Charlotte Louise Dolan (19 page)

Perhaps he could delay his return a few more months? But then he remembered the number of fine officers who had fallen at Ciudad Rodrigo, and he knew he could not take such a risk.

As much as he wanted to be there when Napoleon was finally defeated, he knew he could not chance letting the title die out; that much he owed his uncle and his cousin.

It was really unfortunate that in nearly a year of marriage he had not achieved an heir of his own. Granted, he had only spent two weeks of that time with his wife.

His thoughts turned unwillingly to Elizabeth, the fickle, deceitful, lying ...

All his earlier tolerance of her behavior fled. No, by God, she would not be allowed to flaunt her lovers around London; she would not bring disgrace upon the title his aunt had borne with such propriety and dignity of manner. Elizabeth would behave in a manner worthy of a duchess, or Darius would divorce her and damn the scandal!

* * * *

“Oh, there is Lady Letitia signaling that she wishes to take me up for a turn around the park.”

“Blast that woman,” Simon muttered under his breath.

Beside him Elizabeth did not share his sentiments, as her elderly friend seemed to be the only island of sanity in a world still overcrowded with people desiring to claim the Duchess of Colthurst as their nearest and dearest companion.

Ignoring Simon’s continued
sotto voce
complaints about interfering old busybodies, Elizabeth readily climbed into the carriage and heaved a sigh of relief when it pulled away from her most persistent admirer.

“Lady Letitia, as much as I am grateful for your quite timely intervention, that does not change the fact that I am most angry with you today.”

Her mock complaint only drew a smile from her rescuer. “Does that mean you wish me to put you down again, so that you can continue your
tête-à-tête
with the so admirable—or shall we say, the so self-admiring?—Bellgrave?”

“He does that, doesn’t he? I wonder if he knows how extremely tedious it makes him. But you are trying to divert me before I can give you the scold you have earned.”

“But of course. I have never found that earned scoldings are one wit easier to bear than unearned ones, but fire away if you must. What have I done to invoke your censure?”

“Lady Letitia, if you are trying to look as if you are in a quake, I must tell you that you are failing miserably. To look suitably chastised, you must rid yourself of that twinkle in your eye.”

“Perhaps if you would chastise me first, I could look suitably downcast afterward?”

“Very well, if you would have the truth with no bark upon it, you lied to me. You told me I would be a nine-day wonder, and today is a full two weeks since the news came that I am the Duchess of Colthurst, and I am quite unable to notice the slightest diminution in attention.”

Beside her the smile faded from Lady Letitia’s face, and Elizabeth hurried to apologize for her remark, which had apparently gone beyond the bounds of levity and actually caused offense.

“Oh, hush, child. You have no need to apologize. I know very well what you intended to say. I am not yet so far in my dotage that I cannot recognize humor when I hear it. But I can also see the pain behind the joke, which makes it rather hard to join in the laughter. Are they really pestering you beyond all enduring?”

Elizabeth looked down at her lap, where her fingers were twisted tightly together, a regular occurrence these last few weeks, no matter how she tried to keep them relaxed. “It is not so much the people who are always fawning over me, as it is—” she drew in a shuddering sigh—”the one person who is not here.”

“Your husband?”

“Of course. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot control my fears for his safety, and if the waiting goes on much longer, I feel as if I shall shatter from the tension. And then, to make it so much worse, I am not even allowed to suffer in peace, but am surrounded by a pack of idiots who dance around me as if demented, all of them grinning and congratulating me on my singular good fortune. And were I to try to share my worries with any of them, they would all assume ...” Here her voice broke, in spite of her best efforts to control it.

“They would assume that your only fears were for your title and estates, which you would lose if anything happened to your husband.”

“Exactly. And if I were to tell them that I am not in the least convinced that my husband will even accept the title, they would lock me up in Bedlam.”

“Oh, he will accept the title; on that score you need have no worries. He has no heir, you see.” She patted Elizabeth’s hand. “And do not jump to the conclusion that I am now censuring you for failing to produce a son already, for in spite of what you may have heard, it does occasionally take more than two weeks of being bedded to develop an ‘interesting condition.’ No, what I mean is that your husband is the last descendant in the direct male line from the original duke. Trust me, I know everyone’s lineage better than Debrett. And I cannot believe Darius will simply let the title die out.”

“No, that does not sound in character for him. My brother has assured me that Darius takes his responsibilities very seriously.” If he is still alive, Elizabeth thought to herself, blinking rapidly to try to keep the tears that were forming in her eyes from spilling over. She turned her head so that her friend would not be able to see the full extent of her misery, and her eye was caught by the strangest sight. Unexpectedly diverted, she turned back to Lady Letitia. “That woman in the bottle-green walking dress trimmed with black braid—did you see her face?”

“Are you perchance referring to the scar she has drawn upon her cheek?”

“Drawn on?” Elizabeth found herself totally at a loss for words.

“Actually, there was one lady yesterday, and I believe the count today is three. Assuming that the numbers increase at the same rate, I would estimate that by the end of next week at the latest, the scars will outnumber the smooth cheeks.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hands, desperately trying to hold back the laughter that was struggling to get out.

“Please remember, my dear, that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Lady Letitia pursed up her lips in a parody of a smug smile.

Her arch look was the final straw, and Elizabeth broke into a peal of laughter, which continued until the tears actually did roll down her face. “Oh, oh!” She clutched her sides, which were beginning to ache from too much exuberance. “Oh, I cannot believe anyone ...” She began to laugh again. “That anyone could be so singularly foolish.”

“But they are not
singularly
foolish. That would never do, of course. They insist upon being foolish
en masse. “
Lady Letitia reached up with her parasol and rapped her coachman on the back. “Once more around the park, John.”

Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a scowling Simon Bellgrave as they moved slowly past the place where he was waiting impatiently, but she deliberately turned her head and avoided catching his eye. The laughter had, at least momentarily, relaxed her, but she did not yet feel she had regained enough equilibrium to listen to his prattle.

“I am more than half inclined to believe that it is the sheer force of his will that has given us favorable winds all the way back from Lisbon. The captain reports that this is the fastest crossing he has ever made to Southampton.”

Munke turned his gaze away from the first sight of England, as yet visible only as a dark smudge on the horizon, and considered the man standing beside him. As a messenger, David Paynter might be adequate, but it had taken less than a day of the return trip for it to have become obvious that he would never have lasted as a soldier in any regiment commanded by Major St. John.

“A ship’s captain can’t make the wind blow in the right quarter, no matter how many curses he calls down on it.”

“I was referring to his Grace.” Paynter indicated the duke, who was standing several yards forward of them at the bow of the ship. “Although, in truth, most of the time I find it difficult to remember that he is a duke. I have found myself on numerous occasions having to resist the impulse to salute him, and I do not wonder that even the winds and the tides seem to be falling in with his wishes.”

Munke gave only a grunt for a reply, but it did not discourage the solicitor’s man from continuing to gab.

“I cannot believe the speed with which he has forced us to travel. One would think he is eager to return to England and take up his honors, instead of having been coerced into it. So far on this trip he has made no concessions at all for the fact that we are accompanying him.”

“Oh, he made concessions. ‘Thout us, he would’ve traveled at double the speed.” It was all Munke could do to keep from laughing out loud at the memory of how it had been the first time the major had announced it was time to rest the horses and ordered them to dismount.

Paynter had mistakenly assumed he was also going to be allowed to rest, and the look of horror on his face had been truly comical when the major had explained that they would now walk, leading the horses for the next several miles—another concession, in fact, that the major had explained at all, for with his own troops he would simply have given the order and expected it to be carried out, no questions asked. Not that they would have needed any explanation, since all but the greenest recruits knew how the major preferred to travel.

“Double the speed! Surely you jest. Why, the only way the major—I mean, his Grace—could have gone any faster is if he had run while leading the horses.”

“Aye, to be sure, and then too, he’d not’ve stopped for more than a ‘casional catnap ‘long the way.” Munke could not resist a little bragging about his master. “But withal it would’ve been too dangerous—for us, that is—if he’d’ve left us to travel alone through Spain and Portugal, so he was forced to moderate his pace considerable.”

“Merciful heavens, but I am grateful for that. As it is, if it had been ten miles farther to Lisbon I would have had to have been carried up the gangplank. Never have I seen such a beautiful sight as the sails of this stinking hulk. I can only be thankful I was not under his command in Spain. He must have been the most hated officer there, as inconsiderate of others as he is.”

“There you’re out. He’s one of the most popular commanders, the major is, and very consid’rate of his men. Almost as consid’rate of ‘em as he is of his horses.”

Paynter had to smile at that remark. “Be that as it may, I vow, London is bound to be an even more glorious sight, since it will signify an end to my association with his Grace.”

“London? Don’t talk such nonsense. Haven’t you learned enough to know the major’ll not wait on the likes of us once we’re safe on English soil? Nay, lad, by the time we’re still just thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ ashore, the major’ll be well on his way, leavin’ us to follow as best we can. Indeed, there’s never been any keepin’ up wi’ him when the devil drives him.”

“You will excuse me if I confess that there have been times on this journey when I could easily have been brought to believe your master was in truth Old Nick himself! But I should not say such a thing. Having led a very sheltered life in London, I admit I have no idea of the horrors his Grace must have witnessed in Spain. It is small wonder if he feels compelled to travel at such speed, as if by doing so he could escape from what must be singularly unpleasant memories.”

Ah, but the memories as well as the devils were in London, not Spain, thought Munke. Nor were they horrible to look upon. In sooth, the major’s sisters had the most beguiling of forms, else how could they succeed in luring men to their doom? And their weapons, likewise, were not the honest ones of sword and pistol, rather they used deceit and dishonor to achieve their wicked goals.

On the other hand, Mrs. St. John—that is to say, her Grace the Duchess of Colthurst—was also in London, and nothing the major could say would convince Munke that she was cut from the same cloth as her sisters-in-law.

“But stay, surely you do not mean to say that his Grace plans to travel to London alone, without even a valet?” The look on Paynter’s face was virtually identical to the expression he had worn when he first learned of the major’s preferred method of travel. “However will he manage?”

“Are you insinuatin’ that there be any task the major is not equal to? He can shoe a horse or make his own bullets or cut off a man’s leg if the need arises. How hard can it be for him to press a neckcloth or polish a boot? I’ll allow as how he finds my presence convenient, but that ain’t to say he has any real need of my services.”

“But, good God, man, he is now a duke. Surely he needs some servants about him?”

“The day he needs someone is the day they plant him in the churchyard.” Or at least, Munke thought to himself, that’s what the major has been trying for months to convince himself of. God grant that his lady wife succeed in changing his mind. If anyone could drive out the demons that tormented the major, it would be her.

Tired of the company of a civilian, Munke turned his back on the sight of a rapidly approaching England to go down to the cabin and make sure nothing had been missed in the packing up.

* * * *

“Not go to the Wynchcombes’ ball? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Even while Elizabeth recognized the futility of trying to make her aunt understand the distaste she had for the society she was being forced to keep, she continued to make her excuses, albeit in a form her aunt might conceivably accept. “Darius could be arriving any day now, and I do not wish him to find me absolutely burnt to the socket, which is what I will be if I continue at the pace you have been setting.”

“Nonsense. I am sure it will be weeks before we see him, and as to that, I am equally sure his Grace would be the first to wish you to uphold your proper place in society, which includes attending what is bound to be the premier ball of the Season.”

Elizabeth accurately translated her aunt’s remark to mean that after years of only reading about the Wynchcombes’ parties in the newspaper, her aunt would drag her there willy-nilly, even were she to be covered with spots and delirious with a fever.