Christmas with the Duchess (5 page)

He blushed. “In the navy, ma’am, we are obliged to eat our meals in a hurry.”

“I heard you were in the navy,” said Emma. “You must tell me all about it some time.”

“Emma,” Otto interrupted, catching his sister’s arm. “What are you doing?”

He spoke in German, under his breath.

Emma smiled widely at Nicholas. “Otto, it’s very rude to speak German in front of Lord Camford,” she said. “Er…you don’t speak German, do you, my lord?”

“No, ma’am. If you would like to be alone with this gentleman,” Nicholas added, “I will gladly…gladly go.”

Emma laughed. “Oh, this is just my brother,” she told him, elbowing Otto away from her. “We can practice our German any time. Otto, this is Hugh’s nephew.”

“I know,” Otto said dryly. “We have been talking.”

“Oh. Then you won’t mind presenting him to me.”

“I beg your pardon,” Otto said, with a touch of exasperation. “I thought you knew one another already.”

“We met briefly,” Emma explained, “but we were not properly introduced. You may do so now, brother.”

“Nothing could possibly give me greater pleasure,” Otto said irritably. “May I present the Earl of Camford? My lord, this is my sister, Emma. Emma Grey.”

“Emma
Fitzroy,
” Emma corrected him instantly. “And that is no introduction!”

“You are only a Fitzroy by marriage,” Otto argued. “You were born a Grey, and you’ll always be a Grey to me. Oh, dear! Look how sad Camford is to hear of your marriage, Emma! Don’t look so woebegone, sir. My sister
is
a widow, you know.”

Again, Nicholas could not help his obvious change of expression.

“Well, that’s cheered him right up,” Otto dryly observed. “And what’s more, my good fellow, her year of mourning is nearly over. In just a few days, she will throw off her widow’s weeds entirely and emerge like the butterfly from the chrysalis. She has already, as you can see, lightened her mourning considerably.”

Emma’s gown was of smoke-blue muslin, cut in the latest style by the finest modiste in Paris. A huge cornflower-blue sapphire on a thin ribbon of black velvet hung at her throat. She often touched the cold stone, particularly when she was nervous.

“I think your husband was a very lucky man, ma’am,” Nicholas said solemnly.

“Not a very nice thing to say to a widow,” Otto chided him. “It implies the lady’s husband is better off dead! Though I’m sure Camford didn’t mean it that way.”

Nicholas was horrified. “Indeed, ma’am, I did not!”

“My lord, pay no attention to my brother,” Emma said quickly. “I never do. Lord Scarlingford believes himself to be amusing, and nothing can persuade him that he is wrong. No doubt, you are as eager to get away from him as I. I have come to take you on a tour of the house. We can escape him together, if you like. If you have finished your billiards game, that is,” she added, as Nicholas seemed to hesitate.

“Oh, I was not playing, ma’am,” he assured her. “I should be glad to see the house. But I would not wish to inconvenience you. My uncle already has offered to show me around.”

Emma forced a smile. “I’ve just spoken to your uncle, my lord. He has been detained by—by—” She stopped, frowning in concentration. Lord Hugh did nothing but eat and drink and play cards, so it was difficult to imagine what might be detaining him. “Oh, by something or other,” she said hurriedly. “Business of some sort,” she went on, improvising rapidly. “Something to do with the estate, no doubt. And, of course, your aunt and your cousins are still exhausted from the journey. They are sleeping in this morning. Uncle Hugh asked me to look after you, and, of course, I said I would. Shall we go?”

She held out her hand to him.

Nicholas had the distinct feeling that his charming new friend was lying, but he was not sure he cared. By a clear mile, her company was more agreeable to him than his uncle’s or his cousins’, and, if she was an adventuress, he could not wait to see how adventuresses went about their adventures.

“It would be my honor,” he said, taking her hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, Emma quickly tucked her arm through his and led him from the room.

Before beginning his game, Otto had tossed his silver-embroidered coat across the leather sofa. He picked it up now and followed them. “A moment, Sister!” he called after Emma. “May I inquire if my nephews have arrived?”

Emma gave him a sharp, quick glance over her shoulder. “Not yet,” she said sunnily. “We’ll talk about it later, Otto,” she added, gritting her teeth. “
Later.
Now, will you go back to the billiard room, please? No one wants you here.”

Otto frowned. “My sister will be with you in a moment,” he told Nicholas sharply. Taking his sister by the arm, he drew her to one side. “Now tell me what the devil is going on,” he commanded her, speaking in German for additional privacy.

Emma answered him in German, their mother’s native tongue. “Hugh is demanding ten thousand pounds,” she said quickly, “or I will not see my children.”

“You said he had your letter.”

“Yes.”

“Then, for God’s sake, what do you think you’re doing with this boy? Hugh obviously wants him for one of the daughters.”

“That is what makes him useful,” said Emma. She glanced over her shoulder at Nicholas. He stood a short distance away, his hands clasped behind his back as he pretended to study one of the paintings on the wall. “I am hoping that Lord Camford can be persuaded to assist me.”

“Why?” Otto said sharply. “What does
he
know of the matter?”

“Nothing, I hope,” Emma replied. “My plan is simple. I shall make him fall in love with me. Then he will do anything I ask of him. He will get my letter back for me.”

“He seems half in love with you already,” Otto observed. “But you cannot risk antagonizing Hugh. He may very well expose you—and Aleta. He can make your letter public at any time.”

A shudder of fear went through Emma. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He will not be so quick to give up his power over me. I’ve agreed to give him ten thousand pounds, but you and I both know he’s already thinking about the
next
ten thousand pounds. As long as he has hope of getting more money out of me, he will not do anything with my letter.”

“I do not like it, Emma.”

“I don’t like it either,” she snapped. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” he was forced to admit.

Reluctantly, Otto let her go. With a bright smile and profuse apologies for the interruption, Emma took Nicholas’s arm and led him away.

“I don’t think your brother likes me,” Nicholas said ruefully.

“Otto hates everyone,” she shrugged, leading him down the cool, empty corridor. “
I
like you, and that is all that matters.”

He turned red. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Fitzroy.”

Emma nearly choked. “Mrs. Fitzroy! No, my lord. I am Emma, Duchess of Warwick. I’m sorry; I thought you knew.”

“You are teasing me, ma’am,” Nicholas stammered. “I—I have it on very good authority that the Duke of Warwick is only twelve years old. You could not possibly be his wife!”

“I am the duke’s mother,” she told him bluntly. “And Harry is
thirteen.
I distinctly recall giving birth to him.”

“Impossible,” Nicholas declared. “Why, you’re just a girl. You can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen!”

Emma grimaced. If this was flattery, it was hardly original.

“Oh, forever young!” she said, with a light laugh. “I am thirty, my lord. That is to say, I
will
be thirty on the first day of the new year. But I thank you for the compliment! My late husband was the tenth Duke of Warwick. My eldest son became the eleventh last December.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, flushing with embarrassment. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

“Sir, I’m no lady,” Emma told him smartly. “I’m a duchess, and that is not quite the same thing. You may address me as ‘your grace,’ or ‘Duchess,’ or even ‘madam,’ in a pinch, but, never, ever as ‘my lady.’”

Not realizing that she was teasing him, Nicholas silently cursed himself for his ignorance. “Please forgive my blunder,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I am only joking you,” she assured him gently, squeezing his arm. “Actually, I find the regulations of Society quite stifling. Shall we fly in the face of convention, you and I?”

“Ma’am?”

“What is your Christian name?”

“Oh! Nicholas.”

“Nicholas,” she repeated, smiling. “I hope you will call me Emma, at least when we are alone. May I call you Nicholas?”

“Of course,” he said, flattered. “I prefer it.”

They came to a set of tulipwood doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “The library,” Emma announced, as two footmen silently opened the doors with gloved hands.

The room within was immense, but rather dark, with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and few windows. Nicholas stared around him in disbelief. He had never seen so many books in his life. “It’s so dark,” he said. “You’d ruin your eyes reading in here.”

“The light is bad for the books,” she explained. “One doesn’t read in here, of course. We have a reading room for that, if you’re interested. This is the archive. You’re welcome to borrow anything you like,” she added. “The secretary will fetch you any book you fancy. Are you a great reader, sir? Our secretary works very hard to keep the library thoroughly up to date.”

“Apart from our technical manuals, we had nothing on board ship but the Bible and the works of Shakespeare,” he told her, with an odd mixture of pride and deprecation. “When I passed my lieutenant’s exam, my captain gave me Nelson’s biography. I’ve never felt the need to read anything else.”

“Oh,” said Emma, quite taken aback. “I’ve always loved reading.”

“If your grace would condescend to recommend something,” he said eagerly, “I will gladly take a stab at it.”

Emma thought for a moment. “I would recommend Montaigne to anyone,” she said presently, “but he may be especially suitable to someone who hasn’t read very much. He covers such a variety of subjects in his essays. You’re almost certain to find something to interest you.”

“What’s an essay?” he asked.

Emma laughed. “You’re teasing me,” she accused him, wagging her finger at him playfully. “Just because you’re not widely read doesn’t mean I think you’re completely ignorant.”

“No, really,” he assured her. “I
am
that ignorant. What is an essay? I assume it doesn’t mean a good try?”

Emma had never been required to give a definition of an essay before, and she did not have a ready answer. “Well,” she said, frowning, “I suppose it could be defined as a brief dissertation on a topic. It usually includes some personal reflection.”

“Brief?” he said. “I like that. Brief is good.”

Emma hid a smile. “I’m sure we have a good translation. I’ll have it sent to your room, shall I?”

“Oh, I won’t need a translation,” he assured her. “I don’t know any other languages.”

Emma decided it would be useless to explain that Montaigne was a sixteenth century Frenchman. “I see. What room are you in?”

Nicholas frowned in concentration. “Ophelia, or something like that.”

“Westphalia?” Emma guessed.

“That’s it.”

“Then I will send Montaigne to Westphalia.”

Nicholas laughed. “Well, if the Westphalia won’t go to the Montaigne…”

Emma did not like puns. Like Voltaire, she thought them the death of wit. But she managed a weak laugh. “Shall we move on?” she quickly suggested, taking his arm.

“We have so many treasures here at Warwick, I hardly know where to begin,” she said smoothly as she led him back out into the brightness of the corridor. “My father-in-law, the ninth duke, was an avid collector of fine porcelain, I seem to recall. Do you like porcelain?”

“We always made do with crockery on board,” he said apologetically. “The captain
did
have a you-know-what with Bonaparte’s face at the bottom, now I think of it. I’m pretty sure
that
was porcelain. I shouldn’t have said that,” he added, catching sight of her startled face. He turned beet red. “Forgive me, ma’am! I’m afraid we sailors are a rather coarse lot.”

“Not at all,” she said faintly. “It was very amusing. Perhaps you would like to see some of our paintings?” she suggested as they walked. “We have a very good collection of the Flemish masters, and a rather important Raphael.”

“I love paintings,” he told her. “My father was an artist.”

“Really?” Emma began, breaking off as she caught sight of a group of officers at the other end of the hall. “Let us go this way,” she said, hurrying into another room. “As you can see, we have quite a few paintings in here,” she said, closing the door behind them. “Portraits, mainly.”

She looked around the room, puzzled. She could not recall seeing it before. The walls were paneled in green silk. The wainscoting was painted a dazzling white. There was no place to sit, but a big round table stood at the center of the room, supporting a tall vase of hothouse flowers. The windows faced full west. Other than showing off a few dozen overly large portraits, the room seemed to have no purpose at all.

“My father did portraits,” Nicholas said, looking up at a life-sized portrait of a Restoration gentleman wearing a long curly brown wig and scarlet knee breeches. “Who’s he when he’s at home?” he asked her, laughing.

“That would be King Charles the Second,” she told him. “Did your father ever paint anyone famous?”

“No,” Nicholas said, chuckling at the very idea. “Mostly he did miniatures of people, sailors mostly, on bits of ivory. The sort of thing a man sends to his sweetheart when he goes to sea,” he added, coloring faintly.

“Oh, how lovely,” said Emma.

“My father was disowned when he married my mother,” Nicholas told her. “She was not considered good enough, I suppose, for the younger son of an earl. My father couldn’t afford to paint big canvases after that. I remember his last painting. He couldn’t pay our rent. He had to give it to the landlady at the Barking Crow. She hung it in the taproom, though,” he added proudly.

“It must have been a very good painting,” Emma said kindly.

“Aye, it was. A ship at sea. A gentleman offered her ten shillings for it once, but she would not sell.” With two fingers, he dug behind his collar, coming up with a cream-colored pendant on a long piece of brown twine. “I carved the frame myself, out of whalebone,” he told her as he placed it in her palm.

It was a crude locket, made along the lines of a clamshell, with a design of hearts carved into the lid. Emma opened it gingerly. Inside was a tiny, delicate painting of a doll-like young woman with big blue eyes and yellow curls.

“Is this your sweetheart?” she asked him.

Nicholas looked surprised. “My mother,” he said.

“She was very beautiful,” Emma said gently.

“She was a kind soul,” said Nicholas. “She died too young. They both did. When my father died, I was put to sea. The Royal Navy is Portsmouth’s orphanage, you know.”

“Did you not know that your grandfather was the Earl of Camford?” Emma asked.

He shook his head. “I had no idea. My father never spoke of his family. I believe he blamed them for my mother’s death.”

Emma carefully closed the locket and gave it back to him. Nicholas kissed it quickly before tucking it away under his shirt. “Who’s that fellow over there?” he asked.

Emma spun around, fearing that another person had come into the room.

“I like his mustaches,” Nicholas went on, walking up to another painting. “Very useful for straining soup, I should think.”

Emma laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m only a Fitzroy by marriage,” she reminded him. “If you’re really interested, I could summon the housekeeper. The servants know everything.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said quickly.

“I’m a very poor guide,” she said ruefully. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure I can
find
the Raphael.”

“I know
I
couldn’t,” he said. “And I’m sleeping in it!”

Emma laughed. “You’re sleeping in
Westphalia,
” she told him. “
Raphael
is the Italian Renaissance painter.”

Nicholas flushed with embarrassment. “Raphael,” he murmured. “Of course. He painted battle scenes, I believe.”

“No,” she said, laughing. “He painted madonnas, saints, and angels.”

“That would have been my second guess,” he muttered. “You must think me so very ignorant.”

Emma shrugged. “I prefer nature to art myself.”

“So do I,” he said eagerly. “I confess I hate to be indoors.”

“Then, by all means, let us go for a ride,” Emma suggested. “We keep an excellent stable here. It will take but a moment for me to change into my habit.”

The grounds of Warwick Palace were extensive, and she knew a great many lonely, beautiful places where she could take him and seduce him.

Nicholas sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t ride. I’ve never had the opportunity to learn,” he went on, in answer to her obvious surprise. “There are not many horses at sea.”

“No,” she smiled. “A nice, long walk, then?”

“I would love a nice, long walk.”

Emma rang the bell and sent the responding footman for her gloves, her cloak, and her walking shoes. Another footman brought her a chair. Nicholas watched in astonishment as the footman knelt at her feet to remove her high-heeled slippers. “You have servants for everything,” he remarked.

“Well, he
is
a footman,” said Emma, wiggling her toes. “Why do you think they’re called footmen?”

“I have never thought about it.”

Emma jumped up, her feet now encased in sturdy walking boots. “Shall we?” she said brightly, fastening her sable-lined cloak at her throat.

They went out onto a small terrace at the back of the house. Ornamental gardens and bright green lawns stretched out before them, and, in the far distance, shadowy woodlands crowded the horizon. The quiet enormity of it made it seem bleak. To Nicholas it lacked the dangerous energy of the constantly moving sea.

“Let us go out to the secession houses,” said Emma, deliberately leading him into an obscure, rarely traveled path screened by tall, beautiful lime trees. “We will be hungry by the time we get there. Have you ever tasted a pineapple?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered immediately. “Many times.”

Emma was slightly vexed. “Oh. What about a nectarine?”

“Of course.”

Emma frowned as she tried to come up with something even more exotic. “Breadfruit?”

Nicholas chuckled. “I have been all over the world, ma’am,” he told her. “We sailors learn very quickly to eat whatever we can get in the local markets when we put to shore. When one is subsisting on hardtack biscuits, salt pork, and watery rum, fresh fruit and vegetables are like manna from heaven. Have you ever eaten a carrot, ma’am? Raw, I mean.”

Emma stared at him. “You mean…right out of the dirt?”

“Well, washed of course,” he amended. “They’re nice and crunchy.”

“That doesn’t sound at all healthy,” Emma said disapprovingly.

Nicholas laughed.

Though her intentions had not been honest, Emma had not lied about Lady Anne and the Miss Fitzroys. The journey from Plymouth had indeed exhausted them, and, just as she had told Nicholas, they were sleeping in.

Octavia Fitzroy was the first to rise. A stately young woman of twenty-four, she was the eldest of Lord Hugh and Lady Anne’s five daughters. Intelligent, cold, and pompous, she commanded more obedience from her sisters than their nervous mother ever could. While Lady Anne sat up in bed, nursing a splitting headache, Octavia herded her sisters into the room for a council of war.

Apart from herself, only Augusta was dressed.

“It was a mistake to bring
all
of us to Plymouth to meet Cousin Nicholas,” Octavia declared while the younger girls were still rubbing their eyes. “By the time we got to Warwick, he was heartily sick of us all.”

“Cousin Nicholas is not sick of
me,
” declared Julia, preening. At fifteen, she was the youngest, and, with her lively, dark eyes, bright red hair, and flawless alabaster skin, she was the only sister with any claim to beauty.

“Yes, he is,” Cornelia, the third daughter, said spitefully. “He told me so.”

“Liar! You’re just jealous,” Julia said, quite accurately. “I can’t help it if he likes me best. I am the prettiest.”

“Cousin Nicholas treated you as a mere child,” Octavia told her bluntly, “which is, of course, what you
are.
”

“I am not a child!” shrieked Julia, causing her mother to wince in pain.

“You are not yet Out, Julia,” Octavia told her firmly.

“Well,
you
cannot have him, Octopus,” Julia retorted. “You are engaged already to Cousin Michael. Not that he seems eager to claim you,” she added spitefully. “The war has been over for
months.
Surely he could have gotten a furlong or whatever by now, if he wanted to.”

“Obviously, we are not talking of
me
, Julia,” Octavia said coldly. “I am spoken for. But one of you must make a push for Cousin Nicholas. If all of you try for him at once, it is very likely that none of you shall get him.”

“Cousin Nicholas will choose
me,
” Julia said. “I have only to crook my little finger.”

“It would be unseemly for you to marry before your elder sisters,” snapped Octavia.

Augusta, aged twenty, spoke up. “May I go to the stables, Mama?” she begged. “Cousin Nicholas is not likely to choose
me
, and I don’t want to be married, anyway.”

Lady Anne gasped. “Miss Augusta, that is a wicked thing to say! You know your papa and I are depending on you girls to marry well. Your papa has some very pressing debts.”

“You mean he’s gambled away our dowries,” Octavia corrected her.

“If Augusta don’t want Cousin Nicholas, then
I
should have him,” said Cornelia, sitting up taller. Like her two elder sisters, she had a long, horsey face and auburn hair, but she lacked Octavia’s intelligence and Augusta’s positive energy. She fancied herself a musician, but she was too lazy to practice. She scratched her head, scattering curl papers to the floor.

“You! What about
me?
” demanded Flavia, the fourth daughter.

“I am the next in line,” Cornelia informed her. “After Augusta, I am the eldest.”

Lady Anne looked at her third and fourth daughters doubtfully. Cornelia was only tolerable looking, and poor Flavia had been cursed with horrible teeth and greasy, spotted skin. “Oh, I do hope your Aunt Susan has not brought any single ladies with her,” she cried weakly. “What if Nicholas should fall in love with someone else?”

“She has not,” Octavia said with authority. “I have already made certain of that. My Aunt Bellamy has only invited married ladies.”

Lady Anne started up as a new, horrifying thought occurred to her. “What if Nicholas should fall in love with one of the governesses? His father had such low taste in women.”

“
Both
your brothers had low taste in women,” Octavia said. “At least we were never obliged to meet Cousin Nicholas’s mama. The indignity of having to curtsey to my uncle Camford’s wife was
quite
the outside of enough.”

Lady Anne’s hollow chest heaved with righteous indignation. “Haymarket ware!” she said, becoming quite animated. “When I think of that—that
woman
taking my mother’s place at Camford Park—! How I endured the humiliation, I shall never know. If Nicholas should marry an unsuitable female, I do not know what I shall do!”

“I will wear my blue muslin at dinner,” Julia announced. “Cousin Nicholas will want something pretty to look at while he eats. If he looks at Flavia, he will lose his appetite.”

“This will not be a family dinner, Julia,” Octavia told her harshly. “Aunt Bellamy has invited all the officers and their wives. You will have your dinner in the nursery with the other children.”

“What!” shrieked Julia. “Mama!”

“I’m afraid your sister is right, my love,” Lady Anne said, cringing. “Your father would never allow it.”

“Then I will just have to make the most of luncheon and afternoon tea,” Julia huffed. “I’m still allowed to have tea, ain’t I?” With her nose in the air, she swept from the room.

Cornelia hopped up. “I believe I will write Cousin Nicholas a love letter. If he thinks my heart is breaking, perhaps he will marry me out of pity!”

“That is an excellent idea, my love,” said Lady Anne.

“But
I
was going to write him a love letter!” cried Flavia. “You
stole
my idea!”

The two girls bolted from the room, pushing and shoving one another as they went.

Augusta stood up and quietly left the room. Lady Anne knew the impossible girl was going to sneak off to the stables, but she hadn’t the energy to stop her. Alone with her eldest daughter, she wrung her hands. “Oh, what is to become of us? If only you were not engaged, Octavia! I am certain
you
would get Nicholas to come to the point. You are so clever.”

“Yes,” Octavia agreed. “It is a great pity that Cousin Michael was not killed in the war. Then I would be free. He is a duke’s younger son—that is something, I suppose. But I should have liked to be a countess.”