Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (11 page)

The secretary dismissed, the Duke lingered a little longer by his wide mahogany desk, a glance down the length of the library to where his son and heir was patiently waiting to speak with him. The boy had been waiting for nearly an hour, and the Duke had kept him waiting until he had decided how best to approach the subject uppermost in his mind. Yet, Julian did not seem to mind the wait. In fact, he had taken a bundle of day-old newssheets to the far end of the library and was casually reading through them, stretched out on a sofa, a hand behind the tapestry cushions under his head.

The Duke walked slowly to the far end of the long room and warmed his white hands at the second fireplace. When he turned about it was to find Julian on his feet, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his silk embroidered frock coat and awaiting his pleasure.

A tug of the tapestry bellpull and the butler came soft-footed to his master’s side. A word spoken and the servant retreated to return with a footman carrying a tray laden with breakfast items, and with a silver coffee urn that the butler placed on its pedestal on the low table between the two sofas. Neither nobleman had said a word to the other and kept their own counsel while the butler was in the room. When they were finally alone, the Duke returned to the fireplace, and his son poured out the coffee into two porcelain mugs, which he then set on the table. A wave from his father and he helped himself to the hot rolls, slices of ham and wedge of pie.

“Your mother said you would not stop to eat your breakfast at the Bull and Feather,” the Duke remarked, taking up his mug and setting it on the mantle. “That establishment’s fare must be lamentably lacking or you—er—have a higher regard for my opinion than I at first supposed?”

Julian cocked an eye at his father but said nothing, finishing off a second roll before pushing aside the plate. He drank down his coffee and poured a second dish. “The fare at the Bull and Feather is rather good, sir; the venison pie, excellent.”

The Duke smiled thinly and took out his snuffbox. “I am glad to hear it. I must increase my head of deer so that you can continue to enjoy such excellent venison pie. I trust I did not tear you away from—er—unfinished business?”

“Your letter stated that I present myself at my earliest convenience and so I have; convenient or otherwise. I’m glad I find you well, sir.”

“You can dispense with the niceties, Alston,” the Duke replied bluntly. “I am no better and no worse than when I last saw you in Paris. I see that your appetite has returned, therefore I take it that you are fully recovered from your—er—mishap?”

“Yes, sir. I only wish that you had not been inconvenienced—”

“You should have thought of that before you crossed swords!” the Duke enunciated coldly and turned to the fire, angry for letting emotion get the better of him, and the interview just begun. He took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “Those fools were beneath your touch. You had no right to engage them in a bloody struggle.”

Julian regarded his father’s rigid back and snow-white mane with a private smile; he knew him better than he knew himself: anger masked parental concern. “The fight was thrust upon me, sir,” he explained calmly. “Lefebvre and his sons followed me from Dover. I had no idea I was being pursued until ambushed in the Avon forest. The old fool was determined to have satisfaction, whatever my arguments to the contrary. A determined man, a man who believes himself grossly abused, does not listen to reason. How was I to tell him he was beneath my consideration?”

The Duke pushed an errant log back into the grate with the toe of his black leather shoe, the large diamond-encrusted shoe buckle glinting in the firelight. “I realize that the pistol is fast becoming the preferred dueling weapon of the modern youth. In my opinion, it is a rather—er—crude and inaccurate method of dealing with one’s opponent. A rapier thrust to a precise point on the body is the much neater, cleaner and gentlemanly way of ridding oneself of an annoyance. Did M’sieur’s determination make you forget all your years of training?”

“No, sir. Those years of training allowed me to fend off Lefebvre’s two sons, who quickly gave up the attempt on orders of their father, but it was no easy matter getting myself into a position where I could be pinked without killing the old man. I could have disposed of Lefebvre on more than four occasions during our encounter. My object was to give him the satisfaction of spilling my blood without slicing up my entrails.”

The Duke regarded his son with considerable surprise. “If that was your objective then I am all admiration for your skill. But you find me momentarily stunned as to why you thought it necessary to carry out such an elaborate deception. Why didn’t you—er—finish them off?”

“As you say, those thugs were beneath my touch. As for M’sieur Farmer-General…” The Marquis held his father’s steady gaze. “He is an old man. Old men should die in their beds.”

There was a moment’s pause before the Duke inclined his white head. He took snuff and turned back to the fire. And although he continued to stand with his back ramrod straight, Julian could tell it was an effort for his father because his breathing was audible. He decided there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“Sir. Killing M’sieur Lefebvre would only have strengthened the case against me. Think what his lawyers would have made of that? Isn’t it enough that I stand accused of a crime I did not commit, without being branded a coward? How convenient for a nobleman to use his prerogative to settle a dispute with a duel. My opponent would be silenced, the threatened lawsuit dropped, but it would not wipe away the doubt of my guilt.”

“Enlighten me, if you will,” the Duke drawled, “how you come to be threatened with a French lawsuit for breach of promise?”

“If you know about the threat, then I need hardly elaborate further.”

“Indeed?” said the Duke with a sneer. “Then am I to presume there is substance to M’sieur’s claims?”

“Yeast alone does not make bread, sir.”

“Undoubtedly. Yet, it is the yeast which defines the substance.”

Julian pushed a hand through his thick black curls and walked away from the fireplace before turning on a heel to come back and stand before his father. “It was never my intention to involve you.”

“You are my son, thus I am involved. Why does Lefebvre hold to the stubborn belief you offered his daughter marriage?”

“I have no idea, sir. The notion is absurd.”

“Quite absurd,” Roxton agreed, regarding his son with the dispassionate eye of a nobleman with half a century’s experience of the fairer sex. “You did not perhaps offer mademoiselle the inducement of your name in the—er—heat of the moment?”

The son’s lip curled as he looked his father in the eyes. “That question is rather academic, is it not, given that I am already married?”

“You have relieved me of an anxiety I never thought warranted; you are, after all, my son.”

“Then it must please you that I went to Bath for the express purpose of meeting my wife. It is time my marriage is more than a marriage in name only.”

The Duke was pleased. Pleased that his son’s hastily arranged marriage almost a decade earlier would finally be consummated and thus legalized beyond doubt. It was about time his son took on the responsibility of husband and, hopefully, in the not too distant future, that of father. The physician’s depressing prognosis had made the Duke eager to see his line secured beyond his immediate family.

“Am I to congratulate Martin on his descriptive powers?” the Duke asked with a rare twinkle in his black eyes.

“If you are asking if Martin’s prose leans to flowery exaggeration,” Julian responded with a shrug, “then the answer is no. Deborah is beautiful but no more beautiful than the beauties trotted out on the marriage market season after season. She’s a bit of an Amazon, with the temperament to match. She speaks her mind and knows what she wants. But that’s not such a bad thing and preferable to a doe-eyed creature with cotton between the ears.”

A muscle quivered at the corner of the Duke’s thin mouth. “Indeed. But does she want you, Julian?”

The Marquis shrugged again. “When I left her she was half way to falling in love with Julian Hesham. After an absence of a fortnight, I believe she’ll marry me out of hand when I return to Bath.”

“You feel it is necessary to go through with this deception rather than tell her the truth?”

“Sir, she has no recollection of the night we were married. The shock of the truth could turn her against me, whatever her feelings, and then where would that leave me? I won’t bed a reluctant female, even if she is my wife.” He smiled crookedly. “Thus I thought it prudent to allow her to believe me a common man.”

The Duke was intrigued. “Such consideration humbles me. Your morals are indeed far better than mine.”

“You misplace my consideration, sir,” the Marquis stated flatly. “You, like I, do not desire to see my wife seduced into bigamous wedlock, be it with Cousin Evelyn, some unnamed suitor or the son of Mme Duras-Valfons.”

“Yet, we are not rid of the problem of M’sieur Farmer-General and the alleged ruin of his daughter,” the Duke said smoothly to turn the conversation from a topic he found distasteful and beneath his notice. Unlike a handful of his noble contemporaries, who willingly and unashamedly acknowledged bastard offspring, his arrogance and pride would never allow him to do so, nor would he discuss Mme Duras-Valfons’s lurid claims with his son and heir. Still, the boy’s remarks smarted and more than he cared to admit. “Mademoiselle Lefebvre’s statement to the Lieutenant of Police names the Marquis of Alston as her seducer.”

Julian gave a huff of embarrassed laughter. “That document of high drama? It’s fit only for the stage.”

The Duke regarded him with a cold, unblinking stare. “I think I’ve lived enough of life not to be at all shocked by anything you may care to tell me.”

“As I said, sir, I don’t bed reluctant females.”

“Lefebvre’s lawyers say they have evidence that supports the girl’s claim she was seduced with the promise of marriage.”

“They may say what they please; it is a lie.”

The Duke inclined his head. “I believe you. You should know that this matter has come to the attention of the French Ambassador here at the Court of St James’s. The Duc de Guisnes is sympathetic to your cause.” The Duke sighed his annoyance. “Unfortunately, he and his contacts in Paris can do little to shut up the girl’s father. As a tax collector Lefebvre has more power in Paris than any noble, and as a man who believes he has been grossly wronged, he will stop at nothing to see his honor avenged.” The Duke sneered. “He is so eaten up with his own self-consequence that he had the audacity and self-conceit to force a duel on you!”

The Marquis made his father a low bow. “I am determined to clear our name, sir. If it comes to a trial, so be it.”

“I applaud your sentiments, Julian, but you are under no obligation to give satisfaction. Although, had your adversary been one of us, your impromptu duel would have seen an end to the matter, honor satisfied. You are of the English aristocracy. You cannot be brought before a French court of law unless application is made to our sovereign by His French Majesty’s representative at the Court of St. James’s. The French Ambassador has given me his word he will not make such an application. M’sieur Farmer-General may puff out his consequence until he—er—pops, but he will soon come to his senses and realize it is pointless to pursue such untouchable prey. I am reasonably confident that when this fact is made clear to him he will—er—crawl back under the floorboards where he belongs.”

Julian grinned. “I envy you your supreme indifference to your fellows, sir. And I wish I had but a thimbleful of your sangfroid; your arrogance is rightly justified. But I cannot sit about waiting for the dust to settle on this matter.” He added seriously, “It is my belief that the accusation brought against me is a deliberate attempt to bring discredit upon our family. The girl is merely the excuse. Nor am I ignorant of Lefebvre’s connections and his motivations. I am sorry if my decision to push the matter to a just conclusion disappoints you, Father.”

The Duke was not surprised by his son’s declaration. After all, he is his mother’s son, he told himself, and with those same clear emerald-green eyes. “You do not disappoint me, Julian,” he answered quietly. He too harbored a nagging suspicion there was an undercurrent to this imbroglio that had little to do with a girl’s ruin, and was surprised his son was of the same opinion, but he did not care to discuss these thoughts for the present. “I am still regarded as somebody at Versailles, but Paris is of an altogether different political complexion. Even His French Majesty has difficulty controlling the
parlements
. Whatever action your lawyers deem necessary I will have delayed until after your honeymoon. I will do what I can. Or perhaps I—er—interfere?”

“No, sir. Thank you,” Julian answered sincerely and kissed the long white hand extended to him.

~   ~   ~

Lady Mary entered Deb’s Milsom Street townhouse and discovered a state of domestic chaos. The front hallway was stacked with traveling trunks, narrowing the passageway, causing Lady Mary to pick up her voluminous hooped petticoats and walk crab-like behind the long-suffering butler, who ushered her into the front parlor. Saunders apologized for the state of the hallway and for keeping her ladyship waiting on the doorstep. He had been indisposed and Philip the footman was nowhere to be found. There was the melodic sounds of strings playing somewhere above Lady Mary’s head. A scream and a string of abusive French came from the back of the house. Saunders had not closed the parlor door. Lady Mary watched in wide-eyed astonishment as an animal, possibly a dog, she hoped it wasn’t a large rat, slipped along the polished wood floor of the passageway and collided with a portmanteau before bounding up the staircase out of sight. It was pursued by a stout woman in an apron whose floured fist was raised above her head.

Saunders gave an audible sigh of long-suffering as he bowed himself out of the room.

Not many moments later the parlor door was flung wide and a boy with long legs and a head of dark copper curls falling into his eyes bounded into the room with a large rat on a lead, which on closer inspection turned out to be a puppy. Mary knew nothing of dogs so had little idea as to its breed or disposition. But she did know something of their habits and she shrunk back into the sofa cushions, a hand to her voluminous petticoats.