by Farr, Diane
Duel of Hearts
by Diane Farr
A Regency Romance
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Duel of Hearts
Copyright © 2002, 2011 by Diane Farr Golling
All rights reserved.
To NORMA JEAN GOLLING
whom I can never thank enough
DUEL OF HEARTS
Chapter 1
Delilah Chadwick was rarely at a loss for words. This, however, was too much. She stared at the sheet of elegant, hot-pressed paper, her starting eyes reading, over and over, the single paragraph it contained. No matter how many times she read it, its contents did not change. The words did not magically rearrange themselves. She read them one more time, just to make sure.
The letter still said what it said.
She turned the sheet over. The reverse side contained only her direction: Miss Chadwick, Chadwick Hall, Squires Road/Trowbridge End, Wilts., written in precise and tidy cursive. Nothing more.
Lilah took a deep breath and found her tongue. “Is this a joke?” she demanded. It was a purely rhetorical question, of course. The sender of the message was many miles distant. She extended her arm dramatically, dangling the offending missive from her outstretched fingers as if it were covered in filth. “Where is the rest of it?”
Her father’s secretary regarded her mildly over the rims of his spectacles. “There is no ‘rest of it.’”
“One page?” Her voice rose an octave. “One paragraph? Impossible!”
Mr. Applegate, a long-suffering young man, recognized the rising note in Lilah’s voice and begged her to be calm. She ignored this suggestion and rounded on him, eyes flashing. “Did you know of this, Jonathan?”
Mr. Applegate removed his spectacles. “No.” Honesty compelled him to modify this statement. He cleared his throat, his eyes no longer meeting hers. “Not exactly.”
This tiny adjustment to his denial robbed Lilah, once again, of speech. She dropped into a chair, staring at him as if he had just sprouted horns. Mr. Applegate’s long acquaintance with Miss Chadwick led him to suppose that her inability to speak would be of short duration, so he hurried to fill the brief silence.
“I was not expecting to receive this message, nor anything like it. But I did know that your father entertained some thought of remarrying one day.”
“What?” Her voice nearly cracked with outrage. Jonathan winced.
“It was all very vague,” he said hastily. “Just a hope, you know, that he expressed to me once or twice. He had no one in mind, of that I’m certain. No real plans. I am nearly as astonished as you are, to learn that he has located a suitable female—and that she is inclined to accept him. It must have happened very quickly.” He smiled encouragingly. “But I’m sure Sir Horace has chosen carefully, and that Miss—what is it? Mayhew. I’m sure Miss Mayhew will prove a worthy successor to the late Lady Chadwick.”
Lilah’s bosom rose and fell with indignation. “Are you acquainted with this woman?”
“Well, no. Naturally not.”
“Then you cannot be sure of anything.” She flew out of her chair and began flitting around the room, putting Jonathan irresistibly in mind of an agitated hummingbird. Delilah Chadwick was a petite little thing, but she invariably filled a room with her presence. He had often wondered why this was. Most men would have called her pretty, but her combination of brown hair, fair skin and green eyes, though pleasing, was hardly unique. There was nothing extraordinary about her straight nose and determined chin. In fact, there was nothing remarkable in any single feature of her face or form—yet Delilah Chadwick was definitely greater than the sum of her parts. She drew the eye as irresistibly as one of those jewel-colored birds from the tropics.
“There must be some mistake,” she exclaimed at last, lighting momentarily near the window. “Papa and I have no secrets. We consult each other on everything. He would have told me, were he contemplating such a—such a crazy step! But he said nothing to me, nothing whatsoever.”
Jonathan quirked an eyebrow at her, but decided it would be wise to keep his thoughts to himself. It did not surprise him that Sir Horace had failed to confide these particular plans to Delilah. Sir Horace Chadwick was a pleasant, easy-going chap, an excellent sort to have as one’s employer, but there was no blinking the fact that he lacked backbone when dealing with his daughter. Well, who could blame him? Lilah was a handful. Jonathan could easily imagine how she would have carried on, had her father told her he was searching for a bride. She would have enacted a scene similar to the one she was performing for Jonathan’s benefit—and Sir Horace disliked scenes.
Lilah resembled her mother, and Lilah’s mother had been French. To Jonathan’s mind, that explained everything. But the same qualities that had captivated Sir Horace in the mother made the daughter impossible for him to control. Lilah and Sir Horace adored each other, but the smooth running of the household and Lilah’s sunny nature were dependent upon Sir Horace offering no opposition to his daughter’s will. Jonathan knew it, Sir Horace knew it, and the entire household knew it. Lilah alone was unaware of the degree to which her whims were catered to. A pity, really. Lilah wasn’t a bad sort. If she had any inkling of the way everyone tiptoed around her—
“Jonathan!”
He blinked. Lilah, still standing by the window, was turning huge, accusing eyes upon him. “You aren’t listening. How long have we been friends?”
Her abrupt changes of subject always knocked him off-balance. “How-how long?” he stammered, nonplussed. “Well, let’s see—”
“Years! Years and years.”
This struck Jonathan as an exaggeration. “Four years,” he said firmly. “I’ve been in your father’s employ four years.”
Her impatient little shrug told him that, technically, four years was years and years, but that she didn’t care to belabor the point.
“There, then!” she said, on a note of triumph. “You’re practically a member of the family. You know perfectly well that something peculiar is going on. Papa always, always includes me in his plans. And something like this—something that obviously affects me! Why, this news—if it is true, which is yet to be determined—would upset our entire household. It would change everything. He surely would have told me, he would have consulted me, before foisting a stepmother on me. As for marrying a stranger—no! It is utterly unlike him. You haven’t met her. I haven’t met her. Who is this woman?”
Since he had no ready answer for this question, he offered none. He watched in sympathetic silence as Lilah darted restlessly from window to table to chair to window. Her expressive brows, which normally flew in a dramatic upward slant, were knitted in a frown of concentration. “I’ll tell you what it is,” she announced, halting once more by the window. Genuine worry clouded her features. “My unfortunate father has fallen into the clutches of a harpy.”
Jonathan was startled. “What makes you think so?”
“There can be no other explanation. Nothing else makes sense.” She shivered dramatically. “Some mercenary harridan is taking advantage of Papa’s good nature. You know how he is—too gentle by half. He’s been bullied into this match. I can feel it.”
Jonathan knew better than to argue with one of Lilah’s “feelings.” He coughed. “Now, Miss Chadwick,” he said soothingly, “Your father is not in his dotage. It’s
unlikely he would contract an engagement against his will; such things happen very rarely. Before you fly up into the boughs—”
Too late. She was all fired up now, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I’m going to London,” she announced. “This—” she flicked the letter contemptuously. “This Mayhew woman, or whatever she calls herself, must not be allowed to bullock my poor father into a marriage he neither wants nor needs.”
Jonathan rose from his seat behind the desk, alarmed. “Miss Chadwick, pray consider! You are jumping to conclusions. We have no reason to believe—”
“We have every reason to believe.” Lilah, preparing for action, was briskly stuffing the letter into her skirt pocket. “Why else would Papa’s message be so brief? No details whatsoever! As if he were ashamed, or frightened, or—or sending me a secret message between the lines, begging for my intervention.”
“A secret message? No, now, really—”
“At any rate, I shall go and meet the creature. And then—” Her eyes flashed. “We shall see.”
As she headed briskly for the door, Jonathan took three quick strides and intercepted her. “Lilah, think!” he begged, abandoning decorum and taking her by the shoulders. “If you meddle in this matter, it is I who will be blamed. Sir Horace will say, and rightly, that I ought to have stopped you.”
Her eyes softened with humor. “Dear Jonathan,” she said, affection warming her voice. “Papa would never be so unjust as to blame you for my actions. Has he ever been able to stop me from meddling?” She reached up to pat his cheek. “Papa has no one to blame but himself,” she said firmly, “for sending me such a maddeningly brief communication on such an important matter. And I will make certain he knows it.”
She was gone then, in a flash of snapping silk, to set the household by the ears. Mr. Applegate sighed and returned to his desk, ruefully rubbing his patted cheek. With Sir Horace in London, he was the closest thing left to an authority figure in the house, but he had no power to quell Lilah’s impulses. He had no real hope that Lilah’s old governess, Miss Pickens—kept on as a sort of companion to her, so that Sir Horace could travel from time to time—would call a halt to her shenanigans, either. If Lilah said she was leaving for London, leave for London she would.
He wondered idly what she would do when it dawned on her that her father had taken the berline. There was no suitable traveling coach in the carriage house, but he did not suppose for a moment that such a trifling impediment would stop her.
He was right. Less than three hours after receiving Sir Horace’s epistle, Lilah and Miss Pickens, together with two trunks, three valises, and a towering stack of bandboxes, were being shoehorned into the barouche. Jonathan sauntered out onto the portico to view the excitement. A parade of harassed-looking servants carried things to and fro while Lilah, on her feet and balanced like a sailor in the open carriage, issued a series of rapid-fire instructions to the housekeeper and the head groom. Miss Pickens, wearing the dazed look of a woman who would indulge in strong hysterics if given the slightest encouragement, cowered feebly in the corner of the carriage, clutching her vinaigrette in one hand and her parasol in the other. The parasol quivered and swayed as the carriage rocked beneath the onslaught of packing. One of the bandboxes rested atop Miss Pickens’s knees, partially obstructing her view. The trunks had been piled around her feet, hemming her in as if to prevent escape. Lilah was the only person in sight who looked as if she were enjoying herself. Jonathan could not repress a chuckle.
Hearing his low laugh, Lilah glanced up and favored him with a saucy smile and a wave. Jonathan strolled forward. “I wondered which carriage you would take,” he remarked. “What will you do if it rains?”
“Silly! I am not traveling all the way to London in the barouche. Grayson is driving us only as far as Bytheway. We will hire a proper traveling coach there.”
“Had you sent word to the Swan, old Hopkins would have issued you the best he has and saved you the trip.”
“Pooh! Trust the landlord of that greasy inn to choose my coach? No, thank you! Besides, sending a servant there and back would have wasted too much time.”
Mr. Applegate gave up. He confined the rest of his advice to a mild admonition to Miss Pickens, as the barouche lurched into motion, to take good care of Miss Chadwick. Miss Pickens’s reply, muffled against the bandbox, was inaudible. Lilah gave him a brilliant smile and another jaunty wave as they moved off. He ducked back into the house, hoping, rather nervously, that that wasn’t a kiss she had thrown. It had looked suspiciously like a kiss. What an alarming thought.
Lilah settled contentedly against the high-backed squabs as the barouche bowled down the drive. Nothing gave one such a feeling of satisfaction, she reflected, as dealing masterfully with a crisis. Papa’s situation was all very dreadful and mysterious, of course, but Lilah felt more alive than she had in weeks.
Miss Pickens was saying something. Her eyes were all that could be seen over the top of that upended bandbox, but they were fastened on Lilah with a distinct look of reproach. Lilah reached across and pulled the bandbox flat so she could see the whole of Miss Pickens’s face. “What are you saying, Picky dear?”
“I am saying,” uttered Miss Pickens, “that I saw you throw a kiss to Jonathan Applegate as we drove off.”
Lilah looked mischievous. “Well? What if I did?”
Miss Pickens’s thin bosom quivered with indignation and alarm. “Oh, Lilah, no! How can you? I wish, I do wish you would heed me, if only once in a while! You must be more careful, my dear, you really, really must. Fortunately Mr. Applegate knows you quite well, and will make allowance for your natural high spirits. At least, we may hope that he does! But you could easily give another man, a man who did not know you well, the wrong impression. Anyone might think you were flirting with him.”
Lilah laughed. “Poor Picky! I am a sad trial to you, I know. But I was flirting with him.”
Miss Pickens threw up her hands in horror. “No, no! You mustn’t! Really, Lilah, you mustn’t! Your father’s secretary? Merciful heavens, child, you’ll be the death of me! Mr. Applegate is a level-headed young man, and I daresay we may trust him not to get carried away, at least not by any notion of looking seriously at one so far above him, but—”
Lilah made a little moue of disgust. “Level-headed. Is that what you call it? I call it wooden-headed. I’ve given him any number of hints, and he ignores them all.”
Miss Pickens shuddered. “This is what comes of burying yourself in the country,” she declared mournfully. “Why, oh why, do you dislike London so? If only you would go with your father, at least every so often. At least for the Season! I do wish you would give the metropolis another chance, my love. Had you a wider social circle, you would not think for a moment of—of casting out lures to Mr. Applegate. Of all men!”
Lilah tilted her head thoughtfully. “You think not? He comes of good stock, you know. A most distinguished Hampshire family. It’s not Jonathan’s fault that he was born a younger son and must make his own way in the world.”
“But he’s penniless, my love!” uttered Miss Pickens, in a horrified whisper. “No prospects at all. Not that you need to care for that so very much, situated as you are, and of course one is not supposed to mention it, but never mind. Every prudent woman considers such things, whether she mentions them or no. And on top of that—well, here’s another thing we are told that females should not think of, but we do! Mr. Applegate is not particularly handsome, is he?”
Lilah tossed her head defiantly. “I think he’s adorable. Those sweet little spectacles—and the way his hair always looks as if he doesn’t own a looking glass—and that befuddled look he gets—”
“Good heavens! You find that attractive?”
“Well, I suppose not every female would,” admitted Lilah. “But I think Jonathan is a dear. Dearness is a rare and wonderful attribute in a man.” Her eyes twinkled. “I know you think me a flibbertigibbit, incapable of rational thought, but I assure you I ha
ve given this a great deal of thought. I believe that if I am ever to marry, I must find a mild-mannered man, a man who is gentler and more biddable than I. He must be my opposite in temperament. My parents were temperamental opposites, and such a match worked very well for them. Did it not?”
Miss Pickens opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again without answering. Lilah decided to press her. “Well? Did it not?”
“It worked well for your mother,” said Miss Pickens darkly.
Lilah beamed. “Yes, that’s what I mean. And I am so like her! I need to find someone like Papa.”
Miss Pickens looked as if she would like to amplify her previous statement, but Lilah’s mind had already jumped to another topic. “As for this Mayhew woman,” she announced, “she may think she has found an easy mark in poor Papa, but when I arrive upon the scene she will soon learn her mistake. What can she be like, I wonder? Eugenia Mayhew! She sounds haggish. The sort of crone who would try her best to keep her stepdaughter firmly under her thumb. Well! She won’t succeed.” Lilah’s chin jutted mulishly. “And if she so much as tries to come between Papa and me—”
“Now, then, Lilah.” interposed Miss Pickens nervously. “You’ve no evidence to suggest she will do any such thing. You are letting your imagination run away with you, my love. Miss Mayhew may be perfectly amiable.”
Lilah looked skeptical. “Hum! Every stepmother I’ve ever encountered, or heard tell of, was a tyrant. Yours was, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, my, yes. A dreadful woman. That is—no, you are jumping to conclusions again!” Miss Pickens clasped and unclasped her hands in agitation. “There are exceptions to every rule, you know. And even if there were not, there is no reason to suppose you will be as unlucky as I. Indeed, it would hardly be possible. Your position will be quite, quite different from what mine was. Why, I was a mere child when my father remarried, and we were—we were not wealthy. But all this is beside the point.” She sat bolt upright and took a deep breath. “Pray remember, my dear Lilah, that you and I have a duty to your father. Whatever our opinion of second marriages in general, or stepmothers in general, we must give your father’s bride the benefit of the doubt.”