Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Page 12

  “I have often wondered myself. Devilish hard to read, Strathavon. But perhaps – perhaps I have yet glimpsed flashes of that man in his chilly eyes.”

  He gave Holly a considering look, wondering if she could achieve the impossible and bring that man to the fore once more. He missed that Strathavon – his oldest and best companion, but he had given up trying to bring him about again.

  He took another look at Holly with her bright eyes, rosy cheeks and chestnut curls. Maybe there was hope after all.

  In the carriage on the way home, Holly could not stop thinking of her conversation with Avonbury. His words kept running through her mind: I have yet glimpsed flashes of that man in his chilly eyes… She really ought to have been too angry with Strathavon to care about such things – and yet the thought of him suffering or lonely tore mercilessly at her heart.

  “That was quite a night,” she told Lady Louisa wearily.

  Her friend regarded her with interest.

  “You are cutting it very fine, my dear,” Louisa laughed. “The ton hasn’t the faintest idea what to make of you – very well done.”

  Holly thought of the night’s events.

  “Nor I, of them, Lady Louisa.”

  The real trouble was that she didn’t know what to make of herself, either. What did she want? And did that matter?

  *

  It was to His Grace’s unreserved astonishment that he’d arrived back in London to discover that his mousy wife had become the toast of the town.

  After his very singular visit to Pontridge, he spent his entire journey back wondering what to make of his vanishing wife. But the news that awaited him once he had returned to St James street was by far the most astonishing on dit he had heard in a very long time.

  At first he had wondered if some impostor had taken her place. After all, it couldn’t really be his duchess making such waves in society. Some hoax or prank, likely – his Holly could not possibly have become a celebrated original. His Holly. No indeed, even that was impossible.

  Then his cousin turned up at his door to be abominable to him, and really there was little else left for him to do but get swept up in Avonbury’s transparent manipulations.

  “I do hope you mean to make some effort to attend Lady Harecroft’s card party, Strathavon – I have it on very good authority that Her Grace will be in attendance,” the earl began with studied artlessness.

  “Will she?” the duke murmured, without looking up from his correspondence.

  “Along with her cohort of swains, I expect.”

  That made him look up, and frown at his cousin’s dishevelled appearance.

  At university, Lord Avonbury had enjoyed the nickname of Scruffy for his frequently crumpled cravat and a cloud of curly white-blond hair that was in a constant state of disarray.

  It was a reputation he maintained to this day, in the face of any number of cutting things Mr Brummell had said about cravats and black coats.

  Ladies found his general appearance charmingly heroic, and gentlemen, amusing. Strathavon found his cousin’s lack of neatness extremely exasperating.

  “Hah! Might she, now. Sir John Compton first amongst them, I expect? I doubt she’ll find that he’ll come up to scratch.”

  “You can be remarkably tiresome when you’re in a dudgeon, Strathavon. If anything, I’d say the boot is on the other leg,” Avonbury laughed. “I shall leave you to your brooding and your plotting then – I believe I have a game to settle with Hollingham. He left me absolutely with pockets to let, yesterday. But I will say this: her ladyship has you in a gander, cousin.”

  He had never yet seen Strathavon so visibly disconcerted, and took a shameless delight in witnessing the occasion.

  “She has not. Holly is the gentlest soul,” said Strathavon regretfully. “I believe that she could love anything on earth if it seemed to her to wish it. But I assure you, I do not wish it, and I am not in love. Love is…inconvenient at best. And as to Hollingham – he can wait.”

  “I’ll leave the state of your wife’s soul for you to decide, since you are so good at it, but I tell you, your Holly is well out of the common way. Her Grace has cut a dash about town, I’m told. I had occasion to stand up with her for the Mary Ramsay yesterday at Lady Castlereagh’s, and to sit with her at dinner – a very charming conversationalist. ”

  Avonbury spoke as if they had already become the very best of friends, and Strathavon made a mental note to make certain that his cousin did not drag his naïve young wife into any of his dreadful scrapes.

  As it were, however, Lady Strathavon seemed perfectly capable of getting into scrapes all by herself.

  “I really don’t see why you hesitate – it is very plain to me that yours could be one of those rare unions that contains not only felicity but affection.”

  “But that is not why I married. To marry for love is all very well and good, if one has the luxury,” Strathavon told Avonbury. “But I had a household which was in shambles and I do believe that I am well past the ridiculous, boyish age when one loses touch with reality because of a pretty face, or a possibility of romance.”

  “Is that so?” said Avonbury, visibly enjoying the moment. “In that case it will please you to know that Lady Strathavon has a whole band of would-be lovers dangling after her. Demonstrably, they do not consider themselves at all too serious for romance. By all accounts, the new duchess has only to toss a handkerchief to have half the swains in town come to her assistance.”

  “I very much doubt it. Holly is too serious-minded for any such absurdities.”

  Avonbury ignored him, savouring a drink of his bourbon before continuing. “Sir John Compton is said to be fairly besotted, I hear, though I doubt he’s the sort of fellow to truly mean much by it.”

  Strathavon felt a moment’s irritation. “Unlike you, do you mean?” he asked dryly.

  Avonbury looked unruffled, however. “Yes, exactly so, cousin. I doubt he means to hand over the family emeralds to your lovely wife – but then it seems to me that it is not emeralds that Her Grace truly craves.”

  Avonbury considered his cousin and wondered, not for the first time, if the clever, pretty Lady Strathavon would yet lead her icy husband a pretty dance. Lud knew, Strathavon could use a little humanising.

  “She has even earned the approval of the Carlton House set,” continued the earl, adjusting the sleeve of another of his offensively pea-green coats.

  “Has she?” murmured Strathavon, his expression damnably unreadable. “If you mean for that to be of some great comfort to me in my marital choice, then you are missing the mark. I assure you that I by no means consider myself an attaché to Lady Strathavon.” His voice dropped slightly. “Now, you had better tell me any developments with your own little spot of trouble.”

  “It is all as much of a disaster as it ever was,” Avonbury sighed. “My sister still wishes to wear the necklace for her presentation next spring – but first it must be cleaned and reset. And Lady Charlotte will not surrender it, nor see me.”

  “Alas, cousin, you are a right ass – what steadiness did you expect, exactly, when the lady told you she had no partiality?”

  Unlike his far more sensible cousin, the Earl of Avonbury was a great believer in love. He made a point of falling in love so frequently and so completely that he could easily put even the poets to shame.

  Strathavon found this peculiarity of character to be extremely irritating, but never more so than now.

  In a fit of absurd affection, Avonbury had presented that most notorious of widows, Lady Charlotte, with a set of family emeralds.

  Quite aside from the scandal that would indubitably follow if Lady Charlotte were to wear these stones in public, the emeralds were now required post-haste to be sent up to Avonbury’s sister, Lucy, to prepare her for her coming-out in the spring.

  It was unconscionable to tell his family that the stones were gone and where they had gone to: there was nothing else for it but to retrieve them before Avonbury’s sister or m
other found anything amiss. There was only so long they would believe in Avonbury’s hopelessly scatterbrained inefficiency in carrying out their errands.

  “You would not understand – or possibly you do and won’t admit it. Either way, it does not signify – I gave them as a token in a moment of perfect love, before the dawn could taint what was between us.”

  “Well, I suppose I can only commend your romantic notions – but I would bring your attention to the fact that it is exactly this brand of nonsense that is to blame for your present unhappiness.”

  “Alas, no. It is the lady’s sheer heartlessness that’s to blame for that,” sighed the earl, still full of his ridiculous melancholy. “But not all ladies are so cruel. You really ought to go take a look at your lovely duchess before she demands a Scottish divorce of you and runs off to Rome with some young scribbler.”

  A scribbler! What romance would a poet possibly find in the ever-practical and meticulously organised Miss Holly Millforte? Or Lady Strathavon, even.

  While society did seem to be going through a phase of inexplicable fascination with the girl, surely a poet would not be so easily swayed into seeing grand romance where there was none to be found?

  Chapter 6

  Meeting Miss Verity Dacre proved easier than Holly had expected. Lady Louisa, far from being taken aback at the strange request, obliged by inviting her niece to go riding in the park.

  “I always did despair of Verity,” lamented Holly’s mentor as she adjusted an elegant kidskin glove, waiting for Miss Dacre to join them. “She is too much like her mother – head full of unrealistic notions, yet not a single adventurous bone in her body. No spirit about her. It really is no way to live.”

  Which Holly found was not an unsurprising opinion, given that Verity was known throughout London as the colourful Lady Louisa’s eminently respectable niece, the daughter of her much-younger and unmistakably respectable sister.

  Verity Dacre was known for her philanthropy, the perfect discretion of her voice, pretty manners and the good-natured way she flushed whenever her exuberant aunt was mentioned.

  She was also hopelessly romantic in her ideals and had always the appearance of being on some grand, but very proper, quest. She suffered from what Holly identified as the trifling petulance of a heart at ease, for no one who had ever known the true pains of love could have been so silly about it.

  As they waited, a carriage drove past. It was a neat little barouche, driven by a woman with artfully styled blonde curls, and accompanied by a groom in a burgundy livery.

  Holly did not recognise the woman, but it seemed that the woman recognised her, for she fixed Holly with a dark, scornful look, her perfectly coral-tinted mouth curling into a mocking smile.

  Holly’s companion regarded the woman coolly from her saddle, and raised her eyebrows like an empress, until the blonde lady was forced to look away.

  The hostility was such a strange thing to receive from a perfect stranger that Holly found herself taken aback as the carriage passed them by on the way to the park.

  “Lady Louisa, who was that? And why did she give me such a viperish look?” Holly asked at last.

  Lady Louisa looked away from the departing carriage with a sniff.

  “Don’t pay her any mind, my dear. That was Lady Charlotte Holland.”

  “The scandalous widow? The one the journals linked to Strathavon…” Holly broke off in a whisper, feeling the prickling of tears in her eyes. “The courtesan?”

  “Hardly that. She has neither the education nor the good taste to be a demi-mondaine of any importance. She only fancies herself a very high-flying sort of woman. She does not like it when other ladies appear to upstage her, as I expect you have been doing for some time, though you might not have known it. But I would not give her a second of your attention. Truly, the pernicious creature is little more than a shallow cove.”

  Holly was surprised at this assessment. Lady Charlotte did not look like any widow Holly had ever seen at Millforte, but likely it was different if one happened to be a London society widow on the look-out for a new husband. Holly looked after the woman’s carriage, though she had long gone.

  “Am I to cut her, then?” The cut direct seemed the best way to scorn her in public.

  Holly’s horse, Lancelot, shifted restlessly under her, sensing his rider’s discontent. Holly patted him distractedly on the neck to calm him.

  Lady Louisa laughed. “By no means. To cut is a very final thing, and often embarrassing for all parties involved, as well you know. You must not use it unless absolutely necessary: but should you do so, be sure to level it with unmistakable intent. A duchess, after all, is a leader of society. Lady Charlotte, whatever she may imagine for herself, is not.”

  “But if she has Strathavon, that is much better than being a leader of society.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. And you do not know that any such thing is true – mere speculation. You shouldn’t believe everything you see written in the journals – not even most of what you see written, in fact. Chin up, my dear.”

  It hadn’t ever occurred to Holly to question the journals. Mere speculation…

  She pushed these thoughts away: there would be time to consider Lady Louisa’s warning later. She had to focus on Sir John – there wasn’t a minute to be spared for moping over Strathavon or wondering about Lady Charlotte Holland. Not when the poor baronet was so shockingly inept.

  When at last Verity emerged from the house, looking sleepy and dressed in a calico riding habit, Holly had already decided that there were two ways to deal with the problem at hand.

  The first would be to make of Sir John the perfect Sir Galahad of Verity’s imaginings – but this method would fail to sustain itself beyond a month into their acquaintance.

  The second was to show her the supremacy of a sensible, and more approachable man who, unlike Sir Galahad, had all the advantages of being real.

  Verity gave Holly an uncertain look as they were introduced. She appeared puzzled that Holly was perfectly comfortable in the presence of Verity’s notorious aunt, but she came to be more at ease as they promenaded down Rotten Row.

  Miss Dacre much admired the drape of Holly’s skirt, which was everything it ought to have been, executed in a heavy plum twill, and she felt much more herself discussing fashion plates.

  Holly’s fine bay Arab stallion, impeccable riding dress and her lovely seat on the horse drew scores of admirers to issue some kind of greeting, and some were even moved enough to stop and talk a while.

  It was while they were in the midst of discussing the best fabrics for carriage dresses for the Autumn Season that Sir John met them along the Row. Delighted at the coincidence, Holly wished that she had thought to invite him along herself.

  The baronet was tastefully dressed and very much occupied with exercising his gelding, though he had looked remarkably dumbfounded as he recognised the ladies heading his way.

  His manner when he was finally close enough to greet Holly, Lady Louisa and Verity, was politely charming and very pleasant indeed.

  Not wasting a moment, Holly proceeded to present him properly to Verity Dacre.

  “I understand that you have met, but I expect there was little opportunity to talk at Lady Castlereagh’s. I warrant you will get on most famously,” she declared, very pleased with herself.

  If Holly had not been carefully watching Sir John’s expression, she would never have caught the extra second that his eyes lingered on Miss Dacre, bright with undeniable admiration.

  “We were just debating the Autumn Season, Sir John,” the duchess said. “Would you oblige us as our referee?”

  “Your servant as always, Lady Strathavon. But I am afraid I might be biased. I find that it is a very dreary time of year,” Sir John sighed, looking wistfully at Miss Dacre a moment.

  “I do not think the autumn is at all dreary,” Holly said. “I never have – for it is very beautiful and the air is so deliciously crisp. I have always felt as though alm
ost anything is possible in the autumn. There is an astonishing freedom in it, and an ocean of possibility. That is worth a little rain, as I see it.”

  Sir John looked at her with an uncertain smile. “You are a most curious creature, Lady Strathavon. Do you not care that your feet will get wet if it is always raining?”

  “Not enough to let it deter me from going out into the world.”

  “How unusual. Is it the influence of your father that draws you so much to the outdoors?”

  “My father!” Holly echoed, surprised.

  “By gad, yes! Are you not the daughter of Sir Jeffrey Millforte, the famous botanist and zoologist? I have all his works in my library – especially those pertaining to the native birds of the Cotswolds. A great man. A genius.”

  “Have you an interest in birds, Sir John?” asked Verity.

  Sir John flushed under her scrutiny. “Indeed I have, Miss Dacre. Ornithology and botany have ever been of a great interest to me,” he said, colouring further.

  “I like birds very much too. I have a parrot at home – a yellow one.”

  “How marvellous. Does it speak?”

  “I’m afraid not. Mama thinks it wouldn’t be seemly if it did – birds oughtn’t, she says – who knows what it might utter in polite company.”

  “A valid concern – I happen to know a little about parrots myself. But not as much as Millforte, of course.”

  “Sir John is being needlessly modest, Miss Dacre – he is a notable scholar in his own right. A gentleman of great intellect, I’ve been told,” Holly said daringly.

  “Oh, no, Lady Strathavon, I beg you,” the gentleman mumbled.

  “Are you? I must look up your works, then,” Verity said with interest. “Maybe you will advise me sometime on the parrot? Bertie, I call him. Though my brother named him Albertus – but then my brother has always been a stick in the mud.”

  Sir John looked mildly disbelieving. “I am at your service, whatever assistance you may require,” he managed – just catching Holly’s satisfied smirk.

  She made it all look so very easy, the baronet thought, feeling as though his head were spinning.