The Decadent Duke (35 page)

“Dead?” Georgina's face paled, and her hand moved to her throat in a defensive gesture.
Lord God, I killed him!

“Are you sure?” Louisa demanded. “It's not just a rumor?”

“No, no, London is agog over the tragedy. The Prince of Wales has canceled all his engagements and shut himself up at Carlton House. The funeral arrangements are being planned . . . His obituary is expected in tomorrow's
Times
.”

Louisa glanced at her sister. “How did he die?”

“I was told in confidence that it was a ruptured bowel. Somehow he suffered an acute injury. The royal surgeon, Sir James Earle, operated, but could do nothing to save him.”

Georgina felt sick, as guilt washed over her. She sank down into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

“It is nothing short of a calamity. All our fine plans dashed to smithereens. Instead of a wedding, we get a funeral. It is more than the heart can bear. My poor, poor darling!”

Louisa's husband hurried forward with a decanter of brandy and poured a measure for Georgina.

“Thank you, Charles. A restorative is just what I need.” Jane swept the glass from his hand and drained it in one gulp.

“Please excuse me,” Georgina whispered, and ran from the room.

Louisa followed her. She led her sister into the library and sat her down before the fire. “It's not your fault, Georgy.”

“But it is! I kicked him and kneed him in the groin.”

“That was the only way you could protect yourself from the lecherous swine. Besides, that happened a month ago and couldn't possibly have killed him.” Louisa knelt and took her sister's hands. “I know you feel guilty, but you must never let anyone know what you did, not even Mother—especially not Mother. In fact, you must never say anything disparaging about Francis Russell, or utter one word of criticism. It is an unwritten rule of society that you must not speak ill of the dead.”

“All the world loved him and will mourn him, with the exception of you and me, Louisa.”

“But you must mourn him too, or at least put on a show of mourning him. All of London knows the Duke of Bedford was wooing you and will expect you to be devastated.”

“But I
am
devastated. Though I despised the man, I am not so wicked that I wished him to die. Louisa, whatever shall I do?”

“My best advice is to look sad and keep your mouth shut.”

The Duchess of Gordon swept into the library. “There you are, my poor darling. We must return to London immediately. You have an appointment with the dressmaker first thing in the morning.”

“Dressmaker?” Georgina murmured, at a loss.

“You need a new wardrobe entirely in black.”

Georgina was no hypocrite, and opened her mouth to protest. She saw the warning glance on Louisa's face, and the words stuck in her throat.
If I go into mourning, it will keep me off the marriage market and protect me from Mother's matchmaking.
The self-serving thought only added to Georgina's feelings of guilt.

Numb with grief, John Russell wrote his brother's obituary for the
Times
and made all the funeral arrangements. The service was held in the church at Chenies, and the duke's empty carriage followed the hearse. The streets were lined with Francis's tenants, staff, and hundreds of local people who came to pay their last respects. Friends, acquaintances, and fellow politicians, both Whigs and Tories, swelled the crowd to four thousand.

Once the funeral was over, John immersed himself in the business of running Woburn. He spent endless hours with the solicitors and accountants. Since Francis had neglected to make bequests in his will to reward his staff for their loyal service, John made sure every house servant, gardener, and stable worker received a generous amount in his brother's name.

Next, John called in the land stewards and pored over the reports they submitted. He took the time to speak with every tenant on Woburn's vast acres. He toured the home farm, personally took stock of all the animals, and then visited every farm on his land. Francis had never taken more than a cursory interest in Woburn's holdings or its hard-working people, leaving all the decisions to stewards. But John, who always shouldered his responsibilities seriously, took a personal interest in running the immense estate, checking the account books, paying the bills, and listening with respect to those who worked for him.

Last, but by no means least, was the matter of his brother's women. John was shocked and disgusted when he found a journal in the desk drawer that described in flagrant detail Francis's sexual excesses. He was stunned when he saw the last entry was a page entitled
Georgina.
Cursing his brother, he tore the page from the journal and burned it in the fire.

Since Woburn was now John's home, and where his sons would live when they were not at school, the problem of Molly Hill had to be resolved. He was surprised to learn that Francis had suffered his fatal injury in Mrs. Hill's bed, and in return for a signed statement swearing she would keep the matter private, John bought her a small house in London.

Next on the list was Marianna Palmer. John was shocked that Francis had made no provision for his illegitimate son and daughter by that lady, and immediately had his solicitor draw up generous annuities to be paid when the children came of age, along with a separate annuity for Marianna to be paid yearly.

The numbers of females who claimed to be the late Duke of Bedford's mistress and petitioned John for money were legion. Though he was skeptical in a few instances, he did not delude himself. Francis had indeed led a profligate life. He paid off the women without demur, but made it plain there would be no more money forthcoming.

Most nights John fell into bed exhausted, but work helped to assuage his grief and keep his guilt at bay. Though dog-tired, he often lay awake for hours before sleep claimed him.

Why the devil didn't I insist that Francis have the operation immediately?
It suddenly dawned on him that he resented his brother for dying and making him the Duke of Bedford. The stark realization added to his feelings of guilt.

I did not genuinely grieve for my wife, so fate has punished me by taking my brother's life.
John chided himself for thinking such superstitious claptrap. But he realized the dark thoughts were prompted by remorse over Elizabeth and guilt over Francis.

He thought of Georgina and the grief she must be suffering.
I resented my brother's relationship with her. I wanted her for myself and felt a raging jealousy over
her affection for him.
The admission filled him with shame.

When John fell asleep, however, and he began to dream, shame played no part whatever in the passionate interlude he shared with the vivacious, emerald-eyed beauty.

“Two black gowns are more than enough, Mother,” Georgina insisted. “If I am in mourning, I won't be attending any social functions, and you won't be entertaining here at Pall Mall for some time.”

“I've been thinking about that. As the leading Tory hostess, entertaining in my home is expected of me. Since
you
are the one who is in mourning, I think it will be more seemly if you grieve in private at one of your sisters'.”

More convenient, you mean.
“You should have left me in Suffolk with Louisa instead of dragging me back here to London!”

“I shan't take offense at your sharp tongue. It is a manifestation of your grief. Perhaps Kimbolton ...”

“Absolutely and emphatically not Kimbolton. I am not even on speaking terms with my sister Susan or the bloody Duke of Manchester!V

“Then I shall send a note round to Charlotte at Fife House.”

 
Just after lunch, Charlotte arrived in Pall Mall. The pleading look in Georgina's eyes hinted at how miserable she was. “I have a suggestion. Since Charles's parents gifted us with their lovely house at Richmond-on-Thames when I had the baby, the two of us can go there for a month. The peace and quiet will do us both good, Georgy.”

“A perfect solution to our dilemma,” Jane declared. “Someday, all the estates of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond will be yours, Charlotte. You have me to thank for marrying you into such a wealthy and prestigious family.”

“Yes, Mother. We all owe you a debt of gratitude,” Charlotte said dryly. “Go and pack your things, Georgy.”

The moment her sister left the room, Charlotte thrust a printed handbill at her mother. “Have you seen this? They're being sold on every corner! Your manipulative matchmaking has made my poor sister the butt of jokes.”

Jane stared at the Gillray cartoon in horror. The caption read:
Chasing the Bedford Bull
. It showed a fat and florid duchess adorned in Black Watch tartan chasing a bull. Her beautiful daughter followed, crying, “Run, Mither, Run. Oh, how I long to lead the sweet, bonny creature on a string.”

“How dare they print these malicious caricatures? Such obscene lies are deliberately designed to defame and damage me in the eyes of the
ton
!”

“It is the damage to Georgina I care about. It will expose her to public contempt and ruin her reputation.”

“Bedford did the chasing, and so I shall inform everyone.”

“Don't add fuel to the fire, Mother. The fastest way to make it go away is to treat it with silence. Say absolutely nothing! I don't want Georgy to see that cartoon; nor do I want her exposed to all the rumors that will run rampant about her and Bedford. We must protect her from the slanderous tongues of the
ton.
That is why I am taking her out of London.”

 
The Duchess of Gordon made it her business to inform everyone in her social circle that Francis Russell and Lady Georgina were engaged to be married when death suddenly snatched him away.

The late Duke of Bedford's closest friends denied that he was engaged. Sir Robert Adair contradicted the story, and when Lauderdale said that Jane had fabricated the whole thing, they had a vicious quarrel. Soon she was speaking only to the people who believed that Georgina and Francis had been engaged.

Jane's archrival, the Duchess of Devonshire, assured all her friends that her dearest “Loo” would never choose a Gordon to fulfill the role of Mistress of Woburn. London society became divided in its opinion. Some fervently believed the private engagement theory, while others hotly disputed it. Before the end of March, Georgina Gordon was the talk of the town.

Furious that John Russell had not come forward to confirm his brother's engagement to her daughter, the Duchess of Gordon wrote him a letter of reproach.

 
“When I go to London, I must hire a secretary.” John Russell sat in Woburn's library, going through the post that Mr. Burke had piled on his desk. “Condolences are still pouring in.” He added today's to the others stacked in boxes on the floor.

John's heart skipped a beat as he picked up an envelope embossed with the ducal crest of Gordon.
Georgina.
He tore it open and felt a stab of disappointment when he saw the signature.

 
“Damn and blast!” John crushed the letter in his fist.
I've thought of Georgina every day since Francis
died, aye and every day for months before, if I'm being truthful.
He could hardly abide the thought of her joyful laughter being silenced by sadness.

John was quite aware of the controversy raging over his brother's marital intentions, and he considered it the height of bad taste for Francis's friends and the Duchess of Gordon to be publicly arguing about the matter so soon after his death.

John clung doggedly to his brother's dying words about Georgina:
Sadly, I never asked her.

John, at a loss how to answer the letter, set it aside and picked up one from his friend Henry. When he opened it, he found a handbill of the Gillray cartoon, with a short note attached.

 
“Goddamn the scandalmongers!” John strode across the room to throw the offending cartoon into the fire, then thought better of it. “Mr. Burke, I shall leave for London immediately.”

When John arrived at the printers with his solicitor in tow, he made no effort to hide his cold, black fury from the owner. “While my brother was alive, he was fair game for the press. But I will not allow you to deliberately exploit his death to make money by printing and selling this or any other salacious cartoon.

“You will send a runner around to all your street vendors and order them to return every last handbill you have printed. Then you will burn them. If any are still on sale by six o'clock tonight, I will not only sue you for libel, I will buy this building and put you out of business.