Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Table of Contents

  Three Rogues and Their Ladies

  The Dukes Undoing

  Duke - Chap 16-End

  The Taming of Lady Kate

  Kate - Chap 17-end

  Miss Braithwaites Secret

  Miss B- Chap. 18-End

  Three Rogues

  and

  Their Ladies

  A Trilogy of

  Regency Romances

  The Duke’s Undoing

  The Taming of Lady Kate

  Miss Braithwaite’s Secret

  G.G. Vandagriff

  The

  Duke’s

  Undoing

  A Regency Romance

  G.G. Vandagriff

  XXXIX

  Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace

  To look through and behind this mask of me

  (Against which years have beat thus blenchingly

  With their rains), and behold my soul’s true face,

  The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—

  Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

  Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,

  The patient angel waiting for a place

  In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,

  Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighborhood,

  Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

  Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

  Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—

  Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so

  To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Sonnets from the Portuguese

  CHARACTERS

  Peter Northcott: The Duke of Ruisdell—The Rogue

  George Baxter, Marquis of Somerset—Ruisdell’s closest friend

  Miss Elise Edwards—A young woman with far too many fiancés

  Lady Clarice Manton—Elise’s aunt with whom she lives

  Lady Susannah (Sukey) Braithwaite—Aunt Clarice’s companion

  Queen Elizabeth—Aunt Clarice’s Siamese cat

  Henry Five—Lady Susannah’s tortoise

  Gregory, Viscount Chessingden—Elise’s third fiancé

  Robert, Earl of Waterford—Elise’s second fiancé

  Sir Joshua Beynon—Elise’s first fiancé

  Miss Violet Archer—Elise’s closest friend

  Lady William Edwards (aka Lady Hatchet)--Elise’s mother

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN WHICH WE MEET THE DUKE OF RUISDELL, REPUTED ROGUE

  Peter Northcott, the Duke of Ruisdell, exited White’s elegant subscription room, preparing to leave the only place that seemed familiar these days—the succoring gentleman’s club with its lovely Georgian proportions, click of billiard balls, and timeless fragrance of coffee, brandy, and cigars. In the vestibule, he assumed his many-caped greatcoat in order to leave for a boxing match at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. Though it was June, it had recently rained, and the duke, just returned from the warmer climate of the Peninsula, found it chilly.

  His well-fed friend George Baxter, Marquis of Somerset, called to him from just beyond the bow window where the infamous betting book stood on its hallowed stand.

  “Ruisdell! Come! I’ve the very thing to cure your ennui,” Somerset coaxed him in robust tones. “Your favorite sport.”

  The duke took the nearly complete sentences as a mark of concern on the part of his friend. “I’ve no knack for any sport until this leg of mine heals,” he replied. The place where the musket ball had lodged in his shin bone was paining him, but he reminded himself that he was lucky he still had his leg, even though he was reduced, at the age of five and thirty, to be seen with a mahogany walking stick that was more than just a gentlemanly prop. “Do you know, Somerset, I’m actually afraid to look in the mirror most mornings, for fear my brownish mane will show threads of gray. I’m sure I will soon have permanent creases on my face and look like a gypsy.” Though not a vain man, he had no wish to appear old before his time. Limping slightly, he moved back inside the club to converse with his friend.

  Somerset beamed at him, his shiny round face looking more mischievous than ever. “Oh, put a stopper in it! Woman I’m thinking of will make you forget your wound. Can still use that silver tongue of yours. Napoleon didn’t take that away. Invalidism masks your nature, man! Object of sympathy.”

  “The devil with you. D’you think I want sympathy from a woman?” Seeing George’s crestfallen look, he continued, “Add that to the fact that I would be surprised beyond belief if there is a woman between the ages of sixteen and five and forty who doesn’t already know my true nature.” He gave his friend a deceptively sweet smile, while pulling on his gloves. “Plus, I have just been through Marianne’s histrionics ad nauseum. Believe it or not, I have no taste for women at present. But I will place a wager on the outcome of the match tonight.” His capes finally arranged to his satisfaction, he strode to the betting book, and taking the quill from George, wrote in his all but illegible hand, “Tatterson in the fifth round.”

  “Are you mad?” asked George.

  “No, just unusually prescient,” Ruisdell said. “Care to come with me? I’ll lay you any odds you like.”

  His friend’s eyes showed their mischievous twinkle. “Ten to one?”

  The duke nodded and wrote the odds in the betting book followed by his flowing signature, “Ruisdell.” The act lifted his spirits. He considered Ruisdell Palace in Derbyshire the finest estate in the Kingdom and carried its name with honor. Unfortunately, his widowed aunt, who heartily disapproved of him, lived there. Taking over the duchess’s suite upon the death of Peter’s parents, she had stated her intention not to move out until her nephew brought home a bride. Formidable woman, his aunt.

  “Stake?” asked George.

  “My hunting box in Leicestershire.”

  Now Somerset appeared worried. “Worth thousands! You’ll be able to shoot again, old man!”

  “Lost my taste for it. But in any case you needn’t worry. I’ll win. What’s your stake?”

  His friend looked shrewd. “A thousand guineas.”

  Ruisdell smiled his first smile. “When I win, we’ll come back here, have some supper, and I shall proceed to get foxed. They’ve a decent brandy in the cellar. Bought at auction this morning. Smuggled, undoubtedly.”

  Arm in arm with his friend, he left for Gentleman Jackson’s, maneuvering his cane in such a manner that he looked a dandy rather than a cripple.

  * * *

  Hours later, Ruisdell and his friend arrived back at White’s, the duke ten thousand guineas richer but melancholy as ever. He called for the newly purchased brandy, all the time realizing in the depths of his soul that it wasn’t going to make him feel better. If anything, it would make him feel worse. Strong drink had come to have a lowering effect on his spirits of late. Had it not been for poor George, who had just lost a packet to him, he would have sought a comparatively early bed at Shearings, his London house.

  “See here, Ruisdell. Filly I was telling you about. Just the woman for you! An innocent. Dashed beauty. Unusual. Eyes like midnight in summer. Black with a hint of blue, y’know? Bit of a slant.”

  The duke sighed.

  “Almost sly,” Somerset continued. “Black hair. Coal black. Natural curls. Hard to tame. But she has no problem with her gray mare. Sweetest seat I’ve seen. Rides in Hyde Park most mornings. Ties that hair back with a ribbon.” George stopped for a moment and gave a sigh of frustration. “Love to see that hair spilling across her white shoulders.” Another long sentence. It affected
the duke more than he could say, but not in the way Somerset intended. It merely made him pity the man.

  “I suppose you’re looking to me to give you a firsthand account?” The duke was weary. Weary to the bone. He had no desire to see naked shoulders with hair of any color spilling over them. Marianne had worn him out with her ruses, her traps, and her hysteria. Just now, the spoiled beauty was trying jealousy. He had picked up the information at the saloon. She had just engaged herself to some ancient French duc who had fled to England with his millions during the Reign of Terror. Ruisdell imagined their affaire d’coeur had begun while he himself was still on the Peninsula, to be broken off suddenly at his unexpected return. Otherwise, her ability to become engaged between noon today and dinner tonight would have been a feat beyond even Marianne’s magical charms.

  The marquis seemed to divine something of his sour mood. “So, old fellow, want to talk about to-do with Marianne, or just leave be?”

  “Not much to tell. Same old story. I’m not the marrying type. Told her from the beginning. But they never listen. Women always think they can change you. Why is that?” With the example of his own mother constantly before him, he was determined never to come under a woman’s thumb. Never.

  “Can’t lump in a stunner like Lady Marianne with rest of world. Probably always gets what she wants. Daughter of a duke and all that. An Incomparable. Prettiest filly in London.” George paused to light a cigar and then swirled the brandy in his glass. “Beauty I was telling you about. Bit of mystery. Age two and twenty, good dowry. But must be averse to matrimony. Queer as Dick’s hatband.”

  “Somerset, cease your vulgar cant. Why do you suppose it’s queer?” Ruisdell only asked because he knew the marquis was bound to tell him and had been bent upon this course of action since they’d met this evening by the betting book.

  “Acquainted with Chessingden by any chance? Viscount?”

  “Oh, yes. Since Oxford days. Why?” Ruisdell asked sharply. Then, feigning indifference, he inspected his hands. The wear and tear of war was beginning to disappear. From his hands, at any rate.

  “Know something against him?”

  “Not at all. As a matter of fact, he solicited a donation from me just yesterday for a project he has going in the East End. Soup kitchen for wounded soldiers. He’s a Whig, needless to say. Belongs to Brook’s, I imagine.”

  “Right. Pleasant enough estate. Hampshire. Don’t touch Ruisdell Palace, of course. Seems an ordinary bloke, but women! Don’t understand ’em. Go for Chessingden like thoroughbreds to the finish. Something to do with his eyes, they say. Seductive or some such thing. You know, none better, women like wooing.” Sighing, he slapped his thighs with his surprisingly small, neat hands. He sat up and said, “Any road, perfect catch for the beauty. On her third or fourth engagement. First one died on the Peninsula, worse luck.”

  “Get on with it, Somerset. She sounds a great bother and disturber of a man’s rest. Does she perhaps have a name, this paragon?”

  “Miss Elise Edwards. Air of tragedy suits her. Sent Chessingden packing this morning. Heir of his, malicious chap, says Viscount’s not having it.” George shook his head in wonder. “Determined to wed her. Bowled over. Rejection came out o’the blue. Agreed to a month’s trial! Man like that! Foolishness. But she has had a run of bad luck.”

  If George kept this up, he would become absolutely loquacious and, more than likely, a bore. But Ruisdell could not keep from asking, “She’s been married before?”

  “Nearly. Still virtuous, though.” The marquis chuckled. “Sent one fiancé off a week before the doin’s. Something loose in his brain box.” George tapped his forehead. “Lives in Italy or somewhere abouts. Paints. Sends futile letters.”

  “This heir seems to be quite a fount of useful information.”

  “Anxious. Under the hatches, y’know. Hopes this will put Chessingden off women altogether. If Viscount marries, heir will be dunned by the vultures. Living off his expectations.” At that, George gave up for the moment. But Ruisdell knew his friend. He was baiting him. And the worst thing about it was, in spite of himself, the duke was intrigued by the woman. Three engagements! And still virtuous? His friend must be sun-blinded. No woman on earth was that pure.

  “Write your bet in the book, Somerset. For future reference. I don’t know that I’ll take you up on it, unless I happen to meet the woman. It’s not likely, this late in the Season.”

  Somerset bets five hundred guineas that Ruisdell’s seduction of Elise Edwards will rid the duke of his boredom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE CONSIDERS HER SITUATION

  As her maid Kitty braided and arranged her black hair into the severe knot she always wore when serving at the soup canteen, Elise looked at her reflection. Her lids were a bit swollen, telling of her tears last night.

  The very last thing she wanted to do was to spend the afternoon with Violet and Gregory. How would they act? How long before they let the rest of the polite world know of their attachment?

  Aunt Clarice entered the room, stroking her Siamese cat, Queen Elizabeth, and wearing an enormous, loose brown dress that made her resemble a mushroom. “Darling girl, I’m afraid you’re not in the best looks today. You’re as pale as the moon with just that little bit of green. What do you say, my pretty one?” Aunt Clarice often requested Queen Elizabeth’s opinion on matters of grooming and home decoration. The cat replied to this question with a convincing yowl. “Are you sure you want to come today, my love? Sukey has nothing on this afternoon, and if asked, I am certain she would take your place.”

  Lady Susannah was her aunt’s companion and an expert entomologist, particularly sound on all the varieties of beetles to be found in the British Isles. She owned the other family pet, a tortoise named Henry Five, and she was not the least bit interested in wounded soldiers or soup kitchens.

  Elise gave her aunt a smile. “Do you think a little discreet rouge would help?”

  “That black dress, even with the white chemisette, makes you look too much as though you are in mourning! Are you certain you want to betray your feelings in that manner?”

  “Oh, Aunt, you know it is what I always wear to the canteen.”

  “What I do not and never will understand is why you suddenly broke off your engagement, if you’re so miserable.”

  “I fear I am not the one he loves, Aunt.”

  “I know you said that, but it was a lot of fustian. Violet! Your closest friend? I cannot credit that on the strength of a little charade you cast off the poor man. Why, Violet is a chubby little thing!”

  “It wasn’t just a little charade, Aunt. It was . . . sultry, unfettered passion! Romeo and Juliet! Gregory has never looked at me like that. I swear he worships her.”

  “Oh, my love. You’ve such an imagination. I suppose you confronted him with it?”

  “I’m not such a ninnyhammer. It is quite possible that he does not even realize what he feels. But I gave him a month’s grace to let the light dawn.”

  “Elise, darling, life does not behave like a novel! I’ve seen the way the man looks at you. Why do you think I never leave you two alone? And this month’s trial! Why, I loved my Stephen to distraction and would never have contemplated such a thing!”

  “I need to give him the opportunity to follow his heart, Aunt Clarice. Now can we please talk of something else?”

  Rolling her eyes, Aunt Clarice said, “Rouge will make you look like a courtesan. You know better than to wear cosmetics in the daytime.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll just have to look like an inconsolable widow.”

  “Please put on another dress, darling. To cheer the soldiers? Do you want Chessingden to know that you cried all night?”

  This reasoning finally prevailed. Keeping the pleated chemisette that ruffled modestly around her neck, Elise pulled out a deep blue India muslin, the color of her eyes, shot with tiny threads of silver. The fabric crossed between her breasts in a deep V, but the chemisette made
it proper for daytime wear. When Kitty had pulled it over her head, she said, “Yes, that will do. Thank you, Aunt. I no longer look like I’m at my last prayers, at any rate.”

  On another, the deep blue might have looked as bad as the black, but deep blue was Elise’s best hue, picking up the color of her eyes to a startling extent. Just knowing she looked a little better put a pink tint in her cheeks. Gregory’s carriage would be here in moments to collect her for their ride to the East End. Staring down at the diamond circlet of her engagement ring, she wondered if she ought to remove it. Yes. She would take it off so that her lifelong friend, Violet, would know that the coast was clear. Elise took her gloves from her maid and watched as Kitty put her plain chip straw bonnet on over the severe hairdo, tying the blue ribbon under Elise’s left ear.

  Even with her aunt standing in the hall next to her, Gregory wrapped his arms around Elise and kissed her proprietarily on the lips. Then he held her a little away from him and looked into her eyes.

  Maybe I’m already getting over him.

  Just yesterday, that look from his heavy-lidded, seductive eyes had made her weak at the knees. Especially after a kiss. But not today. Had her night of tears begun to sever her emotional connection to him, in order to spare herself further pain when he inevitably turned to Violet?

  “Good morning, my darling. Ready for those greedy soldiers? It seems there are more every week. The queue will already be snaking its way through the marketplace, though it’s only half ten o’clock.”

  The Viscount never dressed down for the canteen. Wearing buff pantaloons, a bottle green jacket with a green and gold striped waistcoat and an ivory shirt and cravat, he looked exactly what he was—a privileged gentleman.

  “I’m glad there are more each week. This is the only meal they get, most of them,” she answered. Though she was aware that Gregory took credit for the project to increase his stature in the House of Lords, the canteen had been her idea.