Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Gambling debts cannot be collected after death, Sophie. He has no claim in law. You need not be afraid.’ He took both her hands in his and tried to sound reasonable. ‘Sophie, I think you would be wise to abandon that book.’

  She gave a brittle laugh and frantically tugged her hands away, breaking the cord that held the fan to her wrist. ‘So that is why you came out to find me? That is why you soften me with flattery and kisses, only to lay down the law about my book. If you wish to find out what I have said about you, then you must wait until it is published, along with everyone else. And after what you have said and done, you may be sure it will be little to the good.’

  She stood up and faced him, her eyes glittering and her breast heaving at the magnitude of what she had said. It was unjust and petty and untrue, and yet she could not bring herself to retract it.

  He rose too and took her shoulders in his hands and looked down at her, magnificent in her anger. Perhaps he deserved it, forcing kisses on her, making little of something she obviously felt to be important, but why the venom? And was he going to allow her to make a fool of him? The whole ton knew he had said the book was not to be taken seriously. ‘Sophie, I did not come out here to scold you or lay down the law. I came to claim my waltz.’

  ‘It is over now.’ She meant more than the waltz.

  ‘Yes, but there will be others.’ He paused, wondering whether to go on. The happy atmosphere of a few minutes before had gone, been squandered by mention of the Count and that book. He had never intended either to get in the way of his declaration, a declaration of undying love and a proposal of marriage that came from the heart, but somehow they had. How could he have been such a blundering fool? ‘Sophie, there is something I wish to ask you—’

  ‘No.’ The one word was said very forcefully and accompanied by a great flash of lightning that lit the sky, outlined the trees and the marquee and the people dancing and made nonsense of the light from the feeble lamps. It was followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder that reverberated as if heaven itself reflected her fury.

  ‘We must go inside.’ He took her hand as the rain began, large spots here and there, soon followed by a deluge.

  They joined their guests as they deserted the marquee and rushed back to the house. Some were screaming, some trying to hold reticules, handkerchiefs, dance cards, over their heads to protect their elaborate coiffures. James held on to her as they all squeezed their way into the house. He was obliged to leave her in order to restore calm and order, but not before he had whispered, ‘We will finish our conversation on another occasion, Sophie, and I will have an explanation for that emphatic denial before I had even uttered the question.’

  The ladies were shepherded up to bedrooms by the maids, where towels were found for them; the men taken to the dining room or the gun room where they divested themselves of their coats and sat in shirt sleeves, downing bumpers of brandy. The storm continued unabated, matching the storm in Sophie’s heart as she went up to her own room and flung herself in a chair by the window to watch the flashes and see the marquee collapse in a heap of canvas and broken poles. He had been on the point of a proposal, hadn’t he? Could she have held out against him, if he had?

  He had spoken gently, kissed her tenderly, given her a present he had taken a great deal of trouble choosing. In any other circumstances she would have been crying out in ecstasy. Why then did he have to spoil it all by mentioning the Count and her book? Set against her passion for him, it was nothing, a tawdry piece of conceit. If he had never mentioned it, she might have given it up. Now, she was more determined than ever.

  She was wet to the skin, her hair hung down in sodden strands; she ought to take off her clothes and find something dry to put on. She lifted her arm; the cord from her fan was still encircling her wrist, but there was no fan. It was out in the garden, being ruined in all that rain. She sprang up and made for the door, pushing past Rose, who had come to help her, ran down the stairs and through the house, passing servants carrying jugs of hot water, towels and dressing robes, and out into the rain again.

  The garden was awash, the lamps put out. Unable to see the puddles, she paddled through them and made her way back to where she had been sitting with the Duke. The fan was not on the bench. She sank to her knees, feeling the ground about it, muddying everything, her lovely dress, her stockings, oblivious to the mud, rain, thunder, even the cold, for the temperature had dropped considerably. The fan was nowhere to be found. It was his gift, his special gift, and she had promised to treasure it. Instead she had lost it. Her salt tears mixed with the rain that continued unabated. Perhaps she had dropped it on the way to the house. She turned back, still on hands and knees, feeling her way, but the rain and mud hampered her.

  James, warned by Rose that Miss Langford had dashed past him and gone out again, went looking for her and found her crumpled on the wet path. ‘Sophie! In God’s name, what do you think you are at?’

  She lifted her head, but though she tried to rise, her wet skirt tangled itself in her legs and she fell back again. He bent to pick her up and cradled her in his arms. ‘My love, what possessed you to come out again? You will catch your death of cold. Let us get you back inside and into bed with a hot brick and a tot of brandy.’

  ‘My fan,’ she murmured. ‘I dropped it.’

  He was running with her towards the house. ‘You came out again and risked life and limb to look for that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How foolish of you. Compared to your life, it is nothing, a mere bauble. I could easily have another made.’

  ‘But it will not be the same. You said it was special…’

  ‘As you are. I pray there are no repercussions to this night’s folly. If you were to be taken ill…’ He could not finish, the prospect was too awful to contemplate and he needed his breath to carry her inside and up to her room.

  She felt warm and safe in his arms, and oh, so very, very tired. She was hardly aware of being carried through the house, of being put on her bed and handed over to the ministrations of Rose and Harriet, who was appalled at the state she was in. She was only half-conscious as they stripped the filthy garments off her and carefully washed her clean before tucking her into bed. She did not hear the guests leaving, all laughing now over the extraordinary end to the evening, something that would be remembered and talked about for years, even exaggerated until it became part of the folklore of the beau monde. Some even joked that the Duke had arranged the storm on purpose to entertain them. Sophie, the belle of the ball, was sleeping the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

  She was unaware that Alfred Jessop had been witness to the touching scene in the garden and had heard every word that passed between them. Not only that, he had picked up her fan and carried it triumphantly back to his mother, whose comment as she put it in her reticule was that something would certainly have to be done about the chit.

  Chapter Nine

  Sophie sat silently watching as the man who had introduced himself as John Murray scanned the first few chapters of her book. She had slipped out of the house without being seen and walked alone to the publisher’s offices, not at all sure how to go about persuading him to see her, an unknown writer with no introduction; after all, she was no Byron or Miss Austen, both of whom had taken the reading public by storm.

  As it happened, she did not need an introduction because Mr Murray always kept his ear to the ground and knew all the latest on dit. He knew she was the ward of the Duke of Belfont, recently returned to this country from a long sojourn abroad, and making quite a hit among the beau monde. He had not only agreed to see her, but had come from his inner office to greet her.

  It was two weeks since her ball, two weeks since the terrible storm that had wrecked the tent and played havoc with the garden, but that had been nothing to the havoc in her heart or the confusion in her head. One minute she was remembering the Duke’s gentle words, his loving kiss, the present of the fan, still missing in spite of an extensive search,
his concern that she might be ill from her soaking; the next she recalled him quizzing her about her book, as if that was all that mattered to him, asking questions about Count Cariotti. The Italian was nothing but a poseur and a cheat, of that she was sure. She was less sure about her suspicions that he might have had a hand in her father’s death. Nothing could be done to prove it and the Duke could not have known about it, so why was he interested in the man? It might be flattering to think he was jealous, but Sophie did not believe that; he was too composed, too cool for such heated emotions. And if that were the case, was he capable of love?

  Whatever the rights and wrongs of that, the Duke had shown his colours, had proved that all he was interested in was what she had put in her book. Had that anything to do with Lady Colway and his wish to protect his mistress, or Mr Jessop’s hint that he had something to hide, something not to his credit? The book would certainly not reveal that because she knew nothing of it.

  She had even considered destroying the manuscript, which would certainly have pleased the Duke, but when it came to doing it, she could not. It was the key to her independence. Now, more than ever, she needed to leave Belfont House. She would have done so the day after the ball if she had not felt too unwell, shivering one minute, hot the next, with a head that, for all its muddled activity, felt like wool. It was thanks to Harriet and Rose looking after her so well that she had made a swift recovery.

  Harriet. Of course she would support her brother, do whatever he asked of her, even suggest a marriage of convenience, if she thought it would serve his purpose, but Sophie had come to love her for her friendliness and generosity and what seemed like treachery was all the harder to bear. The only solution was to take herself out of it, away from the daily torment and to do that she had to be able to earn a living. She had decided it was time to show the book to a publisher.

  ‘This is very well written,’ he said, when she thought he would never speak. ‘But a little too mundane, I think. You need to spice it with a little gossip, a few famous names, something to make the reading public talk about it. Nothing scandalous, you understand, but titivating. Now, if you could do that…’

  ‘Won’t that lay me open to legal action?’

  ‘Let me worry about that. We have skilled lawyers.’

  ‘I am not sure I meant it to be that kind of book.’

  ‘It is the kind that makes the money.’ He paused. ‘Go away and think about it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stood up and held out her hand for the manuscript, trying to hide her disappointment.

  ‘No, I shall keep it,’ he said. ‘I will look at it in more detail and let you know how I think we can make something of it. I am not rejecting it out of hand, but you will need to work on it. You do have a copy?’

  ‘Yes. I have my original work.’ She had spent some time making the careful copy of the few chapters he had in his hand and, in view of everyone’s unhealthy interest in the manuscript, had wrapped the original in a parcel and hidden it in the chimney in her room. The weather had been far too hot for fires.

  ‘Good. I suggest we meet again in two weeks’ time, if that is agreeable.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘There is one thing, Miss Langford. Does the Duke of Belfont know what you are about?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, thinking of the many conversations they had had on the subject, but most of all picturing him creeping about her bedroom while she slept. ‘He is fully conversant with my intentions.’

  She bade him goodbye and set off back to Belfont House. She should have been pleased with progress so far, but she felt somehow deflated. She had not expected Mr Murray to fall on her book with cries of joy at having discovered a genius, but the fact that he wanted her to do what everyone thought she had already done, and fill it with scandalous gossip, was a little worrying. It wasn’t that she didn’t know any gossip—her father, in his cups, had often been indiscreet—but the fact that the Duke thought her knowledge dangerous. By dangerous did he mean legally scandalous? Or something more sinister? Mr Murray seemed not to be concerned about scandal; he knew how far he could go.

  She had hoped to ask him for an advance, in order to make a start on finding somewhere to live, but she had soon realised this was over-optimistic. She would have to remain at Belfont House at least for the time being. The best she could do was try to avoid the Duke, keep to her room and work on the amendments Mr Murray had suggested.

  The streets had been reasonably quiet when she set out, but while she had been in the publisher’s office, the crowds had begun to gather and, as had been happening all summer, they were intent on seeing some celebrity or other. Not only the pavements, but the road itself and every balcony was packed. She had not gone far when she found herself being pushed this way and that by what would have seemed like a mob intent on a lynching. They were running down the road alongside a carriage that was having difficulty making its way through them. Unable to make progress in her chosen direction, and finding that even standing still was impossible if she did not want to be pushed to the ground, she found herself propelled along with them.

  ‘What is happening?’ she asked a woman who was pushing past her, holding up her skirts and showing several inches of silk-clad calf.

  ‘Can’t you see? It is the Duke of Wellington, home from the war.’

  Sophie had never seen the Duke, and could not resist trying to peer into the coach. He did not seem to be a big man, his dress was far from ostentatious and he was looking decidedly alarmed. For a man known for his coolness under fire, this puzzled Sophie. Could everyone have been mistaken and this was not the hero of the Peninsula? She had visions of the poor man being dragged from the coach and torn to pieces.

  ‘He will have the coach over if he is not careful,’ she said, nodding towards one man, who had grabbed the lamp brackets and was hanging on for dear life. ‘And the horses are terrified enough to bolt.’

  ‘If you are so lily-livered, why come? Take yourself off and let those of us who want to cheer him on.’

  It was easier said than done. The crowds were so thick they had stopped the traffic. Carriages, carts, pedestrians came to a standstill. People cheered lustily, others yelled angrily at each other, horses neighed and reared. A curricle was overturned and its occupant disappeared under its wheels. A barrow of apples was upended and the produce rolled underfoot. Sophie felt herself slipping on the squashed fruit. Terrified of being trampled to death, she seized the first thing to hand, the rough sleeve of the costermonger.

  ‘Hey, le’ go o’ me,’ he shouted, pushing her away.

  Somehow she managed to keep her balance and then forced her way through the crowd to a side street, where it was quieter, though there were some people hurrying towards the melee. She walked quickly in the opposite direction. The noise grew fainter, but she kept going. It was not until she realised she had lost her direction that she stopped. She was at a busy crossroads that she did not recognise. Uncertainly she looked about her. It was evidently a poorer part of the city—the houses were huddled together, the people were raggedly dressed, the children barefoot, the roads running with filth. And the stench was decidedly unpleasant. Aware that she was being stared at from open doorways, she turned and tried to go back the way she had come.

  She could hear the clamour faintly in the distance. Was the coach still in the same place or had it moved on? Wherever it was, it was likely to be in a part of the town she knew and she would be able to find her way home from there. She set off steadfastly, trying not to run and show her fear.

  ‘Miss Langford!’

  She looked up to see Alfred Jessop approaching her. She was so relieved to see someone she knew she did not stop to question what he was doing there, or the fact that she did not like the man. ‘Mr Jessop, how pleased I am to see you.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ He stood and appraised her, smiling a little, so that she became aware she had lost her hat, her hair was in disarray and her sleeve had been torn. ‘But what are yo
u doing here and in such a pickle too? Where is your escort?’

  ‘I do not have one.’

  ‘I am surprised at Cousin Harriet allowing you out without one.’

  Now that she was no longer alone, she felt safer and able to sound confident even if she was still quaking a little. ‘Harriet was resting when I left. We are to go out this evening.’

  ‘And the Duke? Where was he?’

  ‘I have no idea. He does as he pleases.’

  ‘And so do you, it would seem.’ He paused, but when she made no answer he went on. ‘Independence is all very well, Cousin Sophie—I may call you Cousin Sophie, may I not?—but London at any time is dangerous for a young lady on her own, and with the unruly crowds, it is doubly so. Allow me to escort you.’ He turned and offered her his arm.

  ‘Thank you.’ She accepted his offer with a smile of gratitude.

  ‘Now,’ he said, as they walked, ‘tell me what you were doing in a place like Seven Dials. It is the most notorious slum in London and I am surprised you were not set upon.’

  ‘I have nothing on me worth stealing, a few coins in my reticule, that is all.’

  ‘A few coins! They would kill for those. And for the clothes you are wearing.’

  She shuddered. ‘Then I am doubly glad I encountered you. But if it is as bad as that, what were you doing in such a place?’

  ‘Taking a short cut, my dear, avoiding the crowds. But you have not explained your own presence.’

  ‘I was on my way home and encountered a great crowd chasing after the Duke of Wellington’s carriage. They were frightening and I lost myself trying to escape them.’

  ‘Easy to do, when you do not know your way about and when the mob sets its mind on causing mayhem, it can be very dangerous. Did they harm him?’

  ‘Not while I was there, but it was very frightening.’

  He patted the hand that held his arm. ‘There, my dear, you are with me now and I shall see you safely home.’