by Tessa Candle
He sprang up to retrieve the bottle for another round of refills, resuming his roguish demeanour like an old favourite jacket, worn perfectly to conform to his contours. “Now can we not leave all this serious stuff behind and have some fun? Or has marriage turned you both into mouldy old cheeses?”
“Very well, then.” Rutherford’s smile had a fiendish sharpness to it. “Let us drink to your impossibly good health and merrily plan what you are going to do with all that money when you deign to take up the long revered mantle of the Duke of Pallensley.”
Delville’s expression curdled. He had heard that precise turn of phrase from the estate trustee. “Ah bloody hell. Has Wells been about making a nuisance of himself?”
“Oh, you know him?” Rutherford looked like he ascribed some particular significance to this fact.
Delville’s mood soured further. “I have more acquaintance with him than I could wish. But I have not had any inordinate curiosity about the interests he represents, if that is what you mean.”
“Mr. Wells has called upon both of us.” Frobisher looked highly diverted by Delville’s unhappiness. The infidel. “He is very interested in speaking with you.”
“That potato-faced bastard should mind his own business.” Delville kicked at a stray spark spit out by the fire. Being found out and declared a duke was the last ruddy thing he needed.
Rutherford laughed through his nose. “He is steward for the Pallensley seat and chief executor of the estate. I believe seeking out the heir is very much minding his business. But for someone who does not mean to be a duke, I must say that you certainly resurrected yourself at a most opportune moment.”
“I could not possibly know that Old Pallensley was about to exit stage left just as I was entering stage right.”
“You did not poison him, then?” Frobisher feigned disappointment. “Ah well, you are a happy man in the abundance of your relations. You have a cousin who would be overjoyed to relieve you of the title.”
“That Benton prat should never be a duke.” Delville did not want anyone else to take the title either. Only it was not convenient just now to have the whole world know he was back in England—or rather, back in the land of the living. Add to that the fame of becoming a duke, and he would be known wherever he went. It would be impossible to work in secret.
“Hereditary titles do not pass on the merits of the heir. Just look at us two scoundrels in coats of arms.” Frobisher was enjoying this far too much. “You need to make a decision, Delville. Are you the live and hale Duke of Pallensley, or his rotting dead cousin?”
“I am Mr. Dee.” Delville mumbled. “Someday I will be Delville again, but not today.”
“I should tell you that Wells is aware of your pseudonymous tricks. You have been seen in town, after all—and in our company, which must have given you away. But he is convinced that some illness must afflict you to make you unaware of your true identity.”
The idea had some merit. Yes, that would make for a convenient re-entry into society, once he had resolved all his scrapes. People always made excuses for a duke. A brain fever was just the thing. Poor Pallensley. What an awful brain fever he must have had to run away from his friends and eschew his own dukedom. “What did you two tell him?”
“Not much. Only that I could not confirm your identity, but that you certainly reminded me a lot of my dead friend, Delville. Yet that was impossible.” Rutherford shrugged.
He was onto something. The most straightforward answer would be best. It was, without firm evidence, very hard to believe a dead man was alive again, after all.
Frobisher agreed. “I too questioned the probability of your being Delville. But then I equivocated that, if anyone was likely to return from the dead it was you. Everyone who knew you was certain that hell would not have you.”
“Thank you both for protecting my secret after a fashion. And you most particularly,” Delville gave Frobisher a mocking smile, “for protecting my reputation in the bargain.”
Frobisher heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “But why is all this secrecy necessary?”
“Yes, why? I mean if you were up to your neck in creditors, they have surely given you up for dead by now. Or if not, just ascend to the duchy, get your inheritance and pay them all off. Pallensley is not an impoverished seat.”
Delville found his wine had disappeared and went for more, meaning to top up his friends’ cups, but emptying and refilling his own for fortification first. He might as well tell them the part of the story that was his to tell. “Just before my untimely death, I had the good fortune to be dealt an enormously lucky hand at piquet.”
“Well that explains everything.” Frobisher took a pointedly small, neat sip of the wine Delville had just poured him.
Delville ignored his sarcastic friend and continued. “After the exchange, my opponent suggested we add a little something to sweeten the pot. A big something, rather.”
Rutherford held out his glass for more wine. “I have never seen you back down from a wager.”
“Quite right. I was up for anything back then. And you see, my cards were pure gold. My winning the hand was a dead certainty.” Delville’s tone was sardonic and he shook his head as he poured.
Frobisher pinched the bridge of his nose. “I believe I know how this story ends.”
“Oh I doubt it. You see, it has not quite ended yet.”
“That is a rather long hand of piquet.” Rutherford was clearly burning to know what the stakes were.
“It was a trap, and I have yet to get my ankle free. On the one side, I stood to gain Laurentian’s entire stables.”
Rutherford whistled. “So he was your opponent.”
“And what if you lost?” Frobisher was eager to hear the other shoe drop.
“If I lost, then I had to offer for his niece and newly acquired ward, Miss Fitzpatrick. You remember her, do you not?”
The other two men gaped in horror at this revelation.
Delville drained his glass again. “We need bigger goblets.”
“What you need is to have your head examined!” Frobisher permitted anger to creep into his words. “Being set up for an unwanted marriage is bad enough, but when you can see what a silk-sashed little monster you are to be shackled to—how could you have done it?”
“Well,” Rutherford came to his defence, “Perhaps he was beguiled by her pretty looks. And he was certain to win, after all. Do not forget that Laurentian has better horses than the king and Prinny put together.”
“No, Frobisher is right. I was a damned fool and there is no defence for it. I lost the hand, of course. I could not make the charge that Laurentian cheated, for I had no proof and I knew I would only make myself look like a whinging poor loser and end up shot in a duel for my troubles. But I am certain that he did. He saw me from far off and laid out those cards perfectly to draw me in, knowing that he had the lead.”
“So you faked your death to get out of proposing to her?” Frobisher’s tone was recriminating.
“No!” Delville scowled at his friend and slashed his free hand through the air to repudiate such a vile suggestion. “You must know I would never,” his very liver shuddered at the thought, “never welsh on a bet—that would be dishonourable. There was nothing to do but propose to her.”
“And?”
“I presented myself to her smelling like week old herring and the inside of a whisky barrel, attired in a suit I had taken the precaution of treading over and vomiting upon—”
“Good Lord!” Rutherford again quivered with disgust. “Why must all your schemes involve such revolting measures?”
Delville merely rolled his eyes as he paced about. “I proposed to her just as she was quitting church with a parcel of her twittering friends.”
“Revolting, yes. Humiliating, certainly. But surely it was effective…” Frobisher’s voice betrayed the doubt behind his hopeful words.
“Wait.” Delville held up his hand. “I almost forgot. I am not telling it
right. I staggered up to her, cast up my accounts upon the front of her dress, wiped my mouth on her kid-gloved hand for good measure, then stood up and said, ‘Oh sorry. I mistook you for a gin house whore. But now I see you are not pretty enough to be a peculiar. By the way, would you consent to be my wife?’”
“And then she refused you?” Rutherford looked faintly nauseous.
“No, she ruddy well did not!” Delville slapped the back of Rutherford’s chair. “You should have seen how her cold, calculating eyes glittered with satisfaction as she gave her reply, just before the father of one of her friends caught up to the party and dragged me off for a little conference behind the church.”
“She said yes?” Frobisher was astounded. “She does not have a reputation for being a very sweet-tempered, forgiving girl…”
“Prize-winning understatement. When she came out, they used to call her the deviltante. You remember that? So I suppose she is the perfect bride for good old Devil, eh?” Rutherford’s laugh was grating.
“Your wit is astounding.” Delville gave Rutherford a look. “She said yes. That was all. And I was stunned. The way she said it through those little milk teeth.” Delville quaked as though seized by an ague. “I had a vision. While her friend’s father was persuading me with his fists that I had not behaved quite correctly, I saw, clear as day, what the petite minx had in store for me. I did not mind being punched so much. I did not even fight back. After all I had it coming and I was not properly feeling pain at that point. I just took the blows and contemplated, as I was falling to the ground, what a hell that fledgling demoness would make my life if ever I married her.”
“So you faked your death and left for the continent.” Frobisher nodded, clearly relieved that his friend was only guilty of a jilt, and not of the deep, unpardonable sin of running out on his gambling obligations.
“More or less. Remember that I cannot tell all. But, in any case, my debt of honour was only to offer for her, not to marry her, so old Laurentian got his due.” Delville laughed and shook his head. “I thoroughly understand Laurentian’s motive for trying to be rid of her, and I did make myself a target by becoming the man who would bet on anything, as everyone knew.”
“Indeed. But he cheated you and I fail to see the humour in it.” Rutherford’s words were dismissive, but he leaned in nonetheless.
“It is only diverting because in the end he had to keep her. Though I am sure he tried to hush up the engagement when I suddenly died, there were several witnesses. But you two seem not to have got wind of it, so perhaps Laurentian did a better job of smoothing things over than I gave him credit for.”
“Ton gossip has never been our favourite pastime. Frobisher even less so than me.”
“Quite. But in any case, his ward would have to at least feign the appearance of mourning for a time after my demise. With a girl like that, the clock is ticking as soon as she makes her first foray into society, for as soon her unnaturally cruel mind became widely known among the gentlemen, she would be on the shelf. You can well imagine that, after the mourning period elapsed, he would have a hard job shucking her off on anyone else.” Delville’s grin broadened. “I heard he sold some of his stables in order to raise her dowry, hoping to attract at least a fortune hunter. There’s a bit of divine retribution.”
“I suppose you must find amusement where you can. But I believe he has the final victory, for last I heard, she is still unattached.” Rutherford tried to look diverted, but true sympathy broke through his arch look.
“I know it.” Delville sighed. “I checked when I got back into town. And so now you both see the problem…”
“Oh indeed.” Frobisher nodded sadly, “If she does not marry someone else, the moment you pop your head up and are made a duke, you will be expected to make her your duchess.”
This was a gloomy truth, though only part of the story. But remaining hidden was becoming increasingly difficult. His stepmother was already on his trail like a bloodhound. He needed to stay away from both her and Miss Fitzpatrick at all costs. Women were such a blight on one’s happiness.
Delville turned the conversation to merrier topics, and talked his friends into a few hands of cards, before excusing himself to head into the village, assuring Frobisher he would meet him back at Fenimore that evening.
He had someone to meet, and the wedding feast of John and Mary Pines was very conveniently timed so as to give him an excuse. First piece of luck he had had all day.
Chapter 9
Eleanor and Rosamond arrived at the place of the fête with faces flushed from their walk. The air was finally warming and held a promise of spring, and they decided it was best to have the carriage drop them some ways off from the inn so that they might walk the remaining distance. This was much more plausible than for the two of them, disguised as women of all work, to be dropped off by an exquisitely-crafted vehicle bearing the Fenimore crest.
Eleanor paused under the torch lit entrance to the inn and submitted to a final perusal of her disguise by Rosamond’s discerning eye.
“I think it will do. You look quite fetching like this, you know. You should stop wearing that powder on your face. And putting ash in your hair makes it look so mousey. Your true dark chestnut locks are quite lovely.”
Eleanor fidgeted. She felt almost naked without her precautionary accoutrements. “I…” she hesitated. Disclosing her motive might make her look ridiculous, but after the life Rosamond had led, there was no one more likely to understand a woman’s need to undermine her own looks. “I suppose I should have told you before, when you were assisting me with the disguise. I do things to make myself look more plain because—”
Rosamond interrupted with a wave of the hand. “Because you already are plagued by the wrong sort of men and you are certain that looking your best will not help.”
Eleanor looked into Rosamond’s mirthful eyes. “I see you have penetrated my scheme entirely.”
“You fought me so hard about cleaning all the ash out of your hair, I knew you must have some reason other than wishing to implement the questionably efficacious home remedy that you claimed to be using. But do not be afraid that your subterfuge is easily seen through. Your disguise is quite good—it is just that I am an expert. And your motive,” Rosamond gave Eleanor a significant look, “is all too familiar to me.”
Eleanor clasped Rosamond’s hand. “You are a kindred spirit, you know. How different we are, and yet how alike.”
Rosamond squeezed her hand in return. “Only now we must not be ourselves. We are servants out for a lark. You can be as pretty as a rose, for you have nothing to attract the greedy. Only you must lose that look of arch judgement and wit, or you will never pass.”
Eleanor tried, but the deadpan looks and sarcastic habits of a lifetime were hard to overcome. “How is this?”
Rosamond tilted her head. “It will do. You look peevish now, however, so do not expect many dance partners.”
“I think I should prefer to watch the dance rather than offer up my indifferent performance to the spectators.”
As they entered the downstairs rooms which had been opened into one another to make a sort of makeshift great hall, her first sensations were the warmth of the air and the chatter of lively conversation. The atmosphere was festive and fragrant with roasted meat and freshly baked bread, grounded by the more earthy smell of beer and ales.
They passed the many trenchers and platters of food, where people heaped up their plates and stood or sat at their leisure as they ate. What freedom the lower classes had to enjoy themselves without being slaves to refined etiquette. Eleanor became conscious of all her training as a proper lady, and felt positively stilted in the midst of this company.
But it occurred to her, as she looked around her, that both she and Rosamond were a tad underdressed. That is to say, the attire of many of the company placed them in the upper echelons of the working class, some even looked like professionals, and she and Rosamond wore the clothes of women in service.
The groups of chatting people were fairly well divided along the lines of their classes, though no one seemed uncomfortable with the arrangement. She supposed the mixture of the attendees should not come as a surprise. Though she knew neither the bride nor the groom, she had heard that John Pines had higher connections than did his wife.
As Eleanor contemplated the fact that her dress placed her decidedly in the class of the bride, she was amused to realize she was more comfortable with this costume than the other. So long as she was disguised as a house servant, it was merely a little folly—utterly absurd and comedic. Being disguised as something approaching the middling class would feel too plausible, more like a real demotion.
She was the daughter of a duke, and nothing should touch her. However, mixed as her background was, appearances were still somewhat important. What was most imperative was never to call to mind that strange, half-life existence of the demi-monde—the jewel-clad but unrecognized ranks of the courtesans.
Eleanor forced herself to shake off such unpleasant thoughts as they arrived at the end of the table where pitchers of ale and a large keg of bitter beer were being liberally patronized. Rosamond walked past these and served them each a tumbler of warm, lemony rum punch from a clay urn.
“I imagine you do not drink much ale.” Rosamond handed her the steaming vessel. “And I do not expect that any wine will be served. Frobisher offered a quantity of claret, but apparently the happy couple thought that would be too fine. I think you will find this punch quite refreshing. And we must eat a few morsels or we will not blend in. Are you ready for the heroic task of eating standing up?”
Eleanor could not resist a reversion to arch sarcasm, but she kept her voice low. “Heavens. Will that not turn me into a pillar of salt?”