By polite society. The servant class, much to Edith’s surprise, had been far more tolerant and welcoming.
Ventnor bowed over her hand. “Send me those writing samples, please, and I will consult my family on your behalf. Necessity sometimes compels us into situations we’d otherwise avoid, but circumstances unfortunate on their face can end happily.”
He spoke as if from experience, when to all appearances he was a contented and prosperous man.
“If you say so, Mr. Ventnor, though necessity has landed many a decent woman in ruin. Good afternoon and thank you for your time.” Edith let herself out into the lovely day, the sun a benevolence and the London air enjoying a rare freshness. The day was a lie, promising pretty flowers and blossom-scented breezes rather than the stinking oppression of the coming summer.
A pretty lie, like much of polite society.
Edith set off down the walk, abundantly aware that she had not even a footman to accompany her. Women of the lower orders moved about as they pleased, but their freedom made them less safe. As a companion to a duchess, Edith had been safe on the streets, something she’d taken for granted.
She ought not to have said that part about decent women being brought to ruin to Mr. Ventnor, though the word haunted her. That silly book—How to Ruin a Duke—couched ruin in terms of stupid pranks, idiot wagers, and pleasures of the flesh. Those venalities were hardly ruinous to a duke.
True ruin meant horrors that gave Edith nightmares. Debtor’s prison for Foster, worse for Edith herself.
She was so sunk in dread over those familiar worries that she didn’t see the oversized lout who plowed into her right on the walkway. The instant after he’d nearly trampled her, she caught his scent, a particular blend of grassy and floral fragrances.
Such a beautiful, warm fragrance for such a chilly, self-possessed man.
The Duke of Emory steadied her with a hand on each of her arms. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. I was at risk for tardiness at my next appointment and one is loath to inconvenience another who has—”
She stepped back, her reticule catching His Grace a glancing blow that he seemed not to notice. “Hands off, Your Grace. Please watch where you are going. Last I heard, gentlemen were to yield the way to ladies, but then—”
“You,” he said, glaring down the ducal beak. “The very person who has authored all of my difficulties.”
Emory was a monument to aristocratic self-possession, but unless he had changed very much in the past six months, he wasn’t given to rudeness or wild fancies.
“Your difficulties are the envy of those who must work for a living. Excuse me, sir.” She tried to maneuver around him, but for a big man, he was nimble.
“I do not excuse you. I hold you accountable for a wrong done to me and to my family, and I intend to seek retribution from the perpetrator.”
“Then call him out.” Edith dodged left only to again be blocked by a wall of fine tailoring exquisitely fitted to the ducal person. “That’s what Lord Jeremiah would do.” Then his lordship would probably delope, have a drink or six with his opponent, and go carousing onto the next potentially fatal lark. No wonder the duchess had been a woman easily vexed.
“Alas,” Emory retorted. “My detractor, who stands before me in the most horrid shade of pink I have ever beheld, is a female. One cannot call out a female, which said female well knows and likely exploits at every turn.”
“Are you tipsy, Emory?” Many wealthy men were seldom sober, but Edith had put Emory in the seldom drunk column. “Fevered, perhaps? Have you suffered a blow to the head? That must be it.”
“I have suffered a blow to my reputation, and well you know it.”
This conversation was attracting notice, which Edith could ill afford. “I’ll thank you to spare me a litany of the slights you image yourself to have suffered, Emory. Having already earned the notice of a satirist, you should be reluctant to accost women on the street, much less lecture them about your supposed miseries. Good day.”
She made it past him, but he fell in step beside her.
“Have you no escort, my lady?”
“Why would I need an escort when I can fly from one destination to the next on my broomstick?”
The hordes of pedestrians made way for Emory, and thus for Edith. Even an indignity as minor as getting jostled on the street had been an adjustment for her, an insistent reminder that she’d come down in the world, far down. She hated that Emory could see what she’d been reduced to, and resentment gave her tongue unladylike sharpness.
“And there,” Emory said, “we have a pathetic gesture in the direction of the feeble wit that has apparently inspired you to make a living with your pen.” He tipped his hat to a dowager mincing along on the arm of a young man. “You should have an escort because a lady does not travel the streets alone.”
“And who made up that rule?” Edith mused. “Instead of limiting a woman’s movements to those times when some hulking bullyboy is available to escort her, why don’t gentlemen of goodwill simply cosh the heads of the parasites who presume to assault the gentler sex in broad daylight? Fellows styling themselves as gentlemen could have a jolly time bloodying noses and wielding their fists while the ladies accomplished their errands in peace. But no, of course not. Englishmen could not be half so sensible. The ne’er-do-wells wander freely, while the ladies are shackled to the company of dandiprats and bores, all in the name of keeping the ladies from harm.”
Emory remained at her side right up to the corner. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He spoke quietly, and if Emory had one virtue—even his mother allowed that he had at least five—it was that he rarely used foul language in the hearing of any female.
Traffic refused to oblige Edith’s need to cross the street. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Cursing felt fiendishly good. “I was nearly knocked on my backside by male arrogance bearing the proportions of a mastodon. That same mastodon has insulted my only warm cloak, and he has made me a public spectacle while accusing me of behaviors that he apparently disapproves of. You clearly need a change of air, Emory. I intend to turn north here, I suggest you strut off to the south.”
She made a shooing motion.
He caught her hand and put it on his arm. “Literary notoriety has gone to your head. Her Grace would despair to hear you spouting such ungenteel sentiments. Perhaps you are the one in need of a change of air, my lady.”
Traffic cleared and as the crossing sweepers darted out to collect horse droppings, His Grace accompanied Edith to the next walkway.
“What I need, sir, is a decent meal, peace and quiet, and to be rid of you.”
“You do look peaked. All that flying about on broomsticks must be exhausting, but then, ruining dukes probably takes a toll on a lady’s energy too. Perhaps your conscience keeps you awake at night?”
He sauntered along, tossing out insults like bread crumbs for crows, while the crowds parted for him as if he were royalty. He was merely 42nd in line for the throne and the last person Edith wanted to spend time with.
“Are you ruined?” Edith asked, untwining her hand from his arm. “You look to be in obnoxiously good health to me.”
Both Lord Jeremiah and His Grace of Emory were attractive men, viewed objectively. Lord Jeremiah was the classically handsome brother, with wavy brown hair styled just so, a mouth made for drawling bon mots, and a physique that showed the benefit of regular athletic activity. His demeanor was congenial, his manner relaxed and gracious when in polite surrounds.
He could be an idiot, but he looked like a lord ought to look.
Without Lord Jeremiah as a contrast, Emory would have passed for handsome as well. Next to his younger sibling, though, the duke was two inches too tall for the dance floor, his hair a shade too dark and unruly for proper fashion. Those shortcomings might have been overlooked, but he was without his brother’s charm.
And polite society valued charm exceedingly.
Edith had respected Emory when she’d bee
n in his mother’s employ. The duke paid well and punctually, and he did not bother the help. She’d learned to appreciate those traits. She could not, however, recall any occasion when Emory had relented from his infernal dignity, which made the book written about him hard to credit.
“Where are we going?” Emory asked after they’d crossed another intersection.
“You may go straight to perdition.” Edith had another three streets to travel before she’d be home. The thought of some bread and butter with a cup of tea loomed like a mirage on the horizon of a vast desert.
“I find it odd that your pen has sent me to social perdition, and yet you offer me nothing but insults.”
He wasn’t making any sense, or perhaps hunger was making Edith light-headed. “Did you apologize for nearly running me down? For insulting my cloak? For attaching yourself to me without my permission? For accusing me of hatching some scheme to add to your enormous heap of imaginary miseries? For insulting my appearance?”
That last had hurt. Edith had never been pretty, but she’d troubled over her complexion and taken care to always be tidy. If she was looking peaked, that was another step down from the serene pinnacle of feminine grace an earl’s daughter should have inhabited.
“Well, you are peaked,” Emory observed. “You look like you’ve lost flesh since leaving my employment.”
“Your mother’s employment.” All of Edith’s dresses were looser, as were her boots.
“Are we in a footrace, my lady? I am compelled to say this is not the sort of neighborhood I’d expect you to frequent.”
The neighborhood was respectable. Five streets on, it would become shabby. “Nothing compels you to say any such thing, Your Grace. You toss that barb at me out of a mean-spiritedness I do not deserve and would not have attributed to you previously. I know I left your mother’s employ—”
“My employ.”
“—without much notice, but I had my reasons. If you would please take yourself off, I would be much obliged.”
She marched on with as much speed as dignity allowed, though Emory remained at her side. Perhaps that was providential—she was overdue for some kindness from providence—because before she’d gone six steps, her vision wavered, her boot caught on an up-thrust brick, and she was again pitched hard against the duke.
Chapter Two
“His Grace lacks the two essential qualities of a gentleman about Town—wit, and a tailor with an imagination.”
From How to Ruin a Duke by Anonymous
For a woman who could spew three hundred pages of unrelenting calumny, Lady Edith felt like eiderdown in Thaddeus’s arms. When he’d first collided with her outside the publisher’s offices, she had nearly bounced off of him like one of those lap dogs that doubles its perceived dimensions with an abundance of hair and yapping.
She was too slight for the pink atrocity of a cloak she wore, and she did look pale and tired. Success as a satirist was apparently a taxing business.
“Is this a ploy?” he asked her, a hand under her pointy elbow. “Are you attempting to extort my sympathy by feigning weakness?”
Furious blue eyes glared up at him. “I am not weak, I am famished. I have not eaten since the day before yesterday. I wanted cab fare for my appointment with Mr. Ventnor in case it rained. A woman resembling a drowned rat hardly inspires confidence in a prospective employer.”
Not a drowned rat, but a cornered cat. One who hadn’t seen regular meals or a warm fireplace in some time. How to Ruin a Duke was rumored to be in its fifth printing. Lady Edith’s appearance and the success of the book were facts in contradiction.
Thaddeus was constitutionally incapable of ignoring facts in contradiction.
“Perhaps a meal will improve your manners,” he said, guiding her several doors down the street. The neighborhood was going seedy about the edges, but the inn looked respectable enough.
“I cannot be seen to sit down to a meal with you in public.” The edge of ire had left her speech. She was reciting a rule rather than scolding him.
Her scolds had been impressive, considering she’d presumed to scold a duke who could ruin her.
“You march around London,” he said, “like a supervisor of the watch. You neglect adequate nutrition. You insult a peer of the realm without batting an eye. You can share a trencher with me at an obscure establishment such as this. The pubs and inns always have the best food, and as it happens, I am hungry as well.”
She closed her eyes, doubtless marshalling some sham of martyrdom.
“My objective was to seek you out today,” Thaddeus went on. “I was surprised to find you at Ventnor’s, because he is not your publisher. I thought perhaps he could send me in the right direction though. Instead I find my quarry landing almost literally at my feet. This has put me in a better humor.”
She opened her eyes. “One shudders to think what your version of a poor humor is. I will eat with you, for two reasons. Firstly, because I need food. Secondly, because I suspect you will not leave me in peace until you’ve aired whatever daft notions have resulted in your pestering me with your presence.”
Clever alliteration had been a signal characteristic of the prose in How to Ruin a Duke.
Thaddeus held the door for her. “I will leave you in peace—on this occasion—if you will share a meal with me.”
She swept past him, as dignified as the queen mother, into the gloom of the common. Her pink cloak caused some stares, or perhaps Emory’s height and attire were gaining the notice of the patrons. The working classes were notably shorter than the aristocracy, and Emory was tall even among his peers.
Lady Edith was tall as well, something he’d liked about her. She wasn’t a wilting, vapid, fading little creature who could barely waft through a Beethoven slow movement before drifting to the garden for a nap in a hammock. Mama had been in a much better mood during Lady Edith’s tenure as a companion, and the entire ducal staff had been less prone to insurrections and feuds.
“You will have a steak,” Thaddeus said, choosing a table well away from the window and from any other patrons. “Steak is the best thing for restoring vigor. You will need your vigor if I’m to ruin you.”
She unpinned her bonnet, the millinery adorned with a tired collection of feathers and silk flowers.
“Will this be a literal ruination or figurative? Lord Jeremiah struck me as more the ruining kind. You, on the other hand,”—she perused him in a manner more frank than flattering—“you have the arrogance for true villainy, but your dignity wouldn’t allow it. Shrieking virgins, swoons, dramatics, I don’t think you have the patience for them.”
A serving maid came over to the table, her apron tidy, her cap neat. Thaddeus ordered steak all around, a small pint for Lady Edith and summer ale for himself.
“You condescend to consume ale,” Lady Edith said, unbuttoning her cloak. “I, on the other hand, would rather have had a good, restorative pot of China black. Don’t worry. The ale will not go to waste, though my goodwill where you are concerned—which used to be substantial—has apparently been squandered.”
She drew off her gloves, revealing pale, slender hands with an ink stain near her right wrist.
“I have puzzled over your motive,” Thaddeus replied, removing his hat and setting it on the bench beside him. “You left our household of your own volition, and while Her Grace was not pleased with the short notice, she wrote you a decent character. You’ve apparently spent the entire intervening six months plotting revenge against us for some fictitious slight. I cannot fathom what that slight might be.”
He tugged off his gloves, prepared to hear that an underbutler had started a false rumor regarding her ladyship’s use of hair coloring—her hair was golden—or a maid had purposely scorched her ladyship’s favorite cloak. Any justification was better than believing he himself might have given Lady Edith cause for offense.
“I do not want to ruin you,” he said, when the serving maid had bustled off. “But I cannot ignore ongoing literary
character assassination.”
“Surely it is beneath the consequence of a duke to ruin a mere failed lady’s companion.”
Her ladyship was either not afraid to be ruined, or she did not take the threat seriously.
“I could do it. All it would take is mention in my club of a rumor or two. A hint, an aside, and you would never be received in polite society again.” Thaddeus did not want that outcome on his conscience, but to whom did he owe greater allegiance? A former companion who’d apparently acquired the disposition of a dyspeptic hedgehog or his own family?
How could he have been so wrong about her?
Lady Edith gave the humble inn a slow perusal, then she swiveled her gaze back to Thaddeus. “My father died up to his ears in debt from his gaming and wagering. My step-mother followed him within months. I attribute his demise to an excessive fondness for spirits, while the countess passed away due to a surfeit of mortification.
“Polite society did nothing to aid us,” she went on. “Our worldly goods were sold before Papa was cold in the ground, my step-brother’s dog led off by a neighbor while the boy cried his heart out all the way down the drive. We were passed from one relative to another, until the last of the aunts died. I pray for her eternal rest every night, because she at least wrote to your mother on my behalf before expiring.”
The pink cloak and the worn feathers took on a new significance. “So you hate all who are well to do?” Though again, facts in contradiction caught Thaddeus’s notice. A lady fallen on hard times should not have left her post on a whim.
“I loathe hypocrisy, Your Grace, and a society that pretends to be polite while laughing behind their painted fans at anybody who suffers misfortune, a society that blames children for their parents’ bad judgment, deserves not only contempt but divine judgment.”
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