My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  She gently pushed the brandy aside. “Your father is dead. You’ve promised your uncle you’ll take a wife. Things change, Jonathan.”

  To a boy raised amid chaos, change was the enemy, while predictability was evidence of a reliable order to the universe. Jonathan had made a mathematical study of predictability and applied it to card-playing. The Coventry was his temple to what he’d learned.

  “My ownership of The Coventry won’t change because I’m taking a wife. I won’t allow it. Any duchess of mine will understand that certain spheres are hers to command, others are mine. This one is mine, and you really should have a sip of the brandy. It’s exquisite.”

  She obliged him. One of Moira’s many gifts was a sense of when to confront and when to compromise. Jonathan had occasionally considered marrying her and suspected she had considered marrying him. She was a gentleman’s daughter—her papa was a vicar—but she’d run afoul of strict propriety in the wilds of Nottingham and become a lady’s companion in Paris.

  And that lady had enjoyed the occasional discreet game of hazard, and vingt-et-un, and roulette. Jonathan had first met Moira when she’d been hole-carding for her employer in Paris, spying on the dealer’s hidden card in a game of vingt-et-un. When the dealer took a glance at his facedown card, Moira signaled her employer as to its value. The system had been subtle, involving casual gestures, facial expressions, glances, and slight movements of Moira’s fan.

  Jonathan had studied Moira and her employer for three consecutive nights before he’d drawn Moira aside and given her a choice: He would turn her over to the authorities, who were ready to arrest her as part of a periodic “raid” on Jonathan’s premises, or he would become her employer.

  Moira’s smile at that offer had lit up the Paris night sky.

  She wasn’t smiling now. “Lord Lipscomb is playing too deeply,” she said. “He hasn’t left the table to so much as piss for four hours.”

  “Is he sober?”

  “For him, yes.”

  “Then we do not intervene. He can stand the blunt. Davington will be leaving for Calais as soon as I can get him traveling papers.”

  “So he’ll not make good on his markers.”

  “He’ll sign over the contents of his stables to me before he takes ship. Tattersalls will do the rest. As long as he’ll be in France, I’m doing him a favor by eliminating a large and needless expense from his ledgers.”

  Moira took another ladylike sip of her brandy and went back to twiddling the beads of the abacus. “Which do you enjoy more, the numbers, or playing God with people’s lives?”

  The question was unlike her, both in its abstraction and in its resentfulness. “I do not play God. Davington accosted a woman at tonight’s ball, a lady who wanted nothing to do with him, and he forced his attentions upon her. He brings his fate upon himself.”

  “You are turning into a duke,” she said. “I feel as if I’m watching a season change, and no matter how many fires I light or how many potted plants I bring into the conservatory, the cold will overtake the land. You probably called him out, but he refused the challenge. Where would I be with you dead in some foggy clearing, Jonathan?”

  Jonathan poured himself a half portion of the brandy, which was too good for a conversation this unsettling.

  “Moira, nothing will change. I can keep the books from the Quimbey town house, in my apartment across the street, or at The Albany. I’ve done it before. I monitor the ledgers for several other enterprises and don’t intend to drop those responsibilities either. What ails you?”

  She was wealthy by any standard. If she chose, she could present herself as an heiress from the north, or she could resettle in Paris and call herself an English widow. She could marry a marquess’s younger son and jaunt about with a courtesy title, and nobody would remark her resemblance to Mrs. Moira Jones, late of The Coventry.

  If anybody even noticed.

  “You aren’t here as much as you should be,” she said.

  “I’m here more than ever. You managed this place on your own for weeks at a time when I still had properties in Paris. I come by almost every evening we’re open, and you are in a pet about something.”

  The beads fell silent, and Moira lifted her glass to the branch of candles on the desk. “I turned twenty-eight today.”

  Not an occasion for celebration, apparently. “Go on.”

  “Frannie is four years younger than I am and soon to be a mother again. You are taking a wife. I sit here night after night, worrying about everything—the larders, the staff, the wine cellar, the dealers, the authorities, the coal, the everything. You assure me things will not change when you marry. I’m no longer certain that’s a good thing, Jonathan.”

  She was beautiful by candlelight, and Jonathan was put in mind of Theo Haviland. The ladies shared a weary discontent with life, an air of determination.

  “You have been away from Nottingham for ten years,” Jonathan said, making a leap based on the cards he could see. “Go home for a visit, Moira. Arrive in style, take the ducal traveling coach, wear your finery, buy property in the area. Make the peasants see you for the success that you are.”

  He expected her to laugh, though he knew the value of proving oneself to those who’d offered judgment instead of support.

  Moira shook her head. “If you think I’ll turn my back on this place now, when you’re larking about on a duchess hunt, when Frannie’s back to casting up her accounts, and the authorities are itching to raid every establishment in the neighborhood, you have sadly miscalculated.”

  Her word choice was a dig—another dig. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your loyalty, Moira?” Jonathan had never had the luxury of larking about.

  She rose and set the half-finished drink on the credenza. “You pay me a duchess’s ransom in wages. I’m loyal to my salary. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

  Jonathan weighed whether to try to jolly Moira out of her birthday blue devils, to dive into the books, or to leave. If he dove into the books, he’d be here until dawn—a tempting prospect—but tonight his jollying skills were inadequate to Moira’s mood.

  “I’ll bid you good evening,” Jonathan said. “Send Lipscomb home at daybreak.”

  Play occasionally lasted around the clock, but Jonathan frowned on the practice for any but the most skilled members. Staff needed rest, and the authorities needed assurances that at least the veneer of a common club was maintained. The premises also required a regular airing and cleaning, which was difficult to do with a crowd gathered around a table.

  Moira waved a graceful hand and put her glasses back on. “I’ll escort Lipscomb from the premises myself, as Your Grace wishes.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Good night, Mr. Tresham.” She lifted the abacus and shook all the beads to the left side.

  He should stay, he should humor her, he should ask what she was working on, except that he knew better. Moira would recite every minor occurrence at the club, but she had never been able to simply report what troubled her. She either did not know herself, or she was constitutionally incapable of admitting that something bothered her.

  She was entitled to her pride. That Moira was all but dismissing Jonathan from his own club was a petty display he would allow—this time. He’d need some rest if he was to be at his best when facing Mrs. Haviland in the morning.

  Because his negotiation with the widow was not quite concluded.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Theo took the bank draft from Mr. Tresham’s hand without glancing at the amount. She had that much pride left, if only barely.

  “Shall I have a tea tray sent up?” she asked.

  Her formal parlor was seldom used, but Williams, bless her, was conscientious about the dusting and polishing. All the cleaning in the world couldn’t hide a worn patch of carpet from the harsh morning light, or the fact that the candleholders on the mantel were empty.

  “Tea won’t be necessary
,” Mr. Tresham said. “Have you a discreet man of business to tend to that sum for you?”

  She set the draft on the mantel facedown. “I’ll deposit it myself.”

  He peered at a painting of doves Theo had done when she’d been about Seraphina’s age. “Might I ask where you’ll deposit that draft?”

  Was he being concerned, nosy, or merely curious? “Why?”

  “I wrote the draft out to ‘bearer,’ so that the recipient wouldn’t be obvious until you endorse the draft. If we bank at the same institution, then the clerks will notice that money is being transferred from me to you. If you endorse the draft illegibly, then your privacy remains assured at my bank as long as we do not do business with the same institution.”

  What sort of ducal heir knew such stratagems? “I bank at Wentworth and Penrose.”

  “An unusual choice.”

  One her solicitor had disapproved of, though other widows patronized it. Wentworth’s was a newer establishment and had not attracted many titles among its clientele.

  “I am unlikely to see the same people at my bank that I see in Mayfair’s ballrooms. Shall we sit, sir?”

  Mr. Tresham bent closer to the bottom right corner of the painting. “Is that your signature?”

  Theo had the same emotions now that she’d had upon accepting Archie’s proposal of marriage: hope and dread, relief and self-doubt, all swirling inside her at once. Over a few weeks’ worth of matchmaking?

  And yet, her feelings were real and troubling, while Mr. Tresham was preoccupied with schoolgirl art. She took a place on the sofa, where the painting would not be in her line of sight.

  “That is my signature. Have a seat, Mr. Tresham.”

  In his elegant morning attire, he made Theo’s best parlor feel small and shabby. This was not his fault, of course, but she simply couldn’t muster any gratitude for the funds he’d brought.

  He’d purchased her loyalty, which had apparently cost him most of her liking.

  “You have artistic talent, madam. The painting is wistful, poignant even. Is it a recent work?”

  Small talk now? “I was sixteen when I did that. Doves sound so peaceful, and that year was difficult. My father was ill, and Mama was torn between terror at becoming a widow—my sister was only four years old—and terror that Papa should linger, such that our mourning would delay my come out. We need to coordinate our schedules, Mr. Tresham.”

  A tap sounded on the door. Theo mentally steeled herself to deal with a curious sister or daughter, but Williams appeared in a pristine apron, carrying a tea tray. The silver service, which Theo was on the point of selling.

  “Thank you, Williams.” Theo had not ordered this tray and had not explained to anybody the nature of Mr. Tresham’s call.

  Williams bobbed a curtsey and departed.

  “Shall we close the door?” Mr. Tresham asked. “Talk of balls and breakfasts ought not to scandalize anybody, but I’m a guest under your roof. We must do as you see fit.”

  No, they must not, or she’d be escorting Mr. Tresham from the premises. “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Ah.” He took the armchair, his expression amused, as if this was a predictable phase in training a horse or tutoring a child. “If you will share those second thoughts, I will allay them.”

  Because of the angle of the sunshine slanting through the window, the worn patch of carpet was particularly obvious from the sofa. If Theo wanted to replace the carpet, she should lie to Mr. Tresham. If she wanted to buy the fabric she’d sew into a wardrobe for Seraphina’s come out, she’d at least dissemble.

  But, no. She owed him loyalty, and loyalty was a stranger to falsehood. “I have considered who among the unmarried women of polite society would suit you, and I perceive a problem.”

  “I’m not that choosy, Mrs. Haviland.” He shot his cuffs, his signet ring winking in the sunshine. “I seek a cordial union with a woman who understands her responsibilities. I will be cordial as well, and loyal and faith—”

  Theo had done nothing more than smooth a hand over her skirts, but it was enough to silence him. “A successful marriage requires friendship, Mr. Tresham. You’ve referred to your duchess as a social ally, but her loyalty will not be for sale.”

  Not if she was the right duchess for him.

  “Her loyalty unquestionably belongs to her husband, madam.”

  “Why?”

  He rose and resumed studying Theo’s wistful doves. “You ask that question with annoying frequency.”

  “If you seek a cordial union, then you must bring to the marriage some genuine warmth, Mr. Tresham. You must pay heed to the lady. Empty flattery and false affection will not serve. If that’s all you plan to offer your bride, then you must find yourself another matchmaker.”

  “And chaperone. I could sell this for you. The brushwork is ingenious, and I’m a competent flatterer, by the way.”

  And so modest. “Competence and facility are two different gifts, Mr. Tresham. When you tell a woman she’s a graceful dancer, if her talent is only middling, she will know firstly that you lie and secondly that you’ve paid no heed at all to her on the dance floor.”

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to pour out.” His tone suggested Theo had made her point, but he was wrong. She was barely getting started.

  “Turn your back to me,” she said, twirling a finger. “You hired me to find you a bride, and this is part of it.”

  He turned, and Theo regarded broad shoulders, a long back shown off by an exquisite mulberry morning coat that nipped in to drape over a muscular derriere then curved down to long, equally muscular legs. Archie had been handsome and used it to his shameless advantage. Mr. Tresham was breathtaking and made all the more impact for ignoring his own good looks.

  “Tell me what I’m wearing,” Theo said.

  A male sigh huffed across the parlor. “A dress.”

  “Hilarious. I refuse to consign another woman to marriage with a man who cannot be bothered to look at her when she emerges from her dressing closet.”

  Mr. Tresham laced his hands behind his back. “You are wearing the same light blue dress you wore when we met in the park, suggesting you plan a walking excursion for later today. You wear no jewelry, not even a wedding ring, though I know you own a set of high-quality pearls.

  “You wear them in your hair,” he went on, “so perhaps the clasp is broken. Your cuffs are white lace, not a stain on either one, and your fichu is lace as well, probably backed with silk, but without touching the material with my bare fingers, I can’t be sure.”

  He’d recalled her dress, one of few she owned that she still felt pretty in. He should not to have mentioned her fichu, much less anybody’s bare fingers.

  “What scent am I wearing?”

  “Jasmine. Faint, very pleasant. Good quality.” He shot a brooding glance at her over his shoulder. “Have I passed?”

  “Tell me something positive about myself that will surprise me, but is true.”

  He turned and studied her with a calm intensity that made the hair on Theo’s nape prickle. What did he see besides an old dress and spotless lace?

  “You dread the thought of a remove to Hampshire,” he said. “Your friends are here, your independence is here. Mayfair is the battlefield you’ve conquered Season by Season, and scurrying off to the country to be a poor relation would be a bitter defeat.”

  Theo had reached for the teapot, but let her hand fall to her lap. “ That is your notion of flattery?” He hadn’t surprised her. He’d laid her out flat in her own parlor.

  “Needs work,” he said, resuming his seat. “I agree, but you also asked for honesty.”

  “Try again, then,” Theo said, pouring out whether the tea was strong enough or not. “And I am not admitting that your observation is valid.”

  “You are courageous. Witness, you are doing business with me. I sit on the boards of several enterprises, and I’m told directors’ meetings are much shorter and more convivial when I do not attend.” />
  “Now you flatter yourself, sir, and proper society does not discuss commerce.” Though he was trying, scrabbling about for something pleasant but personal to offer as a conversational gambit. “How do you take your tea?”

  “Black, if I must take it at all. Years in France left me with a taste for good coffee and chocolate.”

  Theo passed him a cup of steaming China black, the very tea he’d sent in the basket, though this cup would apparently go to waste. The last two servings of peach compote graced the tray. If those were consumed, Diana and Seraphina would go into mourning.

  “If you are to court a woman,” Theo said, “the first step is to notice her. Not her settlements, not her bosom, not her dress, but her. What entertainments are you planning on attending next week?”

  He recited a list and took a single sip of his tea before setting the cup and saucer aside. “I am not involved in politics, which means I am called upon to make up numbers almost any evening of the week.”

  “Send regrets at least one-third of the time,” Theo said, mentally considering his schedule. “Make your attendance a coveted possibility, not a foregone conclusion.”

  She was invited to many of the same functions, though not all. A ducal heir moved in rarefied circles when it came to dinner parties. She named four entertainments she’d not been invited to, one of which caused her a small grief.

  “I went to school with Lady Fulbright. She stopped inviting me to her home before I became a widow. I suspect my husband offended her husband.” Archie had failed to pay debts of honor toward the end, and Theo could only hope that explained the old friends who barely acknowledged her.

  “You could come as my guest,” Mr. Tresham said.

  “No, I cannot. If you are searching for a duchess, then you must not be seen to dally with a widow.”