My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “A fine plan, but do recall what I said about that big, cozy bed. Perhaps you’d be good enough to schedule a tour of the ducal residence for me on the next half day?”

  “That would be Thursday. My regards to Lady Canmore.” He allowed himself one last, swift kiss to her mouth, then leaped from the coach, though it hadn’t even come to a complete stop.

  * * *

  “I have given Mr. Tresham permission to court me, and we—” Theo could not finish the sentence, because Bea had flown across the parlor and wrapped her in a hug.

  “I knew you’d bring him up to scratch. I knew it. He’s short on charm, but what does that matter when he’s to become a duke and has sense enough to find a duchess hiding among the potted palms?” She gave Theo an extra squeeze. “This calls for lemon cake and cordial.”

  “No cordial, Bea, please. I’m awash in the Countess of Bellefonte’s tea. Mr. Tresham and I paid a call upon Lady Della earlier today, though she was from home and we were left with the earl and countess for company.”

  Bea paused, hand on the bell-pull. “You must bring Mr. Tresham here, Theo. I insist. I want to know that he’s properly respectful of the honor you do him. The man is hardly a debutante’s dream come true, even if he is somewhat attractive.”

  She gave the bell-pull two tugs, then took the place beside Theo on the sofa. Though it was afternoon, Bea was still in a dressing gown, and her coiffure had a soft, barely pinned quality.

  “Mr. Tresham might lack the lovely lavender eyes of a certain earl from Dorset,” Theo said, “but he’s kind and honorable and will make a fine step-father for Diana.”

  Bea scooted around on the cushions, arranging her skirts. “You are not marrying Mr. Tresham for Diana’s and Seraphina’s sake, I hope? Please promise me that you are not, Theo.”

  A footman came in bearing a large tray, which he set on the low table before bowing and withdrawing. The interruption gave Theo a moment to compose an answer, one that was honest but respectful of Jonathan’s dignity.

  She could not admit that he was Theo’s dream come true, not so soon, not even to her best friend. The sense of being not only loved, but in love, was tender and private.

  “I had my morning chocolate shortly before noon,” Bea said. “Last night went quite late, and I’m famished. Help yourself, though I still say this is an occasion for cordial.”

  Theo accepted a cup of tea. “I am marrying Mr. Tresham in part because he can provide security for the girls and because he will remove any doubt from Viscount Penweather’s mind that Diana is well cared for in my home. Diana is no longer an infant, and Penweather is the head of her family.”

  “Which exalted status,” Bea said, pouring herself a cup of tea, “he recalls only when he wants to frighten you or lecture you. If Penweather ever comes to Town, you will alert me, Theo, so that I might cast aspersion on everything from his dancing to the knot he ties in his cravat.”

  The tea was hot but weak. Theo set her cup down after one sip. “You will receive Penweather graciously, Bea. Mr. Tresham has no tolerance for petty squabbles. Besides, I suspect we’ll dwell mostly at the ducal seat, meaning Penweather’s path will rarely cross my own.”

  Bea sat back and tucked her feet under her. She looked both seventeen years old and comfortably wanton.

  “You do not win the hand of a ducal heir to drag him off to the shires, Theodosia. You deserve at least three Seasons to buy out the shops, enjoy his escort, and gloat at the cats who all but cut you after Archie’s death.”

  Mrs. Compton’s visit came to mind. “I suspect many of those women aren’t cats, Bea. They were responding to their husbands’ guidance and limiting their association with me. Archie was facing ruin, and for all I know, I was already in disgrace with half of Polite Society before he died.”

  Bea buttered a slice of apple tart. “Archie was certainly an object of talk. Tell me more about Mr. Tresham. Have you set a date, and where will you go on your wedding journey?”

  “No date yet, though I expect our engagement will be brief. I haven’t discussed a wedding journey with Jonathan. Oversight of the ducal estate has been lax in recent years, and I’m sure Jonathan will want to rectify that situation.”

  “Jon-a-than,” Bea said around a mouthful of tart. “The look on your face when you say his name is the most encouraging aspect of this whole situation. I know you like him, Theo, but please tell me Mr. Tresham truly touches your heart, or I will have to dissuade you from becoming his duchess.”

  Bea was a good friend. A very, very good friend.

  “He touches my heart. He’s decent, Bea. He will never betray me as Archie did, appearing to be one thing by day while in fact he was quite another come nightfall. I can trust Mr. Tresham and rely on his honesty. That steadfast quality enthralls me, but he has other attributes that are also… very winning.”

  “He makes you blush,” Bea said, hugging Theo with one arm. “If he makes you blush, then he’s the right fellow. You will be a wonderful duchess, and you will make him a wonderful duke.”

  Jonathan would be a wonderful husband. “Is Casriel a wonderful earl?”

  Bea made a face at her half-eaten tart. “We ran into his youngest brother last night. The moment was awkward. Sycamore has a talent for turning almost any moment awkward. He has limited funds, and yet, he was quite at home showing another young lady how to place her bets. He and Casriel were having one of those oblique arguments men have, all flaring nostrils and double meanings. Lord Casriel can be imposing. I would like to see more of that side of him, though not directed at me, of course.”

  And the night had gone quite late. “Are you toying with his lordship, Bea?” Her ladyship had been in search of adventure last night. Perhaps she’d found it.

  The countess rose and went to the window, which looked out on a little patch of greenery gone dreary in the rain.

  “Casriel either doesn’t notice that I’m casting lures, or he’s too much of a gentleman to reject me outright. He needs heirs.”

  That last was said softly as Bea finger-traced a raindrop trickling down the outside of the windowpane.

  “Beatitude, at last count, there were seven Dorning brothers, all in good health. Casriel, of all the peers in England, does not need heirs. He probably needs friendship, affection, a woman to manage his households, and somebody to help him find matches for his brothers.”

  Bea turned, her smile determined. “You are right, of course, which means the problem is not a lack of heirs. It’s that Casriel is not smitten. He was reluctant to escort me to The Coventry last night. If I’d known Mr. Tresham planned to go there, I would have imposed on him instead.”

  When Bea’s words registered, Theo was taking another sip of her too hot, too weak tea. She nearly burned her tongue and almost dropped her tea cup.

  “Mr. Tresham was at The Coventry?” Had asked permission to pay his addresses, made love with Theo, and then left for The Coventry?

  “I’m almost sure I caught a glimpse of him, though he was leaving as we arrived. Whoever it was had his height and dark hair. Are you quite well, Theo?”

  Theo set down her cup, for her hand had begun to shake. “Many men have dark hair and some height, Bea. Are you sure it was Mr. Tresham you glimpsed?”

  Bea resumed tracing raindrops. “I am not sure. I was arguing with Casriel as we arrived, and the gentleman swept past me. He moved like Mr. Tresham, but I did not see his face clearly.” She crossed back to her spot on the sofa. “You should have some of this apple tart, lest I eat it all.”

  “A small slice only. I must send Mr. Tresham’s coach back to him before the afternoon advances.”

  Bea obliged and chattered on about somebody’s lapdog’s bad manners, while Theo murmured appropriate comments and choked down her apple tart. Bea was a friend, a true, kind friend, but Theo could not tell if Bea had been concocting a lie, examining her recollection, or something of both when she’d said Jonathan might not have been at The Coventry.

  * *
*

  Several years ago, when Jonathan had bought The Coventry, he’d occasionally stopped by Frannie’s home. She’d had one infant then, a cheerful little creature who’d grabbed at Jonathan’s nose and smiled on all and sundry. As the child had matured into a squalling, demanding whirlwind, and as another child had followed, Jonathan had ceased calling on Frannie at home.

  “If this is a bad time,” he said when she opened the door, “I can come back another day.” The rain was intensifying, dripping from his hat brim straight down onto his nape in a cold, steady trickle.

  Frannie remained in the doorway, an infant perched on her hip, another child clinging to her skirts and sucking its thumb. She had the beautiful eyes of the tired mother, and usually those eyes were lit with humor.

  Her gaze promised Jonathan a slow, painful death. “What on earth makes you think I’d let you into my home?” She moved to shut the door, but the toddler let go of her apron and reached for Jonathan.

  “Up!” The child hopped, arms outstretched. “Up! Want up!”

  “Delphie, come away from him.”

  Jonathan hefted the child, a solid little person with Frannie’s big blue eyes. “I won’t stay long, and I think we need to talk.”

  Frannie gave him a look that would have cindered a man who wasn’t sopping wet. “Five minutes, and then you leave and you do not come back. You can offer me all the money in the world, Jonathan, but after turning me off without a character, when you know my circumstances… I thought better of you.”

  The child in Jonathan’s arms grabbed his hair. “Horsey.”

  “I am not a horsey.”

  “Horsey. Trot little horsey, don’t fall down.” The child bounced enthusiastically. “Trot little horsey, trot to town. Trot, trot, trot!”

  “Delphie wants a piggyback ride. I want you out of my house. If you’ve come to apologize, then say your piece, assuage your conscience, and leave a bank draft if you must, but I’ll tear it up, and James will light the pieces on fire for me.”

  James was her husband.

  The child on Jonathan’s hip smacked him on the shoulder and yelled, “Tally ho, Thunder!”

  With the would-be jockey affixed to his back, Jonathan followed Frannie down an unlit corridor to a small sitting room. Every surface held books, papers, ledgers, or an embroidered pillow of some sort, meaning that to take a seat, he’d have to clear clutter away first.

  “Delphie, that’s enough,” Frannie said. “Go find your bunny.”

  Delphie clambered from the saddle, pulling Jonathan’s mane, then whacking his bum with a hearty, “Good pony, Thunder!” before cantering down the corridor, unruly curls bouncing.

  “He’s quite the horseman.”

  Frannie moved a few pillows and settled on the sofa, the baby in her lap. “Philadelphia is a girl. What do you want, Jonathan? You can’t have fouled up the ledgers already. Even with Moira’s help, that would take more than a week. Don’t expect me to serve you tea. The children spill everything, and money will be tight now that you’ve found another bookkeeper less likely to get with child.”

  “We seem to have a misunderstanding.”

  “I understand your services are no longer needed quite well. Don’t drip on my carpets.”

  Her carpets were worn and needed a good beating. A wooden duck on wheels, a pony made of straw and sheep’s wool, two storybooks, and a wooden beaker were scattered across the rug before her hearth.

  Jonathan shrugged out of his greatcoat and set it on a chair near the fire so that the drips would fall on the hearthstones.

  “I never told you that your services were no longer needed. Your services are very much needed. Now more than ever.” Without the weight of his seven-caped coat, he was cold, and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather was spreading within him.

  “If I’m still needed, then you should not have had Moira sack me, should you?”

  “Moira and I discussed your situation weeks ago. I told her I’d handle the books while you took leave, the same as we’ve always done for your confinements. The club is quiet in late summer. It’s the easiest time for you to be less in evidence. That is all I heard of the matter until Moira told me last night that you’d left us.”

  Not taken leave, apparently, but quit.

  Fannie glowered up at him, the child snuggled to her shoulder. “Moira handed me five pounds and thanked me for all I’d done. She said a bookkeeper less prone to fits of motherhood would serve the club better.”

  “Moira overstepped.” Again.

  “You pay her to overstep, Jonathan. You can swan about, the owner, lord of all you survey from your screened stairway and shadowed balcony, while Moira has tantrums in the kitchen that make Armand look like the soul of decorum. She paints the owner as a demon to the junior staff, a mysterious, unreasonable despot who pinches pennies and expects perfection. One by one, you’ve lost the best staff, and she replaced them with…”

  The baby fussed, clearly unhappy.

  “Now I’m upsetting my offspring.” Frannie held the child up in both hands and beamed at him. “No fussy, little man. No fussy for Mama. Mr. Jonathan will go bye-bye, and Mama can use all the bad language she wants to talk about him. That will be soooo muuuuuch fun, won’t it?”

  The baby continued to fuss.

  “Frannie, I did not want you sacked, and I had no idea that Moira was annoying the staff.”

  “Annoying. What a genteel, lordly word. I suspect she insists on doling out the wages herself so that she can pocket some of the coin and make up reasons why the full amount isn’t due.”

  The baby was starting to cry, a hiccup-y undertaking that scraped Jonathan’s nerves raw. He plucked the child from Frannie’s grasp and pressed his cold nose to the soft, little cheek.

  “No displays of temper before the ladies, sir. Your mother has important information to pass along.”

  Big blue eyes stared at him, then a little pink mouth turned up in a merry smile.

  “You like that,” Jonathan said, brushing his nose over the baby’s cheek again. “I like that you’re quiet.”

  “For now,” Frannie said. “Wait five minutes and prepare to be deafened. Moira claims you are turning the business over to her in all but name. You’re preparing to step into the ducal shoes, and a gaming hell is beneath your notice.”

  Jonathan cradled the child against his chest. “Frannie, I love The Coventry and would never refer to it as a mere hell. My proudest day was when I acquired that enterprise. It’s a model club, patronized by the best of polite society, and I make no apologies for that to anybody. Let those who can’t enjoy a hand of cards take their custom elsewhere and leave me and my patrons to have our diversions in peace. Now you tell me that Moira has run daft, spreading lies, alienating my allies.”

  “That child doesn’t like anybody, but he likes you. There is no accounting for taste.”

  “You are not sacked,” Jonathan said. “You, especially, are not sacked. Why didn’t you tell me what was afoot with the staff?”

  “Because you are never on the premises during daylight hours anymore, and I was told that coming by in the evening, when James can watch the children, was no longer allowed. If I’d called upon you in your bachelor residences when my employment at The Coventry is known to the staff, I’d be jeopardizing your privacy. You need to have a long talk with Battaglia too. He’s considering a position at White’s.”

  The child was snuffling, so Jonathan began a circuit of the parlor. “Because?”

  “Because Moira finds fault with him, no matter how flawlessly he does his job. She never compliments, she only criticizes, always in the name of the tyrannical owner. She’s hiring younger dealers who haven’t the temperament for a club of The Coventry’s caliber, and she wants to dress the ladies like strumpets. Take an inventory of the wine cellar now or prepare to learn the joys of swilling gin.”

  Jonathan sat on the sofa next to Frannie, shoved two pillows out from under his bum, and passed her the baby.


  “You are describing scenes from my worst nightmares. Turning The Coventry into a cheap hell, where decent patrons would never go when sober and the food isn’t safe to eat.”

  “Boodle’s is trying to woo Armand away, but he’s stubborn and even Moira knows not to touch his wages. Then too, Armand, like Battaglia, knows who you are, and Moira is aware of that.”

  Armand was a genius, albeit a temperamental one.

  “Frannie, can you manage the club?”

  “No. I’m not…” She waved a hand about her person. “I’m a mother.” She kissed the baby’s fussy head. “Anybody can see that I’m a mother, and I have no interest in games of chance.”

  Despite the domestic surrounds—perhaps because of them—Jonathan battled outrage. Frannie had been with him from the first, and she had a family to support. Armand had five children. Battaglia was the sole support of at least three maiden aunts as well as his own children.

  The dealers, the kitchen staff, even the charwoman depended on Jonathan to maintain The Coventry as the foremost establishment of its kind. Then too, Jonathan supported other enterprises with the revenue from The Coventry, and that resulted in more people and employees who were indirectly dependent on the club.

  “Moira is sabotaging my majordomo, my chef, my dealers, my staff, my bookkeeper, and that’s not the worst of it.”

  Frannie rubbed the baby’s back. “What could be worse than all of that?”

  “She’s marking the cards, Frannie.” And nobody save Sycamore Dorning had made Jonathan aware of that, but then… Frannie was right. Jonathan came and went like a ghost, peered down at the gaming floor from a hidden perch, and kept his identity secret. He’d built the scaffolding for his own execution out of prudence, privacy, and discretion.