The Devilish Duke: Book eight in the Regency Romps Series

by Elizabeth Bramwell

  “Stop with your flummery, Devenish,” scolded the old woman, but her preening was obvious. She inclined her head toward the new arrivals with slow grace as Miss Scott sank into a curtsey, Dr Lacey executed a perfect bow, and Mr Scott inclined his head in return, albeit at a deeper angle.

  Miss Scott was studying the hat with a wide-eyed surprise from the moment she rose out of her curtsey. The style dated from the last century, as did Lady Seraphinia’s mass of grey curls, her scarlet redingote with steel buttons, and her abundance of petticoats. There was a good chance that the girl had never laid eyes on someone quite like the dowager baroness, which no doubt accounted for her awe.

  “Now you have met the local royalty, may I make you known to my mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of Devenish?” smiled her son.

  As Dr Lacey made an excellent leg and Mr Scott inclined his head while pronouncing how glad he was to make her acquaintance, the Duchess was surprised to see Miss Scott visibly startle at her name.

  “The Duchess of Devenish?” she repeated, forgetting her curtsey altogether. “Good grief, does that mean you really are…”

  She left her sentence hanging as she turned her head to look up into Devenish’s laughing eyes.

  “I was perfectly serious when I told you I was a Duke,” he said as he tried, and failed, to keep the amusement from his face.

  Emily blinked a few times, trying to reconcile the amused individual before her with the sarcastic Duke burdened by ennui that she’d known even since the Rothman Incident.

  From the looks on the faces of the rest of their party, she was not the only one struggling to recognize her son.

  Miss Scott, however, did not seem surprised in the least. She put her hands over her mouth as her eyes went wide with horror, and then burst out laughing.

  Her brother winced.

  “Good grief, Cassie, the poor man you shouted at in the street was His Grace?” said Mr Scott, with the type of weariness that suggested this was perfectly ordinary behaviour for his sister.

  “Well he did walk into me and knock my packages everywhere,” she replied, “and then he took such delight in teasing me. Naturally, I didn’t believe him when he said he was a Duke!”

  “Devenish, how could you?” Emily scolded, as though she had not already heard the tale. “Forgive him, Miss Scott; I did not raise him to be either rude or clumsy.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Mother, for I did not walk into Miss Scott. She was carrying a pile of packages so high she could not see over the top, so she was the one who walked into me.”

  “I did no such thing!” said Miss Scott, before conscience seemed to get the better of her. “Well, not deliberately at any rate, but even then you should have been paying attention and stepped aside so I could avoid you.”

  The Duchess could sense, rather than see, how everyone around them tensed up, waiting for her son to deliver one of his devastating set downs to Miss Scott for her impertinence.

  Even Dr Lacey, she noticed, had closed his eyes and appeared to be asking God for strength.

  Then Devenish threw his head back and laughed.

  “My dear Miss Scott, I rather suspect that even if you had known I was a member of the peerage, you would still have shouted at me for bumping into you.”

  “I would probably have shouted louder,” admitted Miss Scott. Her brother unceremoniously poked her in the ribs, reminding her to add a belated: “Your Grace.”

  “I, for one, am very pleased to meet you,” said Jane with a welcoming smile. “If you truly were so rude to His Grace then I think we must become friends, for no one ever dares to be horrid to him, even when he deserves it.”

  Devenish raised a single brow. “I have a reputation to uphold my dear Jane.”

  Miss Scott just laughed. “Oh, that silly nickname of yours! Did you know, Lacey, that His Grace told me he is known as Devilish?”

  An odd look passed over Lacey’s face, and even Mr Scott did not look as amused by this disclosure as his sister obviously was. Even if they were not privy to the Ton’s gossip about her son, they were intelligent enough to be wary of someone with the nickname Devilish being acquainted with a young lady in their charge.

  “Mr Scott, would you be so good as to come beside me?” said Emily suddenly, deciding that it would be in her son’s interest for her to cultivate the young man’s friendship. “You too, Dr Lacey.”

  Mr Scott hesitated for only a second and then nodded up at his companion. With a little manoeuvring, they turned about Mr Scott’s wheeled-chair before backing it up beside her own. She looked over it approvingly.

  “A very nice design on your chair, I must say. The seat looks more comfortable than my own.”

  The young man hesitated before he responded. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable discussing his need for help getting about or to acknowledge his physical limitations.

  She remembered that feeling well; especially the way others, even those who should have loved her, had made her feel about her degenerating condition.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. However, I do not normally venture out in it. I planned to walk in with my sister, but my deuced legs were not cooperating this morning.”

  She gave him a sympathetic nod. “Very rude of them, to be sure. My joints are terribly ill-mannered and do not cooperate very much at all. Of course, the benefit is that I get to use my chair almost all of the time, so there are some advantages.”

  He gave her a doubtful look. “What could be positive about needing a wheeled chair to get around a town with so many hills?”

  She smiled at his observation and then stretched out one of her legs as far as she could without causing excruciating pain.

  “I am able to wear the most frivolous shoes regardless of the weather. Do you like my boots? Utterly impractical for anyone who has to walk about in them, but delightfully pretty.”

  Mr Scott stared at her shoes for a moment, and then a small smile began to shine through his drawn face. “Your Grace, I feel compelled to tell you that I shall be ordering myself a pair of yellow silk boots embroidered with blue flowers at once.”

  She laughed, glad to find a chink in the man’s armour so readily.

  “Forget-me-nots,” she informed him.

  Mr Scott grinned over at his quiet companion. “Lacey, I am disappointed in you. At no point during my treatment did you mention that yellow silk boots would be beneficial to my constitution. And you call yourself a doctor. Hah!”

  Dr Lacey could not quite keep the smile from his lips, although he attempted to look serious.

  “It is only because I consider navy slippers to have a more significant impact on your health. I was not sure how to raise the issue with you, but now that you are convinced of the medicinal benefits of vibrant footwear, we will commence with treatment at once.”

  Mr Scott gave a disappointed sigh. “Navy blue, Lacey? Truly? And there I was with my heart set on burgundy.”

  “If you make an effort to drink a glass of the waters, I’ll buy you a pair myself,” retorted his doctor, and Mr Scott grimaced in response.

  “Have you been taking the cure during your stay in town, Mr Scott?” asked Emily, amused by his expression.

  “Thankfully not, but it seems my luck has abandoned me, and the torture is to begin.”

  Emily raised a querying eyebrow, and it was Dr Lacey who answered rather than his patient.

  “The reason we are in Bath at all is that Miss Scott suggested to her brother that he begin to take the waters daily to aid his recuperation.”

  “Nagged me, more like,” Mr Scott muttered.

  Emily raised a hand to summon Carter to her side. She instructed him to fetch glasses of the cure for both herself and for her new friends.

  “I believe you should try it as well, Dr Lacey, for surely you must judge their efficacy for yourself.”

  “She’s got you there, Lacey!” crowed Mr Scott, looking five years younger when a mischievous sparkle danced in his eyes. He reminded her so much
of Devenish, even if the burdens that buried each man’s sense of humour differed greatly.

  “I can hardly refuse a Duchess,” replied the doctor, inclining his head to acknowledge her play. “If Her Grace instructs me to drink them, then drink them I must.”

  “Quick, Your Grace, instruct him to tell me that marchpane will cure all my ills, and I must be allowed to eat it daily,” said Mr Scott.

  The doctor chuckled. “If Her Grace wishes me to say such a thing I will do as she commands, but it’s not me who would have to fetch it for you, and I doubt the King himself could compel your sister to do something she thought was bad for you.”

  “Does your sister rule the roost, then?” asked Emily, keeping her tone sweet to show it was not meant as a criticism.

  “Utterly,” said Doctor Lacey.

  “She rules him as well,” retorted Mr Scott. “Cassie is the most meddling, managing female God saw fit to put upon the Earth, but I’ll be dashed if I’d have her any other way. Not sure I’d have managed without her, but please never tell her I said so. She’d be even more managing as a result.”

  They spent the next few minutes in a playful conversation about the Scott’s home and establishment, Emily subtly drawing out information about the family and the expertise of the doctor without either gentleman realizing how much he was sharing with her.

  She learned that Miss Scott – Cassie – was despaired of and adored in equal measure by all but her uncle. That she had refused a come-out or a Season in favour of caring for her brother when he was at his weakest, and would not leave his side. That Mr Scott – Ferdy – had given up on much, but that his sister and doctor had not allowed him to give up completely.

  That Doctor Lacey had been sent to them as some sort of prank by their uncle, but that it had backfired. Mr Scott had improved dramatically under Lacey’s care, and that they were fast friends.

  She risked a glance at Devenish, who was entertaining Miss Scott and Jane while lady Seraphinia and General Mortimer continued their odd flirtations beside them.

  Emily fixed her eyes on Miss Scott, whose enthusiastic gaze upon Devenish showed a refreshing innocence unsullied by the Ton’s fashion for being bored by everything.

  Thoughts began to form.

  “Your cure, Your Grace,” said Carter, appearing beside her with three glasses of the famous Bath waters.

  She smiled up at him. “What would I do without you, Carter? Please, pass a glass to each of my friends. Thank you.”

  She clutched her own glass between her gloved, frozen fingers. The glass was warm, and the smell of Sulphur – always a faint presence in the Pump Room – grew stronger.

  She took a large mouthful, and it was only experience stopping her screwing up her face as it coursed over her tongue before she swallowed it down.

  “The waters are not to your taste, Your Grace?” asked Dr Lacey. She was certain he was stalling for time before drinking his own.

  “I only drink them for fashion reasons. The baths themselves are far more effective. However, I insist you both try them.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” said Mr Scott as he eyed the glass with distaste. “Lord, is it supposed to be warm?”

  Emily grinned. “I recommend holding your nose and drinking as much as you can in one go, Mr Scott. Sipping it in a gentlemanly fashion will only prolong the agony.”

  The poor man made the mistake of sniffing at the water and jerked his head back as the pungent aroma filled his nostrils.

  “Good God, it smells like distilled hellfire.”

  The Duchess let out a tinkle of laughter before she could help herself. Lady Seraphinia glanced over, one brow delicately raised in surprise.

  “Mr Scott, I have never heard such an apt description. Now, hold your nose and throw the vile liquid down your throat. They say you will feel better for it later.”

  “Likely much later,” grimaced Mr Scott, but he did as he was bid. “Bottom’s up, Lacey! Let’s get this over with.”

  The Duchess wondered briefly if she pulled similar expressions when she first tried the waters, but by now she was used to the lukewarm taste of bad eggs and was able to ignore the worst of it.

  Poor Mr Scott. His expression only got worse as he took several large, vulgar gulps to empty the glass. His eyes watered, and he had to put his hand across his mouth for a moment after he drained the last drop.

  “That is the vilest thing I have ever had to drink,” said Mr Scott, holding the empty glass out to Carter. “Take it, man, please! And if anyone suggests you bring me a second glass, for the Lord’s sake, bring me a brandy instead!”

  “Very good, sir,” said Carter, unable to keep the smirk from his face.

  “It’s not so bad, Ferdy,” said Dr Lacey as he passed his empty glass to Carter. “I wish you could see your expression.”

  “Do I resemble a man condemned to an eternity of suffering? Because I dash well feel like one,” replied Mr Scott.

  “You no longer look as though you are about to quit this mortal coil, so it’s an improvement of sorts, albeit a green-tinged one,” smiled Lacey. “For the interests of medical study, however, I think this test should be repeated. Often.”

  Mr Scott did not say the words that were clearly in his mind, but the look he threw at his doctor spoke volumes. Lacey seemed amused more than anything, and not in the least put out by the ill will so evidently being wished upon him.

  “Your Grace, you must explain to us how you are able to drink the waters regularly considering their taste,” said Lacey, turning his attention towards her.

  “One simply grows used to it,” admitted Emily, the glass clasped between her twisted hands. She took another mouthful to prove the point.

  “What I want to know is what kind of loose screw thought drinking something that tastes like poison was a good idea,” said Ferdy, still shaking his head. “People wonder why I consider the Romans to have been inferior to the Egyptians, well, being forced to drink this stuff is as good a reason as any to curse their entire civilization!”

  “I suspect the Celts were drinking it before the arrival of the Romans,” said Dr Lacey, “and in my experience, there is much to be said for ancient wisdom and old family remedies.”

  Mr Scott glared at his friend. “How about you drink another glass?”

  “I’m not the one suffering from maladies,” replied the young doctor. “I have determined that it will not be of benefit to me if I continued to take the cure. In your case, I believe two glasses a day are recommended for your constitution.”

  Poor Mr Scott’s eyes went wide.

  “Good grief, if I’m expected to drink this daily I’ll do myself a favour and expire forthwith!”

  “No need for anything so drastic,” Lacey assured him. “As Her Grace has already indicated, bathing in the waters is of far greater benefit that imbibing them, so we will settle for that as your treatment.”

  Mr Scott gave an exasperated sigh. “Then why on earth did you tell me to drink them?”

  Lacey grinned. “I owed you payback for the comments about the spilt ink.”

  Mr Scott said something that could be construed as rather rude if Emily had heard it correctly. It seemed he was also unaware that the floor beneath the young doctor’s chair was quite wet. As though someone had emptied a glass of water there when no one, particularly not his friend and employer, had been looking.

  She glanced at Dr Lacey, whose angelic smile was too innocent to be anything but a ruse.

  Emily decided she liked all three of her new acquaintances, albeit for very different reasons. One thing was certain, however: at the very least, they would provide a refreshing diversion for Devenish, and share the simple joy in existence that she desperately wanted her son to rediscover.

  “I thought the rules of doctoring included something about doing no harm,” said Mr Scott as he glared at Lacey, although the lack of real malice was clear.

  “True, and as far as I know, you haven’t been harmed in the least,” said
Lacey with considerable cheer. “I consider this part of my research, for how can I be sure that bathing is the preferable way to gain the benefits of hot springs unless I see how you react to drinking them?”

  Mr Scott, somehow managing to keep his expression perfectly serious, turned to face Emily.

  “Your Grace, as a member of the peerage, do you have to suffer at the hands of the medical profession or do you simply have their throats cut in the night? If the latter, may I introduce you to my esteemed friend, Dr Lacey?”

  “I think I shall keep you both,” declared Emily, entertained as she had not been since forming the Literary Society of Dubious Merit back in London. “Devenish, please ensure that the Scotts and Dr Lacey are sent invitations to our upcoming soiree.”

  “I have already made a note to do so,” replied her son, turning his attention away from his two female companions. “Miss Scott here informs me that her brother is a budding antiquarian, but unlike our friend Lexborough, he does not think the Romans were the greatest society to have ever existed. I like him already.”

  “The Duke of Lexborough?” said Mr Scott, sitting upright in his chair. “The Duke of Lexborough? I have read his treatise on the ancient monuments of France, and it was quite fascinating! Well, it was until he started talking about Caesar – but before that, I was riveted! Do you know if he plans to return to his excavations on the Continent?”

  “I believe he has decided to settle down in England and has begun a new excavation on his own estates,” replied Devenish.

  “Celtic ruins?” said Scott with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

  “Roman fort,” replied Devenish, a look of commiseration on his face that would have been comical had it not been genuine.

  And the fact it was genuine left Emily wondering just what was going on with her son.

  “Do the Lexboroughs come to Bath during the season?” asked Miss Scott joining their conversation. “It would mean the world to my brother if he could have the opportunity to converse with someone who has actually been into the tombs he’s read about.”