The Duchess of Love (5 page)

Nigel gaped at him—and then favored him with a long, rather imaginative string of curses.

“I'm sorry,” Drew said. “What was that one about the witch's teat? I didn't quite catch it.”

“Bloody hell, Drew, I'm going to kill you.”

“You can't. Murdering a peer is a capital offense. You don't want to hang, do you?”

Drew could almost hear Nigel's teeth grinding.

“I might risk it.”

“Not a good idea.” They turned through the gates to Hyndon House and started up the drive. “Don't worry. I'm sure things will sort themselves out.” Drew shot Nigel a look. “Perhaps the gossip will give the widow a disgust of you.”

“Not likely. I—”

“Good God!” Drew reined his horse in so abruptly the animal tossed its head and sidestepped. They'd just come around a bend, and he could see the front door—and a carriage with the Duke of Cranmore's crest on the side.

“What is it? Oh.”

Nigel's words came from behind him; Drew hadn't waited to discuss the matter. Acting on instinct and a touch of panic, he'd kicked his horse down a side path into the trees.

Nigel followed. “You can't hide in the woods forever.”

Drew swung off his horse and led it deeper into the shadows. “I can hide until she leaves—and she has to leave. Even a disreputable baggage like Lady Mary knows that she can't stay overnight in a bachelor household.” He looped his horse's reins over a low-hanging tree limb and edged up to peer around a large bush. There was no movement either from the carriage or the house.

“After the way she lay in wait for you at Vauxhall, I wouldn't be so certain. And chances are Mrs. Edgemoor hasn't the mettle to stand up to her.”

“We can only hope the good woman has a deep well of moral outrage. Sometimes—no, here's Lady Mary now.”

Nigel hurried up to look around the other side of the bush. “And another female. It looks like—oh, damn.”

“It's the Widow Blackburn.” Drew gave a low whistle and looked at Nigel. “I didn't know they were bosom friends.”

Nigel was not amused. “How the bloody
hell
could Cranmore have countenanced his daughter traveling down from London with that woman? Doesn't he care for his daughter's reputation?”

Drew shrugged and looked back at the house. “It's a little late for that; his precious daughter's reputation is almost as black as the widow's. Hey now, who's this?”

A fubsy woman with an enormous hat and an equally fat and squat younger woman climbed into the carriage after the widow and Lady Mary.

“They appear made from the same mold,” Nigel said. “They must be mother and daughter.”

“Quite likely. The older one looks rather pompous. I'll wager she's Mrs. Higgins, the squire's wife.”

Drew watched the coach rumble off. He and Nigel went to their horses to keep them quiet; the foliage was dense enough that unless the women knew where to look, they wouldn't discover them.

Mrs. Edgemoor had a lot to say when they finally entered the house.

“Oh, your grace,” she said to Nigel, “we had visitors while you and Mr. Valentine were in the village.” Mrs. Edgemoor's face was pinched into an expression of disapproval. “Squire Higgins's wife and their daughter, Esmeralda; a Mrs. Blackburn who, if you'll pardon me saying so, is no better than she should be; and Lady Mary Detluck, the Duke of Cranmore's daughter.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something bad. “Lady Mary was very high in the instep, your grace, not at all like you. She and Mrs. Blackburn said they were”—Mrs. Edgemoor flushed and seemed to have difficulty getting the words out—“special friends of yours.”

“Oh, no,” Nigel said. “They are definitely not that.”

“We came down early, Mrs. Edgemoor,” Drew said, “to get away from them.”

Mrs. Edgemoor so forgot herself as to grin, clearly relieved, and nodded vigorously. “That's just what I thought. Those London women were trying to suggest they were betrothed to you and said I should tell them where you were and what you'd been doing while you were here, which of course I never would—not that you've done anything scandalous, of course. Why, two quieter, better behaved gentlemen I've not had the pleasure to meet, and that's the truth.”

Drew was careful not to meet Nigel's eye; Mrs. Edgemoor might not consider having a naked tête-à-tête with the vicar's daughter precisely well-behaved.

“Did they say how long they intended to be in the area?” Drew asked.

“No, but they did say they would see you at the garden party. Mrs. Blackburn has a friend who's a friend of Mrs. Higgins, so they are staying at the squire's house.”

“I see,” Drew said. At least they had a little longer before they had to face those harpies. “Is everything coming along well for the party? We're so sorry to put you to all this trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all, sir. Mrs. Shipley is helping, and I've got some girls in from the village, too. It's not as if there are many people who will come—Little Huffington is, well, little.” She frowned, twisting her hands together. “I do hope those London ladies won't look down their noses at us.”

“If they do, that is their problem, isn't it?” Nigel said.

“Yes, your grace. That's right.” Mrs. Edgemoor gave them another wide smile before curtsying and hurrying off, likely to attend to more party details.

They went into the study. Drew sprawled in a chair and let out a long breath. “Things are going to get complicated.”

Nigel snorted. “Quite.”

“It will be hard to keep this charade going with the widow and Lady Mary here.”

“Hard? It will be impossible.” Nigel poured two glasses of brandy and handed Drew one before taking the chair across from his. “You have to tell Venus who you are.”

Drew wanted to put that off as long as he could. “I'll get to it.”

Nigel stared at him. Damn, he
was
looking as unbending as the Dover cliffs now. “Do what you wish, but I will not continue with this masquerade any longer.”

“But …”

“No. We have not precisely—not explicitly—lied to anyone yet, but we are sailing very close to the wind. I decided in the village I was done with it. Widow Blackburn's and Lady Mary's arrival on the scene just reinforces my decision.”

This wasn't a surprise, but … “What happened in the village?”

Nigel frowned. “What do you mean, what happened in the village?”

“What happened to make you suddenly decide you couldn't pretend to be me any longer?”

Were the tips of Nigel's ears red?

“My good sense simply reassured itself,” Nigel said, not meeting Drew's eyes.

“And you met Aphrodite.” It appeared that Venus's matchmaking efforts were bearing fruit. “She
is
very beautiful.”

“And very intelligent.” Nigel looked Drew in the eye then, his cheeks definitely flushed. “I do not care to deceive her.”

“We aren't exactly deceiving her.”

“You are splitting hairs. If she thinks I'm you, she's operating under a mistaken assumption, one I could clarify. If I don't do so, that's deception in my book.” He grinned suddenly. “I don't want to think her feelings for me—whatever they are—are influenced by her misperception of my rank. You should be sympathetic to that sentiment.”

Blast it, of course he was. Drew took a long swallow of brandy. It looked as if he would definitely have to tell Venus he was Greycliffe sooner rather than later.

“What were you doing with Mr. Valentine, Venus?” Ditee asked as they studied lengths of ribbon in Mr. Fenwick's shop. The duke and Mr. Valentine had left a few moments ago. “You looked most peculiar.”

“Talking about the classics,” Venus said. That wasn't a complete lie. She
had
mentioned the man's letter to Papa.

“Oh. But you had your eyes closed.”

“I'm sure I must have been on the verge of falling asleep. You know how much I hate that subject.” Venus plucked a ribbon from the display and held it up to Ditee's face. “This shade of blue would look very nice on your dress. It matches your eyes.”

“It does?” Ditee ran the fabric through her fingers. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, indeed.” Venus pretended to study the other ribbons. “I thought the duke seemed like a pleasant gentleman. Did you?”

“Oh, yes!” Ditee's face lit up again. “He's extremely knowledgeable. He answered my question about Horace most thoroughly. I was very impressed.”

This sounded promising, especially as Ditee's cheeks were quite pink. “He's rather handsome, too.”

Ditee's color deepened. “Perhaps.”

Venus bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Her bookish sister was finally showing some interest in the opposite sex. “Perhaps you should get a new comb for your hair as well.” She held up one that sparkled even in the dim light of Mr. Fenwick's store. “Something like this.”

“That
is
very pretty.”

In the end, Ditee got two combs, the blue ribbon, and a length of deep rose ribbon for her walking dress. Venus was delighted with the way things were progressing, until she bumped into Mrs. Fedderly on the street outside Mr. Fenwick's shop.

“Oh, Miss Venus—and Miss Aphrodite. I was so hoping to run into you.” Old Mrs. Fedderly was the village gossip, but since her eyesight wasn't very good any longer, people generally took her stories with a large grain of salt. “I saw you chatting with our illustrious new neighbors.” She winked at Venus. “Finally doing a little matchmaking for yourself, eh?”

Venus felt herself flush. “No, I—”

“They seemed quite taken with both of you.” The woman's thin eyebrows did a little jig. “Perhaps they'll be staying in Little Huffington longer than expected.”

“Have you met the duke and Mr. Valentine, Mrs. Fedderly?” Aphrodite asked.

“No, but I am very much looking forward to their garden party. It will be so nice to have social activity at Hyndon House again. You know Mr. Blant used to entertain all the time when he was young.” Mrs. Fedderly batted her short, white lashes. “He was quite the rogue.”

The thought of Mr. Blant entertaining more than a side of beef was stupefying in itself, but to consider him a rogue of any stripe was beyond Venus's powers of imagination.

The rattle of a carriage approaching filled the stunned silence. They all turned to regard the impressive equipage bearing down on them.

“Now who could this be?” Mrs. Fedderly rubbed her hands in apparent glee. “I swear things haven't been this exciting since Farmer Isley's goat ate Miss Wardley's favorite bonnet.”

The coach creaked to a stop, and Mrs. Higgins lumbered out, followed by her daughter and two elegant ladies.

Mrs. Higgins hurried over to them—she could move surprisingly quickly when sufficiently motivated. “Mrs. Fedderly, have you seen the Duke of Greycliffe and his cousin, Mr. Valentine?” she asked, completely ignoring Venus and Ditee.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Fedderly said with a small, sly smile, obviously delighted to be one step ahead of Mrs. Higgins with village gossip. “But you might better ask the Misses Collingswood. They were actually conversing with the gentlemen.”

Venus was surprised Mrs. Fedderly didn't literally crow. The only thing better than beating Mrs. Higgins to some juicy gossip was forcing her to apply to the Collingswood girls for elucidation.

Mrs. Higgins's mouth pursed as if she'd just bitten into a lemon.

“Have you found them, Mama?” Esmeralda asked, coming up.

“No, but apparently the Collingswood girls know where they are.”

“Oh?” Esmeralda glanced at Venus's green dress and turned up her bulbous nose. “Why would the duke and his cousin speak to someone so … dowdy?”

Venus clenched her teeth. True, her dress was a shade of green popular last year—well, perhaps the year before last—but it was still serviceable. And Esmeralda was hardly a pattern card of fashion. Her insipid pink gown was so covered with knots of ribbons and bits of lace, she looked like a walking haberdashery. She would just tell her—

“Who are these people, Mrs. Higgins?” The older of the two stylish women peered disapprovingly at Venus through her lorgnette. Venus had an almost overwhelming urge to grab the dratted spectacles out of her hand and ram them through her ridiculously elaborate hairstyle.

“Just Mrs. Fedderly and the vicar's daughters, Mrs. Blackburn.”

Venus was quite, quite tired of being talked about as if she were deaf and dumb. “Yes, I am Venus Collingswood. This is my sister, Aphrodite. And you are …?”

“Mrs. Blackburn,” the woman said, “and Lady Mary Detluck”—she indicated the younger woman—“the Duke of Cranmore's daughter.”

Lady Mary sniffed. “So tell me where my betrothed is, if you will. I came all the way from London to see him.”

“Your betrothed?” Venus bit her lip. Damn it, she hadn't meant to say that, but shock had got the better of her. Mr. Valentine had said nothing of a betrothed lurking about. Surely he would have said something if the duke … But would he have mentioned a betrothal of his own?

Her stomach dropped to her toes.

“Betrothed?” Mrs. Fedderly laughed. “I didn't see any men who looked betrothed.”

Lady Mary scowled. “Perhaps your vision is defective. I assure you Greycliffe is promised to me, and Mr. Valentine is affianced to Mrs. Blackburn.”

“My vision is fine,” Mrs. Fedderly lied, “and I assure
you
the duke and his cousin looked quite smitten when they were walking and talking with Miss Aphrodite and Miss Venus.”

Mrs. Blackburn's eyes were as hard as stones. “Oh, well, a little flirting is to be expected. They are men, after all.” She looked from Venus to Aphrodite and back. “I hope no one misunderstood their intentions.”

Lady Mary snorted. “Really, can you imagine Greycliffe or Mr. Valentine showing any serious interest in such rustics?”

Mrs. Higgins and Esmeralda sniggered, but Venus would wager all her pin money Lady Mary considered them just as rustic as her and Ditee.

Mrs. Fedderly sniffed. “Mr. Fedderly, God rest his soul, used to say the air—and the women—were cleaner in the country.”

The ensuing shocked silence gave Venus her opening. “I believe the duke and Mr. Valentine returned to Hyndon House, ladies. At least, that seemed to be their intention; I can't claim to be in their confidence.”
Ha! She was most obviously
not
in their confidence.
“Now if you'll excuse us, we've been gone far longer than we intended. Are you ready to leave, Ditee?”

“Oh, yes,” Ditee said.

“Good day, then.” Venus smiled as pleasantly as she could. “And welcome to the neighborhood, Mrs. Blackburn, Lady Mary. I hope you have a”—
dreadful, hideous, horrible
—“nice visit.”

“Thank you. We don't intend to stay long, of course,” Lady Mary said. “The country is so boring, don't you know?”

“But I'm sure your presence will enliven it.” Venus strode off up High Street before she could say more.

“Those women were unbearably rude,” Ditee said, falling into step beside her. Her book remained closed.

“Yes, they were.”

They walked a few moments in silence.

“Do you think they really are betrothed to the duke and Mr. Valentine?” Ditee's voice sounded uncharacteristically small and sad.

Damn it all, how dare those miserable men hurt Ditee? Venus was so angry she'd like to kick something. No,
someone
, and in a very sensitive part of his damn handsome body. “They said so, didn't they? I can't imagine why they would take it into their heads to lie about something like that.”

There was no point in entertaining false hope. Anger, though … fury … revenge—yes, she'd gladly entertain all those emotions.

They reached the vicarage. Ditee opened the front gate and held it for Venus.

“You go on in, Ditee. I'm going to walk for a while.”

“Oh.” Ditee frowned as if she was having trouble understanding the simplest concepts. “Are you going to take Archie with you?”

“Not this time.” The stupid dog liked Mr. Valentine—but then Archie also liked rolling in dead things. “I'll see you later.”

 

Drew stood in the garden with Nigel, Mrs. Edgemoor, and Bugden, the gardener, a vegetative emergency at their feet.

“What am I to do about these poor bushes?” Bugden asked, appearing to be on the verge of tears.

They
were
a sorry sight. Five or six large shrubs had been picked clean of all greenery. Drew couldn't tell from Bugden's increasingly emotional speech—and consequent descent into the local dialect—whether the culprit was a giant hare or a hairy caterpillar.

He flinched. Something had hit him in the shoulder. Were there other garden marauders about?

Ah, there—he distinctly heard Bugden say “creepy crawler.” It must be the hairy caterpillar who was the villain in the bushes' demise.

Mrs. Edgemoor and Bugden had turned to Nigel for guidance, but Nigel was gazing into space, likely contemplating the fair Aphrodite.

“I'm afraid you'll just have to dig them up,” Drew said. “They look very … dead.”

This unfortunate word choice sent Bugden off on another impassioned speech. Apparently the plants had been flourishing just the day before; the vicious, sneaky bugs had crept in on their many legs in the dead of night to attack the poor, defenseless bushes, devouring them with incredible speed.

“Yes, well, that is a terrible shame.” Clearly some sympathy was in order, whether for the denuded shrubbery, which was long past caring, or Bugden, who obviously took the caterpillars' actions as a personal affront, or even Mrs. Edgemoor, who was wringing her hands and almost moaning. “However—
ouch
!”

Some hard missile had definitely collided with his other shoulder. He glanced down; had that large pebble been there by his foot before?

Nigel emerged from his woolgathering. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing.” Drew smiled. He'd go looking for his assailant as soon as he dealt with the plant problem. He was quite certain his attacker was not a hairy caterpillar. “The sad truth is I suspect nothing will resurrect these bushes.”

“Aye, yer right there.” Bugden looked gloomily at the plant corpses.

“So all we can do is remove the remains.”

“But the garden party is tomorrow,” Mrs. Edgemoor said. “It'll look a fright.”

It already looked a fright, as if fire or drought—or caterpillars—had come through, but Drew felt it wisest not to point out the obvious. “Perhaps a few potted plants would do the trick?”

“Hmm.” Bugden nodded. “That might work, and I know just where I can get some. There are too many in the music room anyway.”

Mrs. Edgemoor looked unconvinced. “I'm not sure …”

“Now, Maud, ye know I'm right. Come, let's see what we can do.”

Bugden and Mrs. Edgemoor went off to discover what indoor plants they could dragoon into outdoor duty.

“Well done,” Nigel said. “You appear to have averted a major disaster.”

Drew laughed. “Yes, well—
ow
!”

Something large and hard hit his arse with enough force to leave a bruise, he'd wager. He looked down. That was no pebble by his feet; that was a rock.

“I think the hedge over there is trying to get your attention,” Nigel said.

Drew looked in the direction Nigel indicated. The hedge shook emphatically.

“If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll go commune with nature.”

Nigel snorted. “Just be sure you don't come to an unhappy end like these bushes. The garden is obviously full of danger.”

Drew caught a quick glimpse of chestnut hair and a green-cloth-covered arm, and then another projectile flew through the air to land at his feet. This one was the largest yet. “Indeed it is.”

“She has a good arm, but she must be tiring,” Nigel said, choking back a laugh.

“Ah, but I believe this was sent as a warning only.”

Another rock landed, this time headed for his toe. He moved his foot quickly.

“The lady grows impatient.”

“Yes. I'm off. If I don't return by suppertime, send Bugden out to collect my poor corpse. He can dispose of it with the late, lamented bushes.”

Drew strolled over to the tall, green hedge. What wild bee was in Venus's bonnet now? Had she come to punish him for not kissing her in the village earlier?

He wished that were the case; he'd be happy—very happy—to rectify the omission.

And that wasn't the only omission he should rectify. Nigel was right. He should tell her now who he was. The longer he waited, the deeper the hole he dug, making it all that much harder to climb out and into her good graces.

But he didn't want to tell her, not quite yet. He wanted to know if she cared for
him
, for Drew Valentine, before he introduced her to Greycliffe. Once the duke was out of the bag, as it were, he'd never know her true feelings.

He peered cautiously around the hedge. “Did you wish to talk to me, Miss Collingswood?”

“Of course I wished to talk to you, you serpent.” She hissed very much like a snake herself.

“About what?”