Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  ‘She did, but why should she not? We are betrothed and soon to marry.’

  ‘She needs my permission.’

  ‘I do not think so. Her father was all in favour…’

  ‘He is dead and she is now in my care.’

  ‘Only because she chose to come to England ahead of me and needed a home.’ He gave his visitor an oily smile. ‘What better than to apply to her cousin, the Duke? It would give her—and me—an entry into English society. You see, my mother was English and disowned by her family for marrying my father, in much the same way as her parents were driven from these shores by family disapproval. We both have scores to settle.’

  James did not want to believe it, told himself he did not believe it, that the man was lying, but underneath it all, there niggled a tiny doubt. Could Sophie be so mercenary? Did she bear the family a grudge? But if she wanted revenge, why had she fled his house? Surely she would have stayed to wring every last ounce of advantage out of the situation? ‘If being under my roof is so convenient, then why has she left it?’ he demanded. ‘I should have expected someone such as you have painted her would have milked the cow to the last drop of cream before leaving.’

  ‘Has she left?’ It was spoken casually, but James caught the tiny expression of surprise in the man’s voice and realised he did not know where Sophie was. His relief was profound. And that was followed quickly by the thought that if she was not here, then he had no idea where to look next.

  ‘To be independent, she says. No doubt she thinks that now her book is to be published, she does not need me.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Nor you either.’

  ‘It is to be published?’ Now the surprise was more overt. Count Cariotti was worried.

  ‘So I understand. The publisher, I gather, is enthusiastic and expects it to be all the rage.’

  ‘The publisher already has it?’

  ‘No, I have it for safe keeping. Can’t take any risks, don’t you know.’ He watched the man’s face; his expression was bland, but his eyes gave him away. They were furtive. If he had not been so worried about Sophie, James would have felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that he had unsettled him. ‘I will bid you good day.’

  He left and hurried back to the young lad he had paid to hold his horse’s head. How long before Cariotti realised his visitor had abruptly departed without stating the business that had brought him and from there to try to decipher the meaning of his last remark? He climbed on to the seat and urged the horse into a trot, weaving in and out of the traffic, which had become thicker since he set out. His attention was not entirely on his driving, but he was a good whipster and could steer a clear course even while his mind was elsewhere. Where now? he asked himself. Where was Sophie? Where would she go? Whom did she know? Whom could he trust not to spread gossip if he admitted she had left his house?

  He went first to the publisher, but Mr Murray said he had not seen her since the day before when he had made arrangements for her to return with an amended manuscript two weeks from then. ‘She assured me you knew of her intention to publish,’ he told James.

  ‘Oh, I did. She has my full support, but you have read it, you know what an unconventional lady she is. I am afraid she may have gone off in search of new material and landed herself in a bumblebath.’

  ‘Oh, I hope you do not think I encouraged her in that.’

  ‘Not at all. But if she comes to you, will you endeavour to find out where she is staying and let me know?’

  ‘Of course, your Grace.’

  He tried Mrs Jefferson, questioned Ariadne, then Dorothy, then the Buskins. Though Theodore was not at home, his parents could not throw any light on Sophie’s intentions. Peter Poundell was a bachelor and had gone out of town to the Newmarket races, so he could not be questioned. Would Sophie have gone out of town? How could she do that without money? He had no idea if she had any funds or not; he had always assumed not. In spite of that, he began asking at the coaching inns, but they were too busy to notice details of every traveller and he could not be sure she was alone. Dispiritedly he turned for home, in no hurry to face Harriet and his aunt and letting the little horse find its own way.

  ‘Good morning, your Grace.’

  He turned to see Theodore Buskin riding alongside him. ‘Hallo, Buskin. You haven’t seen anything of my ward, have you?’

  ‘Miss Langford? Yes, saw her this morning boarding a coach at the White Horse in Piccadilly, thought it was a bit rum seeing she was on her own. Bit risky that and I asked her where she was off to…’

  ‘And?’ James’s voice betrayed both relief and anxiety. ‘Where was she going?’

  ‘Said she was going to visit relations in the country. Only she didn’t have enough for the fare. Borrowed two guineas off me.’

  Langford! Why hadn’t he thought of him? But would she go to her uncle, even after he had refused to receive her? The answer was yes, if she were desperate enough. And who had made her desperate? Guilt flooded through him. How could he have been so stupid? ‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled.’ He felt in his pocket, only to discover he had left the house so hurriedly he had no money on him. ‘Come home with me and I will repay the loan.’

  ‘Ain’t dunning you for it, sir. It’s all the same to me if it’s never repaid, but it all seems a bit queer. Why leave without an escort and with no blunt either? Was she running away?’

  ‘No, not exactly. I think she did not want to trouble me. Now, if you are not coming home with me, I am in some haste.’ Without waiting for a reply, he whipped up the horse and returned to South Audley Street at the fastest pace the pressing traffic would allow.

  Harriet was waiting anxiously for his return, but his aunt had left, for which he was thankful. ‘Well?’ his sister demanded as soon as he was in the door, even before he could remove his hat. ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘No, but I know where she is.’ He flung his hat on the table and followed her into the drawing room where he collapsed into a chair, bone weary. ‘She’s gone to her father’s family. Buskin saw her boarding the coach and asked her where she was off to.’

  ‘A stage? Alone? Oh, James, what have we done? Even if she arrives safely Lord Langford will never countenance her. Or if he does take her in, how will he treat her? He is known to be a cruel and violent man. You must go after her, you really must.’

  ‘And what am I to say? Am I to drag her forcibly from the arms of her family?’

  ‘We are her family too. And I am sure Lord Langford will not mind having a Duke for a nephew-in-law.’

  James laughed harshly. ‘Even if he is a Dersingham?’

  ‘You can persuade him.’

  ‘I would have to persuade Sophie first.’

  ‘Then do it. Don’t just sit there, James. Go. Go or I shall have to go myself.’

  ‘I have every intention of doing so. I have told Sadler to make the travelling coach ready. The mail might be quicker, but then we would have to return the same way and I think it might be better if we had our own conveyance. Can you arrange something to eat while I go and ask Talbot to throw a few things into a valise for me? Tom can ride ahead and arrange for the horses at Stevenage and bring mine back.’

  ‘In that case, I am coming too. You will need a chaperon.’ It was a statement that set him laughing wildly. ‘What is so funny?’

  ‘Miss Langford wanders all over London on her own, visits dubious characters, takes the public stage without a companion and you worry about chaperons! She is probably this very minute starting a new book, even more scandalous than the first.’

  Sophie was not beginning a new book. Her book was the last thing on her mind. She was standing with her back to the gates of Langford Manor, her bag at her feet, doing her best not to cry. She was a fool to have come. After the letter she had received from her uncle in Italy, she should have known there would be no welcome. She had not expected to be greeted with open arms, but neither has she expected to be turned from the door like some common beggar.

  Her uncle
had refused to see her, sent a message by the butler, a man Sophie remembered being in service to her father when they lived here, though he pretended not to recognise her. ‘His lordship is not at home to callers,’ he said pompously. ‘Not to those without an appointment.’

  ‘But I am his niece.’

  ‘I acquainted his lordship with your claim, miss, and his reply was that he had no niece.’

  ‘How can he say that? My father was his older brother, Hugh. You know that very well, Dobson.’

  ‘His lordship’s message was quite plain, miss.’

  Desperation had made her bold. ‘Then I shall stay here on the doorstep until he comes and delivers it himself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you, Miss Sophie,’ he said in a whisper. ‘This is not a happy house. You would not like it here. Go back where you came from. It has to be better than this.’ She had heard her uncle roaring inside the house, demanding to know why it was taking so long to deliver a simple message and get rid of the beggar. Niece! She was no more his niece than the man in the moon. Angrily she had pushed her way inside, not to plead for a home, but to demand to know just what he meant.

  She had found him in the drawing room. It was just as she remembered it; even the wallpaper and decorations, faded so badly the pattern was hardly discernible, were the same. The once-elegant sofas were frayed, the tiles about the hearth cracked. Her uncle had moved in the minute her father had vacated the place, supposedly to look after it, but it was in a dreadful state. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, much fatter than she remembered, his face an unhealthy puce. In a chair to one side sat his wife, grey-haired and cowed, with a nasty bruise on her cheek.

  ‘Who let you in?’ he roared. ‘By heaven, I’ll have Dobson’s hide…’

  ‘Dobson did not let me in. I knew my way, or had you forgot this was once my home?’ She spoke calmly because she was too angry to be upset.

  ‘Get out! I’ll have no bastard in my house.’

  She heard her aunt gasp, but ignored it. ‘How dare you! My mother—’

  ‘Your mother was a Dersingham whore. She made out she was carrying Hugh’s child to trick him into marrying her. But I know Hugh, for all his weakness, would never willingly have begotten a Dersingham.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘How do you know?’ he sneered. ‘You hadn’t been born. But you came along soon enough after the nuptials. I never thought to see the day a Langford would marry a Dersingham and I never would have if the whore had not blinded Hugh with her wiles. You are a Dersingham like your mother…’

  ‘And proud of it,’ she said. ‘I am sorry I troubled you. Good day, my lord.’ And with that she turned on her heel and strode away to the accompaniment of raucous laughter.

  Now she stood at the gate, penniless because the money Theodore had lent her had gone on the coach fare and the hire of a trap to bring her from the Red Lion in King’s Langford to Langford House. She was miles from a town where she might obtain employment. She picked up her bag and started to walk.

  Her memories of the area came back as she made her way along country lanes that had once been familiar. Here was the church and the vicarage where she had been sent for lessons when she was small; here was Willow Farm, where she had often gone with her mother to see the animals and watch the harvest. How happy she had been, roaming the countryside, listening to birdsong, fishing for tiddlers in the stream with Josh Ridley, the farmer’s young son. But now everything had a neglected air. The corn lay flattened in the fields, weeds grew chest high, the village cottages were lacking a coat of paint; doors hung lopsidedly. This had all happened because her father had been forced to flee his creditors and her uncle had taken over the house and estate, which was entailed and could not be sold. He knew he would inherit it one day, so why had he not kept it in good heart?

  None of that concerned her now. Her problem was to find somewhere to sleep and quickly too, because it would soon be dusk. Whom did she know hereabouts who would give her a bed for the night? Not the cottagers, they were too poor, their houses too overcrowded already to admit a guest, especially one they would consider above their social standing. The nearest landowners… And then she began to laugh hysterically. The nearest landowner was James Dersingham, Duke of Belfont. His country estate, Dersingham Park, lay six miles distant, but it was no good going there. She had burned her boats; anyway, his Grace was still in London.

  In the opposite direction lay the small town of Baldock. And there she might find lodgings, but as she had no money she would have to offer to work for her keep. How stupid and short-sighted she had been! She should have stayed calm after the upset of last night, stayed where she was and found work and lodgings before she left, then she would not now be in this predicament. But how could she have faced the Duke, her tormentor, day by day, slept under his roof, eaten his food, pretended to Harriet all was well, when it was very far from well?

  Of course, she could have swallowed her pride and accepted his proposal; he would have dealt fairly with her even if he did not love her. But how could she, loving him as she did, accept second best? He wanted a wife, but was not prepared to give up his mistress. Many women might accept that situation as normal, glad to have the protection of a husband and the social standing, but perhaps they did not love the men with the intensity she loved James Dersingham. It burned through her, made her fiery and illogical, made her want to laugh and cry together, would admit of no rival. She could not coolly assess the advantages and tell herself that, as long as he was discreet, she could live with it. She could not. Nor would she marry a man who did not trust her.

  He had behaved badly over that book, creeping about her room in the dead of night, quizzing her about it, afraid she was going to expose his love affair with Lady Colway when everyone knew about it anyway, asking her about the Count, as if anything in the world would persuade her to marry that man, then almost in the same breath offering for her himself. It did not matter now. She had looked for the manuscript before she left, searching the drawing room and the library, but could only surmise he had locked it in his desk drawer for safekeeping. She had toyed with the idea of forcing the drawer, but decided such an action was beneath her. Later, when she was settled, she would write and ask him to return it. When she was settled.

  Her feet, clad in the soft shoes she wore in town where she did little walking, were beginning to throb with fatigue; her valise, so light when she set out, was becoming heavier and heavier. She put it down to sit on a low stone wall to rest, watching without interest as a carriage bowled along the road towards her and passed her in a rattle of harness and rumble of wheels, but not before she had caught a glimpse of its occupant. It stopped suddenly a hundred yards further on, the door was opened by the coachman and Lady Myers stepped out and began walking towards her. ‘Sophie, Sophie, can it possibly be you?’

  She stood up, laughing with relief. ‘Yes, my lady, it is.’ She had forgotten her mother’s lifelong friend lived within a short carriage ride of Langford Manor.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘What are you doing here?’ her ladyship asked when Sophie was ensconced in the seat beside her and they were on the move. ‘And all alone too. Where is your escort and your maid?’

  ‘I do not have either.’

  ‘But what can his Grace be thinking of? It is beyond believing. A lady simply does not travel alone in England. Anything could happen to her.’ She stopped and searched Sophie’s face. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘It is a long story.’

  ‘Then you had better tell it at once, for, to be sure, I shall not know how to proceed until I know the whole.’

  Sophie took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘I found I could not settle at Belfont House and went to visit my uncle.’

  ‘Why could you not settle and why go to Langford? You knew he would not make you welcome.’

  ‘I thought he might change his mind.’

  ‘And did his Grace make no attempt to stop you?’


  ‘I did not tell him.’

  ‘I see. You ran away.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She remembered telling Harriet she never ran away from anything, and, if she decided to leave, she would tell her. She had persuaded herself that writing a scribbled note was telling her, but she still felt guilty. ‘I said all along I would only stay until I had found a way of earning a living, then I would find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Earn a living, Sophie? What can you mean? You are surely not still pinning your hopes on writing a book.’

  ‘I have written it and it is to be published, but it has caused such a fuss.’

  ‘I am not surprised. A kinswoman of a duke, living under his protection, reduced to writing for a living, I can understand the Duke making a fuss.’

  ‘Oh, it was not the Duke who made the fuss, it was everyone else. I had to leave.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, how could you? The Duke and his sister made you welcome. Why throw it up to go to an uncle who does not care one iota for you?’

  ‘He was the only one I could think of.’

  ‘You had done better to come to me in the first place.’

  ‘I would have done, but I thought you were about to leave the country.’

  Lady Myers smiled wryly. ‘And you knew I would send you back.’

  ‘Oh, no, please do not. I only want a night’s lodging, then I will trouble you no more.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘I will look for work.’

  ‘Hmmph. We shall see.’ They had arrived at the door of the Myers’s country home on the outskirts of a small village between Royston and Baldock. It was an old Tudor manor, which had been brought up to date and made comfortable. No more was said as her ladyship instructed the groom to bring her parcels and Sophie’s valise into the house and ushered her uninvited guest through the great oak door and into a vast drawing room. It was dusk and the lamps had been lit all about the room and a cheerful fire blazed in the enormous fireplace.