What the Duke Doesn't Know (16 page)

“At Langford House the whole time,” his brother marveled at the end. Smiling, he added, “I remember that figure now you mention it. Mama opened the parcel in front of some high-nosed prude. She was not amused.”

James emptied his wineglass.

“The prude, I mean,” said Robert. “Mama found it funny—in retrospect, anyway. I caught her laughing about it.”

“I should have remembered the cursed thing,” James replied, the wine having some effect.

Robert shrugged. “You're always sending some odd trinket or other. I don't wonder you'd lose track. There was the stone neck ring and the peacock fan and that terrifying female with all the arms. And the tongue.”

“The…oh, Kali.” He'd forgotten that statue, too. There had been many figurines over the years. James felt a bit better.

They moved into the dining room and addressed heaping plates that did indeed include a fine roast beef. James savored the excellent food and drink, and the company. This was the sort of easy fraternal occasion prohibited by his chosen life. A navy man became inured to being thousands of miles away from his family, or he quit. James's fork paused on the way to his mouth as he contemplated the latter option.

“So, is Miss Benson leaving for her home now?” Robert asked when they had made serious inroads on the meal.

“She hasn't confided her plans to me.”

His brother looked up, blue eyes suddenly keen.

“She wants to go back to Oxford first,” James added, trying to sound less sarcastic, more unconcerned. “She's invited Miss Jennings to tag along.”

“Really?” Robert sipped his wine. “Perhaps I'll go with you as well.”

“You? I thought you found universities duller than ditchwater.”

“Well…I haven't seen Alan since Nathaniel's wedding.” Robert twirled his glass by the stem and contemplated the ruby contents.

“Indeed. Weeks ago. And you're in the habit of visiting Alan often, I suppose.”

Robert shook his head without meeting his brother's eyes.

“What exactly is going on between you and Flora Jennings?” James asked.

Robert finished off the glass in one quick gulp. “I don't know,” was his glum reply.

“What do you mean, you don't know? You hang about a girl for a good long while, apparently. Learning Arcadian, for God's sake—”

“Akkadian,” Robert corrected. “And you can't precisely
learn
it.”

“You begin to sound utterly unlike yourself,” James continued at this further piece of evidence. “And then you say you don't know why?”

“I have to make her admit that I'm not a waste of the air I breathe,” Robert blurted out.

“Nobody thinks you're a—”

“
She
does. She says so at every opportunity.”

James examined the handsome face across the table. Here was Robert, always the most self-assured of his brothers, a leader of fashion and a darling of society, acting like an awkward schoolboy. “Why would you care what Miss Jennings thinks? She doesn't seem to be the sort of person whose good opinion you've ever…valued.”

“A nobody by the reckoning of the
ton
,” Robert agreed in an odd tone of voice. “No influence, not the least bit stylish, far too serious to be considered a wit.” He laughed, once again sounding quite unlike himself.

“What's wrong with you?” James asked.

Robert looked at him. “That is the question, little brother.”

“I'm not your little brother; I'm three inches taller,” he objected. He considered probing further, then gave it up. Robert seemed to have no notion what he was about, and he didn't have the patience for mysteries. “Come to Oxford, if you like,” he said, refilling their glasses. “You're your own man.”

And so was he, James thought. If he could just get a new ship, he'd sail away from all these hints and enigmas. He'd return to a world where people had clear ranks and knew how they had to behave. They did the proper thing, or they found themselves in serious trouble. Someone had once asked him why a man with four older brothers would want to place himself under other men's orders. The thing of it was, in the navy you had a clear chain of command. It wasn't a rowdy bunch of boys dragging you from one scheme to the next, or trying to argue you into three different pranks at the same time. Each man received his orders and carried them out. And then, of course, there was the sea, endlessly fascinating. He missed the sea. James sighed at the memory of its ever-changing colors and moods.

Of course, it rankled that he wouldn't captain his own vessel again for a long time. He thrust aside triumphant memories of the
Charis
. He was hardly in charge of the way his life was going now. As soon as he'd returned Miss Benson to his brother's house, he would inquire at the Admiralty again. James nodded to himself, ignoring a stab of regret at the idea of leaving her. The plum postings went to men who continually pressed their cases, so he—

“Don't you think?” said Robert.

“What?”

“Am I boring you?” his brother asked wryly. “I beg your pardon. It's an…unaccustomed role for me.”

“I was just thinking about a new posting,” James told him.

“Have you gotten your orders?”

“I expect them very soon,” he answered, assuring himself as much as anyone.

In the end, they all four traveled back to Oxford together. Kawena sat with Flora in the post chaise. James and Robert rode beside it, now and then keeping pace to exchange a few words. Despite Miss Jennings's cordial company, Kawena couldn't help feeling dissatisfied by the arrangement. The trip out had been so much more…fun, exciting, adventurous. This one was…proper, she supposed. “Miss Jennings, can I ask—”

“Do call me Flora,” her companion put in.

This was a sign of offered friendship, Kawena remembered. The English had rules about naming, as about everything else. “Flora,” she echoed. “I wanted to talk to you about propriety.”

Her companion looked surprised. “What about it?”

How to begin? Flora looked like the essence of English propriety in her neat, dark blue gown and bonnet, and yet Kawena had gathered that she was not conventional. “I understand politeness,” she said, “and I believe it is important to be kind. I would always wish to be. But this idea of the ‘proper' thing…it seems quite…arbitrary to me.” She was rather proud of remembering that word. “And some of the rules are just silly.” She held up her hands. “Why must I wear gloves when it is hot outside? My hands sweat inside them. It is very unpleasant.”

Flora laughed. “You may certainly take them off here in the carriage. I won't be offended.”

“But if we stop and get down, I am expected to wear them, even though they accomplish nothing.” Kawena looked at the thin coverings. “I don't think these would keep my hands warm if it was cold.” She pulled them off.

“No.” Flora looked at her own gloves.

“But they are proper, and so considered very important.”

“By some,” her companion replied.

“Not you?”

Flora started to shake her head, then hesitated. “Well…yes and no.”

Kawena cocked her head, inviting the other woman to explain.

“I want to do as I please,” Flora went on, “but the truth is, I hate being whispered about, or mocked. Mama has always advised, since I was small, that the gossips don't tattle about what they don't notice.”

Kawena remembered Mrs. Jennings's regrets. “Perhaps they wouldn't mock you.”

“Society distrusts difference,” declared Flora positively. “They turn on those—particularly women—whose lives do not follow certain patterns—propriety, as you say.”

“People like the duke's family?” Lord James had said his mother would disapprove of their conduct in her house.

“All the
haut ton
.” Flora's mouth turned down. “But I should say the
appearance
of propriety. They define hypocrisy as discretion.”

Kawena had no idea what this meant.

Flora went on before she could ask. “And so I will not put myself in their power.” She looked fierce.

“But why do people waste time searching out these…missteps?” Kawena asked. “Surely they have better things to do?”

Her companion laughed. “They don't, actually. Or, they don't bother to find anything better. And so, they're bored. There's spite as well, and envy.” Suddenly, she looked discouraged.

“I don't know how anyone endures, or remembers, all the rules,” Kawena said. “It's like being tangled in a fishing net.” She had thought this before, imagining a fish twisting and turning in the mesh.

Flora moved her shoulders as if she felt that constriction. “It's not all bad. The proprieties sometimes offer a refuge. They can protect women from insult, even attack should they come into contact with…plausible villains.”

Something in her tone and expression struck Kawena. “Have you encountered such men?”

“I have. They are one important reason I try to help poor children, who are not sheltered by the rules of propriety.”

Kawena had been poor, and now she was not. Did this change her relation to propriety? “How do you keep track of all the rules? It seems that every time I move, another one pops up.”

“Oh, we're bred to it from time we can first walk and speak,” replied Flora bitterly.

“I was on the beach naked when I began to walk,” said Kawena.

Flora blinked at her, clearly a bit shocked. “Were you really?”

As Kawena nodded, she understood that even this rather unconventional Englishwoman found her background…startling. It seemed she would never fit in here, even if she wished to.

* * *

They arrived in Oxford to a warm welcome and a pleasant bustle. Ariel wouldn't hear of anyone going to an inn, even though she had to put Flora in with Kawena and Alan's two brothers in a room together. Nor would she accept any payment when Kawena drew her aside to thank her once again for her many favors. Reclaiming her borrowed gowns, she merely gave advice about where Kawena could purchase needed items in Oxford, and professed herself ready to accompany her on any shopping expeditions. Kawena let it go, privately vowing she would find a way to express her gratitude, as the group settled into the hospitable household.

“I think it must be interpreted as ‘behest,'” said Lord Robert at dinner two nights later.

“Nonsense,” replied Flora Jennings. “As it is near the glyph referring to King Sargon, it would obviously be ‘command.'”

“No one has yet deciphered the connecting marks,” he argued. “So there is no way to be sure.”

Heads at the table turned from him to Flora, like observers of a lawn tennis match. The pair's dialogue had been much the same since they returned from the Bodleian Library, where Lord Alan had helped them get access to a special collection.

“My father thought the relationship quite clear,” Flora retorted.

“With the studies he had at the time. But since then—”

“I will not,” began Flora, holding up a warning hand, “hear my father contradicted by a mere dabbler.”

Lord Robert scowled. “I think I have demonstrated that I am more than that.”

His brothers looked surprised and amused, Kawena noticed. Ariel was biting her lower lip, as if to hide a smile.

“You have a certain easy facility, and for some reason you like to pretend interest.”

“There's no pretense about it! I've slogged away for hours at this stuff.”

Their eyes locked across the dining table. Kawena could practically feel a sizzle of connection pass between them. Then Lord James snorted, and they became conscious that everyone was looking at them. Flora flushed and looked away. Lord Robert poured another glass of wine. There was a short silence while he drank it.

“We should get ready to leave,” Ariel said then. “I'm sure you'll all enjoy Professor Fiorenza's talk this evening.”

James seriously doubted it. On the contrary, he was pretty certain that he wouldn't. But Ariel had been so generous with her hospitality. If she wanted them to turn out for some speech, he had to rally 'round. Particularly as she'd hinted that he—out of everyone—needed to be there.

As he'd expected, he had to jerk himself out of a nap more than once during the long oration, and he retained nothing of the subject matter. But when Ariel approached him afterward with a young woman in tow, he got an inkling of why she'd insisted he come. This must be another bride prospect. He'd nearly forgotten that matter. His joking request seemed to have been made an age ago, by another James Gresham entirely.

“Horatia, this is my husband's brother, Lord James Gresham,” she said. “James, Miss Horatia Grantham.”

“So pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the newcomer. She was tall and lean, with gingery hair and alert blue eyes. Her face was attractive rather than pretty, lit by a lively intelligence. “I have wanted to do so ever since I heard that you are a navy man,” she added.

“Have you?” said James.

“Oh, yes. I'm passionately interested in naval exploits. I have made a systematic study of the subject.” She sighed happily. “Sailing thousands of miles from home, battling Britain's enemies. A band of heroes.”

“I wouldn't say heroes,” he murmured.

“That is because you are overly modest, like a proper naval officer.”

James was startled by this characterization, which certainly did not describe most of his colleagues. He glanced at Ariel for guidance, but she just smiled and drifted off.

“I was named for Lord Nelson, of course,” Miss Grantham continued. “Did you ever meet him?”

“Just once, at a staff meeting.”

Miss Grantham clasped her hands together and gazed at him with delighted reverence. “What did he say to you?”

“Uh, it was more of a nod, really. I was a very junior officer, among many.”

“Still, you were in his presence. The greatest hero of our time.”

James might have objected that there were other candidates for that accolade. Wellington, perhaps? But Miss Grantham launched into a detailed, and extremely knowledgeable, rehash of the Battle of Trafalgar, and he was hard put just to keep up.

He might have done a better job of it if he hadn't been continually distracted by the sight of Kawena, not three yards away and attracting all sorts of attention.

She'd put on a gown he hadn't seen before—a simple fall of fabric without fussy trimmings. But the color! James supposed you'd call it orange, but the word didn't really capture the deep, rich hue of the thing. It was like no dress he'd seen before, and it suited her to a T. Her skin glowed, warm and enticing, against the cloth. Her hair shone black as a raven's wing. All in all, she looked like…well, like a tropical bird landed in a flock of pigeons.

“Don't you think?” said Miss Grantham.

James had no idea what she was referring to. “Ah, very likely,” he tried. It seemed to satisfy her. She plunged on into naval strategy, while James faced the fact that he wasn't the only one who'd noticed Kawena's beauty. She was surrounded by a circle of the younger men, and a few of the older ones as well. They were bent forward, eyeing her like…like hungry hawks, if he was to continue the bird analogy. He was seized by a desire to swoop in and scatter them.

Miss Grantham paused again, gazing up at him. He needed to say something. He was being rude. He searched for plausible words, and overheard a scrap of conversation from behind his left shoulder. “I know, such a color! Orange! But heiresses can wear whatever they like, I suppose.”

James didn't catch the murmured response. But the first speaker's reply was perfectly audible. “Oh yes, my dear, vastly wealthy, like some sort of female nabob, they say.”

Who said? Kawena wouldn't have. Nor any of their party, James was sure.

“No, not India,” the gossipy voice continued. “Some other place.” The volume sank to a suggestive murmur; he had to strain to hear. “A
native
of some kind, I understand. But she's not really dark, is she? Not that it would matter to some.”

James controlled a surge of rage. However the news had gotten out—and London was crammed full of servants and shopkeepers and eavesdroppers—it was unstoppable now. He glared at the men surrounding Kawena.

“Lord James?” said Miss Grantham. “Is something wrong?”

He recalled himself. It wasn't fair to treat her this way, no matter how uninterested he might feel. “I beg your pardon. I was distracted for a moment. What were you saying? Broadsides, was it?”

From the look she gave him, it wasn't. But she forgave him and went on. He took care to listen this time. He should have turned his back on the spectacle of Kawena's admirers, but he couldn't quite manage that.

Kawena was enjoying this gathering more than any she'd attended before. She was very pleased with her new gown, and credited it with drawing the surge of flattering attention.

“What did you think of the lecture, Miss Benson?” asked the young man on her right. Ariel had mentioned his name, but she'd forgotten it in the spate of introductions that followed the talk. “Do you intend to make use of the memory techniques?” he added.

She hadn't really followed the speaker's reasoning. His plan of associating items you wished to recall with other quite unrelated things, which seemed equally difficult to keep in mind, had seemed very complicated. She shrugged. “I expect I shall just have to remember what I remember,” she replied. “And what I don't…well, those things I forget.”

All around the circle, gentlemen laughed heartily. “A wit, by Jove,” exclaimed the one who'd asked the question.

Their response seemed exaggerated to Kawena. But perhaps they were just being kind to a stranger.

“I hope I may come to call on you,” said another.

“And I,” several others chimed in.

Kawena wasn't sure if she had the right to invite visitors to Ariel's home. “I'm not certain how long I'll be in Oxford,” she temporized.

This roused a storm of protest, all the men insisting she must stay. Kawena began to feel hemmed in. She could scarcely see the rest of the room for the tall figures that surrounded her. Spotting Flora Jennings between two jostling shoulders, Kawena said, “Excuse me. I must speak to my friend.”

Flora stood with her back to the wall, eying the chattering crowd as if someone might fly at her at any moment. “I dislike being in a room full of strangers. I never know what to say.”

“Surely here you can ask about their studies?” Kawena replied. She would have thought that the scholarly Miss Jennings would be quite at home in a university town.

“Very few of them will talk seriously to a woman about their work. Were they speaking of it to you?”

“No,” Kawena admitted. “They said mostly silly things. I don't know how I got in among such a crowd. The last time I came to a lecture, hardly anyone spoke to me.”

“They've heard about your fortune,” said Lord Robert. He'd come up behind Kawena and now lounged elegantly beside them, a glass of wine in his hand.

“You told them,” Flora accused.