She was disappointed, for whilst her eyes recognised more than one familiar figure she did not find his amongst them.
“Miss Devereaux!”
Kitty Radcliff hurried towards her, her Mama following behind.
“Good evening, Mrs Barnes, Miss Barnes.” She curtseyed agreeably to Joanna’s friends. “Good evening, Miss Devereaux. How pale you look! I do hope you are not sickening for something! Here, you must be standing directly in the breeze, so close to the doorway.”
“Sickening?” Edith sniffed. “Personally, I have always envied your ivory complexion, Joanna, dear. Look, is that not Miss Hyatt and her brother? We must go and say good evening. Enjoy the assembly, Miss Radcliff!” Taking Joanna by the arm, she fairly dragged her away and Joanna could not have been more grateful when the crowd closed behind them, offering her and her friend some privacy.
“Thank you!” she muttered, gratefully squeezing Edith’s hand.
“Sickening! What nonsense! She was fishing for details, as if you are so inconsolably wretched over Mr Nicholls you should tell her!” Edith frowned. “Oh, bother! I hadn’t meant to mention him at all and here I am doing so before the evening is even five minutes’ underway. Forget I said a word! Look, I was not fibbing about Miss Hyatt. Rebecca! Good evening! Oh, how pretty your dress is! Where on earth did you find such an unusual shade of blue?”
Edith and Rebecca embraced, launching into a quick discussion of dress and shopping and although Joanna feigned interest, in truth her mind was already rapidly turning over what lay ahead of her. Kitty Radcliff could not be the only young lady eager to know what had occurred between her and the duke - not to mention the man who had pretended to be the duke. What would she tell them? What could she tell them?
A movement to her right caught her eye, and it seemed as if the entire gathered crowd parted like the red sea as a tall, elegantly-dressed gentleman tiptoed towards her. His voice reached her ears before he did, her mind identifying him by sound before her eyes could put a name to the figure before her.
“Good evening, Miss Devereaux. I wonder -” He paused, swallowed, had the grace to look nervous - or was this an act, too? “I wonder if you would do me the honour of dancing with me this evening, Miss Devereaux?”
Joanna did not answer immediately - indeed, she was not sure what answer to give. She had the fleeting urge to play coy, to bat her eyelashes and ask the gentleman before her who, precisely, was inviting her to dance, was this Mr Nicholls, or the Duke of Edgmont? But before her lips could form the words, her eyes recognised the dark, cruel bruise that shadowed half his face and made his eyes unnaturally squint. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her lips and she winced in sympathy with all the injuries she could see and those, undoubtedly, he still wore beneath his undeniably elegant clothing.
“Your grace,” Edith’s icy voice broke the silence before Joanna’s was able to.
“Miss Barnes.” He bowed, stiffly, his lips pressed in a grimace that was more from pain than embarrassment, Joanna thought. He bowed a second time to their friend, who he did not know and who watched, keenly, as he turned back towards Joanna.
“Miss Devereaux, I shall understand if your answer is no, but I hope - I hope that you might give me the chance to explain, to apologise in person -”
“You might have apologised before tonight!” Edith exclaimed, taking a step closer to Joanna’s side as if she feared the need for physical intervention.
“I sent a note.” The duke’s eyes flew to Joanna’s. “It was no substitute, but it was the best I could offer at the time, and -”
“We received no note!” Edith put in, with a cutting look.
“Then it must have been lost.”
“Convenient!”
Joanna frowned at her friend, who obediently took a step back, holding her hands up in a motion of surrender. She knew Edith cared to protect her, but she was not incapable of defending herself, particularly against a gentleman already reeling from injury.
“I would not want you to dance if it will cause you pain,” she said, at last, her gaze softening as she looked over the bruise that darkened his features. His expression lifted into the ghost of a smile and he gestured towards the gathering dancers.
“It causes me less than it ought to, if Providence has her say,” he confessed, the tiniest light creeping back into his eyes. “And, if I recall correctly, the first dance will be the minuet, which slow pace I should manage with minimal problem. I am more concerned that you are content to dance it with me, Miss Devereaux.” He looked at her carefully. “Will you?”
“Very well, Mr Nich-” Joanna caught herself, biting her lip and looking down at the floor. When she lifted her eyes to his, she saw a shadow and swallowed, lifting her chin. Let him feel ashamed for misleading me, she thought, a bitter sense of righteous indignation lodging in her chest. It is only fair he feels some regret for what has happened! In another moment, her bitterness melted. He was her friend again and he deserved to have her hear him out: at least, she wanted to. She hoped, somehow, there would be some explanation that would allow her to forgive him, to move forward, to trust him again.
“Very well, your grace,” she murmured, falling into step beside him. “Let us dance the minuet.”
THEY HAD MADE BARELY a step or two before Samuel tried to speak.
“Miss Devereaux, I trust you are...well?”
His courage failed him on the last word. I trust you are willing to listen to what I have to say, had been his intention. He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly and beginning again. “I ought to explain myself. You should hear the truth from me, at last. I can only imagine the things you have heard.” He smiled, ruefully, fixing his eyes on Joanna’s face and silently willing her to look up at him. She kept her gaze averted, but he did not allow such pointed avoidance to halt him in his quest. “Before I say anything, though, I wish to reassure you that it was never my intention to involve you in the scheme. It was never my plan for you to be hurt.”
This word, the first to have such an effect, caused her to raise her head sharply and look at him, but not in the calm, understanding way he had hoped. Her eyes blazed, her dark eyebrows drawing together and in that instance, he saw that same resemblance to her brother that he recalled noticing upon their first meeting.
“I was not hurt by your deception, your grace.” Her eyes narrowed. “It seems you bore the full brunt of that yourself.”
He winced, more from her caustic tone than from his injuries, for, though they still pained him, the pain had subsided to more of a dull ache. A reminder that he had been foolish ever to put his trust in Edward Nicholls.
His friend had deserted him when at last he had been permitted to leave the Carters’ house and return to the rooms he had shared with his friend. He had waited hours for Edward’s return, and when, at last, late into the night, he did set foot once more into their lodgings, it had been almost as if he expected to find his friend bruised and silent, demanding answers.
“I did not realise he’d actually rough you up!”
He had laughed, then, tried to make light of the whole situation, which was more than Samuel could bear. His head ached, and he could only remember, whenever he managed to close both his eyes for more than a moment, the way Edward had been quick to steer the ladies away upon Mr Briggs’ arrival, as if he had known the man’s likely cause for being there and had left Samuel ill-equipped to meet him.
“He spoke of debts, Ed,” Samuel said, fingering his hairline, where a cut had crusted over with dried blood. “I gather, from his means of extracting payment, that this was not his first attempt to have them paid.”
Edward’s lips had tightened, and instead of answering he’d stalked to the sideboard, pouring a glass of Samuel’s brandy that he drank in one swift slug, before pouring a second and nursing it with a little more care.
“I thought Bath would be far enough to escape him,” he muttered. “It was only a matter of money. If I could have secured it the matter would hav
e been resolved without violence. I needed time, that’s all. Time to-”
“To what?” Samuel asked, losing patience for his friend’s excuses and wanting only an explanation. “Was this your plan all along? To assume my identity and, what, use my fortune to clear your name while you were at it?”
Edward shook his head, slightly, suggesting that Samuel’s suggestion was not too far from the truth.
“And what was Miss Devereaux’s role in it all? Entertainment, only? A distraction?”
Edward shook his head again, looking down at Samuel with something like guilt in his shadowed eyes. Slowly, Samuel saw the plan as clearly as if his friend had explained it, point after point. He intended to marry Miss Devereaux - of course, the truth of his name must come out before the marriage could take place, but surely he had already concocted some way for that to happen that would not cause her to immediately part from him. Once married, he would have access to her dowry and as a brother-in-law to Sir Benjamin Devereaux, he would have access to all the funds he needed to clear his slate and begin again.
Samuel’s eyes fluttered closed, resigning the memory to the past, where it belonged. Edward was gone, fleeing in the night like the thief he was. Samuel would not pay his debts in full, for his friend could not even be persuaded to tell him their limits, which suggested they must be far larger than he imagined. Instead, once Samuel was sleeping, Edward had packed a bag and fled, taking anything he could easily and inconspicuously sell on the road. Samuel ought not to have been surprised but his friend’s betrayal hurt him almost more than his physical injuries. His pride still smarted at having been so thoroughly deceived. Surrender your name! he thought. It will be a lark! What a fool I have been!
He turned, then, obeying the steps of the dance, which brought him face to face with Miss Devereaux again. As soon as his eyes met hers she looked away, betraying that she had been watching him closely all the time his back was turned. That confessed her curiosity and buoyed a flickering hope in Samuel’s chest that perhaps, just perhaps, all was not lost. Edward had deceived her as he had deceived Samuel. In him, they had a common enemy. If only Joanna might be persuaded that he, Samuel, was not also her enemy.
“Miss Devereaux,” he began again when the dance contrived to bring them close enough to resume a conversation. “I never meant to harm you or cause gossip to spring up around you by your association with me, or with - with that scoundrel Nicholls. I assure you, he deceived me quite as thoroughly as he did you.”
“Oh?”
Only one word, but it was enough to betray her interest in his account. That was all he needed.
“He has disappeared, Miss Devereaux. It seems he had accumulated debts to more than a few unsavoury fellows.” He gestured to the bruises still darkening his complexion. “They did not know Mr Nicholls apart from a name, to my great misfortune.”
“Perhaps you out not to have assumed a name that was not your own, in that case,” she responded, coolly.
“Quite so,” Samuel conceded, with a contrite nod. “It was a joke that long ceased to be amusing. I merely wished to escape the mantel of duke for a short while. A holiday from myself, if you will. The chance to be known for myself, and not for my title.” He shrugged one shoulder, his features falling with a sigh. “I do not imagine you can understand. It was a foolish notion.”
“You wished to escape speculation and be anonymous for once,” Miss Devereaux said, her voice low and thoughtful.
Samuel’s eyes lit up.
“Yes! Exactly that!”
“And you did not care who was taken in by the scheme, or what damage was done to others along the way.” Joanna’s voice hardened. “I understand completely, your grace.”
Her expression hardened, and for a moment they regarded each other in silence, frozen in place and forgetting, for an instant that they were not alone. The lead of the pair beside them cleared his throat, and Samuel mentally shook himself, poised to resume their dance and mimic their neighbours, but Miss Devereaux turned on her heel and fled, leaving him standing alone in the midst of the crowd of dancers.
Chapter Twelve
A day after the disastrous assembly, Samuel sat alone in his study, nursing his injuries and feeling especially sorry for himself. He could not be angry with Miss Devereaux for her flight from the floor, despite the fact that her abandonment had only caused the rumours that swirled around him to intensify. I deserve worse than rumours for the way she has been treated, he mused, rubbing his forehead to ease the headache that was forming behind his eyes. He had not stayed long after that, preferring to avoid rumours at home rather than on full display and forever at risk of hearing what was being said about him by those he did not care to correct. Once Miss Devereaux had gone, with Mrs Barnes and Miss Barnes following after her, there had not seemed a great deal of point in remaining.
He had avoided society ever since, refusing all callers and keeping to his study. This was not the same study at which he and Edward had last spoken. He had given up those rooms and taken new ones, rather more fashionable, comfortable and befitting a duke. It had required him to forsake his relative anonymity but after news circulated that the Duke of Edgmont had been attacked by a ruffian near the Royal Crescent and the reasons behind the attack, there was no anonymity to be had in Bath. He had considered returning post-haste to London, but that felt too much like a retreat and whilst he was ashamed of Nicholls’ behaviour and his own part in it, he did not see why he must run away as if he, too, had things to hide.
“Sir?” A knock at the door preceded a servant, who entered with a note, and was dismissed with a nod.
Samuel lifted the note to his eyes, squinting at the dainty, feminine hand and thinking, for an instant, that it might be from Miss Devereaux. In another moment, his senses returned to him and he recognised Mrs Carter, asking if she and her husband might call on the duke to reassure themselves of his wellbeing. A smile lifted one corner of his lips. It must be the first time the country parson sought to call on a duke, but instead of questioning the propriety, he welcomed the opportunity to be reunited with what must be two of his only friends in Bath. He wrote back eagerly, inviting them to come as soon as they felt able and promising that he would be open to receiving guests at any hour that day. He had barely finished the note, had not even relinquished his hold on his pen when another thought occurred to him. Might he write down all that had happened, in hopes that Miss Devereaux might read it? He shook his head. He could not write to her unbidden, it would be tantamount to declaring his intentions and he was under no illusions that, even if he cared to pose such a question, it would not be answered in the affirmative at present. To whom might he address himself for assistance, then? Mrs Carter had already offered to speak to Miss Devereaux on his behalf, once she had pried the name form his lips by some means that must have been witchcraft, for he had been determined to keep Miss Devereaux’s existence a closely guarded secret. He had refused, feeling that the kind lady and her clergyman husband had already done more than he could have asked in restoring him to health.
His eyebrows knit together in a frown. There was one more person who might need an explanation, indeed one person who ought to have an explanation, lest he hear news of all that had happened from somebody else and immediately set his cause for Bath to call out the duke who had toyed with Miss Devereaux’s heart: Sir Benjamin Devereaux, her brother.
Before he could second-guess himself out of his decision, Samuel dipped his pen and began to write, setting to paper the whole foolish scheme and explaining his part in it as honestly as he dared. He did not betray Miss Devereaux entirely but said that she and her friend had been unknowingly caught up in the scheme and it was of concern that she would be unduly affected by its undoing that prompted him to write to her brother. It might also save my own skin, he thought but did not say. I have no desire to be called out in a duel by the best shot in London! He shuddered, his hand going instinctively to the ribs that still ached, though the doctor had assured him
they were bruised, not broken, and would heal right enough in time.
Both letters completed, Samuel summoned his servant and dispatched them, before turning his attention to the room. It was quite comfortable enough for him, but hardly the place to entertain guests, particularly when one guest was a woman. He hauled himself to his feet, making his way carefully to the parlour and crossing paths with his housekeeper as he did so.
“Have some fresh flowers brought to the parlour, would you?” he asked.
“Sir?”
She was surprised, evidently, at this small signal that he was to have company. The duke had been largely silent and solitary since taking the lease of these rooms and privately the servants had wondered if they ought to be concerned for his wellbeing. She brightened, dipping in a quick curtsey. “Certainly, your grace. Fresh flowers. Anything else?”
“Some tea...” Samuel frowned. “And do you have any of that fruitcake left from the other day? Although, I suppose it might be stale by now...”
“I shall have cook bake some fresh!” she said, smiling at him in a way that might have been motherly. “Are you expecting visitors?”
“Hoping for some,” the duke responded, with a merry smile. “A minister and his wife. Friends of mine.”
As he made his way into the parlour, he whistled. A cheerful, happy tune lifted the fog that had descended over him for the past few days and he felt his heart lift with it.
“WHY NOT ANOTHER VISIT to the pump rooms? You know how enjoyable a time we always have there!”
Had, Joanna silently corrected her friend. She did not say the word aloud, however, merely smiled sadly at Edith and held up the book she had been pretending to read all that morning. It was not enough to dissuade Edith from her campaign.
A Duke in Disguise (Westham Chronicles Book 3) Page 9