Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  When he had finished this, he bade Elise ring for a footman to deliver the card to his friend. Once this was accomplished, he said, “As a further token of my desire to be in your good graces, will you accompany me to Drury Lane this evening? Most appropriately, A School for Scandal is playing. If you look for them, surely you will see that there are elements of the farce about our own situation.”

  Elise looked up, giving him another blinding smile. “That sounds very appropriate, Your Grace.”

  “I am glad. Now, about this ‘Your Grace’ business. No one will believe we are affianced if you insist on addressing me thus. My Christian name is Peter.” He consulted the pocket watch in his waistcoat pocket. There was just time for an errand to Bond Street. “And I beg leave to call you Elise.”

  “Very well, Peter,” she said. “On both counts.”

  “Now, I have an errand, my dear. I promise to be back in time for luncheon.”

  At Rundle and Bridge the bald and very proper jeweler welcomed him. “Your Grace! It has been many a year since I have had your custom. You are well, I hope?”

  “Exceedingly so. I wish to purchase a ring to celebrate my engagement.”

  “Ah! Allow me to congratulate you, Your Grace. Have you something in mind?”

  “I wish to buy your finest star sapphire. My lady’s eyes, should you ever chance to meet her, would remind you of such a stone.”

  “Ah! No doubt you know that the most rare and beautiful gems are from Ceylon. I have a lovely three carat gem, set in gold,” the jeweler said and retreated behind a curtain. Apparently, the stone was exceedingly valuable if it was in the safe and not on display. Ruisdell was glad of this. Since it was her fourth engagement, Elise deserved something truly grand and unique.

  He returned to an excellent luncheon, during which Lady Clarice entertained him by explicating the libretto of her exceedingly odd opera, the heroine of which was an aging Siamese female cat mourning her glory days. Afterwards, she asked, “Do you intend to take an open carriage to this magistrate?”

  “I don’t think my curricle could accommodate all of us, Lady Clarice.”

  “As long as you take the curricle, Elise will not need my chaperonage, and I really cannot spare the time today to travel to Covent Garden. Sukey and I have an appointment with our mantua makers.”

  So, it was settled that he should be entrusted alone with her niece. As much as Lady Clarice entertained him, he was not sorry. When he had finished the excellent luncheon of turbot and baby lamb accompanied by asparagus with a lemon tart to follow, he excused himself for the walk to his stable in a nearby mews.

  A quarter of an hour later, he pulled up in front of the townhouse and called for his affianced lady. Lifting her up into the curricle by her waist, normally invisible under her high-waisted gowns, he was gratified to find Elise’s was a small waist that signified an hourglass figure. After a moment, he chastised himself, remembering that his engagement was only temporary. He was enjoying this masquerade a bit too much. Jumping up into the curricle, he flicked the reins, signaling his matched bays to begin to make their way among the various vehicles on the crowded street. All the world seemed to be on the road at this hour—drays, traveling coaches, high-perch phaetons, as well as a few gentlemen of his acquaintance on horseback. Saluting them with his whip, he was gratified by their interest in his companion.

  As he maneuvered Elise into the East End where the magistrate dwelt above Covent Garden, he was, as usual moved by the sight of so many former foot soldiers, still dressed in their ragged scarlet coats, missing arms or legs. Elise’s canteen had a long line, though it was getting on for one o’clock.

  “I approve heartily of your canteen, Miss Edwards. Whose brainchild was it?”

  “Mine,” she said. “Though Viscount Chessingden was the one who found the philanthropists to support the cause. I have never thanked you for being one of them.”

  “Even if I am a Tory?”

  “There is hope for you, . . . Peter,” she said, her eyes teasing him with a twinkle of animation.

  “I doubt it, darling,” he said, teasing her with his eyes.

  “Do not behave too prettily to me, else I shall be thought heartless when I cry off our engagement.”

  “But you inspire me, my dear. I cannot promise to withhold my ardor.”

  They had arrived at their destination, the hurly burly of Covent Garden market. The smell of fish assailed them. The magistrate’s office was over the fish market. Elise turned her eyes from the sight of a string of trout with their gaping mouths and glassy eyes.

  Before lifting her down to the dirty street, he tossed a shilling to a hopeful urchin, saying, “I expect to find my curricle and horses when I have finished my business with the magistrate.”

  “Right-oh, guv.”

  “It looks as though Robert is before us,” Elise said. “There are his new chestnuts.”

  Her voice was small. Taking her hand, he drew it protectively through his arm and gave it a reassuring pat. “Do not worry, Elise. We will have him in Bedlam shortly, say what he will.”

  “Although he frightens me, I cannot but feel sorry for him,” she said.

  He marveled at her capacity for compassion. Most women in her situation would not feel as she did. He certainly did not.

  The stairway was dark and filled with the odor of boiled cabbage. After traversing a long dark hallway, they came to a heavy oaken door with a tarnished brass knocker.

  Ruisdell knocked smartly. “I am prepared for any eventuality,” he reassured her.

  When the door was opened to them by the plump magistrate in his sober black attire (smudged by what appeared to be a drop of gravy over his stomach), the duke at once spied his adversary sitting in a red leather chair across from the magistrate’s broad desk. The room was dim, lit only by the light from the window that looked over the marketplace where the grocery vendors were packing up for the day. It appeared from his expression that Waterford was in his more conventional personality. Had he any knowledge of the deeds his other personality committed? Whatever his animus against Ruisdell concerning his behavior at the Sumner ball, surely the earl would have the presence of mind not to challenge him in front of a magistrate!

  The man who represented law and order in this little spot of London seated himself majestically and said, “Now I have been hearing his lordship’s account of the doings yesterday. This is the lady he claims to have been escorting, I assume?”

  Waterford was haughty. “’Tis more than a claim. ’Tis the truth.”

  “He also claims that this lady is engaged to him?”

  “That is not the truth, sir,” Elise said. “I was once engaged to him, it is true. However, due to frightening circumstances, which were reenacted yesterday, I broke off that engagement over a year ago. This man was not escorting me, he had kidnapped me from my home. I am now engaged to be married to the Duke of Ruisdell.”

  At that moment, there was another knock at the door. When the magistrate answered, it was to see the cabbage seller standing outside, kneading his cloth cap in his hands. Entering, he continued standing, as there was no seat left for him.

  The magistrate chuckled. “This very proper gentleman tried to kidnap you? I find that a little too melodramatic.”

  Here the Cockney intervened. “She were mortal hafraid of the gennleman, guv. When ’e runned to ground hat my patch, she were shrieking. She jumped down from the curricle hand tore hoff like th’ devil ’imself were hafter ’er!”

  The duke spoke. “That was my impression as well. She virtually flew into my arms. Miss Edwards was close to hysterical, which, I assure you, is not her normal state. Added to which there were several reliable witnesses to her abduction.”

  All at once, the earl’s expression changed. Stripped of their civilized coolness, his features took on the feral look of someone trapped.

  “He belongs in Bedlam, sir,” the duke continued. “Sometimes the Earl of Waterford does not know what he is doing but
is overtaken by some sort of madness. Often he appears quite normal. Miss Edwards’ safety and possibly her very life are in danger as long as this man is free.”

  At the word Bedlam, Waterford sprang to his feet. Looking about him as though puzzled by his surroundings, he was clearly panicked. The cabbage purveyor and the duke moved in concert to restrain him, but once again the earl’s manic swiftness allowed him to elude them. He dived through the glass window, and landing on the street one floor below, seemed miraculously uninjured. Spurning his curricle and his beloved chestnuts, he had soon disappeared in the milling crowd of stall owners carrying home their leftover produce.

  Elise put her head in her hands. “Will this never be over?”

  Clearly shocked by what he had witnessed, the magistrate said, “Do not worry, Miss Edwards. I, myself, will go around to Bow Street and engage a Runner to find the man. He will then be incarcerated and charged with attempted kidnapping. A judge will decide his fate—whether it be Bedlam or hanging.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS DEALT SEVERAL SURPRISES

  Though she expected Robert to invade her home at any moment during the afternoon, the only person who came into the house was Richards, the duke’s valet. He entered through the servant’s entrance, carrying a large portmanteau, said by Kitty to contain several days’ worth of attire for Ruisdell. She confided this to her mistress while she was working her magic with Elise’s hair before dinner and the theater.

  Elise’s nerves, normally strong, were regaining their tone after the drama of the afternoon. She found herself wondering how she would be feeling were the duke not sitting below in the library, keeping watch over the front entrance again. She hoped he would not have another bilious attack this evening, leaving her and Aunt Clarice stranded among the crowds at the Drury Lane theater. Perhaps Gregory would be at the theater . . . no. On second thought, he was not fond of Sheridan’s comedies. He claimed they afflicted his nerves. Maybe the Marquis of Somerset would be there. For all the ill that she had thought of him before last night, she could forgive him. Not only had he seen her safely home, he had kept Robert turned up sweet. Without him, the evening could have had a very different ending.

  Her aunt knocked and came in, dressed in her favorite lavender brocade evening gown. “Well, miss, I’m surprised you’ve pried yourself away from that manuscript. I’m glad to see you are in looks. Show me your middle finger!”

  “I can’t seem to get the ink stain off, Aunt. How fortunate that I will be wearing gloves.” She displayed her left hand with its black-stained finger. “Did you visit with his Grace in the library this afternoon?”

  “Yes. He told me about the dreadful business at the magistrate’s. It has me worried, I can tell you. I’m taking my walnut sword cane with me this evening, even though being seen with a cane ages me by at least ten years.”

  “Oh, Aunt, nothing can age you! I only hope I can keep my complexion as you have. Thank you for bringing the cane,” Elise said. “Now I know we’ll be protected from Robert if the duke should decide to take himself off again. Kitty, have we any white ribbons to go with my gown?”

  “You are wearing the white chiffon over the pink slip?” her aunt asked.

  “Yes. I feel the need of a higher neckline this evening. The duke may be all that is kind, but he is a rogue. At least, I keep telling myself that.”

  “It is still light out, dear. Mrs. Topwell can easily cut some rosebuds for your hair. The pale pink tea roses are budding just now. Will they do?”

  Elise surveyed herself, putting her head on one side and closing an eye. “I think . . . yes.”

  When they joined the duke, who was drinking Madeira in the yellow drawing room before dinner, Elise was happy that she had made an unusual effort with her appearance. He was fine as five pence in black coat and breeches with a white satin waistcoat, above which his cravat was tied elegantly. His warm brown eyes showed a light of appreciation when they rested upon her. He extended an arm to her aunt, and they went in to dinner.

  Once Bates had laid the covers and withdrawn, Elise asked, “Is the marquis to accompany us tonight?”

  The duke studied her for a moment. “You think he might be helpful in the event that I become indisposed?”

  Elise nodded and confessed to her dislike of the idea of being stranded.

  “How can I make up for my faux pas of last night?” He reached into his pocket and brought forth a box wrapped in silver paper. “Ah, what might this be?”

  “You bought me a gift!” Elise exclaimed in delight. She was inordinately fond of gifts, never having received them as a child.

  “Ah, but this is more than a gift. ’Tis a pledge.” He handed it to her from his place at the head of the table.

  Disposing of the wrapping, Elise opened it quickly. She was stunned. “Oh . . . oh. You should not have done this, Your Grace. Ours is but a temporary arrangement, after all.” She held an oval star sapphire of deepest blue, surrounded by diamonds, mounted on a wide gold band. “This . . . this ring should go to your wife, not to me. I will return it to you when our charade is over.”

  “It is very convincing, is it not? I do not intend to marry, so you may keep it, Elise.”

  Astounded by the probable value of the gift, she wondered if she should accept such an expensive piece of jewelry. Before she could protest that she was not one of his high flyers, he rose and came to her side, where he slid the ring onto her finger. Because she was dining, she did not have her gloves on.

  “But, Your Grace . . . Peter. I cannot accept this!”

  Ignoring her protest, he said, “Whatever have you done to your finger, my dear?” he asked, laughing. “Is that an ink stain? Have you been writing a novel?”

  “Why ever would you think that?” she asked, looking up at him quickly.

  “Nonsense,” said her aunt. “The very idea!”

  “Sunshine,” he said, obviously suppressing a smile. “Confess. I know all about the tree house, you see.”

  Astounded, she could only stare.

  “You knew Joshua?” Aunt Clarice asked.

  “Intimately. He was my adjutant. The finest man I have ever known.”

  This pronouncement was an arrow to Elise’s heart. She became confused, unable at once to sort out all the many ways that this knowledge affected her and her relationship with the duke. Apparently realizing this, now, he would not meet her eyes. Bates entered, bearing the partridges which comprised the next course. He put them on the sideboard and commenced clearing away the remains of jellied consommé.

  As soon as he had served them and departed, Peter continued, serious now. “You have my sincerest condolences, Elise.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “If you were his commanding officer, then it must have been you who wrote that most beautiful letter to me when he was killed. I keep it under my pillow,” she said, her voice breaking. This one thing altered her opinion of the duke in a tiny second, almost taking her breath away. The letter had conveyed deep caring for her and for Joshua. She never would have supposed it could have been written by someone as reputedly heartless as the duke. “Indeed, when you came upon me in the park, I was reading it once again.”

  “Well!” Ruisdell said, after clearing his throat, “I can certainly see why Beynon has called me in on this case! Between Waterford and Chessingden, I dare say an army of guardian angels wasn’t sufficient. I confess I cannot understand how you could even look at those men after someone like Beynon.”

  He spoke as though Joshua were still alive. “What do you mean, ‘called you in’?”

  “A figure of speech,” the duke said, slicing his partridge. “It is because of my respect for my adjutant that I wish to see you out of the messes you have made and settled happily with someone worthy.”

  Elise stiffened and grew defensive. “Messes I have made? After losing Joshua, I knew I would never love again. My engagements have been dictated by prudence only. I assure you, the Earl of Waterford was con
sidered a prize catch when we became engaged. His illness, or whatever it is, had not yet come upon him. He is very handsome, was exceedingly kind, and has an adequate estate. As for the viscount . . .”

  “I apologize. But you should see in my concern a compliment. I think you can do much better for yourself, Elise. The more one gets to know you, the more one sees that yours quite exceeds ordinary beauty.”

  “I am not interested in being chosen for my physical points like a horse from Tattersall’s.”

  “I did not mean an insult. And you should know that horses are chosen for their strength and their spiritedness as well as their beauty.”

  “You had better stop, Your Grace,” Aunt Clarice said, laughing. “You are only digging yourself in deeper. I do not imagine my niece fancies having herself compared to a horse.”

  “Not just a horse,” he said with a chuckle. “A thoroughbred.”

  “But you must not tell anyone about the novels,” her aunt said. “Lady . . . er, Williams would pillory me if word of that ever came out. She is convinced that men do not like clever women.”

  “Rubbish!” the duke pronounced. “I find that Elise’s many pursuits considerably relieve my almost overwhelming ennui, not to mention your opera about cats and your companion’s scientific pursuits. Where is Lady Susannah, by the way?”

  “Taking dinner with the Devonshires,” Aunt Clarice said. “She does so regularly. The duke continues to subscribe to the vain hope that exposure to Sukey’s various undertakings will give the duchess an interest other than gambling.”

  The duke laughed, but in the meantime, Elise had become flushed as she fully realized the close connection he had had with her fiancé. “Oh, I really cannot take it in! You knew my Joshua, and he told you about our tree house and my novels?”

  “I think every memory of you that was contained in his heart was passed on to me for safekeeping. And, in his honor, and now in yours, I will keep them close. No one shall know your secret from my lips, Sunshine.”

  “You are making fun,” she said.