The Scandal of the Deceived Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

“And you think they will not find out?”

  George gave her a big smile, saying, “This is my secret weapon.”

  Lucy looked at him expecting more. “What? What is the secret weapon?”

  He gave her a large grin again. “This,” he said pointing to his face. “No one can resist this gorgeous smile. I will always get my way.”

  Lucy guffawed. “Just you wait.”

  Betsy and Lucy were in the blue parlor sitting at a table by the window working together on a jigsaw puzzle. Lucy was on her knees on a chair leaning on the table and pointing to a piece with one finger, and then directing Betsy to where the piece fitted.

  “Will you go swinging with me later?” Betsy asked. “I will push you if you will push me.”

  “But it is such a hot day,” Lucy commented. “Maybe after supper when it is cooler.”

  “But if we are swinging that will cool us off.”

  “Very well. I believe the swing is in the shade.”

  Ann appeared in the archway, leaned against the side of the arch, fanning herself with a palm frond fan.

  “Where is everyone? I cannot find a single living soul to get me a cool drink.”

  Betsy looked up at her sister. “Then get it yourself. Are you incapacitated?”

  Ann frowned. “That is what our servants are for. I know nothing about the kitchen and how it works. What if I burn myself? Or get cut with a knife?”

  Betsy looked at her sister with annoyance. “It is only a cold drink—you are not making a feast for twenty. I think you will survive.”

  Ann continued leaning in the archway and fanning herself, lazily gazing off into space.

  “Lucy, you can fetch the drink for me. And do not dawdle.”

  “We are engaged, Ann,” Betsy said, not even looking at her sister.

  “But it is only a stupid old puzzle. And I need a drink right now. Lucy, bring it to my room.”

  Betsy turned to her sister and said, “She is not your personal servant, Ann.”

  “But she should be. After all, she has to earn her keep somehow in this household. What is she but a peasant pretending to be a peacock?”

  As a rule, older sisters usually had their way, and it was particularly true with Ann who reigned under the protection of the Duchess.

  Betsy reached over and took hold of Lucy’s hand and pulled her away from the table and led her past Ann and toward the kitchen.

  “What a princess…” Betsy exclaimed under her breath as she passed by Ann. “I swear…”

  They giggled, linked arms, and found only one kitchen maid asleep in a chair by the pantry. She had not heard Lucy ringing the call bell and would surely be reprimanded if Mrs. Mead found out.

  Betsy went to her and shook her awake.

  “Oh, oh,” the girl said looking around the kitchen seeming not to know where she was.

  “Ann has been ringing for you. She wants a cold drink. Can you take that to her in her room?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Betsy. Right away.”

  And the flustered maid scurried to take care of the matter.

  “What will Ann say when I do not deliver the drink,” Lucy asked apprehensively as they returned to their puzzle.

  “As long as she gets her drink she will not care. She has the attention span of a fly. And do not pay any heed to what she said before about you needing to earn your keep. That is complete nonsense. You are one of us—a part of this family. At least for me, you are. And I suspect for George, as well.”

  When Father paced, George knew there was trouble ahead. His father did not even look at him when George entered his father’s office and saw his mother seated prim and upright on a chair next to the desk. Double trouble, he thought.

  “What?” He asked outright.

  His father threw several jars of paint and a handful of brushes on top of his desk.

  “And what is this all about?” he asked harshly.

  George lowered his head for a moment to prepare his defense. So, this is what it is about. Then he looked up and faced his father.

  “I have started painting. Drawing is not enough. I need to express myself with color now.”

  “Express yourself… express yourself… what are you a prima donna?

  “That is dance, Father.”

  “Do not be smart with me, young man. You are not too old to get a royal hiding with my riding crop if you do not watch yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.” George turned to his mother to gauge her temperament. It was not much better. She had her sour, pouty look which definitely meant disapproval.

  “When did you set up that workspace in the stable?” Mother asked.

  “Some months ago.”

  “And where did you get the money for these art supplies? There are paints, brushes, stretched canvasses and I do not know what all…” Father pushed.

  “I saved my allowance and I borrowed a few pounds from Nanny Wilkes.”

  His parents looked horrified.

  “But I made the canvasses myself. I constructed my own easel and even made some of the paints myself—with Lucy’s help. She knows where to find materials to make some of my paints. I do my best not to spend too much.”

  Father turned away. “How is this possible? A son of mine… painting! You know you have a responsibility to run this estate when I am gone. Do you think your mother is going to do that for you… or your sisters?”

  “Why can I not do both?” George asked.

  That seemed to stump his father for a moment.

  Then his mother, turning to his father, said, “Matthew, remember he will be going to university first. He must have a first-class Oxford education.”

  Matthew turned and scowled at her. “We shall see about that. I am thinking it is not too early for him to learn how things run around here. He is ten now and needs to accompany me around the estate. He needs to meet with the tenants. He needs to go with me to market. He needs to get his hands dirty.”

  “But my studies? What about them?” George asked.

  His father seemed to wrestle with that question. “Mornings studying… afternoons with me.”

  “But I study in the afternoon; the girls study in the morning.”

  “Then you will be with me in the morning. Enough of this backtalk.”

  George took a deep breath and stood straighter. “But I am not giving up my painting. Even if I have to work in the dark, you will not deprive me of that.”

  “You would defy me and your mother?”

  “If I must. Yes.”

  His father became calm and smiled faintly. “My son has spunk. Very well, but think of it as a hobby, and nothing more. If we allow this, you must promise never to abandon your duty to your family and your patrimony.”

  “I promise. Now, I need five guineas for art supplies.”

  Chapter 5

  Ten Years Later

  Isabell Langley was the daughter of his Grace’s head shepherd, Joshua Langley. Lucy and Isabell had become friends when Isabell was laid up with a cough and a high fever. Lucy, hearing about the illness and knowing that Isabell’s mother was deceased and Isabell was caring for two younger brothers, offered to nurse Isabell until she was well.

  The Langleys lived within walking distance of the Manor, and Lucy often walked over to have tea and a gossip with Isabell.

  As Lucy approached the whitewashed cottage with its thatch roof nestled in the sunny glade, she could see Isabell struggling to handle a large bed sheet as she tried to throw it over the clothesline in what was proving to be a stiff and persistent breeze. Lucy ran over and grabbed one side of the sheet and helped Isabell settle it onto the line before Isabell stuck clothes pegs over the ends of the sheet.

  “Oh, thank you. I thought it was going to blow me away into the next county,” Isabell said with a laugh.

  Isabel was one and twenty, slight of build and was often susceptible to illness. But her bright shining brown eyes were always welcoming. She was deft with her hands, and they were always busy, washing, c
ooking, knitting, or cleaning up after those two younger brothers, who were old enough to look after themselves, but continued to rely on their sister to take care of their messes.

  “Look what I brought you,” Lucy said holding out a cake wrapped in brown paper. Lucy had access to the Manor’s kitchen and often hung around helping with the baking. None of the daughters were allowed this privilege, but Lucy was neither fully upstairs, nor fully downstairs, so she was allowed access everywhere. She felt very fortunate in such an arrangement.

  “Is that the apple pound cake I like so much? And did you make it?”

  “The very same and I did make it. Might it be time for tea and a slice of cake?”

  “Indeed, it might,” Isabell said. “But first, I must finish hanging the washing.”

  “Let me help.”

  And the two of them hung the rest of the wet laundry before heading inside to prepare the tea.

  The Langley’s cottage was modest but tidy and well kept. Her father maintained the structure, and she cared for the household. There was a pleasant flower garden in front with a modest porch where the two retired to a table and sat to enjoy their tea.

  “I saw your father and his Grace struggling with a monstrous stump this morning. They had a team of two horses and were trying to dislodge the brute.”

  “Papa is so grateful for his position with the Duke. It has been a blessing to this family—especially with mother gone. He still broods over her but has the boys to distract him with their mischievous ways.”

  Lucy laughed. “They are a handful. But I know how much you care for them.”

  “I do. But I am very happy they are in school right now.”

  She poured the tea as Lucy cut the cake and served a slice each on the plates provided. They sat back to enjoy their tea as a mother duck and her brood of ducklings came waddling by to inspect the front garden for bugs and insects.

  “Carter was by last evening,” Isabell said shyly.

  “Was he now? And what did he have to say for himself for being so scarce?”

  “His employer sent him on an overnight trip to Sherborne, but he ended up needing to stay two nights and only got back yesterday afternoon.”

  “How very naughty of his employer. Does he not know Carter is about to ask you to marry him? How can he be so thoughtless?”

  Isabell laughed. “I think Carter may have considered the diversion a relief. He is always so nervous when he is with me recently. It seems he wants to ask me. I know he intends to, but somehow he freezes up and cannot get the words out.”

  “Then you ask him,” Lucy said with a laugh.

  “What a brave idea. I love it. But you know that is not how it is done.”

  “Men… What useless creatures. Eh?”

  “And what about Master George? He must be quite the young man by now. I have not seen him for the longest time.”

  “He just turned twenty and fancies himself an adult. But sometimes he still behaves as though he was twelve.”

  Isabell’s tabby slouched by, decided Lucy’s lap looked inviting, hopped up and settled in for a snooze.

  The breeze had somewhat subsided, and both Lucy and Isabell settled back in their chairs and enjoyed these few quiet moments.

  Lucy, who was now sixteen, closed her eyes and savored the patch of sun that was streaming down upon her. No longer a child, but not yet quite a woman, she hovered at that delicate point of transition on the threshold of adulthood. Her features had matured from the child into what everyone now recognized as a great beauty. She maintained her milky white, satin complexion, framed by her dark hair, accentuating her slim, delicate features. She still had a svelte figure, but she had spurted in growth and had an attractive willowy stature.

  “Do you have any more stories you can show me? I loved the last one about the porcupine. And so did the boys,” Isabell asked, breaking Lucy’s reverie.

  “Oh, you liked that? Good. I am working on a new one now, but it is not quite ready.”

  “You can take the one I read back with you.”

  Stretching her arms above her head, Lucy wanted to stand, but she still had a sleeping cat in her lap.

  “I am seriously thinking of starting a novel after I finish this story.”

  “That is ambitious. Might you someday be published?” Isabell asked as she stood to put the used cups and plates on the tea tray.

  “Who knows? But I do know I am not ready yet.”

  Isabell paused with the tray in her hands and looked at the cat in Lucy’s lap.

  “You can just shoo him away. He would stay there all afternoon if you let him.”

  Lucy picked up the cat, which protested, but wandered away behind a bush at the front of the cottage.

  George’s friend, Stephen Rutley, was courting a young lady at Shelby Hall, and he invited George and their mutual friend, Roger Sylvester, to come along with him to the Shelby’s Saturday morning open house. Stephen’s friends were somewhat reluctant to attend, but Stephen promised there would be a number of other great beauties present, so they agreed to accompany him.

  It was nearly nine-thirty, and George was supposed to meet with his friends at the Chiseldon-Lambourn crossroads at ten o’clock. However, he was covered in paint and smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. He would need to wash up, as there was no time for a proper bath, but he did not want to leave his painting either. He was at a crucial point in one area of a landscape, and if he left it too long, the paint would dry and he would be unable to complete the area as he wanted and would have to start over.

  “Damn,” he exclaimed as he put his brushes in a jar of turps and headed to the house to wash and change.

  Of course, he was running way late by the time he rode up to the crossroads, but by then, his friends had abandoned him and gone on to the open house.

  George patted his horse’s neck as he considered what to do next. Part of him wanted to follow after his friends and see the promised great beauties. But he knew most of the great beauties in the area already, and they were neither that great nor that beautiful. There was not a single beauty who could hold a candle to his dear friend, Lucy—and he could not but smile in remembrance of her.

  What a handsome young man George Grayson had become. He wore his blond hair long—almost to his shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled when he focused his attention on you. His broad shoulders and slim-waisted torso were sculpted for action, and his fine long hands were definitely an artist’s hands. He presented a model of masculine beauty and grace. But did he really want to attend the gathering? He would have had the young ladies all over him—turpentine aroma or not. But his standards were high, and he found most of the local ladies lacking in either beauty or character.

  What was clearly calling him the loudest was his painting. He raised his sleeve to his nose and realized he still smelled like his studio, and that clinched his decision. He would be a fool to continue on to a house party smelling as he was—remember, he had standards—so he turned his horse, spurred her on, and headed back toward home.

  Nanny Wilkes no longer taught any of the family’s children. The daughters, except for Betsy, had shown little interest in furthering their education once they reached a marriageable age. Certain standards in music, drawing, dancing, and elocution were considered desirable in eligible young ladies of higher social status, but those subjects were outside of Nanny Wilke’s purview, and other teachers had been brought in to tutor the young ladies. But Nanny Wilkes was kept on. She was young enough to be thought of as a nanny for the first daughter to marry and have children. In the meantime, she kept herself useful around the Manor.

  Lucy, however, was another matter. No one quite knew what to do with her. She was far too smart and educated to be considered as a house servant. The natural option was for her to find a position as a nanny, but she had never taught any children and had no references for such a position. Therefore, she remained in a strange limbo helping in the kitchen, when needed, and constantly attending to the fami
ly when no servants were available to them.

  By now the Duchess had her sights set on Oxford for George, and even though it was early summer, she was already seeing to the preparation of his clothing for his first year at Oxford in the autumn.

  This morning, Judith was in George’s rooms overseeing Flossy as she went through Mr. George’s effects to see what might be sent up to college and what must remain behind. Judith had a notebook on a table beside her, and when they came across an unsuitable garment, she would make a note of what must be purchased.