An Unlikely Duchess (19 page)

Bartholomew Middleton shook his hand, and Miss Susanna Middleton curtsied to him, he was interested to note. Both looked somewhat disconcerted.

“But if I had only known a week ago that you also intended to attend this house party,” Mr. Porterhouse said, “I would have suggested that we travel together.” He smiled his most charming smile at brother and sister.

“Ah, yes, likewise,” Bartholomew said. They were surrounded by other guests, who could hear every word of the conversation.

“I trust you left your father and grandfather well?” Mr. Porterhouse asked Susanna.

“Oh, yes, I thank you, sir,” she said.

“And Miss Middleton and your two other sisters?”

“Oh,” Susanna said. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

Mr. Porterhouse was beginning to enjoy himself. “And are congratulations in order for your sister yet?” he asked with a smile for them both. They were looking decidedly uncomfortable. “It was an open secret while I was staying with my cousins, the Winthrops, that his grace of Mitford was to pay his addresses to Miss Middleton soon after my departure.”

“It was after our departure, too,” Bartholomew said evasively.

Lord Parleigh turned from his conversation with Mrs. Hope in the group next their own. “Mitford,” he said. “Yes, of course, Humphrey, I knew there was something I had forgotten to tell you when you returned this afternoon. Mitford was here this morning asking for you. He is planning to return tomorrow morning.”

“Mitford?” Mr. Porterhouse said. “Here? Asking for me?”

Lord Parleigh slapped him on the shoulder. “You move in illustrious circles,” he said with a laugh. “It seems he came all the way from Rutland Park to see you, having discovered that Miss Middleton was from home, and Mr. Middleton and his sister had been awaiting your arrival, too. It really is not fair, Humphrey. You handsome men get all the attention.” He laughed heartily and turned to take Mrs. Hope on his arm to lead her in to dinner. Sir Thomas Burgess was extending an arm to Susanna.

For the first time Mr. Porterhouse felt a strong twinge of discomfort. What was this? First Miss Middleton herself had arrived on the scene with a fictitious husband, but a man who was nevertheless very real and a very formidable adversary. And then her brother and sister had arrived on the scene, looking for him, rather than for her. And now the Duke of Mitford, her intended husband, was in pursuit of him too. Mr. Porterhouse began not to like it. The whole business had an uncomfortable aura of conspiracy surrounding it.

And just when he was about to take his first mouthful of soup, he had a sudden memory of having to double over in the stableyard of the Crown and Anchor Inn in order to retch from the powerful pummeling he had received from that giant who had burst into his room. And also an image of straightening up again to find himself looking into the face of a bald and muscular giant who had grinned and suggested that the next time he intended to travel by night he might drink beforehand with a little less enthusiasm.

The same giant as had been lurking outside Lord Parleigh’s stables earlier that afternoon.

Mr. Porterhouse’s neckcloth felt uncomfortably tight. And he found himself dabbing at his chin with his napkin and hoping that no one had noticed his soup dribbling from his mouth.

Suddenly his traveling bag did not seem a very safe hiding place after all.

***

There was a hint of winter in the air, Sir Thomas Burgess noticed with some regret the following day. Definitely enough of a nip to catch at one’s nose and ears during the morning hours. Of course, it was having a somewhat delightful effect on the cheeks of his companion. Her normally pale complexion was healthily rosy. She had her arm linked through his as they strolled along the terrace outside Lord Parleigh’s house.

He had been somewhat concerned about Miss Susanna Middleton the evening before. Whatever it was that was between her and her brother on the one hand and Porterhouse on the other, it was not something that made her at all happy. The two of them had watched Porterhouse all evening but had barely spoken a word.

It had crossed his mind that the girl was perhaps Porterhouse’s rejected flirt. He was, after all, the type of man all women could be expected to sigh over. One would have to look very hard indeed to find any physical imperfection in the man.

But it was not that, either. Porterhouse had Miss Middleton’s jewels, Mitford had said. The elder Miss Middleton, that was. The one Mitford was running about the country with. And the brother and sister were looking for her, but had stayed at Deerview Park as soon as Porterhouse’s name had been mentioned.

It was all very intriguing, or would be so if it had not so obviously upset the little golden-haired beauty. And clearly now she was thankful for a steady arm and a sympathetic ear.

“Jo was supposed to marry the Duke of Mitford, you see,” she was explaining. “He was to pay his addresses to her just a week ago. That was why Bart and I were surprised to see him here yesterday.”

“I must say I had not expected to see him this far north,” Sir Thomas said. “He is a friend of mine, you know.”

“He is far different from what I expected,” Susanna said. “We were under the impression that he was a tall and handsome gentleman.” She flushed an even rosier color than the morning air had whipped into her cheeks. “Oh.” She looked up at him with wide blue eyes. “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean...”

“I am sure you did not,” he said. “If it is not impertinent to ask, ma’am, how came your sister to be with Mr., er...?” He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Mr. Villiers?” she said. “I do not know, sir,” Her eyes looked suspiciously bright as she continued to gaze up at him. “And I wish her being with him did not have to be public knowledge. But Bart had to ask you at the inn, you see, because we might have lost them altogether. As in fact, we did, of course.”

“With your pardon, ma’am,” he said, looking down at her in some concern, “I am no prattler. I wish I could be of some service to you.” And he wished he could too, without at the same time being disloyal to a friend.

“She ran away,” she said. “At least, we think she ran away. She said she was on her way to our aunt’s. She did not wish to marry the duke, you see. I am sorry, sir, since he is your friend.”

Sir Thomas smiled slightly. “So,” he said, “she ran away and somehow paired up with Villiers. Interesting.”

“But perhaps he is a villain,” she said. “And even if he is not, Jo will be ruined. Poor Jo. She is frequently thoughtless, you know, and Grandpapa is forever scolding her for not behaving with propriety, but she means well. She has a good heart.”

“I don’t believe Villiers is a scoundrel,” he said. “I saw him only briefly, you know, at that inn, but he appeared to be a gentleman. He was treating your sister with deference. I would not worry unduly, if I were you.”

“But why would she travel as Mrs. Villiers?” Susanna asked. “And then there is Mr. Porterhouse. He took Jo’s jewels. At least, we think he took them. That is what Sam says. Sam is our coachman, you know. Or at least, he is our coachman now. He was not at the start, but he was kind enough to come with us when he discovered that Bart was driving the carriage into every pothole along the road and making me sick.”

“Porterhouse,” Sir Thomas said. “He greeted you and your brother like long lost friends last evening.”

“Yes,” Susanna said. “And poor Bart is most uncomfortable, for how can he accuse Mr. Porterhouse of stealing Jo’s jewels when we have only Sam’s word that they are missing at all? And yet Bart has decided that he must do just that this morning. I left him pacing about in his dressing room just a little while ago, pounding one fist against the other hand. Poor Bart. He does not like to be forced to exert himself. Oh, where can Jo be? Do you think she is in dreadful trouble?”

“I am quite convinced she is not,” Sir Thomas said, watching his friend, the Duke of Mitford, approach along the terrace, and wishing there was some way of letting his companion know that her sister was safely lodged just four miles away. “Here comes Mitford.”

Susanna swept him a curtsy. “Your grace,” she murmured.

Mitford bowed and exchanged greetings with his friend. “Good morning, Miss Middleton, Tom,” he said. “I have come in search of Porterhouse. Did he return yesterday?”

“He did,” Sir Thomas said, “but was not at breakfast this morning. Perhaps he was up earlier, or perhaps he is still in bed. Middleton, I believe, has plans to speak with him, too.”

“Ah,” the Duke of Mitford said. “A man much in demand, is he, Tom? I shall stroll inside and see what I can see.”

“They do know each other, then,” Susanna said, staring at the duke’s disappearing back. “I have wondered since Mr. Porterhouse left whether he just said that in order to cause trouble. His grace is not quite the way he was described to Jo, though.”

“Is he not?” Sir Thomas said. “Come, ma’am, let us stroll farther. I shall talk to you and take your mind off your troubles, if I may.”

“Oh,” she said, looking up at him with those blue eyes that could make him quite forget that his tastes usually led him to an entirely different class of female. “You have been very kind to me, sir. And you did your best to help Bart and me find Jo.”

Sir Thomas Burgess did not feel very proud of himself. He secretly cursed the bonds of friendship that forced him to keep this little creature in the misery of suspense over the fate of her sister.

***

The Duke of Mitford had awakened to a glowingly familiar scene, and one which he had a feeling he would have to grow more accustomed to as his life progressed. Miss Josephine Middleton was kneeling on the floor beside his bed—or what he had come to recognize as his bed for the past week. As usual at such moments, her hair was all down over her shoulders and her mouth was in motion. Clearly, she had been speaking for some time.

“So you see,” she was saying, “it would not do at all.”

“It is not even light outside yet,” he said, opening one eye, “is it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, pausing in her monologue long enough to turn her head toward the window. “But the draperies are of heavy velvet, you see, and the bed is between you and the window. And of course it is getting late on in the year again. Soon enough it will be breakfast time before it is full daylight. But by that time, of course, there is always spring to look forward to. So there is never any real reason for gloom.”

The duke might have disagreed with that final statement, but he bowed to the inevitable and woke up. “You were saying?” he said politely.

“It will not do,” she said. “You see, no one even knows we are here. We were supposed to be going to London. Even our servants thought we were going there.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “my brains were so addled with love that I forgot to let them know of our change in plans.”

“So no one could send us an urgent message here,” she said. “You see, do you not? We will need another plan.”

She looked rather pleased with herself, Mitford thought.

“Another plan?” he said. “With regards to what, pray?”

“Oh,” she said, “you are not at your best in the mornings, are you, sir?”

The Duke of Mitford continued to look at her with eyebrows politely raised. He resisted the temptation to tell her that he was considerably better on those mornings when he awoke in a bed, having slept in it all night long. If he said that, she would start offering to share her bed with him again. One experience of accepting that offer had been quite enough to prove to him that it was no viable alternative to a night spent on a hard floor.

“How could your brother-in-law send for you here when he does not even know we are here?” Josephine Middleton asked with a smile of triumph. “The Hennessys would know instantly that it was a trick.”

“Would they?” he asked. “I could not say that I had written the morning after our wedding to let everyone know where we were going?”

“No,” she said, “because we could not have anticipated that we would meet the Hennessys and come to Hawthorn House. It will not do, sir. You will not be able to leave on that pretext.” 

The Duke of Mitford sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, “I shall think of that later in the day. In the meantime, I shall still carry out the main part of my plan, which is to call again at Deerview Park and confront Porterhouse.”

Josephine sat back on her heels. “I shall come with you,” she said.

“You cannot,” he reminded her. “Your brother and sister are there.”

“Silly,” she said. “They need not see me. We will enter Lord Parleigh’s property where we will not be observed, and we will creep up on Mr. Porterhouse at a place where he will least expect us, a place where he may not call for help. We will have him at our mercy.”

The Duke of Mitford got to his feet. Good Lord, Bedlam was going to seem like a sane house after a few days spent in the company of Miss Josephine Middleton.

“I shall go alone,” he said. “You will stay here. And that decision is not open for argument, ma’am.”

He was surprised that she did not argue. She wrinkled her nose at him instead and got to her feet.

“While I am gone,” he said, “I shall think of a way of getting you back with your brother and sister as soon as possible without making your situation quite public. I shall think of something, ma’am, never fear.”

Josephine gave him a beatific smile.

She was quite right, of course, he decided as he was dressing in the small dressing room that adjoined their bedchamber. It was a good thing she had thought of it. It said volumes for his own inexperience with intrigue that he had not thought of the problem himself. But he would think of something. For now he must concentrate his mind on the coming meeting with Porterhouse.

He did not on the whole expect any real difficulty. Porterhouse would discover, of course, that he was the Duke of Mitford. At first, that fact had struck the duke as problematic, but second thought had changed his mind. He was learning from his experience as plain Mr. Villiers that people had a far stronger tendency to be overawed by his ducal presence. Porterhouse would be overawed. Mitford would turn on the full force of his grandeur.