My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  He gently turned her to face him, and Theo saw in his eyes that he was offering the only truce he could. We’ll simply not speak of the club.

  Her despair was a palpable weight on her chest, a pressure in her skull. The longing to fold herself into Jonathan’s embrace, to give in, wailed in her soul.

  “I was married to a man to whom I could not speak, Jonathan. The silence grew, starting with his gambling and wagering, then to his erratic schedule, our miserable finances, his overimbibing, his failing health. Diana and Seraphina learned to not speak to him, as did the staff. He died amid a silence so loud, my heart broke to endure it. I love you, but I cannot base a marriage on ignored differences of this magnitude.”

  Jonathan’s hands fell away. Another loud silence expanded as he stepped back. “A gentleman does not argue with a lady.”

  A gentleman does not own a house of ruin. Theo stopped short of that retort, because Jonathan was a gentleman. He was kind to Diana and Seraphina. He walked his uncle’s dog when that was properly a footman’s job. He’d sent peaches to a nobody of a widow and danced with women simply to raise their consequence.

  “I am sorry, Jonathan, but I am not wrong.”

  Please, please capitulate. Give in, offer the smallest indication that we can weather this disagreement.

  He took Theo’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “Your independent nature was one of the first things I noticed about you. I’m sorry too, Theo, but I cannot fail my uncle, cannot fail those who depend on me, and most of all, I cannot leave an establishment I’ve built year by year to watch it sink under a weight of scandal and crooked behavior.”

  He kept hold of her hand, a comfort and a torment. Theo was tempted to drag him back to the sofa, to make love one more time, to rail at him until his parents’ spats looked like the mere domestic altercations they’d been.

  Anything to maintain a connection to him. Anything to maintain hope.

  “I’ll see you home,” Jonathan said.

  Theo allowed him that courtesy, because she wanted to linger with him as long as she could. He escorted her from the hidden chamber and past the laden tea tray. The aging footmen were cheerful, the journey back to her home silent.

  Jonathan kept an arm around her shoulders the whole way, and she held his hand until the coach had pulled up in the alley. Only then did Theo permit herself to kiss him good-bye.

  She made the gesture brief, but as she pulled away, Jonathan held her fast for one, endless agony of a moment.

  “Good-bye, Jonathan. Be well.” She left the coach the instant the footman let down the steps, and she did not look back.

  * * *

  “What else can you tell me about Archimedes Haviland?” Jonathan put the question to Anselm at another Lonely Husbands night.

  For the first time, Jonathan was allowing an evening of cards under his own roof. He wanted to watch the play, to look for patterns, for he’d yet to put his finger on what, exactly, Moira was doing at The Coventry.

  Perhaps she’d sheathed her claws now that Jonathan was on hand nearly every night, but at the vingt-et-un tables, the house was winning too many hands over too long a stretch of nights. The pots had grown larger, and that was attracting a different and less savory crowd.

  Jonathan himself had passed out the staff’s wages the previous week “on behalf of the owner” and had seen enough raised eyebrows to confirm that Moira was skimming from the payroll.

  He was slowly working his way through the invoices from the trades and—no surprise there—had found the amounts charged padded, the difference doubtless shared with Moira.

  Anselm touched Jonathan on the arm. “It’s a fine night. Let’s stretch our legs, shall we?”

  Three tables of four players had been set up in the Quimbey mansion’s game room, and the French doors were open to keep the room aired.

  “The parlor across the corridor is unused,” Jonathan said.

  Anselm complied with that suggestion, thank the angels, and Jonathan was soon surrounded by a blessed quiet.

  “We’ve already covered the topic of the late Mr. Haviland,” Anselm said when Jonathan had closed the parlor door. “Why dredge it up again? His debts have been paid and you’re smitten with his widow.”

  An eternal verity, however inconvenient. Jonathan had tried to immerse himself in work, but for once, numbers and ciphering were no consolation. He endured his endless meetings by daydreaming and fretting instead of preaching economy and accountability. Theo haunted him, waking and sleeping, as did the sense that he’d failed to solve a simple equation, failed to identify the only variable that mattered.

  “Mrs. Haviland is no longer enamored of me.”

  Anselm took a wing chair by the fire. “My duchess was right, then. Araminthea said she hadn’t seen you and the widow together for nearly a fortnight. Trouble in paradise and all that.”

  Trouble in purgatory. “Mrs. Haviland disapproves of my ownership of The Coventry. I disapprove of her late husband’s intemperance, but she and I cannot find common ground or a way forward.”

  Did Theo want common ground? Had her love for Jonathan been scorched to cinders by disdain for his club?

  Anselm crossed an ankle over his knee. “Don’t suppose you’ve tried begging?”

  This was proffered as a helpful suggestion, which implied Anselm had considered the same maneuver at some point.

  “I all but did. I explained that I need the income from the club, that turning my back on The Coventry now would be a betrayal of everybody who has given me their loyalty over the years.”

  Jonathan was pacing, the habit of a man in want of self-possession. He made himself lean against the mantel, though the temptation to leave his guests and march over to the club—by way of Theo’s street—was an itch in his boots.

  “You mumbled a few vague words about needing funds,” Anselm said. “Fine speeches elude us in the face of heartbreak.”

  “Did I not know you speak from experience, I’d take my fists to you for your presumption, Your Grace.”

  Anselm glanced about the parlor. “Lord Harlan used to indulge me in the occasional bout of fisticuffs. Even he has outgrown the need for horseplay.”

  A pouting duke ought to have been a gratifying sight, but Jonathan was too upset to enjoy Anselm’s complaining.

  Too heartbroken. “I refused to argue with her,” Jonathan said. “I will not raise my voice to a woman, and I will not have her filling my house with strife.”

  Anselm rose. “Then do I take it that you seek to marry a well-trained spaniel?”

  “Of course not. Theodosia is the furthest thing from—why would you say such a thing?”

  “Couples argue, Tresham. Couples who love each other madly argue and disagree and even—I tell you this in confidence—raise their voices at each other. They also make up.”

  From across the corridor, a gust of laughter sounded.

  “Your duchess hollers at you?”

  Anselm’s smile was stunningly sweet. “Her Grace counts it a victory when I am so far gone in a passion that I holler back. She says I’m too impressed with my own consequence most of the time and that I’ve learned too well to be the duke at the expense of being the man. You can see why I’m mad for the woman.”

  Mad for her and obnoxiously happy to admit it. “I cannot abide shouting.”

  “Then don’t have children. Let the succession lapse or go to some fishmonger from East Anglia. Best thing, if you can’t countenance a little volume in a discussion, is to avoid children altogether.”

  A little volume in a discussion? “Anselm, my parents shrieked at each other for days, then maintained weeks of cold silence, even at table.”

  Anselm snapped off a rose from a bouquet on the sideboard. “I’m not suggesting you hire the Hessian guard to tussle over who gets the Society pages at breakfast, Tresham.” He tucked the rose into his lapel. “I’m merely pointing out that if you run from conflict when the first shot is fired, you’ll never win the important batt
les. I thought every lordling learned this from his papa.”

  Anselm should have looked silly with the crooked little rose drooping from his lapel. He was a duke. His order in the royal succession had been established the day he’d ascended to the title.

  He looked dear and wistful. Missing his duchess, no doubt, and she was probably missing him, drat the woman. Duke and duchess would cuddle up in the same bed in a few hours, tired and happy, and make tired, happy love while sharing gossip and inane pet names.

  I miss my Theodosia. Jonathan missed her more than he missed the damned club, more than he’d missed anything ever.

  “The problem, Anselm, is that even if I wanted to sell the club, I can’t do that while Moira is poisoning the well.” And Jonathan most assuredly did not want to sell the club, could not afford to sell the club, in fact.

  “Then get rid of Moira Jones. Pack her off to Paris.”

  “If I do that, then the next manager can effect the same rig she’s running. I hardly know most of the kitchen staff anymore, and some of the dealers were hired without my approval. Anybody who’s in on her crooked game could start the whole business over again when she leaves.”

  Anselm brushed a finger over his rose. “Conflicting loyalties are always a problem. The peerage seems to understand that too well and always looks after their own. We’d do better to take the interests of John Bull to heart on more occasions.”

  Theo might say something like that. “No politics, Anselm, please. I have enough thorny conundrums on my plate.”

  Anselm admired himself in the mirror over the sideboard, then smiled, a ferocious expression featuring a quantity of teeth and self-satisfaction.

  “Word of advice, not that you’ll take it,” the duke said.

  “You’ll give it, nonetheless.”

  “Solve the trouble with Mrs. Haviland first. Even with her husband’s debts paid off, her circumstances cannot be comfortable. I sold everything the man owned, Tresham. Boots, pipes, nearly three dozen pistols, some of which were quite valuable, all save one in pristine condition. Rings, sleeve buttons, hats, even his night shirts. Perhaps the widow didn’t want painful reminders, but I suspect her objective was simply to pay the trades before talk could ensue.”

  “I hate that Theodosia was put in such circumstances.”

  Anselm left off admiring himself. “She apparently hates more that you own a gaming hell. Peers own illegal ventures, but yours is shamefully successful. Perhaps the club failing is the best thing that could happen to you.”

  “I’m not a peer.”

  Anselm patted Jonathan’s shoulder and sauntered toward the door. “Cling to that fig leaf while you can. I’m off to relieve a few earls of their arrogance. We peers benefit from regular set-downs, or so my duchess claims.”

  He went smiling on his way, while Jonathan stared into the parlor’s gloomiest corner. Something Anselm had said… something about…

  “They’re all peers,” Jonathan said softly. “The losers, the men whose luck never holds good for long, they’re all peers. Lipscomb, Henries… Every time the stakes rise, it’s never a banker, a mercer, or a half-pay officer with the most to lose. She’s out to ruin the peers—and to ruin me.”

  * * *

  “Theodosia, you are pacing. Ladies don’t pace.” Bea offered that great insight as Theo made another circuit of her ladyship’s music room.

  “Ladies don’t cry off when they’ve secured the affections of a ducal heir.” When they’d fallen in love with such a man and could not stop rethinking their last conversation with him, or the lovemaking that had preceded it.

  Bea added a collection of airs to the stack of music accumulating on the piano bench. “Apparently, some ladies do. Who knew so much repertoire had been written for the harp?”

  “I didn’t know you played.”

  An imposing great harp stood near the windows, the instrument’s pillar carved with leaves and flowers.

  “I don’t. That is Aunt Freddy’s harp, or one of them. Casriel restrung it and tuned it for her. I’m keeping it until she returns from taking the waters at Bath. You could send Tresham a note telling him you’ve had second thoughts.”

  Theo took the free end of the piano bench. “No, I cannot. Did you know he owns The Coventry?”

  Bea hoisted the stack of music and set it on the piano. “One isn’t supposed to know such things. One can suspect. I’m not surprised.”

  Her ladyship was dressed to receive callers today, her hair coiled into a neat chignon, her gown a modest ensemble in a flattering shade of pale blue.

  “Why doesn’t one know such things?” Theo asked. “Had I known…”

  “Would you have done anything different?”

  “I would have decamped for Hampshire posthaste rather than involve myself with the owner of a gambling club.” Theo was nearly certain she’d have been wise enough to do that, for Jonathan’s lovemaking was as heady an intoxicant as any hand of cards had ever been for poor Archie.

  Bea took the place beside Theo and pushed the cover off the keyboard. “Instead, you’re breaking off an engagement and then turning tail for Hampshire. How can you abide the thought of relying on Penweather’s charity?”

  Theo pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and began dusting the highest octaves.

  “Mr. Tresham wrote to the viscount to notify him of our situation.”

  “Of your impending engagement—that’s now quits.”

  “Mr. Tresham never actually proposed. In any case, his letter must have gone into some detail about my circumstances, because Penweather wrote to me and extended an effusive apology for what he called a grievous misunderstanding.”

  Theo passed Bea the handkerchief to use on the lower octaves.

  “Why do peers never simply admit they’ve wronged somebody?” Bea asked. “Why is the explanation always a misunderstanding or confusion, or—my favorite—a misconstruction on the part of somebody else?”

  “Penweather was purposely misinformed. Archie told him I would want for nothing in widowhood. I had a competence and an inheritance, after all. The solicitors were forbidden to discuss my situation with Penweather, which was an insult to his lordship and also Archie’s doing.”

  “Penweather told you this?”

  “Not the insult part, but I read it between the lines. Cousin Fabianus sent me a bank draft, Bea, and asked that I consult him on the settlements with Jonathan—consult him, not defer to his wishes or allow him to handle the negotiations. I believe he was honestly mortified at his own behavior.”

  Bea rose. “You’re saying we’ve misjudged Penweather?”

  “I hope so. I’m removing to Hampshire for an indefinite visit within a fortnight. You are welcome to come with me, though I warn you that traveling with Seraphina and Diana will try your patience to the utmost.”

  Even being in the same house with the girls had become a tribulation. They bickered constantly, and Diana longed for peaches-rhymes-with-beseeches at least three times a day.

  Theo had taken peaches into violent dislike, when she wasn’t longing for them in a creamy compote.

  “I’ll send some cordial along to Hampshire with you,” Bea said, “but I’ll leave the rusticating to you and the viscount. If he’s disagreeable, you will come back to Town straightaway, Theo.”

  Bea took the stool by the harp, making a pretty picture. Theo hadn’t truly expected the countess to welcome a jaunt into the shires, not while a certain earl was still in Town.

  “His lordship sent an astonishingly large bank draft, Bea.” As much as Jonathan had paid for matchmaking services. Theo considered refunding Jonathan’s money, but he’d argue, and then she’d have to see him again, and then she might lose her resolve altogether.

  “I can have Aunt Fred invest it for you,” Bea said, resting the harp against her shoulder. “Whatever you do, you will accept that bank draft, Theo. It’s not like you own a lucrative gaming hell.”

  Did Jonathan? He’d said The Coventry was in diffi
culties, though he’d also said it made him a fair bit of coin.

  “I’d be too worried about being raided by the authorities, assuming I could overcome all of my other reservations.”

  Bea plucked a minor chord. “Tresham likely pays a king’s ransom to ensure his club isn’t raided. Either that, or having dukes and earls hanging from the rafters keeps the more ambitious reformers from bothering him.” She turned the chord into a slow arpeggio, the notes halting and sad.

  “But if The Coventry’s reputation should suffer due to rumors of cheating and the like?” Theo asked. “Arrests would be more likely?”

  “You aren’t engaged to him, Theo,” Bea said, tilting the harp upright. “Tresham can be arrested, and that’s no concern of yours, but yes. If the rumors regarding crooked tables, reckless play, and other problems are true, then the authorities are more likely to interfere. Find me a cheerful tune, please. I’m at home to callers, and my only guest has informed me she’s abandoning me for the company of some doddering sheep farmer.”

  “Penweather will never be doddering. He will be dignified until his dying day.” Jonathan would be dignified as well, but not… not priggish. Not stuffy. He would not leave a widow to muddle on in penury when a wealthy relation should have seen to her finances. “I cannot abide the idea that Mr. Tresham’s club is an object of talk.”

  “Then you’d best leave Town soon, for if the rumors are reaching my ears—a shy, retiring widow of limited means—they will soon be more than rumors.”

  Bea was about as shy and retiring as Wellington in pursuit of the French, though Theo’s need to quit London was growing by the hour.

  “Promise me something,” Bea said, resuming her place beside Theo on the piano bench. “I am fanciful, I know, but I’m concerned for you, Theo. Promise me you aren’t decamping to Hampshire to bear Tresham a child out of wedlock. You’d be that stoic, that principled. I know you can’t marry a man who makes his living off of gambling, but I also know you aren’t thinking clearly right now.”