Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place)
Read Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Online
Authors: Claudia Harbaugh
Her Grace in Disgrace © 2013 Claudia
Harbaugh
All Rights Reserved
To my mother, Ellen Turberg Shaw, who has
always loved me, encouraged me and believed in me. Thank you for sharing your
love of words with me and spending countless hours playing Scrabble, solving
crossword puzzles, unscrambling Jumbles and decoding cryptograms.
I hope you enjoy this book, Mom. I love
you.
Acknowledgements
A great big thank you to my editing crew:
Amy, Chris, Christina, John, Judy, Lois, Mark, and Patti. Your suggestions and
encouragement mean so much to me.
1
Isobel
Kennilworth Aiken, duchess of Warwick, sat expectantly in her chair, the
mid-morning sun streaming through the large window of the stately library at
Wren House. The sunshine, so rare in London in April, cast a glow over the
crowd that was gathered in the room. No one spoke. Dozens of eyes watched
Isobel’s black clad figure for signs of distress, none came. She was the
picture of elegance and serenity, her lovely face and large gray eyes revealing
nothing. Inwardly, however, she was rejoicing. It would soon be over. They had
buried Reginald in the family crypt near Warwick Park in Warwickshire and now
they were back in Hanover Square at Wren House awaiting the reading of the
will. Isobel smiled to herself and sighed. Seated to her left, her Aunt Maude,
Lady Whitcomb patted her hand, mistaking the sigh of relief that escaped Isobel
as one of sadness.
Reginald
is really dead
, thought
Isobel once more, and soon she could have a new beginning.
True, she had
not been able to produce an heir. Therefore, Isobel knew that she would be
relegated to the dower house in Warwickshire, but she was sure she would be
welcome here at Wren House in London. Her husband’s brother and heir, Lord Charles
had said as much. He sat beside her, fairly bristling with excitement.
He is
rejoicing almost as much as I am,
thought Isobel. If Reginald had hung on
another few months from the wasting disease he battled for nearly two years,
Charles would have had to escape the wrath of the moneylenders by fleeing the
continent. Lord Charles, second son of the sixth Duke of Warwick, was as
rackety as they came, but there was no real harm in him. Of course he drank and
gambled too much, as did all his peers, but Isobel knew that deep down, Charles
was a good man. At least he wasn’t heartless and cold like his brother. But
enough about Reginald. He was dead. She may only be the Dowager Duchess of
Warwick, but she was free. Free to begin a new life. She had done her duty and
now she was about to receive her reward.
The
solicitor, Mr. Pickens cleared his throat, signaling that the reading of the
will would commence. The family hadn’t understood the delay and Mr. Pickens,
ever the stickler for propriety had refused to say. No one but he and a handful
of servants had seen the black-veiled woman slip silently into the room with a
young boy in tow. They stood in the back, the woman clinging to her son’s hand.
That was Pickens’ cue. He began to read.
“The
ninth of April in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and seventeen. I,
Reginald Wilbur Percival Aiken, 7th Duke of Warwick, Marquess of Crewes, and Viscount
of Fenwick, being of sound mind hereby bequeath…”
Pickens’s
voice flowed over Isobel like a dream. He named servants and sums that were
less than Isobel’s pin money, but to each servant the sum was a boon. The list
of servants seemed to go on forever with names she did not recognize. It did
not concern her. Pickens droned on past second cousins and cousins. There were
no surprises. Those Reginald had approved of were rewarded handsomely. Those of
whom he had disapproved were made to feel his displeasure from beyond the
grave, including his sister, Letitia, who had wed a loose screw and was living
to regret it. Letitia had not bothered to attend the reading.
“And
to my wife…” Here Pickens paused and Isobel sat up a little straighter.
“…to
my wife,” repeated Pickens seeming loathe to continue, “Adriana…”
There
was a universal gasp. Isobel looked hard at Mr. Pickens.
“Surely,
Mr. Pickens, one of your clerks has erred. My name is not Adriana.” Isobel’s
voice was tinged with ice, something she had perfected in her four years as marchioness
and two years as duchess.
“If
you’ll allow me to continue, Miss,” Pickens said, decidedly uncomfortable.
Isobel
sat wide eyed, staring at the poor solicitor. Miss? Miss! She was not Miss; she
was Your Grace, My Lady, or even Ma’am, but never Miss! But she said nothing,
her stern gaze speaking louder than words.
Steeling
himself, Pickens continued. “To my wife Adriana Vasquez Aiken, I leave the bulk
of my estate in trust for our son, Reginald Vasquez Aiken, who upon reaching
his majority will assume all responsibilities as the 8
th
Duke of
Warwick, being my legitimate son and heir.
Pickens
halted, allowing the shocking news to sink in. No one spoke. Isobel could
barely breathe. Even her garrulous Aunt Maude could not speak. Finally, Lord Charles
broke the tense silence.
“What
impertinence is this? Is this a joke?”
“I
am afraid not, Lord Charles. I can assure you that it is true.” Pickens’
disapproval was evident, but as the Duke of Warwick’s representative he would
fulfill his duty. “His grace married Senorita Adriana Vasquez in August of ’09
in Spain, near Talavera. They were wed by a Catholic priest. They also wed
again in 1811 in Derbyshire, after returning to England, so that no one would
question the legality of the marriage, I assume. There can be no doubt that marriage
is legal.”
“And
I suppose he has the temerity to assume that I will stand as guardian to this
little whelp,” Charles said angrily.
“Not
at all, Lord Charles. Pray, allow me to continue.” Pickens looked down at the
beautifully written last will and testament of the Duke of Warwick and
continued reading. “I appoint my wife, Adriana, Lady Warwick as sole guardian,
with all the rights, privileges and responsibilities. I trust her like no
other.”
Pickens
looked around at the shocked faces. He had fought the Duke on this point and
lost. He had only one other time in all his years as solicitor appointed a
woman as guardian. It displeased him, but he was but a servant to his master’s
whim and it was within the constraints of the law. He took a breath and
soldiered on. “To my brother, Lord Charles Aiken, to compensate for the inconvenience
of losing his inheritance, I leave my unentailed estate in Derbyshire, Hidenwood.
I am giving you this property in the hopes that you will leave your gambling
and dissipated ways behind and take pride in the Aiken name.”
“Inconvenience?
He dares to lecture me about my behavior after this? “Lord Charles face turned
crimson with rage.
Isobel
watched the proceedings, unable to speak, so dumfounded was she. Pickens
continued unmercifully.
“And
finally, to Isobel Kennilworth, who married me for my money and position, I
leave the home that I shared with my lawfully wedded wife and son at 65 Woburn
Place on condition that she retains the current staff for at least one year. In
addition, I leave her 500 pounds per annum for life or until she remarries or,
more accurately, until she marries. Since our marriage was a sham in more ways
than one, I feel no need to justify my behavior. However, as a gentleman I must
apologize for the distress this has caused her.”
“Gentleman!
Humph!” exclaimed Lady Whitcomb. “No one calling himself a gentleman would
commit such a heinous act! Bigamy! My poor, poor Isobel.”
Isobel’s
breath came in ragged gasps. She fought to gain control. She would not weep or
swoon in front of all these people. Everyone stared at her, waiting for her
reaction. Before she could martial her thoughts to speak, Pickens continued with
Warwick’s final few thoughts.
“I
know many of you are astounded by this revelation. It is a situation I should
have remedied long ago, the blame for which I lay mostly at my father’s door.
But, what is done is done. I cannot change it from the grave. But I do hope you
will afford my son, the Duke of Warwick and my wife, the Dowager Duchess all
the respect and dignity due to their new station in life. That is all.”
No
one knew for certain whether the concluding sentence was the Duke’s, or the
solicitor’s, but it was his final word.
Isobel,
still saying nothing rose shakily to her feet. Lord Charles, lost in his own
despair ignored her unsteadiness. The aging Lady Whitcomb, instead, did her
best to steady her niece, who fought to remain erect. The room was as quiet as
the grave. Isobel, at last, spoke with a clear, authoritative voice.
“When
must I leave?”
“You
have a fortnight to vacate…” Pickens began.
“Take
as long as you like. Please. I have no desire to rush you,” a lilting foreign
voice came from the back of the room.
Isobel
spun to face the speaker, a veiled woman standing in the back. She could not
hide the flash of anger that transformed her calm mask. It was gone in a brief second;
nevertheless, the woman saw the rage and grabbed her son, pulling him close.
The boy’s eyes were as big as saucers.
“Your
Grace,” said Isobel, for she assumed that this was Reginald’s wife, her tone as
calm as if she had just been introduced at an afternoon tea.
Adriana,
Dowager Duchess of Warwick released the hold on her son and slowly raised the
veil from her face. Yet again, one and all gasped. She was a stunning woman
with black hair, olive skin, full lips and huge dark eyes fringed by impossibly
long lashes. Isobel hated herself for admitting that before her was not only a beautiful
woman, but a kind one as well. The duchess’ eyes shone with compassion and
sympathy. The woman could be a consummate actress, but Isobel did not think so.
Goodness seemed to emanate from this raven haired beauty. Isobel hated her all
the more.
“I
know this is a terrible way to find out about all of this. So many times I begged
him to fix this, to tell you. But a charge of bigamy would have meant such a
scandal and he was so sick for so long.” The new duchess spoke perfect, if
accented, English and had tears glistening in her eyes.
“Scandal?”
laughed Isobel without mirth, her icy gray eyes fixed on the widow. “How
fortunate for Reginald that he avoided the scandal. I fear we shall not be so
blessed.”
Tears
began to flow in earnest as the duchess looked into the stony face of the woman
she had inadvertently thwarted.
“This
is all so horrible. I am so terribly sorry. If it were not for Reggie…” she
stammered as her arms once again encircled her young son as he silently faced
the frightening lady.
“Ah,
but there he is, young Reggie. The heir.” She looked for a moment at the boy.
He appeared to be about six or seven years old. He had the look of his father
in the shape of his face and he definitely had the Aiken nose, but he had his
mother’s raven hair and dark eyes. He also had her temperament it seemed. He was
obviously frightened, but his eyes revealed kindness mingled with the fear.