Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  “I can see it all—­Verity propping up the body at a card table and dragging a drunken Barry, to sit on the other side.”

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I’m certain I helped her.”

  “I’m certain you didn’t,” he said dryly. “It’s a miracle this didn’t end up in my sister’s infamous Duke Diaries, stolen and printed in the newspaper.”

  She didn’t form a reply for a beat. “As you can see, you were very right to chastise me recently, about the absinthe.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You were not the only one who made a mistake that night. You forget.”

  Faint grooves of anxiety appeared on her forehead. “James . . .” she began softly.

  “Yes?”

  “I should not have agreed to marry Edward. I know I should not have. I knew you would be horrified . . .”

  “Amelia, tell me. Who was this man you shot? ”

  She glanced away. “It was Edward’s heir . . . Percy Godwin.”

  James started.

  ”He was in such a state of blind, evil excitement, insisting he was in possession finally of some document.” The pale sheen of embarrassment crested her cheeks. “He was mad in his triumph and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . He was about to take advantage of me—­”

  “You don’t need to say it.” He clenched his hands into balls of fury but held back a choice oath unfit for anyone’s ears.

  “He was looking for Sussex and the Prince Regent that night, and Percy just happened to find me instead.”

  A ball of fury formed in his gut.

  “I grabbed the book of documents after.” She studied her fingers. “And I threw it in the fire while Verity determined Barry was merely passed out from drink, and Percy dead.”

  A rush of impotent fury and relief burst in his gut.

  “Verity does not know who it was. And I did not tell her.”

  He instinctively grasped her hand and bowed, wordless.

  “I won’t have your gratitude,” she insisted. “And if you must know, I did not throw the book in the fire because of what you think. I did it for Edward. While I should never have played God, I am almost glad Percy threatened to abuse me for at least I do not have to feel very guilty of depriving the world of this particular Godwin,” she finished in a whisper.

  “I only wish I could have killed him myself,” James replied, and exhaled harshly. “Well, as I see it you’ve two choices before you,” he continued, sensing she wanted the comfort of formality. “I can either arrange for you to disappear and live in complete ease—­a safe haven. Or I will ensure that you retain the protection that Edward’s name will provide. If the worst came to light, the word of a duchess, without proof or motive otherwise, would stand in the House of Lords. It would be a risk—­a risk of embarrassment, but there is also a risk to go into hiding and without the protection of a duke’s name. What would you prefer to—­”

  At that moment the unwilling bridegroom of the hour, Sussex himself, opened the door to the small chamber without a single warning knock. “Get your bloody, sodding hands off my wife,” he roared, plowing toward him like a bull at a red flag.

  James pushed her away a half second before Sussex’s body collided with his. James hit the edge of the escritoire before he landed on his back with Sussex on top of him.

  “Get off of me,” James rasped, and pushed Sussex away from him. “I was thanking her, not abusing her, you idiot.”

  Sussex coughed once and then regained his feet while appearing as embarrassed as a schoolboy caught fighting behind a schoolhouse.

  “Only a child takes out his anger on someone who is not responsible for it to begin with, Edward,” Amelia said, raising her chin.

  Sussex changed direction and prowled inches in front of her.

  James nearly gave in to the urge to pummel him. Sussex knew not what he owed her.

  “I told you I am not leaving this alone until you give me an answer, Amelia Primrose Godwin,” Sussex growled. “Why did you hoodwink me? You could have at least asked if I would marry you.”

  She sniffed and would not meet his glance. “I’ve acknowledged my full guilt in this ridiculous affair. And I’ve promised to make sure it is rectified, annulled, and the evidence buried so deep that no one will ever know that a Scotswoman got the best of the new, oh so powerful Duke of Sussex. And I can promise you will never have to see me again. But, Your Grace,” she said a bit stronger, “there is something I think you have completely forgotten.”

  “Really,” he said, put out. “And what is that, Your Grace?”

  “I thought you said I would never call myself ‘your duchess.’ ”

  He ignored her bait. “Damn you woman, why did you do it? I will not be diverted.”

  James had never seen even half the anger in Sussex’s face before. It was more shocking than snow in July. “Back down, old man,” he warned quietly.

  “Stay the sodding hell out of this, Candover,” Sussex continued, returning his glare to Amelia. “Why?”

  Chapter 12

  From the gilded side table of HRH the Prince Regent

  Isabelle shook her head in disbelief, and reread the handwritten top of the express a footman had just delivered to her in her chambers. She had no time for the regent’s absurd witticisms. But like trying to look away from a lady’s atrocious hat or a silly dandy, she could not ignore the lure of the prince’s notes.

  My dearest Isabelle,

  It has been an age. I’m beginning to worry my affections and concern for your well being are not returned in sufficient amounts.

  No news? No darling little stories to take away the sting of little progress? No more talk of the importance of plans? No more delightful lists to consider and revise?

  May I remind you that we are on the brink, the very rim of the brink, of complete anarchy and chaos—­or perhaps you will try harder if I insist the entire future of England depends on you. Hmmm. It’s so difficult to motivate ­people today—­especially members of the ton. They want for nothing. And I’ve never had a flare for threats. They always take an air of unoriginality or—­

  She crumpled the gilded edges of the future king’s note without reading the rest.

  There was no more time for lists or for exchanging witticisms with His Royal Highness. And all her plans and attempts to hurry her fate had gotten her nowhere.

  She had very possibly made an error in judgment. Or not. None of it felt right—­and that was not usual. James had always taught her to trust her instincts. Well, nothing made sense. A little nagging voice in her head kept asking why James had not simply denied what she had suggested concerning Amelia.

  And then an awful idea came into her head. Perhaps he knew her true sentiments toward him and was desperate to dash her sensibilities to his person.

  She felt ill. No, he would not be so dishonest. He could not. His first advice had been about honesty and that lies ate away at a person’s character and breached trust. And he said that one should never wager more than one can afford to lose and a lie was always a wager that never died.

  She felt ill. She had lied to him. She had lied when she proposed marriage. And he very likely knew the truth. He knew she had always loved him. His sisters knew and all the rest of their clutch of friends knew. And she had wagered on a lie and lost.

  But it was not settled between them. Every fiber of her being demanded truth.

  She knew what she had to do.

  It was simply the last thing she wanted to do.

  And that was always a sign. It meant it was the right thing to do.

  She had to have the courage to do what she had told James he must do. Open herself up for a very great chance of more disappointment.

  But the truth was all that mattered.

  And so she departed her chambers after a last glance in the looking glass, which revealed an anxious face, yet resolve in her eyes.

  She flew down the cool stone corridors of Sussex’s abbey and asked the
footman stationed in the main hall where James might be. Not a soul seemed to have any knowledge of his whereabouts. She darted glances behind each door, and beyond each window. But she could not find him. Nor could she find Amelia or Sussex.

  James Fitzroy had disappeared as swiftly as her righ­teous disgust toward him. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he did indeed love Amelia. And perhaps there was a reason nothing had come of it. Perhaps Miss Primrose had refused him.

  Or perhaps the archbishop was right and there was nothing between them. Sussex was very likely in love with Amelia, as the archbishop had suggested, or he would have corrected his secret union immediately.

  Amelia and Sussex were not her affair. They never had been unless Amelia requested her aid. And she had not.

  Was there any question why every man in Creation appeared to love Amelia Primrose? She was a woman of substance. Everyone loved Amelia—­man, woman, or child—­especially Calliope, and Calliope had proven to be uncanny in her character assessments.

  Oh, where was James? She searched the entire estate for the next two hours in vain until she gave up and retired to prepare for the evening meal.

  When Sussex, James, and Amelia did not appear at the lavish supper that night, Isabelle had further proof that she was a fool for having put her nose into something that was not her affair. No one wanted her involvement.

  And she appeared to be the only person in the drawing room prior to dinner who noticed their absences in the magnificent wood-­paneled drawing room. Sussex’s butler had informed the two dozen houseguests that the Duke of Sussex was sorry to inform them that an urgent matter required his attention.

  Calliope gently tugged on the skirt of her pale blue silk gown. “Isabelle?”

  “Calliope, dearest, you must stop doing that. You must announce your presence in some other fashion than pulling a person’s attire.”

  Her young eyes were wide with worry. “All right. But where is Old Sobersides? And what of Sussex? And Miss Primrose?”

  “It’s not our affair,” Isabelle replied.

  Calliope frowned. “Of course it’s our affair. They’re our friends.”

  “Since when have you considered His Grace your friend?” Isabelle’s tone was cool, but her cousin didn’t seem put off.

  “Since today. I’ve decided I like Sobersides. He’s still a bit stiff about the edges, but he can’t help it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He might try to hide it, but he worries about everything and everyone,” Calliope said, shaking her little head. “He’s worse than a mother hen with a clutch of chicks.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Can’t you see it? The more he likes or worries about someone the more he acts the opposite.”

  “And why does he do that?” she asked faintly.

  Calliope shrugged. “Why do I have to figure out everything? I am just a child.”

  “I thought you said that at fourteen you should be treated as an adult.”

  “And you said that fourteen was the height of being contrary. I am just living up to your opinion of me.”

  Isabelle laughed and hugged her beloved cousin to her breast.

  Calliope hugged her back. “I’m truly worried,” she whispered.

  “I am too, dearest,” Isabelle admitted.

  “You’re not supposed to say that,” Calliope murmured dejectedly. “You’re supposed to lie to me and say that you will fix everything and it will be all right.”

  “We’ve already discussed the cost of lies.”

  “Yes,” Calliope said, disengaging from Isabelle. “But that would not be a real lie. That is a lie adults tell children to foster security. It’s only when you are officially deemed old enough that those same adults yank the carpet of security out from under you.”

  Isabelle shook her head as she stroked Calliope’s head and glanced down at her bespectacled large eyes. “Dare I ask why they would ever do such a thing?”

  “To toughen you up,” she said sadly.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because that’s what old Sobersides told me the last time I saw him.”

  Isabelle felt a stab of sadness. It only grew in intensity when the guests queued up two by two, ranked by seniority to enter the echoing dining hall, where the ghosts of ancient monks seemed to lurk in every flickering light bouncing off the stone walls. An endless round of dishes was served to an endless array of guests. Isabelle played her part with little animation and much effort.

  No one else appeared concerned about the state of affairs. Mary was seated opposite Isabelle and chatting with great animation with Barry. Isabelle shook her head. Mary always insisted she was far too old for Barry, as she was more than a few years his senior, but Isabelle had always witnessed such genuine warmth between them and maybe even sensed something more intimate.

  It was with only the most stalwart effort that she managed to hold her own during the conversation with the two gentlemen on either side of her at the table. It was ridiculous, really. For all her talk of lists and nailing down a husband while here, she had done a remarkably poor job of sizing up two of the gentlemen that the Prince Regent had insisted she consider: the Marquis of Haverston and the Earl of Bronway.

  It did not take her long to make out their characters, in the end. While the Earl of Bronway was a kind gentleman, he had a very distinct lisp, an extraordinary girth, and far more interest in the fare being served than anything else. The Marquis of Haverston was a great wit with a dashing air. But sadly, it was obvious to anyone with ears on their head that he was a bit too pleased with himself. During the dinner hour he had told Isabelle his entire life story without once asking her a single question. He then turned to his other dinner companion at the table, a Lady Susan Howard, who giggled in an extremely grating fashion, and proceeded to repeat all his anecdotes to her.

  When thankfully the meal was consumed, Isabelle was one of the first to rise. Calliope dogged her steps.

  “You’ll find him now, won’t you?”

  “I promised you, Calliope.”

  “And you’ll make an effort to be nice to him?”

  “Only if you agree to amuse yourself for the rest of the evening?”

  “The archbishop and I have so much to discuss that it will not be difficult.” Calliope smiled as sweetly as a cat in cream.

  “You like the archbishop, too?”

  “Of course. I ask about various sins and he discusses penance. It’s vastly amusing. The penance never really matches the crime very well. Although His Grace sometimes becomes creative.”

  Isabelle was so on edge she could not laugh. She continued softly, “We will go riding together tomorrow if you like.”

  Calliope nodded and turned on her heel. “May we invite Sobersides?”

  “Perhaps.” Isabelle shook her head. “We shall see.”

  Her cousin had enough sense not to press the issue.

  Three-­quarters of an hour later Isabelle still had not found James Fitzroy. She had searched everywhere. The butler, the footmen, and the stable master insisted he had not left the estate. She had dared to knock on his chamber door, and even peeked inside. He was not with the other guests in the card room, library, or gardens. And he certainly wasn’t in the music room, where two young ladies were murdering a lovely little sonata by Mozart.

  Isabelle looked inside every chamber on the main floor, and accounted for every guest. She didn’t dare knock on the door of Sussex’s study when a man who appeared to be his steward informed her that Sussex was indeed inside conducting a private interview of some importance. Isabelle heard Amelia’s voice for a moment before it lowered. She returned her gaze to the steward.

  “Is the Duke of Candover with them?”

  “Your Grace,” the man bowed with deference, “it is not my place to say.”

  She had the audacity to push her nose two inches from his face. “Is he in there or not?”

  He stepped back, unmov
ed. “No, Your Grace.”

  She feared she might very well have lost her last shred of dignity as she left the poor man alone and continued her search.

  Finally, blessedly, she found him. He had hid himself well.

  She hesitated but a moment before she slipped between two statues blocking a path through a dusty corridor strewn with stone and other building materials, leading to a new east wing, still in construction. Everyone knew Sussex was mad for renovating every last inch of the duchy’s entailed properties he had just inherited. Indeed, Sussex would be officially inducted into the House of Lords upon the reopening of Parliament—­and the Prince Regent was so delighted by one of his favorites’ elevation that His Royal Highness had planned a formal celebratory ball that included every last member of the Upper Ten Thousand and even some of their hanger-­on relations.

  Edward clearly intended for all of the duchy’s estates to bear his signature good taste before then.

  She pushed down a loose lever on a door at the end of the corridor. It jangled a bit but would not open.

  A sound emanated from the other side. It sounded remarkably like a crow. Unintelligible, and harsh.

  “Are you in there? Let me in.” She rather liked her authoritative voice.

  Silence.

  “I know you’re in there.” Her authoritative voice never seemed to work well with this particular bird.

  “If you do not let me in then I will—­”

  “Hurf, ’nd . . . purf, ’nd . . .” His voice faded.

  “What did you say?”

  “Go ’way.”

  She could make out that baritone anywhere. “Absolutely not. Let me in, James Fitzroy.

  “No’ by the ’air of my chinny, chin, chiny, chinnyyyyyy chin chinny.” A brusque laugh, the sort she had never heard him ever make before, wafted through the door.

  Isabelle glanced around her and found a discarded stone in the rubble. Grasping it, she struck the lever as hard as she could. The door swung open in a small whirl of dust. She coughed as she entered and waved her hands in front of her eyes to shield them.