The Duke Dilemma (11 page)

“I still think Miss Taylor—ah, Mrs. Weston, she is, of course, now married, was all that was kind to Miss Woodhouse,” added Lady Ashton, who moved through the chairs in the center of the room. “Perhaps too kind. It should have been more than clear to young Emma she should not have encouraged such an unseemly friendship. One must maintain a comfortable distance between the classes.”

“Are you speaking of Miss Smith?” Miss Dillingham apparently sympathized with lowly Harriet Smith, who had, with encouragement from Emma, set her cap for the esteemed vicar, Mr. Elton.

“Thinking too well of oneself is never good. She does not even know
who
her parents are. No, it cannot be a suitable match.” Lady Gelsthorpe waved her hand about in a majestic manner. “And Mr. Woodhouse does nothing to counsel his daughter. Emma is far too young to think she may do as she likes. She is but a silly gel and does not behave with propriety!”

The Countess’s assessment of Miss Woodhouse sounded a bit harsh to Louise. Had Emma thought herself better than she should be?

“To associate with someone below one’s station never turns out well,” Lady Ashton said in an all-knowing tone. “That is the real problem. Mark my words, nothing good can come of this. Miss Woodhouse will soon regret her actions.”

“Emma and Harriet are quite happy in one another’s company, is that not enough?” Mrs. Dumfries commented, moving through the same tangle of chairs as Lady Ashton in the center of the room. “There is no harm there.”

All motion within the parlor came to a halt while Lady Gelsthorpe composed her opinion. “Miss Smith is not suitable company for Miss Woodhouse. What she should do is employ a proper companion. Miss Smith displays her lack of breeding in her common preferences in
gentlemen
.”

“Too true, Kate.” Lady Ashton nodded her head. “Miss Smith is clearly smitten with Mr. Martin, and it’s quite apparent to Miss Woodhouse.”

“It is equally apparent that Mr. Martin would be an inappropriate choice for someone of her class. Miss Woodhouse does not make the distinction that she and Miss Smith are not of the same social standing.” The Countess, once again, strolled alongside Miss Dillingham. “She may be far too young to fully understand such things.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t know what she is doing?” Miss Dillingham ventured.

“That may be true,” Lady Gelsthorpe replied. “We can only see a true friendship between her and Miss Smith as disastrous.”

Louise thought
disastrous
sounded a bit too harsh.

“The tea tray, excellent!” After excusing the maid, Lady Gelsthorpe gestured toward the tea service. “Lady Ashton, do be a dear and pour out.”

Lady Ashton arranged the cups, preparing to pour, and returned to the topic of
Emma
. “To imply that Miss Smith should look above her station cannot be condoned. Miss Woodhouse is not the arbitrator of one’s class.”

Louise stood on the opposite side of Miss Dillingham, helping Lady Gelsthorpe into her seat.

“If Emma does not believe Mr. Martin an eligible parti, then who do you think would be worthy of Miss Smith?” Miss Dillingham inquired, stepping away from Lady Gelsthorpe.

The ladies glanced about at one another as if the answer lay among them.

“Emma is in mind to find a suitable wife for Mr. Elton,” Mrs. Dumfries reminded them.

“She believes Miss Smith would make him a splendid wife,” Lady Ashton said aloud for everyone’s benefit. She narrowed her eyes as if in thought.

“That would certainly be beneficial for Miss Smith, but I cannot guess what Mr. Elton’s thoughts might be.” Mrs. Dumfries turned her attention to Lady Ashton.

“Wanting the best for one’s friend is admirable.” Lady Ashton handed a cup of tea to Mrs. Dumfries, who in turn handed the first cup to their hostess.

“If Emma has it in mind to match them, what then?” Miss Dillingham turned to Louise.

“I should think Miss Woodhouse’s preferences do not signify in the matter.” Louise could not believe one person could convince another person, or two other people, of their affection. One could not know what lay in another’s heart. One only knows what lies in one’s own heart, and sometimes one was even quite uncertain about that.

“Emma is so determined she might
will
it to happen,” Miss Dillingham maintained.

“Indeed!” Lady Gelsthorpe laughed. “We shall just have to wait until we hear more.”

“You do not know, do you, Lady Vernon?” Mrs. Dumfries handed Louise a cup of tea. “You did not read ahead?”

“Of course not.” Louise did not take offense at the inquiry. “I do not wish to ruin the surprise of what happens next.”

“Are we ready to continue on to chapter five?” Lady Gelsthorpe collected the book from the table and held it out, not to anyone in particular, then intoned, “Would you care to read for us, Miss Dillingham?”

Edward alit from the carriage and alone headed for the front door of his house. He could not say he minded that only moments before, Frederick had leaped out and headed for the mews directly. His son had been in rare form, first displaying a burst of temper with Lady and Miss Dayton after their drive, and then without any explanation, expediting their departure from the Dayton residence.

Edward opened his front door, entered Worth House, and glanced about.

Where the deuce was Ralston? And where were the multitude of footmen Edward employed? There was not a trace of a one. This was most irregular.

The Duke laid his silver-topped carved walking stick on the round foyer table. He finished removing his gloves, dropped them into his hat, and paused just before setting the beaver aside.

There was an ominous silence. No, it was not quiet that surrounded him. There were some low, soft sounds he could not discern. Truth be told, he did not wish to step farther into the house
nor go beyond the boundaries of the marble foyer, and he could not precisely understand why.

High-pitched female laughter suddenly filled the air, catching his attention. A sudden waft of perfume assaulted his nose. Women, loads of them, more than he cared to imagine, congregated within. He dared not step in or near the front parlor from where the sounds emanated.

The absence of the butler should have told Edward of such an intrusion.

Careful not to overturn his hat, the Duke stepped to the staircase as quietly and swiftly as he could manage. Reaching the bend in the staircase, Edward froze upon hearing footfalls from the marbled floor of the foyer. He could not keep from chancing a glance over the railing and caught the motion of green skirts below.

“I was certain I heard someone out here.” That was Augusta’s voice. A few more staccato steps of a female’s dainty shoe brought her toward the front door.

Edward leaned back, moving from the handrail and his daughter’s line of sight.

“Is this is my father’s walking stick, Ralston?”

With the brim of his hat, and the gloves it contained within, clutched in his right hand, it was only then the Duke realized he had forgotten to collect all his belongings before making his exit from the ground floor.

“His Grace owns many such items, my lady. I cannot say with any certainty this particular article is a member of his collection,” Ralston replied. “This might belong to Lord Brent, or his lordship may have borrowed—”

“Very well.” There was an almost audible
humph
of displeasure associated with Augusta’s acceptance of the inevitable. The Duke was nowhere near.

He had to remember not to appear in Augusta’s presence with that walking stick. He would retire it—even give it away, perhaps.

Edward became acutely aware of just how close he had come to discovery. A few seconds later Augusta moved away with the butler trailing, closing the parlor doors behind them. Had Augusta also appropriated every available footman for her
informal
gathering?

Climbing to the top of the stairs, he stepped into the first room off the landing. He turned the knob, slipped through the doorway, and shut the door, latching the mechanism in silence. Edward faced into the room, leaning back against the eight-paneled door. Dim afternoon daylight from the two windows illuminated the bedchamber belonging to Muriel.

What on Earth was he doing? Was he actually
hiding
? This was his house. He was a duke. Had a small gathering of women frightened him off?

Edward had no real knowledge how many
delightful
ladies occupied his front parlor. To be honest, he had no interest in discovering precisely how many. An escape to a safe place was what he needed. But where?

He could not go to White’s Club. The mere sight of him dashing down St. James Street on foot might be cause for scandal.

Was he truly contemplating running away?

The whole concept was really too ridiculous.

His gaze swung along Muriel’s shelved books, and when he reached
Tragedies of Sophocles
, he paused. A Greek text, not his youngest’s usual taste. To him it seemed out of place among her Roman tomes. Edward approached the shelf, laying his hat upon a table along the way. He pulled out the Greek book and allowed it to fall open in his hands.

There before him lay a small iron key and a folded piece of paper. The paper contained a sketched map with a few notations.
No doubt the key allowed the bearer admittance to the denoted destination. Seeing this as an immediate solution, he may as well make use of them now and puzzle out later why his daughter would be in possession of such items. Edward’s intuition told him it was an out-of-the-way place where there would be privacy. And it was exactly that which he sought now. He removed both and replaced the book.

Edward slid the key into the pocket of his waistcoat, held onto the map, and carried his hat with him to the back stairs, exiting the house using the side door. He had never felt less like a privileged aristocrat and thought of himself as more of a dowdy common thief slinking out of a house after pinching items from his daughter’s room.

The Duke set his hat upon his head and straightened. To appear less than his position would draw attention to him, which was the last thing he wanted. Edward consulted the map, double-checking the short distance he would be traveling, slipped it into the breast pocket of his many-caped greatcoat, and then continued on foot down the street, keeping in mind how odd it would appear if he should be seen.

He followed the instructions, making a turn around the next block. The gate indicated on the map must lie just up ahead. He should come across it soon, in a few short—there it was.

On his right, ivy crept over the wall, clinging to the stacked stone of the building’s exterior. Moving closer, he finally saw the portal, an old, solid iron gate, which the key in his possession must unlock. Edward drew the key from his waistcoat pocket and did not hesitate to unlock the gate and step inside, hopefully to find solitude.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Louise thought she heard the hinges of the iron gate creak. She straightened and pulled her scarf, tucking it securely across her face, in a hasty attempt to disguise her identity lest the lady of the house be discovered dressed in such an unseemly fashion. The task would have been simple if not for the added bulkiness of the gardening gloves.

Stepping down the path that led to the street exit, Louise hoped to catch sight of her visitor. Someone she hoped was known to her. Then her concealment would be unnecessary. There, at the gate, stood a tall man in a many-caped greatcoat and a high-crowned beaver.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to disturb you.” He removed his hat and inclined his head in a show of respect.

A most handsome man with light-colored hair. Louise held tight to her pruning shears. Her other hand swept her apron-covered skirt aside. “May I ask your business here,
sir
?” His accent, the fineness of his coat and hat, all bespoke quality, but she did not know who he was to address him in any other manner than
sir
.

“I have this”—he held up a small iron key she recognized at once, and drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket—“and this map which led me.”

The key, of which there were few in existence, told her he had not forced his way into her garden. The map, perhaps, held a clue to who could have directed him.