Never Fool a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  Violet finished speaking and waited expectantly for Julia's reply.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  After three minutes—according to the clock above the mantelpiece—Julia finally found her voice.

  "Well," she exhaled, as she ran a nervous hand over her hair, "I really wasn't expecting that."

  "You think me mad," Violet sighed, reaching for a French Fancy and morosely munching upon it.

  "No, not mad," Julia argued, "Well, not that mad. Oh, if only Orsino had tried to steal a kiss, it would be far easier for us to deal with than this."

  "You said that you would run him through with a sword if he had tried to compromise me," Violet countered, "I cannot see how a dead duke would be easier to manage than this."

  "It might have some advantages in comparison," Julia was dry as the desert, "Though you're right. If we have to pick one scenario, we should choose the one with a live duke. Whatever will you do, Violet?"

  Violet had nothing to say in response to her friend's query, for she had been hoping that Julia might supply the answer to that very question. If even the cool and unflappable Lady Julia could not remedy Violet's predicament, then perhaps all hope was lost.

  "Just carry on, I suppose," Violet waved a hand miserably around the room, "Keep painting and hope that someday I might get to Venice."

  And that someday I might forget Orsino, she added silently to herself.

  "But don't you," Julia hesitated a little, before ploughing on, "Don't you want to fall in love? I can see it in your eyes that you love Orsino. If he loves you too, nothing else should matter. Nothing else at all. Perhaps if you tell him the truth—?"

  "—He will have me sent to Bedlam?" Violet finished for her, though she frowned at Julia's newfound belief in the power of love. "Since when did you believe in love, Julia? I thought that you viewed marriage as merely a practical arrangement?"

  "Look at the time," Julia cried, without glancing at the clock, "I'd best be away. Sit tight for the next while, Violet, and don't do anything rash. Well, anything more rash. We shall think of a way for you to fix things with Orsino, just you wait and see."

  Violet blinked, in response to Julia's sudden decision to depart; she appeared to have ignited a fire within her friend.

  "Is it Lord Pariseau who has changed your mind?" she queried, as she followed Julia toward the door. Something niggled at Violet's memory, and as she recalled what it was, she clicked her fingers—a most unladylike act.

  "It's Lord Montague," she guessed, and all the answer that she needed was writ across Julia's face.

  "I am late," Julia said primly, sidestepping both the question and Violet in her dash for the door, "Try to heed my advice, Vi. Don't do anything silly until we think of a plan."

  Of course, as good advice as this was when a letter arrived from Orsino later that afternoon, addressed to Sebastian, Violet realised that while she might not wish to do anything silly, she did not have a choice in the matter.

  The messenger has brought your father's reply, he wrote, I request but a moment of your time this evening, to ascertain what it is he knows, if anything. All going well, I shall be able to release you from your duties once done.

  Violet willed herself to be strong, as she folded Orsino's missive in half. She would have one last outing as Sebastian, and then, she decided, she would commit herself to a life of regret for having tried to fool the duke who had captured her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was after ten o'clock when Jack knocked upon the front door of Havisham House. Dusk had given way to night, and the ladies of the house—Jack hoped—would be well on their way to whatever ball or event it was they were attending.

  Had Jack called at nine, there might have been a chance of sighting Violet, but pride had—reluctantly, Jack had to admit—forbidden him from calling any earlier.

  Miss Havisham had made clear that she did not wish to see him, and Jack knew that he must respect her wishes, no matter how much his heart protested.

  As per protocol, it was Sebastian who answered the door to Jack's knock, dressed in the same clothes he always wore. Jack frowned a little as he noted this; thanks to Johnson, he had a whole room full of clothes, but then he was a duke, with endless funds at his disposal for such fripperies.

  "Your Grace," Havisham croaked, in a voice that sounded as though he had recently been crying, "Do come in."

  As Jack stepped inside to the darkened hallway, Havisham turned on the heel of his Hobby-boot, intent on leading Jack to the library. But on a whim, Jack bid him stop.

  "The drawing-room shall suffice," Jack called, with a wave of his hand to the drawing-room door, "We shan't be long."

  "Of course, your Grace," Sebastian nodded, though his brow creased into a frown, "Would your Grace like anything to drink?"

  Jack shook his head to the question, for a drink would necessitate a trip to the library. Tonight, Jack could forgo his brandy, if it meant that he might sneak a peek into Violet's secret lair.

  The drawing-room, much like the library, was filled with stacks of books. Unlike the library, however, there were hints of Violet everywhere. A colourful shawl draped over the back of the chair, an unopened copy of Castle Rackrent upon the coffee table, and—Jack held his breath—an easel placed by the window.

  "Might I?" Jack queried, waving a gloved hand at the easel.

  He did not wait for Havisham's permission. Instead, he tread gingerly across the cluttered floor to inspect Violet's work.

  It was, Jack realised as he took in the portrait of Lady Havisham, a very fine piece of art. The portrait depicted the irascible baroness asleep in her chair, with a taxidermy dog by her feet. It was a marvellous depiction of Lady Havisham, somehow conveying both her defiant spirit—after all, what peer would snooze through a portrait?—and her vulnerability, all at once.

  "It's wonderful," Jack admitted, both awed and dismayed at Violet's talent. He had secretly hoped to find an asinine picture of kittens, so nondescript that his conscience might feel comfortable with trying to persuade Miss Havisham away from the dream of being an artist which was holding her back from him.

  Instead, he had found talent; pure, raw, undeniable talent, which needed nurturing and feeding by the greats.

  "It rather puts one to mind of—" Jack paused, as he racked his brains for the name of the artist whom Violet's work reminded him of, "Marguerite Gérard, that's who. Though your sister has not copied her style, she has interpreted it as her own. She is a very talented woman, Mr Havisham; look after her."

  Sebastian made a sound almost akin to a whimper, as Jack finished speaking.

  "I stubbed my toe," the lad explained, at Jack's questioning look.

  "La! I do not blame you fidgeting when I am harping on like a fool," Jack grinned, "After all, I am here not to discuss art, but treason. Come; let us see what your father has to say."

  Jack handed Havisham the message from Waldo and placed himself on the chaise longue to wait for him to translate it. The chair wobbled precariously under Jack's weight, and Havisham gave a yelp.

  "Perhaps your Grace might prefer the Queen Anne," he said, waving to the overstuffed armchair opposite, "It is a little sturdier."

  Jack duly obliged, noting that unlike the chaise, the Queen Anne had four legs, none of which were books.

  Havisham strode over to the fireplace, to read the letter in the light cast by the dying fire. He hummed and hawed for a few minutes, before striding over to the window to fetch something to write upon.

  "He has a name," Havisham called, "Just let me write it all out."

  Jack stood, keen to see what message would be unveiled. He peered over Havisham's shoulder as he wrote, with a charcoal pencil, rather than a quill.

  Traitor is in Whitehall, Waldo wrote, A Mr John Greer, though he has the name of someone even higher up the chain than he.

  "Well," Jack whistled through, "Bravo Waldo. Your father has really come through for us. Might I?"

&nb
sp; Jack reached for the page upon which Havisham had written the message, and as he lifted it, he caught sight of what was on the page beneath—a charcoal etching of him.

  Jack blinked, a little surprised to find his likeness staring back at him, but then Havisham hastily closed the sketch-pad, and it was gone.

  "Violet is always drawing portraits," he mumbled, clutching the pad to his chest.

  "That's a portrait of me," Jack said, rather stupidly.

  "No, it's not."

  "It is," Jack bristled with indignation, "That is a likeness of me. I would like to see it, please."

  "I am afraid that I cannot allow that," Havisham replied, sniffing with distaste at the very idea.

  "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist," Jack growled, and he reached forward to snatch the sketch-pad from the boy.

  The gentle tussle which ensued cast neither man in a favourable light, but Jack was triumphant in the end. He hastily opened the sketch-pad, before Havisham had a chance to snatch it back, and found not one, but dozens of etchings of him.

  They were remarkably good, Jack thought, as he flicked through the pages. There he was frowning at something in the distance, here he was offering a shy smile, and in one, he was even sat astride a horse, looking magnificently regal.

  Violet appeared to have memorised every line on his face, the curve of his brow, the point of his nose. It was most flattering, but also mildly perplexing.

  "If your sister does not wish to marry me," Jack wondered aloud to Sebastian, "Then why on earth has she spent her days drawing pictures of me?"

  "Perhaps she thinks you a good study," Havisham gave a sulky shrug, "You do have a very good nose. For drawing, that is."

  "My nose is decidedly Roman and has been broken twice," Jack grunted, "At best one might say that I have the nose of a prize pugilist. Now tell me, why will your sister not marry me?"

  "How should I know?" Havisham snapped in return, "Though your manners do leave something to be desired, your Grace."

  "As do yours," Jack retorted, levelling Havisham's glare with one of his own, "I feel something is preventing your sister from accepting my proposal. A secret of some sort. But you tell her, you tell her for me, that I do not care about anything that she has done; I just want her for my wife."

  Havisham gave a sigh that sounded almost wistful to Jack's ears. He glanced at the lad, who was standing starry-eyed, with his lips parted, as he gazed at Jack.

  "I can also tell her myself," Jack decided, as he wondered if the lad had lately taken a knock to the head, "I shall call on her tomorrow. Dash. Not tomorrow, I have a vote in the House of Lords. Wednesday."

  "I—I mean Violet, has plans on Wednesday," Havisham replied, clearing his throat and visibly shaking himself out of his trance, "The boat race at Miller's Pond."

  "Then I shall call on her after," Jack determined, allowing himself a short moment to enjoy the jolt of anticipation in his stomach.

  "Perhaps, your Grace," Sebastian said, his voice low and soft, "Perhaps you need not wait that long."

  The lad hesitated before he took a step toward Jack, who was feeling rather confused as to what young Havisham was about. If Jack didn't know any better, he would swear that the young man was about to embrace him.

  Rather mercifully, a loud noise from outside halted Havisham's progress across the room. It was, Jack realised, the sound of the front door being opened and shut. Both men were silent, as they listened to the intruder bumble their way across the hall, singing to himself in a deep baritone.

  "Are you expecting a visitor?" Jack queried of Sebastian, who shook his head fearfully in response. All of Jack's primitive male responses rose to the surface, and he squared his shoulders as he prepared to face off with whatever villain was lurking in the hallway.

  The intruder, however, was not content with merely invading the hallway of Havisham House, for a second later, the door to the drawing-room was thrown open, revealing a well-dressed young man, with a taxidermy dog tucked under his arm.

  "Who on earth are you?" Jack queried, slightly bewildered to find himself confronted with a near-replica of Sebastian Havisham.

  "Sebastian Havisham," the replica replied, further confounding Jack, who whirled to look at the real Sebastian, who was frozen in shock in his spot by the fireplace.

  "And it is I who should be asking the questions," the replica continued, as he strode into the room. He glowered at Jack, before casting another glare at Sebastian, though this expression of distaste soon melted into bewilderment as he peered at him.

  "Violet?" the replica asked, blinking in confusion, "Is that you?"

  "Vi-vi-vi?"

  For the life of him, Jack could not get his lips to form the name that had daily tormented him. He turned, very slowly, to face "Sebastian", and as he caught sight of the "lad", he almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity.

  Violet's costume was impressive, there was no doubt about that; from the false-beard she wore, to the charcoal thickened eyebrows, it was all mightily convincing. But now Jack could see what he could not before; the diminutive frame that no amount of padding might hide, the thick, dark lashes which framed her eyes, and her hands. Jack gulped as he looked down at her hands; slender, elegant, and most definitely feminine.

  He had been fooled, and worse, he now felt like one.

  "So, all this time, you were..." Jack trailed off as he recalled everything that he had ever said to "Sebastian". He flushed, as he remembered having revealed to the lad that he had never coupled with a woman before. Lud, no wonder Miss Havisham had found it so easy to refuse his marriage proposal.

  "I can explain," Violet said, rushing toward him, "I was about to explain before Sebastian arrived."

  "Oh-ho," Jack exclaimed, as his wounded pride cast him in a pall of irritation, "I'm sure you were, Miss Havisham. Though I fail to see how there is any reason at all, which might necessitate you dressing as a man in order to hoodwink an emissary of the Crown."

  "Lud, Violet. What have you been up to?"

  Behind Jack, the real Sebastian Havisham gave an impressed whistle. Jack turned on his heel to glare at the lad, who quickly adopted a suitable chastised expression.

  "I am sorry," Violet said, her face pale with anguish beneath her beard, "Please, believe me, you cannot know how sorry I am. It's just that your letter asking for Sebastian's assistance arrived the day after he had left for the north, and if my father were to find out that Sebastian had left—especially to pursue a career on the stage—there would have been hell to pay. I did not do this to hurt you, your Grace. I did it for the love of my brother."

  Her words came out in a garbled rush, and Jack was not so blind that he did not see the anguish in her eyes. Missing brothers, a career in the theatre, a lady partaking in a real-life breeches role to save her brother from their father's ire—it was almost farcical.

  Not almost, Jack corrected himself, it was farcical.

  "I cannot fault you for wishing to protect your brother," Jack finally replied, when the silence became too unbearable to endure. "I too had a brother whom I would have done anything for—though I am not entirely sure that I would have stretched to donning ladies' clothing for his sake. I just wish, Miss Havisham, that you had confided your fears in me, instead of—"

  Jack hesitated, as he tried to suppress the hurt which bubbled within his chest.

  "Instead of trying to fool me," he finished flatly, hoping that his hurt tone did not further take away from the shred of dignity he had left.

  Before Violet could reply, Jack leaned over to pocket the translated message, which had been cast aside on the table, and tucked it away in his breast pocket.

  "Er," he said, as he straightened himself up, and adopted a serious expression, "It goes without saying that the contents of this letter are entirely confidential. I also trust that you will not share what has transpired in this room with anyone."

  "Of course not," Violet breathed, her face ashen.

  "Good. Insult to injury,
and all that," Jack muttered, before hastily adding, "And state secrets, of course. Well. Goodbye, Miss Havisham."

  Though a part of Jack wished to linger, and allow Miss Havisham apologise, pride forbid him. He was not oft guided by his ego, but in this instance, it had taken such a battering, that he could not ignore its yelps of pain.

  Jack stalked silently passed Sebastian Havisham—the real Sebastian Havisham—who appeared to be valiantly trying to hold back an amused grin, and toward the door.

  He half hoped that Violet might call out to him, or try to stop him before he left, but she did not. Perhaps she felt it too futile an act, given the circumstances.

  And what circumstances they were, Jack marvelled, as he let himself out the front door onto Jermyn Street. The events of the past few weeks were worthy of a play, though should anyone care to write it, Jack was not certain he would have the stomach to sit through its whole performance.

  Love, he thought mournfully, as he set forth for his carriage, was a thing suited to men far stronger than he.

  The next morning, Jack set forth for Whitehall as soon as was possible. The translated message from Waldo Havisham was burning a hole in his breast pocket, and Jack longed to be rid of the thing, and be done with this stupid mission, at once.

  Despite the early hour, Nevins was already ensconced in his dark, poky office, when Jack knocked on the door.

  "Your Grace," the older gentleman stood up, rather nervously, as Jack strode in, "I wasn't expecting you. Is anything the matter?"

  The man had lost some weight since their last meeting, Jack noted, and his manner was anxious. No doubt the business of capturing spies was getting to him.

  "I have your name," Jack said, removing the folded page from his pocket and handing it to Nevins. "One of your own men, in this very building."

  "Indeed?" Nevins drew his bushy brows together into a frown, as he scanned Violet's short translation. He tut-tutted a little, as he read the name of his traitor, but otherwise offered no other reaction.