The Dangerous Duke (13 page)

Molly nodded vigorously, her cheeks glowing with suppressed pleasure and her lips pressed together to hold back the excited shriek she let out the minute Devlin had gone.

“Oh, Miss,” she squealed, holding the garment up and pirouetting round the room. “It’s ever so wonderful, ain’t it? I bet it comes from the same fancy place as yer green dress.”

Preparations for the ball were in full swing by the time Fenella was allowed to take her first steps downstairs. Her lengthy stay in bed had stretched to over a fortnight and Fenella had lost track of days. She was quite bewildered by the hustle and bustle that now characterised Deverell House, since an extra labour force of rosy-cheeked, sturdy scullery maids had been commandeered from the village to lend more than a few willing hands.

The Duke was a generous employer and, besides the work, the locals were agog to behold the unheard of—a ball at the “old House”—an event that had not taken place for many years. The gardens were a blaze of colour as the gardeners busied themselves with fitting the maze with tinted lanterns, trimming the hedges, creating amazing shapes with some of the ornamental bushes and preparing to fill Deverell House with sheaf upon sheaf of fragrant adornment. The stairs were crowded as a squad of novice parlour maids dashed back and forth with armfuls of fresh linen, readying the numerous guest rooms for the visitors. Cupboards were aired in preparation for the finery the guests would bring with them. Space had to be made as well for the number of abigails, valets and grooms that would accompany the distinguished recipients of each small engraved card of invitation.

When Fenella found her way downstairs, helped by a solicitous Molly, she found the Dowager in the morning room, surrounded by mounds of replies, bills, papers and other clutter that attends upon grand preparations. The papers had flowed from her lap to the floor but the Dowager appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself. She looked up with a bright smile as Fenella entered the room.

“There you are, my dear, back to health at last. Sit down on the sofa. Now Molly, bring us tea at once!”

Molly bobbed and withdrew while Fenella sank onto the sofa. She shook her head to counter the slight dizzy feeling that suddenly overcame her.

The Duchess patted her hand as she tutted in commiseration. “I felt the same way after my lengthy spell in bed, but the faintness will pass. Besides, you have to be well, my dear girl, to enjoy the ball.”

Fenella opened her mouth to expostulate, but the Duchess shook her head firmly. “It’s no use giving me the same old excuses, you silly goose. You
will
attend, and this shall also be something of an informal coming out for you.” She frowned as if recalling a singularly unpleasant experience. “Lady Vane was so kind as to point out that deficiency in your social progress. It shall be rectified without further ado.”

Fenella made a last attempt to demur; her employer’s gimlet gaze was enough to quell her feeble murmurs of protest.

The Dowager sat back in her chair and waved a hand to indicate the muffled sounds of hasty footsteps, the buzz of voices and the hustle of activity outside the room.

“It brings back so many memories, my dear,” she smiled. “When Devlin’s father was alive we used to entertain on such a grand scale. It was wonderful. It is even more wonderful now to have a reason to do so again.”

“When is the date?” Fenella asked, a ripple of anticipation threading through her body.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” the Dowager laughed, “but we have chosen this Saturday.”

Fenella sat bolt upright, her heart pounding with excitement. “So soon?”

“It’s not at all soon!” the Dowager exclaimed. “You have been in bed for quite a while, my dear—at least two weeks.” She shuffled some of her lists together and knitted her brows as she stared at her notes. “Several guests are arriving a few days beforehand and we must be ready for them as well. They’ll be here tomorrow, or is it the day after, I wonder? I think I wrote it down somewhere.”

She cast a sideways glance at Fenella; her expression was rueful as she exclaimed, “I regret to say the party includes that…that…Lady Vane!”

A mixture of tutting and grumbling noises, as the old lady thought better of her intended words, muffled whatever she had proposed to say.

Fenella’s face clouded over as the remembrance of pain intruded; the memory of Devlin, his gift to her; the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand as he had taken hers, the laughter shared. Then came the vision of Lady Vane snuggling against Devlin’s arm at the dinner table, her proprietary attitude toward him speaking volumes about their relationship. She pushed the invasive recollections away.

“I feel so lazy,” Fenella confessed. “I have been lying upstairs while you have done all this on your own.”

“Tush!” the Dowager snorted. “I have had help; Cousin Eugenia has displayed a surprising secretarial talent, which has been invaluable in sending out invitations and collating replies. Do you know—not one refusal!”

As she spoke, Cousin Eugenia sidled into the room, her black bonnet waggling and a triumphant smirk on her face. She sat down with a starched rustle and primly arranged her many layers of black petticoats, skirts and shawls.

“Cousin Eugenia is staying here until after the ball, to help with the arrangements. I don’t want you to be exhausted, my dear.” The Dowager gave Fenella’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Fenella greeted Cousin Eugenia with a sinking heart. Evidently, in her absence the dreadful spinster had managed to inveigle herself back into the Dowager’s favour.

“And how are you today, Miss Preston?” Cousin Eugenia asked, with a cold expression that belied her warm enquiry.

“Very well, thank you,” Fenella replied. “I think I am quite recovered.”

“A pity you won’t be able to partake of the proceedings,” Cousin Eugenia said in a low voice. “But since it is a family occasion, you will understand.” She narrowed her eyes and pursed her dry lips into a disapproving pucker.

The Duchess had been engrossed in reading a list but caught a fragment of conversation.

“What’s this nonsense, Eugenia?” she asked, with a sharp note in her voice. “I have just told Fenella this is to be an informal coming out for her, so please don’t interfere with family matters.”

Cousin Eugenia darted a glance of such malice at Fenella that she recoiled visibly. Molly arrived with the tea tray and Cousin Eugenia rose to supervise. While the spinster fussed over the pouring of tea and serving of cake, Fenella closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. It was a week since she had seen Devlin; a long week of wondering, of slipping languidly between sleep and daydreams; a week of wishing to depart, yet yearning to stay; a week of wondering about the past, days crowded with memories and desires. She longed to ask as to Devlin’s whereabouts, but dared not. Besides, it was obvious that Lady Vane would look to the occasion of the ball as the perfect moment for Devlin to announce their engagement. Since Devlin had made it clear as well that friendship was all he could offer her, Fenella had no right to enquire.

The Dowager’s voice broke her reverie, almost as if the old lady read her mind. “Devlin will be coming down soon with his friends, I expect.”

Fenella nodded and then excused herself, saying she felt a little fatigued.

“That’s right, you rest before dinner,” the Dowager advised her. “I want to see roses in those cheeks!”

Fenella gave her a faint smile, but inwardly asked herself to what purpose? Devlin’s future was assured, and the sooner she removed herself from his presence and his home, the better.

* * * *

Lady Vane’s thoughts on her prospects with Devlin were so vastly improved by his presence at her side for most social engagements in London that she almost began to feel secure again. True, he was distant and his absent, often monosyllabic answers gave her the distinct suspicion he was not attending to the conversation. However, it was understandable; after all, there was so much to think about. He was probably pondering his imminent proposal to her; then there was the question of a settlement, and naturally there would be “arrangements” to be agreed upon regarding their marital circumstances. She contemplated a vision of their new life together.

Oh ho, there would be some changes indeed, starting with the removal of that sour old rat-bag of a mother-in-law to a Dower House! Then most of the servants would have to be replaced since their deep and abiding loyalties to Devlin meant that she would be politely ignored. The London house in Grosvenor Square would have to be opened up and refurbished. It would be useful if Devlin kept on his rooms at his club—they certainly would not be living in each other’s pockets like some couples, who actually had the ill breeding to fall in love with each other.

He had never mentioned the incident with his dreadful horse—something else that would have to go as well as those horrible dogs—nor his conduct afterward, which led her to believe it had been an awkward, embarrassing event, but a mere storm in a very tiny teacup after all. A storm blown out of all proportion by that stupid girl’s accident.

She had never meant for the horse to bolt, just to unseat that idiot chit. Little Miss Milksop had obviously made the most of her convalescence, but it appeared that her rival was fading into the background. However, it was best not to be careless. The girl had to be disposed of, but in such a manner that utterly no blame could be attached to Lady Penelope. It must appear as if Devlin himself had given her the boot.

When Sir Marcus reluctantly brought up the subject of the plan, Lady Penelope told him in a vituperative tone that
of course
the plan was still in place and he need not try to wriggle out of his obligation to her.

“But do you think it’s necessary?” he asked. “Looks like Devlin has surrendered to his fate.” He added a nasty chuckle.

“You are so dim-witted, Marcus,” she sighed in exasperation. “I need his ring on my finger. Anything can happen before then.”

“Many a slip ’twixt…?” Sir Marcus gave her a sly grin.

“Exactly!” Lady Penelope snapped. “So just remember your role in this matter. I expect you to pay court to her openly and in full view of Devlin and get her to respond. She is such a simpering, country bumpkin she is sure to be taken with your libertine charm and seductive ways.”

Lady Penelope was determined to ensnare Devlin, judging by the mounds of alluring apparel lying in heaps on the floor or else draped over the furniture, while Maria pattered back and forth, sucking on her rabbit teeth and trailing layers of tissue paper with her as she packed.

“What of your enquiries regarding the girl’s identity?” Lady Penelope demanded, as she scrutinized a diaphanous black robe trimmed with swan’s-down. Sir Marcus raised his quizzing glass to the enticing garment and murmured his appreciation.

“Do concentrate!” She whisked the item of clothing out of his line of vision with an impatient flick of the wrist.

Sir Marcus settled himself down on a corner of the chaise lounge devoid of feminine clothing. He made a tentative motion with his hand to indicate sipping from a glass.

“Oh, if you must!” Lady Penelope fumed. She crossed to the cabinet to pour him a glass of sherry. Sir Marcus blanched as he sipped the golden liquid and the rich, overpowering sweetness hit his palate. Lady Penelope looked at him with a sneer twisting her lovely face.

“You’ll drink anything, won’t you?” she jeered.

Sir Marcus swallowed. “Possibly. Probably. Just as you’ll do anything to get rid of this girl and truss Devlin up.” His tone was equally cool and sardonic.

Lady Penelope flushed and stamped her satin-shod foot. “Just get on with it.”

Sir Marcus took his time by first sipping the sherry at leisure, then cleaning his quizzing glass, then uncrossing his legs and finally leaning back and gazing up at the ceiling. After hearing a sputter of frustration from his indignant hostess, he sat up with a smirk on his face.

“It appears that Miss Milksop comes from unexceptionable, entirely respectable family.”

Lady Penelope’s eyebrows rose.

“The lady’s father was a military man, and the grandfather a man of country gentry. The family seems to have been small—a daughter, two brothers, or was the other chap a brother-in-law, I wonder? The grandfather had his own money and was able to buy Miss Milksop’s father a handsome commission. Anyhow, I think one or even both went into the military, fought in the Peninsula and little Miss Milksop’s father distinguished himself considerably.”

Lady Penelope looked sourly at him. “So? There’s nothing singular there. Just an ordinary family. In fact, not socially unacceptable …but not quite in the right bracket for a Duke. I think he’s safe from her clutches.”

Sir Marcus put down his glass and steepled his fingers, peering through them in quizzical fashion at his hostess’s sulky face.

“Not quite, m’dear. The father of the milksop married, but no one knows anything about her except that she was Spanish, and the rumour goes that she may—I say
may
—have been of noble birth. A factor which would elevate Miss Milksop’s social standing somewhat, eh? European nobility is quite the rage now, wouldn’t ye say?”

Lady Penelope started. A deep flush of rage mounted in her cheeks as she remembered seeing Fenella’s jewels. At the time, she had wondered if Fenella was of noble birth but Fenella’s professed ignorance of her parentage had allayed her fears. Now it seemed that her initial suspicion could fast become a fact. This was not turning out quite as she had anticipated.

“But there’s more,” came Sir Marcus’ silky whisper. “It appears the father died in very strange circumstances.”

Lady Penelope’s head jolted upward and an expression of hesitant glee appeared on her face.

“How strange? Strange as in scandalous?” Her eyes glittered.

“It was said to be an accident while cleaning a gun…but…there was talk of gambling debts…and possible suicide.”

A broad, almost lewd grin spread across Lady Penelope’s face as she jumped to her feet and strode around the room, kicking piles of clothing out of her path.

“Yes! Yes!” she crowed in triumph. “Now tell me, Marcus, how could anyone want to be associated with a woman whose background betokens such low and disgusting elements? He will never have anything to do with her once he finds out. I don’t care if her mother was the Queen of Spain!”

Sir Marcus picked up his sherry glass. “But do you need to tell him or anyone else? After all, if you get what you want, you don’t need to use the information.”