Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  “There he was, my half-brother Nigel, thirty-two years old and a successful solicitor and personal assistant to the first Lord Northway, special counsel to the young Queen Victoria.”

  At the mention of Lord Northway’s name, Claire’s eyes widened and she felt as if she couldn’t get her breath.

  “Nigel sent Mum to hospital and had her nursed and nourished back to health. He fed us, clothed us and regaled us with tales of the rich and royal. With one provision—his birth, his relationship and all things connected with us, must never be mentioned by me or my mum.

  “One day in the summer of ’46, he showed us a photogravure cameo of a striking beauty. He said her name was Mellisand. He was taking it to London’s—and the world’s—finest goldsmith, Sir Rodney Atkinson at Cartier’s. Atkinson’s commission was to replicate this profile—” Olivia paused, looked at the wide-eyed Claire “—in twenty-four-karat bas-relief against mother-of-pearl. And Mellisand was—”

  “My mother,” Claire said softly.

  “Yes, child. Your beautiful mother. I spotted the kinship—the high cheekbones and striking eyes especially—the moment you were dumped into Newgate.”

  “And your vow of secrecy?”

  “No harm to tell it now. Dear Nigel was killed in Berkeley Square by a runaway carriage.”

  “And your mother?”

  “My mum died the next month, a fever took her.”

  “And you?”

  Olivia smiled. “I fell into bad company and enjoyed every minute of it.” She sighed then and sobered. “You know the rest. I fell madly in love but he was killed before we could be married, before I gave birth to his daughter.” Olivia shook her head sadly. “After that I didn’t care what happened to me. I lived on the streets of London, was in and out of Old Bailey.” She smiled again and, patting Claire’s knee, said, “And then one hot summer night, you came into my life and saved me.”

  “You dear old girl,” Claire said and hugged Olivia. When she released her, she said, making it more of a statement than a question, “My mother and the elder Lord Northway?”

  “It was before your mother married your father,” Olivia assured her. “They say she was the love of Lord Northway’s life. As you know, your mother was, for a short time, a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. That’s how they met, she and Lord Northway.”

  Claire nodded. “Why didn’t they marry?”

  “He was a wealthy member of Great Britain’s aristocracy and already engaged to a viscount’s daughter. When his love affair with your mother was discovered, she was cast out of the Queen’s household and he was sent away to India. Three months later his intended arrived in India and she and Lord Northway were married.”

  “But I’m not…?”

  “No, no. You’re not Lord Northway’s daughter,” Olivia assured her.

  “But my mother loved him and they—”

  “Yes. They had an affair.”

  “And the kindly Lord Northway, the younger, that represented me, the barrister who got me out of Newgate, knew who I was? He knew that his father and my mother were once lovers?”

  Using her walking stick, Olivia leveraged herself to her feet. She looked down at Claire. “Thousands whose mothers weren’t are still rotting in jail.”

  Thirty-One

  Claire stayed on the back veranda long after Olivia had gone inside to take a nap. Idly fingering the medallion, she thought about her mother falling helplessly in love with the first Lord Northway. Claire understood; she felt great empathy for her mother.

  How sad to have loved a man who could never be hers.

  Claire suddenly shuddered despite the warmth of the sun.

  The same thing was happening to her.

  She was falling helplessly in love with the Nevada Silver King, a man who, also, could never be hers.

  Claire took a slow, shallow breath. Her lungs hurt. Her heart throbbed dully. It seemed too big for her chest. She bit her lip and blinked back unshed tears. But she promised herself she would never let Hank know that she loved him.

  She would, just as planned, continue to behave the breezy, brazen lover who had not a care in the world nor a thought of tomorrow.

  After all, that’s what Hank liked most about the Duchess of Beaumont.

  Hank hurried up Fifth Avenue.

  Lost in thought, his head down, he turned into the wide door of Tiffany’s and bumped squarely into a short, rotund man who was exiting the shop.

  “I beg your pardon,” Hank was quick to apologize and reached out to steady the fellow he had nearly knocked down. “Are you hurt, sir?”

  “No, No, I’m—Cassidy? Hank Cassidy?” exclaimed the startled man, holding on to Hank’s arms, fighting to regain his balance. “The Nevada Silver King?”

  “Why if it’s not Lord Wardley Nardees!” Hank said with a friendly smile. “We’ve been expecting you at the Springs.”

  “I’ll be coming up,” assured the baron. “You’re going to be there for the final racing program at the end of August, aren’t you? The Travers Stakes?”

  “I just came down to the city for the day to take care of a little business,” Hank said, shaking his head. “I’m catching the late afternoon train back up. Will you be on the train?”

  “Ah, no, I, too, have a bit of business to conduct here in the city,” said Nardees. “However, I should be up by tomorrow evening. You have any promising Thoroughbreds running this year?”

  “Several,” said Hank with pride. “You? Bring any speedsters over this year?”

  The lord nodded. “I’ve a bay stallion that’s sure to take the Travers on closing day.”

  Hank laughed and shook his head. “Not if I can help it. I have a couple of the finest Thoroughbreds my Kentucky farm has ever produced.” His eyes flashing, he said, “One’s a three-year-old stallion called Black Satin. It’ll take some mighty stiff competition to beat him.” Hank put out his hand for the shorter man to shake. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in a bit of hurry.”

  “The devil take you!” exclaimed Lord Northway, frowning at the mere prospect of Hank’s Thoroughbred beating his bay in the much publicized Travers Stakes. The baron was accustomed to having his way. “Cassidy, I want that horse of yours! I want to buy Black Satin. Right here and now.”

  Hank just laughed. “We’ll talk when you get to the Springs. Good day to you, Lord Nardees.” He stepped around the scowling lord and ducked inside.

  A quarter past seven.

  The evening meal in the Nardees’s suite at the Waldorf.

  It was more like a three-ring circus than a quiet family dinner. Timothy, the youngest son, had promptly turned over his glass the minute it was placed before him. Milk spilled across the table, soaking a great portion of the pink damask cloth and splashing the table’s centerpiece, a huge bouquet of artfully arranged red roses. The drooping petals were now more white than red.

  “Give me your milk, Malcolm!” the child shouted as he reached for his brother’s glass.

  “I will not!” Malcolm yelled and stiff armed Timothy.

  Meanwhile, Katherine, the baby of the family, was up on her knees in her chair, reaching across the table for her father’s stemmed wineglass. His utter self-absorption playing into Katherine’s hands, he never even noticed.

  His napkin tucked in beneath his double chin, sterling fork and knife firmly gripped in his hands, Lord Nardees was busy attacking a large platter of rare roast beef. A huge bite of the succulent meat disappeared into his mouth and he chewed, smacking loudly, grease dripping from the left corner of his mouth.

  He was in heaven. Good food was one of his weaknesses. But not the only one.

  Katherine drank down a half a glass of claret before her mother became aware. Preoccupied, a huge roasted turkey leg in her plump right hand, Lady Nardees reluctantly lowered her meat and began looking about for her napkin. She saw it had dropped to the floor, but wasn’t about to stoop over and pick it up. Lifting a portion of the damask tablecloth, she wiped her mouth on it, a
nd said, “Give me that glass, Katherine Anne!”

  “No!” sassed Katherine. “It’s mine and I—”

  Malcolm grabbed at the glass. It and its contents went flying across the room. The glass did not break but the dark-hued wine quickly saturated a segment of the plush Turkish rug.

  “There, that’s better,” said Beatrice Nardees and turned her full attention back to her half-eaten turkey leg.

  The hotel staff scurried back and forth, clearing away dishes and fetching up new ones piled high with kidneys, ham, chicken, fish and lamb and too many varied kinds of vegetables to keep count.

  The gluttonous five scrambled to beat each other to the loaded platters of food. There was much squabbling and reaching and slapping and grabbing. Each participant let out a shout of triumph when he or she managed to successfully snatch a piece of fried chicken or a hot yeast roll out from under another’s nose.

  While the hotel staff were horrified by the spectacle, it was a typical family meal for the Nardees clan.

  Finally, after an hour of combat and full bellies all around, dinner was finished. The table looked as if it had been attacked by a pack of hungry wolves. Not a single family member came through totally unscathed. Little Katherine, half tipsy from the pilfered wine, was bawling loudly. Timothy had meanly pushed her face down into her plate of strawberries and cream.

  Katherine’s tears had little effect on anyone.

  Lady Nardees sighed with contentment, unmindful of the gravy stains decorating the bodice of her expensive taffeta gown or the mustache of cream above her upper lip. Lord Nardees belched loudly and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his tight trousers. Dribbles of grease and dollops of gravy stained his shirtfront and vest.

  The boys were up from the table and down on the floor, wrestling. Katherine bawled louder and louder, determined to get the attention of her parents. It didn’t work.

  Lord Nardees reached for his wife’s hand, squeezed it, and got sticky whipped cream on his fingers. He withdrew his hand, wiped it on his napkin, and said with a smile, “I bought you a little trinket today, my love.”

  “What is it?” asked Beatrice, already growing sleepy from the big meal. “Give it to me this minute, Wardley.”

  “On one condition, my dear,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising. “You’ll promise to be understanding and supportive when I tell you I have a very important engagement with some fellow Thoroughbred owners this evening.”

  “If you must,” Lady Nardees said with a yawn. “I’m so tired I’m going straight to bed.” Then she turned in her chair to shout at her roughhousing sons. “You two stop that at once. And Katherine Anne, stop that crying. I can’t hear myself think!”

  Lord Nardees hurried to collect the small velvet box he had hidden earlier. When he handed it to his wife, she smiled at him and eagerly tore into the wrapped package. When she saw the exquisite necklace of ruby and diamonds, she beamed. “Why, Wardley, you dear boy. This will be perfect with the new scarlet ball gown I’m planning to wear on our first night in Saratoga.”

  Standing behind her chair and draping the necklace around her thick neck, her husband said, “Yes it will, Beatrice. You’ll be my fair English rose, just as always.” He fastened the necklace, leaned down and brushed a wet kiss to her chubby cheek.

  Lady Nardees turned her face inward, seeking his lips with her own. She kissed him and said, “Take Malcolm with you this evening. He’s twelve years old, time he started learning about the Thoroughbred business.”

  Displaying a parent’s concern, Lord Nardees straightened and said, “Out of the question, my dear. It may be necessary for me to be out quite late and the boy’s exhausted from our long ocean voyage. Malcolm needs his rest.”

  When Hank reached Saratoga, he hurried directly to the duchess’s estate. The minute she saw the carriage coming up the drive, Claire rushed outside and down the veranda steps to meet him. Hank stepped down from the carriage and she came into his arms.

  “I missed you,” she said, clinging to him, inhaling deeply of his clean masculine scent, struck as always by just how handsome he was.

  “Show me how much,” Hank said, his lips against her ear, arms wrapped tightly around her. He added in a whisper, “Where’s Olivia?”

  “Out. Dinner with Fox,” Claire said. “It’ll be at least an hour before they return.”

  “We’ll make the hour count,” Hank said. He swung her up into his arms and carried her inside.

  Claire laughed merrily as he climbed the stairs with her in his arms, taking them two at a time. Once he stepped inside the suite and closed the door behind him, Hank leaned back against it and kissed Claire. Not a hot, demanding kiss that instantly aroused her body. But an incredibly sweet caress that thoroughly touched her heart.

  When Hank lifted his head and looked at her, she said softly, “I want you to love me the same way you kissed me.”

  Hank understood completely. He carried her to the bed, undressed her and himself, and took her with great tenderness. He was gentle and caring and sensitive. When at last he had skillfully coaxed her to a shattering climax and his own was coming as well, he whispered, “I love you, darling. I love you.”

  Claire did not reply, just clung to him, holding him tightly against her thundering heart. She didn’t dare believe that he meant what he said. He was just caught up in the moment. He’d likely said those words to dozens of women.

  After several long minutes of silence, Claire kissed Hank’s shoulder and said, “Darling, that was the sweetest loving I’ve ever known.”

  A muscle flexed in Hank’s tanned jaw. He tried not to think about the dozens of men with whom she had made love. What difference did it make? Why should he care how many there had been. He’d had a few himself.

  He finally said, “And you’re the sweetest lover I’ve ever known.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured, stretching and sighing.

  She told him again how much she had missed him, how the day had been interminably long without him. They talked about his trip down into the city, although he revealed little.

  Claire turned over onto her stomach, draped her folded arms over his chest, and rested her chin in her hands. Toying with a long strand of her golden hair, Hank mentioned that he had bumped into one of her countrymen while he was in the city. A Thoroughbred owner who would be a competitor at this year’s racing finals, the coveted Travers Stakes. He said the wealthy, titled nobleman, who owned a string of fine horses, would be probably coming to Saratoga tomorrow.

  “You might know him, Charmaine,” Hank said. “Nardees. Lord Wardley Nardees.” Claire became short of breath. “You okay?” Hank asked. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?”

  Thirty-Two

  The plump, foppish Lord Nardees was sweating profusely by the time he climbed the stone steps of the stately three-story mansion across from Central Park.

  In his haste to get to Palmetto Palace, he had not taken the time to bathe or change his soiled clothing after dinner. No matter, he simpered to himself. He didn’t plan to keep these clothes on long once he was inside.

  The obese lord drew a labored breath and rang the bell. He looked anxiously about, hoping no one would see him. He was relieved when the heavy door immediately opened and a tall, stone-faced butler admitted him with a nod.

  “There you are, Lord Nardees,” came that whiskey voice with its charming Southern accent. The smiling madam stepped into the spacious foyer.

  “Miss Abigail,” said Nardees and attempted to press a kiss on her cheek when she reached him.

  She artfully evaded him, laughing and hurriedly lifting a perfumed handkerchief to her nose.

  “Has all been made ready?” asked the eager lord.

  “You naughty impatient boy,” said Miss Abigail with a wink. “Indeed it is, milord.” She took his arm and guided him to the carpeted staircase. “I’ve had a room specially prepared. Everything you need. Ready and waiting.”

  “The girl? Is she…?”

 
; “Jennie is one of the most beautiful young ladies I’ve ever had,” assured Miss Abigail as they climbed the stairs. “Twenty-two years old. Pale blond hair. Flawless porcelain skin.” The lord’s breath grew short, labored. Miss Abigail continued, “The face of an angel. The body of a—”

  “Stop! Please, stop,” cautioned Lord Nardees. “If you tell me more I shall have heart palpitations before I ever get to see her.”

  Miss Abigail laughed gaily. “Then suffice it is to say that you are going to be absolutely mad about Jennie.”

  “Is this lovely Jennie agreeable to…?”

  “Certainly. She longs only to please you, but…” Miss Abigail paused, as if in thought.

  Lord Nardees frowned. “What is it? There are restrictions? If so, I—”

  “No, dear, eager lord,” Miss Abigail assured him. “No restrictions. None, whatsoever. But since our beautiful Jennie won’t be available to entertain other gentlemen for at least two or three months after her evening with you, I feel that she should be handsomely rewarded for her service. Over and above the sum you’ll be settling with me.”

  Nardees nodded, reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the dazzling diamond choker he’d purchased earlier in the afternoon. “Think this will pacify?”

  It was Miss Abigail’s turn to breathe faster. Expensive jewels were her only weakness. She almost envied Jennie.

  Once upstairs, Miss Abigail ushered Lord Nardees down the wide, shadowy corridor. She saw that a couple of doors were open a crack, just wide enough for the curious girls to get a peek at the corpulent baron. Fortunately, he was so self-absorbed he never noticed.

  The madam escorted the baron on down the hallway to the very last door and into an elegantly appointed boudoir. She indicated an interior door.

  “Just in there is your…” She nodded and he understood. “The willing Jennie will join you here in a few moments. Make yourself comfortable, my lord. The caviar and champagne are right here on the table.”

  Lord Nardees sat down on a brocade sofa to wait. Excitement built with every passing moment. Would his companion be as lovely as Miss Abigail indicated? Would she be blond all over as he had requested?