Kitty again opened her mouth, intent on voicing her one thought: That by her good friend Deborah Roxton’s own admission, her mother-in-law was the most sweet-natured creature alive and the best grandmother her children could ever hope to possess. But the words froze on her tongue when she realized that the nobleman looming large at their backs was the Duke, and that his face was taut with suppressed anger.
“Your support of my family is most gratifying, my lady,” he said caustically to the Lady Strathsay, a disapproving glance at Kitty, as if her silence put her in accord with the venomous sentiments of the viper in velvet. “So gratifying in fact that I believe we can dispense with your pearls of misguided, and dare I say, malicious sentiments for the foreseeable future.” When Lady Strathsay opened her mouth to protest, Roxton’s silence dared her to defy him. When she dropped into a respectful curtsey of assent he nodded curtly to Kitty then turned his back to greet his children with a welcoming smile.
“Oh, dear,” Kitty said when Jonathon strolled over to stand by her side, “I fear I shall have to spend all tomorrow explaining myself to the dear duchess.”
“Will you?” Jonathon asked, not hearing a word, his gaze still on the Roxton family gathering. He watched the Duke put an arm about his Duchess as she kissed her sons goodnight, while the little Lady Juliana, the bane of young Frederick’s life, tugged on the lace at Antonia’s sleeve to make certain her grandmother was indeed watching her flit about like a fairy. “Remarkable resemblance, don’t you agree, Kitty; that child and the Dowager Duchess?”
Kitty shut her fluttering fan with a snap and let it dangle on its silken cord about her wrist. “Strang! Tommy told me what you intend with the Duchess and I don’t think—”
Jonathon tore his gaze from Antonia. “I beg your pardon, Kitty, but you have no idea as to my intentions.”
“There are other ways of obtaining the deeds to the long-lost family clod of earth without the need to flirt with Roxton’s mamma.”
“Yes. You are right. But I do so like flirting with a beautiful woman.”
“Then flirt with any of the dozen or so pretty and much younger women here this week. Martha and Maria Aubrey are two of the prettiest young girls you could ever hope to meet—”
“They are mere children.”
“They are nothing of the sort and if you would only spend time in their company you would soon realize they have a good grasp of the realities about modern marriage. As your wife neither one would seek to interfere in your life.”
Jonathon’s lips twitched. “Dearest Kitty, a one-eyed man with half a brain knows your game. I saw you huddled close with Hettie. Trying to educe your support, was she?”
Kitty cleared her throat and hoped she appeared vague. “I don’t know what you can mean. Hettie is a dear friend and—”
“—one hot summer’s night in Hyderabad I foolishly dropped my guard and scampered under the mosquito netting with her,” he interrupted flatly, the dull look to his normally friendly brown eyes alerting Kitty to the depressing realization that her friend had no chance of rekindling Jonathon’s interest. “No offence to Lady Hibbert-Baker, but it is an encounter I don’t care to repeat in the cool greenness that is England.”
“Hettie aside, if you are in any way concerned that marriage to Martha or Maria would interfere with your female interests I can assure you that they are thoroughly modern girls.”
“How gratifying.”
“Oh, Strang! Can you not at least entertain the notion of remarrying?”
He shook his head at her persistence. “When will you give up trying to match-make me, Kitty?”
“When you remarry.”
“Then we’ll be having this conversation when we’re stooped and toothless. I intend to remain unshackled to the grave.”
She watched his gaze wander back to the Dowager Duchess of Roxton, who was walking with the children to the end of the Gallery, their goodnights completed for the evening, and pursed her lips in disapproval. Flirting with Antonia Roxton was not in Kitty’s plans for her brother-in-law. It was one thing to tup Henrietta Hibbert-Baker, that would not raise the collective eyebrow of Society, but pursuing the Duke of Roxton’s widowed mother, a decade his senior, would not only raise the collective eyebrow, it would drop the collective jaw and seriously compromise Sarah-Jane’s hopes of marrying Dair Fitzstuart, heir to the Strathsay earldom.
Dair Fitzstuart valued his mother’s opinion and Charlotte Strathsay valued society’s opinion. Poor Sarah-Jane’s hopes and dreams of a titled husband would come crashing down like the proverbial house of cards if one whiff of scandal was ever attached to her or her father’s name. Before she could stop herself, Kitty said with a half-hearted laugh,
“You’re not seriously pursuing Antonia Roxton. It’s a ridiculous notion. You’re practically the same age as her son, for God’s sake!” When Jonathon remained mute, gaze remaining fixed to the Duchess, she hissed at him from behind her fluttering fan, “Don’t make an ass of yourself, Strang! Not with Antonia Roxton. There’s a veritable battalion of pretty females here this week who—”
“So you have said. If only they were half as desirable.”
“She is beyond your reach!”
“But I have such long arms, Kitty.”
“Be serious! She was utterly devoted to the old Duke, even when he was ill and dying. She’s still in mourning for him. You’ll never win her heart.”
“It’s not her heart I’m after, Kitty.”
Kitty’s mouth dropped open. “Strang!”
“Only she can sign over the deeds to what was taken from my ancestor and I aim to make her see the merit in its restoration to my family.” When Kitty quickly hid her swinging jaw behind her gold paper-leaf fan, he smiled. “Oh, you’re not mistaken. I want that too. Very much.”
Kitty regarded him archly. “Let us delve into the realms of fairy folk for the moment and believe you can seduce Antonia Roxton… Once you’ve had your fill, what then? You expect she’ll melt like candle wax and sign over the deeds just like that?”
“What I expect, Kitty, is to work for my keep. But she’ll sign… eventually.”
It was Kitty’s turn to be dull-eyed. “Why don’t you just dispense with the seduction and lay your cards all before her. Such a sweet-natured creature is bound to see the merit in your case and sign over the Strang-Leven inheritance without argument.”
“And spoil our fun? I’m not a complete blackguard, my dear. I mean for her to enjoy herself just as much as me. And then… once she’s melted… she’ll sign.” Jonathon bowed and took his leave. “Now you must excuse me. Like a moth to flame, my candle awaits.”
But before Jonathon could take more than two strides towards Antonia a footman waylaid him with a summons: he was required elsewhere. It was the Duke and he wanted a private word on the terrace.
Those who still lingered in the Gallery playing at cards, or lounging on the arrangement of sofas and chairs discussing tomorrow’s boat race and the activities planned on the lawns, watched with veiled interest the Duke and his merchant guest conversing on the terrace. Two footmen at the French doors waylaid anyone wanting to take fresh air so that the conversation remained uninterrupted and not overheard.
Antonia wondered what her son could possibly be discussing with Jonathon Strang. Her daughter-in-law had returned to the tea trolley where the butler and a clutch of footmen were replenishing the tea and coffee urns and cake plates, and called her over to sit awhile with the few ladies who had not retired for a nap before the evening recital. Antonia dutifully sat, but not on the upholstered wing chair turned away from the French windows chosen for her by the Duchess. She went to the horsehair sofa that faced the terrace; her ever-present ladies-in-waiting hovering close by.
The Duchess enquired if her mother-in-law would care for a cup of coffee. Antonia shook her head but said nothing. She dutifully acknowledged the ladies in the circle with a smile and a nod but that was the extent of her interaction. Everyone looked side
ways at the Duchess, who did not repeat her offer. She spoke with Kitty Cavendish about an unremarkable incident that had happened at Drury Lane when she and the Duke had last gone to the theater. Kitty took up the thread and the ladies chatted about the latest plays on offer; yet all were acutely aware that the Dowager Duchess of Roxton sat amongst them mechanically fluttering her fan, her thoughts elsewhere. No one could be comfortable, least of all Deborah, though she kept a brave face and tried to pretend that there was nothing unusual in her mother-in-law’s distracted behavior.
But Antonia was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to join in a conversation about a play she had not seen with people who were intimates of her son and his wife, and she knew only in passing. She wanted to speak with her son but as soon as the double doors closed on her grandchildren’s backs the Duke had managed to slip away, and was now on the terrace with Jonathon Strang.
Why, she wondered, did Roxton need to be private with Jonathon Strang in such a public place as the terrace? Why not conduct the conversation in the privacy of his library where no one would see them or wonder at the content of their discussion?
She had watched the footman escort Jonathon Strang across the Gallery and smiled when, instead of following the servant out onto the terrace he crossed to the second fireplace where the younger guests were playing at charades, led by Dair Fitzstuart. His brother Charles and a number of young people were doing their best to guess the scene acted out before them. Antonia knew almost at once. Dair was a good actor, ably assisted by one of the Aubrey twins. She was surprised they had chosen such an old play, but perhaps it had enjoyed another run at the theater as Fielding’s plays often did, no matter their age. The scene was from The Mock Doctor, with Dair playing the part of Gregory and Martha Aubrey playing Charlotte, the mute girl who is not mute at all.
Antonia loved playing at charades. She had often teased her brother-in-law Vallentine mercilessly and with his wife Estée and Monseigneur laughed when Vallentine beamed with pleasure, thinking he had guessed correctly the charade in progress only to discover his guess was very wide of the mark. Such a happy foursome... She had lost all three of her best friends within twelve months: First Monseigneur; eight months later influenza carried off his sister Estée and then within weeks of Estée’s death her husband Vallentine had just faded away. The loss of Monseigneur had so completely numbed her that the death of Estée and Vallentine so soon after his passing had been beyond her comprehension. Now, thinking back on it, she realized her overwhelming grief at losing the love of her life had overshadowed all else. Perhaps her grief had been too much for them to bear...
There was an outburst of laughter and applause when the charade was won, guessed correctly, not by the younger set, but by Jonathon Strang, who made the company an exaggerated bow in recognition of their applause which elicited further applause and he put up his hand as if to say, no, he would not join them. His pretty strawberry-blonde daughter gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and then Charles Fitzstuart beckoned her over to confer with him before the boisterous group; it was their turn to act out. The charade commenced and Jonathon watched from the fireplace where he put a cheroot between his teeth, pocketed the slim silver case and, taking a faggot from the fire, stooped to light the tip. He applauded his daughter’s efforts with a handclap above his head and with the cheroot smoldering to his satisfaction he sauntered off, a cursory gesture at the waiting footman to lead him on to the terrace.
The Duke was standing with his wide back to the Gallery, hands splayed on the balustrade, waiting. When Jonathon came up he turned, snuffbox at the ready. Jonathon declined the pinch, showing the cheroot between his fingers, and when the Duke indicated the terrace the two gentlemen set off for a leisurely stroll. When they came back to stand before the French windows, Antonia sat up a little taller. Her son was smiling.
When Roxton smiled he hardly ever revealed his white teeth; except if he was greatly amused or angrily embarrassed. Antonia knew him too well. She doubted he and Jonathon Strang were exchanging on-dits. But what had Jonathon Strang said to make her son uncomfortable? She inwardly scowled, though her face was devoid of expression.
Now it was Jonathon Strang’s turn to smile, and just as broadly, the cheroot in the side of his mouth as he shook his head, an expression of mocking disbelief on his handsome features. He removed the cheroot, blew smoke into the air and laughed out loud as if told a good joke.
The Duke’s smile widened and he turned his back on the French windows, handsome profile to Jonathon Strang who perched on the marble lintel, long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles towards the Gallery, yet he was looking at the Duke. He was now the one doing most of the talking.
Antonia glanced at her son’s hands resting on the balustrade. They were balled into fists. She knew her son hated to be the center of attention, that he was shy and awkward when the object of singular scrutiny from a crowd. And yet here he was, on display to the occupants of the Gallery whom he must know were watching him intently, however furtively, in heated gentlemanly argument with his merchant guest.
Only one explanation presented itself: Roxton wanted this argument to be seen, for his guests to witness to what amounted to a very public dressing down of Jonathon Strang. He was openly castigating the man; making certain that Society knew his feelings, that he viewed him with disfavor, and without ever having to say a word against him.
Antonia’s instinct was to sweep out onto the terrace and confront them. After all, their white-hot discussion in some way involved her; intuition told her so. A glance at her daughter-in-law and her suspicions were confirmed when Deborah returned her questioning look with an odd little smile of embarrassment, attention diverted from her conversation with Kitty Cavendish, and yet she could not hold her gaze.
“I need fresh air,” Antonia announced, up on her heels.
“Of course, Maman-Duchess. But let Willis fetch you one of my shawls first. There is a cool breeze.”
“Merci, ma belle-fille. But me I do not need a shawl.”
“Yes, you do, Maman-Duchess,” the Duchess said firmly and accompanied this with a nice smile. She glanced about at the group of women and added in English, “Perhaps we could all take a turn about the terrace once the shawl is fetched for Mme la duchesse?” she suggested, an almost imperceptible nod in direction of Antonia’s ladies-in-waiting.
Willis curtsied and departed to have the shawl fetched.
Antonia hesitated. Was her daughter-in-law telling her what to do? She could hardly believe her ears. She certainly wasn’t going to stand about and be humiliated in her own home by a young woman who had been elevated to duchess for all of five minutes. She lifted a handful of her petticoats to leave when Deborah shot to her feet.
The women sitting on the arrangement of sofas all stood as one and held their collective breath. Likewise the gentlemen, who straightened from leaning on the backs of wingchairs and pulled at the points of their waistcoats to occupy the awkward moment.
“When Willis returns, Maman-Duchess,” stated the Duchess.
Antonia lifted her chin. “Willis can bring the shawl to the terrace.”
“No. We will wait.”
“No?” Antonia blinked. Heat flushed her throat. “Deborah, I do not need a shawl, I assure you.”
“I do not want you catching cold, Maman-Duchess.”
You do not want me to go out on the terrace to speak to my son, that is what you are really saying, Antonia grumbled in her head, adding audibly, “It is not cold and I am not an invalid, n’cest pa?”
“I do not disagree with you, Maman-Duchess, but I would be failing in my duty if I did not insist you wait for the shawl.”
The Duchess’s simple statement, said with soft-spoken straightforwardness, was accompanied by a steady gaze that dared Antonia to question her authority.
The heat in Antonia’s throat rushed up into her cheeks and it was on the tip of her tongue to remind her daughter-in-law that although she was indeed the
present Duchess of Roxton it was not her place to tell the fifth Duchess of Roxton where she may or may not walk in this house that had been her home and she its mistress for almost thirty years. But meeting her daughter-in-law’s soft brown eyes, Antonia’s indignation vanished as quickly as it had surfaced. The young woman was biting her lower lip, a sure sign of her nervousness. It’s taken all her courage to challenge me, Antonia thought with a sad smile. She must be quaking inside.
Poor Deborah. She had been placed in a most awkward position, one that only served to reinforce to Antonia the uselessness of her own position as Dowager Duchess. Treat was now Deborah’s home and she its mistress. She had every right to her insistence. Any other guest would not have hesitated to do as requested. They certainly would not have questioned the right of their hostess to make such a demand.
She should not have come to dinner. Her presence only made her son and his wife uncomfortable. They did not know what to do with her or how to deal with her. She did not blame them. After all, she did not have the answers to those questions any more than they did.
Of course it was her son who had put Deborah to the task of keeping her inside while he had words with Jonathon Strang. For why else was she not permitted the terrace? This made her more than ever suspicious that the discussion beyond the French windows did indeed concern her.
Slowly, Antonia sank back onto the horsehair sofa and resumed fanning herself.
“We will wait for the shawl,” she said quietly, a glance through the French windows, at the Duke and Jonathon Strang, wishing herself a bumblebee on the honeysuckle vine hanging heavily in flower over the terrace balustrade.
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 12