A Duke in Disguise (Westham Chronicles Book 3)

by Rachel Osborne

  It was but a small step from this for Edith to announce that the two young ladies ought really to have something new to wear if they were to move in such exalted circles during their stay. Mrs Barnes had been only too delighted to indulge her daughter in the purchase of a new dress, and upon Joanna’s receipt of a letter from her brother encouraging her to treat herself to something new, the day’s outing to Milsom Street was decided.

  “I know you were reluctant to speak of it before Mama,” Edith whispered, slipping a conspiratorial arm through Joanna’s and leaning close enough that she might be heard only by her friend and none of the other bustling shoppers who shared their desire to spend and be seen. “But I have been dying to ask you what else your brother wrote in his letter!”

  “You wish to know the details of his and Amelia’s wedding trip?” Joanna asked, feigning ignorance. “Ow!” Edith pinched her: punishment for her teasing, and she relented, fishing the note from her reticule and passing it to her friend. “Here, you may see for yourself.”

  She had read the letter twice over already and continued to consider her brother’s words at length.

  The Duke of Edgmont is a sound fellow. Far cleverer than most people with his wealth and position have a right to be, although I am surprised to hear he is in Bath! I thought it would be a near impossibility to ever pry him from London, for he has friends wherever he goes and, as you might imagine, admirers follow soon after. It took me a moment to place the second name you wrote to me of, Mr Nicholls, but now I recall I have heard it, most often on Lennox’s lips.

  This had been a somewhat unpleasant shock. Joanna had met Sir Benjamin’s friend Mr Lennox only once when he visited them in Westham. She had been, at that point, still somewhat estranged from her brother, and had judged him on his friendship with the man who had a penchant for gambling.

  Nicholls is a weak-willed, grasping sort of fellow and I advise you to steer clear of him, sister-dear. Oh, I do not suppose there is any real harm in him, at least nothing that might be resolved with a sound thrashing. But that is not the sort of advice one might offer to a sister and as you are without a guardian I know well - although I am sure Mrs Barnes is propriety personified - I advise you to steer clear of him altogether.

  “Well!” Edith harrumphed, passing the letter back to her friend. “He is not at all eager for us to befriend Mr Nicholls, is he? And to think, he seemed such an agreeable gentleman! I dare say your brother knows more than he lets on, though, and we must trust his opinion, for he speaks from experience.”

  “He speaks from his friend’s experience,” Joanna countered. “And Mr Lennox’s opinion is not necessarily one I would trust without question.”

  Edith’s eyebrows rose and Joanna feared she had betrayed herself in her defence of the gentleman who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger still. Well, I am committed now. She tossed her head.

  “I do not think it fair that we cut the man altogether, particularly if we seek to continue an association with his friend!”

  She prayed Edith did not notice the downturn in her voice as she spoke these words. She was not sure why the thought of continuing to pursue a friendship with the Duke of Edgmont filled her with such dread, but without the promise of a parallel acquaintance with Mr Nicholls, she saw little to attract her to the proud, obsequious duke. What had her brother said of him? Clever? She sniffed. The few conversations they had had together had not indicated anything approaching intelligence, certainly not to the degree that Ben should remark upon it. In fact, if the word was to be applied to any, Joanna would think it much more likely to apply to Mr Nicholls. Yet was his cleverness merely an affectation? A manipulation, designed to win friends he might burn as Mr Lennox had done his. Her heart sank. If only her brother had written the opposite about either man. She would have no qualms at all about eschewing further association with the duke if he gave her a reason to and a cavalier, gambling nature would certainly be reason enough. Why, then, was she not immediately poised to dislike his friend?

  “Joanna!”

  Edith’s sharp directive accompanied an even sharper jab to the side, and Joanna jerked to a stop alongside her friend.

  “What were you thinking just now?” Edith asked, a curious smile lighting her plain features. “You seemed quite oblivious to the fact that we were about to pass by the very shop we came to find! Come along, dear, and let’s forget any talk of dukes and their dreadful friends. The dress-maker has been the talk of our circle and with my limited funds and your free pass to spend your brother’s fortune, we might come out fairly well!” She paused, peering into the window in a state of rapture. “Oh! Look at that dusty pink! Would that not simply sparkle in the candle-light at the next grand assembly?” She shifted her weight from one foot to another, an imagination of a dance step. “And think how it will move! Yes, I am decided! That is the very colour I desire. Except - oh, look! Joanna, look at that beautiful deep green! I wonder if I would be better suited with such a dark, vibrant hue....”

  Edith continued to chatter and with difficulty, Joanna steered her across the threshold and into the shop, where she might rejoice over still more choices. Ordinarily she, too, would be excited to see so many different shades and patterns and made-up gowns before her, with the freedom to choose just precisely as she wished. These were new designs, too, she thought. Newer than anything she might have found in Westham. Yet her mind and her heart were still on her brother’s words, on his scathing assessment of Mr Nicholls and his contrasting endorsement of the duke. It ought to have pleased her, for she knew, logically, that the duke was a far better prospect than the anonymous Mr Nicholls. She could hear her own mother’s voice rejoicing that, not one week after arriving in Bath, her own daughter had secured the interests of so wealthy and titled a gentleman. Yes, Mama would urge her on, contriving to force them together at every opportunity until an agreement might be reached, all so that she might rejoice in the notion that her own daughter was to become a duchess.

  I ought to be excited for all that lies ahead, she thought, listlessly running her fingertips down a smooth, sheer length of fabric. A duke! And of all the young ladies in Bath, he seems to have taken an interest in me! She knew Edith envied her, though she would never say as much and had determined to be instrumental in matching the pair if she could not match herself. I ought to be delighted! Was this not the very dream I nursed since childhood? Granted, it was in Bath and not in London that she had attracted a wealthy, titled suitor, but she had attracted one all the same. Why, then, did she feel so hollow? Why was it the laughing, agreeable face of Mr Nicholls that swum before her closed eyes, and not his wealthy, elegant friend?

  “I DO NOT UNDERSTAND what is so pressing about a new pair of gloves!” Samuel fumed, following Edward as he strode along Milsom Street in search of a glovemaker.

  “You do not think it might be considered a little strange if the Duke of Edgmont possesses only one pair of gloves and that they are stained?” He glanced mournfully down at the offending glove, which bore a darkened, set-in stain from a poorly-managed glass of red wine at the previous evening’s dinner. “Sir George will recall the very evening on which I caused this stain, and if he sees me again he will know that I am ill-equipped for our stay in Bath.” His eyebrows knit. “Worse, he will know that I do not possess the funds to replace a single pair of gloves.”

  “You do not,” Samuel grumbled, low enough that his friend would not hear. He had known Edward had extravagant tastes which were usually kept in check by his somewhat limited income. Nought had changed in their role-reversal but the assumption of one another’s names, but still, Edward conveniently found excuses to spend Samuel’s money, either in person or on credit. I dread to think how many accounts have been opened in my name that I am as-yet unaware of! he thought. Edward promised to repay any debts that he incurred in their short visit, but Samuel had his doubts. When had he ever known his friend to be flush enough with cash to willingly repay debts?

  “Ah, here we
are!” Edward exclaimed, stopping all of a sudden in front of the very shop he had been seeking. “I heard tell that this was the finest glovemaker in Bath.”

  Samuel glanced at the window display, agreeably intrigued by a pair of handsome gloves and a matching cravat. His hand stole to his throat. It was not too extravagant a purchase for Mr Nicholls, surely, and would be the perfect addition to his toilette for the next assembly...

  “Mr Nicholls.”

  A figure had crept up to them while both men’s attention was pointed elsewhere and Samuel, still unused to hearing the name applied to him, did not turn at once. The stranger repeated the address but when Samuel was recalled to himself and turned his head, he saw a tall, muscular figure clad in black, whose fierce gaze was directed not at him, but at Edward.

  “You are Mr Edward Nicholls?”

  Samuel was unsure what to do, but Edward spoke first, paling a little before regaining his composure.

  “I am the Duke of Edgmont,” he said, his voice quavering a little. “You must have me confused with somebody else.”

  It was on the tip of Samuel’s tongue to follow his friend’s cue and introduce himself as the sought-after Mr Nicholls, but Edward spoke first.

  “My friend, here, Mr Smith and I have no notion of an Edward Nicholls, so kindly be on your way, sir.”

  The fellow that accosted them was evidently unused to such imperious dismissal for he hesitated, before at last letting out a growl of a sigh and stalking away, muttering unintelligibly to himself as he did so. Samuel turned to look at his friend.

  “Mr Smith?” he queried, his eyebrows lifting.

  “Would you rather I introduce you as Nicholls and earn you whatever punishment that fellow seemed poised to dish out? Come, let us see about these gloves.”

  “Punishment?”

  Edward was already half in the store, but Samuel was not so inclined to let the matter rest so easily. “What punishment? He clearly does not know you - or does not know you well, if he was able to be so easily put off. Do not pretend to know nothing about this, Edward, if there is some trouble waiting for you, you must let me know of it. I may be able to help you.” He did not say, and I do not wish to receive it unto myself while I bear your name! In fact, the idea occurred to him then and there to dispense with this foolish charade and come clean, but before he could the sound of cheery, feminine laughter reached his ears and he froze in the doorway, turning just in time to see Miss Devereaux and Miss Barnes waltzing arm in arm along the street, their faces bright and voices merry with excitement. Before he could decide whether to address them or seek refuge in the glovemaker’s and hope they did not see him, Edward had hailed them. No doubt he sees this as the very distraction he longed for, for I can hardly pursue my line of questioning with the ladies present!

  “Miss Devereaux! Miss Barnes! What a pretty picture the two of you make!”

  He pushed awkwardly past Samuel, stumbling out onto the street and making straight for the ladies, holding his hat aloft in a salute.

  “Good day!”

  “Good day, your grace!” Edith exclaimed, with an elaborate curtsey. Joanna matched her, although her lips merely formed the words, no sound came out. She lifted her eyes to Samuel momentarily, before dropping them away again. It was Edith who greeted him on behalf of them both, her smile stilted and her voice cold.

  “Oh, Mr Nicholls. We did not notice you there. Good day to you, as well.”

  It was not a warm welcome, but as they had begun to walk again, this time with Edward in tow, Samuel hurried after them, eager not to lose either his friend or the young lady whose figure danced through his idle mind whenever he allowed it to wander. Miss Devereaux was more reserved than she had been at the assembly and quite pointedly avoided speaking or even looking at him. Even a question he directed at her received no answer.

  “I see you have been shopping, Miss Devereaux,” he observed, at last, hoping to settle on a neutral topic.

  “Yes,” Edith said, dismissing the question with a toss of her pretty blonde head and turning back to Edward. “We have been shopping, but now we are tired of trudging in and out of buildings and fussing over accounts. We are determined to take a walk and enjoy this beautiful sunny day.”

  Samuel looked doubtfully towards the greying skies. He would not apply the word “sunny” to the weather at present, but he was also not one to curtail the enthusiasm of others.

  “Perhaps we might take a turn around the Crescent,” he suggested from his position at the back of the small party. This was agreed upon as being a fine idea, and they turned in that direction. Samuel fell, by chance, into step with Joanna, but almost as quickly Edith jumped backwards, bending at the waist to fiddle with her shoe and urging her friend and Edward to continue. Samuel was caught, unsure whether to follow them or to wait to escort Edith. At last, propriety won out and he sacrificed the company of Miss Devereaux for her friend. She, too, was a charming young lady, or she had been at the assembly. This particular afternoon, she, like Miss Devereaux, seemed strangely silent in relation to him. He did not mind it so very much. His brain was still struggling to make sense of the encounter with the stranger who had been looking for Edward Nicholls, and even more so of his friend’s denial. The avoidance of conversation with a young lady he was but a little acquainted with and not greatly interested in knowing better was of no great hardship to him. They continued in perfect silence until, at last, they drew within sight of the Royal Crescent, already bustling with people.

  Chapter Seven

  The fine weather had clearly appealed to a number of other visitors to Bath, for the Crescent was absolutely teeming with people. It gave the street of tall, elegant houses and the green slope beyond it a festive atmosphere and Joanna could not stop glancing around her, smiling at every figure she saw.

  “You have not been here before?”

  Mr Nicholls had noticed her reaction and smiled at it. He turned to Edith standing beside him, eager not to neglect her. “Either of you?”

  Edith shook her head vehemently.

  “We had heard of it, of course, but there seemed little point in walking all this way unaccompanied.” She looked significantly at the duke and Joanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  “How fortunate that we should come across you today, in that case!” The duke’s voice boomed and somehow Joanna found herself at his side once more. She spied a small crowd up ahead and aimed towards it.

  “Look!” she cried, pointing them out. “Here is some kind of entertainer! Do let us go and see what he is doing that has enthralled so many people!”

  She had begun to walk in that direction before waiting for a reply from her friends and drew level with the crowd almost immediately she realised the man was no orator or magician, as she had imagined, but an artist, sketching people’s portraits.

  “Oh, portraiture!” Edith exclaimed, clapping her hands. “We should have ours done!”

  “You would like to?” Joanna was surprised, for she did not think she had ever seen her friend’s likeness committed to paper. “Of course you must, in that case.”

  The artist, sensing the arrival of not one but two potential customers, hurried to complete his current work and turned his attention to the young ladies.

  “Which of you will go first?” he asked, his sharp eyes twinkling. He spoke with a vague continental twang to his accent and Joanna felt a thrill of excitement. He might be from France! It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him but before she could form the words, Edith had hurried forward, bouncing into the chair but lately vacated by a customer.

  “Very well!” the man chuckled, lifting his gaze back to Joanna. “You will go next, Madame! You can stay and see what a success I make of your friend and decide whether you will trust your own features to my pen!”

  As he spoke, he worked, lightly sketching out an outline for Edith’s face.

  “You must not tell me if it looks bad!” she instructed, struggling to keep her features still and not lau
gh.

  “Madame!” the artist tsked. “You wound me! I have sketched for the kings and queens of all of Europe!”

  “Indeed!” the duke laughed. “Was that before or after they lost their heads? You are French, are not you?”

  The wiry man’s lips drew down in a scowl and he did not reply straight away.

  “You are certainly talented,” Mr Nicholls put in, in an effort to undo the damage his friend’s thoughtless, boorish comment had done. “Have no fear, Miss Barnes, you appear very nearly completely yourself in the artist’s hands.”

  Joanna glanced at him, surprised and a little impressed at his handling of the duke. The artist certainly seemed to approve of this gentleman over his friend, for as he sketched, he angled his body a little more towards Mr Nicholls and Edith than Joanna and the duke. She wished she could be standing on Mr Nicholls’ side, listening to the merry nonsense he was whispering to Edith in an attempt to make the time she was forced to sit very still pass more quickly. Alas, the duke stood between her and her friends and to move past him would be too obvious a show of partiality. Something in her must have betrayed her restlessness, for the duke soon turned his attention towards her.

  “You will sit next, Miss Devereaux.” It was a statement, not a question. “Surely it will make a fine gift for your brother, a portrait capturing the time you have spent in Bath. A souvenir. A reminder, I hope, of happy times with good friends.”

  His smile grew a little on the word “good” and Joanna could not help but feel certain he referred to himself. She smiled back, but the expression did not feel or look genuine. Were they good friends? She ought to rejoice at the Duke of Edgmont, referring to her in such a manner. Showing plain partiality towards her. Mama would be so proud! That, if anything, made the matter even less bearable. She stifled a sigh, glancing back at Mr Nicholls, who was describing in great detail a group of people positioned behind Edith so that she would not be tempted to turn around and look and so destroy the artist’s work. He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up, still staying completely still but for his eyes, which rested on Joanna’s face. Her cheeks coloured, for she felt as if somehow he could see through her veiled good-humour and know, somehow, that she would much rather be speaking with him and Edith than the elegant, wealthy duke.