“Dinner will be served in five minutes, Your Grace,” Blenkins intoned from the doorway.
The Duke nodded his thanks and, upon catching his annoyed parent’s eye, apologised. “London hours have delayed our guest, Mama.”
The Dowager contented herself with a tetchy tsk and glanced at Fenella as if in silent camaraderie. “I fear we are but country folk now, my dear Fenella.”
Fenella felt so stiff and awkward that she simply nodded and hoped no one would engage her in too much conversation. She averted her eyes from Devlin’s gaze and fiddled with the lace on her dress.
Dinner was a nightmare for Fenella. It seemed as if there were a hundred courses, comprising a hundred dishes each, all of which must be savoured with gusto. She could hardly eat and the food passed her lips almost untasted. Fenella longed for the evening to end but it had only just begun. She sat opposite the Duke, next to Freddie, who chattered nineteen to the dozen on a variety of amusing topics. Fenella laughed at his animadversions although, if the truth were told, she could hardly remember a word he said. She was conscious of the Duke’s stern expression and the malevolent glances that flashed from Lady Penelope’s turquoise eyes.
She was also aware the lady in question was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. It was not difficult to reason why this glittering creature had captivated the Duke. Fenella allowed herself fleeting memories of their shared passion in the library. Was it only masculine selfishness on his part that had induced him into near seduction? How could he have demonstrated such lust for her when before her very eyes was the exact reflection of the kind of beauty that truly appealed to his carnal desires? Fenella miserably surmised that the Duke had been toying with her. She decided to plead a sick headache, despite the Dowager’s admonitions, and retreat as soon as she could to the solitude and comfort of her own room. Each second at the table only exacerbated her pain, her humiliation and confusion.
Lady Penelope was dressed in an exquisite confection of royal blue satin and spangled gauze that showed her peaches-and-cream complexion to advantage and highlighted the elaborate cascade of blonde curls clustered on her milk-white shoulders, drawing attention to her long, elegant neck and full breasts. Diamonds and sapphires glittered around her neck, their cold brilliance reflecting the hard beauty of her darting eyes. She laughed gaily at Freddie’s anecdotes, and every now and then touched the Duke’s arm in an intimate manner at the mention of a name familiar to them both. Fenella could hardly bear to look at the Duke but these little gestures, insidious and agonizing to her, caught her eye and inflicted their pain.
To Fenella’s surprise, the Duke barely acknowledged the clinging attentions of his mistress beyond the faintest of civilities. His jaw was set sternly, his mouth a grim line. He drank wine and partook of each course, but added little to the conversation. His gloom was almost palpable.
* * * *
Lady Penelope dazzled, holding centre stage with her beauty and witty repartee to Freddie’s chatter. Although Devlin did not exactly repulse her subtle overtures, Lady Penelope was aware his mind was not on her. He seemed distracted, as if his thoughts were wandering. She suppressed the wave of anger that rose in her bosom and threatened to overwhelm her. It was unforgivable of him to toy with her affections, use her body for so long, and now act so cold, so uncaring, so…she could hardly bring herself to conceive of the word…disinterested!
It was unpardonable. Lady Penelope was accustomed to men clustering after her, begging for a glove, a lock of hair, a smile, nay even just a glance from those fabulous eyes. Sitting next to a rigid, monosyllabic Duke, she might as well be sitting next to a wax dummy.
However, Lady Penelope clung to her mission with unprecedented tenacity. She would not lose. She could not lose this deadly contest between her and that…that milksop opposite. Fenella’s presence at the table had come as an enormous shock to her. It was one thing to suspect she had a rival; it was another to have said rival sitting across the dinner table, and looking much prettier than one would wish a rival to appear. Lady Penelope mused on the strange arrangement that enabled a mere companion to dine with the family, something that would never happen in fashionable London.
This was obviously the Dowager’s doing, since she could not imagine Devlin bending protocol to this extent. Naturally, since his Mama was elderly, one could understand her strange ideas about accepted etiquette. Moreover, country manners had much to do with this slackening of social convention.
Well, this will change just as soon as Devlin and I are married! The old biddy will have to bestir herself somewhere else and I’ll see to it that Devlin procures a suitable establishment for his Mama that is not too close to the present residence.
Bath would be perfect for the old woman.
She studied her opponent from under her lashes while she busied herself with a delicious confection of quail baked in tender pastry. Granted, the girl was attractive in an insipid way. It was clear she lacked any social graces or sparkling conversation since, apart from smiling at that ridiculous Perivale’s antics, she hardly spoke. Lady Penelope was surprised to see the little chit actually had some jewels to offset her appearance. She studied the gems as she darted glances around the table, registering that, while not ostentatious and possibly not worth a vast sum, the diamonds and pearls were very fine indeed, and the setting and design of a vaguely Continental style. Her thoughts mulled on the question of how a companion, with limited funds at her disposal, could acquire jewellery that certainly had some worth. The locket appeared to be an heirloom. The old-fashioned style bespoke its age and value. It had to be solid gold. No pinchbeck in that. An inheritance, perhaps?
Another fact annoyed Lady Penelope. When she had dressed that evening, she had assumed her only rival for splendour would be the magnificent Deverell diamonds and since, if she played her cards right, she would be the happy recipient of those superb stones in the near future, any overshadowing would not be a discomfort to her. She was wrong. It was not the fact that the Dowager had sallied forth in full magnificence. The old lady wore what appeared to be the complete set of the famous and much celebrated diamonds—the tiara, the necklace, the bracelets and the rings—and was sitting in a blaze of glorious sparkles, arrayed in her favourite lavender crepe de chine, with an extremely smug smile on her lips. No, it was not that at all, Lady Penelope had reflected, as she murmured her admiration of the family gems. It was what the little country mouse was wearing that caused this intensely sharp anger inside her breast.
The green gown looked very well on the milksop. Too well. There was something familiar about the style that registered in the back of Lady Penelope’s mind. The fabric was amazingly beautiful. Her chagrin flared.
How can it be that this nobody has such an exquisite dress, so finely cut? I could swear it has the touch of my own modiste about it.
Of course, it’s not possible she told herself, savouring the pastry that melted in her mouth.
It’s impossible that this bland little creature could have access to the attentions of such a woman as Madame Celeste; impossible too she would have the money to pay for such a dress. It’s obviously a hand-me-down from one of the old woman’s young relatives.
However, the colour became the girl incredibly well, highlighting her flawless complexion and offsetting the dusky burnish of her curls. As Lady Penelope studied her rival further, she became conscious that Fenella’s beauty was entirely natural. The faint blush of pink on her cheeks, the dark wings of her brows and the fringed fan of her eyelashes owed nothing to artful cosmetics. She was irked beyond repair to admit to her own attempts at keeping the ravages of time at bay. If the soft mellow light of the candles showed her beauty to advantage, it did so even more for Fenella, who was unconscious of the storm she had awakened in the breast of her enemy and the Duke.
Eschewing the usual brandy, port and cigars at the behest of the Dowager, the company gathered in the drawing room. Devlin sipped coffee while Freddie played the pian
o forte and sang one of the latest music hall ditties. When the last tinkling notes faded away, Lady Penelope drew closer to Fenella on the sofa.
“Dear Miss…Preston, isn’t it?” she cooed. “You must tell me all about yourself.”
Her turquoise eyes glittered dangerously, like those of a snake when confronted with the trembling tid-bit of a terrified rabbit. Before Fenella could reply, she caressed the fabric of Fenella’s dress. “What a beautiful dress. You must give me the name of your modiste.”
Fenella cast a frightened, anguished glance at the Dowager and opened her mouth.
The Dowager forestalled any need for speech by saying smoothly, “Dear me, Lady Vane, so many questions. I declare you are becoming a regular quiz.”
Lady Penelope flushed with chagrin but caught herself in time by laughing her well-known, trilling laugh. “You are quite right, Your Grace.” She bowed her head in mock remorse. “I dare say I must appear to be vastly curious. Do forgive me.”
She dimpled enchantingly at Fenella, who gave a weak smile in return.
Lady Penelope patted Fenella’s hand and smiled. “’Tis just that I do so love to make new acquaintances. One knows all the gossip in London and it has become so boring. La! But I would love for us to become friends while I am here at Deverell House.”
She stroked the material of Fenella’s gown again. “This fabric is quite wonderful. Pray do tell me your secret?” Her dazzling gaze was hypnotic.
The Dowager intervened with serene aplomb. “I am afraid you will be disappointed, Lady Penelope, if you persist in trying to winkle information from dear Fenella.”
The turquoise eyes darted from Fenella to the Dowager. “Why is that?”
“Fenella does not even know from whence the dress comes.” The Dowager stroked Scheherazade with a satisfied smirk.
Lady Penelope lifted her arched brows and stretched her lips in a strained smile. “Pray tell.”
The Dowager shook her head. “No, no, it was a gift to Fenella, and so it would not do to reveal the details.”
Lady Penelope bowed her head with a rueful smile. Inside she seethed at being denied the particulars of this superb dressmaker—she would see Madame Celeste when she returned to London and demand a dress of exactly the same fabric.
Fenella’s reprieve, however, was short-lived. Lady Penelope was tenacious and she was determined to corner her prey.
“Forgive me, my dear Miss Preston,” Lady Vane purred, as she leaned forward and lifted Fenella’s right hand for a closer examination of her bracelet and ring. “I could not help noticing what very fine jewels you have and.…” She hesitated a moment, affecting reluctance. “I could not help wondering how is it that, in your circumstances, you are the proud possessor of such lovely gems.”
“In all honesty, Lady Vane, this is the first time I have seen and worn these gems and the locket.”
Lady Vane raised astonished eyebrows and turned a surprised face to the company. “Good gracious, Miss Preston. It sounds like a stage theatrical, a mystery!”
“It is a mystery to me,” Fenella admitted, “for these obviously belonged to my mother, and my father asked my aunt to keep them safe until such time as I would have need to wear them. The ring, bracelet and earrings were his wedding gift to my mother and the locket, I believe, belonged to her family.”
Lady Penelope’s sharp eyes had spied the worn motif. “Pray tell, was your mother of noble birth? It seems to me the emblem on the locket closely resembles a family crest of some kind.”
As she spoke, Lady Penelope was acutely aware that if this was true and the chit was of noble birth, her troubles had increased manifold in an instant. It was imperative to go through with the rest of her plan to secure a proposal, and quickly.
Fenella fingered the locket. “I don’t know and since neither my father nor mother is alive to reveal much more to me, it seems there is no answer to your question.”
“You have not been much in Society, I gather?” A self-satisfied purr underlined the pointed question.
“Alas, no, ma’am,” Fenella replied truthfully. “Since my parents’ deaths I have lived a quiet life with my aunt in London and have not had much opportunity for social intercourse.”
When Lady Penelope opened her mouth to question Fenella further about her parentage, the Dowager reminded the company that being an orphan was so very distressing she was sure it was not a topic for discussion; and since one’s Mama usually left family jewels to an only daughter, Fenella’s finery was unexceptionable.
Finally, Lady Penelope was persuaded to give the company a recital on the pianoforte. To her surprise, Devlin asked her to sing and play for them, declaring in solemn tones that her talents would be the apogee of the evening’s pleasure. Preening in triumph, Lady Penelope seated herself at the instrument. She was flattered and delighted at this almost-public recognition of her talent, which would imply their relationship was intimate enough for Devlin to be aware of her skills as a songstress and pianist. Devlin then begged for the privilege of turning the music pages. Freddie’s added clamouring for that boon had the desired effect. Lady Penelope dimpled prettily, basking in what she perceived to be male adoration. Her malevolent thoughts toward Fenella were quelled by the flattering attentions of her lover and his friend. She had won. Her heart sang in victory as she cast her eyes up at Devlin. He smiled at her, albeit a little uneasily, she thought, but that was probably because the poor darling was stiff in the company of his formidable Mama. Soon, she vowed, soon she would bed him once more and then if she had her way, wed him.
The recital over, the two gentlemen retired to the balcony to enjoy a longed-for cigar and glass of brandy, leaving the ladies alone for a few minutes. Lady Penelope sashayed back to the sofa. She sat down next to Fenella and renewed her attack.
“So, Miss Preston,” she gushed. “Have you made many friends around these parts?”
Her eyes gleamed as she stretched out a delicate hand to pat Fenella’s arm. Her gesture was warm, welcoming intimacy between the two women, but hardness lurked in the depths of her gaze.
“I fear Miss Preston is much put upon by my illness,” sighed the Dowager. “Alas, we do not have much in the way of social events these days.”
Lady Penelope’s glance flickered around the room. “Such a pity Devlin should not be able to hold the functions and balls that are worthy of him.”
Her words had entirely the wrong effect on the Dowager, who sat up at once, her back ramrod stiff with indignation although her tone remained silky.
“When I said we do not have much in the way of social events, my dear Lady Vane, I did not mean we are incapable of hosting such occasions, but that we no longer desired them.” Her steely glance bored into Lady Penelope’s stricken face.
“In its heyday, Deverell House had such balls and grand occasions as were spoken of in the next three counties. We have even been graced by Royalty on several occasions.” She tossed out this last retort with a perfunctory wave of her hand that vastly belied its importance.
Lady Penelope flushed. “I beg pardon, ma’am.” She stumbled over her words as her thoughts flew around her brain in confusion. She could not at any cost anger Devlin’s mother. Appearing to be the socially adept, perfect wife was one way of ensuring acceptance by Devlin’s formidable parent.
The Dowager did not give her an opportunity to continue. “In fact, I was just saying to Devlin the other day that perhaps we should go to London in search of entertainment; now I think it would be better if London came here to us, to Deverell House. A ball is a splendid plan!”
Lady Penelope was delighted; she could have shouted her triumph to the rooftops if it were possible. The old fool had played right into her hands. She did not even have to suggest a ball to Devlin; his Mama, anxious to best her, had done it for her. Her plan was coming to fruition. A glow of happiness spread through her whole body—she had won, without having to strike a single blow.
“What’s this about Deverell House?” Devlin
asked, as he and Freddie stepped back into the room.
Lady Penelope rose to her feet and clasped his arm. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful? Your Mama has graciously decided to throw a ball at Deverell House. How splendid!”
Devlin’s reaction was not what Lady Penelope expected. He stood as if turned to stone. “A what?”
“A ball!” The Dowager’s reply was calm and measured. “I was just thinking how boring we have become, immured in the countryside like this, and dear Lady Vane has put the idea into my head. I would like to see Deverell House restored to the glory of its heyday.”
“Mama, you cannot be serious!”
“No, Devlin,” his mother replied, in composed, clear tones. “This is no mistake, and my health has never been better. I am perfectly capable of playing hostess at my own functions.”
“As you wish, Mama.”
“I do.”
Chapter Ten
Fenella hardly slept that night. Her muddled and feverish thoughts consumed her as she tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot in her usually very comfortable bed. Her pillow seemed to be made of wood as she thumped it repeatedly in her attempts to form a soft cushion under her head. It was as if her brain was filled with a confusion of passion and memories. The shock of receiving her mother’s jewels, the childhood remembrances that had returned to her, the sense of an identity, albeit a mysterious one, the Duke, her feelings toward him and her physical desires, the woman who flaunted herself so brazenly as his future wife…it was all too much to comprehend. Fenella felt emotions whirling inside her—the joy of calling something her own was overtaken by anger at feeling so vulnerable in the grip of an unbearable physical longing; that was soon replaced with a sense of helplessness that she could not simply run away from it all.
Trapped by her feelings and lack of finances, Fenella finally admitted she was a prisoner, no matter which way she looked at the situation. A prisoner in an invisible cage. No bars held her there; there was no chain to bind her to the place and Devlin, just her own circumstances. Then she rebuked herself; she should be grateful for the opportunity of advancement in the world. And what had she done? The most foolish thing possible—she had allowed this man to take liberties that were unheard of; she had allowed him to begin a campaign of seduction. Now whatever she felt, it was her own fault. Having berated herself beyond bearing, Fenella gave up on the idea of sleep.
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