The Duke Diaries

by Sophia Nash

  They watched Tommy run off, his feet kicking up a trail of dust from the road before he hit the grass of the Green.

  She wanted to fill the uncomfortable silence but could find no words.

  “I see why you love it,” he said finally, still looking at Tommy trotting off.

  “Love what?”

  “Teaching these children. Are they all so amusing?”

  “No. Most are very serious.”

  “You’re good with them,” he said in a brisk tone, still not meeting her eye. “You are to be commended.”

  Her heart fell to her toes. He really had cooled to her. She could feel the ill-ease creeping between them and she wanted to cry.

  But she did not. Guilt she might possess, but pride she had in abundance. It was the one thing that had sustained her all these years.

  He finally turned to her, his eyes remote. “Where are you going?”

  “To Boxwood, of course.”

  “I heard you telling the children that you were leaving for a fortnight.”

  “Actually less than a fortnight. I’m departing for London in the morning.”

  His chin rose and he looked down his perfect aquiline nose at her. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “What’s in London?”

  “Affairs to attend to.”

  “I see,” he said.

  By his tone, Verity believed he didn’t see so much as the end of his nose.

  “And what of your brother’s order to remain in Derbyshire?”

  “He only demanded that I remain here unless I agreed to marry you. We are betrothed, and now, as you suggested when you first arrived, the incarceration is over. I’m free to go. But fear not, I know appearances must be maintained. I shall return very soon.”

  “So I am to remain in the hellish boredom of the country while you trample off to London?” His eyes darkened. “I thought most betrothals or marriages work the other way ’round. While the females are languishing or breeding in the country, the gentlemen go to Town to gamble, drink, and attend to other affairs—Parliamentary in nature, of course.”

  Now he was being vulgar and there was an edge to his tone. She didn’t have to stand for his contempt. He might be a duke, but she was the daughter and sister of the premier duke in the land. She might be ruined twice over, but she was his equal on the gilded ladder of English aristocracy.

  She brushed against his arms folded one over the other as she swept out of the school. The anger began to build—at herself. She was such a stupid, stupid woman.

  Why had she opened herself to him—of all people? She had sworn she would never speak of her past to anyone, gentlemen in particular, and she had committed a far greater sin—sharing her body. Again.

  Well, she was through with all of it.

  Today.

  She would go to London, find the diaries, solve Amelia’s pressing delicate situation, possibly descend to Cornwall, and then return to Derbyshire, ready to end the engagement from hell. And then she would immediately depart for the Lake District and begin life anew even if Faith and Hope were not with her yet. And pray for her soul. A lot.

  And in that moment, she envisioned a school of some sort. She was going to change the course of her life and never, ever look back.

  She swished her skirts around to face him as he stood in the door frame. “Good day to you, Your Grace. I wish you only the best, as a good friend would.”

  She turned back toward the Green and marched as fast as she dared toward the stables to recuperate her beloved mare. She only wished she could move faster. And she prayed he would not follow her and stop her to torment her any longer.

  “Lady Fitzroy!” a kind, familiar voice called behind her.

  She turned. It was the vicar, waving a letter at her.

  “Oh, Lady Fitzroy! So glad I found you.” He was out of breath from chasing her down. “I have a most important communication from our dear Miss Woods.”

  “Yes?” she asked, refusing to see if Rory had followed her.

  “Miss Woods is not returning. Her sister is recovered somewhat, but remains in a fragile state,” Robert Armitage stated, glancing at the letter he held in his hands. “Miss Woods has decided to remain with her indefinitely to care for her.”

  Verity felt rather than saw Rory Lennox, the reminder of newest great folly, come to stand near her.

  The vicar bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Mr. Armitage.”

  “Pardon me. I was just informing Lady Fitzroy that—”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  The vicar nodded, uncertainty obvious in his expression and stature.

  Rory stepped into her side view. “So it appears Lady Fitzroy’s presence is very much needed here.”

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace. She is the most marvelous teacher. We are very lucky she has stepped in to oversee the school.”

  Verity steadied her nerves by breathing deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Armitage. I am happy to continue for the short term, but for the moment I am needed in London. When I return, we shall discuss the search for a new teacher to head the school.”

  The vicar stared at her and then darted a glance toward Rory, whose eyes she would not meet.

  Mr. Armitage spoke quickly. “I do believe I should take my leave, Your Grace, Lady Fitzroy. Pray, offer my respects to His Grace, the Duke of Candover, should you see him. Lady Fitzroy.” He bowed deeply to both of them.

  “I shall,” Verity replied.

  A moment after the vicar departed, Verity turned to Rory. “I don’t believe in dancing about a subject, and so I shall tell you plainly. I am needed in Town. I am not going to tell you why—we owe each other no explanation for anything we choose to do, despite everything. I am asking you to allow me to pass. I have things to do before I take my leave.”

  He narrowed his eyes, which appeared extraordinarily green in the heat of the afternoon. “So yesterday meant nothing.” It was not a question, but a statement.

  “We offered each other solace and friendship, but that is all.”

  “Solace and friendship, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a step closer to her, and she held her ground. “I suppose then that I only need to thank you for your warm camaraderie.”

  “Precisely,” she snapped. In an effort to push a stray lock of hair under her black straw bonnet with a novel shape, she inadvertently knocked the wilting huge cluster of purple asters attached to one side. He immediately retrieved the sad bouquet and handed it to her as if it were a rotting carcass. “Good day, sir,” she said peevishly. As she walked to retrieve Captio, she wasn’t sure if she was more irritated with herself or with him.

  If there had not been Mrs. Greer, the jolliest, kindhearted, but loquacious gossip from here to the Scottish border, heading toward her, Verity might have turned around and not stopped quarreling with him until she could figure out precisely what they were arguing about, and more importantly, why.

  She didn’t even have a desire to dissect why she was so annoyed and out of sorts on so many levels. She feared she might for the first time in her life be displaying that feminine trait she abhorred known as pouting. And it might be caused by another even more juvenile trait of wanting not to appear like a pathetic fool by demanding what in hell was going on in that fat brain box of his. But now was a time of action, not reflection.

  Reflection had never solved any of her problems.

  Chapter 12

  Rory watched her depart. She had jammed the disintegrating bouquet of hideous flowers back onto that wretched concoction of hers that even people in the dark ages would not have considered suitable. If he had not been so infuriated by her confounding behavior, he would have found the sight of her atrocious hat impossibly amusing.

  She was obviously perturbed, but of what he did not know. Had they not given the best of themselves to each other yesterday?

  But today? What in hell was going on? He tapped his hand, unthinking, on the side of his thigh. He knew wo
men. He knew how they thought—in an abnormal tangle of sensibilities tied to mysterious, ofttimes perceived slights. But V wasn’t like that. Except right now she was not acting in her normal forthright manner.

  He had not a clue what was swirling in that petite, intelligent head of hers.

  But he was going to find out. Oh, of that there was no question.

  He would follow her to London. And find out precisely in what sort of cock-up affair she was engaged.

  It did not take long to arrange. Even his Egyptian batman was delirious to learn they would leave this cricket-infested land of peaks and hollows.

  He really made only one mistake in his hurried plan to depart. He should not have taken the blasted ornate carriage that Prinny had gifted him. It was too well-sprung, and too easy to get lost in one’s own thoughts. He needed wind in his face to chase the memories of Verity’s petite form madly grabbing the stones off the top of that hideous wall and throwing them into the woods, of her with her hands on her hips telling him it was a monument to his guilt. But most of all he remembered her on the dark green chaise at Rutledge—her translucent flesh, her dark mysterious eyes, and that luxurious hair that was the color of exotic coffee beans from faraway lands.

  He poured another slosh of brandy into his glass. His fourth. The amber liquid barely moved, despite the brisk pace of the carriage horses. Well, there was one good thing about this moving palace. He could drink in peace.

  It was only too bad he couldn’t enjoy it.

  Hell. And the way she had looked at him when he told her the truth about Catharine Talmadge. Her utter acceptance of the god-awfulness of the murderous incident he had caused.

  But now Verity was running away. He wasn’t certain if she was running away from him or if she was running away from herself. Most likely it was the former.

  That was a novel experience. It was bloody infuriating to have a female take her leave of him.

  By God, if she were a man, he would have called her a bloody rake. He winced at the thought; he was so tired of that sneering term. Rakes belonged in garden sheds. Libertine was a far more appropriate label. Either case, he would refute it the next time someone tossed rake in his dish. A low but quite satisfying belch erupted from someone he suspected very much was himself.

  The carriage was suddenly swaying much more than before. It was actually quite lovely.

  As his head met the dark velvet of the padded squabs in the carriage, Rory remembered the first lesson he had learned when going to war.

  Put your heart on the shelf and your head on straight when going into battle.

  And yes, he was going to fight for her.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  There was no one on this green Earth that was like Amelia Primrose. That had been what fifteen-year-old Verity determined within a week of meeting her new governess. It was also, more importantly, what her mother had also thought. Her sisters had declared her a saint.

  But Verity had called her ninth victim—ahem, governess—something far different when Miss Primrose first arrived. James, then the newest Duke of Candover, had called Miss Primrose her final chance.

  Miss Amelia Primrose, who had become Miss Amelia, and finally just Amelia when Verity had reached her majority, was far more than a governess. She was like the older sister of her heart and soul. Amelia knew how to laugh, how to make work amusing, how to build character and moral fortitude, and most importantly, how to scold. And when not to scold.

  She had also been the only person who could comfort her on the day Verity’s mother died.

  And so, when the well-lacquered door of one of the fleet of Candover barouches opened in front of the Fitzroy family’s magnificent townhouse in the most prized square in London, it was not surprising that Verity almost leapt from the vehicle and dashed up the white marble stairs, only pausing at the top to wait for Mary Haverty to catch up.

  Mary laughed at her eagerness. “Go on, then, Verity. Have your tea with Amelia. I’m exhausted, to be honest. I shall join you both after a lie-down.”

  Verity kissed her, instructed the housekeeper to escort Mary to the chambers across from Verity’s own apartments, and watched her dearest new friend ascend the house’s famed winding staircase. A footman informed her that Miss Amelia Primrose of Scotland was in the library, awaiting her.

  The very pale blond head of Amelia was bent over a large embroidery panel—the sort that caused mice to go blind, Verity always insisted. Her beloved abigail glanced up upon her entrance. Her ethereal pale blue eyes were shadowed. It was so unlike her.

  “And so,” Amelia finally spoke, as she rose with the grace of a queen, “you are come to see if I am wasting away with worry.”

  “Not at all,” Verity said, trying to resist rushing to her side, and failing.

  The two ladies embraced, and Amelia pulled away first. “Let me look at you, dearest. Yes, it’s as I thought. You are grown even more lovely despite what I am sure is the trial of a lifetime, is it not?”

  Verity shook her head with a small smile. “No, Amelia. We are not going to talk about me. I forbid it.”

  “Ah. Now that you are betrothed to a duke, you think our roles reversed and I will finally begin to take orders from you?”

  “Well, yes,” Verity retorted with little hope of success.

  “All right, then. You know I’m always willing to experiment.”

  “And that is why I never put a newt in your bed,” Verity retorted. “Which by the by, I have recently concluded, might in truth be a mark of respect from the giver to the givee.”

  “Which means you’ve brought a lizard from Derbyshire for me?”

  This was the lady Verity knew. Albeit a thinner and paler version than the one she had left a mere month ago.

  “No,” Verity replied. “I’ve brought something far less promising. A plan.”

  Amelia raised her brows. “A tricky business . . . plans. They usually don’t go according to, if past experience is any indication. Our recent overly hasty and atrociously ill thought out plan at Carleton House is an excellent example, no? I should have never agreed. In fact, I would not have if—” Amelia interrupted herself. “No, I refuse to offer any excuse for my actions.”

  Verity sighed and glanced at Amelia’s embroidery. “Don’t we have enough cushions yet?” She could always hope to put off the worst of the discussion for a bit of light diversion.

  “No, and since you refuse to lift a needle to help me, I’ll be one hundred and five before my work is done. Although . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It looks as if I might have a lot more time on my hands if things continue unchecked.” Amelia nodded to the bay window, and they both crossed to their favorite view of St. James’s Square. “And you might, too,” Amelia finished quietly. “Have you seen the papers?”

  “Only the two from last week,” Verity answered. “Could it get any worse?”

  Her beautiful, angelic abigail and friend licked her lips. “Indeed, yes.”

  “Do you know who took my diaries?”

  “No. I couldn’t find them the morning I hurriedly packed your affairs for your trip to Derbyshire. I thought you already had them when you entered your brother’s carriage.”

  “So someone stole them the night before my brother’s botched wedding.”

  “I believe so. I fear we left them in the prince’s library after that . . . awful interlude.” Amelia’s face lost all color.

  “So it could have been a servant, or a guest, or anyone who had access to Carleton House,” Verity said with concern for her Abigail.

  “There’s nothing to be done about it now,” Amelia murmured.

  “You’re right of course,” Verity said, suddenly deciding she could not ask Amelia to help her recover her diaries. Verity was through with asking others to help her out of disasters of her own making. She continued smoothly, “And . . . don’t think I don’t appreciate that you are not ringing a peal over my head. Once again I find I should have taken y
our excellent advice to burn them.”

  “I never said to burn them. I suggested you hide them very well, and never remove them from Boxwood. There, I’ve said my piece. Again, a useless effort.”

  Verity stared out the window, her eyes unblinking. “Is the Duke of Sussex still in Cornwall with my brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will go to him. Inform Sussex what occurred that night, since he obviously remembers nothing. And then I’ll kindly insist he return to London.”

  “No,” Amelia rushed on. “You will not.”

  “Amelia, we have no choice.”

  “That is not what we agreed that night.”

  Verity took her abigail’s hand in her own. “It might not be what we agreed, but sometimes events alter the course. And this one is off the map. Trust me. He is the kindest duke of the entire royal entourage as we both know. He will help you and know what to do.”

  The lovely, even profile of Amelia Primrose finally turned to face her. “Just like the Duke of Abshire knew what to do?”

  Verity had the familiar sinking sensation that her abigail knew exactly what had transpired in Derbyshire. Every last moment.

  “No. The opposite. You should know by now that I am incapable of learning my lesson.”

  Later that afternoon Verity managed to escape her brother’s townhouse by way of a little-used side door. She only hoped four quarters’ worth of pin money would be enough to secure the services of a Bow Street Runner with lax morals. Now, where she would find this dazzling specimen of sin and agility was another question altogether. The last thing she was worried about was her safety. There was no possible hope for redemption now. She had everything to lose, and only her drive to protect the people she most loved fueled her courage and resolve.

  Rory Lennox, His Grace, the Duke of Abshire, first and only holder of the new duchy, entered the august royal bedchamber of His Highness, the Prince Regent for his father, King George III.

  It was still dark, but then, it mattered not a whit, as Prinny had privately decreed that for his service to the Crown, Rory was permitted to wake him anytime day or night, preferably day, if convenient.