What the Duke Doesn't Know

by Jane Ashford

  “You don’t have to pay,” Lord James interrupted savagely. “Everything isn’t about payment.”

  No, it was about this infuriating thing called propriety that reared up at the worst possible moments to blight one’s life. “I’ll tell her that she is most welcome then.” Kawena turned her back and proceeded up the stairs.

  “I’ll see about a post chaise,” he answered in clipped tones.

  “I expect the day after tomorrow would be best,” she said without looking at him. “To give Miss Jennings time to prepare.”

  “I am entirely at your service,” he replied in a tone so biting that it might have had fangs.

  “Thank you,” said Kawena with the same snap.

  There was a slapping sound, like a hand striking the wall. “I’m going out,” Lord James snarled, and tramped down the winding stair as Kawena continued upward. From the upper corridor, she heard the front door slam.

  Inside her bedroom, Kawena yanked off her stupid, constricting bonnet and threw it onto the bed. Her shawl followed. She longed for other items to hurl about, preferably things that would make loud, satisfying noises as they shattered. She nearly sacrificed a porcelain dog from the mantel, but she managed to resist. Instead, she wrote a note to Flora Jennings confirming their travel arrangement.

  When it was sealed, Kawena looked at the bellpull. She knew that it would summon a servant, just as she knew that Mrs. Hastings was finding their presence irksome. Without ever saying a word, members of the small staff left at Langford House had gradually made it clear that they did not wish to wait on her. Kawena thought it wasn’t personal, that they would have felt the same about any visitor at this unexpected time of year. But she wasn’t sure.

  She took the missive downstairs herself, and was lucky enough to find the footman in the front hall. He accepted the note and promised it would be delivered at once. The coin she included bought her a cheerful grin.

  Kawena returned to her chamber. She was hungry, but didn’t want to ask the housekeeper for a meal. Food seemed to be a particular sore point with Mrs. Hastings. More than once she’d reminded them that there was no “proper” cook on the premises. The English applied that wretched word to everything in their country, it seemed. Was there an improper cook then? Because as Kawena had pointed out to Lord James, the servants seemed well nourished, so someone must be cooking for them. He’d brushed her comment aside. Apparently, making logical arguments to housekeepers was another action forbidden by English propriety.

  Kawena had a sudden vivid recollection of her mother’s house, where savory tidbits would be pressed on her whenever she returned from a few hours absence. She had an established place there. No one criticized her behavior—at least, not often. It was full of people she knew and cared for, and nothing at all like this huge, echoing building peopled by strangers. A tide of bitter homesickness swept over her. It would not be resisted. Deploring her weakness, Kawena threw herself onto the bed and wept.

  * * *

  James strode along the London streets, fuming. A stream of people trudged along with him to the east, pushing through a throng making its way west. Where could they all be going? Why didn’t they just stay where they were? Then there’d be no need to jostle and mutter and consign them all to perdition.

  He wondered how many of them, like him, had nowhere to go. He’d had to get out of the house, but he knew no one in London, really, had no connections in this huge, filthy city. He stopped walking; a man behind cursed as he bumped into him. There was one person…

  James searched his mind for the name of the club where he was likely to encounter Robert. He’d heard it spoken of a thousand times, by several of his brothers. But he’d taken little interest in their talk of town life. It was a color. He remembered that much. Red didn’t seem likely for some reason. Blue or yellow? No. White’s—that was it.

  James had to ask his way more than once before he found the place. But luck was with him when he inquired at the front door. His brother was indeed there, and at once invited him inside.

  The clubroom was nearly empty. One or two fellows paged through newspapers, glasses of wine at their elbows. With all his fashionable friends out of town, Robert professed himself delighted to see him. “You must dine with me and perhaps have a hand of cards?”

  James agreed easily to the first, his mouth watering at the idea of a juicy round of roast beef rather than grudgingly proffered sandwiches, and accepted a drink as he settled opposite his brother.

  “How’s the treasure hunt going?” Robert asked.

  “It’s over.”

  “What, you’ve given up?”

  “No, Miss Benson found the jewels.”

  “She did?” Robert raised one auburn brow. “Not you?”

  It was one of the things that rankled, James realized. He’d exerted himself to help her, but in the end she hadn’t needed his help. Only admittance to his family home, where he—her self-appointed protector—had proceeded to risk her reputation… He made a dismissive gesture. He didn’t cut a particularly heroic figure in the discovery.

  “One of your crew members had them?” Robert prompted.

  James shook his head. There was no hiding the truth. He could replace the figure on the shelf, but Kawena was bound to tell Ariel, and the tale would spread. Besides, why should he? So he gave Robert the whole story.

  “At Langford House the whole time,” his brother marveled at the end. Smiling, he added, “I remember that figure now you mention it. Mama opened the parcel in front of some high-nosed prude. She was not amused.”

  James emptied his wineglass.

  “The prude, I mean,” said Robert. “Mama found it funny—in retrospect, anyway. I caught her laughing about it.”

  “I should have remembered the cursed thing,” James replied, the wine having some effect.

  Robert shrugged. “You’re always sending some odd trinket or other. I don’t wonder you’d lose track. There was the stone neck ring and the peacock fan and that terrifying female with all the arms. And the tongue.”

  “The…oh, Kali.” He’d forgotten that statue, too. There had been many figurines over the years. James felt a bit better.

  They moved into the dining room and addressed heaping plates that did indeed include a fine roast beef. James savored the excellent food and drink, and the company. This was the sort of easy fraternal occasion prohibited by his chosen life. A navy man became inured to being thousands of miles away from his family, or he quit. James’s fork paused on the way to his mouth as he contemplated the latter option.

  “So, is Miss Benson leaving for her home now?” Robert asked when they had made serious inroads on the meal.

  “She hasn’t confided her plans to me.”

  His brother looked up, blue eyes suddenly keen.

  “She wants to go back to Oxford first,” James added, trying to sound less sarcastic, more unconcerned. “She’s invited Miss Jennings to tag along.”

  “Really?” Robert sipped his wine. “Perhaps I’ll go with you as well.”

  “You? I thought you found universities duller than ditchwater.”

  “Well…I haven’t seen Alan since Nathaniel’s wedding.” Robert twirled his glass by the stem and contemplated the ruby contents.

  “Indeed. Weeks ago. And you’re in the habit of visiting Alan often, I suppose.”

  Robert shook his head without meeting his brother’s eyes.

  “What exactly is going on between you and Flora Jennings?” James asked.

  Robert finished off the glass in one quick gulp. “I don’t know,” was his glum reply.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You hang about a girl for a good long while, apparently. Learning Arcadian, for God’s sake—”

  “Akkadian,” Robert corrected. “And you can’t precisely learn it.”

  “You begin to sound utterly unl
ike yourself,” James continued at this further piece of evidence. “And then you say you don’t know why?”

  “I have to make her admit that I’m not a waste of the air I breathe,” Robert blurted out.

  “Nobody thinks you’re a—”

  “She does. She says so at every opportunity.”

  James examined the handsome face across the table. Here was Robert, always the most self-assured of his brothers, a leader of fashion and a darling of society, acting like an awkward schoolboy. “Why would you care what Miss Jennings thinks? She doesn’t seem to be the sort of person whose good opinion you’ve ever…valued.”

  “A nobody by the reckoning of the ton,” Robert agreed in an odd tone of voice. “No influence, not the least bit stylish, far too serious to be considered a wit.” He laughed, once again sounding quite unlike himself.

  “What’s wrong with you?” James asked.

  Robert looked at him. “That is the question, little brother.”

  “I’m not your little brother; I’m three inches taller,” he objected. He considered probing further, then gave it up. Robert seemed to have no notion what he was about, and he didn’t have the patience for mysteries. “Come to Oxford, if you like,” he said, refilling their glasses. “You’re your own man.”

  And so was he, James thought. If he could just get a new ship, he’d sail away from all these hints and enigmas. He’d return to a world where people had clear ranks and knew how they had to behave. They did the proper thing, or they found themselves in serious trouble. Someone had once asked him why a man with four older brothers would want to place himself under other men’s orders. The thing of it was, in the navy you had a clear chain of command. It wasn’t a rowdy bunch of boys dragging you from one scheme to the next, or trying to argue you into three different pranks at the same time. Each man received his orders and carried them out. And then, of course, there was the sea, endlessly fascinating. He missed the sea. James sighed at the memory of its ever-changing colors and moods.

  Of course, it rankled that he wouldn’t captain his own vessel again for a long time. He thrust aside triumphant memories of the Charis. He was hardly in charge of the way his life was going now. As soon as he’d returned Miss Benson to his brother’s house, he would inquire at the Admiralty again. James nodded to himself, ignoring a stab of regret at the idea of leaving her. The plum postings went to men who continually pressed their cases, so he—

  “Don’t you think?” said Robert.

  “What?”

  “Am I boring you?” his brother asked wryly. “I beg your pardon. It’s an…unaccustomed role for me.”

  “I was just thinking about a new posting,” James told him.

  “Have you gotten your orders?”

  “I expect them very soon,” he answered, assuring himself as much as anyone.

  Fourteen

  In the end, they all four traveled back to Oxford together. Kawena sat with Flora in the post chaise. James and Robert rode beside it, now and then keeping pace to exchange a few words. Despite Miss Jennings’s cordial company, Kawena couldn’t help feeling dissatisfied by the arrangement. The trip out had been so much more…fun, exciting, adventurous. This one was…proper, she supposed. “Miss Jennings, can I ask—”

  “Do call me Flora,” her companion put in.

  This was a sign of offered friendship, Kawena remembered. The English had rules about naming, as about everything else. “Flora,” she echoed. “I wanted to talk to you about propriety.”

  Her companion looked surprised. “What about it?”

  How to begin? Flora looked like the essence of English propriety in her neat, dark blue gown and bonnet, and yet Kawena had gathered that she was not conventional. “I understand politeness,” she said, “and I believe it is important to be kind. I would always wish to be. But this idea of the ‘proper’ thing…it seems quite…arbitrary to me.” She was rather proud of remembering that word. “And some of the rules are just silly.” She held up her hands. “Why must I wear gloves when it is hot outside? My hands sweat inside them. It is very unpleasant.”

  Flora laughed. “You may certainly take them off here in the carriage. I won’t be offended.”

  “But if we stop and get down, I am expected to wear them, even though they accomplish nothing.” Kawena looked at the thin coverings. “I don’t think these would keep my hands warm if it was cold.” She pulled them off.

  “No.” Flora looked at her own gloves.

  “But they are proper, and so considered very important.”

  “By some,” her companion replied.

  “Not you?”

  Flora started to shake her head, then hesitated. “Well…yes and no.”

  Kawena cocked her head, inviting the other woman to explain.

  “I want to do as I please,” Flora went on, “but the truth is, I hate being whispered about, or mocked. Mama has always advised, since I was small, that the gossips don’t tattle about what they don’t notice.”

  Kawena remembered Mrs. Jennings’s regrets. “Perhaps they wouldn’t mock you.”

  “Society distrusts difference,” declared Flora positively. “They turn on those—particularly women—whose lives do not follow certain patterns—propriety, as you say.”

  “People like the duke’s family?” Lord James had said his mother would disapprove of their conduct in her house.

  “All the haut ton.” Flora’s mouth turned down. “But I should say the appearance of propriety. They define hypocrisy as discretion.”

  Kawena had no idea what this meant.

  Flora went on before she could ask. “And so I will not put myself in their power.” She looked fierce.

  “But why do people waste time searching out these…missteps?” Kawena asked. “Surely they have better things to do?”

  Her companion laughed. “They don’t, actually. Or, they don’t bother to find anything better. And so, they’re bored. There’s spite as well, and envy.” Suddenly, she looked discouraged.

  “I don’t know how anyone endures, or remembers, all the rules,” Kawena said. “It’s like being tangled in a fishing net.” She had thought this before, imagining a fish twisting and turning in the mesh.

  Flora moved her shoulders as if she felt that constriction. “It’s not all bad. The proprieties sometimes offer a refuge. They can protect women from insult, even attack should they come into contact with…plausible villains.”

  Something in her tone and expression struck Kawena. “Have you encountered such men?”

  “I have. They are one important reason I try to help poor children, who are not sheltered by the rules of propriety.”

  Kawena had been poor, and now she was not. Did this change her relation to propriety? “How do you keep track of all the rules? It seems that every time I move, another one pops up.”

  “Oh, we’re bred to it from time we can first walk and speak,” replied Flora bitterly.

  “I was on the beach naked when I began to walk,” said Kawena.

  Flora blinked at her, clearly a bit shocked. “Were you really?”

  As Kawena nodded, she understood that even this rather unconventional Englishwoman found her background…startling. It seemed she would never fit in here, even if she wished to.

  * * *

  They arrived in Oxford to a warm welcome and a pleasant bustle. Ariel wouldn’t hear of anyone going to an inn, even though she had to put Flora in with Kawena and Alan’s two brothers in a room together. Nor would she accept any payment when Kawena drew her aside to thank her once again for her many favors. Reclaiming her borrowed gowns, she merely gave advice about where Kawena could purchase needed items in Oxford, and professed herself ready to accompany her on any shopping expeditions. Kawena let it go, privately vowing she would find a way to express her gratitude, as the group settled into the hospitable household.

/>   “I think it must be interpreted as ‘behest,’” said Lord Robert at dinner two nights later.

  “Nonsense,” replied Flora Jennings. “As it is near the glyph referring to King Sargon, it would obviously be ‘command.’”

  “No one has yet deciphered the connecting marks,” he argued. “So there is no way to be sure.”

  Heads at the table turned from him to Flora, like observers of a lawn tennis match. The pair’s dialogue had been much the same since they returned from the Bodleian Library, where Lord Alan had helped them get access to a special collection.

  “My father thought the relationship quite clear,” Flora retorted.

  “With the studies he had at the time. But since then—”

  “I will not,” began Flora, holding up a warning hand, “hear my father contradicted by a mere dabbler.”

  Lord Robert scowled. “I think I have demonstrated that I am more than that.”

  His brothers looked surprised and amused, Kawena noticed. Ariel was biting her lower lip, as if to hide a smile.

  “You have a certain easy facility, and for some reason you like to pretend interest.”

  “There’s no pretense about it! I’ve slogged away for hours at this stuff.”

  Their eyes locked across the dining table. Kawena could practically feel a sizzle of connection pass between them. Then Lord James snorted, and they became conscious that everyone was looking at them. Flora flushed and looked away. Lord Robert poured another glass of wine. There was a short silence while he drank it.

  “We should get ready to leave,” Ariel said then. “I’m sure you’ll all enjoy Professor Fiorenza’s talk this evening.”

  James seriously doubted it. On the contrary, he was pretty certain that he wouldn’t. But Ariel had been so generous with her hospitality. If she wanted them to turn out for some speech, he had to rally ’round. Particularly as she’d hinted that he—out of everyone—needed to be there.