by Sophia Nash
The only question was why had this intelligent lady loved her husband. And while she had loved him, it had been obvious he had loved spirits more than he had loved anything else.
Yes, Lord and Lady Derby were just one more example of what was wrong with marriage. And there was a lot that was wrong with marriage. His parents’ cold, dutiful, typical ton union was a prime example.
And he was the result.
Chapter 5
What was that confounded sound? Roman opened one eye to find that his chamber at the small inn was still dark.
Birds. It was birds chirping. Oh, for God sakes. This was the reason he preferred Town. No bloody birds to wake one up. The clattering of hooves on cobblestones, yes. Birds, no.
He tried to settle back into the cocoon of the bed and could not. He finally groaned and got out of the great yawn of a mattress which took up more than three quarters of the quaint room not fit for a duke.
And he was exhausted. Country hours were for the birds. Quite literally. He grimaced.
The scent of oil was about; he sniffed to be certain. She was at it again in the room adjacent to his.
Painting. Forever painting. He crossed to the window and opened the sash for fresh air.
Her industriousness was astounding. Since he loved his own work, he understood her devotion, but it was unusual for a female. As he watched a maid pumping water from the well on the green, his fingers itched to find paper and a ruler to further his designs.
He was torn about his immediate concerns. On the one hand he needed to be in Town; on the other, his mind froze at the thought of stepping onto a gangplank again. But his ideas were in delicate balance right now. He had to go back. His desire to find a permanent solution to supply all of London with clean water had flaws.
It was beyond ridiculous that the center of Christendom had seven private companies who refused to provide water more than two hours each day. He would find a solution or die trying.
Indeed, before that fateful night with Candover, Kress, and the others in the entourage, he had been certain he was on the verge of solving the pump problem plaguing the huge design.
His evenings were spent thusly—lost at his drafting table, except when forced to play the part of draconian brother while his beautiful sister Lily selected a husband. This at least served to occupy his mother so she wouldn’t harass him to find a bride to continue the bloody, cursed Norwich line. One would think his mother would know better than to urge further creation of Norwich dukes. Why, he found it bordering on premeditated murder during his more lighthearted moments.
Well. He was just going to have to screw up his courage and take the next ship back.
He would just have to drink until he fell into a stupor and then have someone carry him onto the ship. After, he would never set foot on anything that floated again. He would remain forever in the lovely peace of England, where—
A sound snagged his attention and he chanced to see the captain crossing the village green toward the Horse & Hound. Roman was glad the rest of the passengers from the fateful voyage had sailed from Wight yesterday afternoon. Only he and March had remained. He from his fear; she from her desire to complete a painting. Or so she said. He had the ridiculous notion that she might have stayed behind to coddle him when he regained the nerve to cross the sea back to London. It was lowering to be considered the coward that he was. He didn’t know why it mattered so much what she might think of him. The rest of the passengers—indeed, humanity—he could care less about.
The last time he had seen that sodding Mr. King, as well as Lady Shelby and her friends, Roman had had the distinct feeling they were all of them enjoying quite the tittle-tattle about his refusal to go with them. He knew they all laughed about his family’s history, just as most everyone else in Town.
He sighed when the captain suddenly looked up and made a motion toward him.
“Hey ho, Your Grace. Have something you will want to see.” The rotund man waved a newspaper in the air.
He had no desire to go downstairs. Roman would much rather crawl back under the covers, request a coffee, and close his eyes so he could become lost in the diagrams that were constantly filling his mind.
Instead, he scratched the back of his head, yawned, and pulled on his discarded, borrowed clothes. At least the shirt he now wore fit him better than the captain’s. Thank God there had been a retired admiral on the isle who had been willing to come to his aid, and was much the same size.
Roman didn’t even bother to shave. He dashed cold water on his face and dried it before descending below. While the deprivations of life without servants at every corner were inconvenient, there was something to be said for the expediency of doing for oneself.
He caught the attention of the parlor maid and asked for coffee and breakfast to be delivered to the salon in which the captain waited on him.
“Good morning, Captain.” Roman nodded.
The captain chuckled as he always seemed wont to do. “You might want to reconsider that idea after you’ve had a look-see at this.”
The balding man removed his hat, shoved it under his arm and placed the newspaper on the edge of a low-slung table between two well-padded brown leather armchairs in front of a small fire, attempting to chase the chill of the morning.
Roman took his seat. “Do join me, sir.”
“Of course. Actually, I am more than a mite curious to know if the report is true.”
“What report?”
“Front page, center. I should tell you I asked the footman to fetch Lady Derby as well. There is a ship just arrived and since it is the last scheduled to depart for London for at least a week, she might very well want to prepare to depart. It’s too bad there are no ships bound for Prague or Vienna for her to continue on, but one can’t expect that. She will just have to return to—” The captain stopped. “Well, are you going to read the article or not?”
“It’s a bit rude since you’re speaking.”
“Balderdash,” the captain said. “Go on, then. What I really want to know is did you really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Swim with the king’s swans in the Serpentine.” The captain ended with his signature chuckle that rumbled like an approaching storm.
“I beg your pardon?” That feminine voice Roman was beginning to know very well interrupted them both. He glanced at the doorway to find Esme March standing there, as cool and collected as he was not. Early risers always had that air about them. The one of having bathed and gotten half the day done before the rest of humanity had had a rasher of bacon, several eggs and a loaf of toast to see them through dinner, which was a distant four or five long hours hence. If one got out of bed when Roman did, that is.
The captain pointed at the newspaper still lying on the table. “News from London, Lady Derby. Fairly interesting actually.” He glanced at Roman. “I’ve always found swans to be vicious, Your Grace. What say you?”
Roman wanted to close his eyes desperately. A wisp of a memory of the swan that had chased him floated past. God. It was in the newspaper? He reached for it at the same moment the countess did.
Only the politeness that had been drilled into him from the moment of his birth allowed him to relinquish his grip to her lighter one.
At least she wasn’t wearing a reproving expression on her face like his mother usually did. Then again, this lady had been married to the most dissolute aristocrat in all of England. What would she care about a simple midnight run-in with royal fowl?
She began to read to herself and her gray eyes bugged out most unattractively as her spectacles made her peepers twice as large.
He sighed. “One can hope you are not going to keep the rest of us in suspense for too long.”
The captain interrupted. “Not a worry, Lady Derby, I’ve already read it.”
Roman harrumphed. “Well I haven’t and it’s all about me, according to you.” He glared with hauteur at the seaman.
Her eyes were glued to the pag
e, her lips moving slightly. She held up her hand. “It’s very bad. Do you want to read it yourself?”
A maid delivered a tray brimming with delicious fare. He delicately picked up the rasher of bacon and tucked into it. He waved his hand. “No, no. Go on, have your laugh and read it to me.”
Reluctantly, she returned her bespectacled gaze to the top of the sheet. “It’s dated the morning after we departed Town.” She shook her head and began. “ ‘In a continuation of the regular obscene excesses of the Prince Regent and his royal entourage, not one of the party made an appearance at St. George’s earlier this morning, with the exception of our Princess Caroline, darling little Princess Charlotte, and Her Grace, the young Duchess of March. His Majesty’s absence and that of the groom and groomsmen caused all four hundred guests to assume the worst. And indeed, this columnist has it on the very best authority, partially one’s own eyewitness account, that not only the august bridegroom, His Grace, the Duke of Candover, but also seven other dukes, one archbishop, and the Prince Regent himself, were seen cavorting about all of London last eve on an outrageous regal rampage. Midnight duels, swimming amok with the swans in the Serpentine, a stream of scantily clad females in tow, lawn bowling in unmentionables, horse races in utter darkness, wild, uproarious boasting, and jesting, and wagering abounded. Indeed, this author took it upon himself to retrieve and return to White’s Club their infamous betting book, which one of the royal entourage had had the audacity to remove without even a by-your-leave. In this fashion we have learned that the Duke of Kress lost the entire fortune he so recently acquired with the title, although the winner’s name was illegible. Even the Queen’s jewels were spotted on one duke as he paraded down Rotten Row. Yes, my fellow countrymen, it appears the English monarchy has learned nothing from our French neighbor’s lessons concerning aristocratic overindulgence. As the loyal scribe of the Fashionable Column for two decades, you have it on my honor that all this occurred and worse. I can no longer remain silent on these reoccurring grievous, licentious activities, and so shall be the first plain-speaking, brave soul to utter these treasonous words: I no longer support or condone a monarchy such as this.’ ”
The Countess of Derby halted. The normally bustling inn was so quiet, Roman had the distinct impression every last occupant in the residence was listening beyond the door.
He could not move from the shock of it. It was worse than he could have ever dreamed possible. Candover had stood up his bride? It had been billed as the marriage of the decade. And Roman’s closest friend, Kress? Ruined. Roman uttered an oath no lady had probably ever heard in her life. He looked at her and she stared back at him unwaveringly.
He immediately rose and the rasher of bacon fell to the floor, in an act of inelegance which would have horrified him in normal circumstances. Would anything in his life ever be normal again?
He was going to swim to London if there was no vessel to take him. Within seconds he had a plan. “Captain, a handsome sum is yours if you secure a berth within that ship you mentioned.”
“Wait. There’s more,” the captain said, with something like a damned twinkle in his faded blue eyes.
“More,” Roman replied indignantly. “How could there possibly be something worse?”
The other man pulled another thin copy of the Morning Post from his waistcoat. “I snagged this from the captain of the ship which left port yesterday.”
Roman snatched it while Esme March kneeled down to retrieve the fallen food.
“Leave it,” Roman barked.
“I will not,” she retorted. “The drippings will stain the nice carpet and I know you’ll not want a servant in here while you read. You might say or do something you regret.”
The captain nodded. “Aye, he will. Especially when he gets to the part where—”
“Enough,” Roman nearly shouted. He waved them away and scanned the print. He refused to read it aloud.
Hell.
This columnist is delighted to inform that His Majesty has had words with his intimate royal entourage following the grave debauchery and bungled wedding of the Duke of Candover earlier this week. What words did he have? Why the words of a monarch, pretending he had no part in the high flown antics of these privileged dukes of the realm. Word has it in Carleton House that Prinny had the audacity to chastise his cohorts while it was obvious his royal nob was half shaven and he was still green about the gills like the rest of them.
And his orders to his favorites? Reform, cast away all idea of sin (especially all mistresses), marry according to their station, produce heirs, and allow not one hint of scandal to touch them further.
I suppose the prince does not care for the rotting vegetables that he is forced to endure each time he attempts to leave the glittering prism that is known as Carleton House.
According to an intimate in the matter, Kress is to be the first on the marital chopping block. The duke has been sent south to molder in Cornwall until a gaggle of suitable candidates for marriage and their various chaperones and parents can be sent to surround him. Other sacrificial dukes are to follow.
The one duke, however, who is not to go, is the Duke of Norwich, who cannot be found.
Let it not be said that this columnist is not willing to do his utmost to help find this duke gone awry. May I be so bold as to beg everyone who chances to read this column to search high and low for this important peer, known as Seventeen to his cohorts in crime. And if you do not start by searching every last place where a duck or a cousin to a duck may be found, why, this columnist will think you a simpleton. Even if it is far too soon to plant yet another Duke of Duck, I would wager my last column that the curse has had her way with him. And by the by if you take this matter to heart, the art of duke hunting is simple: plan a grand entertainment, send invitations, and lure him in with plenty of spirits and deviltry.
Long live the king!
The next king. After the Prince Regent is sent packing.
The paper fell from his fingers. March was good enough not to immediately retrieve it.
Roman opened his mouth like a carp and then shut it when no words would come out.
“Oh, come, come, Your Grace. ’Tis not that bad.” When Roman remained silent and motionless, the captain changed tactics. “Do you want me to find a ship sailing to some port far, far away? You could hide until the worst of it blows over. That’s what I would do.”
The countess casually reached down and finally retrieved the paper. He did not want to be in the same room with her when she read it.
“Captain, I shall triple the amount of coin that found its way into your pockets from taking on passengers on your last voyage if you get me the hell off this bloody isle today.”
Without missing a beat, the captain retorted. “Understood. And is Lady Derby departing as well?”
Roman looked at her and she nodded without a word as she finished reading the last of the column. Her face was as white as the underbelly of a royal swan.
The captain nodded and took his leave of them both. An awkward silence invaded the room.
“Go ahead and say it,” he insisted raggedly.
She paused before responding. “It’s never been my way to beat a man when he’s facedown in the muck.”
“And why is that?”
“No one needs someone else to tell them they are a fool. Most are capable of figuring it out all by themselves.”
He could not bring himself to look at her.
“What”—she continued—“are you going to do when you arrive in Town?”
“First things first. Let’s see if I survive the voyage.” He finally met her gaze. She was still holding the rasher of bacon. For the first time in his life, he had lost his appetite. He grasped the now cold food and placed it on the tray. Covering it with a napkin, he continued. “You might want to reconsider your decision to travel on the same ship as I. You know it’s not safe to rub feathers with the Duke of Duck.” The last he said with all the distaste he could muster.
> “You know,” she said. “I like you.”
He swiveled his head toward her. “Yes, well, your taste in gentlemen is . . . oh hell. Forget it. I can’t be trusted to say or do a bloody honorable thing right now.”
She ignored him. “I like you because you don’t shy away from the truth and you don’t offer up excuses.” She turned on her heel, her head high, and her back straight. Without looking at him again, she left him alone.
Roman was not proud of what he did. But a man had to do the only thing he could do to accomplish an end result. In this case it was the last thing the Countess of Derby would have liked. This would take her respect for him down a peg or two.
He had not a doubt that the captain of The Drake would secure a berth in the ship to take him to Town. He was so certain that within a quarter of an hour he had accomplished two key tasks. The first was to make Jem, the captain’s doltish, coltish, and trustworthyish cabin boy an offer that would leave the young man crying in gratitude. The second was to offer the innkeeper the same amount for an entirely different reason. Both sums were to ensure that they kept their word upon striking hands on the bargain, and more important, that they kept their mouths shut. The men were eager to comply.
The innkeeper supplied Roman with the finest whiskey the Isle of Wight possessed, with a few bottles of fine wine thrown in. Once they were on the vessel, Jem watched Roman as he steadily plowed through the bottles. The cabin boy knew the second part of his job was to stand guard over him all the way to the London docks, and then deliver him to the massive townhouse in Wyndam Square.
If they made it.
It was a large if.
A large percentage of the list of Jem’s duties also included keeping the Countess of Derby away from him. Roman wanted no part of any of the solutions she might offer—even if they included a repeat performance of the last time they were stuck in a cabin together. He didn’t need a managing female now. He needed complete and total oblivion. And short of having Jem punch his lights out, this—this glass of whiskey he held in his hand—was the only sensible solution.