Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  “Quite unexpectedly,” he added. “A marvel of…serendipity.”

  “Sir Liam—”

  He held up a hand. “Not the moment… Anyone can see that. Trust me.”

  Having either too much or too little to say in response to that request, Flora remained silent.

  Fourteen

  Flora often felt Frances Reynolds’s eyes upon her after their conversation, a thread of anxious hope. And when the ladies reached the drawing room the following evening, the girl pounced, wondering if Flora had spoken to Mr. Wrentham and what he had said. “It hasn’t been long since you asked me,” Flora pointed out.

  “It seems like forever,” Frances replied. “I think he’s avoiding me. But I can’t see why he would.” She looked distressed.

  When Mr. Wrentham entered the drawing room later, near the end of the cluster of gentlemen joining the ladies, Flora thought he looked rather glum. Surely he’d been bright and lively earlier in this visit? During the play, for example? Yes, she remembered him that way.

  He went to sit at the edge of a chattering group. Flora observed him for a short while, and saw that he wasn’t really joining their conversation. Harriet would have called his demeanor brooding, she thought.

  Resigned to her fate, Flora went over and, without speaking or allowing him time to stand, sat down beside him. Mr. Wrentham looked a bit startled. Flora was acutely aware of Frances, staring at them from the other side of the room, hands clasped in hope. Well, there was nothing to do but dive in. “Good evening, Mr. Wrentham,” she said.

  “Miss Jennings.”

  How did one discover the romantic intentions of a man one barely knew? Flora wondered. Why would he confide in her? “Are you missing the excitement of the play?” she asked. “We were all so busy then, and…united.”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  He gazed out over the room rather than at her. She’d considered him a handsome enough young man, Flora thought. But the glum cast of his features tonight rendered him much less appealing. “You were quite good in it,” she added.

  “That was due to Miss Reynolds,” he answered. “She made it all easy.”

  Flora tried to gauge his tone. He sounded regretful, she decided. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You looked very natural, playing the lover, with all those pretty speeches.”

  He shrugged. He really was a most unhelpful young man, Flora thought. Or perhaps he was a bit dense. She abandoned subtlety. “So I suppose it is natural that an inexperienced young girl, like Miss Reynolds, might mistake playacting for reality. And believe you cared for her.”

  Now she had his attention. He stared at her as if she’d poked him with a hatpin.

  “You will say that is foolish.”

  “I would never call Miss Reynolds foolish!”

  “Well, good.” Flora waited. He said no more. “So you are fond of her? In reality?”

  “I have no right to any such feelings.” Mr. Wrentham struck a pose—head back, shoulders stiff, expression grim. “You mustn’t ask me.”

  Flora ignored this. “Why don’t you have any right?” she asked.

  “Circumstances,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Of which I may not speak.”

  “Why? Are you already married?”

  “What?” He was startled out of his performance. “No.”

  “Engaged to another lady? Promised to your family’s choice of mates? Or perhaps you are joining a religious order?” She threw in the last to unsettle him. And succeeded. Wrentham goggled at her. “Yes?” Flora added.

  “I said I couldn’t speak of it.” He looked aggrieved.

  “But gave no good reason. Unless you just enjoy being mysterious.”

  “You are not supposed to ask after that,” he complained.

  “And yet I have.” Flora waited expectantly.

  Wrentham seemed at a loss. There was still a mulish cast to his features, however.

  “Miss Reynolds has been distressed by your behavior. I think she deserves an explanation.” Flora used the tone her father had employed when she hadn’t prepared very well for a lesson. It had always worked on her.

  It did not fail in this instance. Wrentham suddenly looked younger and far less sure of himself. He turned in his chair, toward Flora, away from the crowd. “I would die rather than give Miss Reynolds a moment’s pain,” he declared.

  “Too late for that,” replied Flora caustically.

  Wrentham blinked, rather like an owl disturbed at noontime.

  She could see why Harriet had no patience with brooding young men, Flora thought. They were an intolerable drag on conversation. “Just tell me,” she commanded, out of patience.

  He jerked slightly at her tone. At first it seemed he wouldn’t answer, then he slumped in his chair. “It is as well that she knows. I shouldn’t hide the truth from one I…” He gritted his teeth. “I’ve lost some money. A great deal of money, actually. I’ve run up debts that will take me a year or more to pay off. If indeed I can.” He bent his head. “I’m leaving here tomorrow, going home to arrange my affairs. I’m certainly in no position to consider…an attachment of any kind.”

  Flora frowned. “Do you frequent gaming hells?” If he did, Frances was better off without him.

  “No! I’m not a flat.” Wrentham scowled. “Or I didn’t think I… It was here at Salbridge that I lost—” He stopped short. He took a breath, sat straighter. “My situation is nothing to you.” He frowned. “Indeed, I don’t see what right you have to ask me about Miss Reynolds. You are not related to her.” His jaw hardened. “This is barefaced prying.” He rose, sketched a bow, and walked away.

  Flora let him go. It was clear he wouldn’t say more. But she sat on, bits of information she’d heard shifting and realigning in her mind. Mr. Wrentham had been a lighthearted young man when he arrived, and now he was oppressed. He’d lost a lot of money here at Salbridge Great Hall. Anthony Durand had won a large sum in a card game on his first night here. Not from Mr. Wrentham; it had been a neighbor. And then the earl had forbidden deep play.

  Durand was rumored to make much of his money at cards. He cared nothing for others’ scruples or desires. Was it not possible, even likely, that he’d organized some secret gaming sessions and lured in susceptible male guests? Flora nodded to herself.

  It would be late at night, she thought, after most people had gone to bed. But some of the servants must know. The players would want a fire in the hearth, drink. Wouldn’t they stop an activity that the master of the house had forbidden? Perhaps some could be bribed, Flora thought. Or they might not know about the ban. They would see no harm in a bit of gambling. It was a common amusement for those they served.

  Flora looked across the room. Anthony Durand was sitting with a group of older gentlemen, looking deeply bored. Papa would say that her ideas were all speculation, tinged by self-interest and prejudice. He would insist she verify a mere theory. Well, she would do so. And she would best the blackguard. Flora felt a thrill of satisfaction.

  A hand closed on her arm. Frances Reynolds tugged to turn her a little. “What did he say?” she asked.

  “Not a great deal,” Flora replied. “He has some problems to deal with. They are preoccupying him.”

  “What problems?” Frances demanded.

  “Financial…issues that prevent him from making any plans for his future just now.” If her suspicions about what was going on at Salbridge could have helped Frances, she’d have told her, Flora thought. But they wouldn’t. “He’s leaving tomorrow,” she added.

  “What?” Frances looked appalled.

  “I’m sure you’ll see him again. In London in the spring.” Perhaps she could make sure they met, Flora thought. “Circumstances may be quite different by then.”

  “The spring!” Frances made it sound like eons.

  “That’s not so very lo
ng.”

  “Oh, you can say so. It’s nothing to you.” Frances surveyed the room, spotted Mr. Wrentham. “I have to talk to him.”

  “Frances, don’t do anything you might—”

  The younger girl rushed off.

  Flora watched her march up to Mr. Wrentham and interrupt a conversation with one of his cronies. She watched Wrentham brush Frances off, and Frances then broadcast her hurt to the room. Flora was sure everyone could see it. Here was something else for Durand to answer for.

  “That clearly didn’t go well,” said Harriet Runyon, sitting down beside Flora. Her eyes were on Frances.

  “I’m sure she’ll regret it,” Flora agreed.

  “I’m sure she already does.”

  Frances nearly ran from the room.

  “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “There’s little one can do when people are bent on making fools of themselves,” Harriet replied. “And those two are just the age for it.”

  “I wanted to help. Frances sees me as a kind of older sister, I think. She asked me to discover Mr. Wrentham’s intentions toward her.”

  “You?” Harriet looked amused.

  “She’s here alone.” Flora shared some of the younger girl’s story.

  “Poor child,” said Harriet when she was done. “I had no idea. Her family is not known to me.”

  “Or to anyone, apparently.”

  “I take it Mr. Wrentham’s answers were not satisfactory?”

  Clearly Harriet had missed nothing of the earlier scene. Flora shook her head.

  “Odd, I would have said he was smitten with Miss Reynolds.”

  “He has money worries.”

  “Ah.” Harriet waited. When Flora said nothing more she added. “I saw Anthony Durand speak to you last night. I couldn’t break away to interrupt.”

  “It was nothing,” Flora replied, not quite truthfully. But it didn’t matter anymore. She was going to solve the problem of Anthony Durand herself.

  * * *

  The very next day, Flora discovered an opportunity. Anthony Durand had for once joined the hunting party, instead of sleeping through the morning as he usually did. Lydia Fotheringay had attached herself to a group of ladies who intended to take advantage of the sunny weather and go for a drive. With both of them out of the way, Flora decided to test out her theories with a look around Durand’s room.

  She knew the single gentlemen occupied chambers along a corridor on the eastern side of the house, separated from the young ladies on the other side by the quarters of married couples. Guests’ names were written on small placards in brass frames on the doors, so it would be a simple matter to find the right room.

  When she judged that the servants had finished their morning tasks, Flora set off. She didn’t sneak. She walked like a woman with a purpose, ready to veer off, should she encounter anyone. The upper floors were deserted, however, and she reached Durand’s door without seeing anybody.

  Flora stood outside it for a moment, listening. Nothing. Gathering her resolve, she turned the knob, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  The room was empty.

  Letting out a breath, Flora looked around. There was nothing unusual about the bedchamber. It was neat and comfortable, like her own. Two long glass doors in the outer wall gave onto a decorative balustrade. The furniture and hangings showed the Salbridges’ characteristic mixture of taste and tradition. Feeling underhanded but determined, she began to search.

  She found only clothing in the wardrobe, with no convenient revelations of wrongdoing in the pockets. There were shaving things and a scatter of personal items on a side table. An open book lay facedown on the cushion of the armchair by the hearth. Checking the spine, Flora found it was a history of Russia. She found this piece of information oddly disconcerting. She wouldn’t have imagined that Durand read. Which was silly. Books didn’t guarantee virtue.

  Uncertain where else to look, Flora stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, examining it foot by foot. She walked the perimeter, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to find. She looked under the bed.

  There, concealed behind a ruffle of coverlet, sat a small wooden chest, about the length of her forearm and half as wide. Flora might have thought it belonged to the house, but Durand’s initials were inlaid into the top. She knelt, slid it out, and tried the lid. It was securely locked. Here, then, were any secrets he wished to keep. She pulled at the lid again, but the chest was sturdily constructed, and the mechanism didn’t appear simple.

  Flora gazed at the small box. If this were a boys’ adventure story, she thought, she would pluck a pin from her hair and pick the lock with a few deft movements. Shrugging, she tried it. Her hairpin rattled ineffectually in the keyhole. It didn’t catch on anything. Papa had neglected to include any such skills in her education. Flora looked around. She’d seen no keys in the room. Undoubtedly Durand kept this one with him. For now, his hidden possessions were out of her reach.

  The door handle rattled and started to turn.

  Heart suddenly pounding, Flora shoved the chest back into place, sprang up, and ran to the glass doors. She stepped behind the long drapery at the side, making certain the fall of cloth concealed her skirts. The curtain stopped a half inch above the floor. Her feet would be visible in the shadows if anyone looked closely.

  The door opened. Someone came in. The door shut. The hunting party couldn’t have returned so soon. Perhaps it was Durand’s valet, Flora thought with a sinking heart. Who knew how long he might linger at his duties?

  And then she heard the distinctive sound of the wooden chest sliding along the floor.

  Pulse racing, Flora risked a peek through a chink in the draperies. Lydia Fotheringay knelt as she herself had a moment ago, with the chest before her. Lydia was trying a key in the lock. When it didn’t turn, she muttered a curse and set the key aside. From a small cloth bag at her side, she took another. Clearly, she’d come prepared. She tried the second key, without success, laid it by the first, and repeated the action. By the fifth attempt, she was obviously frustrated. She threw that key down. Metal rang against the wood of the floor.

  Mrs. Fotheringay went very still. She waited. When nothing happened, she sighed. She started to reach into the bag, then hesitated and looked around the room. “Is someone there?”

  Flora shifted very slightly behind the curtain. Often, people could tell they were being watched. If she stopped looking, would Mrs. Fotheringay’s suspicions subside? It was agony not to be able to see what was happening. The older woman might be walking softly toward her right now.

  The sound of another key rattling in the lock reassured Flora. But she still fervently wished herself elsewhere. How many keys had the woman brought?

  Flora’s gaze lit on the bolt that secured the glass doors.

  Beyond the drapery, Lydia Fotheringay cursed colorfully.

  Flora dared a quick look. Her fellow intruder was glaring at the chest, muttering. She snatched another key from her bag.

  Under cover of the metallic sound as she rattled it in the lock, Flora pushed at the bolt. It slid back easily. Before she could change her mind, she opened the outer door, slid through, and closed it silently behind her. She blessed the efficient caretakers of Salbridge Great Hall, who saw to it that hinges did not creak. With nowhere to hide, she waited with pulse pounding and fingers crossed. The door remained closed. Lydia Fotheringay did not rush out and discover her.

  Flora breathed again. She stood in a narrow space behind the ornate stone balustrade. It was purely decorative, not a proper balcony, but a narrow ledge extending along the side of the house past several rooms. There was barely room to stand between the coping and the wall of the house.

  A cold wind tugged at Flora’s skirts. Her gown was no protection at all. The weather had worsened since early morning and woul
d probably cut the hunting short. Flora debated whether to wait where she was—surely Mrs. Fotheringay would be on her way soon—or to risk entry through one of the other bedchambers. Neither option was very appealing.

  Three rooms down from where she stood, another set of glass doors clicked and opened a crack. A familiar small dog emerged. Plato turned and looked directly at her, as if he’d fully expected to find a young lady huddled against the house. He trotted toward her.

  “Plato,” came a familiar voice from inside. “Where do you think you’re going?” Robert leaned out of the open door. “Come in at once, sir,” he commanded. He saw Flora.

  One problem solved by another, Flora thought as she moved quickly along the narrow passage. At least she didn’t have to pass Durand’s window. She didn’t look to see if any of the other rooms were occupied. Best to move by very fast; an observer might think he’d imagined her. Flora reached Robert and slipped past him into his room, Plato at her heels.

  Robert followed. He closed the glass door and shot the bolt. “What on Earth are you doing?”

  “Getting in out of the cold.” Flora rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and went to stand near the fire. “I should have brought a shawl, but I didn’t think I’d…”

  “Yes?” he said when she broke off. “Didn’t think you’d what?”

  Robert wore only a shirt, half unbuttoned, and breeches. His feet were bare. Flora couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked so unlike his customary polished self. Disheveled, she thought, or tousled or disarrayed. Delectable.

  “Whatever were you doing out there?” he asked again.

  A surge of elation went through Flora. She’d taken a risk and gotten away with it. By herself, without needing help or rescue. Well, Plato had helped. But he was only a dog. Her spirits soared.

  “Flora? Is something wrong?”

  His auburn hair was mussed. Flora had never seen him this way. He looked so very…touchable. Flora met his vivid blue eyes, and felt as if she’d been dipped in fire.