a helpless laugh. “Have mercy.”
Remorse rolled through him. “My sincerest apologies, Florence. I hadn’t realized…” He looked down at her, actually seeing her for perhaps the first time since he’d called that afternoon. Her appearance beguiled and seduced. She wore another of her fine-to-the-point-of-transparency gowns, this time in a bird’s egg blue with some sort of white embroidery on the puff of her sleeves and skirts. If not for her shift, he suspected he’d be able to see right through it and as usual, her dress was cut low, the square neckline framing the alabaster mounds of her breasts he had to drag his gaze from lingering on.
He wondered if she realized how hard he fought to keep a firm hand on the reins of his carnal passion. In one of his more fanciful moments, he’d imagined his overweening lust for her as that team of bays she’d returned to Lord Seville. It would take such little provocation to overturn his control and release his licentious desires to gallop amok. He needed to stay away from her for both of their sakes. Well…he’d tried, but he simply couldn’t. She led him to a chair, whereupon she placed two hands on his chest and pushed. Overbalanced, he flopped into the cushions with a grunt. “You merely had to ask.”
“I have, repeatedly. You haven’t been listening,” she rejoined. She lowered herself, much more gracefully, onto the cushions of the sofa across a low table from him. “So. Are you to be the Duke of Ch
elsony or not?” she demanded.
Duncan eyed her, his acceptance of that astounding reality still qualified with disbelief. “It seems I am, though the House of Lords and then the Crown must examine the entire evidence before they make the official pronouncement. That may take some time. Penwick Elsington advised me it could take up to several weeks but was quick to assure me that there could be no doubt of the ultimate outcome. I am to inherit the lands and title of the Duke of Chelsony.”
“Then why do you look as if in need of a purging physic? Isn’t this a momentous upturn in your standing?”
Her question took him aback for a moment, then he burst into laughter. “A purging physic Florence? By gad, I hope I don’t look so sour.” He shook head, bemused. “Yes. Yes, it is a momentous upturn, though I prefer not to anticipate it until such time as an announcement makes my standing official.”
“How is Edgar taking the news?”
“I have not seen him since he fled the ball. He is not at his London residence as I called there. I am not surprised he avoids town. The gossip mongers have been afire with the scandal. It cannot be an easy thing for him to endure, and I have no wish to antagonize the man further. Being found a bastard and losing his title and estates is sufficiently cruel even for me.”
“I take it there is little familial affection between you and Edgar?”
“I love him as the devil loves holy-water. Edgar was a mean-spirited, lying, runt of a child who grew into a mean-spirited, miserly, prick of a man. He cast both my younger brothers out into the world with only a pittance to live on and stole my step-mother’s jointure to use for his own selfish purposes while she lived in penury in his own house. Miles wrote to me at the time of Father’s death and told me of Edgar’s perversion of Father’s wishes, but I was helpless to do anything other than write a letter to Edgar appealing to his better nature. At the time, I knew it was a fool’s errand. He has no better nature.”
A Destitute Duke Page 7