The Gypsy Duchess (2 page)

“But surely you didn’t lead him to think you had…and with a sweet boy like Blaine?” Elizabeth blushed furiously.

“I didn’t come right out and say I’d lain with his brother if that is what you mean—because I had not. But I did not deny anything either. Mostly because I felt guilty about letting Blaine kiss me so many times.”

“You let a man to whom you were not betrothed kiss you?” Elizabeth couldn’t have looked more shocked if Moira had announced she was a notorious murderess.

“I was impossibly young and foolish and I was flattered that the son of an earl would pay me such marked attention,” Moira explained. Though she doubted a rather plain young woman who had grown up in a large, loving family could possibly understand what it had been like to be eighteen and beautiful and the daughter of such scandalous parents that she had no hope of marriage to a decent man.

A sudden gust of wind down the chimney sent a puff of wood smoke into the room, reminding Moira of the many beach fires she and Blaine had shared on lazy summer evenings. She blinked back the tears misting her eyes. “I had already decided I must break the connection with Blaine when the duke made his offer, so it seemed a propitious stroke of fate. The foolish boy had declared he loved me, but it never occurred to me he seriously believed that two people of such disparate backgrounds could have a future together—or that he would go haring off to the Peninsula and get himself killed.”

“But of course he was serious,” Elizabeth said primly. “He would never have dared kiss you if he hadn’t been.”

Moira’s laugh was humorless. “For all your venerable five and twenty years, Elizabeth, you are remarkably ignorant of the ways of men.”

She swiped impatiently at a tear trailing down her cheek. “However, enough of dredging up the past. What am I to do about the future? Charles is as dear to me as if he were my own son—and I promised the duke I would protect him from the viscount’s evil clutches.”

“There is nothing for it but to talk with the earl,” Elizabeth advised. “Which I’m afraid means going to London. Papa said it is common knowledge he is there to seek a bride among the young women of noble birth who will be making their comeout this spring, because he is long overdue producing the necessary heir to secure the title.”

She frowned. “Despite your past misunderstandings, I have to believe he will be reasonable once you explain the danger to the young duke if the earl does not take on the guardianship. It is not as if you expected him to raise the boy.”

“Good heavens no! Charles is my responsibility—one I willingly embrace. Not that I could make a man like the earl credit that. But you are right. Maybe if I face him in person and tell him I simply need him to assume the guardianship in name only, I can convince him to agree to it.”

“I am certain you can, your grace.” Elizabeth smiled. “Though I might suggest you wear shoes when you meet with the earl. He was raised by a mother who, while unbelievably silly and vain, is a confirmed high stickler when it come to the social proprieties.”

Moira glanced sheepishly at her bare toes poking from beneath the hem of her gown. She had been twelve years old when she’d put on her first pair of shoes, and she had never gotten used to wearing them. “You are right, of course.” She signed. “But lud how I hate the way the miserable things cramp my toes.”

Absentmindedly, she twisted a tendril of blue-black hair which had escaped the ribbon tied at her nape. “I supposed I should try reasoning with the earl,” she mused. “What have I to lose? According to my solicitor, the viscount has already filed a petition to be declared guardian if Langley refuses.”

She paced the floor, deep in thought. In the four years since she’d seen Devon St. Gwyre—and shared that earthshaking kiss with him—she had promised herself again and again she would devote the rest of her life to avoiding the handsome, golden-haired rake whose cool, green eyes had surveyed her with such disdain. But now she was at
point non plus.
For Charles’s sake, she would beg mercy of Beelzebub himself if she had to.

“Very well,” she declared at last. “I will do it—much as I hate to think of it or of returning to London again just when I have finally escaped to the peace and quiet of the Cornish countryside. But I shall have to take Charles and you with me. I dare not leave him here with only the servants to guard him. The viscount will succeed to the title if anything happens to the duke, and the greedy devil is not above making an attempt on the boy’s life to bring about that succession.”

*

The Earl of Langley was in a foul mood. He had assumed his refusal to act as the young duke’s guardian would end the matter once and for all. Obviously it had not, as the note he carried in his waistcoat pocket attested.

The duchess had apparently come to London for the express purpose of pursuing the annoying subject. She had even had the gall to request him to present himself at her town house at nine o’clock this morning—a request worded so cleverly it left him no recourse, as a gentleman, but to acquiesce.

Which was the only reason he was out and about at this ungodly hour when the streets were teeming with tradesmen’s carts and the carriages of citizens conducting the commerce of the busy metropolis. He yawned, exhausted from a long evening in the gaming room at White’s, followed by an even longer night in the arms of the latest ladybird to catch his fancy.

“Good of you to back me up in this annoying session with the duchess,” he murmured to the Marquess of Stamden, who sat beside him in his curricle. “I am afraid I might be tempted to wring the woman’s neck if I found myself alone with her.” Tightening his grip on the ribbons, he sent his matched grays sprinting across an intersection, narrowly missing a milk wagon and a hackney cab.

The marquess made a frantic grasp for the edge of the seat. “Hell and damnation, isn’t it enough that I am breaking my rule against socializing to lend you my support? Must I give my life as well? Vent your spleen on the duchess if you please, not on a loyal comrade.”

“Sorry,” Devon murmured, slowing the grays to a comfortable trot. “I’ve had a devilish week and this miserable bit of business just tops it off.”

Stamden raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Your latest little pretty from the opera chorus isn’t working out, I take it.”

Devon grinned ruefully. “She has turned out to be a bit more demanding than I had counted on. It is probably a good thing the romp is coming to an end.”

“You’re giving the chit her
congé
?”

Devon nodded. “She is beginning to get on my nerves. No sooner have we finished with the…ahem…business at hand, than she rises up out of bed and treats me to a rendition of the solo part she is rehearsing for the next opera.”

“Why is that a problem?” Stamden’s pale eyes glinted with humor. “You must be a music lover; you invariably choose your mistresses from the opera chorus.”

“Only because they are so nicely displayed and so readily available that I do not have to expend the time and effort of looking elsewhere.” Devon scowled. “But as a matter of fact, it is my love of music which presents the problem in this particular instance. My current songbird may have the face of an angel and the body of Aphrodite, but her voice is definitely that of a crow. I predict a short, inglorious career as a solo performer for Miss Philomena Browne—probably no longer than it takes for the opera director to tire of her undisputed talent between the bed sheets.”

His scowl darkened. “I swear, I have grown so weary of women in general this past fortnight, I am on the verge of joining the ranks of the celibate.”

Stamden shaded his eyes with his fingers and looked toward the heavens. “And I am watching for the pigs which will surely be flying by at any moment.”

Devon chuckled, his humor considerably improved. There was no one like his cynical friend to put things into proper perspective.

With the ease of an accomplished whip, he guided the grays around a corner and pulled them to a stop before the Sheffield town house. Favoring his game leg, he climbed from the curricle and handed the reins to the groom who rode behind him.

“Well, here we are,” he said, turning to the marquess. “I promise you I shall conclude this unpleasant business as quickly as possible; I have a number of important calls I must make this afternoon.

Stamden stepped down beside him and together they mounted the shallow stone steps to the town house. Moments later they were ushered into a spacious salon on the first floor by an ancient, somber-clad butler.

Devon stared with frank interest at the charming room. The walls were papered in a delicate Chinese floral print with touches of gold leaf that reflected the morning sunshine streaming through a bay of recessed windows. A Persian carpet in muted shades of green and blue and gold covered the floor, and the few judiciously placed chairs and sofas were of either Hepplewhite or Sheraton design, but the ambience seemed strangely sparse compared with most of the fashionable salons of the day, including that of Devon’s own mother. Still, he felt a strong affinity to the feeling of peace and order the room projected.

“What a lovely room,” Stamden murmured, apparently gaining the same impression.

Devon found himself wondering if this gracious salon could possibly reflect the taste of the present duchess. The thought was a disquieting one; he remembered her as a tasteless hoyden.

He caught a faint whiff of some spicy scent redolent of exotic, foreign climes and a second later heard the rustle of skirts signaling the approach of the woman in question. One glance and the hope he’d been harboring that the years might have somehow dimmed her incredible beauty died an instant death. If anything, she was even more exquisite than his recollection. Even her severe widow’s black, which would have rendered most women sallow and unattractive, only enhanced her creamy complexion and glossy sable hair.

“Good morning, my lord. Thank you for coming” she said in that warm, slightly husky voice that had haunted his dreams for the past four years. She studied him with a cool appraisal which made him all too aware of how he must appear to her—a man battle-weary and old beyond his years, leaning upon a stout walking stick to support his game leg.

“Your grace.” He moistened his lips, which for some reason felt stretched too tightly across his teeth. “May I present my friend, Peter Forsythe, Marquess of Stamden.”

“My lord.” The duchess favored Stamden with her breathtaking smile and Devon saw the usually stoic marquess blink as if faced with an image too brilliant for the human brain to absorb.

“So my Lord St. Gwyre,” she said, turning back to Devon with a faint hint of amusement in her expressive, almond-shaped eyes, “you felt the need of reinforcements when you met with me. Surely a man who has dealt so heroically with the best Bonaparte had to offer cannot find a mere woman so formidable.”

Devon experienced a moment of surprise that she should be aware of his war record—which quickly turned to anger at the thought of the woman’s audacious tongue. Five minutes in her annoying presence and already he could feel his control slipping.

She gave a soft trill of laughter that sent shivers of awareness vibrating through him. “As you can see, I too have taken the same precaution,” she said, drawing forward the pale, brown-haired woman who stood slightly behind her. “I understand you are already acquainted with my companion and friend, Miss Elizabeth Kincaid.”

“But of course, Elizabeth and I have known each other since childhood,” Devon exclaimed, shocked to see the eldest daughter of his village vicar a member of the notorious duchess’s household. Could the family have fallen on such hard times they must risk Elizabeth’s reputation to see her employed? He resolved to call on the vicar and demand an explanation as soon as he returned to Cornwall.

He clasped Elizabeth’s small hand in his. “Much of my misspent youth was devoted to pulling this lady’s pigtails,” he said gently.

“You were ever the worst of teases, my lord.” Elizabeth blushed prettily and withdrawing her hand from his, extended it to the marquess. To her credit, she, like the duchess, faced Stamden with a steady, unblinking gaze, and Devon saw a travesty of a smile spread across his friend’s ravaged face.

“I will not keep you long,” the duchess said, getting right to the point once they were all seated. “I have asked you here to beg you to change your mind and accept the guardianship of my stepson.” The stoic look to her lovely face revealed what it cost her to humble herself to plead her cause. She obviously had no more desire to deal with him than he had to deal with her. Then why this helpless widow act she was putting on? She had even gone so far as to dress the part. Not a single jewel adorned her surprisingly unfashionable widow’s weeds and her hair was scraped back into the severest of chignons. This was doing it up a bit brown even for a consummate actress like the duchess. It was a wonder she hadn’t resorted to sackcloth and ashes.

He abandoned his perusal of her, only to find her studying him even more intently, almost as if she were trying to read his innermost thoughts. “I promise you Charles will be no trouble to you, my lord. I shall need no help in raising him,” she said with such touching sincerity, Devon almost found himself believing she was earnest in her supplication.”

“My decision is final,” he said coldly.

For a second, something that looked remarkably like terror clouded the duchess’s eyes. “But unless you agree to be named his guardian, the office will likely be awarded to his cousin, Viscount Quentin, and I fear for Charles’s safety in his hands,” she said in a choked voice.