A Most Suitable Duchess

by Patricia Bray

  It was well known that scandals sold newspapers, and what could be more scandalous than a peer of the realm advertising for a bride? It was small wonder that the rival newspapers had soon joined in spreading the scurrilous tale.

  “I wrote to the newspapers denouncing this as a hoax, and sent the letters by express messenger,” Marcus said.

  “I have not seen them,” Reginald responded. “Perhaps they will be printed in this evening’s editions.”

  Or perhaps not. He would have to speak with James McGregor, and see what could be done. Could he sue the newspapers for libel? But doing so would reveal that his brother Reginald had penned the false missive, and that would make him seem even more the fool. It was an impossible tangle.

  He rubbed his face with his hands, as his weariness finally caught up with him. He had ridden hard, making the journey from Greenfields to Edinburgh in a mere day and a half. And yet with each mile he had ridden, he had known he was already too late. The brush of scandal had tarred him and his family, and it would take a long time before this tale was forgotten.

  “Surely the scandal will die down once there is news of your marriage to Miss Dunne,” Reginald said.

  “If only that were true, I would indeed be a fortunate man,” Marcus observed. “However Alice Dunne has made other plans. You remember Samuel Makepeace, do you not? He has accepted a position in London, to preach the gospel of Wesley to the ungodly poor. Miss Dunne has agreed to accompany him, as his wife.”

  “Oh,” Reginald said, at a loss for words.

  “Indeed,” Marcus replied.

  He had been surprised to find that Alice Dunne had spent these years awaiting another. It had been a blow to his pride, if not his heart. Still he had managed to sincerely congratulate her upon her forthcoming marriage, even as he wondered how she could prefer the life of an impoverished missionary to that of a noblewoman.

  It was a stroke of luck that he had learned of her impending marriage before he made a fool of himself by offering for her. He could only wonder what the Dunnes now thought of him. Surely they knew him well enough to know that he was the victim of a dreadful hoax.

  “I confess I am at a loss as to how to proceed,” Marcus said. Reginald was one of the few people that he trusted enough to confide in. “James McGregor was not in his offices when I called there, but his clerk promised to send him over here as soon as he returned. Until then…”

  “Until then, you had best keep to our rooms, as I have for these past days,” Reginald said. “The Porters have done a fine job in barring correspondents from the common room, but they were lurking outside the entrance and in the streets. It was a mercy you were not accosted when you came into the inn.”

  “I am fortunate that they did not recognize me,” Marcus said. “No doubt that will change soon enough.”

  Any hopes that Mr. James McGregor would find a way out of this mess were dashed when his solicitor arrived later that afternoon. Friends since their days at school together, James wasted no time on pleasantries, but instead came swiftly to the point.

  “I tell you, Marcus, I don’t see how this affair could be made any worse,” James McGregor said. He placed a bulging satchel on the scarred wooden table of the sitting room, and then took a seat opposite Marcus.

  Mr. Porter came in, bearing a tray with three tankards of ale. As Reginald closed the door behind the innkeeper, James took a long drink of his ale.

  Reginald picked up his own tankard, and retreated to a seat at the far end of the table. Marcus had asked him to join them, but Reginald was still wary, acting as if he were waiting for Marcus or James to remind him that he was the cause of this current predicament.

  “Is there no way to free myself from this tangle?” Marcus asked. “If we could invalidate the will then there would be no need to worry about this marriage. I could simply go back to Greenfields, and wait for the scandal to die down.”

  The faint hope he had nourished for the past days died as James McGregor sadly shook his head. “Forsythe may be an ass, but he is no fool. The will has no obvious defect. Of course you could always find some grounds to challenge it on, but such a challenge could take years to work its way through the chancery courts. And until that day—”

  “And until that distant date I would still be responsible for my late cousin’s debts,” Marcus said.

  “Indeed. I took the liberty of reviewing the situation with two colleagues whom I trust, and their opinions match my own. Pursuing a challenge to the will would be a waste of time and money, and in the end, it is more than likely that the court would decide to uphold the original will.”

  Marcus took a sip of dark ale, the bitter taste providing a fine match to his dark thoughts.

  “Which means I must be married before the fortnight is over.”

  James McGregor nodded. “A damn shame, but I see no other course. Unless you care to give up the inheritance and refuse payment of your cousin’s debts?”

  For a brief moment he was tempted, but he pushed the unworthy thought aside. No matter what society thought of him at the moment, Marcus knew himself to be an honorable man. And he would continue to behave as such, regardless of the personal cost.

  “No, I can not do that. I will have to find a bride who is willing to take me.”

  James McGregor blinked. “But your brother said you had a bride in mind?”

  “I did. But she had her eye on another,” Marcus said, his neutral tone giving no hint of the humiliation he felt. He had been well paid for his vanity, for all those years he had spent imagining that he had only to make his decision and his chosen bride would be his. Instead, not even his new fortune and title were enough to win her regard.

  James McGregor tactfully looked away, refusing to catch his eye.

  There was a long silence, as the three contemplated Marcus’s problem.

  “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?” Reginald asked.

  “The newspaper reports have made things difficult,” James McGregor said diplomatically.

  “You mean to say it has made the matter impossible,” Marcus countered. “My character has been blackened and my name made into a laughingstock. What woman of good character or sense would want to involve herself in such a scandal? If you had a daughter, would you want her to marry a gentleman with my reputation?”

  “Marcus, I know you will make a fine husband, and if my own sister was of age, I would recommend you to her without hesitation.”

  Alas, Julia McGregor was still in the schoolroom, and would not be ready for marriage for some years yet.

  “And if you did not know me so well?”

  “Then, well then, I suppose, I would have doubts,” James McGregor said.

  It was an honest answer. Marcus respected his friend for his bluntness.

  “So my position is impossible,” Marcus declared.

  “Not quite. There are, after all, hundreds of women who are willing to fill the position. I have letters from as far away as Wales, from young women eager to become the next Duchess of Torringford.”

  James McGregor unbuckled the straps on his satchel, and reaching in, withdrew two stacks of paper, one large and one small, each tied up with blue ribbon.

  “Have you gone mad?” Marcus demanded.

  “Who knows what kind of women replied to this advertisement?” Reginald asked. “Surely only a woman of dubious character and morals would even consider writing to a stranger in this fashion.”

  “That is what I thought as well,” James McGregor said. “And indeed, most of the letters appear to be from women who meet none of the qualifications you listed. But there were a few I thought promising.”

  Marcus swallowed heavily. He could not be hearing this. This was not happening. It was all an insane dream, and at any moment he would wake up. “James, are you recommending that I choose my bride from among those lackwits who responded to that insane advertisement?”

  “Do you have a better plan?”

  Indeed he did not, which w
as why he was so angry. “I would do just as well to propose to the first woman I met on the street.”

  “Such a plan has its own risks. I realize this is strange, but I can see no alternative. At least you know the women who wrote are willing to take you on, despite the scandal.”

  “So how do we proceed? A lottery?” Reginald asked.

  “No,” James McGregor said, fixing Reginald with a stern look. “I have taken the liberty of selecting a half-dozen candidates who live within a day’s journey of Edinburgh. If you agree, I will invite each of them for an interview.”

  “And if none of them suit?”

  “Then you are no worse off than before,” James McGregor countered.

  It was sheer folly, and yet the idea had a certain appeal. After all he was not committing to marry any of these women. Just to meet them. How difficult could that be?

  “And you think one of these would make a suitable bride?”

  James McGregor withdrew the top letter and handed it to him. “See for yourself,” he said.

  “Miss Penelope Hastings,” Marcus said, glancing at the elegantly penned missive. “A gentlewoman of one-and-twenty years. Modesty is not one of her virtues, although she does describe herself as skilled at household management, and as a patroness of the arts.”

  James McGregor nodded. “I will admit I was surprised to find her among those who responded. Miss Hastings is from a fine old Edinburgh family. She has an unsullied reputation, and is well thought of among the literary set.”

  “And yet she writes to offer herself in marriage to a stranger,” Marcus said.

  Such recklessness did not speak well of either her intelligence or her common sense. And this woman was one of the best candidates that McGregor had been able to find. He shuddered to think of those candidates who had not met McGregor’s standards.

  Still, what choice did he have?

  “You win,” he said. “I will meet this paragon Miss Hastings, and a half-dozen others you find unobjectionable. We will give this scheme of yours a chance.”

  And if this did not work, he could always make his way to the market square in Old Town, and offer himself for sale to the highest bidder. Such folly could hardly damage his reputation any further.

  Four

  The hackney carriage drew to a stop at the end of Jacob’s Lane.

  “I can take you nae farther,” the coachman called down through the open trapdoor on the roof. “The way ahead is blocked.”

  Penelope Hastings glanced out the window, and saw that the road ahead was indeed blocked by an overturned cart. A small crowd, no doubt of idlers drawn to the spectacle, had spilled from the sidewalks into the street, and were adding their own share of confusion to the mix.

  “Come now, Mary,” she instructed her maid. “We are in luck that the day is fine, since we will have to walk the rest.”

  Descending from the carriage, she paid the driver, and then dismissed him. As she led the way, Mary clumping dutifully behind, she kept her eyes open for number 27. As she drew near, she realized that the building she sought was in the middle of the commotion.

  With her parasol in hand, she forced her way through the crowd of idlers, and mounted the stairs. A few of the men called impertinent suggestions up after her, but she paid no attention to their cries. Although she did wonder what Edinburgh was coming to, that such idlers could be found in a respectable neighborhood in the very middle of the day.

  Inside, at least, all was quiet. A clerk greeted her respectfully, and after instructing Mary to wait for her, Penelope followed the clerk into a small sitting room.

  In her mind she had imagined the solicitor would be a forbidding personage, withered and stooped with age, perhaps wearing a wig. Nothing could have been further from the truth, for Mr. McGregor proved to be an ordinary-looking man, with sandy blond hair and a kind face. He looked to be of an age with her brother James, which made him seem far too young for such a responsible position.

  Mr. McGregor rose as she entered, and gave her a short bow.

  “Miss Hastings, it was good of you to come, with such brief notice. Please, take a seat,” he said.

  She sat down in a straight-backed chair, and Mr. McGregor resumed his own seat.

  He stared at her for a moment, as if scrutinizing her character, and she returned his gaze steadily. His face colored, as if in realization of his impertinence.

  “Perhaps you can explain why you summoned me?” she asked, when it seemed clear that he had no intention of breaking the silence.

  “My client, the Duke of Torringford, wishes to speak with you, regarding the proposal that you sent.”

  Suddenly everything became clear. She had wondered why a solicitor would wish to speak to her, of all people, rather than to her brother, as head of the family. Now it all made sense.

  “The duke has read our proposal? May I take it that he is interested?”

  It was strange that the duke had chosen to contact her, rather than direct his inquiry to Mr. Creighton, or to the members of the society. But a duke must be allowed his own eccentricities, and if he wished to help underwrite the new observatory, who was she to quibble over his manner of conducting his affairs? She did not know the duke personally, but something about his name seemed familiar. After all, she had addressed hundreds of letters on behalf of the society. She could hardly be expected to remember every name.

  “I believe I may say that there were elements of your letter that His Grace found intriguing, although naturally I can not claim to know his mind. Still, he wished to speak to you and to several other candidates before reaching any kind of decision,” Mr. McGregor said.

  So there was more than one organization vying for the duke’s patronage. No doubt the duke had conditions of his own that would have to be met before he would agree to be a sponsor. Such was often the way with great noblemen, who required that their generosity be publicly acknowledged. Perhaps he wished for a building to be named in his honor, or a permanent seat on the board of directors.

  “Naturally I would be happy to speak with His Grace, to assure him of the worthiness of this proposal,” Penelope said, trying to express her sincere conviction. “But I am just one of several on the board of the society. I am certain Mr. Creighton, or indeed, Sir Archibald Cavendish, the head of our society, can best speak to the duke and answer any questions he may have about the project.”

  Mr. McGregor’s eyes widened in surprise. “The project? You call this a project?”

  “The full name is the Select Committee for the Establishment of a Royal Scottish Astronomical Observatory, but in truth it is simpler to refer to it as the project,” she explained.

  Mr. McGregor shook his head, as if in amazement. She wondered why a duke would employ a solicitor who had difficulty grasping such a simple concept. Perhaps if she explained things from the beginning.

  “You did read the proposal from the committee, did you not?” she asked.

  “I am afraid there has been some mistake. I did not ask you here to discuss the stargazing society. You were invited here to discuss the letter you sent to the duke. The letter in which you proposed yourself as a candidate for marriage.”

  Penelope swallowed hard. “Marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly she remembered precisely who the Duke of Torringford was, and why his name had sounded so familiar. She gulped again, as she realized the impossible muddle that she had landed in.

  “I assure you, I penned no such note,” she said tersely. She rose to her feet, preparing to end the interview.

  There was a faint click, and then the sound of the door opening behind her.

  “Your Grace, we have been expecting you,” Mr. McGregor said, rising to his feet.

  “No, we have not,” Penelope said. She turned to face the newcomer.

  She had her second surprise of the day. Based on the discussions at the dinner party, Penelope had assumed the new duke was a corpulent lecher, so elderly or repulsive that he could have no hope
of winning a bride on his own merits. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The Duke of Torringford was a well-built man, perhaps in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. His plainly tailored blue jacket and tan pants revealed a powerful body, while his sun-browned complexion showed a man used to country life.

  She wondered what Harriet Lawton would have thought, had the solicitor summoned her instead.

  “Your Grace, may I present Miss Penelope Hastings?” Mr. McGregor said. “Miss Hastings, this is Marcus Heywood, the Duke of Torringford.”

  The duke crossed the few feet that separated them, and made a deep bow. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  Penelope’s anger grew as his eyes swept over her, as if measuring her on some internal scale. What right had these men to judge her, as if she were a brood mare on display?

  “I can not share your sentiments,” Penelope said. “I had just informed your solicitor that a mistake has been made. I have no interest in marriage, and even if I did, I would never lower myself to consider such an absurd scheme as yours.”

  The duke’s eyes flashed with anger. “Then you deny writing a letter in response to the advertisement?”

  “Of course,” she said. What kind of fool did they take her for?

  Mr. McGregor cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like to reconsider your answer,” he said.

  She turned, and saw that he held out a piece of paper. Her eyes skimmed the sheet, pausing at the signature. That was indeed her name and direction signed at the bottom.