The Duke Diaries

by Sophia Nash

  “No, I have come alone. Is it not a beautiful morning?” Verity could dissemble with the best of them, and managed to turn the conversation. “And how fares the school? Are the children still plaguing you to pieces? You may warn them that I shall send my two elder sisters to spend an entire day teaching algebraic equations, and science again if they play any further pranks.”

  The smile on Miss Woods’s face was so brief, Verity would have missed it if she had blinked. “You are too kind, Lady Fitzroy. Actually, they have been behaving very well. Then again, they have reason.”

  “Reason?”

  “Yes. The promise of an early end of term. I’m needed in Dorset. My sister is in a serious decline and I must go to her. I take my leave of here in three days’ time.”

  “My sincerest condolences,” Verity said with concern.

  Mr. Armitage strode up holding his hat, while his black vestments fluttered in the strong breeze. He bowed deeply. “What a lovely surprise to see you up from Town, Lady Fitzroy. Are you come alone?”

  It was well known that the Fitzroy ladies always traveled in twos, threes, fours, and most often fives, Verity thought with good humor as she acknowledged him. Again she deflected. “Yes. Miss Woods was just informing me that the school is to close earlier than expected. What shall become of the three boys preparing for Eton’s college program next term?”

  Mr. Armitage and Miss Woods exchanged glances. “They shall have to wait a year. Their families are relieved, actually,” the vicar replied. “They’re needed for the harvest.”

  “But they shall always be needed for the harvest,” Verity retorted. “That is entirely beside the point. My brother arranged to sponsor them, as they are the brightest of the parish, and our family promised them an excellent education.”

  The handsome vicar scratched his jaw. “There is nothing that can be done.”

  Miss Woods would not meet her eye. “I’m so very sorry to disappoint. But, I fear my sister is very ill, and there is no one to care for her. I took the liberty of writing a letter to His Grace and promised that I shall return as soon as I possibly can.”

  “Of course you must go to your sister, Miss Woods. You misunderstand. We must simply find someone to continue teaching until your return. Of course, no one is as dedicated or as superior a teacher as you,” Verity added.

  “The lesson plans for the three boys are prepared,” Miss Woods said cautiously. “But finding someone will take time.”

  “Perhaps I could write to an employment agency in London to see if there are any potential candidates,” Mr. Armitage suggested.

  “Could we be so bold as to prevail on you, Lady Fitzroy, to forward a letter to your eldest sister to ask her to interview possible candidates?” Miss Woods’s old blue eyes studied her like the hawk.

  Verity knew what she should offer but held back a moment or two before plunging into the unknown. “Or . . . I could take on the task myself. If the lessons are planned and if it is only a temporary—”

  “Oh, would you?” Miss Woods interrupted. The immense relief on the uncompromising schoolteacher’s face shone like a beacon of salvation.

  What had she been thinking? She might be a capable hostess for her brother, but she was far from qualified to teach even a church mouse. Verity had been famous for shirking her studies as a child. Her sisters’ successes had usually eclipsed that fact. “Well, I’m not sure I would be—”

  “We accept,” the vicar said, his blue eyes sparkling. “With the greatest honor and gratitude. You have always been a paragon of benevolence and selflessness, Lady Fitzroy!”

  Well, she could blame no one but herself for wading into this quagmire. She had no more idea of how to teach a roomful of students than how to milk a dairy cow. And at this particular moment the latter held far more appeal. But glancing at the expectant faces of the two people she most admired in the village, she knew she had no other choice but to proceed.”

  “I think we both know, Mr. Armitage, that I am anything but a paragon. However, I’m willing to very likely make a fool of myself as long as Miss Woods spends a day or two to prepare me to face the—ahem—angels.”

  “Why do I have the distinct impression you were about to say ‘enemy’?” Mr. Armitage’s face was lit with amusement.

  “I fear you have the right of it, sir. You see, I have the uneasy suspicion that I‘m about to be repaid in-kind.”

  “In-kind?” Miss Woods examined her above her spectacles. “In what fashion?”

  “The ghosts of governesses past come back to haunt their least favorite charge, Miss Woods.”

  “Why, you shall be perfect for the post in that case, Lady Fitzroy,” the teacher insisted.

  “How so?”

  “Foreknowledge and preparation are the main tools of every good teacher. Those that have dished out trouble in the past know what to expect.”

  Verity was suddenly overcome with a sinking feeling. “That is precisely why I am worried.”

  Mr. Armitage laughed out loud. “Have no fear. I shall have a word before you start, and you forget the power of your family’s name. They shall each of them be quaking in their boots.”

  “Speaking of which, Lady Fitzroy, the smithy mentioned to the butcher, who informed the draper . . .” Miss Woods took a breath. “. . . that we have the extraordinary good luck that Lord Rutledge—or rather, the Duke of Abshire—is returned to us. Can you imagine, after all these years? Have you seen him yet?”

  Both pairs of blue eyes looked at her, wishing her to tell more. This was the life of a small village. Gossip was its life blood, and great pleasure. Even the vicar did not fear its ill-effects.

  “Yes.”

  They willed her to continue.

  “He condescended to call at Boxwood.”

  She could hear the birds chirping on the green.

  “And?” The vicar and schoolteacher spoke simultaneously.

  “And, he is well.”

  Mr. Armitage looked at his hands, which held a Bible, in front of him. “Does he intend to reside here for any length of time? No one seems to know.”

  “I have not the faintest idea of His Grace’s schedule. But I should not count on him to stay long.”

  At their crestfallen exchanged looks, Verity could not help to reverse course. “But, then again, perhaps he will change his mind. You know how these great men are. Fickle. And no one likes to stay in Town the summer months after all.” And it was true. Brighton and Bath were the places to be. She certainly wished she could be there right this very moment.

  How on earth had she managed to return to the schoolroom? Well, she had no one but herself to blame. Had she not complained about having nothing to do?

  But it was hard to feel grateful for the answer to her prayers.

  If he could be anywhere this moment, Rory would choose Brighton or Bath. Yes, that or a large house party in a quaint corner where the fast set gathered to privately wager staggering amounts at cards, get blindingly drunk, and do foolish things like fox hunting in a bog, sailing at midnight, and escorting ladies who knew how to flirt and be flirted with.

  Instead, he was stuck right back were he began his journey on this godforsaken mortal coil: in Derbyshire. And it was very likely he would have to remain here for the duration of this campaign to convince a dark-haired, dark-eyed, extraordinarily perceptive Fitzroy female that she must marry him, if only to set to rights a chain of wrongs.

  He had no desire to do so, and yet, the whole nonsense was not as terrifyingly distasteful as he had thought it would be. If their first private conversation was anything to go by (and if her brother didn’t ultimately kill him), the future occasions they would be forced to share together would not be entirely unamusing. Lady Verity Fitzroy was a refreshing surprise. There was not an inch of coquetry about her. And there was significant charm, and wit. Yes, he had not one doubt that she would never bore him. Her millinery creations were another story.

  Balancing precariously on the back legs of an anci
ent, cracked-leather chair, he stared out the rear window of his father’s old study. The play of the late afternoon sun’s rays filtering through the verdant branches of the trees dotting the gardens was so familiar to him. And yet, he could not remember ever sitting here with his father. He had seen his mother only a modicum more. But it was the way of it with parents of the Upper Ten Thousand.

  He had dutifully answered his parents’ few letters over the years, when they had reached him at some far-flung post. He had not returned for their burials. He felt little remorse.

  A large shadow moved in the hazy distance, and Rory let the front legs of his chair drop awkwardly to the floor as a shiver snaked up his back. Good Lord. It looked like Nero, his long dead horse. Suddenly the rider slowed the powerful stallion from a gallop to a spirited trot and negotiated the turn to the stables.

  Rory shook his head. This was why he had vowed never to return. Too many memories or ghosts and none of them good.

  He forced himself to turn and face the small mound of ledgers and two London papers, just ironed, on the desk. But not before he spied the tiny initials he had carved on one of the legs facing the window: RL. He hadn’t even received a single lash for that great transgression. That was the problem, he had figured out during all those years following the drum. He had never been punished. For anything in his life.

  And he had tried.

  Yet no one had bothered to notice.

  He skimmed the Morning Post’s vast array of advertisements, taking up most of the front page, before he opened the pages to review more important matters such as Wellington’s progress, and, of course, given the situation, he finally turned to “The Fashionable World,” that outrageous corner of the paper, where the have-nots alternately praised and ridiculed the haves of which he was at the top. He stilled.

  “The Fashionable World” is delighted to offer our esteemed readers another rare glimpse at the innermost goings-on of the crème de la crème of the aristocracy—the royal entourage. Just when we all thought there could be no greater evils than those witnessed the botched evening before the Duke of Candover’s wedding, we find these events were but a mere candied cherry atop a sinful confection as large as Carleton House. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. It is our pleasure to publish an excerpt from a mysterious diary every Tuesday and Thursday this summer, when things can be a bit dreary and thin of company in Town. Alas, we have unearthed a treasure trove of further proof of the royal entourage’s outrageousness. Truly they must each and every one of them be punished—starting with the Prince Regent. The French have shown us the way of it.

  Excerpt #1:

  There are times when boys will be boys. However, in this case, I must suggest that these gentlemen of my fond acquaintance are actually more like boys being infants.

  For what is an infant but a mewling, ill-tempered person unable to speak, walk, and with a tendency to cast up its accounts at very poorly timed intervals in between long stretches of slumber at odd hours.

  Yes, I am sad to say, Dearest Diary, that Sussex, Middlesex, Wright, and even Barry were acting thusly not last evening, no. At that time they were all spit, polish, and smiles for their partners. And all shrewd, outrageous bluffing, drinking, and boasting (well, perhaps Barry did not do the last, but we both know he is the stiffest of the crowd) with the gentlemen at Lord and Lady Creighton’s ball that kicked off the season.

  But why was any of the former remarkable? Really, when one looks at the events quite closely, one must admit that it was but a repeat of a thousand nights before it.

  No. The pièce de résistance was when Middlesex insisted on waltzing with one of the scullery maids in full view of Lord and Lady Creighton, with whose daughter he had refused to dance, saying she had far too many names dangling from her wrist and “she should give other fair maids a chance.”

  Of course, Middlesex cannot be blamed. How could he possibly remember that Miss Gwendolyn Creighton was the reason for the ball? It was, quite simply, her come-out, and on that one day in her lifetime, she should be able to drown in public adoration. Then again, the royal entourage is more often noted for its self-adoration, so they can not be held accountable to us mere mortals.

  Rory’s fingers were numb, and the newspaper fell from his hand. Rory snatched it up again to look at the paper’s date—a mere six days after the infamous evening. At this rate, with the promise of twice weekly additional timber to the revolutionary fire engulfing Town these days, it would be a miracle if the underclasses did not rise up in arms before the end of the summer. Prinny would be a cooked goose if this continued.

  Who in bloody hell was the author of this muck?

  A tap at the door intruded, and Rory looked up from his musings to encounter towering Towareq, the nephew of a former king of Timbuktu. Stolen by traders and taken to Cairo, Rory had found Towareq as a boy cowering behind a pile of rubble and freed him during the Egyptian campaign against Napoleon.

  “Yes, Towareq?”

  The young man who had nearly given his life to Rory twice in the intervening years bowed deeply and crossed the polished oak floor. “For you, Your Grace.”

  Rory pushed aside the newspaper and grasped the edge of a calling card in the highly polished silver salver. “So it has begun.”

  There was a reason Rory would not travel anywhere without Towareq. He never asked questions. He did not disappoint this time.

  “Now that the knocker is up, the hordes will ignore a man’s privacy and preference for quiet, all in an effort to ensure that he not grow bored by the country life and so return to London in all haste. Lord, if they only knew how lovely it is to be bored. Show them in, then.”

  He had hoped to avoid these particular inhabitants of this corner of Derbyshire. He rose as the pair stepped through the open door.

  “Miss Talmadge and Mr. Talmadge.” His gaze bypassed the blond young man who had most likely just attained his majority, and he nearly started at the sight of Miss Phoebe Talmadge. God. She was a living, breathing incarnation of Catharine.

  Talmadge bowed as his sister curtsied. “So good of you to see us, Your Grace,” the brother began.

  Rory steadied his hand and then gestured to the other two chestnut-colored leather armchairs in front of the swept out hearth, and joined them there. “It is my pleasure, of course. Towareq, I’m certain Miss Talmadge should like tea.”

  The towering dark presence of the Egyptian faded away.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Phoebe Talmadge began, a bit breathlessly. “My brother and I hope you will do us the great honor of accepting this invitation to a ball we are planning Wednesday eve.” She extended an elegant envelope, and he grasped it. When he met her glance, he had a difficult moment. Her pale blue eyes were so familiar he felt a drench of sweat under all the cloth layers on his back.

  “Wednesday next?” Rory repeated, to gain time to consider.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Talmadge began, with awkwardness written all over his young face. “My sister and I hope you will do us the great honor. We wish to formally celebrate your return to the neighborhood. You were once close to our family, especially our dear departed sister before you left . . .” He abruptly stopped after glancing at Rory.

  “I should be delighted to attend,” Rory lied, wishing he could scream the opposite to the docile gentleman ten years his junior. He continued, “May I ask if the inhabitants of Boxwood will be present?”

  The two exchanged glances. “They are in London,” Talmadge finally stated.

  “Actually, that is not altogether correct,” Rory murmured. “Lady Verity Fitzroy is in residence.”

  “How very odd,” Phoebe Talmadge exclaimed, uncertainty coloring her face. “I suppose I heard a vague rumor to that effect.”

  Rory paused, considering. He knew why she had been excluded. It was due to his own well-known dislike of Candover. “Lady Fitzroy is a treasure of the neighborhood.”

  Mr. Talmadge glanced at his sister. “She must be included.”

  �
��Of course, if it is His Grace’s wish.” Phoebe looked at him with great expectation.

  The brother scratched his chin, uncertain of how to address the obvious. “But we cannot guarantee that she will accept, Your Grace. I am certain you understand that she or her brother might be, ahem, rather put out at the idea.”

  “Miss Talmadge?” Rory continued.

  “Yes?” she said, her eyes huge in her pretty face.

  “I would ask the honor of the first set with you, as I’m certain your brother will ask Lady Fitzroy for the same.” Would this infernal conversation never end? The silent guard at the palace offered more amusing give and take.

  A shy smile full of lingering coquetry infused Phoebe Talmadge’s face. “Of course we will accommodate your wishes, Your Grace.”

  The way the young lady’s eyes lit up with delight unnerved Rory. She was so much like Catherine physically, but her demure demeanor was jarringly different. And he had the distinct impression that she was hiding her true nature. Did she actually possess her sister’s wild, high-flying sensibilities?

  Talmadge pursed his lips, his brow furrowed slightly. “But it’s very odd that Lady Verity Fitzroy returned just before you, and unaccompanied by her sisters.”

  Allowing an awkward pause to enter, Rory stared at the young gentleman. “I would take great care in voicing your observations, Talmadge. Nothing can wreak havoc, particularly in a small village, as effectively as gossip. I do hope you are not succumbing to the favorite pastime of the idle.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace!” Phoebe laughed in the identical fashion as her sister, and it was all Rory could do not to climb out of his skin. It was like hearing haunting echoes of days gone by.

  Rory’s sudden silence cut short any further meddling nonsense.

  Talmadge was properly chastised.

  The lukewarm tea Towareq served, prepared to Rory’s exact specifications to discourage visitors from lingering, had the desired effect, and the brother and sister left in short order. Thank God.