A Duke in Disguise (Westham Chronicles Book 3)

by Rachel Osborne

  The party lapsed into quiet as the artist worked, watching as the shape on the paper before them took form and grew into an unmistakable rendition of their friend, her cheeks dimpled, her lips still, her eyes fixed slightly up and to the right.

  “There!” he exclaimed, with one final flourish. “I am finished.”

  He signed the painting and lifted it carefully from his easel, blowing away any stray charcoal and handing it carefully to Edith. “Madame!”

  “Oh!” Edith exclaimed, blinking back happy tears as she examined the work. “It is lovely! Quite lovely!” She turned to Joanna. “You must go next, of course! Come, sit down and allow him to begin!”

  Joanna felt a strange urge to refuse but she could see how eager Edith was to witness her own friend committed to paper and could not help but feel a slight curiosity to see her own features in black and white before her. It would not be a gift for Ben, though, no matter how much the duke lauded this plan. Perhaps Mama would like it, she thought, feeling the same bitter sadness she felt whenever she thought of the absent Lady Devereaux. Perhaps she will need it, to recall what her only daughter looks like!

  This thought must have worked its way into her expression, because the artist tutted, looking sternly at Mr Nicholls.

  “This is no expression to commit to paper! You must make her smile, and then I will begin!”

  “PERFECT! THERE, MISS...?”

  “Devereaux,” Miss Devereaux said, then obediently sealed her lips in response to the frown her response won from the portrait artist.

  “You must hold that position exactly, Miss Devereaux,” he said, sternly. “Your friends may speak, but you must not.”

  By instinct, Miss Devereaux nodded, then blushed and murmured a sorry that earned her still more annoyed huffing from the artist. Samuel made a private promise to himself that he would pay the fellow extra for all his trouble.

  “It is a miraculous skill, I am sure, to be able to capture a person’s likeness so completely! Do not you think so?”

  Edith had addressed her question to the party at large but her eyes were fixed on Edward, so Samuel deferred the task of answering to his friend.

  “What? Oh, er, yes. Indeed. Quite charming.”

  Edith frowned at this unlikely response to her question - no response at all, really. Noticing the way Edward’s eyes fixed quite decisively upon her friend, she softened, smiling significantly in Samuel’s direction, as if the two of them were in possession of a shared secret, a secret concerning their friends.

  Samuel drew in a breath and turned away. Edith might rejoice at the notion of the Duke of Edgmont setting his cap at Miss Devereaux, but the real Duke of Edgmont was not nearly so delighted. Oh, indeed, he had embraced the opportunity of winning some anonymous young lady’s heart with nought but his wits, good humour and looks but he could not help but wonder if the notion had been folly in Miss Devereaux’s presence. Surely anything that might offer him the edge - even, Lord help him, the title he had rued possession of in London! - ought to be at his disposal.

  “Another beauty, in a garden of green!” the artist trilled, complimenting both his subject and his own skill as an artist for capturing it. “You are fortunate, gentlemen, to have such companionship!”

  Edith giggled at this obsequious praise and after a moment, Edward summoned up his own variation on it.

  “Indeed, we are! What elegance, what beauty and yet far beyond that, what you do not see, sir, and what the pen cannot capture: intelligence, wit and accomplishment!”

  A sharp breath escaped Joanna’s lips, drawing Samuel’s eyes to her. She had not moved at all, her expression still the same smile their artist had insisted upon her maintaining, but he saw her eyes roll up, so fleetingly that he might have imagined it. He laughed, disguising the reflex as a cough.

  “You do not agree?” Edward asked, pointedly.

  “I do not disagree!” Samuel replied, cheerfully. “How could I? Every word you say is true. But I think both young ladies are far too sensible of their own selves to be so needful of effusive compliments.”

  The artist sniffed, as if he had never heard so foolish a sentiment, and privately determined that this Mr Nicholls must have no desire at all to marry, or else he would play the game of courtship rather better than this.

  “Well, you must forgive me if I cannot contain my admiration as well as my friend,” Edward said, eager that Samuel should not have the last word on the matter. His voice rose so that he was almost shouting. “I think if young ladies in London were half as agreeable as either Miss Barnes or Miss Devereaux then we should have been foolhardy indeed to ever consider leaving.” He smacked Samuel on the shoulder so forcefully that it jerked him forward and would surely leave a bruise by evening. Samuel frowned up at his friend, who paid him no mind and instead took a step closer to Miss Devereaux so that he might continue to list her virtues, albeit at a rather lower volume, intended, surely, for no ears but hers.

  “I think our friends have taken rather a shine to one another, Mr Nicholls,” Edith whispered, edging closer to him. She had clearly forgiven him whatever slight caused her silence earlier and had decided once more to take him into her confidence, letting out a low sigh. “I ought not to mind it, I know, for how could any fellow notice me when I stand beside Joanna?”

  “You must not speak so unkindly of yourself, Miss Barnes,” Samuel answered, almost without thinking. He paused only when she lifted an impossibly broad smile in his direction, realising his error. “That is to say, any young lady must guard her own good opinion. It does nobody any good to consider one’s self worthless in comparison to another. There can only ever be one Miss Barnes, after all.”

  “As there is only one Mr Nicholls.” Her smile dimmed, but only a fraction.

  Samuel’s eyes drifted back to his friend, who was being studiously ignored by Miss Devereaux. Edward had redoubled his efforts to be charming, seeming not to notice how uncomfortable his never-ending stream of compliments made her. Or did it? Perhaps she, like many young ladies of her rank and position, was eager for compliments and cared little for their source or accuracy. Samuel swallowed his own disappointment. He had hoped that she, like him, looked below the surface and considered love more than a mere matter of flattery. Perhaps I am wrong, and it is Edward who has the best of our bargain after all. He could hardly rate his own success in winning a single lady’s affections since their arrival at Bath, where Edward had had the unenviable task of dancing with every eligible husband-hunter in the bunch. Samuel had laughed over it at first, but now, seeing not only Miss Barnes but Miss Devereaux’s manner softening towards his friend, he wondered at his folly and was only too pleased when the artist finished his portrait. When Edward escorted both young ladies away, leaving Samuel to pay for the portraits, it was the artist who remarked on the strange turn of events.

  “I am surprised the Duke of Edgmont should leave you in charge of his purse!”

  Samuel scowled at him.

  “Oh, do not take offence, sir,” the artist backpedalled, eager to undo whatever slight he had caused the man who held the key to his being paid for his last hour of work. “It is merely remarkable to me to see two gentlemen so unlike one another find such easy companionship.” He shrugged one thin shoulder. “But what do I know? I am no duke.” With a wistful sigh, he bid Samuel farewell. “Neither of us can know what life is like under such a title!”

  Samuel stalked after his friends, the artist’s final words dancing mockingly in his head. I knew only too well and despaired of it. Perhaps I ought not to have been so quick to surrender my title, as it seems that that is all anybody notices in this social-climbing world!

  Chapter Eight

  Joanna barely got to look at her portrait before the duke whisked it away, rolling it, along with Edith’s, into a tube and brandishing both like a trophy as the group walked further down the grassy slope. He saluted friends and acquaintances as they passed but hardly slowed his pace so that Joanna was forced to skip
a little to keep up. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to notice that Mr Nicholls was not with their group but some distance behind them, his features drawn down in a scowl.

  This is more like the Mr Nicholls Ben mentioned, she thought, recalling her brother’s words of warning that whilst the duke was an amiable fellow, his friend Mr Nicholls was rather less so. Her heart sank. It had not seemed that way before today. Even a few minutes ago, when she was sitting for her portrait he had been different. Had she not known which gentleman was which, going purely by her brother’s descriptions, she would have named the gentleman who had stood beside her and talked to her, whispering amusing nonsense designed to make her laugh Samuel Rowe and imagined his friend to be pretentious and irritating Mr Nicholls. What a pity I would be wrong to do so!

  “Here is a fine occupation for us, ladies!” the duke declared, spying a small flat piece of lawn laid out for bowls. A group of young people were laughing and talking as their game drew to a close and a simply dressed man gathered together his equipment, bidding the party farewell as the duke drew closer. He spied their approach and turned to invite the party to play next.

  “Perhaps your group would care to play, your grace?” he asked, when the duke had introduced himself and inquired after the cost of hiring the set. A price was named, an agreement reached, and quite before she was aware of what was happening, Joanna was engaged in a lively and increasingly competitive game of lawn bowls.

  Here, Mr Nicholls showed a talent that outstripped his friend once more, although he did not seem to be enjoying the game half as much as the duke. Joanna was surprised, wondering what it was that had stripped away the gentleman’s usually cheerful countenance.

  As Edith and then the duke took their turns she sidled closer to the fourth member of their group, trying to summon some observation or question that might draw him once more into talking.

  “This is my first time playing lawn bowls,” she managed, at last, silently cursing herself for so dull a comment and certain that Mr Nicholls would never care to respond. To her surprise, he lifted his eyes, meeting her gaze with a vague smile.

  “Oh? And how do you find it, Miss Devereaux?”

  Joanna frowned.

  “Confusing! I do not understand how one can ever be expected to win - oh, well done, Edith!”

  At that moment, Edith managed to get her ball closest to the marker by a hair, securing her the victory, assuming the duke was not now able to undo all her good work with his own throw.

  “Your friend does not seem to have difficulty...” Mr Nicholls remarked, his voice lightly teasing as they both watched the duke take his shot and fail, miserably.

  “How fortunate for me that our friends are not equally as talented at the game, for my mediocre skill still stands a chance....” He swallowed a laugh at the sight of the duke’s scowling face and excused himself from Joanna, taking a step forward and laying a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder, which was shrugged off almost immediately as the duke called for them to play again.

  Joanna was only alone for a moment before Edith sidled back towards her friend.

  “Well done!” Joanna congratulated her, squeezing her arm warmly. “You played very well!”

  “I ought not to have beaten the duke!” Edith confessed, biting her lip worriedly. “You must not tell Mama, or she will never forgive me!”

  “For what?” Joanna laughed, although she felt a prick of familiarity creep up the back of her neck. Her own Mama would surely express very similar concerns. She deplored young ladies outshining their male counterparts in any area, be it skill or wit or intelligence. It is no way to secure one’s self a husband, Joanna, she had remarked, afternoon upon afternoon, while they had sat in the wide parlour at Roland Park, discussing the behaviour of their friends and neighbours at the latest assembly. It is hardly important at so provincial an event as the Westham assemblies, but regardless. Gentlemen are gentlemen, be they in London or the country: they do not wish to be made fools of by young ladies. Privately, Joanna had nursed her doubts, certain that neither did gentlemen wish for wives without a brain or a personality of their own, but now she was the last of almost all her friends to even approach a state of matrimony. Perhaps she ought to have heeded Mama’s advice a little closer.

  “He does not mind it!” Joanna said, nudging her friend in the side. “See, he and Mr Nicholls are now in deep conversation over how best to position our second game. He could hardly blame you for rolling the winning ball when you did it so completely by accident!”

  Edith smiled but the expression did not quite reach her eyes. She fixed a confused glance on her friend, biting her lip as if steeling herself to ask a question she was not immediately sure of the answer to.

  “What else is the matter?” Joanna asked, steering her friend a step or two away from the gentlemen and affecting to examine a wildflower, allowing Edith the chance to speak without fear of being overheard.

  “You seemed to be getting on very agreeably with Mr Nicholls,” Edith said at last. “Even the duke remarked upon it. I think it was that, rather than merely failing to win at lawn bowls, that was the cause for his poor temper.” She lifted her narrow shoulders. “I think it quite likely he cares for you a good deal, Joanna, and you oughtn’t to spurn him for his friend.”

  “I wasn’t!” Joanna protested. “You think I must not even speak to another gentleman when the duke has not yet made a single claim on my time or my attention?” She shook her head. “What will he think of me if I suddenly devote myself slavishly to his eye and his alone? He will lose all interest if indeed he is interested at all!”

  Edith raised her eyebrows as if silently suggesting that she could not believe her friend would have the courage to be so cavalier with the affections of such a man as the Duke of Edgmont.

  “You heard how he spoke of you when we got our portraits taken!” Edith assumed an air of romance. “Such beauty! Such elegance! Miss Devereaux...!”

  “Stop it!” Joanna hissed, fearing her friend’s teasing would reach the ears of the gentlemen and be taken more seriously than it ought to be. “You act as if he is mere moments away from proposing when I assure you nothing could be further from the truth!”

  Edith fixed her with a disbelieving stare but obediently fell silent, allowing looks alone to offer her question. Despite herself, Joanna felt goaded into giving a response.

  “We are all friends, here, Edith! You act as if I am being improper in conversing openly with every member of our party, yet you do the same!”

  “I have not won the heart of the duke, alas,” Edith sighed. “If I had any chance of doing so, I assure you, I would not do a thing to risk losing it!”

  Joanna laughed, dismissing her friend’s words with a shake of her head, but something in Edith’s warning tone lodged in her mind. Was Edith teasing her, or was there some truth to the assertion that she had won the duke’s heart? Mama would be pleased. Delighted, even, that somehow, despite not being permitted within range of London that Joanna had secured herself so noble a suitor. She ought to be likewise delighted, for had she not always planned to marry and marry well? Why, then, did her heart sink as the duke turned towards them, his smile in place once more, and broader than it had been for the last hour.

  “Ladies! We are ready. Shall we begin again? Miss Edith, as our victor, perhaps you will care to throw first this time, and see if you shall cede your victory to a new competitor!”

  SAMUEL REARRANGED HIS scowl into a smile just in time for the young ladies to see it. Edward had addressed himself to them in a cheap and easy ploy to avoid his friend’s words and now there was no hope for them continuing their conversation, for the game was underway and the party of two separate pairs reunited into a foursome once more.

  “An excellent beginning, Miss Barnes!” Edward crowed, adopting that same grating, over-loud voice he had put on with the costume of “duke”. Samuel stifled a groan, trying his best to ignore his friend and seeking out Miss Devereaux, inst
ead, whose own expression was cloudy and unreadable. The reason for his wish to speak to Edward to begin with rushed back over him: it was for Joanna he sought to end their bargain, their game. It was her hear that was liable to be broken when she discovered the truth and Samuel would do anything, he realised, even court scandal and shame if it would save her from that particular fate.

  “Will you throw next, Miss Devereaux?” he asked, his voice strangled and strange to his own ears. He cleared his throat and began again. “Perhaps you, like your friend, possess a skill at lawn bowls that will put the duke -” His voice cracked on the word. “And myself to shame.”

  Joanna glanced up at him, her expression falling into a confused frown. He repeated the question, and something approaching a smile rested fleetingly upon her countenance.

  “I believe it should be your turn next, Mr Nicholls, if we are playing winners first. You came second in our previous game, did not you?”

  Samuel nodded slowly and watched as Joanna’s eyes went straight from him to Edward, her expression lifting with them. Second in lawn bowls and second in love, apparently. Again, he stifled a groan, this one directed at his own ridiculous sentimentality. He had never been so in London. What was it about Bath, or about being forced to resign his true identity and live under the mantle of another, that made him so nonsensical? Half-heartedly, he threw his first ball, not coming even within striking distance of the marker.

  “Come on, Nicholls!” Edward crowed, applauding sarcastically at his friend’s first failed attempt. “You can do better than that, surely?”