My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  Theo began to enjoy herself. “Poor darling. You must have nightmares about all those bosoms.”

  He smiled, a rueful quirk of the lips that transformed his features from severe to… charming? Surely not.

  Theo took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion to her right. “Speak plainly, Mr. Tresham. The bosoms await.”

  He assumed the place beside her. “Plain speaking has ever been my preference. I left England after finishing at Cambridge and went abroad to make my fortune. In that endeavor, I was successful, but the whole time I ought to have been finding my way in polite society, forming the right associations, being a dutiful heir, I was instead making money.”

  Without any partners. “Why Cambridge? You would have met more young men from titled families at Oxford.”

  Theo really ought to scoot a good foot to the side. She’d taken a place in the middle of the sofa, and Mr. Tresham was thus wedged between her and the armrest. There was room, if they sat improperly close.

  He was warm, however. Theo stayed right where she was.

  “Cambridge offers a better education in the practical sciences and mathematics. I am something of an amateur mathematician, which skill is helpful when managing finances.” He gazed at the fire, his expression once again the remote, handsome scion of a noble house.

  Theo had the daft urge to tickle him, to make that warm, charming smile reappear. He’d doubtless offer her a stiff bow and never acknowledge her again, which was silly when they’d discussed marriage, money, and mistresses, despite their short acquaintance.

  “You offered me plain speaking, Mr. Tresham, yet you dissemble. No ducal heir needs more than a passing grasp of mathematics.”

  He opened a snuffbox on the low table before them. Taking snuff was a dirty habit, one Theo had forbidden Archie to indulge in at home.

  “Would you care for a mint?” Mr. Tresham held the snuffbox out to her.

  Theo took two. “Tell me about Cambridge.”

  He popped a mint into his mouth and set down the snuffbox. “My father went to Oxford. He earned top marks in wenching, inebriation, stupid wagers, and scandal. I chose not to put myself in a situation where his reputation would precede me.”

  Most young men viewed those pursuits as the primary reasons to go up to university. “I gather he was something of a prodigy in the subjects listed?”

  “Top wrangler. So I became a top wrangler at Cambridge.”

  Ah, well, then. “And you’ve taken no partners. Can’t your aunt assist you in this bride hunt, Mr. Tresham?”

  “Quimbey’s wife doesn’t know me, and she’s too busy being a bride herself. She and Quimbey are…” He fiddled with the snuffbox again, opening and closing the lid. “Besotted, I suppose. At their ages.”

  Mr. Tresham clearly did not approve of besottedness at any age, and Theo had to agree with him. Nothing but trouble had come from entrusting her heart into the keeping of another.

  “They are off on a wedding journey of indefinite duration,” Mr. Tresham went on. “They are reminding me that soon Quimbey will not be on hand in any sense. He’s an old man by most standards, and I have put off marriage long enough.”

  “They are also leaving you a clear field to make your own choices, which seems to be a priority with you.”

  He crossed his legs, a posture more common on the Continent. “Possibly. They also asked me to move into the ducal town house during their absence, supposedly to keep an eye on the staff and the damned dogs. Pardon my language.”

  “And you capitulated because of the dogs.”

  He crunched his mint into oblivion. “A pair of great, drooling, shedding, barking pests. Caesar and Comus. You’ve met Comus, who once belonged to my late father. Caesar is larger and more dignified.”

  “You want me to help you find a bride?”

  “Precisely. I haven’t womenfolk I can turn to for firsthand information, haven’t friends from school who will warn me off the bad investments. In this search, I need a knowledgeable consultant, and I am willing to pay for the needed expertise.”

  A consultant, but not a partner, of course. “Why exert myself on behalf of a man I barely know? I could end up with another woman’s eternal misery on my conscience.”

  Another smile, this one downright devilish. “Would you rather have my eternal misery on your conscience?”

  Well, no. Mr. Tresham was little more than a stranger, but he’d been kind to Diana, he was dutiful toward his elderly relations, and he’d resolved Bea’s situation with Davington.

  Then too, Theo could not afford to turn up her nose at any legal moneymaking proposition, however unconventional.

  “What are you asking of me, Mr. Tresham?”

  “Your role has two aspects: matchmaker and chaperone. I will accept only those invitations where I know you have also been invited. You will simply do as you did with Dora Louise—guard my back. You will also keep me informed regarding the army of aspiring duchesses unleashed on my person every time I enter a ballroom.”

  Theo got up to pace rather than remain next to him. “And my compensation?” Five years ago, she would have aided Mr. Tresham out of simple decency. Archie’s death meant she instead had to ask about money—vulgar, necessary money—and pretend the question was casual.

  “We’ll get to that,” Mr. Tresham said. “You will be more effective as a bodyguard for being unexpected and for knowing my pursuers. I’m not buying merely your eyes and ears, though, Mrs. Haviland. Please be very clear that I am also buying your loyalty.”

  “My loyalty comes very dear.” In some ways, loyalty was a more intimate gift than the erotic privileges a courtesan granted to her customers.

  Mr. Tresham rose. Manners required that of him, because Theo was on her feet, but must he be so tall and self-possessed standing in the shadows?

  “Name your price, Mrs. Haviland.”

  The fire warmed Theo’s back, but the side of her facing away from the hearth was chilled. If she were home, the only flame burning would be the coals in the kitchen, which were never allowed to go out. Before she departed tonight’s entertainment, she’d make another pass through the buffet and collect enough food to make her lunch tomorrow.

  I hate this. She very nearly hated Archimedes Haviland too. Without question, she hated The Coventry Club.

  “Five hundred pounds, Mr. Tresham.”

  Not by a quirked eyebrow did Mr. Tresham reveal a reaction to this demand. Theo needed ten times that amount to ensure her own old age was secure, though she could easily spend the entire sum launching Seraphina too.

  Still… even a comfortable household would have trouble spending five hundred pounds in a year.

  “Done,” Mr. Tresham said.

  Theo felt as if an auctioneer’s hammer had fallen on the last remaining particle of her innocence. Mr. Tresham sought nothing illegal or immoral from her, but he’d required that she put a value on her loyalty. Perhaps this was how business was done and, for men, of no great moment.

  “When will you provide payment?”

  “You are wise to ask, because I will not have this agreement reduced to writing. I’ll provide the whole sum immediately, and you will plan on a whole Season’s worth of services.”

  He sounded relaxed, pleased even, while Theo was uneasy. “I’ve written to my late husband’s cousin, the current viscount.”

  “How is this relevant?”

  “Because he might well invite me to visit the family seat with Diana and Seraphina.” Or his lordship might ignore Theo’s hints and casual observations, as he had been for two years.

  “Then put him off until summer or find me a bride posthaste.”

  Mr. Tresham’s tone said either option was acceptable, for which Theo wanted to tell him to take his five hundred pounds and decamp for Peru. Beyond the parlor, the violins were tuning up, the undulating whine of open fifths scraping across her nerves. She dreaded to return to the ballroom, feeling as if she’d sold her soul in this dark little parlor.

>   “I’ll send you a list of my planned engagements,” she said, chafing her hands before the fire’s warmth. “Do I assume we arrive and leave separately from these functions? Talk will ensue otherwise.”

  Mr. Tresham helped himself to two more mints. “Talk will always ensue, which is why you will not send me a list that prying eyes might come upon. I will call upon you tomorrow first thing in the morning. We have a bargain, Mrs. Haviland, and you have my thanks.”

  He possessed himself of her hand and brushed a kiss to her gloved knuckles—a Continental presumption—then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “I might even be home to you,” Theo muttered, curtseying to the closed door, then dragging a chair near the fire.

  Mr. Tresham had timed his appointment for an hour when polite society would still be abed. Prudent of him. But then, this whole undertaking was prudent on his part. Good decisions were made with all the details and possibilities in hand, a lesson Theo had learned only after she’d spoken her vows. She was not put off by Mr. Tresham’s prudence.

  She sank into the chair, untied her slippers, and stuck her feet toward the fire. The heat on her toes was lovely, but an ache persisted in Theo’s heart. Mr. Tresham had noticed that she was in want of coin, though she worked hard to hide the state of her finances.

  He had not noticed that she herself was among the women who would consider marriage to the right party under the right circumstances.

  She nudged her slippers closer to the fire and tried not to feel angry.

  * * *

  Jonathan had neither a partner nor a mistress, but he had Moira Jones, and his regard for her eclipsed what either a partner or a mistress could have commanded. As he turned one of Her Grace of Quimbey’s legion of god-daughters down the room for the good-night waltz, he considered whether to share tonight’s developments with Moira.

  “You are a very fine dancer, Mr. Tresham.” The young lady stared at Jonathan’s cravat pin while she offered that brilliant sally.

  Jonathan dredged up the required riposte. “I am inspired by your example. Don’t you think people are also somewhat more relaxed about the final dance of the evening? We know a soft bed and a soothing cup of chamomile tea aren’t far off.”

  The young lady put him in mind of Della Haddonfield, though Della was dark and Miss Fifteenth God-daughter was blond. Della was more petite than this lady, and far more bold.

  “You fancy chamomile tea, Mr. Tresham?” A spark of interest came through, suggesting even this mouse was hoarding details about Jonathan to share in the women’s retiring room.

  “At the end of the day, chamomile sometimes appeals. What is your favorite soothing tisane?” Even as he asked the question, he knew what her answer would be.

  “Chamomile, of course. Nothing compares to it for restful slumber. I very much agree with your choice.”

  She would agree with everything he said, did, thought, and failed to do. Mrs. Haviland’s words came to mind, about happiness being a luxury for polite society’s unmarried women.

  “What of lavender?” Jonathan asked as they twirled past a tired legion of mamas and chaperones. “Do you enjoy it as a flavoring, say a lavender ice or lavender custard?”

  She stole a glance at his face, the merest flicker of reconnaissance. “Lavender is a very useful herb, and a lavender border can be attractive along a garden wall.”

  Somebody had schooled her well, because her answer neither committed to a position nor offended. In another life, she might make a skilled dealer for games of chance.

  “Are there any young men whose company you particularly enjoy on the dance floor?” Jonathan asked as the world’s longest waltz one-two-three’d into another reprise of the opening theme.

  “The young men I’ve met in Town have all been very agreeable.” She tried to bat her eyes, though the attempt came off much like a nervous affliction.

  “Well, yes, we gentlemen try to be on good behavior in public,” Jonathan said, “but I find your waltzing particularly graceful. Miss Threadlebaum has a lovely laugh. Mrs. Haviland’s conversation is full of great good sense, and Lady Canmore exudes gracious poise. What of the young men?”

  He should not have mentioned Mrs. Haviland, but she was on his mind. Thanks to her, his marital objective had become more attainable, success more likely.

  “Mr. Sycamore Dorning is ever so dashing, but Mama says he isn’t suitable. The Dornings all have such lovely eyes, you know.”

  Eyes that shaded from periwinkle to gentian to lavender. Casriel, older brother to the unsuitable parti, claimed those eyes were a curse rather than a blessing.

  “Mr. Sycamore Dorning is young,” Jonathan said. “He’ll grow up.” Mr. Dorning would accumulate years, though whether he’d mature was another matter. “Who else?”

  She regaled Jonathan with an increasingly enthusiastic list, until the waltz finally concluded and Jonathan could return his dancing partner to her chaperone. The next part was delicate. He must leave the gathering without being dragooned into accompanying any person or group to their next destination.

  He did peer about for Mrs. Haviland, though, and saw no sign of her. That was a relief rather than a disappointment. Their bargain had pleased him enormously—she could have asked for ten times five hundred pounds and he would still have been pleased—but she’d seemed unhappy.

  Then again, she’d had a trying evening. Jonathan’s evening was about to go from satisfying to delightful. He went on foot the three streets to St. James’s, the better to ensure his privacy and the better to give him time to ease away from the drudgery of wife hunting and into the invigorating business of owning a very lucrative enterprise.

  He entered The Coventry Club by means of the establishment across the street from it, a once stately home broken up into bachelor apartments. Jonathan had a set of rooms here, though he also maintained rooms at The Albany.

  He traversed the route through the kitchen to the pantries, to a small door that looked as if it opened onto yet another locked set of shelves or perhaps a wine cellar. In fact, it did open onto the wine cellar of The Coventry Club, a subterranean chamber that stretched for one hundred and fifty feet beneath both the street and buildings on either side.

  Jonathan silently slid back the cover over the spy-hole, saw no movement on the other side, and used his key—one of only three to fit this lock—and entered the premises where his fondest dream had come true.

  He made his way to the mezzanine offices, marveling, as always, at the quiet in some quarters of the club and the noise in others. The wine cellar was as peaceful as a chapel, while the kitchen was in riot. From the hazard room came raucous laughter, suggesting the cards were running against the house tonight, and the supper room bubbled with quiet conversations and late-night flirtation.

  The vingt-et-un tables knit the whole together, partly social, partly earnest—for some, desperate—play.

  He loved it all, loved how the club had moods, like a lively woman. One evening tense with excitement, the next full of chatter and casual play, another placid and friendly. He lingered on the screened stairway that shielded all of his comings and goings, and decided that tonight, The Coventry Club sounded happy.

  Jonathan gained his office to find Moira sitting at his desk, looking as prim as a spinster, a pair of spectacles on her nose, a pencil in her hand.

  “The waltz should be outlawed,” Jonathan said. “Whoever imported it from the Continent failed to realize how thrilled the buttoned-up English would be to have an excuse to do more than bow and curtsey to the opposite sex.”

  Moira rose and poured him a brandy from the crystal decanter on the credenza. “And yet, there’s never a shortage of English children, suggesting the English have sorted a few details out nonetheless.”

  She brought the scent of good tobacco with her. Moira would never smoke before the patrons, though she indulged in private. She was tall for a woman, with hands more competent than graceful. Those hands had made her rich, and J
onathan richer.

  “I trust the evening has been uneventful,” Jonathan said, accepting the drink.

  She resumed the place behind his desk. Her movements were not consciously flirtatious, and yet, she was built to torment the male imagination. Jonathan hadn’t noticed that at first. What mattered alluring curves, big green eyes, and glossy blond hair when a woman had taught herself how to count cards?

  “I still do not understand why our food and drink must be free after midnight.” She pulled off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “We make a fortune at the tables, then spend it in the kitchen. Frannie is expecting.”

  The brandy was exquisite. Moira’s mood was threatening to turn troublesome. “For God’s sake, she still has one at the breast.” Frances Mulholland was their bookkeeper, and for months at a time, she’d bring an infant with her to the club.

  Moira idly flipped the beads on an abacus, arranging half on each side. “She’s not due until September. We can hire a replacement this time, one who won’t be gone for weeks to drop a brat, wipe its nose, or stay up half the night with it when the croup strikes. This is not a foundling home, to be overrun with infants during daylight hours.”

  Jonathan set his brandy before her. “Frannie has been with us since I bought this place. We do not replace her. I’ll manage the books in her absence, the same as I’ve done for her last two confinements.”

  Though Frannie hardly knew what a confinement was. She rolled along through her pregnancies like a coal barge plowing through choppy seas. She might arrive to the club some days later than scheduled, but she delivered on her promises and did so with sturdy good cheer.

  Mr. Mulholland was a lucky fellow.

  “This wife hunting has addled your brains,” Moira retorted, the beads moving with a steady flick, flick, flick. “By September, you might well be on a wedding journey. By September, you might have a duchess in an interesting condition. By September…”

  Jonathan passed the brandy beneath her nose. “By September, nothing will have changed. Just because I’ve sold the Paris properties doesn’t mean I’ll sell The Coventry. This is where I proved to my disgrace of a father that I would not be him, that I would most assuredly never need his influence or emulate his folly.”