Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  Robert wasn’t quite within grabbing distance when he heard voices. Plato slipped off the path into a stand of evergreens. At the other side, he stopped and sat.

  Moving up beside him, bending to snatch him from the ground, Robert saw Lydia Fotheringay and Anthony Durand through the interlaced branches. She was sitting on a bench in a small clearing. He was pacing the turf in front of her.

  If it had been anyone else, Robert would have sneaked away at once. But the arrival of these two had shaken Flora so deeply. Robert gave in to temptation and stayed to listen. Plato maintained an undoglike silence beside him.

  “This place is a dead bore,” said Durand as he paced. “Salbridge has declared there’s to be nothing but low-stakes play.”

  “It’s a coveted invitation,” replied Mrs. Fotheringay. “All society longs to be here.”

  The man made a slashing gesture as he moved. “You know I care nothing for that.” Every line of his stocky body expressed restlessness. “I don’t know why you do. The Salbridges don’t like you.”

  “Why would you say that?” She sounded hurt.

  “Because I don’t bother with polite fictions, my dear.”

  “I think you are mistaken,” the thin woman protested. “Anne greeted me quite kindly.”

  “Oh, she’s well-bred.” Durand looked savage. “How the devil am I to occupy myself? Play is intolerable with chicken stakes.”

  “You can hunt,” offered his companion.

  “Careen about the countryside with a crowd of shouting idiots chasing furred vermin? Risk my neck over the suicidal jumps they choose to call ‘regular raspers’? I think not. Christ, I hate the country!”

  “You often say you’re fond of exercise.”

  Lydia Fotheringay’s voice dropped easily into a kind of whine, Robert thought. He wouldn’t have been able to endure it for any length of time.

  “Proper exercise,” Durand said. “Boxing. Or fencing with a decent opponent.”

  Robert suspected that the man just liked to hit things.

  “There are some pleasant people here,” Mrs. Fotheringay said. “I encountered the daughter of one of my oldest friends. I haven’t seen her—my friend, I mean—in twenty years.”

  “Hardly a friend then.” A branch brushed Durand’s shoulder. He snapped it off and tossed it away.

  “You’re always so cruel,” she complained.

  Durand whirled, strode over, grabbed her upper arms, and pulled her to her feet. He loomed over her.

  Mrs. Fotheringay didn’t protest. But she said, “You’re bruising me.”

  He pulled her closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. “Am I?”

  Robert was reluctantly deciding that he would have to offer assistance when she pressed herself against her captor, slipping her hands under his coat. Half-seen movements suggested she was undoing the fastenings of his trousers.

  “Someone might come by,” said Durand. He sounded amused rather than concerned.

  “I know,” answered the lady.

  Not wanting to see any more, Robert stepped away. He forgot to pick up Plato, but when he looked down, he found the little dog at his heels. “So you wanted to see that?” he said when they’d put some distance between them and the scene. “I fear I must deplore your taste, Plato. And your manners. None of our business, eh?”

  The little dog watched him as they walked along the path. He never stumbled, even though his eyes were so often fixed on Robert rather than the terrain. It was uncannily distracting.

  They came to a crossing. Robert took the right-hand path. Plato continued straight.

  “Not this time. I won’t be led astray again.”

  The dog trotted off.

  “If you see a badger, run,” called Robert.

  As he was incapable of speech, Plato said nothing.

  Within a very few minutes, Robert realized he’d made the wrong choice. This part of the grounds was a maze of twisting walks. Just when he felt he was going in the right direction, the path would turn back on itself. It was a good twenty minutes before he glimpsed rooftops through a gap in the branches, pushed through a thicket, and discovered a wider track. He strode quickly along it. A mental picture of Plato trotting up to the kitchen door and being regaled with a bowl of scraps didn’t improve his temper.

  Robert rounded a final clump of yew and found Anthony Durand standing on the terrace outside the house. “Come sneaking back, have you?” the man said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you think I didn’t see you crouched in the bushes? Like to watch, do you? Lydia puts on quite a show.”

  He hadn’t crouched. He’d simply bent down to pick up his dog. And he hadn’t watched the show. But Robert knew his position was awkward. “I came upon you quite inadvertently,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, that galls you, doesn’t it? Nothing worse than being forced to apologize when you don’t want to. Your father taught me that. There’s nothing like a duke for arrogance and effrontery.”

  There was nothing like a duke for learning how to handle blackguards, Robert thought. Unconsciously, his jaw firmed and his usually amiable blue eyes hardened. His resemblance to his formidable father became suddenly marked. He supposed Durand was referring to the cheating incident he’d heard gossip about. He didn’t particularly care.

  “You needn’t pretend Langford didn’t tell you,” the other man added.

  Robert gave him a raised brow. “We don’t discuss you, actually.”

  Durand scowled. His hands closed into fists. “You sounded just like him there. That insufferable tone—as if it’s such a bore that you’re never wrong.” He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Suppose I send the almighty duke a note about your spying? Or your mother. Yes, Her Grace might enjoy the story more.”

  “Feel free,” said Robert with a careless wave.

  “You think they won’t care that one of their precious sons likes to watch?”

  “I know that they would consider the source,” Robert replied.

  For a moment it seemed that Durand would try to hit him. Robert braced to repel a blow, confident the fellow couldn’t land one. But then Durand controlled himself. He took a step back and resumed his habitual bland sneer. “You Greshams, so damnably high-nosed. Think yourself invulnerable, don’t you? Perhaps I can do you a bad turn on this visit.”

  “Unlikely,” said Robert. “And unwise.”

  “Yet who would have expected me to be here? I’m not much invited into the haut ton. Any longer. The wolf in the fold, eh?” The man’s dark eyes glinted. “I’ve always felt an affinity for the wolf,” he said. Turning away, he walked into the house.

  Robert waited a few minutes before following. He’d had enough of the man. He wondered whether he should write to his father and get the details about their past encounter. Perhaps. But he didn’t really need them to decide his approach to Durand.

  Eight

  Wearing her drab, baggy, non-Grecian tunic, but not yet her veil, Flora watched Lady Victoria direct a team of Salbridge footmen, as uncompromising and efficient as a general laying out the plan of battle. A cunning set of doors had been unfolded in the large drawing room, shutting off one end for their purposes. Having shifted the furniture, the footmen were moving hefty wooden blocks about this space. They’d been constructed years ago for tableau participants to stand upon, Flora discovered when she asked. “They elevate people at different heights to create a pleasing impression,” Lady Victoria told her.

  The other young ladies bustled about, whispering and laughing, juggling the items they’d chosen to represent their Muses. They looked exotically lovely in their flowing draperies, with colorful wreaths of autumn leaves and flowers in their hair. They would remember this all their lives, Flora thought. As ancient grandmothers, in whatever varied places they ended up, they would tell the t
ale of impersonating a Muse during an elegant house party in Northumberland. She found the idea surprisingly touching. And then she laughed softly as she realized how well the thought fit with her role as the goddess of memory.

  When the blocks were arranged to her satisfaction, Lady Victoria began filling them, directing one girl after another to her place. Two had to step up from a chair to their high perches, helped by their friends; Olivia looked distinctly nervous. Lady Victoria pointed at Flora and then at a low ottoman at the edge of the tableau. Flora went and sat. She draped her veil over her head, hiding a smile, and settled her unappealing skirts.

  Last of all, Lady Victoria moved to her spot, the most prominent, and posed, one arm curved above her head, the other flung out to the side, her head back—a dancer frozen in an instant of ecstasy. With a flick of her fingers, she signaled the footmen.

  The doors were drawn back, revealing the rest of the guests sitting and standing about the drawing room. Murmurs rose, along with a general movement toward the tableau. It was actually rather comfortable to be wearing a veil, Flora thought, as they gazed and pointed. She wasn’t used to having so many eyes fixed on her. Not that they were. Their attention was focused on the Muses. Applause began at one end and spread through the group.

  Where is Flora? Robert wondered as he clapped politely. She’d left with the other young ladies to prepare for the tableau, but he didn’t see her among them. He ran his eyes over the draped figures once again. Those old Greeks had some good notions about the female form. The soft draperies flattered their youthful curves, except for the one brandishing a dagger with bared teeth. He didn’t blame her for looking Friday-faced. The dress wasn’t suited to her thin frame.

  Then he spotted Flora, sitting on a stool at the side, nearly covered in a dark veil. What was she supposed to be? He counted the figures. Nine Muses, and there were nine young ladies in various poses. Flora made ten. Which made no sense. Except that she was clearly meant to be set apart, her loveliness obscured.

  He watched her, trying to see beyond the gauzy fabric over her face. You could cover her with a sack—well, Victoria had done pretty much that—and still he was drawn to her. He had the feeling she was looking back at him, though he couldn’t really tell. As the applause died away, footmen closed the folding doors, and she was gone.

  The latch clicked, and all around Flora the tableau dissolved into mayhem. Girls jumped or were helped down from their perches. They rushed toward a door at the end of the room, causing a brief scuffle in the doorway as everyone tried to be the first through. In a parlor that had been set aside for their purposes, a team of housemaids waited to help ten young women change their clothing and hair and ornaments at top speed. Flora had to laugh as she joined the melee. The excitement and enjoyment were contagious.

  “Here’s your nose, miss,” said one of the maids. Flora turned to find her holding out the false appendage, ribbons dangling. “Lady Victoria said to be sure you found it.”

  “I wager she did,” Flora replied as she took it, but she felt no real rancor. This playacting, even the petty spite, felt like a children’s game of dress up. She’d played very few games as a child. Unless you counted her father’s imaginative play to help her learn Akkadian symbols, which she knew most people wouldn’t. She’d enjoyed those, but they hadn’t had the lighthearted quality of this romp. There was no risk of disappointing a revered parent here, or failing to achieve an important goal. She could simply…be silly. It was fun.

  An hour later, the next tableau was ready, orchestrated and approved by Lady Victoria, resplendent in the sapphire brocade gown. Flora had thrown herself into her witchy role. She wore the lumpy, pointed nose, stringy, gray wig, and shapeless black dress with all the panache she could muster. She’d even put the soot on her face. From her obscure corner of the scene, she posed scowling, with her fingers crooked into claws and a secret giggle. The footmen went to the folding door and awaited Lady Victoria’s nod.

  The doors opened. Robert took in the new scene, and laughed.

  “What is it?” asked Randolph at his side.

  “Sheer appreciation.”

  His brother gave him a quizzical look. When Robert said no more, he added, “Lady Victoria makes a credible fairy queen.”

  “Marvelously autocratic,” answered Robert.

  “I’m not sure about those wings on…Miss Townsend, is it? That sort of fairy doesn’t fit with this scene. And why is there a witch?”

  “I suppose they wanted one.” There was no supposing about it, Robert thought. Victoria was trying again to make Flora look bad. This gambit had a touch of the ridiculous. He caught Flora’s gaze and saw his conclusions laughingly mirrored there. They exchanged a long look full of amusement.

  “Well, the witch is an intrusion from quite another tradition,” Randolph declared. “Fairy tale and fairy court—totally different things.” He looked offended. “I’ll explain the mistake to Lady Victoria.”

  “I doubt that would be well received,” Robert told him.

  “Miss Reynolds seems to be holding some kind of magic wand,” said Randolph, giving no sign of having heard. “Not really proper either. I’m certain Lady Victoria will wish to know. For any future tableaux she organizes.”

  “I don’t think so,” Robert said. It was amazing how much could be conveyed in a look. Flora couldn’t move a muscle, and yet they were in secret communication across the long room. Amusement shifted into something deeper. The crowd faded into irrelevance around him.

  “The gowns and wigs are interesting,” said Randolph, continuing his assessment. “A sort of last-century reinterpretation of a classic theme.”

  The applause started up, and they both joined in. And then doors folded back over the tableau, and the crowd returned to their flirting and gossiping. Or, in Randolph’s case, critiquing.

  Flora followed the other young ladies into a second melee in the parlor. This one was far more competitive than the last as they vied to be first into the drawing room in their customary clothing. Unsurprisingly, Lady Victoria won. The maids had been instructed to attend her first, Flora suspected. She waited for the room to clear out a bit, and for a servant to bring her a basin of hot water to clean off the soot. By the time she made it back to the others, Lady Victoria was surrounded by a complimentary circle. Flora joined a cluster of her fellow posers nearby.

  “You did very well indeed,” young Lord Carrick was saying to Lady Victoria.

  Flora examined him. He was the son of an earl, if she remembered Harriet’s descriptions correctly. A handsome young man—not tall but well set up, with regular features and reddish hair nearly the color of Lord Robert’s. That might be an attraction for the daughter of the house. His eyes were ivy green, sparkling with conviction just now. Clearly, he took this business of posing just as seriously as Lady Victoria did. He’d been very enthusiastic about her musical skills, too. Perhaps he’d make her a good husband?

  Lord Robert came up beside him. “Fond of tableaux, are you?”

  Flora sidled a bit closer.

  “I enjoy all sorts of theatricals,” Lord Carrick replied. “Last year we put on an entire play at my parents’ home. Well, a shortened version. The Rivals—Sheridan, you know. It was great fun, and very much admired by my mother’s guests.”

  “Indeed?” said Lord Robert. “You know, I daresay the two of you could organize something like that here.”

  Lady Victoria and Lord Carrick gazed at each other. Flora could see possibilities dawning in their eyes.

  “You’d be so good at that,” Flora put in. Lady Victoria shot her a suspicious glance, Lord Robert a warning one. She subsided.

  “It would give us fellows a chance to show our mettle before an audience,” Lord Carrick said.

  “It might be amusing.” Lady Victoria looked at Robert. “You would join in?”

  Flora hid a smile at his expression. He ha
dn’t counted on that.

  “Not really my forte,” he murmured.

  “Choosing the right person for each role is the greatest challenge,” declared Lord Carrick. “One cannot simply assume—”

  “We’d have to include all our friends,” Lady Victoria interrupted. She gave Lord Robert a militant glance.

  He made a gesture that might have been a concession. Flora didn’t think he’d be evading a role, if there was a play.

  “I would have to ask Mama, of course. But I should like to try it.”

  The group fell into a spirited discussion about what kind of drama would be best. Lord Robert faded unobtrusively back, making his way to her side. “So, a witch, eh?” he said when he reached her.

  His blue eyes brimmed with humor. A dozen other occasions when they’d shared a joke came back to her. She hadn’t valued that gift enough, until now. “By special request,” she replied.

  “Was that soot on your face?”

  Did anyone else smile with that combination of irony and warmth? “It was. For verisimilitude.”

  “I suppose witches are continually leaning over cauldrons.”

  “Dropping nasty ingredients into their potions and getting smoke in their faces,” she replied.

  He laughed.

  She’d always enjoyed making him laugh, Flora realized. Even when they were arguing. Perhaps especially then.

  “You must consult with us, Lord Robert,” called Lady Victoria.

  His face showed reluctance. Flora nodded to show that she understood. “We should ask my brother’s opinion,” Lord Robert suggested as he moved back into the fray. “Randolph has staged some quite elaborate pageants.”

  Aware that their ploy of promoting amateur theatricals would go better without her presence, Flora walked down the room. She looked around for Harriet, and was waylaid by Lydia Fotheringay. “There you are,” the latter said brightly. As if Flora hadn’t been in plain sight for some time. “We must have a good talk.” The thin woman took Flora’s arm and led her over to a vacant sofa. There was no escaping her without blatant rudeness. “I have been thinking so much of your dear mama,” she said. Settling her amber satin skirts, she fixed her eyes on Flora. “You don’t resemble her greatly.”