The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  “Oh, I will,” Jenkins said with a nod. “I’ll see to it she doesn’t squirrel it away with the rest of her mother’s money.”

  David frowned before he realized what money the groom was referring to. “Well, give my cousin my regards, then. I’m off to London. I’m about to finally take a bride, Jenkins.”

  The groom blinked. “Lady Clarinda, by chance?”

  The earl gave a start, rather surprised the groom would know of his intended’s name. “How did you know that?”

  Jenkins gave a shrug. “Simmons reads us The Tattler during dinner some nights. I must say, the roses are a nice touch, my lord.” He glanced down at the bank note he held and his eyes widened. Holding the ten pound note as if it were pure gold, Jenkins shook his head. “My lord, Miss Fitzwilliam already pays us a salary,” he said in a quiet voice, not adding that it was far less than what the earl was giving out.

  “Mr. Jenkins, Fair Downs is an entailed property of the Norwick earldom. Salaries are my responsibility,” David stated, almost as if had said the words many time before.

  The groom merely nodded. “She appreciates it, my lord. Really, she does. She’s just... proud, is all.”

  Allowing a sigh, David finally nodded. “Well, if the funds should grow short again, you might mention the possibility of some of her mother’s money behind the books in the study,” he suggested with a wink.

  Jenkins blinked again, the air going out of his lungs in a whoosh. “Yes, my lord. I won’t tell it was you who left it there.”

  “I appreciate your discretion.” David was about to take his leave of the house but paused. “I was very sorry to learn of Twin’s Second Favorite’s passing,” he said in a quiet voice. “I know he was her favorite.”

  Lowering his head a bit, Jenkins finally nodded. “He was my favorite, too, my lord. But now, Mr. Tuttlebaum has that honor.”

  David gave a nod, remembering how Mr. Tuttlebaum had managed to win every race in which he was entered. Too bad his younger brother, Mr. Wiggins, hadn’t been listed in Weatherby’s Giant Stud Book. At three years of age, he would have been eligible for last year’s races, David considered. Perhaps he would see to it Constance could enter him in the Ascot when he turned six. If Mr. Wiggins won, then Constance would have the winnings along with her inheritance and be set for life.

  A capital idea, David thought has he climbed into his coach for the trip back to the capital.

  Chapter 15

  Double the Choice, Double the Confusion

  Three days later

  Clarinda Anne Brotherton dared a glance at the ornate mantle clock in her bedchamber and wondered how much longer she would have to wait before the butler appeared. Open on the vanity was the missive she had received shortly after waking that morning.

  My dearest Lady Clarinda,

  A matter most urgent requires your attention. A reckoning, if you will, for you have a decision of utmost importance to make. Please accept my call at four o’clock this afternoon. Should you require an excuse to meet with me, say it is to ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, for you may require the time to make your decision.

  Yours very truly,

  D

  The handwriting was familiar, of course. She had received other missives from ‘D’. She was betrothed to the man, after all. But this one mentioned something urgent, and other than the plans for their upcoming nuptials, she could think of nothing else requiring urgency.

  Despite expecting it, she still gave a start when the sound of a sharp rap came from the door. “Come!” she called out. She dared a quick glance in the mirror in front of her, rather hoping her riding hat didn’t hide too much of the coiffure Missy had managed to create just the hour before. Her dark hair, wound into a simple chignon and secured with flower-tipped pins, would have been suitable for a ball, dressed as it was.

  The butler stood with his gloved hands behind his back. “There are two gentlemen calling on you, my lady,” he said as he held out white pasteboard calling cards.

  Angling her head to one side, Clarinda frowned before getting up from the vanity. “Two?” she repeated. “But I was only expecting....” She was about to say ‘D’, but thought better of it. “Norwick.”

  His eyes darting to one side, the butler seemed at a loss as to how to respond. “One of them is Lord Norwick, I am sure,” he replied carefully.

  Clarinda took the calling cards, examining each a moment before raising her eyes back up to meet the butler’s. “Oh, dear,” she murmured quietly. For in her hands, she held identical cards. Identical except for three letters. Or just one, depending on how one arranged the letters.

  “I apologize, but I do not recall which one gave me which card,” the butler murmured, his manner most apologetic. “Not that it would have done any good, though, seeing as how they’re dressed exactly the same.”

  Frowning so a fold of skin developed between her brows, Clarinda gave her head a quick shake. “I don’t understand.”

  Allowing a slight sigh, the butler straightened. “You will when you see them, my lady. I’ve shown them both to the parlor. I’ll bring tea in a moment.”

  “Bring the scotch, too,” she ordered.

  Or maybe I’ll have brandy.

  Clarinda hurried from the bedchamber and watched as the butler made his way to the back stairs. She had to slow her steps as she reached the top of the main stairs. Lifting the skirts of her riding habit, she carefully lowered herself down each step and was nearly at the bottom before she remembered her hat. She was about to go back up, but male voices sounded from the parlor, and they were tinged with a hint of anger. Or perhaps it was merely anxiousness. Nevertheless, curiosity had her proceeding to the parlor doors.

  About to breeze in as she would with any of her lady callers, Clarinda stopped short before she was one step beyond the threshold.

  She blinked.

  She managed to bob a curtsy.

  She even lifted both hands as the two gentlemen callers lowered their lips to the back of her knuckles and brushed identical kisses over them.

  But that’s as much as she could do before a gray cloud seemed to replace the images of the two men who stood before her.

  Two identical men.

  “She’s fainting,” one of the men said as he moved to get an arm beneath hers. The other followed suit, and soon the two had her half-sitting on the settee.

  “Do you have any smelling salts, Danny?” David asked as he found a fan and began waving it in front of her face.

  “Of course not,” Daniel replied, his manner betraying his annoyance with his brother. “But you should have known this was going to happen,” he accused. “The least you could have done was come prepared.”

  “Should I loosen her corset?” David asked, leaning over as if he intended to undo the buttons down the front of her riding habit.

  “No!” Daniel replied. “The butler said he would be bringing tea...” He stopped, rethinking his protest. If his brother was caught with his hand down Lady Clarinda’s corset, his chances at being the one chosen by her to be her husband would probably be significantly reduced. “Although, I suppose if you must...” he suddenly encouraged.

  David gave his brother a quelling glance. “I have to do something,” he argued, his gaze taking in the beauty whose head was leaning back against the top of the settee. Her swan-like neck, fully exposed, led to an oval face featuring a peaches-and-cream complexion with just a faint dusting of freckles on her pert nose. The high cheekbones weren’t as evident in repose, but her long, dark lashes were. He had half a mind to kiss one of her eyelids. God, she is beautiful, he thought, rather shocked he hadn’t noticed before. She looks like Arabella. Behind those eyelids, he knew her eyes were green. Or blue. Or both.

  Deciding to find out, he leaned over and gently kissed both her eyelids.

  “David!” his brother admonished him. “What the hell?” But his protestations stopped when he realized Clarinda’s aquamarine eyes were fluttering open. She was s
taring at his brother with an expression that easily betrayed how besotted she was with him at that moment.

  David lifted one of her hands in his and held it a moment. “My beautiful bride,” he murmured before leaning over to kiss her palm.

  Rolling his eyes, Daniel was about to put voice to a complaint when he realized Clarinda had turned her gaze on him. “Hello, Clare. I do hope you’re feeling better.”

  She angled her head and took a quick glance at both of her visitors. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Feeling as if his stomach had dropped to his feet, Daniel sighed. “The man who wants to make you his wife, of course,” he replied. “The man who has courted you in Kensington Gardens. Given you dozens of pink roses. Bestowed a sapphire ring on your finger,” he said as he moved to lift the hand on which the ring was displayed. “I wanted to give you our grandmother’s ring, but our mother, Dorothea, is still wearing it.”

  Clarinda furrowed her brows at his claim and pulled her hand back before he could grasp it. “Norwick?” she asked, her question betraying her confusion.

  “At your service,” David replied with a bow.

  Smiling, Clarinda angled her head and said, “I knew you had a twin brother, but you didn’t tell me he looked exactly like you,” she admonished lightly.

  David gave a slight shrug. “Which is why I thought to bring him along. So that I might introduce you.”

  Clarinda turned her attention to Daniel, whose expression betrayed the murderous thoughts he was having of his older twin brother just then. “Have you been in town long?” she asked, her inquisitive expression faltering just a bit as she paid witness to the man’s sudden anger. What had he said about Kensington Gardens? she wondered, finally feeling as if she had recovered from her fainting spell. Seeing two Norwicks in the parlor was enough of a shock, but it didn’t help that her lady’s maid, Missy, had tugged her corset strings a bit too tight. She could barely breathe!

  Daniel’s chest compressed just a bit. Despite her attention on him, she didn’t seem to recognize him. Didn’t seem to realize that he was the one who had been courting her. That he was the one who bestowed the stolen kisses on her in Kensington Gardens. That he was the one who gifted her with pink roses. “Of course, I have,” he replied. “The entire time I’ve been courting you, in—”

  “The entire time I’ve been courting you,” David interrupted, still holding onto one of her hands.

  Daniel was about to say something like, What, two minutes? but realized Clarinda was gazing at his brother with a look so besotted, she might have been a girl fresh out of the schoolroom and not the woman of two-and-twenty she was.

  How can this be happening? he wondered, his chest compressing so he actually winced. Am I having a coronary? What the hell?

  “You’re looking a bit peaked, brother,” David said suddenly, his face betraying a hint of concern that actually looked genuine. “Are you ill?”

  “That was my thought, exactly,” Clarinda chimed in, her gaze finally resting on Daniel. “The tea should be here any moment, but perhaps you could use some brandy. I think there’s a bottle here—”

  “That won’t be necessary, my lady,” Daniel said with a shake of his head. He moved to get up from the settee, a combination of anger and hurt—nay, betrayal—providing the strength he needed.

  He would deal with David in private.

  His hand still hurt from when he had punched his brother just two weeks ago, but more important, he didn’t want Clarinda paying witness to his lack of skills as a pugilist.

  Chapter 16

  A Ducal Visit to a Ward

  Two weeks later

  Timing is everything, Octavius considered as he regarded the luncheon that had been set before him. The Angel, one of the oldest coaching inns in all of England, was the perfect place to rest his horse and enjoy a pint of ale with his food. Just behind him, a burly driver had taken a seat along with a servant, the liveried man putting voice to a complaint about how much longer their trip south would take. When the man mentioned Craythorne, the duke paid closer attention.

  “Don’t fash yourself. I’ll get you there ’afore nightfall,” the driver said just as the tavern maid delivered their pints of ale.

  “And you know where this cottage is?” the servant pressed. “I’ve not been to his lordship’s seaside retreat before.” The manner in which he said ‘seaside retreat’ was most facetious, Octavius thought, which had him wondering where this particular servant usually worked.

  The driver made a sound not unlike a snort. “Outside Southampton, of course. Not too far from civilization.”

  Octavius realized just then that the liveried servant certainly wasn’t from Craythorne Castle in Basingstoke—Guildford was in the wrong direction if they were headed to Southampton.

  “Trust me, you’ll like it better than London in the summer,” the driver continued. “And seein’ as how the earl won’t be going back to London anytime soon, it’s either work at the cottage or you’ll be seein’ to finding a new position.”

  “I suppose,” the servant replied, rather dejected. Any further talk was interrupted by the delivery of their meals, and a moment after that, word that the horses had been changed out on their coach, and that they needed to leave.

  Octavius dared a glance at the two servants as they took their leave of The Angel, half-tempted to follow them to Craythorne’s cottage. He remembered his own coach, though, still somewhere on the way to Guildford from London—he had passed it a half-hour out of Guildford—and decided to continue to Huntinghurst.

  Once he finished his early luncheon, Octavius was about to take his leave when his coach pulled into the yard. He grinned at the driver and groom, giving them a wave as he set Poseidon on the road south to Cocking. The change of coach horses would take just twenty minutes in the inn’s yard, but he had no intention of waiting.

  The coach had departed the duke’s townhouse more than an hour before Octavius took his leave on Poseidon. He had given instructions to the driver to wait for him at Guildford. Octavius had thought to ride his horse only halfway to Huntinghurst and then spend the rest of the trip in the coach, but the fine summer day and Poseidon’s determination to run on this day—apparently the entire distance to Huntinghurst—had him changing his mind.

  Curious as to the endurance of his mount, he wondered how long Poseidon could last. The beast had been restless of late, and with so many mares in season in the city, the beast seemed more anxious than usual. A few days at Huntinghurst after a hard run could only help his disposition.

  And perhaps his own as well. Mourning Jane was making him maudlin. Old.

  Nowadays, he spent his early mornings riding along the Serpentine. He spent his days in Parliament—the current session wouldn’t end until mid-July. He spent his late afternoons in Kew Gardens, staring at the red roses Jane had said were her favorites. He spent his evenings reading. He spent his nights fighting nightmares.

  And of late, he had been spending far too much time wondering how he was going to tell his ward the story of how her mother had died. At least, according to Craythorne.

  Perhaps she already knew, he considered. The newspapers in London had finally included the death notice, buried on the page with the rest of the obituaries. The Earl of Craythorne hadn’t made an appearance in London since the death of Arabella, his few letters to associates mentioning his heartbreak at having lost his wife to a horrible accident.

  Arabella tripped and hit her head on the footboard,

  Craythorne had written to his late wife’s brother, the Earl of Heath.

  Despite my attempts to revive her, she was already lost to me. I had her buried in the family plot on the Craythorne grounds.

  That letter had been written just a few days after Isabella was dispatched in a ducal carriage to live at Huntinghurst. When Octavius approached Albert Brotherton, Earl of Heath, to give him his condolences, he wasn’t surprised to learn Heath was rather suspicious about the circumstance surrounding his
sister’s death. I cannot help but believe he had something to do with her death, Heath offered as he indicated the letter he had received.

  When Octavius asked if he might read Craythorne’s account of the tragedy, the earl immediately handed him the missive. I sent a man to investigate, Heath said in a quiet voice. But the servants all told him Craythorne grieved for two days—first for Arabella and then for his daughter—and then he disappeared from Basingstoke.

  Do they suspect he was complicit in her death? Octavius asked then. Should they be willing to talk, servants could be a wealth of information about their masters and mistresses.

  Heath took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Not a one. Those who were willing to speak at all said Craythorne was in love with Arabella. Devoted to her.

  Octavius remembered frowning at the comment. Isabella had never mentioned Craythorne’s devotion to her mother. Had the shock of seeing the man leaning over Arabella, his hands around her neck, completely obliterated any good memories she might have had of her father?

  But he couldn’t give the question further consideration when he realized Heath was regarding him with a quizzical expression. You are suspicious as well? he asked.

  Octavius allowed a noncommittal shrug. Did your man interview anyone who handled the body? Could he confirm she died of a wound to the head?

  Shaking his head, Heath allowed another sigh. He could not.

  After taking his leave of Stockton House, Octavius found Norwick at Brooks’s and passed along what he had learned from Heath. We may never know the truth, he warned the earl.

  Octavius would never forget Norwick’s response.

  I will. If it takes killing the man, I will learn the truth.