Never Fool a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  "I suppose I am," Jack shrugged, his cheeks burning a little, "Though, I beg you, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation as a cold-hearted brute to uphold."

  "Pah! Men," Havisham muttered, rolling his eyes with annoyance, "Why must they always pretend to have no feelings?"

  "You tell me why we must," Jack retorted with a laugh, "Or are you excluding yourself from the male of the species now, Havisham?"

  The poor lad must have been deeper into his cups than Jack had assumed, for he knocked over his glass of wine in his haste to reply.

  "No, no, no," Sebastian cried, "I am most definitely of the male of the species. So—so—so—what you are saying, is that you are not promised to Lady Olivia?"

  The sudden change of topic was so swift that Jack's head ached. In the convivial atmosphere, which had fallen between the two men, Jack had forgotten the original purpose of his visit.

  "No," he said flatly, "And I would be much obliged if you could explain that to your sister."

  "Perhaps you are giving up on her too soon?" Havisham barrelled on, as though Jack had not spoken at all, "A love note or a sonnet might turn her head."

  "I do not wish to turn Lady Olivia's head," Jack growled, "I do not love her. I—"

  Jack cut himself off before he could finish his sentence, aware that professing love for a woman to whom he had spoken twice to was faintly ridiculous. Although, while he did not know himself to be in love with Violet Havisham, he knew that he could fall in love with her—if she just let him.

  It was an inexplicable thing; a primal awareness of her beauty, a poetic understanding of her soul, a feeling of longing each time she was near him. Jack had never been given over to great feelings about anything, so he could not ignore the current of emotions that Miss Havisham had awoken in him. Nor could he ignore the strange feeling that he might drown in them, should she refuse him.

  "Will you please," Jack continued, "Explain to your sister the truth of my circumstances."

  His voice must have sounded pained, for Havisham nodded quietly in agreement.

  "Do you think, should I call on her tomorrow, that she will receive me?" Jack ventured, hoping that he might finally get to begin his courtship of Violet.

  "Oh, no, not tomorrow," Havisham replied quickly, "She has tickets to Saville House."

  Jack's face must have expressed his confusion, for Havisham gave a sigh, before explaining further.

  "Tickets to see Miss Linwood's exhibition," he continued, "Violet has been waiting all season to go see her work."

  Jack vaguely recalled having read something about Miss Linwood's exhibition in the papers, and he made polite noises of interest, though really his mind was elsewhere.

  He might not be able to call on Miss Havisham the next day, but that did not mean he could not by "chance" bump into her elsewhere.

  "Right you are," Jack said, jumping to his feet, "My thanks, Havisham, for your time."

  Jack leaned over to pick up his hat, which he had rested upon the table, and when he straightened up, he spotted Havisham peering at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

  "Did you forget something, your Grace?" the young man queried dryly.

  "Eh?" Jack blinked in reply.

  "Your urgent missive, which could not wait another day to be translated."

  Sebastian Havisham held up the letter which he had spent the last hour translating and waved it in the air for Jack to see. Jack flushed a little, thankful for the shadowy room, which would hide his blushes.

  "Yes, of course," he blustered, puffing his chest out and bringing himself up to his full height, in order to look impressive. "With all our talk, I had forgotten this was not a social visit, Havisham. Ah-ha. I'll just take that..."

  Jack reached out and took the letter from Havisham's hand, with a small nod of thanks. The lad's eyes seemed rather knowing, and beneath his beard, a smile was definitely playing on his lips. Jack, who was accustomed to being in control of most situations, was annoyed to have been caught out in his lie.

  "I'd best be off," he growled, attempting to sound as important as he could muster, "This is headed straight for Whitehall, to be examined. My thanks, on behalf of the Crown, for your good work, Havisham."

  It was a rather pompous declaration, but Jack felt that the use of a little pomp and ceremony was one of the privileges of being a duke. If only to help soothe his battered ego.

  Havisham, who quite obviously did not believe a word of it, merely offered Jack a polite smile.

  "Please, don't let me keep you," he said, as he walked Jack from the library, back to the front door, "I would not like to get in the way of, ah, urgent Crown business. Goodnight, your Grace."

  "And to you," Jack responded, donning his hat as he exited the door.

  While it was obvious that he had not managed to disguise the true purpose of his visit, Jack found that he did not care. He felt so light, that he near skipped down the steps of Havisham House to his waiting carriage, his heart full of hope for the next day.

  Chapter Seven

  Violet stood silently in the hallway for a moment after closing the door on Orsino. She listened as his footsteps clattered down the steps, and waited until she heard his carriage pull away before she let out a groan of frustration.

  Drat that man, she thought, as she stalked down the hallway back toward the library, where a fire still danced in the grate. Drat him, drat his soulful green eyes, and drat his romantic nature.

  Far from being the rake Violet had presumed him to be, Orsino had unveiled himself to be the noblest of gentlemen. Violet's cheeks flushed a little, as she recalled their conversation, and said a silent prayer of thanks that Orsino would never know it was she whom he had confessed to.

  Except he would, Violet paused, if he continued on his determined quest for Violet's hand.

  "Drat," Violet whispered again, reaching for the bottle of elderflower wine upon the table. She did not usually imbibe alcohol, but given her current predicament, she could not help but fill another glass for herself.

  Violet plonked herself back down at the desk, silently mulling over the night's events.

  It was clear, now, that Orsino had called on a false pretext. The letter she had transcribed into English had mentioned places in France where—even Violet knew—fighting had long since ceased. Her suspicions that Orsino had merely brought the letter as a ruse to gain an audience with "Sebastian", were then confirmed when the ruddy-great man had sought to leave without it.

  Thanks from the Crown indeed, Violet thought irritably, as she sipped upon her cordial-like drink.

  She was in trouble for two reasons, Violet thought, with a jolt of shock. The first was that Orsino seemed determined to have her, and the second—and more frightening—was that Violet herself wanted Orsino to get his way.

  It was not just the duke's handsomeness which appealed to Violet, but his goodness. Despite his large, brutish form, Orsino was gentle as a kitten—it was irritably appealing.

  Not only that, but when he had spoken of siring children, Violet had been overcome with a vision of the huge, bulky man cradling a small babe, and found that she had wanted to weep with longing.

  What would it be like, she wondered, to allow Orsino into her life? She would be protected, there was no doubt about that, but she would also be cherished. Cosseted from any hardship by a wealthy duke with a physique so perfect that it might have been sculpted by one of the masters.

  "Stop that," Violet hissed to herself, pushing away her now empty glass. She could not afford to dwell on the duke's attributes or allow herself to dwell on what her life with him might be like, for there was no future for them. There was no "them". They were two singular beings, one of whom was a peer of the realm, the other of whom was...a liar.

  Violet hung her head in shame, as she recalled Orsino's cracking voice, as he had determinedly declared that he would never sire a child he could not raise and love. His emotion had stemmed—Violet knew—from being thought of as second best
. A feeling which Violet could identify with all too well. "Sebastian" had inspired a confidence, which was not deserved, and Violet was now riddled with guilt.

  Imagine how hurt the duke would be, Violet fretted, if he were to find out that she had deceived him. Not to mention humiliated, annoyed, and angry.

  He could, Violet gulped, become so enraged that he might report her antics to her father—which would lead to big trouble for both Violet and Sebastian.

  Orsino had to be pulled off the course he was so intent upon, but how?

  Violet sipped thoughtfully on her wine, as she pondered just how she might distract the duke from his inexplicable infatuation with her. As she sat, staring vacantly into space, Bagpipes rose from his position in front of the fire, sprung to the window sill, and scratched impatiently to be let out.

  "I see you, I see you," Violet called to the impatient cat, who was now mewling with annoyance, "But if I let you out, you shan't get back in until morning—do you hear me?"

  Bagpipes did not deign to reply; he simply fixed Violet with an irritable, amber-eyed glare, and scratched again on the window.

  "Out you go," Violet said with a sigh, as she lifted the sash-window for the cat to make his escape, "But behave, and don't bring back any little presents!"

  The breeze from outside ruffled the hair of Violet's wig as she stood by the window, watching as Bagpipes stalked into the shadows of the night. Despite her warnings, she knew that Bagpipes would return in the morning, carrying the carcass of a dead bird or mouse which he would drop at Violet's feet proudly.

  Although it would be a horrid sight and a very unwanted gift, it was touching to think that Bagpipes thought of her whilst out on his nightly adventures.

  Violet made to close the window, but as she reached to draw the sash back down, light from one of the houses on Brury Street—whose gardens backed on to those on Jermyn Street—caught Violet's eye.

  Lady Olivia!

  The poor lady who had unknowingly caused Violet such distress occupied a house with her parents on that very street! The fact that she was so close felt almost like a sign to Violet. She hurriedly closed the window and stepped back, her mind racing a mile a minute.

  Orsino had agreed to wait for Lady Olivia to make her mind up about his proposal—as an honourable man, he would surely not renege on his offer should she decide that she did want to be his duchess. Perhaps, if Orsino was to make some kind of romantic overture, he might help his lady decide on his proposal.

  But how on earth could she persuade Orsino to put on a show of romance for Lady Olivia, when he was hell-bent on wooing Violet?

  Violet closed her eyes against the dreadful idea which had struck her—Orsino need not do anything if Violet did it on his behalf.

  She was already pretending to be Sebastian, Violet reasoned, as she reached for her quill again, what harm could come of pretending to be a duke?

  Violet's hand moved quickly across the page, as though willing itself to outrun her conscience, which was lagging behind but beginning to make noise.

  It's for the best, Violet told herself, Orsino needs an honest woman to be his wife, not a woman who dresses up as a man. Once her letter was finished, Violet slammed down her quill and stood up from the desk, hoping to leave before she talked herself out of her hare-brained scheme.

  She slipped from the library into the kitchens, where she quietly let herself out the garden door. From there, she stole out onto the night street through the side-gate, leaving it unlatched so she might make a quiet return.

  Violet had never been abroad after dark in London, and as she trod along the footpath, she thought nervously of footpads and thieves. Luckily, given that the hour was not yet past eleven, lights still shone from the windows of most houses, and the only people who passed were those in carriages, off to some grand event.

  Violet turned onto Brury Street, clutching the letter in her hand nervously. She had planned to deliver the letter from "Orsino" to Lady Olivia herself, but as she neared the front steps, she wondered how on earth would she manage that? She could not knock, for no sensible servant would answer the door to an unexpected caller after dark. Nor could she simply leave the letter outside, for anyone might find it.

  No more elderflower wine for you, Violet told herself sternly, as she realised that her brilliant plan was not so brilliant. She paused to survey the magnificent house, which stood three stories high and briefly wondered if she could climb up to one of the open windows.

  I will end up hanging from Tyburn's Tree if I attempt that, Violet thought ruefully, or in Bedlam. Though, she was beginning to think that the latter venue was exactly where she belonged.

  Violet turned on her heel, determined to scurry back home when the sight of a familiar, ginger beast caught her eye and put a halt to her departure.

  Bagpipes!

  The insolent cat ignored Violet, prancing past her with his tail up. He leapt from the footpath onto the railings of Lady Olivia's home, then hopped from window sill to window sill, until he reached a balcony on the second floor. Violet heard him mewling and scratching, and not too long after, she heard the click of a door opening.

  "There you are, you little beast," a soft, feminine voice called, "Where have you been all day, eh?"

  Bagpipes, the treacherous fiend! Violet was torn between indignation that her beloved cat was spending his time between two homes, and excitement that the person speaking might be Lady Olivia.

  She stepped backwards, hoping to catch a glance of the lady on the balcony, but lost her footing in Sebastian's unfamiliar boots.

  "Who's there?"

  Violet's hopes of going unnoticed were dashed, as a beautiful young woman peered over the balustrades down to the street below.

  "Lady Olivia," Violet gushed, as she scrambled back up to her feet, "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you."

  "And yet you did," Lady Olivia replied, casting a cool glance down at Violet, "Who are you? Tell me now, or I shall call for the Bow Street Runners."

  Lud. Violet paled as she imagined the scandal that would ensue if she were to be escorted—dressed as a man—from beneath Lady Olivia's window by the Runners. The relative anonymity she had enjoyed since arriving to London would disappear, replaced by notoriety no young lady would wish for.

  "I am Sebastian Havisham, my lady," Violet called, unable to think of a faux-moniker in her panic, "I have come to deliver a message from the Duke of Orsino."

  Violet could not be certain, but she could have sworn that Lady Olivia gave an irritable sigh at the mention of Orsino's name. Nevertheless, Violet was determined to continue, so she nervously opened the letter that she held in her hand, and began to read it aloud.

  "My sweet lady," Violet began, trying to keep her voice as low and masculine as possible, "Know that I love you, with adorations and fertile tears. With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire—"

  Violet had just begun to warm up to her speech, some of which she had appropriated from Shakespeare himself, but Lady Olivia seemed unimpressed.

  "Enough," she called dryly, raising one hand to silence Violet. Bagpipes, who remained tucked under her other arm, purred happily in agreement.

  Traitor, Violet thought, sourly eyeing her cat.

  "I do not wish to hear about how Orsino thunders and groans for me," Lady Olivia gave a shiver, "In fact, if you are acting as a messenger, you might please tell His Grace that I have made up my mind. I have no desire to marry him now and never will."

  Lud, Violet gulped, her plan to woo Lady Olivia had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

  "But, he loves you," Violet called, stepping out from the shadows to plead her case.

  "He does not know me," Lady Olivia replied softly, as she gently stroked Bagpipes head, "He offered for me out of a sense of honour, not a sense of love. Tell me, how can Orsino love me?"

  "How can he not?" Violet shrugged helplessly, "You are the epitome of grace and beauty, my lady."

  "Pah," Lady Olivia was suitably u
nimpressed by talk of appearances.

  "And—and," Violet grasped for something else to offer, "You are soft of soul. Look at that mangy cat in your arms. Who else could love one as he, except a lady of kindness?"

  "Mr Fluffykins is not mangy," Lady Olivia replied defensively, though she seemed more interested now in what Violet had to say, "Go on."

  "You are a lady who has lost not one love, but two," Violet continued, "The stars have shone darkly upon you, and yet still you glow with vitality and life. What man could not love you? What man would not seek your hand?"

  To Violet's surprise, Lady Olivia gave a wistful sigh at his words. She let go of Bagpipes and leaned upon the balustrades of her balcony, gazing down at Violet with a soft expression.

  "You are a man of sweet words, Sebastian Havisham," Lady Olivia said, after a pause. She then offered Violet a smile which, to her eyes at least, looked awfully like the lady was attempting at being beguiling.

  "They are not my words," Violet hastened to explain herself, "But Orsino's."

  "La! Does Orsino think me such a fool that I can not recognise Shakespeare when it is quoted to me?"

  Violet was spared from having to think of an excuse for "Orsino's" lack of originality by Bagpipes, who had returned to earth and decided that he wished to be in Violet's arms.

  "Mr Fluffykins does not usually like strangers," Lady Olivia called in surprise, as the beast of a cat snuggled into Violet's arms.

  "I am not a stranger," Violet retorted, her patience with her cat—and Lady Olivia—now at an end, "This cat belongs to me, and his name is Bagpipes, not Mr Whatever-it-is-you-call-him. If you are quite certain that I cannot speak on behalf of Orsino, then I must take my leave, my lady."

  "Oh, I am certain that I have no desire to hear anything else from the duke," Lady Olivia replied, standing to a height and smiling down at her messenger, "But should you care to bring me any more sweet whispers, you would be most welcome. Goodnight, Mr Havisham."

  Lady Olivia retreated from the balcony, with a coy smile over her shoulder to "Mr Havisham". As the door of the balcony clicked shut behind her, Violet let out a low groan.