The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1)

by Isabella Thorne

  Where was she? She had galloped off at the Heath, and not returned. He wanted to tell her that his suspicions regarding Mr. White's request that he follow Merry had been confirmed. He wanted to tell her that Merry had never really been suspected of betraying the Crown. The thought loosened the tightness in his throat. He had not seriously believed Merry a traitor. And she would say, "Mais oui, I could have told you that, mon Chéri.”

  Just like Miss Quinby. He had told her first. He had not even thought to tell Blanche yesterday. He had wanted to tell Miss Quinby, and so he had.

  He set down his fork and knife. Perhaps she was somewhere else, in another room of the house. He would find her. He stood and made to leave the room.

  "Your coffee, my Grace?" A footman had just entered via the servants' door, holding a pot of fresh coffee.

  Eversley looked at him blankly. "No," he finally managed to say. "I find I no longer desire it. Excuse me."

  He made his way up to the bedroom. Sometimes, in the mornings, if he went for an early ride without her, she would wait for him in bed with a pot of chocolate. Perhaps she would be there, nestled in among the pillows, the bed curtains pulled aside.

  But the room was empty. Dust motes drifted through the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. The room had been recently cleaned, he could tell. The grate had been scrubbed and a fire set.

  He rubbed his jaw. He should shave.

  Perhaps she would be in one of the sitting rooms. She enjoyed the south-facing one in winter, as it let in the best light. She would sit in front of the window and read her novels, sometimes English ones, and other times scandalous French ones. He remembered reading those ones together, giggling like school children and kissing. Would Miss Quinby read novels with him, he wondered. The thought of Miss Quinby filled his mind, lavender perfume changing to strawberries. He made his way back down to the first floor, to the sitting room.

  A maid, busy polishing the furniture looked up.

  "Oh! Begging your pardon, Your Grace," she said. She bobbed a curtsy and quickly gathered her rags and polish. She began to leave the room.

  He waved her to stillness. "No, no," he said. "I did not mean to disturb you. Carry on."

  Perhaps the drawing room then. But when he strode into the middle of the room, she was not there. There was no hint of her, no scent, neither lavender, nor strawberry.

  The nursery? He made his way up the stairs to that long abandoned room. The furniture was draped with dust covers. It had never been used --at least not by them. For a moment the grief almost overwhelmed him. They had been hoping, before she left for France, for a child.

  "Yes, but I worry," Blanche had teased. "What if our child is like you? I have no doubt you a little tyrant when you were young."

  "I was not," he had retorted. "I was an angel."

  Blanche had snorted at this and rolled her eyes. “What happened?” she teased, and he had kissed her.

  Then she had left for France, promising to be back soon, and he never saw her again.

  She was not here, among this sad furniture draped in sheets. She was not in the music room. Why would she be? She disliked playing. The pure notes of Beethoven sounded in his imagination and continued to play as he walked. She was not in the library, or his office, but the music continued.

  He was riffling through the clutter in the attic store room, searching for her, even though, he knew full well, she was not here. She was dead. All of the music went silent. He was still musing when his butler interrupted him.

  "I beg your pardon, Your Grace," he said. "Were you still planning on escorting Miss Quinby and her cousin to the ball? Would you like if we drew you a bath, so that you might begin to prepare?"

  A ball? A bath? He looked up. The attic was darker than it had been; Rokesby stood mostly in shadow.

  "What time is it?" he asked his butler.

  "It is early evening, Your Grace. You may wish to depart in a couple of hours."

  A couple of hours? Where had the day gone? He looked around. Crates and trunks had been pried open, possessions scattered everywhere.

  She wasn't here. He knew it. He knew why. And what he had to do.

  "Rokesby, please forgive me. I was searching for something, but appear to have misplaced it. Kindly have someone tidy this up."

  Rokesby nodded.

  Eversley made his way to the stairs. "I do not believe I will be able to escort the ladies after all. I will pen a note of regret right away. If we might deliver it to them as quickly as possible? I must attend to other matters."

  For a moment, something flickered across the butler's face. Was it censure? Just as quickly as it crossed his face, it was gone. His face returned to its normally placid state.

  "Certainly, Your Grace. Shall I wait for the message, or come back."

  “Just wait,” the duke said. “It won’t take me but a moment.”

  ~.~

  Chapter Four

  Georgette sat still as her maid carefully fixed her hair. She was wearing a gorgeous gown, of light blue silk gauze over satin. She could see herself in the mirror, in the glow of candlelight. She looked rather well.

  Fanny sat at the other dressing table. They had developed the habit of readying themselves for balls together in the same room. It allowed for them to chatter and converse with each other and their maids.

  There was a knock at the door. Another maid entered, bearing a silver salver. A note sat atop.

  "This was just delivered, miss," she said, presenting the note to Georgette.

  "Oh? I wonder what it might be." Georgette smiled at her maid, who stepped back from her hair. She reached for the note.

  "What a fine seal," she said.

  She stopped and looked at it more closely. It was the Duke's seal, hastily stamped into fine red wax. Carefully, she broke it open.

  She read the lines once, then twice, then a third time. Each time they were the same.

  Georgette swallowed. She blinked carefully and took deep breaths. It should not signify.

  "Well?" Fanny asked. "Whatever is it?"

  "The Duke --" Georgette cleared the catch in her throat. '--sends his regrets. He is unable to accompany us tonight."

  "What?" Fanny looked as baffled as Georgette felt. She gave a small laugh. "Surely you must be jesting."

  Georgette shook her head slowly and held the note out to Fanny, who took it. Fanny's eyes ran back and forth from left to right as she skimmed the note. Her brow puckered, a tiny dent forming in the middle, as she digested the contents. She looked up at Georgette.

  "He sends his regrets," she said.

  Georgette nodded.

  Fanny looked at her searchingly. Georgette attempted to smooth away any pain from her face. She did not wish her cousin to know she was feeling quite so affected. She smiled.

  "You mustn't take it to heart, Fanny," she said. "His is a Duke. No doubt he has any number of important obligations."

  Indeed, she knew this to be true. The man was a spy, for God's sake. He most certainly had important obligations. Why, as they spoke, he could very possibly be apprehending the mysterious Englishman. Or mistakenly pursuing another man like Merry. She would not know.

  But she could not help feeling that perhaps this was more. Was he truly taken away by another obligation? Or did he simply not wish to see her? What if he had realized her feelings for him were growing? Could he perhaps have sensed her joy at seeing him yesterday, her eager anticipation over seeing him today?

  No doubt that was it, she thought. She should not have been so transparently pleased to see him. She should have remained somewhat detached. And yet, she had been so overjoyed to meet a man with whom she could be herself.

  "Sends. His. Regrets." Fanny was enunciating each word, her voice rising as she did. "Sends his regrets? Well you know what I have to say to that, Georgette? I say, stuff his regrets. I do not give a fig if he is a Duke. I shall never forgive him for slighting you in such a manner. Sends his regrets. I do not believe it."
r />   Fanny's outrage was so pure; it was comforting, and almost amusing. Georgette forced herself to adopt a lighter tone.

  "Fanny, my dear," she laughed. "Really. I am fine. It is of no importance. And your Mr. Rupert Fellows will still be here to accompany us to the ball."

  "Yes, Rupert." Fanny ran a hand through her hair absently. The maid standing behind her gave a tiny groan and started forward, then remembered her place and clasped her hands together, despite very clearly wishing to fix the stray bits that were now standing up.

  "I have it," Fanny said, suddenly.

  Georgette looked up. Her cousin's eyes were alight. "Oh, no," Georgette said. She shook her head. "I know this look. Whenever you get this look, I wind up in Astley's Ampitheatre, nearly set on fire."

  "That was one time," Fanny said. "And I apologized profusely. But we shall not go to the ball tonight."

  "No?" Georgette asked. That actually might be nice. She could change into her nightgown and settle in for the evening with a novel. And maybe a small glass of sherry.

  "We shall go to Vauxhall."

  "Vauxhall?" Georgette's dreams of a quiet night at home disappeared.

  "Yes, Vauxhall. There are balls every evening. And they are all the same. I don't see why we should go to a ball and listen to everyone around us gossip in tones that are just audible enough to hear. I have no desire to be crushed amongst packs of sweaty unwashed bodies and forced to drink ratafia. No, we shall go to Vauxhall."

  "You realize there are packs of sweaty unwashed bodies there, do you not?" Georgette asked.

  "Certainly, but at least it is outside, and it is cold enough most of the scent will be contained by coats and wraps and blown away on the wind. Furthermore, I have a strong desire for thinly sliced ham and a waterfall display."

  Georgette blew out a breath. Vauxhall. She had not been there since she was engaged to Sebastien. Perhaps it would be good for her; a distracting amusement, with no Dukes to turn her stomach into knots.

  "Very well," she said. She smiled at Fanny. "Let us go to Vauxhall instead." She looked down at her gown, and then up at Sarah. "I fear I shall have to change to something more substantial," she said to the maid.

  Sarah nodded. "Certainly, miss."

  Fanny grinned. "Excellent," she said. "Delia Ditherfield is meant to be there tonight, with Mr. Foster. We can join their party."

  "Mr. Foster? Has she given up on Meryton, then?"

  "Never. But her father is determined to distract her," Fanny said.

  "Would he allow her to marry Merry, if the gentleman ever asks?"

  "To be sure, he would. I do believe he is so tired of listening to Delia howl over the supper table, he would do anything. But Meryton has not offered."

  The two of them stared at each other for a moment, clearly thing the same thing.

  "Men," they both said at the same time, rolling their eyes.

  ~.~

  Chapter Five

  Eversley stared down at the cards that sat upon the green baize. Here he was, again, back at the club, back at the table, next to Merry. The cards blurred in front of him. How were there two of the same queens?

  He had had too much to drink.

  Merry was once again raising the stakes beyond his means and mopping his brow. Eversley hoped that Lightfoot was somewhere in this room, watching him dogging steps, because otherwise he was going to toss himself off the roof.

  Goodness, he was turning into Miss Quinby. He grinned to himself. She would enjoy the irony. She would tell him to mind the stairs.

  He should not be thinking of Miss Quinby. He shook his head. It felt as if he had a pouch of coins in between his ears, shifting from right to left. He did not want to think of Miss Quinby. He wanted to think of Blanche.

  He had sworn. After Blanche, he had sworn. Never again.

  He looked back at the cards. Somehow they had changed. Had he placed a bet? He placed a hand on Merry's shoulder.

  "I do believe I've had too much to drink, my dear fellow. The cards are positively swimming."

  Merry nodded slowly. "They do every evening," he whispered, confidingly, to Eversley. "Every evening the cards begin to swim."

  "Why?" Eversley asked.

  "I really cannot say," Merry said, nodding. "I imagine it's to do with the drink."

  "No," Eversley said, more forcefully this time. "No. Why?"

  "You've lost me," Merry said.

  "Why are we here?" Eversley asked. He shook his head again. "Oh, bother. I know why I am here. Why are you here, Merry?"

  "I must win my fortune," Merry said, easily. He shrugged. "It is the only way."

  "No," Eversley said. "No, it is not the only way. You could simply propose to Miss Ditherfield. You do not have to be here."

  "I explained it all before," Merry said. "I cannot approach her empty-handed."

  "You run the risk of never approaching her at all," Eversley said. Why did Merry insist on being so blind? Would he forever sit at these tables, refusing to sacrifice his pride? Would he never understand how precious these moments might be?

  "I love her," Merry said. "I told you. I cannot approach her, unable to provide for her."

  "She can provide for herself," Eversley said. "She's a bloody heiress, after all."

  "Be careful how you speak of her," Merry said. "I will not hear anyone besmirch her name in my presence."

  "I'm not besmirching it, you fool. I'm simply baffled by why you refuse yourself happiness."

  The play at the table had suspended. The other gentlemen, uninterested in affairs of the heart, and disinclined to witness an intense conversation between two drunk men, slowly drifted off to other tables.

  "I refuse myself happiness?" Merry asked, his voice incredulous. "This, from the man who shunned society for nigh on a decade, after his wife died. Who now trots around after me, gambling when he does not require the funds, drinking when he does not require the drink. What of you, My Grace?"

  "What of me?" Eversley demanded.

  "When will you accept Her Grace's death?" Merry asked. "I thought you had returned, that the man whom I considered a friend throughout school and university, that you had finally come to peace. Do you have any idea how difficult it has been for so many of us, to watch you fall into despair?"

  Eversley blinked. What? How long had Merry Meryton been observing him?

  "I..." he started. "You've been discussing me?"

  Merry snorted. "Not at all Eversley. You're merely a Duke, one of the wealthiest and most powerful figures in the land, who has disappeared for the last ten years, after the death of his French wife, to mourn and lament her. No, we have not discussed you at all."

  Eversley looked about. There were men all over this club, men he had considered friends --or, if not friends, close acquaintances. Men he'd been at school with, men who owned land near his, men in Parliament, men belonging to his many clubs. They'd all been aware of his grief.

  And here, he had just been following around Merry. He wanted to laugh. No doubt they assumed he was gambling away his life as well. He had become a tragic figure. Good thing he had not voiced his thought to fling himself off the roof, out loud.

  "Merry," he said. "You needn't worry about me."

  Merry snorted.

  "No, I tell you," Eversley said. "You need not worry about me. You should be worrying about yourself. Your feelings for Miss Ditherfield, your pursuit for ready funds. Merry, this cannot continue."

  Merry puffed up, much like the peacocks that ran about one of Eversley's estates, brought there by an earlier inhabitant. Then he deflated.

  "I love her," he said. "I love her, and I wish to be with her. But I do not know how I can come to her as I am."

  Eversley sighed. There would be no solutions tonight. Merry refused to propose unless he had more to offer her. The Duke knew enough to know that the only person who could persuade Merry would be Merry himself.

  "All I ask is that you consider what it is to lose the woman you love," Eversley said to hi
s friend. "I lost mine to a horde of people. If Miss Ditherfield accepts the proposal of another, the only one you will have to blame will be yourself."

  Merry opened his mouth to say something more. Then his gaze shifted to the person behind Eversley.

  "Fletcher," Merry said, stiffly. "Fancy seeing you here."

  Eversley stifled a groan. He did not want to speak with Lord Fletcher. Not now. Nevertheless, he fixed a pleasant look on his face and turned.

  "Fletcher," he said, attempting a smile. "How goes it?"

  Fletcher nodded, his fleshy jowls wobbling, his beady eyes looking between the two of them. He settled down into one of the empty seats at the table.

  "Must say, I don't remember the two of you being so close before," he said.

  "Before?" Eversley asked, coolly.

  "Yes, before your wife died," Fletcher said. "I did not realize you and Meryton were so close."

  Eversley shrugged. "Times change."

  "Oh, I say, are we starting a game?" Lord Brockton settled down into the empty chair. He rubbed his hands, looking at the three gentlemen at the table. "This will be good," he said.

  Merry's eyes once more filled with anticipation. He nodded at Brockton's invitation for a game.

  Eversley sighed. He signaled for another drink.

  ~.~

  Chapter Six

  Georgette had to admit that Mr. Rupert Fellows had exhibited surprising depths of resourcefulness that evening. The gentleman, whom she had always considered to be a bit of a rattle, had barely so much as blinked when Fanny informed him they would no longer be attending the ball. He had also managed to produce a boat at Westminster, and quite easily ferried them across the Thames to the Gardens.

  The weather was cold, but not freezing, and many people were making their way across to the gardens. The Thames was alight with the glimmering lanterns of ferries and barges.

  Eventually they docked, and Mr. Fellows assisted the ladies as they alighted. Then Vauxhall was before them.

  Georgette had always adored Vauxhall. As a young lady, she had fancied it to be a magical place, fitting for her mood --so in love with Sebastien--the lanterns and waterfall, the fireworks, people from all walks of life. Even the exorbitantly-priced and thinly-sliced ham. She loved it all.