by Cheryl Bolen
On his way out the following morning, the duke paused at the sideboard in the entrance hall to look over the calling cards that had been left in his absence. Most of them were from other bucks who comprised his set. No doubt they wanted to announce Twigs’s unfortunate accident. But one card caused him to stiffen, and an earthquake rumbled and surged and cracked his insides. Addressed to his wife, it was from the Earl of Dunsford.
Returning to her aunt and uncle’s on Cavendish Square, Bonny was seized with a sense of unreality. Only three months before, dressed in a severely wrinkled and outdated dress, she had stepped off a crowded stagecoach, utterly alone, to face for the first time the thriving city known as the capital of the world. Now, a stylish barouche pulled by matching bays and sporting the crest of the Duke of Radcliff drew up to Wickham House, and a driver, a coachman, two outriders and a tiger—all in the crimson livery of the Moncriefs—danced attendance on her. In the span of twelve weeks, she had leapt from frightened schoolgirl to contented woman, from modest virgin to passionate wife.
Bonny’s altered circumstances failed to win her aunt’s approval, though.
“Forgive me, Barbara,” Lady Landis remarked in cool tones as the three women sat down on a silken sofa for tea in the drawing room of Wickham House, “for not calling you ‘your grace.’ I know you truly are, but I cannot bring myself to address you thus. It seems like only yesterday you were nursing at Cynthia’s breast.”
“Pray, don’t think of me any differently. I’m still the same Bonny Barbara, only now it’s Bonny Barbara Moncrief, who happens to be a duchess.” Bonny, too, had a hard time believing she was, indeed, a duchess. She directed her gaze at Emily and her heart plummeted. The color was once again gone from her cousin’s pale cheeks. Her swept-back blond hair seemed as lifeless as her thin face. Like a funeral wreath, sorrow hung around her.
Lady Landis poured steaming tea into heavily gilded porcelain cups and handed one to Bonny. “So sorry about your mother. David took it very hard indeed. Of course I tried to console him by telling him how very happy Cynthia must have been at her passing to know that a duke had married her cherished daughter—for to know Cynthia was to know how she positively doted on you, Barbara.”
“Then if you knew Mama so well,” Bonny said stiffly, “you also know that she didn’t give a button for rank.”
“Certainly not for herself. David tells me any number of peers offered for her when she was presented. She was still beautiful at thirty when I met her.”
“But she never wanted to be the wife of anyone except Papa, even though he was only a country vicar.”
Lady Landis poured a second serving of tea into her own cup, having impatiently gulped down the first. “Very noble of her, I’m sure,” she said without conviction, holding her chin in such a manner so as to tighten the sagging flesh beneath it. “Of course, Ronald Allan was awfully handsome.”
“No wonder Bonny’s so beautiful, with both her parents so uncommonly good-looking.”
Lady Landis ignored her daughter’s comment. “Despite what you say about your mother’s indifference to titles, as a mother, I know she had to be thrilled with your match.”
Bonny’s smile widened. “She was.” She remembered how acutely her mother was aware of her feelings for Richard.
“As I will be if ever my very unobliging daughter would give encouragement to any of the circle of men who pay court to her,” Lady Landis said. “Do you know she actually turned down an offer from the Marquis of Eden!”
“Mama!” Emily protested. “He was older than Papa and as round as a billiard ball. I’d kill myself before I’d marry him.”
“Pray, don’t talk about tailing yourself,” her mother commanded. “Your father and I will not force you to marry.”
Emily left her biscuits untouched. “I am most grateful to hear that.”
Lady Landis’s bejeweled hand swept back the loose tendrils of her silver-threaded auburn locks. “I am convinced you nearly won the hand of a very handsome peer, only to lose him to a scheming country miss.”
“You may be sure I have no notion what you’re talking about, Mama,” Emily said, her cheeks hot.
Bonny’s cup clattered as she set it down firmly on the table. “I would like Em to accompany me to Madame Deveraux’s today. Richard insists that I purchase more fashionable mourning wear.” Bonny knew her aunt would not object to her daughter being seen in the establishment of the most fashionable modiste in London.
Eyes narrowed, Lady Landis said, “Allow me to suggest that you put yourself in the duke’s hands, Barbara, since you know nothing of the ways of the exalted. And, of course, I will be most happy to assist you in any matters of judgment.”
Bonny got to her feet. “How very kind of you,” she said dryly.
As pleased as Bonny was to see Emily again, she longed even more to see baby Harriet. Once inside the Radcliff barouche, the two young women could speak in private.
“To be perfectly honest, Em, I’m quite mad to go to Kepple Street and play with Harriet.”
“You will not believe how she has grown. She quite babbles all the time now and plays with her feet and giggles over them.” Emily’s whole demeanor changed when she spoke of her child. Liveliness lit her eyes and a smile transformed her solemn face.
How Bonny wanted her own baby, and how she pitied Emily for having to hide what she loved most.
The ride from Cavendish Square to Kepple Street was accomplished in mere minutes. When the driver came to a stop in front of Bonny’s former servant’s house, Emily exclaimed, “But Bonny, you cannot risk someone of the ton seeing your coach here.”
Bonny had not thought about the Radcliff crest mounted on the barouche, announcing to everyone that the Duchess of Radcliff visited these quarters. That would never do! What if her husband questioned her about it? She had sworn not to reveal Emily’s secret.
The coachman came to open the door.
“Please tell the driver I was mistaken in the address,” Bonny said. Remembering a square they had passed a few blocks before, she instructed the driver to take them there.
The ladies got out and strolled through the park of the square, then headed to the Kepple Street house, where they visited with the baby for half an hour before hastening back to the barouche and making a quick trip to Madame Deveraux’s.
At Madame Deveraux’s, Bonny told the modiste she wanted mourning gowns in muslin and in sarcenet, with matching pelisses. She also ordered a hooded black cloak trimmed in black fur with a muff to match.
As Bonny and Emily were leaving the shop, Lady Lynda Heffington entered. A pang of jealousy seized Bonny when she looked at the beautiful woman, whose rust-colored dress and matching pelisse and hat fit to perfection and complemented her milky skin and copper hair.
The older woman glanced at Bonny, went white and came to a sudden stop. “Why, you’re...you’re the Duchess of Radcliff,” Lady Heffington said, fixing a smile on her face.
Bonny drew up stiffly. They had never been introduced, so Bonny decided to act as if she did not know who Lady Heffington was.
Lady Heffington regained her composure. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lady Lynda Heffington, and Richard is a particular friend of mine.”
More than a particular friend, Bonny thought. They had been lovers. Had Richard known her body as he knew Bonny’s? Had he traced his fingers over her lovely cheeks and nose and mouth and breasts as he had Bonny’s? Had he ever called her the names he whispered to Bonny when she lay silently against his bare chest? Wretched emotions surged through her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, extended a black-gloved hand and tilted her head slightly toward Emily. “And this is my cousin, Lady Emily Wickham.”
Lady Heffington nodded at Emily, then turned back to Bonny. “I see you are in mourning.”
“Yes. My mother died immediately after Richard and I wed. It had been a last wish of hers to see us marry before she died.”
“So that’s why you married in such haste.
” Lady Heffington pushed forward. “You’ll tell Richard you saw me?”
Her cheeks hot, Bonny replied, “What was your name again?”
Lady Heffington’s eyes narrowed. “Just say Lady Lynda.”
“The nerve of that light skirt!” said an outraged Emily once they were in the carriage. “Calling the duke by his first name. Has she no manners? I must say, I quite reveled in the way you pretended not to know her.”
“In truth, I never have met her. And Richard has never spoken of her.”
“I should hope not!”
The Radcliff coach deposited Emily back home before returning to Berkeley Square. Bonny had barely removed her pelisse before Mandley announced that the Earl of Dunsford awaited her in the drawing room. She had forgotten all about him and his desire to meet Emily.
Bonny swept into the dark room at the front of the house, which was shuttered for mourning, and held out her hand. “How very nice to see you again, my lord.”
“It’s very kind of you to see me, your grace. May I offer you my felicitations on your marriage?”
“Thank you. Please sit down. I’ve ordered tea.”
He folded his long legs and sat upon the satin settee, nervously turning his signet ring. “I am glad we are alone,” he finally said. “For what I have to say is of a private nature.”
She shot him a puzzled glance.
“I do not know the identity of your friend who was my brother’s lover, but I do know this about her—she is the mother of my brother’s babe.”
His words slapped Bonny, leaving her dazed. How could she respond to him? She had given Emily her word never to discuss the baby with anybody.
“There’s no use denying it, your grace. And I assure you I harbor no malice toward your friend. Quite the contrary. Harry loved her very much. He wrote me of how he planned to marry her. And if she loved Harry, I would have to look favorably on her. As for the babe, I want to know if I have a niece or a nephew.”
“My lord, you can’t know of what you speak!”
“Oh, but I do,” he said firmly. “You see, my brother’s man imparted to me the particulars. He was with Harry on the Peninsula, you know.”
The tea was brought in and Bonny served the earl, punctuating the silence with inquiries as to whether his lordship cared for sugar and cream or if his lordship would like a scone.
Her duty done, Bonny got to her feet and began to pace the room. She stood before the tall window that looked out over Berkeley Square. She watched a nurse wheel a baby through the park. And she thought of baby Harriet. Of how Emily professed that she was the image of her father. She remembered the earl dancing with her and speaking of his dead brother, his voice cracking with emotion. She remembered him telling her there were just the two brothers. Then she knew what she must do.
She turned to face the earl. “You have a niece. Harriet. Named for her father.”
His face cleared, his eyes softening. “Have you seen her?”
Bonny nodded. “I am told her resemblance to your brother is remarkable.”
“She is in London?”
“She stays with my old nurse on Kepple Street. No one knows, save her mother and I.”
“I must see the babe.”
Bonny turned back to gaze out the window. She saw her husband’s coach and four coming up Berkeley Street and her heart swelled with love. “You must go now,” she said, facing the earl. “I shall ride in Hyde Park in the morning. If you meet me there in a coach, I will take you to Kepple Street.”
With his heart constricted, Radcliff watched the Earl of Dunsford’s lanky legs skip down the steps of Radcliff House. The lout had wasted no time in renewing his friendship with the duchess. The very thought of Dunsford with his wife made the duke want to run his fist through a wall.
Chapter Twelve
Before the patient arrived, Bonny went to inspect the room Twigs would occupy. On her orders, the morning room had been converted to a sickroom. A half tester bed now occupied the center of the brightly lit room. On either side of the bed, tables of substantial size featured any number of conveniences: a bell to summon servants, copies of the Morning Post, Royalist and Gazette, playing cards, pen and paper and a water pitcher and drinking glass.
When Bonny heard her husband enter Radcliff House, she hastened to meet him, but the troubled look on his face alarmed her. Had Twigs died? Slowly, she approached her husband and placed a tender hand on his arm. “Has something happened to Twigs?” she asked softly.
Her husband’s gaze moved from her hand, resting gently on his arm, to the worried look on her face, and he spoke without emotion. “His man and Evans are assisting him in now.”
“Thank heavens! From your grave face, I thought—well, it does not signify.” She dropped her hand. “Are you all right, sir?”
His eyes darted to the drawing room. “I get along tolerably.”
“I thought we would put Mr. Twickingham in the morning room. We’ve moved a bed and everything there for him, and it will be much easier than carrying him upstairs on a stretcher.”
“A very good idea.” Radcliff began to stroll toward the sickroom. “And when he is able to get about a bit he won’t have to maneuver the stairs.”
“Exactly.” Bonny heard voices and turned toward the front doorway as the two valets angled in the stretcher bearing a solemn James Edward Twickingham.
“Twigs, old fellow,” said Radcliff, who had abandoned his inspection of the sickroom to greet his greatest friend. “I would like to present you to my wife.” Radcliff moved to Bonny’s side.
The infirm young man met Bonny’s gaze. He was fair and frail-looking, with light brown hair and eyes that were green at the core and surrounded by pink, and which—like his long nose—had a tendency to water freely.
Bonny wondered if his slenderness was the result of his accident or a lifelong condition. She walked up to the stretcher, displaying her friendliest smile, and held out her hand. “Mr. Twickingham, we are so very happy to have you with us.”
Twigs broke eye contact with her and glanced around the room. “You’re the duchess?”
“I am.”
“Too young. Remember the old duchess. Very old woman. You sure you’re the duchess?”
The duke walked up to the stretcher. “She’s the duchess, Twigs. Remember, she was Bonny Barbara Allan, Alfred Wickham’s cousin.”
“’Pon my word, quite taken with her, you were, Richard. So this is the chit you married?” Color rose to his face. “So sorry, your grace,” he said to Bonny. “Not a chit. Don’t know what I was thinking to say such a thing.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Twickingham,” Bonny said.
Now he looked behind him.
“She’s talking to you, Twigs,” the duke said.
“Oh, quite so,” Twigs replied, taking a long sniff. “Not used to anyone calling me Mr. Twickingham. Thought me father had come.”
Radcliff met his wife’s amused gaze. “He’s right, my dear. Everyone calls him Twigs.”
“Then I shall, too.” Addressing the valets, Bonny said, “You may take Mr. Twigs into the morning room.”
After the patient was settled in, the Duke and Duchess of Radcliff sat in the side chairs beside Twigs’s bed.
Bonny spoke more to her husband than to his friend. “Twigs seems to be quite healthy, apart from his disabilities.”
“Yes. I talked with his doctor, and he said he is already greatly improved over what he was two days ago. The fever is completely gone.”
“Now we just need to keep him so busy he won’t have time to dwell on his inactivity,” Bonny said.
Radcliff nodded, his face grim. “I see we had a caller today.”
We? she wondered. “Oh, you mean the Earl of Dunsford. An old friend. He came to offer felicitations on our marriage.”
“Do you think it’s proper for you to entertain male callers with no chaperon?”
Bonny laughed out loud. “Richard! I’m a married woman.”
&
nbsp; “I must say,” Twigs said, “seems quite queer to think of you as a married man, ol’ chap. Won’t be the same ever again, ’pon my word.”
Radcliff spoke to his friend in a tone such as a father might use with a son. “It’s time we were settling down.”
Mandley entered the room quietly. “Would your grace be requiring any refreshments?”
“Richard,” Twigs whispered, “tell him we want brandy.”
“I’ll do no such thing. The doctor said you need to decrease your consumption of spirits.”
Twigs wiped at his watery eye with the back of his bony hand. “Hog’s breath. What does that Methodist know?”
The duke dismissed Mandley, reached into the fob of his waistcoat and took out his watch. “You may have a glass of port at six o’clock.” He picked up a deck of cards from the bedside table. “I see, my dear, that you have provided us with cards. Piquet, Twigs?”
A smile spread across the patient’s face. “A capital idea, ol’ fellow.”
Bonny rose to leave, and Radcliff held out his arm to stop her. “Do you play?”
“Not in a very long time,” she said. “I used to play with my father.”
“Watch us to refresh your memory so that you can play with Twigs when I can’t be here.”
Her husband’s touch and his desire that she stay had the power to send Bonny’s pulse racing. She quickly sat back down and watched with amusement as Radcliff easily relieved Twigs of his guinea-a-game wagers. Before an hour passed, Twigs’s eyelids grew heavy.
“I’m afraid I’ve tired you,” Radcliff said, moving to leave.
Twigs jerked up, then winced from the pain of the sudden movement. “No such thing! Haven’t been so amused in weeks.”
“Nevertheless,” Radcliff said, getting to his feet, “the duchess and I will take our leave.” His voice softened and he laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Oblige me by resting.”
Twigs pouted.
“And your reward will be a bumper of Madeira,” Radcliff promised.
Closing Twigs’s door behind them, the duke strode across the marble hall. “I have business to attend in the library, my dear.”