Daphne met her mistress’s gaze in the oval glass. She looked her usual practical red-haired self. Her mistress, however, looked pale and drawn. “Little that I’ve been able to hear, Miss Elizabeth—I mean, Your Grace. I’m a stranger to them, so they don’t talk in front of me. That Magda woman is known to the staff. At least to the housekeeper and butler and cook.”
That Magda person was better known to St. Clair than was his wife. A pity he hadn’t married her. Elizabeth reached for the refreshment tray, on which sat a pot of chocolate and a plate of digestive biscuits.
Digestive biscuits? The entire household did know of her adventures along the Bath Road. After those adventures, Elizabeth would have liked to enjoy a proper meal. Boiled salmon and dressed cucumber with anchovy sauce. Roast loin of veal. Artichoke bottoms. Followed by a rhubarb tart.
Her stomach protested. She picked up a digestive biscuit and nibbled at it cautiously.
Daphne had already seen her mistress’s belongings unpacked and stowed away in the tallboy and wardrobe, had arranged the dressing chamber to her liking. Now she unpinned Elizabeth’s long hair and picked up a silver-backed hairbrush. Lady Ratchett had been all cock-a-hoop that her daughter had made so illustrious a match, and determined the new duchess should do nothing for which her mama might blush. Daphne had been instructed to inform Lady Ratchett immediately if Elizabeth made a misstep.
There was nothing new in this; Daphne had been frequently quizzed by her ladyship in the past. In Miss Elizabeth’s place, Daphne would have married Old Nick himself to get out of that house. Though Lord Charnwood might be a duke of the first stare, he could only be cast into the shade by Lady Ratchett when it came to raking a body over the coals.
Gently, she drew the brush through her mistress’s hair. Daphne was handmaiden to a duchess now, and no longer dwelt under Lady Ratchett’s roof. Whatever she told Milady—and she must eventually tell Milady something or Milady would raise a dreadful rumpus—there’ be no tales told just yet.
Soothed by the rhythmic brushstrokes, Elizabeth closed her eyes, and wondered how long it would be before Daphne sent Maman a report. “No doubt there is some good reason for that woman’s presence. I mustn’t make a piece of work of it. It would never do for me to disoblige my husband. Maman has said so.”
“Seems to me His Grace might benefit from some disobligement,” Daphne replied pertly. “Though it’s not my place to think. But if I was to think, I think I’d want some explanations in your place. No true gentleman would have his ladybird under the same roof as his wife. A proper lady might well swoon from the shock.”
No proper lady, Elizabeth reflected, would gossip with her servants. Maman would not approve.
But what was Daphne saying? “Ladybird?”
The abigail set down her hairbrush on the dressing table. “Ladybird. High flyer. Bread and cheese and kisses. Bachelor’s fare, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth raised her fingers to her aching temples. She might have felt better for a few kisses herself. Although not from her husband, because Maman had been precise about what that led to. But it wouldn’t, would it, if Daphne was correct in believing the duke had brought his bit o’ muslin into the house?
Elizabeth’s rebellious stomach churned. “You have been reading too many romantic novels,” she scolded, with more conviction than she felt.
True, Daphne was fond of romantic novels; tales of damsels in distress who managed to preserve themselves, if not their virtue, in the very nick of time. Damsels not unlike her poor mistress, who might have been being powdered and perfumed in preparation for her initiation into some wicked sultan’s harem, while the brute amused himself elsewhere.
Daphne pulled a bottle from her pocket. “Do you have the headache, Your Grace? A couple drops of laudanum should ease the pain.” Meaningfully, she paused. “More than that and you’ll fall fast asleep.”
Elizabeth eyed her abigail, and the little bottle. Maman had not approved of laudanum. “If you ‘Your Grace’ me one more time, I swear I shall throw this hairbrush at you.”
Daphne placed the laudanum on the dresser. Her mistress would soon enough grow accustomed to her title. As well as other things. The duchess looked quite pretty in her square-collared nightdress and dressing gown of fine lawn, her thick golden hair curling to her waist. Daphne wondered if the duke had yet noticed that his bride wasn’t exactly platter-faced.
A knock sounded on the door. Two footmen entered the room, carrying between them Birdie’s huge cage. Panted one, “Compliments of His Grace.”
Elizabeth gestured toward a mahogany table. The footmen set down the cage. Birdie sidled across her perch, head feathers ruffled, hard hooked beak opened to bite. Quickly the footmen stepped back.
“You’re bleeding!” cried Elizabeth. “Oh, goodness, you both are.” It was of no consequence, the footmen informed her, as they backed out of the room, taking with them the metal bath.
The door closed behind them. Elizabeth turned to the macaw. The parrot croaked and flashed her bright blue rump.
Warily, Daphne approached the cage. “Angels defend us! Your Grace—Miss Elizabeth—is that great thing a bird?”
Birdie snapped her beak. Elizabeth warned, “Don’t come too close! Hand me the blue linen shawl. She may find the color soothing. We’ll drape it on her cage.” Birdie made no gesture of appreciation as they placed the fabric over the back half of the ornate metal structure, but neither did she try to bite.
Elizabeth sank into a chair drawn up beside the birdcage table. “Thank you, Daphne. I’ll have no further need of you tonight.” The abigail gathered up the stained and rumpled carriage dress and bore it away.
Birdie sidled along the rough wood perch, to which some bark was still attached, ruffled her feathers, and did a little dance; spread out her wings and fanned her tail. “Biscuit?” she inquired.
She spoke! The parrot spoke! This discovery provided the sole bright moment in Elizabeth’s miserable day. “Had you eyelashes, you would flutter them at me, you shameless thing. And to no avail, because I ate the biscuits all myself. I suppose you are meant to keep me company while my husband occupies himself elsewhere.” Birdie hopped down off the perch and began to forage in the bottom of the cage.
Elizabeth bit her lip. She was inconvenient in truth, were St. Clair’s paramour downstairs. Could Daphne be correct in her suspicions? Was the sultry stranger a Fair Unfortunate? Elizabeth had never seen a fallen woman, at least not that she knew of, though there had been an incident when Maman had called a female a brazen piece, and cut her dead in the street.
That female had been less provocative than St. Clair’s Magda. Elizabeth was sent to bed with digestive biscuits and chocolate while the duke did whatever it was that he was doing elsewhere in the house. What was he doing? Surely he did not mean to have his inamorata under the same roof as his wife!
Alas, the duke might have anything under his roof that he desired, and his duchess could say naught about it. Or she could, but it would not signify. Charnwood was lord of all he surveyed, as well as a great deal that he did not.
Even Elizabeth’s fortune, left her by her grand-mama, was no longer hers but his.
She stared at the bed, a great solid piece of furniture with curtains and canopies, piles of pillows and blankets, and a green and white counterpane. Tonight she was expected to sleep there with her bridegroom. Unlikely the exotic Magda had ever closed her eyes and pruned her lips and counted a herd of sheep. Maybe things were different when a gentleman climbed into a bed that was not his own.
Under the circumstances, Elizabeth decided, even Maman couldn’t blame her for feeling overwhelmed.
She moved to the dressing table. Her wedding ring lay there, diamonds set in accent points among pearls in splendidly wrought gold. Gingerly, she picked up the ring and slipped it on her hand, then raised her eyes and examined her reflection in the glass. Ordinarily Elizabeth didn’t spend much time contemplating her reflection, for she knew how short she fell of the
feminine ideal. Still, there was nothing wrong with her face except for its shape and slenderness. Nothing wrong with her person save that she was tall and thin.
What would the duke make of her person? What would he do with her person? What was he doing with some other person now? St. Clair had mentioned Prince Bladud and his pigs. If only she could contract leprosy, she might sleep alone tonight. Her gaze fell upon the laudanum.
Elizabeth picked up the small bottle. Daphne had said two drops would quiet a violent headache. Elizabeth uncorked the bottle and drank six, then crawled between the lace-trimmed sheets. If St. Clair managed to remove himself from his mistress long enough to consummate his marriage, she wouldn’t mind it in the least, because she would be fast asleep.
Chapter 4
“A licentious style of dress is as certainly a token of like laxity in manners and conduct.”—Lady Ratchett
Contrary to the opinion of at least two members of his household (or in truth just one, because the second was unsure what she thought), the duke was not amusing himself with his unexpected guest. Or the least unexpected of his guests, because he had anticipated that his cousin would try to interfere with his honeymoon, and that Nigel would descend on him with that accursed bird. Magdalena, however, Justin had not expected to see again in this life and hopefully not in the next, he having ever followed a conventional path that was unlike to lead him into the fiery depths where such a schemer must eventually reside. But here she sat, in the book-lined library, curled up in one of the stuffed wing chairs, as at ease as if they were old friends, and he didn’t trust her one inch.
The years since their last meeting had been kind. Magda remained one of the most beautiful women Justin had ever known. He couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t wearing a corset under that flimsy gown. She should have been wearing a corset, though only the most uncharitable of persons would have called her plump. Yet Magda’s face was thinner than he remembered, the bones more defined. With her high cheekbones and pointed chin and slanted green eyes, she put him in mind of a cat. The duke didn’t care for cats, considering them sly, deliberately charming, self-serving creatures that swiped against one’s ankles and purred until picked up, then when tired of being petted, unsheathed their sharp claws.
This was an apt description of the woman occupying his wing chair. Justin regarded her without appreciation over the cold compress he held to his nose. “What do you want, Magda—I assume that is still your name?”
She dimpled. “Unkind, Saint! Of course I am still Magda, Magdalena Delacroix now, Madame de Chavannes. Zut! I do not think I have ever seen you quite so angry. You might at least pretend to be glad to see me, you know.”
“But I’m not glad to see you!” the duke retorted. “I have recently got married. How dare you come here like this and push your way into my house?”
Magda wrinkled her nose at this inelegant turn of phrase. “But I didn’t push my way in! Chislett recognized me immediately he opened the door. He must have thought he saw a ghost because he turned white as one himself. Then he whisked me inside before I could say a word.”
Justin reminded himself to speak sternly to Chislett. “What devilment are you up to, Magda? You needn’t deny you are up to something. I know you of old.”
Magda stretched languorously, stood up, and crossed the room to stand before him. “You were fond of me once,” she murmured. “Have you forgot?”
Justin looked down into her exquisite little face. “Don’t waste time playing off your airs on me. I am immune.”
“Are you, I wonder?” Magda ran her fingers down the lapel of his coat. Justin caught her wrist and held her motionless.
She made a moue. “Très bien! I shall stop toying with you, though I vow you provoke me to it, you are become so monstrous starched-up. The truth is that I wanted to come home. Impossible to make exact arrangements; I had no notion of when or even if I would arrive. When I did reach England, I had no place to go, and I thought immediately of you.”
Justin doubted that. He wondered what, in fact, her first thought had been. “And Monsieur de Chavannes?”
Magda’s piquant features sobered. She pulled away from him. “It is most off-putting to see one’s husband’s head atop a pole. I did not desire that mine should join his, so I fled. Do not look so disapproving. It is not unusual to take along a friend on the honeymoon, n’est-ce pas?”
She was beautiful, clever, and ruthless. And acted as if she had nourished some genuine feeling for her departed spouse. “A friend of the bride,” amended Justin. “You are hardly that. And now, if you will excuse me? Elizabeth waits.”
Magda moved to the fireplace. “Your bride may wait a while longer. Can you not see the humor in the situation, Saint? I gather from that dreadful expression on your face that you do not! You have Gus here with you also. You shan’t convince me she’s a friend of the bride.”
Justin could hardly argue with this. He resigned himself to a few moments’ more conversation. “Dare I ask why your husband lost his head?”
“Let us merely say that Jules was indiscreet.” Magda gazed into the flames burning on the hearth. “Mon Dieu, the rumors I have heard since I came back to England. General Bonaparte has under construction a monstrous bridge by which his troops will pass from Calais to Dover, directed by officers in air balloons. Alternately, a tunnel beneath the Channel is being engineered by a mining expert. The Corsican has disguised himself as British and is patrolling English shores aboard a fishing smack. Absurdités, but you may be sure Bony hasn’t given up his invasion schemes. Anyone who can defeat England will be master of the world.”
Clearly there was to be no more discussion of the Chevalier. “You retain your interest in politics.”
Magda sank back down in the armchair. “Only a fool is not interested in politics. Revolutions are periodic outbursts following always the same curve from rebellion through chaos to dictatorship. History is a circle. Only a monarchy can restore order and security to France.”
“In other words, you support the Bourbons.”
Magda toyed with the cameo around her neck. “I will support anyone who promises to return my husband’s properties to me, mon cher.”
The compress was no longer cold. Justin set it on the massive mahogany writing desk alongside a table globe, quill pen, and Sheffield plate wax jack. He poured brandy from a decanter into a glass.
Magda gazed pointedly at the decanter in his hand. Justin poured a second glass of brandy and carried it to her.
She smiled up at him. “The elusive Lord Charnwood has taken a wife at last. Your affections are fixed.”
His affections were nothing of the sort. Now it was Justin who watched the fire burning in the hearth. “Elizabeth is a good biddable girl with a proper way of thinking. She will make me a comfortable wife.”
Magda swung sideways in the chair, the better to observe him. “You danced attendance on her at least a little bit, I hope, my Saint. Stood up with her at balls. Sent her posies, paid her distinguishing attentions. Perhaps”—she looked roguish—“stole a kiss?”
Justin felt queerly guilty that he had neglected to kiss his intended wife. It was Magda’s damnable influence; he knew he had been most correct in his conduct toward Elizabeth. As it was Magda’s fault he wasn’t kissing Elizabeth right now. Still, he found he didn’t dislike speaking with her, which astonished him. “That is none of your concern.”
Magda rested her chin on her hand. “Naturally it is my concern. You may not realize it, but I am your friend. Come, Saint, tell your Magda all.”
She was not his Magda, for which Justin was immensely grateful. “I began to feel mortal, I suppose. One can’t get an heir without first getting a bride.”
“Some do,” observed Magda. “But I perfectly understand that you are not among them. When did this mortality come upon you?”
Justin drained his brandy snifter. “On my thirtieth birthday.”
“And it took you two more years to screw up your resolve? Oh
yes, I recall perfectly your age. Nigel and Gus are a mere year younger, and I am two. Tiens! You picked out a paragon of virtue with a handsome dowry, who will never allow passion to get the better of reason, or enact you dramatical high flights. Your proper little English miss will suit you well enough. Who knows, you might even come to like her a little bit.”
He might come to strangle this intruder. “This is none of your concern.”
“Whereas you have become shockingly sober,” Magda continued, ignoring his displeasure. “I remember when you were much more fun.”
Justin stood up. He was in no mood for a discussion of old times. “As you pointed out, I cared for you once. Because of that, and because I know damned well you will revenge yourself if I refuse you, I will permit you to stay here for a time. But understand this: you will cause Elizabeth no distress. Moreover, you will not permit my cousin to do so. I trust I make myself clear.”
Magda raised her glass to him. “Clear as a windowpane. I would have no bad feeling between us. In case I have not said it, I wish you happy, Saint.”
The hour was much advanced when Lord Charnwood climbed the stairs, the matter of Magdalena having taken up no little time. He had approached his marriage in his usual reasonable manner. How had matters gone so wrong? Instead of gently introducing his bride to the realities of matrimony, he had been closeted in the library. Hopefully Elizabeth had been appeased by the presence of the bird.
Thornaby waited in the dressing room, where a cheerful fire burned in the hearth. The valet’s expression was mournful. “I fear, Your Grace, that the cravat could not be saved.”
“Then I shall have to buy a dozen others, shan’t I?” The duke sat down in a carved chair. “You will forgive me for putting you to the blush. It isn’t every day I take a bride.”
Love Match Page 3