My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “And he doubtless flirts, and he’s as good-looking as any other Dorning. Did you ever wish you had the courtesy title?”

  “Not once, for then my father would have been the duke, and the title dragged irreparably into penury and disgrace. I suspect Mrs. Haviland’s cousin has acted disgracefully, but you are making me threaten violence to your person before you tell me the details.”

  Anselm took a leisurely sip of his drink. In the center of the room, Casriel was pacing off the distance from the pins.

  “I’m ensuring we have privacy,” Anselm muttered, “because one does not speak ill of the dead. Archimedes Haviland died in debt.”

  “He was an heir living on his expectations. They are notoriously prone to dying in debt.” Jonathan’s father certainly had.

  “He was a worthless, philandering bounder too good-looking for sense, and he did not know how to quit on a losing hand.”

  The philandering part made Jonathan want to smash his drink against the earl’s portrait. Quimbey had kindly put Papa’s portrait in a small, unused parlor, for that image would have made a better target.

  “You’re saying he died deeply in debt.”

  “Scandalously in debt. The viscount paid the trades and the contractual debts by liquidating the trust that had supported Haviland in life.”

  “What fool wrote marriage settlements that liquidated a sum doubtless intended for Haviland’s widow and offspring?”

  Jonathan tugged his guest by the sleeve to the portrait of Jonathan himself. The solemn youth in the frame stood beside a bust of Euclid, as if anybody knew what that worthy had looked like. No faithful dog gazed up at the lad, no sagacious cat curled on his desk. Euclid’s proof of the Pythagorean theorem had been sketched into the desk blotter. Behind the unsmiling youth, the room held a neat arrangement of oddities—a six-tiered abacus, a carpenter’s square, a telescope, a beaker full of marbles.

  Jonathan had loved sitting for that portrait, surrounded by his allies. The painting struck him as sad now, a boy in a mathematical laboratory rather than a playroom.

  “I made some inquiries,” Anselm said, “because I was one of Haviland’s creditors, and the situation struck me as irregular. The wording of the will had been lax. After all of Haviland’s just debts had been paid, the remainder of the fund set aside to maintain the family was to pass to the widow.”

  Jonathan recalled the empty candleholders, the worn carpet in Mrs. Haviland’s best parlor. “There was no remainder.”

  “Not a farthing, and it gets worse.”

  Teams were lining up behind the pitch line, and Sycamore Dorning was going about topping up drinks as if he were the host, or at least the host’s best friend.

  While Jonathan stood six yards from his guests, plotting murder. “What is worse than a peer of the realm leaving a woman and child in penury when he’s responsible for them?”

  Jonathan’s father had tried to leave him in penury and failed spectacularly.

  “Viscount Penweather refused to pay Haviland’s debts of honor. With those being unsecured by a contractual obligation, he reasoned that debts of honor die with the debtor.”

  “That is the law on the matter, to the extent a court has opined on it.” Gambling debts failed the criteria a court needed to find that a contractual relationship had been formed. Nothing of substance, no legal consideration, was surrendered in exchange for the money lost. More than a century ago, legislation had been enacted that left those collecting gambling debts without recourse to the courts.

  Such debts were thus backed up by only the debtor’s integrity and as a result were referred to as debts of honor.

  “Haviland’s creditors would not agree with Penweather’s assessment,” Jonathan said. “Debts of honor pass to the heir if the heir has any self-respect.” Jonathan had paid off his father’s vowels before the coffin had been covered with earth, the better to bury all of Papa’s legacy at one go.

  “The viscount is old-fashioned,” Anselm said. “He reasoned that Haviland’s cronies led him astray and failed to intervene as the debts mounted. Let those who gambled with him bear the cost of exploiting a weak man.”

  “Because,” Jonathan said, staring at the boy alone in the gilt frame, “how will the weak man learn strength if friends and relations are constantly intervening to save the weakling from his own folly?”

  Quimbey had used that argument to persuade Jonathan to leave his father’s situation in life alone. Quimbey’s position had been troubling then. It curdled the drink in Jonathan’s belly now, though Jonathan espoused the same philosophy to allow men like Viscount Lipscomb to gamble away fortunes.

  “That reasoning, that a weakling must learn strength, has a certain merit,” Jonathan said, “but Mrs. Haviland was doubtless dunned by her husband’s former friends regardless of the legalities, and she was blameless.”

  Dunned, propositioned, gossiped about. Jonathan abruptly needed to see her, to know that she was safe, to know that her aversion to marriage hadn’t been compounded by ill treatment from supposed gentlemen after her husband’s death.

  “You look like you’re contemplating cleaning your pistols.”

  “Tell me the rest of it, Anselm, and don’t pretty it up.” The bowling had begun, with Grampion setting the pins.

  “Mrs. Haviland called upon me, for she’d found her husband’s markers. She assured me I’d be repaid, no matter how long it took. She had a competence from an aunt, a small inheritance from her father, and intended to establish a payment plan with each of her husband’s creditors.”

  “And be in debt for the rest of her life? Why? Why not allow a man’s folly to be left in the laps of those stupid enough to trust him?”

  Anselm finished his drink. “Who trusts a man more than the woman giving birth to his children? Haviland’s death left a daughter and a sister-in-law without protection, and what chances do you think they would face in polite society if Haviland’s irresponsibility became public?”

  No chance at all, because polite society was vicious to those unprotected by wealth or standing.

  “How much, Anselm? Tell me the extent of his debts, and I will—”

  “You will do nothing, lest some gossip get wind that you are now paying the lady’s bills and draw the wrong inference. The matter has been handled.”

  Casriel called to them. Jonathan ignored him. “Handled how?”

  “When Mrs. Haviland came to me, I did form an arrangement with her. I saw to the sale of Archimedes’s possessions. His coach and four, his phaeton, his pistol collection, even his clothes. I told Mrs. Haviland the proceeds were sufficient to settle most of the debts, but she knew they could not have also covered the amount Archimedes owed me.”

  Relief washed over Jonathan, leaving him in the same state a rare excess of spirits would. “You forgave the debt?”

  “Mrs. Haviland would not allow it.” Anselm slung an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders and walked him toward the pitch line. “She insisted on paying back every penny, with modest interest, though it might take her the rest of her life. I’m setting the money aside for the girl, but I haven’t told the widow that.”

  “How much?”

  Anselm named an obscene figure. “That was the original amount, and Haviland’s tastes were extravagant enough that his effects did take care of all the other debts. The balance remaining to me was paid off earlier this week by a bearer draft from Mrs. Haviland’s banker. I assume the cousin’s conscience bedeviled him into it at last.”

  “All neat and tidy, no trace of scandal.” While Theodosia Haviland survived on buffets and determination. A snippet of conversation came back to Jonathan from his exchange with the girl, Diana. Mama says everything is dear.

  The single strand of pearls with a clasp Theodosia couldn’t afford to repair.

  The fierce loyalty to Lady Canmore, another widow, and the unrelenting protectiveness of all the Dora Louises.

  “Smile,” Anselm said, his grasp of Jonathan’s shoulder painful
ly firm. “The guests will think we’ve quarreled when all we’ve done is chat cordially about your marital prospects. Mrs. Haviland will find you a duchess, Tresham, if such a woman can be found in all of England. How many candidates are you considering?”

  Anselm’s duchess had doubtless taught him to change the topic like that.

  “Six,” Jonathan replied, casually taking the decanter from Sycamore Dorning’s grasp. “No, that’s not right. Seven. I’m considering seven.” A lucky number since the days of the Romans, though Jonathan did not believe in luck.

  “I started with a list of twelve. Most demented bit of arrogance I ever came up with, and my sisters abetted me. They likely wagered on the outcome, but my duchess foiled us all.”

  Foiled had never looked so fatuously content. Jonathan shoved Anselm’s arm. “Go join what is sure to be the losing team. A man who needs a field of twelve potential duchesses to get him into the marital lists is a sorry creature.”

  “I have ever been one to thrive on challenges,” Anselm said, passing Jonathan his empty glass. “The point is, I found the right duchess, or she found me, and she is all the treasure and happiness I will ever need. Enjoy courting seven women at once, Tresham, and get as much rest as you can. You’ll need it.”

  Jonathan filled Anselm’s drink from the decanter. “Who said anything about courting all seven? I’ll consider six of them, but I intend to court only the one.”

  Anselm took his drink and lifted it a few inches in the air. “To your own true duchess, whoever she may be.”

  * * *

  “The peaches are all gone,” Diana said, dragging her spoon through her porridge. “Peaches and porridge would go ever so well together.”

  The scent of cinnamon wafted up from her bowl, an indication of Theo’s improved circumstances. She’d given Cook leave to replenish the spices, an unprecedented extravagance.

  “All good things must end,” Seraphina said, “and you oughtn’t to play with your food.”

  Diana took a mouthful of her breakfast. “Peaches don’t end. We could buy more.”

  “No,” Theo said, “we cannot. They were a gift, and peaches are very dear.”

  “Dear,” Diana huffed. “Rhymes with sneer, rear, fear, mere, jeer, drear… I do not like dear.”

  “Dear also rhymes with cheer,” Seraphina retorted. “Clear, peer, and persevere. I like it very well.”

  Diana frowned at the spot two feet above the sugar bowl. “Chevalier. Leap year. Disappear.”

  “Your vocabulary is impressive,” said a masculine voice from the doorway. “Dare I suggest the words atmosphere and belvedere?”

  Jonathan Tresham wore riding attire and the beginnings of a smile. Theo’s morning tea did a little dance in her belly, while Williams hovered behind Mr. Tresham, looking pleased with herself.

  “Mr. Tresham, you must join us,” Theo said. “Williams, another place setting, if you please.”

  Seraphina sat very tall, back not touching her chair. Diana watched Mr. Tresham as if he might steal her porridge.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed the morning air in Hyde Park, and some sustenance wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Do you mean you’re hungry?” Diana asked.

  Seraphina bowed her head.

  “Mr. Tresham, you are joining us for a family meal,” Theo said. “Otherwise, Diana would never forget her manners so far as to interrogate an adult guest.”

  “I am hungry,” Mr. Tresham said, taking the seat at Theo’s right hand, which put him next to Diana. “Also no great supporter of fancy words when plain speaking will do. I apologize for stopping by at such an hour, but my path took me past your door.”

  “Was the park glorious at dawn?” Seraphina was blushing. She had so little opportunity to converse with men that Theo applauded her courage.

  “The park was quiet,” Mr. Tresham said as Theo rose to fill a plate for him at the sideboard. “One forgets how precious natural quiet can be, how restorative.”

  “I find it so as well,” Seraphina said, “though I’ve never been to the park at dawn.”

  Diana waved her spoon. “Why on earth would you leave a nice warm—?”

  Theo set the plate before her guest. “We’ve more of everything.” Thanks to you. The feelings that went along with having Mr. Tresham’s money were complicated. Gratitude certainly, but also anxiety.

  If Theo were to broach the outlandish possibility of an affair with him, would the discussion become sordid? Lucrative? Was she lost to all sense to even allow such musings into her mind?

  “You should put salt on the eggs,” Diana said. “They aren’t as boring that way.”

  “Diana, if you’re finished, you may take your plate to the sideboard,” Theo said.

  Seraphina’s sigh of relief was audible.

  “Thank you for the advice, Miss Diana. I’ll give Comus your regards.” He rose and came around the table to hold the girl’s chair.

  Diana, having never been shown such a courtesy, might have visited upon the moment some of the spectacular awkwardness she dispensed with heedless frequency. She instead left her chair with as much dignity as somebody in short dresses could, bounced a curtsey at Mr. Tresham, and skipped from the room.

  “She curtseyed,” Seraphina marveled.

  “And,” Theo added, “she smiled. Mr. Tresham, you must visit whenever you please.”

  “Yes, do.” Seraphina passed him the salt cellar. “And if you send over more peaches, we might be able to bribe Diana into remaining silent the next time you call.”

  Mr. Tresham sent Theo a look over his plate of eggs and ham. His expression was solemn, his eyes were dancing.

  “These eggs are good,” he said. “My compliments to the cook.”

  “She will be delighted.” Seraphina took a forkful of the eggs doubtless growing cold on her plate and went off into a desperate flight about the delights of mint tea first thing in the day.

  Mr. Tresham murmured appropriate remarks at appropriate moments, until Seraphina’s store of chatter was gone and his plate was empty.

  “Seraphina, perhaps you and Diana might choose some irises for a bouquet,” Theo said. “Mr. Tresham and I have a few matters to discuss.” For he hadn’t stopped by at such an hour to eat boring eggs and listen to Seraphina’s equally uninspired conversation.

  “We can choose the irises, Mrs. Haviland,” Mr. Tresham said, standing to hold Theo’s chair. “Let Miss Seraphina finish her breakfast in peace.”

  Oh, blast it all. Seraphina’s gaze was nothing short of adoring.

  “A fine suggestion,” Theo said, rising. “Fina, please ring for Williams to clear when you’re done.”

  For an instant, mutiny shone in Seraphina’s eyes, making her look very much like Diana. The use of her nickname had done that, for which Theo mentally kicked herself.

  “I will wish you good day.” Mr. Tresham bowed over Seraphina’s hand, as if he were her partner at a tea dance, and the mutiny was over before it had begun. “A pleasure to see you. The next basket of peaches will be in appreciation for your fine and gracious conversation.”

  That’s laying it on a bit thick. “Come, Mr. Tresham. The irises are calling.”

  He accompanied Theo down the corridor that led past the kitchen steps, past the little back parlor that Theo used as her private sitting room. The floors in this part of the house did not shine with polish. The walls were bare plaster rather than covered in printed silk.

  She was torn between embarrassment at the humble reality of her house and resentment that Mr. Tresham should even see the bare walls and cluttered office.

  The garden, fortunately, was doing its best. The tulips had made a late start, while the irises, positioned against a sun-warmed stone wall, were being precocious. Still, Theo had never envisioned Jonathan Tresham amid her flowers, and with him at her side, her little patch of blooming ground felt… silly.

  When a household lacked necessities, what mattered flowers?

  “I was
attempting polite conversation with your sister,” Mr. Tresham said. “Did I pass muster?”

  “Yes.” A little too well. “I would never have known you were making an effort. You will please excuse Diana’s lack of manners. Her only memories of having a man at the table go back to when Archie was alive, and he spoiled her shamelessly.”

  Though Archie had also on rare occasions offered Diana an effective, if gentle, reprimand.

  “Shall we sit?” Mr. Tresham asked, gesturing toward the only bench in the garden. The fountain had been sold, leaving a circle of stones with a mere pot of herbs at the center. The bench sat on the shady side of the circle, opposite the irises.

  “I deposited your bank draft,” Theo said.

  “I know.”

  “You sound serious, Mr. Tresham. Are you here to sack me? Perhaps you’ve found a bride on your own?” Which would be a relief. Also vexing in the extreme.

  “I am here to confirm with you certain information that came to my attention earlier this week.”

  Theo settled on the bench, feeling like a prisoner in the dock. “Tell me the rest of it.” Ever since paying off the last of Archie’s debts, she had felt uneasy. She’d lived with the unrelenting anxiety of the debtor, and now…

  Now, Mr. Tresham was calling upon her first thing in the day and enduring Cook’s overdone eggs.

  “The Duke of Anselm is among my acquaintances,” he said, taking the place beside Theo. “He does not know the nature of my financial dealings with you. His Grace remarked in passing that the last of Mr. Haviland’s debts had recently been paid. I encouraged the duke to maunder on—this was a private conversation between longstanding acquaintances—and it became clear to me that you have been the victim of significant misfortune.”

  Anselm had never promised Theo confidentiality, and Archie’s debts had never been a secret among his friends.

  Still, to be discussed… “Widowhood is considered a misfortune by some, not by all.” The words surprised Theo, for their honesty and for their bitterness. “Forgive me, I’m not myself lately. I loved my husband and mourned his passing. Being able to resolve his debts will allow me to hold his memory in greater affection.” The words were right. The unhappy tone was accurate too, though.