The Duke's Mysterious Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  THE DUKE’S MYSTERIOUS LADY

  By

  Maggi Andersen

  Copyright © Maggi Andersen 2014

  Re-issue of RULES OF CONDUCT

  Cover Art: Erin Dameron-Hill

  Edited by Amylynn Macuda

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.

  ISBN: ISBN-10:0646924206

  ISBN-13:978-0-646-92420-5

  Contents

  THE DUKE’S MYSTERIOUS LADY

  Copyright © Maggi Andersen 2014

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In Memory of Samantha

  THE DUKE’S MYSTERIOUS LADY

  What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;

  Present mirth hath present laughter;

  What’s to come is still unsure:

  Twelfth Night, SHAKESPEARE

  Chapter One

  Summer, Oxfordshire, England, 1819

  Hugh Beauchamp, 3rd Duke of Vale, propped his Hessian boots on the seat opposite, just as the coach hit a deep rut in the road and lurched on its springs. He muttered a curse, tilted his hat to cover his face, closed his eyes and hoped for sleep. A faint hope, even in a coach as well sprung as his. He admitted that he made a poor passenger, preferring to have his hands on the reins and in control of his destiny. But even if he drove the deuced coach, his destiny did not lie in his hands.

  Hugh sighed as his thoughts returned to London. He’d left with the Season in full swing having waltzed twice with Felicity at Almacks. As expected, their dancing produced a flurry of excitement among the dowagers.

  Already an adept flirt, Felicity’s playful, brown eyes had sparkled at him over her fan. London Society was at her feet and she relished every moment. It was as inevitable as one season follows another that he and Felicity would marry. On her eighteenth birthday, only a matter of weeks away, their engagement was to be announced at a ball at Vale Park.

  Felicity was pretty, engaging, and a lively companion, any man would be fortunate to marry her. Hugh threw off his hat and raked his hands through his hair. So, what drove him back to the country with a burning need to ride over his acres, as if his life depended on it?

  Several hours later, Hugh yawned and opened the window to breathe in lungful’s of fresh country air. The violet sky was cloudless, deepening towards twilight. Leafy woods of oak, ash and beech swept by, giving way to fields of russet earth enclosed by thorn hedges. London, with its depressing smells of decay, coal fires, and the rotten stink rising from the Thames at low tide, slipped thankfully from his thoughts.

  The towering roofs and chimneys of his neighboring property, High Ridge Manor appeared through the trees, the home of his boy-hood friend, Harry Carstairs. Years had passed since he raced with Harry, their horses clearing the fences with the recklessness of boyhood. At the thought, Hugh felt like a boy again and removed his feet from the seat, as if Nanny Bryant was about to rebuke him. He grinned, admitting that even now, at seven-and-twenty, he jumped a gate or two when the devil seized him. Might Harry still suffer from a similar impulse? He doubted it. Harry was now a serious Member of Parliament and committed father of two.

  A shout roused Hugh from his reverie. With a curse, the coachman hauled the horses to a stop in the narrow lane. Hugh’s manservant, Peter, jumped down from the box.

  “What’s amiss?” Hugh threw open the carriage door and leapt out, pistol in hand. It was years since highwaymen were seen in these parts and they’d come off the worse last time, with one man dead and the other wounded in his escape.

  With dusk falling, the lane was shadowy and dim beneath the dense canopy of leaves.

  “Here, Your Grace!” Peter called.

  “Careful, Peter!”

  After a quick appraisal of the bushes crowding the lane, Hugh ran to join his men. Peter was crouched beside a body lying on the road, perilously close to the horses’ plunging hooves.

  A trick? Hugh tightened his grip on the pistol. “Back up the horses,” he urged his coachman. “Be quick about it.”

  Peter grabbed the traces, and he and Jack edged the nervous horses away, their flesh quivering and their nostrils steaming in the cool air. With another glance at the silent, dark woods encroaching on both sides of the road, Hugh hunkered beside the inert form. Gently rolling the body over, he slipped a hand into the lad’s shirt searching for a heartbeat.

  Hugh pulled his hand back as if stung. “Devil take us, ’tis a woman!” As he moved her, the woman’s cap fell off and long strands of fair hair escaped, spreading over her shoulders.

  “Bring a lantern here.”

  While the coachman held the lantern high, Hugh gazed speechlessly at her, his fingers still warm from contact with firm, soft flesh. The thin material of her shirt barely concealed the thrust of young breasts beneath. Pantaloons hugged her slender legs, her boots thick with grime. The shirt strings lay open across her delicate throat, where a jewel-encrusted silver locket gleamed in the lantern light.

  Hugh smoothed hair away from her mud-streaked face. “No sign of bleeding, but she has a bump on her head the size of an egg.” He took hold of her wrist. She was far too pale, but at least her pulse felt strong.

  “Cor, she ain’t half dirty, Your Grace.” Peter wrinkled his nose in distaste. “She smells of the barnyard.”

  “That she does.” Hugh slipped his arms around her shoulders and beneath her knees. With scant regard for his silk-lined, multi-caped greatcoat, he hefted her up and placed her inside the coach. “On to Vale Park, Jack.”

  She failed to stir as he tucked a traveling rug around her.

  Night fell quickly in the country. A mist-shrouded moon added its frail light to the dim coach lanterns. The young woman lay motionless, her chest rising and falling, the only sign she lived. He could only hope that burned feathers or smelling salts would bring her round.

  He turned her small hand over in his large one. Nails well cared for, skin soft and callous free. No evidence of hard labor.

  Not a housemaid then. A seamstress or a governess from one of the big houses in the district? What had driven her to dress as a male then? He sat back and studied her, her delicate features and long limbs, the boots a young servant boy might wear, and from a good house by the look of them. He leaned forward and fingered the locket. Was she absconding with this piece of jewelry?

  Within the half-hour, the coach entered the black and gold wrought-iron gates displaying the Vale coat of arms. The gatekeeper saluted as they passed by. Carriage lamps flickering, they plunged into the solid darkness of the home wood.

  They e
merged from the trees, and after another quick assessment of the woman’s condition, Hugh turned to the window as the coach wheels clattered over the bridge. Braziers burned in sconces along the lake wall, casting a warm, orange glow over the stone towers, the water turned to rippling fire.

  Footmen hurried to open the door while Hugh’s butler, Porter, began his careful descent of the steps. Porter was brought to a halt, mouth agape, as Hugh pushed past him, carrying the unconscious woman in his arms, her hair swinging down.

  “Been at the malt again, Porter?” Hugh called over his shoulder. “I want the crimson bedchamber prepared. Mrs. Moodie will oversee it. Send a boy to the village for the surgeon, Tout de suite!”

  His stately gait abandoned, Porter scurried past him. An occasional tipple when Hugh was away was an unspoken agreement between them, but now he’d better remember to keep the cork in the bottle.

  At Porter’s direction, the housekeeper and the housemaids hurried upstairs, and one of the under-grooms went off to fetch the doctor from the village.

  Hugh entered the bedchamber where a maid was busy making the bed. With a shocked glance at the girl in his arms, she smoothed the clean sheets. “Fetch a warming pan,” Hugh ordered. He lay the unconscious woman down while a footman knelt at the hearth, laying a fire.

  Hugh looked around with satisfaction. Although this chamber seldom saw a visitor these days, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a cobweb. The assiduous Mrs. Moodie, housekeeper at Vale Park held a rod of iron over everyone in the house except Porter. Most were afraid of her temper. An Irish kitchen hand had called her ‘The Banshee’ behind her back, and although he’d long left Hugh’s employ, the name had stuck. She did her job and did it well and that was good enough for now.

  When he and Felicity married, these matters would never be brought to his attention. Somehow, the thought failed to improve his mood.

  At this moment, Mrs. Moodie appeared at her most formidable as she stood at the end of the bed, her arms folded and lips pressed together.

  Ignoring her silent protest, Hugh moved the candelabra closer to the woman’s face. Her condition hadn’t altered. “She’s to be washed as soon as the doctor has seen her.” He turned and left the room.

  As he made his way to his chamber to wash off the travel dust and change for dinner, Hugh wondered at his judgment. The girl should have been put to bed in the servant’s quarters, but she wouldn’t be so well cared for there and for some obscure reason, he thought she deserved better. He would have to deal with this swiftly before gossip spread.

  The ton thrived on scandal. Rumors, completely unsubstantiated and unfair, were already doing the rounds in London concerning his championship of Princess Caroline, after she had approached him on the Continent and begged him to take up her cause. Rumors didn’t concern him overmuch. There was no basis for such reports. His friends would never believe salacious lies about him, but they considered his dealings with Prinny’s wife reckless and did not hesitate to tell him so.

  He could only imagine what they would think of his latest course of action.

  ****

  The surgeon, Matthew Gayle, entered the room as Hugh slouched in his favorite wing chair, savoring a glass of wine. His two hounds sat at his feet basking in the warmth of the fire and the joy of their master’s return. “Glass of wine, Matthew?” Hugh asked, as Porter drew a chair for the surgeon closer to the fire.

  “Lord, yes. Thank you.”

  “How did you find the young woman?”

  “She might be concussed. Injuries to the head are very hard to judge. We’ll have to see.”

  Matthew, the younger son of an impoverished viscount was hardworking man. Hugh had great respect for his skill, as Matthew had trained at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, forgoing a life of distinction and wealth as a physician in London to remain a surgeon in the county where he was born.

  Matthew laid the piece of jewelry on the arm of Hugh’s chair. “Found this around her neck. A splendid piece. The gems are real.” He took a sip of wine and sighed, leaning back in his chair. “This is a damn fine vintage, Duke. So light, such balance. What is it?”

  “A good friend sent me a case from France, Chateau Lafite Rothschild.” Hugh studied the silver locket inlaid with rubies and pearls. He flipped the lid open with his thumb. The likeness inside was badly water-damaged. He could make out a man’s face, but not if he was young or old. Hugh turned the locket over in his palm. “There’s some kind of crest on the back, but the engraving is faint. Do you recognize it?”

  “Nothing I’ve seen.” Fatigue lined Matthew’s face. He stifled a yawn.

  “You work too hard, Matt.”

  “I now have an apprentice. John Miller.”

  “The apothecary?”

  “He shows an eagerness to learn more than the skills of a pill pusher.”

  “This country is growing fast; we’re going to need many more good doctors.” Hugh held the locket up to the candlelight and studied the delicate filigree. “Tell me more about the woman. Does she suffer other injuries?”

  “Just that head wound. She did regain consciousness, briefly, but was confused. She’s lapsed into a deep sleep, the best thing for her.” He drained his wine, and held the glass out to Porter who hovered with the decanter. “Where did you find her?”

  “Back up the road a way, between here and Molton’s Cross. She didn’t come from Lady Felicity’s home, Hallidon House, of that I am sure. There’s High Ridge Manor, I’ve sent a servant to inquire there and to the village. Perhaps she fell from a vehicle. Or thrown from a horse? Interesting, eh, Matthew?”

  “Never seen her around these parts. She’s no raw-boned wench. Perhaps the wrong side of the blanket? Many a bastard has been tucked away in the country. And that piece of jewelry…well, she may have stolen it. Mrs. Moodie has had her bathed. She looked like she’d been sleeping with the livestock. I must say, I was surprised to find her in one of your grand bedchambers. Surely, the servant’s quarters would be more suitable.”

  Hugh shifted in his chair. “It was convenient, but the servants’ quarters are where she’ll go, once she recovers.”

  “Rest is what she needs, and then we’ll get some answers. Hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?” prompted Hugh. “You mean she may not remember?”

  “Well, in these cases you never can be sure. Usually memory returns quickly—within days, but in the odd case, never.”

  He shrugged. “And she may not want to tell us the truth.”

  Hugh gazed into the fire as if answers were to be found in the flames. This episode had driven his own concerns to the back of his mind. Now they settled over him like a dark cloud. His other business in town had ended in abject failure. At the urging of concerned friends, he had attempted to smooth over his disagreement with the Prince Regent. When Prinny had turned his back on Hugh, he had stormed out of the prince’s apartments.

  Unwise on many levels. Hypercritical to expect Prinny to do the honorable thing, without him doing the same.

  He stirred a sleepy dog with his foot. The animal stood for a moment and shook its head, ears flapping, before settling again with an audible sigh. Hugh’s thoughts merely made him more impatient, and he turned to his guest. “Good of you to come so late, Matthew. Will you stay to dine?”

  “Indeed I will. I’m not likely to refuse a meal at your table, Your Grace. I trust you still employ that French chef?”

  Hours later, after a superb saddle of venison and several glasses of mellow port, Hugh climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. He paused in the corridor outside the young woman’s chamber, and then on impulse, opened the door. The candles had guttered and the fire was reduced to embers.

  The seconds stretched into minutes as he stood there.

  Moonlight shone through the leaded windows, creating a pattern of light and shade across the bed. The girl slept deeply. Her hair washed and braided, lay over the pillow, her face in shadow.

  Hugh listened to her quiet breathing. A prickli
ng sensation traveled up his spine, as if something of great significance had happened. He loosened his cravat, angry with himself and his need for a distraction. She could be fleeing her employer with a stolen locket. When she regained her senses, he would have her moved into a maid’s room.

  Should he call the town magistrate? He found he didn’t want to see her suffer at the hands of the law. She’d more likely be recovered by week’s end and gone from the house. He would have answers from her before she left, however, and looked forward to hearing her story.

  Chapter Two

  As if she wished to remain cocooned in a safe place, she drifted slowly back to consciousness. Then, forced to open her eyes, she gazed blearily at the festooned valance and bed-hangings of gold-embroidered crimson. With a small distressed whimper, she fingered the spotless linen bedclothes covering her body. Her heart thudded, and her head throbbed. Panicked, she threw back the bedcover to discover a lawn nightgown, well darned, the fabric worn thin from washing.

  “This isn’t mine, surely,” she muttered uneasily. When she sat up too fast, her woolly head swam and her stomach churned. With a moan, she sank back onto the pillows, her cautious fingers moving over her scalp, examining the sore lump under her hair. She eased herself into a sitting position and gazed around the elegant chamber at the crimson Turkish carpet covering the floor, the green damask chair embroidered with deer, the French gilt desk and the commode. A large, gilt mirror hung above the fireplace mantel. All of which were completely strange to her. She uttered an anguished gasp.

  A harsh birdcall broke the silence. Swaying on her feet, she tottered to the stone window embrasure and pulled aside the heavy curtain.

  “Am I dreaming?” She couldn’t be, her head hurt too much. Yellow roses climbed a trellis attached to honeyed stone below her. Green fields dotted with white daisies stretched away to the distant sparkle of sunlight on water. A soft summer breeze stirred her hair carrying the sweet perfume of honeysuckle. If only her head would stop throbbing. She breathed deeply; her mind seemed in a dreadful fog.