The Desirable Duchess (12 page)

“But it is only one meeting, I beg of you. If you could prevail on Alice to see me, just once. I could also tell her about these dreadful rumors, and together we could scotch them.”

Lucy looked at him doubtfully. “To be frank, if there are any embers of warmth toward you left, Sir Gerald, I do not feel like doing anything to fan them.”

“You would not. A final good-bye would be to everyone’s advantage.”

“Very well. I will call on Alice tomorrow and see what I can do.”

Gerald stood up to take his leave. Just to be on the safe side, he should establish that alibi even more. “I had the pleasure of meeting your husband this afternoon, a curricle race at Hammersmith,” he said as he bowed his way out.

He felt pleased. The intrigue had bolstered his spirits. “Hey, Warby!” cried Mr. Jermyn, a Bond Street lounger. “What news?”

Gerald looked at him solemnly. “There is no truth in the rumors that I am having an affair with the Duchess of Ferrant,” he said. “Tell everyone.”

Mr. Jermyn goggled at him. “Oh, I will, I will,” he said, and then went on to his club, where he regaled his cronies with the fact that the Duchess of Ferrant was having an affair with Sir Gerald Warby—and Sir Gerald was trying to cover up the fact in the clumsiest way possible, which is exactly what Sir Gerald had guessed he would do.

Alice was dismayed to receive a message from her husband saying that he would not be home until late. The duke was continuing his questioning of the soldiers and anyone else who had happened to be in the Park at the time. One soldier, brighter than the rest, had vouchsafed that he had seen a fellow walking away from the bushes with an empty canvas gun bag. No, the soldier had said, he had not remarked on him particularly. Had thought idly that he was one of those Cockneys come to see the drill. He described the man as being tall and wearing a wideawake on his head, but couldn’t remember much else.

Mrs. Duggan called to remind Alice that they were engaged to go to Lady Markman’s picnic on the morrow if the weather held fine. After she had left, Alice was sitting flipping through a pile of invitation cards, discussing with Oracle whether she should go to one of the social events on her own, when Lucy was announced. Lucy had decided she could not bear to wait until tomorrow. Edward had not come home. He had sent a note to say he would join her at the opera later.

Alice embraced her warmly. “I am so glad to see you, Lucy. Such a frightful thing has happened. Someone shot at Ferrant in the Park.”

“Merciful heavens,” said Lucy. “You must have had a dreadful shock. Have they found who did it?”

Alice shook her head. “Ferrant is still making inquiries.” She suddenly wanted to unburden herself, to tell Lucy about that man she had seen, that man who had looked so like Sir Gerald, but Lucy had begun to speak again.

“I had a visit from Sir Gerald Warby, Alice.”

Alice blushed. Lucy said evenly, “This followed a distressing call on Mrs. Grange. Mrs. Tumley was there… and she was spreading gossip that you are having an affair with Warby.”

“This is awful!”

“Exactly. So I took the liberty of sending for Sir Gerald and telling him to scotch the rumors.”

“When was this?” asked Alice.

“Late this afternoon. I was lucky to find him at home. He had just returned from a curricle race in Hammersmith.”

Alice felt limp with relief. So it could not have been Sir Gerald in the Park. She had been right to keep her suspicions to herself.

“Sir Gerald quite moved me,” Lucy went on, “by the way he described how your parents had coerced him into leaving you. He said they had told him you were in love with Ferrant.”

“I shall never forgive them for that,” said Alice.

Lucy looked at her sadly. “If you won’t forgive them for stopping your marriage to Sir Gerald, surely that means you still long for him.”

“No, no,” said Alice wretchedly. “I am furious because my parents did not confide in me, because they tricked me.”

“Sir Gerald begged me to see you. He wishes to talk to you for one last time, to explain.”

“He has already explained,” said Alice wearily.

“I suppose I feel a certain sympathy for him,” said Lucy earnestly. “He was tricked as well. Could you not spare him a few moments of your time?”

Alice bit her lip. “I cannot have him call here.
But, yes, I think I would like to see him. Perhaps I could beg him to leave London so there would be a chance of all those horrible rumors dying down. I am to go with Mrs. Duggan to Lady Markman’s picnic tomorrow. I do not know if Sir Gerald has been invited, but at these hurly-burly affairs an odd uninvited member of society is not remarked on. It is at three in the afternoon in the Surrey fields. Tell him to be there and I can talk to him for a little.”

“Everyone will see you together,” pointed out Lucy doubtfully. “Can you not meet him in private?”

Alice shook her head. “If anyone saw a private meeting, that would be worse.”

“But to return to this shooting,” said Lucy. “Who could have possibly done such a thing?”

“I found a musket lying in the bushes,” said Alice. “Perhaps one of the soldiers—It was a military musket.”

“The Cockney youths often use old army muskets as well for their sport. I don’t mean one of them would consider shooting Ferrant as sport. What I mean is that they drink so much, and as soon as they are drunk, all they want to do is shoot things. One of them shot Lady Markman’s pug when it had run away from her carriage. And the fellow had the gall to say he thought it was a rat!”

Alice began to feel quite lighthearted. It did not cross her mind that her husband’s assailant might have chosen an army musket in the very hope that the soldiers would have been blamed, or some lout from the East End of the City who could afford only an old army weapon.

“I feel it is definitely time to start afresh, Lucy,” she said. “Once I have spoken to Sir Gerald and heard what he has to say, then I feel I can begin a new chapter.”

Lucy looked at her seriously. “I hope your husband means to start a new chapter as well.”

“He has told me about Lady Macdonald. It was a flirtation, Lucy, not an affair, and it is at an end.”

Lucy gave Alice an impulsive hug. “You are going to be the most happily married lady in London, and won’t
that
confound the gossips!”

Sir Gerald received a letter from Lucy that was waiting for him when he had returned home. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day. First the meeting in the City with Lord Werford and Percy, the discussion with them of the best way to shoot the duke, the getting of the musket, the dash to Hammersmith, the dash back from Hammersmith to the Park, the circuitous approach to that stand of bushes, walking neither too fast nor too slow, his hat pulled down over his eyes to cover his face, and then the failure. He had tracked Werford and Percy down to a coffeehouse in Pall Mall in the evening, and, to their complaints, he had replied waspishly that the whole project of shooting the duke in broad daylight in the Park had been insanity. In future, they would have to trust him and let him do his own planning, to which Lord Werford had barked, “Don’t take too long about it,” and his eyes had been full of threat.

He scanned Lucy’s note and then smiled. It was also his job to see that the duke and Alice did not become close—or the next thing would be that Alice would be with child and Werford would be demanding
her
murder.

He wearily put on his evening clothes and went out again to search for Lady Macdonald. He was quite prepared to attend every social function in London to find her, but he fortunately called at her home first—and to his relief found her there.

He told her about his planned meeting with Alice at the picnic. “Good,” said Lady Macdonald, “but what will you do if Ferrant is there?”

“I do not think he will be,” said Gerald. “If she is prepared to speak to me, then she will not want her husband to be witness to it.”

Lady Macdonald smiled. “It would be in my interest to get him there. I have been invited.”

Gerald thought quickly. All sorts of opportunities at a picnic. Shooting had been clumsy. Now poison was easily available, and poison was subtle. There was arsenic all over London: arsenic in the wallpaper paste to keep down bugs, arsenic in the kitchens to keep down rats, and arsenic used as a cosmetic to clear the skin. Of course, there would be an outcry to see who had killed the great duke. First suspect would be Alice, but he could testify to her innocence and cleverly throw the blame on Lady Macdonald, saying she was mad with jealousy.

“I think perhaps I will send Ferrant a note begging him to meet me there in the name of friendship,” said Lady Macdonald. “If his wife tells him she is to go, then he might reply that tomorrow is not a good moment. But if she plans to talk to
you
, then she may lie to him.”

Gerald affected a gaiety he did not feel as he asked the all-important question. “What is Ferrant’s favorite food? I only ask because the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“I will take him some pâté de foie gras,” said Lady Macdonald. “He is inordinately fond of that, and I doubt if Lady Markman will have any. Although the wars are over, it is still very expensive and very hard to find.”

Gerald left praying that Alice and the duke would not arrive together. If they did, then it meant that Alice had told her husband openly that she wanted a few words with him, Gerald.

Alice did not see her husband at breakfast. The duke had gone out early to fight a duel. He had called at his club late the previous evening and had overheard a young buck telling his friend that the Duchess of Ferrant was having an affair with Sir Gerald Warby. The duke had promptly demanded satisfaction for the insult. Seconds were named. The duel took place at dawn. The young buck missed the duke by a yard, but the duke put a ball into his arm, saw that the surgeon was attending to the young man, and then told him that if he or any of his fellows mentioned such a slur again, he would take him to court…. And that, the duke thought ruefully as he tumbled into bed, was what he should have done in the first place, society being more terrified of the law courts than they were of duels.

He rose and dressed and then read the letter from Lady Macdonald. He called his secretary. “Where is the duchess?” he asked.

“Her Grace left a few moments ago with Mrs. Duggan, Lord Dunfear, and Mr. Donnelly.”

“Do you know where they have gone?”

“No, Your Grace, but I overheard Mrs. Duggan say that it was a beautiful day for a drive.”

The duke frowned down at the letter in his hand. He had treated Lady Macdonald badly. He should have made it clear to her from the beginning that he had no intention of divorcing his wife. But then at that time, he
had
thought of divorcing Alice. He thought of Alice’s sweet kisses and smiled, and felt suddenly in charity with all the world. Yes, he would see Lady Macdonald and be kind and courteous to her—but in a way that would make it plain to everyone that they were friends, nothing more.

To Lady Macdonald’s surprise, Gerald called on her the next day and said he was prepared to escort her to the picnic. She regarded him impatiently. “I am not ready yet,” she said, “and besides, I do not want to upset Ferrant by turning up with you. Off with you.”

But Gerald had found out what he wanted, the reason why he had called. On the table in Lady Macdonald’s drawing room stood a jar of foie gras, waxed and sealed. He made a mental note of the brand, Janvier et Fils, bowed and took his leave, and scoured the shops until he had purchased, at great expense, a jar of the same kind. He took it back to his lodgings and with a heated knife carefully removed the wax seals, lifted the lid and mixed in a quantity of arsenic, smoothed the top of the pâté, replaced the lid, and resealed it. Then he hired a curricle and drove briskly in the direction of the Surrey fields, feeling again that surge of power.

When he arrived, he noticed that Alice was there with Mrs. Duggan and those two Irishmen, and also noticed with pleasure—from Mrs. Duggan’s startled look—that Alice had told her nothing about his going to be there. He smiled blandly on Lady Markman, who was saying loudly and acidly that she could not remember inviting him, and then went and mingled with the guests. He chatted and laughed with people he knew, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched the arriving carriages.

He was rewarded by the sight of Lady Macdonald, driving herself in a smart phaeton, her maid beside her clutching that jar of pâté. Lady Macdonald and the maid descended; the pâté was left on the carriage seat. Quickly Gerald went to his own carriage and retrieved his own pot of pâté, and effected the switch when the footmen, grooms, and coachmen were busy gossiping.

Then he returned to the picnic. People were lying on rugs on the grass or strolling about. He approached Alice and bowed low. “Would you do me the honor of walking with me for a little, Duchess?”

Mrs. Duggan put a hand on Alice’s arm, but Alice rose to her feet and said quietly, “Only for a little. I shall not be long, Mrs. Duggan.”

Timing! Oh, what perfect timing, thought Lady Macdonald as the Duke of Ferrant drove up.

She fluttered over to him, her filmy muslin skirts blowing about her body in the light breeze. “Ferrant!” she cried gaily. “So you are come after all.”

“I had not time to reply to your letter,” he said, bowing over her hand. Then his eyes went past her to the squat figure of Mrs. Duggan, seated on the grass with Donnelly and Dunfear.

He frowned. “Is my wife here?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lady Macdonald, letting an embarrassed look appear in her eyes. “Er… I suppose she is somewhere.”

Only a moment before, thought the duke bleakly, the day had been full of light and color. Now the picnic was a strangely gray scene, and at the edge of that gray scene walked his wife—on the arm of Sir Gerald Warby.

Alice did not spend long with Sir Gerald. She listened gravely to his protestations of undying love and his repeated apologies for having sent her that letter. Then she said earnestly that he could best please her by leaving London and putting an end to the rumors. Up until then, Alice had been feeling sorry for him, and guilty at the same time, for she had been secretly wondering why she had ever thought herself in love with him. But when, in what she thought was a rather stagy manner, he put his hand on his heart and said that to be in her neighborhood was all he asked of life and he could not dream of leaving London while she was in it, she felt herself feeling trapped and irritated and said brusquely, “It is time I returned to my friends. I have granted you this time, Sir Gerald, but it must not happen again.”