by Sophia Nash
“Your Grace,” Roxanne replied a little breathlessly.
“Now then, everyone,” Kress inserted before she could say another word. “We can’t have all of you standing about while Tatiana makes her curtsies. It will take all night. I say, Isabelle, won’t you be so kind as to oversee the tea tray while Taty meets the other guests?”
With that, a small horde of females in the salon gathered about Roxanne to quickly do their duty before concentrating on the main task of prioritizing their efforts to snag one of the four dukes in the room. Their parents followed suit.
Of course there were far too many young ladies present. Alex’s gaze bounced to Lady Pamela Hopkins who he had heard was a hardened gambler in a dainty package. At least her fortune was such that it would take at least a decade for her to run through it. Then there was Lady Katherine Leigh, who apparently liked horses more than gentlemen. Her red-haired sister, Lady Judith Leigh, was all giggles and no conversation, according to his great-aunt. Lady Susan Moore was very pretty, just like a doll. She would do if it were not for the lisp, which he understood she affected on purpose in the odd style of the last century.
The only real danger in the salon was in the form of Lady Christine Saveron. There appeared not to be a single defect in her form or in her manner. And his great aunt had spent no less than a quarter of an hour privately detailing all the reasons she was perfect for him, including her parents who appeared equally refined and gracious. Indeed, her mother was French, and her father, English. Mémé had already besieged him with a seating chart that foisted the girl on him at almost every occasion.
Candover sidled up beside him, still fingering his looking glass. “Your third cousin, four times removed, eh?”
“Yes. Great-grandmother Mildred’s great-granddaughter.”
Candover removed a handkerchief and rubbed his looking glass. “Just assure me she is not your great mistress.”
“I take offense at your suggestion,” Alex replied. “I should call you out. I should—” He made a halfhearted motion to remove a glove in the age-old tradition of slapping it on another gentleman’s face.
Candover put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Oh, give over. Look, she shouldn’t be here. There should be no distractions from our primary purpose. She’s not high enough in the instep nor are her pockets deep enough—even if she is the most intriguing lady present.”
“You were much more entertaining in London.”
“And you were far less. Now, see here. Just do your duty, and choose one of these rich chits as soon as decently possible.”
“Easy for you to say,” Alex said, under his breath, “since Prinny let you off the hook to mourn your furious fiancée.”
Candover’s face turned to granite, but he refused to rise to the bait. “Look at Sussex and Barry. They know their duty.”
Sure enough, the two other dukes had allowed the buzzing horde of young ladies and their smiling parents to besiege them.
And Roxanne? She was near the tea tray with Mémé and Isabelle, who Kress caught staring intently at Candover.
Hmmm. He had always wondered about Isabelle. She was the only female who was a duchess in her own right. The unusual Letters Patent granting the duchy allowed for a female to inherit the title should the Duke of March have no male heirs. And Isabelle had had no siblings. She also had no eyes for anyone except Candover. He glanced at the infamously cool duke and wondered if the man realized the state of affairs. It was worth a test.
“You’re absolutely right,” Alex murmured. “I know I can confide in you, Candover, since we’re both on the same wrong side of the Prince Regent’s graces. I’ve actually been thinking the matter over quite a bit. Do you think the Duchess of March would have me? It would be killing two birds with one stone, don’t you think?”
Candover nearly scorched him with a disdainful glare. “I should have guessed you’d try to nick a cradle.”
“Oh, come, come. She’s of age, is she not?”
“Isabelle was seven and ten last summer.”
“Yes, but now it’s this summer and she is eighteen, no?”
“She is far too young. Look elsewhere. You are old enough to be her—”
“Brother?” Alex threw back his head and laughed. He wondered how long it would be before Candover owned up to his sensibilities. It might just take an ice age.
“I was going to say father. And stay away from my sisters.”
“I thought it was a well-established fact that you would happily part with any one of your sisters along with a fifty-thousand-pound dowry.”
“Any man capable of orchestrating the sort of debacle you did to ruin my marriage cannot be considered suitable in any form for one of my sisters.”
“Says the man who swam with swans in the Serpentine.”
Annoyance radiated through the other man’s stature.
“Oh, come now. No need to be so thin-skinned. I must have been bobbing along with you if the state of my boots the next morning was any indication. Must have been utterly delightful,” Alex said with a hint of a smile. “And one day, you might just thank me.”
“In your dreams, Kress.”
“No. In yours. Oh, and by the by?”
“Yes, you imbecile?”
“Stay away from Harriet.”
“You mean Tatiana.”
“Yes, Tatiana Harriet,” Kress said, examining his fingernails. “I will not approve the suit of any man who has a well-established partiality for frolicking with fowl.”
Well, that had gone spectacularly well, Kress thought as he strode across the room toward the tea tray.
Tea. The beverage designed for negotiating the treacherous course of females with marriage on their minds. The only safe place in the entire castle was here with Isabelle, Roxanne, and Mémé. These were the only three females who would not have him trussed like a pheasant in church before the archbishop, who was to arrive very soon too, since he was equally in disfavor in Town.
“It’s too bad, you and Candover don’t get on,” Isabelle said sweetly.
“I get on very well with him,” Alex ground out.
“He’s very handsome,” Roxanne remarked to Isabelle.
“Handsome as long as you are partial to boorish gentlemen as lifeless as a fishmonger’s day-old cod,” Kress continued.
“There is that,” Isabelle conceded. “But he is a very good man. You just don’t know him well.”
Kress laughed. “Yes, I must agree. Someone who leaves his future wife cooling her heels at the altar could be considered the best of men.”
Isabelle smiled. “It was your fault.”
“Forgive me for saying it,” Alex said to the duchess, “but you don’t seem all that put out about the state of affairs.”
“Actually, I enjoy watching gentlemen receive their comeuppance. Don’t you, Taty?”
“Always. Well, now that that is settled, would you care for some tea, cousin?” Roxanne asked with a sly smile.
“No,” Alex replied.
“You know,” Roxanne murmured, forcing a dish of lukewarm tea into his hands, “if you just play up to a person’s vanity, you might have far more success.”
“Are you speaking about Kress’s chances with the eligible ladies or with Candover?” Isabelle giggled.
“I refuse to toady,” Alex stated. “Flattery, of course, but no toadying.”
It had not been as bad as Roxanne had expected once she had gotten over the fear that someone might recognize her. The ordeal had lasted one hour, and she had kept her wits about her enough to match almost all the names and faces of the four and twenty houseguests.
Dinner had been far more interesting. She’d been placed in the potter’s field position at table, between the mother of the girl who lisped and another mother, possibly of the girl who only liked to talk about horses’ lineages. There were too many females to even out the numbers. On the bright side, she had an excellent view of the Duke of Sussex, who was seated opposite her.
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��My dear,” the large lady on one side said, “I do believe my grandmother was the best of friends with your great-grandmother Mildred.”
“Was she?” Roxanne managed without choking on the asparagus spear. “Do tell.”
“I remember her saying that Mildred Barclay’s fondest wish was to unite our two families one day.”
“Really?”
The older woman sighed. “They would both be so happy if they could only see my daughter and Kress here tonight.”
“In raptures,” Roxanne agreed. She really wished she had more control of that fiendish side of her that made its appearance at the worst of times. “And it is so convenient, really.”
The lady looked at her expectantly.
Roxanne smiled. “That both your daughter and Kress adore horses above anything else. My cousin has the most wonderful stallion stabled here—smoothest of gaits, even temper, except when he encounters water, if you can imagine. You must tell your daughter to ask Kress to show her the animal.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear,” the overly eager mother replied. “I shall do precisely that. Perhaps he will give her the horse as a wedding gift.”
There was nothing like a mother on the make, unless of course you had a second like-minded mother on the other side of you.
“Well, the duke asked my Susan to stroll the portrait gallery with him after supper,” the other lady said—she of the odd French accent and the ostrich feather in her headpiece, which swung triumphantly.
“He asked all the ladies to do that,” the other mother replied tartly.
“Perhaps, but he asked Susan first,” she purred.
At that moment Roxanne’s attention, which had been bouncing between the pair of clucking hens, was snagged by the visage of the Duke of Sussex who was grinning at her. Well, at least one person was enjoying the show.
He winked at her. His eyes were so very green against his sun-bronzed complexion, and his hair was like a lion’s mane of rich golden hues.
She brought her napkin to her lips to hide her smile.
“I say, Miss Barclay, would you be so kind as to inform what we are all to do after gazing at the generations of your family in the gallery? Do say there is more than a show of dearly departed Kresses to entertain us.”
“I understand, Your Grace, that there is to be cards.”
“What? No dancing?”
“Not tonight. No musicians have been engaged as of yet.”
“Pity,” Sussex replied. “I, for one, prefer dancing to cards.”
“I do, too,” she whispered, biting her lips not to return his grin.
“Well, then it is settled.”
“What is settled?”
“I claim the first dance on your card, wherever and whenever your cousin plans the first soirée.”
She should know better than to be charmed by this obvious dandy. But she could not help herself. “Delighted, Your Grace.” She was obviously fated to make bad choices in all her partners.
Surprisingly, the two mothers had not a single thing to say on the subject of dancing.
An hour later, as the guests strolled into the cardroom, Kress had plenty to say on the subject to her. Who knew dukes had such excellent hearing?
The next morning, Roxanne could not manage the idea of facing the hordes again so soon. Her head reeled at the prospect of the mindless, idle chatter. And so, after a tray was delivered to her chamber, which had finally been emptied of a decade’s worth of dust due to her own handiwork, she escaped to explore the upper reaches of the castle, where she hoped to ponder her predicament in peace.
There was so much to consider. First, she had to mull over the best fashion to unearth the fortune her intelligent father had secreted for her. This would not be easy to accomplish all alone. Second, she had to figure out how and when she would go away to live out the rest of her life, in the village in Scotland where her ancestors had lived. And lastly, she had to determine exactly how far she was willing to go to risk exposure all in the name of petty, useless, but delicious revenge.
Oh, she knew she was never going to have complete satisfaction. And she wouldn’t risk discovery since then she would become the infamous tin miner countess whose husband had loathed her so much that he had tried to murder her. But there had to be a reason he had done it.
Perhaps it would not have happened if she had had a child. She would have liked a child . . . She would have loved a child with all the devotion she was capable of giving. But then, Lawrence had never shown any strong desire for an heir. He had adored his younger brother before the latter died, and he equally adored his nephew, who was his heir. The two gentlemen—the older and the younger—were of one mind. Theodore Vanderhaven loved horticulture every bit as much as his doting uncle. Their only difference concerned their sub interests. Lawrence preferred flowering plants and bulbs second to his lawn, while Theo preferred shrubbery and trees. Even now, his nephew was in Ireland, searching for rare shrubs.
As she crossed a vast expanse of fraying carpet covering an endless series of long passages, Roxanne stumbled upon a curving staircase and heard male voices in the distance. She advanced to the next story and turned a corner only to find a treacherous break in the castle wall and flooring.
Two men and a younger one in ragged clothing were deep in conversation.
“I’m telling you that it can’t be done,” said the older tradesman, he of the bulging belly.
“And I’m saying it can,” the middle-aged thinner man insisted. “Provided similar stone can be found. What do you say, young man?”
“There is a stone quarry northwest of here, in a place called the Lizard. You’ll find stone very like this there.” He could not have been more than eight and ten. His clothes spoke of humble origins, but his face spoke of something more. The two older men looked at him with doubt.
The younger one suddenly turned to find her before she could back away in her quest for privacy.
He tugged on his dark forelock. “Ma’am.”
The other two London tradesmen instantly removed their hats and bowed while echoing the greeting.
“So sorry to interrupt,” she said in the cramped hallway. “I should—” she started to turn away from the group.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” the thin tradesman begged.
She slowly turned back ’round. “Yes?”
“Would you happen to know about stone quarries in the area?”
She tried to bite her tongue. Really she did. But it was that innate desire to please that always reared its ugly head at the wrong moment, as well as the fact that she knew the county better than almost anyone. It was where she’d lived all of her life. “Um, well, you see . . . I’m not really from this neighborhood. But, I do believe that His Grace mentioned during the tour here that there are two excellent stone quarries. The first is in the Lizard as was just mentioned, and the second—”
“Was almost three miles farther north,” a familiar voice said behind her.
She whirled around only to find Alexander Barclay looking at her, with an arched brow.
“It is excellent to know that you paid such careful attention to my ramblings, cousin,” he continued.
“How could I not?” She tried not to laugh.
The three men behind her hemmed and hawed.
“Good day, Mr. Wooling, Mr. Townson.” Kress nodded.
The tradesmen bowed deeply.
Kress studied the ruined, unstable hallway. “Please tell me you are not relying on my dearest cousin, who knows nothing about rebuilding castles, to find materials?”
The larger of the two gathered up his nerve. “But you told us you, uh, you, uh . . .”
“Yes?” he insisted.
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but you said you didn’t give a fig about how or where we found the stone, or how we were to go about it.”
Roxanne bit her lower lip to keep from smiling.
“You’re correct, Wooling. But you’re leaving out the most important part. I want to see your
plans, your estimates, and in a timely fashion. Indeed, the Prince Regent insists upon it. I had hoped,” he paused for effect, “that this would be a test—or bid—between the two of you to see how you each independently would suggest a plan to restore this pile of rubble.” He looked at her from his heavy-lidded eyes. “Come along, my dear. Mémé insists you join the ladies on some sort of wild mushroom gathering expedition. Lord only knows how she thinks she’ll find mushrooms in her condition.”
The two men nearly fell to their knees in an effort to get back into the duke’s good graces. He tolerated their jumble of apologies for only so long before he escorted her out of their hearing.
“There is no other stone quarry within three miles of the one on the Lizard.”
“And how was I to know that?” he replied indignantly.
“Well, then why did you say there was?”
“Because you told them I knew of two stone quarries. I didn’t want to make a liar out of you.”
She inhaled. “So you lied instead.”
“Precisely. And why do I not hear you thanking me?”
“I’m supposed to thank you for misleading those two men?”
“Not at all. Everyone should be thanking me. That young man, John Goodsmith, is the only person they will need to turn to for help. I just ensured that they would.”
She paused. “Wild mushroom hunting?”
“Something like that,” he murmured, looking down at her from his greater height. “Or perhaps something else.”
Suddenly, Roxanne Vanderhaven, the not-so-deceased wife of the Earl of Paxton, felt as if most of the air had left the narrow passageway. He was standing far too close to her, and she was not backing away. His voice was far too rough and tumble, and his eyes were intoxicating in the way of fine wine.
The thought reminded her of Lawrence and the pride he took in his wine cellar—the one she had organized for him using his vast stores of smuggled goods.
She stepped back.
“Coward,” he whispered.
“Devil,” she hissed.
He laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You are ruining the moment.”
“What moment?”
“The moment when I was going to find out what sort of courage you really had.”