The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness (26 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“Sir, it was your nephew who beguiled her with promises of marriage. Are you so jaded that the suffering of an innocent girl means nothing to you?”

“Max wouldn’t be fool enough to promise marriage,” declared the duke. “And there’s no need for him to go about the place ruining virgins. He has a perfectly good mistress for all that sort of thing. The actress, Mrs. Tolliver. Perhaps you have seen her on stage? Very beautiful.”

Patience’s cheeks were flaming. “Was Mrs. Tolliver with him last night at your ball when he ravished my sister?” she said coldly. “Was Mrs. Tolliver with him this afternoon when he ravished her again in this house?”

The duke frowned. “What, here? This afternoon? Venable!”

The butler must have been listening at the door, for he appeared almost instantly. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Was there a young woman here today with my nephew?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Miss Waverly visited briefly.”

The duke stared. “What?” he cried. “Were they alone together?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Then Mr. Purefoy took the young lady away in his curricle.”

“Thank you, Venable. You may go. This proves nothing,” the duke added, glaring at Patience. “Your sister’s always coming here uninvited—a family trait, it would appear!”

“I’m sorry to pain you, sir, but it’s true. Your nephew has ruined my sister.”

“You have no proof of anything.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I do have proof,” Patience said quietly.

“What proof?” he demanded. “Dirty linen? Servant’s tittle-tattle?”

“A letter, sir, written by your nephew to my sister.”

He squinted at the paper she handed him.

“Did your nephew write it?” she said.

“It is his hand,” the duke admitted, flabbergasted. “It does seem ... Well! If the boy has done this terrible thing, I shall, of course, disown him.”

Patience blinked at him. “Disown him, sir? Can you do that?”

“Very easily, too,” he told her. “My brother Richard was only twenty when he married that girl out of the opera house. I’ll simply have the marriage annulled. Max will be illegitimate, and so barred from the succession. My sister’s grandson may then inherit.
His
bloodline is impeccable. And, as far as I know, he hasn’t seduced any innocent girls. I shall meet with my attorney directly. Tonight! I wash my hands of the boy entirely.”

“Good,” said Patience.

“Good?” he repeated, surprised. “You realize what this means? Max will be penniless. He will never be Duke of Sunderland. If it is your sister’s ambition to be a duchess, she had better cut line.”

“How dare you,” Patience breathed. “My sister gave herself to him because she loves him.”

“Touching,” he said dryly. “You want money, I suppose?”

“We don’t care about your title or your money, sir,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’re not exactly paupers, you know.”

“I will strip the boy even of his name,” the duke warned. “I don’t know that he has a name to give your sister—certainly none of distinction. Would your sister marry a nameless, penniless bastard? Well, that is love indeed. I’m glad I shall live to see it.”

“Will you prevail on him, sir, to marry my sister?”

The duke shrugged. “How can I? From this moment on, I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me.”

“He is still your responsibility,” said Patience. “You have let him run wild all these years. You have indulged him too much. Will you not lift a finger to help his victim?”

“You blame me?” the duke cried.

“Yes. If you have an ounce of decency, you will help my sister. We are far from home, sir. We have no friends here. You are powerful—you can arrange these things with a snap of your fingers.”

“That is true, I suppose,” he said. “The Archbishop of Canterbury owes me a bit of a favor, now that I think on it. Would tomorrow morning suit you?”

“Suit me?”

“For the wedding, madam,” he said impatiently. “It will have to be a small affair.”

“Tomorrow,” Patience repeated. “As soon as that?”

“When the cart has been put before the horse, the mistake should be rectified as quickly as possible. Would you not agree?”

“Yes, of course. Prudence will be very glad.”

“Tomorrow, then. Six of the morning, shall we say? By law, a marriage cannot take place by night, so we must wait for the sun. Also by law, the thing must be done before noon. And, of course, it must take place in a church. Have you a church in mind?”

“No, sir.”

“Let us say St. Bride’s, then, in Fleet Street. No one I know attends there, but I know the rector. I will see to it that he has the special license. He will look for you at dawn.”

“Thank you, sir. And—and the groom?”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about
him,
” said the duke. “He’ll meet you at the altar. Penniless, and without the protection of my name, he’ll be hounded all over London by his creditors. I’ll place the notice in tomorrow’s paper. You have only to show it to him if he balks. Believe me, he will choose marriage over debtor’s prison.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You understand, of course, that I won’t be attending the wedding.” The duke signaled to his nurse, who began pushing his chair toward the door. “Good-bye, Lady Waverly.”

Patience was left standing for a moment, then Venable came to show her out.

“Tomorrow?” Prudence echoed in disbelief, when her sister gave her the news. “As soon as that?”

Patience shrugged. “He’s the Duke of Sunderland. Everyone hops to when he says so, even the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“St. Bride’s Church?” said Pru, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn’t he get Westminster Abbey?”

“A small, quiet service in an out-of-the-way little church will do nicely,” said Patience.

“I suppose you’re right,” Pru said reluctantly.

Jumping out of bed, she ran to the wardrobe to look at her dresses. “Tomorrow morning! I can hardly believe it! What am I going to wear?” Turning away from the sight of her clothes, she went for the calf-bound fashion plates she had carelessly tossed in the window seat. “Really, Pay, I must have more time. Madame Devy can make me a gown in four days, if I pay double.”

“Absolutely not!”

“But ... I want Westminster Abbey! I want a golden coach drawn by four snow-white horses! I want a new gown—satin! It will take weeks to arrange everything properly.”

“You will be married tomorrow morning, at St. Bride’s Church,” Patience snapped. “No! Not another word of this nonsense, Pru! If you are determined to marry this—this
libertine,
it should not be delayed. The world will know soon enough that you have been in the man’s bed—the servants at Sunderland House know all about it already, and I don’t expect they’ll keep it to themselves.”

With a sigh Pru closed her book of fashion plates. “Was Max very angry with me for peaching on him? Did he rage and deny it all?”

“I didn’t see him. I spoke to his uncle. But don’t worry—he
will
marry you. I mean, he
shall
marry you. It’s all arranged. Try to get some sleep; I’ll wake you in plenty of time. We should leave here at dawn for St. Bride’s.”

Pru gave a shriek of dismay. “Sleep? I don’t have time to sleep. If I don’t start my hair now, I’ll never be ready in time. Oh, where is my maid!”

Frantically, she rang the bell, then dashed to her dressing table. “Pass me the candlestick,” she ordered Patience as she peered anxiously into the mirror. “Oh, I look a fright!”

Patience brought the candle, set it down on the table, and took up Pru’s hairbrush.

“Which dress should I wear?” Pru fretted as Patience went to work on her tangles. “My court dress, do you think? Too much pomp and circumstance?”

“Your yellow sarcenet would seem more appropriate,” Patience murmured.

Opening a jar, Pru rubbed cream on her face. “Married in yellow? Oh, no! There’s a rhyme against that. Married in yellow, ashamed of your fellow.”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Patience.

“That isn’t helpful, Patience,” Pru chided her, before rushing on. “There’s no rhyme against being married in pink, is there?”

“Married in pink: no time to think.”

“You made that up,” Pru accused her, laughing.

Mrs. Drabble hurried into the room. “You rang, my dears?”

“Not for you,” Pru said rudely. “I want my maid.”

“But you should be in bed, Miss Prudence.”

“No, indeed,” said Pru. “I’m getting married in the morning. You can go home, Mrs. Drabble. I shan’t need you anymore.”

“Married!” Mrs. Drabble cried in astonishment.

“I have seen the duke,” said Patience. “He acknowledges his nephew’s guilt.”

Mrs. Drabble pressed her lips together. “Oh, he does, does he? Well,
I
don’t acknowledge his guilt! Max is innocent!”

Pru laughed. “Who cares what you think? You’re nothing but a servant—and an old discarded servant, too.”

“Pru!” Patience laid a restraining hand on her sister’s shoulder. “The duke is making the arrangements, Mrs. Drabble. Mr. Purefoy and Pru are to be married tomorrow morning at St. Bride’s Church.”

“That cannot be,” Mrs. Drabble fretted, her face contorted. “Poor Max!”

“Poor Max!” Pru said indignantly. “He’s lucky I’ve agreed to marry him at all. He don’t deserve me.”

“We agree on that much!” Mrs. Drabble said hotly. “You are lying about my dear boy. He never touched you. He wouldn’t!”

“Did too!”

Almost in tears, Mrs. Drabble turned to Patience. “Lady Waverly, I beg of you! Don’t listen to these wicked, wicked lies!”

Patience was trembling. “How dare you accuse my sister of lying!”

Mrs. Drabble bit her lip. “So that’s how it is?” she said quietly. “Ah, well! They say blood is thicker than water. But we are friends no more, Lady Waverly, understand that.”

“Oh, no!” Pru said sarcastically. “You mean her ladyship will be welcome no more at your pathetic little sewing circle hen parties?”

“Hush, Pru! I am sorry, Mrs. Drabble.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Drabble said, looking at Pru with loathing. Shaking her head, she stalked out of the room.

“Ring for that lazy maid, will you?” Pru said, supremely unconcerned.

As Mrs. Drabble was leaving Clarges Street, Max was pacing the rug in his uncle’s bedroom. “She said I did what? That lying little minx.”

The duke was propped up among the pillows. “Oh, I knew at once she was a liar.”

Max dug his heels into the rug. “Not Patience. Patience is as honest as the day is long. Prudence! But how on earth did she convince Patience that I was a villain?”

“She had proof,” the duke told him. “Some beastly note you’d written.”

“I never wrote any letter!” Max snarled. “It was that lying little vixen! She wrote to me, pretending to be her sister! She bade me to stay at home today, which I did. But it was Prudence who showed up, not Patience. We had a nice little chat—”

“Nice little chat? She says you ravished her!”

“Rot!” Max said simply. “You don’t believe it, do you, Uncle?”

“Dear boy! Of course not. You’re a Purefoy.”

“Could you not persuade her of my innocence?”

The duke shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “You know I hate talking to crazy people. I told her what she wanted to hear, and I sent her on her way. Good riddance to the pair of them, say I.”

“My God!” Max muttered, shaking his head. “When I drove the girl home, I truly believed she was ready to accept me as her brother. I must go to Clarges Street at once. Patience must be brought to reason.”

“Go to Clarges Street!” the duke repeated in alarm. “No, no, dear boy! Lady Waverly expects you to meet her and her sister at St. Bride’s Church in the morning. You are on the chopping block, sir! You will have to run away.”

“Run away?” Max said scornfully.

“You must, dear boy. Lady Waverly will have your balls in a vise. I even threatened to disown you, and still she wanted marriage!”

Max’s mouth twitched. “Not for herself, though.”

“She swears her sister cares nothing for titles and money. She is in love with you. Lady Waverly will not be satisfied until there is a wedding.”

“Then perhaps we should give her one,” Max suggested.

“No,” said the duke, when Max had explained what he had in mind. “You are my brother’s son. I shan’t disown you. I shan’t call you a bastard.”