He had spent much of the past decade in the army, serving under Wellington. First on the Peninsular, then in France, for the One Hundred Days War and the bloody battle of Waterloo.
Oh, he had been accompanied by a valet of sorts, but Higgins had been far more interested in making certain that Jack's musket and blade were in working order than worrying about his Captain's hair. And he had not followed the new duke back to London, when news of Frederick's death in a carriage accident reached Jack, claiming that he was unsuited to any life except an army one.
Jack, now having spent a year suffering under the trappings of dandified wealth, was inclined to agree; Higgins had but one eye, and he would have resented using it to assess the latest fashions.
Outside, a warm spring sun shone down on the stable-yard, where a groomsman hastily saddled up Ares, Jack's Arab hot-blood, whom he had purchased on his return to England.
"Is His Grace certain that he does not wish to take the carriage?" the groomsman queried, with a dubious glance to the sky.
"His Grace is quite certain," Jack replied dryly, still marvelling at how accustomed he had become to referring to himself in the third. There was not a hint of a cloud on the horizon, and even if there had been, Jack would have preferred to ride on horseback. He was a man of the outdoors, and would never choose a carriage—no matter that it was furnished with leather squabs and brocade curtains—over a good ride.
He mounted Ares with practised ease and, with a light hand, guided him from the stable yard. Outside, St James' Square was quiet and sedate as always, but within minutes, Jack was trotting down the busier Pall Mall toward Horse Guards' Road and Whitehall.
As he weaved expertly through the hoards of carriages and carts which clogged up the road, Jack's mind pondered over just why he had been summoned to the War Office.
Since his return, he had engaged quite frequently with certain ministers, offering advice on all matters military. He had risen from the position of Captain to General during his years of service, and as such had accumulated a vast wealth of knowledge on tactics and diplomacy. Not to mention that he had met, face to face, many of the politicos Britain was now bargaining with, in Vienna.
But, this particular summons had not come from any of the ministers with whom Jack usually dealt. No. It had come from a man by the name of Nevins, with whom Jack held no acquaintance at all.
When he entered the building of the War Office, Jack was directed to a small office on the uppermost floor, where a watery-eyed gentleman awaited.
"Your Grace," Nevins stood as Jack entered the room, nibbling nervously on a lip which was half concealed beneath a bushy moustache, "How good of you to come."
"Please," Jack frowned at the ceremony, "Call me Orsino."
"As you wish."
Nevins waved a hand to the chair before his desk, and Jack settled himself in. The older man made quite the show of closing the door to his office, before returning to his chair and glancing at Jack gravely.
"I have been tasked," Nevins began, after a minute of very serious staring, "With weeding out any spies who might have infiltrated Whitehall. Little birds have been singing in my ear about a certain someone in Vienna, who has been feathering his nest by providing information to the enemy."
"Lud," Jack blinked; espionage was not his usual remit. He could not understand why Nevins had summoned him, of all people, for this task, but then Nevins spoke again.
"I hear you're acquainted with the Honourable Mr Havisham, who is acting as an envoy for the Crown?" Nevins said, watching Jack from under hooded, cold eyes.
"Yes," Jack nodded; he had worked with Waldo Havisham during the Congress of Vienna. He was quite dry, as those political sorts tended to be, but he was accomplished at his job.
"We will instruct Mr Havisham, through coded letter, to find out what he can about this spy," Nevins continued, "I want this kept top-secret, so the letter must appear as if it came from a family member. Mr Havisham had offered his son's services as a translator, before he left," Nevins gave a sigh. "I don't suppose you could rope the lad in to help and have him write the missives in French—pretend they are for his mama, to throw anyone off the scent? And have him mention you, so Havisham knows who is instructing him. I don't see much coming from all this, but we must try."
Nevins went on to detail just what Jack needed to write in the letter and the code that he should use.
"This could all come to nothing," he said with a sigh as he finished, his bushy eyebrows drawn into a frown of annoyance. Nevins, Jack knew instinctively, was not a man who liked to waste time. This rather endeared him to Jack—despite his grumpy mien—for Jack was of a similar disposition.
"Indeed, it might not—but we must try," Jack replied, taking the sheaf of paper upon which the notes were scribbled and placing it in the breast pocket of his coat. "Nothing worse than a spy."
"No," Nevins blinked, "I don't suppose there is."
Their discussion now at an end, Jack took his leave. He mulled over Nevins' instructions, which had been vague, to say the least. Still, if a little bird had chirped in his ear that there was a spy lurking in Whitehall with links to Vienna, then they were obliged to act upon it.
With his meeting concluded far earlier than he had anticipated, Jack found himself at a loss as to what to do with the rest of his morning.
At home, there was paperwork and correspondence from his various estates which could occupy him, but Jack did not feel much like sitting in his library. If he was in the country, he might have taken Ares for a long ride to inspect his lands, but this was London, and open fields were few and far between.
On a whim, Jack decided to take a jaunt through Green Park, which was quite unfashionable, unlike its neighbour Hyde Park, where the bon ton sought to be seen parading along Rotten Row.
This unfashionable state was a merit in Jack's eyes, for it meant that the bridle paths were near empty and that he might enjoy his ride without scrutiny.
There had been many things with which he had been forced to become accustomed to when he had inherited the title, but the thing he struggled with most was his newfound notoriety.
As a second son, even to a duke, Jack had never garnered much interest from the ton. Perhaps, had he been more fashionable and less fearsome looking, he might have enjoyed some degree of fame. He could have taken his place as another well-heeled dandy after Oxford, but Jack had not wished to enter into society, preferring instead the camaraderie, adventure, and relative anonymity of the army.
After fate had forced him into the ducal seat, he soon found that his wish to live an undisturbed life would be more difficult than he had assumed. The papers detailed his every move; where he had been, with whom he had spoken, what lady he might choose to marry. It was galling for Jack, who truly believed that there were far more important things for the papers to discuss; such as the goings-on in Parliament, the riots up North, and the general poverty the country suffered under while their Prince Regent plundered the Kingdom's coffers.
In order to dissuade the papers—not to mention the sycophants and meddlesome mamas who hounded him at every outing—Jack had adopted a fearsome mien anytime he stepped out in public. When this scowl was coupled with his enormous stature, it had a most frightening effect, and soon the papers were referring to him as the Duke of Thunder, whilst meddlesome mamas gave him a wide berth.
This suited Jack perfectly; allowing him breathing room to become accustomed to the new duties and responsibilities which came with the title. It also offered the added bonus of not having to worry about having a dozen debutantes thrown at him each time he stepped outside the door.
Debutantes now fled at the mere whisper of his name, he thought with no little pride.
As Jack cantered along the bridle path which ran along Constitution Hill, he found his mind drifting back to the previous night and a pair of violet-blue eyes.
Miss Violet Havisham had not been cowed by him, rather the opposite in fact. She had seemed to enjoy settin
g him down for his abominable rudeness, much like her spirited aunt.
Jack recalled, with a slight pang, his idiotic behaviour the night before. He had not been trying to play the Duke of Thunder with Miss Havisham and scare her with his silence—rather the opposite. He had been captivated by her eyes—so blue, they were almost violet—and bowled over by her nymph-like beauty.
The trouble with Jack was that, unlike his two friends—but especially Montague—he had not had much experience with women.
Or any experience, if truth be told.
When confronted with Miss Havisham's unusual beauty, Jack's tongue had become inextricably tied, and his body had felt larger and more cumbersome than usual.
She probably thought him an oaf, he decided reluctantly, and he could not blame her.
Ahead Jack spotted two riders approaching, a lady sitting side-saddle, accompanied by her groom. As they approached, he slowed down, for he recognised the lady.
"Lady Olivia," he called, as he brought Ares to a halt.
Lady Olivia was his late brother's fiancée, a charming young woman of four and twenty. As a couple, she and Frederick had been much celebrated by the papers as a most fashionable pairing. Indeed, today, Lady Olivia, despite wearing mourning blacks for her recently departed brother, looked as though she had stepped straight out from a fashion plate.
"Your Grace," she inclined her head regally in greeting, "What a pleasant surprise."
Despite her words, Jack guessed that their chance encounter was anything but pleasant for the young lady. A fit of honour had inspired Jack to offer for Lady Olivia's hand soon after he had assumed the title, and while her parents had been most eager for this new match, the lady herself was rather reluctant.
Her father, Lord Cardigan, had been at pains to persuade Jack to wait, as his daughter was simply mourning first Frederick, and then later her brother. But as the months slipped by, Jack was more and more certain that Lady Olivia's reluctance had very little to do with mourning and more to do with a complete disinterest in Jack.
Not that he minded; he had simply suggested the marriage for it was the right—and convenient—thing to do.
Today, however, Jack felt a slight jolt of fear that Lady Olivia might soon decide she did desire to become his duchess. This fear was inspired by the memory of a pair of bewitching violet eyes and the longing they inspired within his heart.
"Well," Jack cleared his throat as a feeling of awkwardness stole over him, "I wouldn't like to keep you from your ride."
Lady Olivia smiled with relief, before bidding Jack goodbye in much cheerier tones than those with which she had greeted him. Indeed, Jack felt a similar lightness as he rode away from the woman he had once thought he should marry.
As he continued on his ride, Jack felt the letter from Nevins burning a hole in his breast pocket. The instruction to include young Mr Havisham in his mission felt almost like a sign from above. Jack was not usually given over to superstition. However, as his stomach fluttered pleasurably at the memory of Miss Havisham's bewitching eyes, he decided that there was always a first time for everything.
He would seize this opportunity to get closer to Miss Havisham, and he would battle valiantly against any obstacles which stood in his path. The biggest one being, he reluctantly conceded, himself, and his complete and utter lack of charm and romance.
Chapter Three
A day of duty had left Violet feeling rather tired. It had begun by paying morning calls with her aunt to various society hostesses, while its end had involved a musicale, featuring several dreadful performances given by the many daughters of Sir Rupert Gideon. Each daughter was, it was whispered by the pained guests, even less talented than the last.
There was much relief all round when the performances came to an end as the clock struck eleven. Aunt Phoebe and Violet made straight for their carriage but were delayed by a crush of people similarly seeking to escape, lest anyone called for an encore.
It was just after midnight when the pair returned to Havisham House, and Aunt Phoebe declared that she would retire to bed at once.
"Don't stay up too late, dear," she instructed her niece, as she traipsed up the stairs, followed by Dorothy, her faithful lady's maid.
"I won't," Violet replied, though they both knew she was fibbing; Violet was, like a cat, nocturnal in nature.
Once she heard the door to Lady Havisham's bed-chamber bang shut, Violet stole into the cluttered drawing-room, which was cast in darkness. The dying remnants of a fire lingered in the grate, but after working the bellows for a few minutes, Violet managed to bring it back to life.
She lit a taper from its flames, and traipsed around the room, lighting what candles she could find. Some fine homes—like Charlotte's—had been fitted with newer gas-lights, but Havisham House would not be the recipient of such modern advancements whilst Aunt Phoebe was at its head.
Not that Violet particularly minded, she was quite taken by the romance of candle-light; it made it easier for her to imagine herself in a Parisian garret, or a Venetian Palazzo, or anywhere else rather than London.
Violet then threw open the heavy curtains, to allow moonlight to flood into the room and onto her easel. She had been working on a portrait of Aunt Phoebe, in the style of Marguerite Gérard, and her fingers had itched all evening to return to her work.
She quickly donned an apron, to cover her dress, and began setting out paints on her pallet. She often worked at night; while the light was not what it should be, the peace of the house allowed her to become completely absorbed in her work.
Violet picked up a brush and began working in detail on Fifi, whom she had placed at Aunt Phoebe's feet. She could not say how long she was painting for—it might have been hours—when a noise from outside made her lookup.
It was Sebastian, clambering down from a carriage. She heard him give cheery thanks to the driver of the hackney and watched as he alighted the front steps of the house.
Curious as to the reason for his nocturnal visit, Violet placed her paintbrush down and rushed out to the hall to greet him.
"Why are you calling so late?" she whispered as she ushered him inside. Sebastian, having finished at Oxford, had taken up residence in gentlemen's lodgings close to Covent Garden. The rooms were funded by the small annuity bestowed on him by Aunt Phoebe, and though they were not so grand, they allowed him freedom that Violet envied.
"I needed to speak with you," Sebastian whispered, his eyes—a mirror image of Violet's own—alive with excitement.
"What on earth is so important that it could not wait until the morning?"
"My life-long dream, that's what."
Violet experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach as she followed her brother back into the drawing-room, acutely conscious that something startling was about to be unveiled.
"Violet," Sebastian said, once she had shut the door behind her, "I have been offered the lead-part in a production of Hamlet, which is to be staged in Newcastle."
"W-what?"
"I know," Sebastian nodded, mistaking her shock for awe, "It's quite the part. I can't tell you how pleased I am."
"But you cannot disappear to Newcastle," Violet argued, as she realised that her brother was not jesting but deadly serious. "Nor can you become an actor. Papa would take an apoplectic fit if he believed you were even thinking of treading the boards."
"Don't you think I know that?"
A scowl marred Sebastian's handsome face; their father's obsession with Sebastian's future was an even greater burden to shoulder than his disinterest in Violet. Waldo was determined that his son would follow him into politics and make something of the family name, despite Sebastian never having expressed an interest in the life of a politico. Waldo would not be best pleased if he were to find out about this venture into the arts.
"I will use a stage-name," Sebastian continued, his words gushing forth, as though he had been holding them inside for quite some time. "And no one shall recognise me up North. I just need y
our help, Violet, to hide my absence from Aunt Phoebe."
Violet sighed; she had known this midnight visit would shake up her well-ordered life. She also knew that no matter what she said, she would not be able to dissuade Sebastian from his chosen path.
A fire had been lit inside her twin brother, and as one who had known him his whole life—and even before that—Violet instinctively understood that the tempest brewing within Sebastian would consume him unless it was allowed to blow itself out.
"Please," Sebastian pleaded, imploring Violet with wide, hopeful eyes, "This is my one chance. You know how much I adore the stage; I want just one opportunity to live out my dream."
Violet knew full well what it was like to dream of a different life, and felt a stab of pity for her twin though this pity was not so great that it overruled common sense.
"How will I explain your absence to Aunt Phoebe?" she asked, though Sebastian must have taken her question for acquiescence, for his handsome face broke into a smile.
"It shall be easy enough," he promised her, "Just tell her I called when she was out."
It was a simple but perfect plan, Violet conceded, for Aunt Phoebe was always out.
"It will just be for a few weeks," Sebastian continued, as he sensed Violet's hesitation, "And no one else shall ask for me. I don't run with the sets who frequent White's and Boodles'. There will be no gossip columns to comment on my absence."
This was true; Sebastian's circle were not the type to pay morning calls or enquire into his whereabouts. Most of them had probably not seen the morning in many years. There would be no one to note her brother's absence apart from Violet and Aunt Phoebe—and the latter was so scatterbrained that it could take her a year to note that her great-nephew was missing.
"When I return, I promise that I shall put my head down, Vi, and begin working my way into Whitehall. I just need one last hurrah, before I surrender my soul to bureaucracy."
Never Fool a Duke Page 4