The Duke's Messenger

by Vanessa Gray

  However, Nell could distinguish fact from fancy. She was well aware that Lord Foxhall was a cut above her, even though her breeding was as good as his. It was simply that he was kind to her, and so handsome that she was drawn to him, moth to candle.

  Many another lady had swooned over Lord Foxhall, and yet the heir to an earldom had remained immune to all the wiles, subtle and not so subtle, that had been practiced on him. How could Nell be so rash as to think that she had a chance to snare this very elusive prey?

  But he had in fact given her very discreet indications that she pleased him, and Nell was caught between two poles. At moments she thought that he was indeed fond of her, and the next moment she succeeded in convincing herself that he was simply an accomplished man of society, treating her with the same civility he would bestow on a cousin!

  Nell stole a glance at the other dancers. Penelope Freeland was dancing with Charles Inwood, but her eyes were on Nell, burning across the distance between them, and their message was entirely clear. She wished Nell at the antipodes, and that, as speedily as her own guardian angel could arrange it.

  The dance, all too soon for Nell, came to an end. Just before he led her back to her aunt, who was sitting with Darnford along the wall, Rowland bent to murmur in her ear, “Miss Aspinall, I shall hope to have the first waltz with you. At that time, I should like to say something very particular to you.”

  Nell smothered an exclamation. She was oblivious to her aunt’s obvious curiosity and Darnford’s odd glance.

  HE wished to say something very particular…!

  Chapter Two

  Nell was forced to set her rosy speculations aside, for many dances were played before the old-fashioned duchess allowed a waltz. Even in 1814, a most advanced year, the waltz was far from accepted by the older members of society. It had taken dignified Tsar Alexander and the vivacious Countess Lieven to lend their cachet to the Austrian importation by tripping it gaily at Almack’s five months before. Only then had society as a whole believed it proper.

  After all, it was hardly the thing for a man to place his arm around the waist of an unmarried woman, the Duchess of Netwick pointed out. “In my day,” she said inaccurately, “a gentleman would expect to be horsewhipped for taking such liberties, and rightly, too. I recall my own brother calling out young Whern for something much more trivial.”

  “Young Whern?” said someone in the duchess’s circle, as he idly watched the excessively handsome couple now on the floor. “Foxhall, wasn’t it, with the Incomparable Penelope? Looks like they’re having a real argy-bargy.”

  “He was young Whern at that time,” explained the duchess. “He’s put his spoon in the wall since then. The heir — that’s his grandson — not at all up to snuff.”

  “In the army, wasn’t he? Blue-deviled by some lady, as I recall. Didn’t he come back from the peninsula with Wellington?”

  “He did, and he has not yet made his manners to me,” said the duchess, “as he should, being my godson. He’s gone very mysterious, hasn’t even opened the town house on Duke Street.”

  “A hermit, no doubt,” said a dandy, guffawing, but his laugh was cut short by the duchess’s stony stare.

  “No, he’s not one of your Tulips,” said Her Grace with a significant glance at him. “The duke — Wellington, I mean, not Netwick — thinks much of him.”

  The duchess was perfectly capable of carrying on a vigorous conversation, at the same time not missing much of what was transpiring in the middle distance. Having neatly disposed of the dandy, she commented with malice, “I wonder Foxhall hasn’t confessed defeat. The Freeland woman’s been after him long enough.”

  Someone in the duchess’s circle murmured, “Wouldn’t want her laying siege to me! She’s a stunner, but any man who married her would be under the cat’s foot in a month, I’d take my oath!”

  The duchess laughed until her little eyes disappeared in wrinkled folds. “Her grandfather, old General Sir Robert Freeland, you know, never won a battle in his life!”

  The conversation around the duchess moved on to other, even more frivolous subjects, and the mysterious duke was forgotten. But all eyes remained upon the couple in question on the floor.

  Penelope Freeland was not enjoying her first dance this evening with Rowland Fiennes. She had been out for five years, and had indeed come to think of Rowland as her own. Her father the Right Honorable the Lord Chawton was on Castlereagh’s staff and was expecting to be appointed ambassador to France, or Austria, or wherever there was an amusing capital. She would find it easy to persuade her father to require Foxhall to accompany them to their new position. Penelope herself, having been brought up, so to speak, in the Foreign Office, would make a wife par excellence for a rising ambassador-to-be like Foxhall.

  While Rowland had not yet precisely offered for her, such an event was only a matter of time. So Penelope had believed.

  But then onto the London scene had come Elinor Aspinall. Penelope was not pleased. The Aspinall miss proved entirely too magnetic an attraction for Lord Foxhall, especially in recent weeks. At least so far Rowland had been discreet, his falling away signified only by a lessened attention to Penelope’s wishes and a sad failure to do her bidding with his usual alacrity. She was certain, however, that no one other than Penelope had noticed his preoccupation.

  Even though she considered the burgeoning affair as merely a novel diversion for Rowland, she was determined to forestall any consideration of more serious possibilities.

  Her dance with Rowland, therefore, was an exercise to that end.

  “I expected you at my reception this afternoon, Rowland,” she began, breaking a too-long silence.

  “I must apologize. Affairs at the Foreign Office required me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Miss Freeland briskly. “You’re merely packing up for the journey to Vienna. Your people could have managed.”

  Pacifically he said, “I had to give them direction, you know.”

  “No, Rowland, I don’t know. You forget that I am in my father’s confidence, and I am as well informed on matters in the Foreign Office as anyone.”

  “Penelope, believe me, I do not forget that fact.”

  Rowland was entirely courteous, as befitted a man with ambitions in the diplomatic field in conversation with the daughter of a man with great influence in that same area. But he made no promises, nor, to be precise, did he even seem to listen to her.

  Only Miss Freeland’s rigorous training kept her smoldering instead of bursting into flame, but it was clear to the most casual observer that she was unhappy.

  Nell, dancing with one and another whose identities she would not later recall, was not aware of the byplay that so beguiled certain of the guests. If her aunt had not been indulging — simply to keep her hand in — in a mild flirtation with her host, the ancient Duke of Netwick, she might have found material for thought, but she did not.

  At last came the first waltz, and Nell saw, as through a rosy veil, the approach of Lord Foxhall. The insistent rhythm captured her as he placed his arm, most delightfully, around her slender waist and swung her into the whirling dance. Her feet seemed to move without her volition somewhere above the mundane floor, the music sang in her veins, and paradise itself was not far removed.

  At the conclusion of the dance, Foxhall led her off the floor. In this side room, where she suddenly found herself alone with Foxhall, the duchess had succumbed to the craze for Grecian furnishings that had followed upon the arrival from Athens of the marbles under the aegis of former Ambassador to Greece Lord Elgin. Nell had not before received the full impact of a room walled with plaster caryatids, whose blank eyes stared at the two inhabitants of the room. Even Rowland’s thrilling presence could not remove her strong distaste at what she considered the gross overpopulation of what was after all a very small room.

  Lord Foxhall did not seem aware of any lack of amenities. Of course he was not sitting on the cold marble bench upon which he had placed Nell. Instead, the rising
diplomatist, ill at ease, was standing before her, his tongue unable to utter a sound since it was unaccountably cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

  Better a hundred interviews with Lord Castlereagh, he thought, than one with this small girl with the great gray eyes.

  “You must surely have understood,” he began at last, “my purpose in seeking you out these past weeks. You are not unaware, I believe, of my intentions toward you.”

  Nell put out a hand as if to protest. Her response was to a degree chaotic. “No, no, Lord Foxhall — I dare not —”

  “So formal, Miss Aspinall? I should like very much your permission to call you Elinor. May I?”

  She thought she nodded agreement. In fact, her wits were so scattered it seemed a miracle that she had not fainted from the roaring tumult in her head.

  It was a curious thing, she discovered, that happiness was such a noisy state. She could hardly think above the racket in her ears.

  His voice came to her as though from a far distance. “Miss

  Aspinall — Elinor, that is — I — I confess that I have never before put this question to any lady of my acquaintance.”

  When he did not speak for some moments, Nell prompted him. “Question?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I should like your permission to call tomorrow morning with the hope of a private interview with you. Shall you object?”

  Private interview! The phrase rang in her head. She was well aware of its significance, especially when coupled with the anxious look in his shallow blue eyes.

  “Oh, yes. I mean, oh, no, of course I shall not object!” However could I? By good fortune, her last words were not spoken.

  Nell slipped into a timeless rosy haze, pale plaster ladies forgotten. How handsome he was! His address was full of grace, his manners entirely faultless. What more could she wish for?

  Foxhall lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips respectfully. Behind her inward sigh of bliss, she perceived lurking a wicked hope that he might — just for a moment, of course — be swept away by passion to the point of clasping her willing body to his chest.

  Only a heightened color in his cheeks gave an indication that he was possibly struggling against making an improper advance. If so, he subdued the wayward impulse manfully-to her unspoken regret.

  *

  Nell, bursting with her secret, and excessively anxious to share with her aunt dear Rowland’s intentions, was not best pleased when she was requested to make room for Darnford in their carriage.

  But, when the marquess gave every indication of making a long visit, even at that late hour, Nell gave in with good grace. In truth, she was not reluctant to hold her delicious news to herself for a little while yet. She had not fully savored the incredible fact that Lord Foxhall would, in the morning, make a formal offer for her hand.

  She went to bed, but not at once to sleep. Rowland’s classic features slid from her wakeful thoughts into her dreams, and she slept at last with a smile on her lips.

  Chapter Three

  Nell wakened when young Polly timidly set down her early morning tea tray. Nell watched the maid cross to the windows and open the curtains.

  “Polly,” she murmured, emerging slowly from sleep, “what kind of day is it?”

  “Dreary, miss,” Polly reported. “Gloomy, like. Begun raining in the night it did, and dark you can’t see the street.”

  Nell came fully awake. With a rush she remembered the astonishing event of the evening before. “Oh, Polly, you must be wrong. It’s the most glorious day since I’ve been in London!”

  The maid cast a cautious eye in the direction of her young mistress. “Very good, miss,” she said quickly, and scuttled out of the room.

  Nell leaped out of bed and went to the window. To an ordinary eye, she conceded, it might be gray, damp, and dispiriting. How many unfortunates looked out this very morning and saw only dreariness!

  Nell considered herself the most fortunate of creatures. She alone was the recipient of Lord Foxhall’s attentions.

  He was coming to call — and Lady Sanford did not yet know!

  She scarcely felt the stairs beneath her feet as she descended to take breakfast with her aunt. In fact, she was hardly aware that her aunt Phrynie was scarcely in a mood to receive confidences, being hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and with a tongue excessively furred.

  Whitcomb the butler had every sympathy for his lady. With deft and silent motions he placed black coffee before her and forbore to offer ham or eggs. He considered toast and honey, but with a second sidelong glance at his suffering mistress, he decided against them.

  When Nell breezily entered the breakfast room, Lady Sanford closed her eyes. Whitcomb winced in sympathy and favored his mistress’s niece with a cold eye of warning. Nell, caught up in her own rosy euphoria, did not notice.

  “Dear aunt!” she exclaimed as she paused to drop a kiss on Lady Sanford’s soft cheek. “Wasn’t it a perfectly splendid ball!”

  Lady Sanford’s response was more moan than articulate agreement. “I do not know quite what the duchess put in that punch,” she said severely when she reached the bottom of her second cup of strong coffee. “Ratafia, she said it was, but I warrant you I will never again believe her.”

  Whitcomb reflected upon the empty bottle of brandy that had met his eyes that morning in the salon. Lady Sanford, having entertained her solitary guest somewhat lavishly after her return home, had no need to blame the duchess for her splitting headache.

  Nell gradually became aware that her aunt was indeed suffering. Her own pleasure at the ball had taken place far removed from the scene at the punch bowl. But she was possessed of a kindly nature and lowered her voice at once. She heaped her plate with feather-light scrambled eggs and the most delicately flavored pink ham, brought especially from the Sanford country estate in Essex, and proceeded to indulge her hearty appetite.

  Not until she saw her aunt reaching tentatively for a biscuit did she dare to engage her attention. “Aunt, I must tell you — “

  “My dear child, must you? I confess I do not wish to hear anything this morning. Not even the juiciest titbit of gossip. Unless, of course, you have heard why the Fitzgerald woman has left Mount Street in such great haste.”

  “Nothing like that, Aunt. Something far better.”

  Phrynie Sanford was no stranger to duty. Now, visibly, she pulled herself erect and prepared to be, if not enthusiastic, at least civil. “Better? In that case, I should like to hear.”

  Suddenly shy, Nell did not answer at once. Now that she was invited to share her news, she was most unaccountably loath to do so. However, she was aware of her aunt’s somewhat bloodshot eye commandingly on her and, like a winter swimmer, plunged into the water.

  “Dear aunt, I owe it all to you. You’re so generous, so — “

  “So impatient,” interrupted Phrynie, tartly. “Do you indeed have something to tell me? If not, I believe I shall lie down somewhere.”

  “Oh, no, Aunt, you mustn’t!”

  Her protest was met by a raised eyebrow. “Mustn’t I?”

  “You are to have a caller this morning.”

  Lady Sanford’s nerves were not at their best. “Nell, I must warn you…”

  “Aunt, Lord Foxhall is coming to call.”

  Lady Sanford stared at the tablecloth. Her fingers, apparently of their own volition, began to plait her napkin. “Dear me. That punch cup must have been insufferably strong. Nell, my dear, forgive me, but I thought you said Lord Foxhall.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “Nell, I must inform you that if this is a species of japery, I shall be seriously displeased. I agree, this kind of mischief is much more in Tom’s line. However, I am a bit too addled this morning to be tolerant of any funning.”

  Her aunt’s reception of Nell’s stupendous news boded ill. “Dear Aunt, pray believe me,” cried Nell, nearly in tears. “He asked last night — after the first waltz, it was — permission to call this morning — for a private i
nterview. With me.”

  “Good God!” said Phrynie, at last comprehending the situation. “Foxhall. No one will believe it. Precisely no one, not even me. Private interview with you? Then of course he will wish to see me. What shall I wear? Nell, you must send for me at once when you’ve accepted.”

  Nell was silent. Misgiving struck her aunt. She fixed Nell with a commanding eye. “Surely, Nell, this offer you will not greet with missish refusals? You will accept?”

  “Oh, yes, Aunt. I will.”

  “But Foxhall,” said Phrynie. “Coming to call. That means — of course it must, no question about it. We are not presuming too much, child. It means an offer!”

  Aunt Phrynie’s reaction was all that Nell could have wished for. Lord Foxhall was indeed a catch to addle wits even sharper than Lady Sanford’s, whose perceptions in the ordinary way were not in the least dull.

  Now she simply stared at her niece. The full significance of Nell’s triumph was realized. “You sly puss.”

  Nell basked in her aunt’s warm approval. “I hoped you would be pleased, Aunt. And to think I almost didn’t want to go to the ball last night!”

  Phrynie was too much a woman of the world, however, to take Nell’s news at face value. Nell’s information was indeed startling, not to say unbelievable. No matter how sincere the child was, thought her aunt, her inexperience might well lead her into a misapprehension of Foxhall’s intentions. Now, noting well Nell’s euphoria, she believed she had solved the mystery of the girl’s recent abstracted moods.

  Phrynie hoped devoutly that Nell would not be devastated when — that is, if — she learned she was in error over Foxhall’s sentiments. Best to be prepared for disaster, she thought, and began to explore the possibilities.

  Her thoughts ran swiftly over the previous evening. Lord Foxhall had indeed danced — in fact, waltzed — with Nell, besides standing up with her for the first set. “But what about the Freeland woman?” Lady Sanford spoke her thoughts. “She’s been all but in his pocket this long time.”