The Art of Duke Hunting (23 page)

“That’s what I thought,” Esme replied sweetly. “Will Abshire attend?”

Verity examined the hem of her pretty new rose-colored morning gown. “I have absolutely no idea what His Grace’s intentions are.”

Much later, Esme’s mother had tried to breach her defenses during a very private supper
à deux
, using old tactics, which failed of course, and then new tactics, which, in Esme’s opinion, were more successful. Esme did not, however, succumb. She would not encourage her.

“Esme, why did he leave so abruptly? You can at least tell me that,” her mother prodded as she rearranged a vase full of fragrant roses from Derby’s gardens.

“I have no idea, Mother,” she replied.

“But did he not tell you where he was going in such haste? I find it a little off-putting that he did not take his formal leave of me, his new bride’s own mother.” She paused, indecision exposed—something Esme had never seen on her mother’s face.

She continued. “Did you tell him of your ancestry? Is that why he left?”

“Mother?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please let’s discuss another topic. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Her mother studied her a long moment. “You told him.”

Esme sighed. “I did not tell him nor do I ever intend to. I’ve made up my mind. Do you think I want him to stay by my side because he believes some ridiculous curse that probably is just a massive series of coincidences?”

“You and I both know it is not a series of coincidences. It is not like you to lie to yourself, dearest. But I understand your point,” her mother replied. “Yet it is a dangerous game you play, Esme. Have you not wondered how he will react if and when he learns this secret?”

“Of course I have.”

“You will not be able to hide it forever, darling. Someone is bound to tell him.”

“I disagree. I doubt he will ever learn of it. There are only a handful of people who know.”

Her mother looked at her with doubt but at least respected her desire to change the subject. “Esme, I’ve always allowed you an enormous measure of privacy, and independence. Far more than any other mother I know. I only did it as your father insisted, and you were always like him.”

“And I can never thank you enough for not interfering like so many other mothers,” she inserted as her mother took in more air to continue.

“But, I am certain if your father were still here”—her mother paused and Esme darted a glance at her—“he would insist that you tell me precisely everything that has happened between you.” There was the smallest wobble in her mother’s voice when she spoke of her late husband.

“No,” Esme said with more conviction than she felt. “He would tell you to tell me to go and paint until I was ready to talk. And if I never was ready to talk, he would leave me in peace.”

“Yes,” her mother replied, “he had a most annoying way regarding certain things. Especially concerning you.”

Her mother was trying to make her smile, she knew. Her parents had loved each other to distraction but had been as different as two people could be. Yet they had understood love was about pleasing the other, deeply seated respect and admiration, as well as a soupcon of wit. Her mother had been her father’s ardent advocate while he spent the eighteen years of their marriage immersed in his art, and encouraging Esme too. And in return, her father had endeavored to please his wife in secret ways Esme had not been privy to.

“I was thinking actually . . .” Her mother paused.

Esme bit her top lip. “Yes?”

“I was thinking of going down to London. Shall we not go together?”

“I cannot.”

“That’s not true,” her mother replied. “His Grace, your husband, may not go to Town but I specifically remember that he said that Prinny had directed that command to him alone. And since he has already somewhat broken the promise he made to the prince by leaving his honeymoon early, I see no reason for you not to go to Town with me.”

“No,” she replied stonily.

“Then perhaps we could go to Bellaney. You know how lovely the dower house is, and we’d rarely have to dine with Daniel in the main house.”

Her third cousin, Daniel, her father’s heir, was as stiff and uncompromising as a horsehair suit. “Mother?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“I’ve never thanked you properly for coming to stay with me here after everything,” Esme said with true gratitude. “You have always been the best mother. But, right now, I can’t speak of what you want to know.”

Her mother stopped pretending to arrange the roses and walked to the chaise longue on which Esme was seated. “I understand. I really do. And since you trust me when it comes to the important things, I am going to have to beg you to trust me now. I spent a little time with Norwich on two occasions while he was here, and I am acquainted with his mother and sister, too. I think, just perhaps a little, that I understand more than you know. And so, I must insist that we remain here for no longer than a fortnight, and then we are for Town.”

Esme waited. She knew there would be more.

“We will wait so that there will be no wagging tongues about an abrupt honeymoon when Prinny allows the news of your wedding to spread. But we shall enjoy one week in London before you leave on your trip.”

“Enjoy?” Esme asked archly.

“Or endure, if you prefer,” she deferred. “Oh, and my dearest daughter?”

“Your
only
daughter,” Esme retorted. It was their oldest joke.

“Either I will go on the trip with you or William Topher. I must insist. Unless of course, your husband has a change of heart.”

“I would not wager a ha’penny on it,” Esme replied. “I’m going out of doors to the westernmost wheat field to paint. If anyone wants to discuss anything further about my husband’s departure, you may tell them I’ve jumped into the lake.”

“Of course, I will, dearest.”

Her mother was one part devil to three parts angel like many mothers. The devil in her did not relate to Esme that during the fortnight she composed and sent, via a devoted servant, a very private missive to the Dowager Duchess of Norwich, a lady with whom she had formed a fond acquaintance a very long time ago, when she and Esme’s father had just married and been invited to a house party at the primary Norwich seat on the eastern coast of England.

P
recisely three weeks later, Roman Montagu, the seventeenth Duke of Norwich, rode the horse he had borrowed from Derby Manor onto the lovely cobblestones of London. He rode the magnificent beast all the way to the mews behind his towering townhouse in Mayfair, handed the reins to a stable boy, and entered his own house using the servants’ entrance. He knew he was being ridiculous. He had stayed away from London the perquisite number of weeks so there was no need to creep about like a thief.

He had sent another letter to the Prince Regent naming the date of his return. He had cushioned the news by adding that he would not formally announce his return, or place the news of his marriage in the newspapers, or attend any public functions. He could skulk about like the best of them.

He had returned to see to the affairs of the duchy with his steward, and to make an appearance for his mother and sister. And enough was enough. He had gathered many ideas on his travels and now he needed time in his study to continue his work.

Roman was not certain if he should be pleased or surprised that he was so easily able to enter his residence without the notice of a single servant. Why, he would be robbed blind one day.

He stuck his head in his mother’s favored morning room only to find it empty. Perfect. He would retire to his study. He passed the blue room, and paused. He looked inside and it was empty too. He stood very still. Was there not a bloody soul here?

He stopped any attempt at remaining invisible and went from room to room, salon, followed by chamber, and study followed by library. He stood at the doorway exiting the library and was on the point of walking out the main entry and shouting when a flurry of voices echoed from the other side of the main doors not fifty feet from where he stood.

The door opened, and four elegantly clad females stepped over the threshold, carrying far too many hatboxes. Three footmen followed them with twice as many parcels.

Instinctively, he moved a step back into the shadow of the door.

Dear God.

It was she
. March and her blasted mother had entered Norwich Hall along with his mother and sister.

“My dear Caroline,” Esme’s mother bubbled to his mother, “did I not tell you that Madame Fifoulard makes the most marvelous hats?”

“You did,” his mother replied with more enthusiasm than he had heard in nearly two decades. “But you did not say that we would purchase all of them.”

“Esme?” his sister said. “Do let’s ask Madame Cooper to come to join us abovestairs. I will try not to laugh again when we try on those matching bonnets with the bumblebee pins.”

“You might not laugh, but I cannot be counted on to—” Esme stopped.

She had seen him lurking in the library’s doorway. Her lovely gray eyes, always so expressive, looked in his direction for a long moment before she turned to her mother.

“Mother, I need to speak to you privately for just a moment.” She turned to his sister. “Please excuse me, Lily. We can try the hats in a bit. Someone is waiting to speak to you.”

Three pairs of eyes met his as Esme ascended one of the pair of long winding stairs to the upper floors. Good God. She was staying here? Bloody hell, of course she was. If she was in Town, she would have to reside here. It was now her home as well as his.

He stepped forward and calmly lowered his head to accept his mother’s gentle kiss. Lily was far more ebullient. She had always been the most optimistic of the three of them. She had also been the youngest by five years.

“Roman! You sly one. When did you return?”

“Just now.”

She gathered his stiff form in her warm arms and hugged him to her whether he wanted it or not. Of course he wanted her to. He slowly wound his arms about her slim form and embraced her. But instead of releasing her perfunctorily as he always had in the past, he did not let go. After several moments of silence, Lily rested her head on his chest and sighed. Something eased inside of him.

“Your Grace? Oh, pardon me,” the voice of his steward broke the moment.

Roman abruptly released his sister and took a step back. “Good day, Simon. I shall see you in the study shortly.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. So sorry to have intruded.”

His steward departed at the same moment as his mother-in-law came forward. “How delightful you are come.”

At least he could be grateful she did not add,
my son,
as she had done on occasion in the recent past. He bowed before her. Her eyes, so very like her daughter’s, studied him with kindness.

“It is good to see you, Lady Gilchrist.”

“And you too,
Your Grace
.” Esme’s mother curtsied very elegantly and formally before him.

What on earth was going on? No one was acting as they should in this farce of a tragedy. Except his mother. She was always reserved. Except that she had sounded so animated a few moments before when they had entered without knowing he had arrived.

“Will you excuse me?” he asked. “I must have a word with Mr. Simon. Shall we reconvene in the front salon at eight o’clock and then dine? I shall have Simon inform Mr. Stephens of my arrival.” He would be surprised if the butler had not already been informed.

The two mothers looked at each other, but it was Lily who spoke. “We are dining with Lord and Lady Vidington tonight, Roman.” She paused. “We are invited to go to their townhouse in Portman Square.”

His mother intervened gently. “I shall send a footman to inform them that you are arrived and we shall dine here.”

“No,” he replied. “You must all go without me. I insist. I am exhausted, really. I would prefer it. We shall dine together tomorrow—or break our fast in the morning.”

The three ladies glanced at each other.

“What is it, then?”

“We are quite inundated with invitations at present,” his sister said with a smile he had not seen very often. “We are to ride in the early morning with Tory Smith and her sisters. Then we promised to go to the lending library with Lindy Delmont and her family. Her brother and uncle are to escort us for ices after. Then, of course, Lady Gilchrist insists we join the crocodile of carriages crowding Hyde Park each afternoon.” She stopped, obviously embarrassed.

“And then?” he asked with encouragement.

“Well, I cannot remember if we are to go to Vauxhall tomorrow night or the night after.”

“The night after,” both mothers said at precisely the same moment.

His mother continued, “Tomorrow night we have invited the Tulleys and Dumbartons to dine with us here before the theatre.”

“I see,” he said. It appeared he had worried needlessly about his mother and sister. Life went along very well without him. Actually, it appeared as if it might even be better without him in residence.

Really, it was a relief. Truly.

“Will you not join us, Your Grace?” His mother-in-law gazed at him with her perpetual sunny nature.

“Thank you, but I think I shall—”

Lily interrupted. “Oh, my brother does not enjoy frivolity, Lady Gilchrist. Except for the camaraderie of the royal entourage, of course, and then it is only on rare occasions when Kress, Candover, or Abshire wrestle him from his study.”

“Thank you, Lily,” he ground out, “but I should be delighted to join you at dinner tomorrow.”

“And the theatre?” she wheedled.

“And the theatre if it would please you that much.”

She clapped her hands and his mother smiled.

“Roman?” his mother asked.

“Yes?”

“I am so glad you have come back.”

He nodded slightly. “Thank you, Mama. It is good to be home.” As he retreated to the bastion of every gentleman, his study, he realized with a start that he had spoken the truth. It was good to be home. It was the first time he had even considered this house his home. He had never really had roots.