The Art of Duke Hunting (17 page)

“It’s only because my brother forbids me to speak of it to anyone. He has never asked that of me and what happened is so awful—even worse in some ways than the events on that ship you spoke of—that I cannot speak of it. While I always tell you everything, this I cannot.”

A long silence erupted. Esme tried not to feel hurt. She had, after all, spilled everything to her dearest cousin.

Verity finally spoke. She lifted her eyebrow. “But I suppose I can give you a few
hints
. James did not precisely say I could not hint to my best friend in the world.” Verity smiled. “It occurred that awful night before my brother was to be wed in Town. This is really all his fault, although he will never admit it. That night of infamy led you to your predicament and it has led to mine. And the whole of England knows my brother and the rest of the dukes of the royal entourage behave abominably. They deserve every inch of the punishment Prinny metes out.”

Esme said not a word. She could see Verity’s mind working on a way to reveal more. Her cousin did not disappoint.

Verity picked up a dead leaf that had fallen from the gnarled knuckles of the plain trees above, whose branches had grown and knotted together through the decades. She feathered her other hand with the curled, dried brown leaf. “While I cannot tell you who, I can tell you that one of the members of the royal entourage was indeed secretly wed that awful night.”

“Dear Lord,” Esme murmured.

“And I arranged it.” Verity appeared a tad pleased with herself. “There is really only one problem.”

“Yes?”

A look of consternation and worry appeared in Verity’s brown eyes. “He doesn’t know.”

“Who doesn’t know!?”

“I told you I cannot reveal names,” Verity said crossly.

“Will you at least tell me if it is Norwich?”

“How absurd,” Verity said. “Of course it isn’t Norwich. I would have told you if it was!”

Esme breathed a sigh of relief. “Is it Abshire?”

“No, of course it is not Abshire!”

“Kress?” Esme knew it had to be Kress. He was the one who had been sent to Cornwall in disgrace.

“I refuse to answer!”

“Hmmmm,” Esme murmured. “Or is it Sussex? No, don’t answer. I see I’ve tested the limits of your patience and I can’t have you angry with me. I need your friendship now more than ever before.”

“Thank you, Esme.” Her cousin looked away. “By the by, have you heard that Abshire has been in the neighborhood of late?”

Esme smiled inwardly. Everyone knew the Duke of Abshire, who lived in the adjacent parish, and the Duke of Candover, Verity’s brother, absolutely despised each other. No one knew why. It was a topic that was off-limits by both families but much discussed behind their backs—by everyone except Esme. She loved her cousins too much, and respected Abshire’s family too. And everyone knew Abshire was an exceedingly jaded rake, but he was witty in an odd sort of way, and the few times Esme had been in his company, he had always noticed her and had had one or two kind or humorous words to say in her direction—such as on her wedding day. She had never felt like a wallflower when she was about this grand duke.

Esme looked at her cousin. “He was in London.”

“Not for very long,” Verity said, not quite meeting her eyes. “He was in Town with the rest of the royal entourage the evening before James left his bride cooling her heels at the altar.”

Esme smiled at Verity. “Is it not odd how sometimes one’s fondest wishes come true during the worst of circumstances?”

Verity burst out laughing. “You said it very politely.”

“Well, have you and your sisters been quietly celebrating?”

“Of course. I cannot tell you how relieved we were when the grand event became the grand finale of five years of—of . . .”

“Oh, go ahead and say it.”

“Of hell,” Verity whispered.

Esme pulled the decimated leaf from her cousin’s hand. All that remained was the skeletal main veins of the leaf. “She was not a nice person, Verity. Everyone knew it. I am so glad she will not be your sister, even if I am sorry she was forced to endure such embarrassment.”

“I know. No one deserves to suffer as she did,” Verity returned.

“Well, I am not so kind as you. The day she had the audacity to hint that she would send you and all your sisters packing after she married your brother, I wanted to find your brother’s dueling pistols too.”

“Well, there are a lot of us.” Verity giggled. “It was the part about suggesting we would all do very well in a religious order that stunned the imagination. Just because we are all of us uniformly ugly does not mean we are pious.”

Esme bit her lips to keep from grinning. “We are not going to have this conversation again, are we? Where we compare our physical attributes and the merits of our great characters? You know I always win this debate.”

Verity picked up another tree leaf and began to pick it apart. Her dark brown eyes and hair appeared black in the moonlight.

Esme took the leaf from her favorite cousin and forced her back to the right track. “You mentioned Abshire was in London the night before James was to wed too.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Verity inhaled long and slow. “Something happened. But it was nothing. I promise you. It was just the stupidest, most abominable mistake and misunderstanding. Nothing happened at all. And James knows that. He believes me. But it concerns Abshire and you know how much they detest each other. And once James takes a decision, no matter how idiotic, he is as immovable as a tomb. Abshire refuses to consider my idea. Actually, no one cares what I have to say about the matter.” Verity stopped after such a long explanation. “Promise me you will not ask me to clarify anything. The only other thing I can add is that I have refused to obey James’s order.”

“I won’t ask what Abshire’s role is in all this. And even though I sense he is a gentleman under all his ridiculous layers of worldly reserve, I know enough to know he would not like to accede to anything James would ask of him even if it was to his benefit. But is there any other path that you’ve considered that will release you from your brother’s order?” Esme stared at her friend’s profile in the darkness.

“I will stay here until I am old and gray before I take a decision that will so wholly disappoint me.”

Esme asked her dear friend gently, “Do you love him?” There was no need to say Abshire’s name.

“Of course not.” Verity said too quickly. “And what has love to do with anything? Are you in love with Norwich? No, don’t answer. I know you are not. We are talking about honor and reputation—which is what makes this so ridiculous since there is not a single hint of damage to my saintly reputation.” She paused. “And I have another thing weighing heavily on my mind.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m so ridiculous.” She paused on the gravel path between the climbing roses. “I should not have said a word.”

“Of course you should have. Am I not your confidante? Did you not help me when I was at my bleakest?” Esme reminded her.

“You look even worse now.”

Esme gave her a look. “And that is why we get on so well. You never censure your thoughts.”

“Well, to be honest, I was just trying to change the topic. It’s the reverse, in truth. You appear far lovelier than I’ve ever seen you. Are you willing to share the talents of that lady’s maid the Prince Regent sent here to tend you?”

“Jacqueline Cooper?”

“Do you think you could spare her tomorrow to help me look half as pretty as you do right now?”

“And what is so important about tomorrow?”

Verity looked away. “Abshire is to visit.”

“Now that is interesting. Did not James say he would shoot him if he ever dared to set foot on Candover property again? Although, obviously an exception must be made for some reason you will not say. Still, does James know Abshire is paying a call? And did I tell you, James was my witness during the secret wedding?”

Verity smiled. “It’s your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Esme bit her bottom lip. “What have my eyes to do with Abshire or my ridiculous, hushed-up marriage?”

“They are more beautiful than ever, but they are haunted. No, it is your eyes that ruin the effect Madame Cooper created. What has happened, Esme? Is the marriage that difficult? He seems very kind.”

“No. It is everything right,” she contradicted. “He values independence and freedom and he’s vowed to allow me both. He says he wants me to do what I love, to travel and paint. We are not to be in each other’s pockets. It is to be a dream of a marriage. It will be so perfect and easy that we will not even have to lay eyes on each other except perhaps on Easter Day and perhaps Michaelmas, when we will attend church together to keep the tongues from wagging. The rest of the time he will be in London, and I,” she paused, “anywhere except London.”

Verity’s velvet brown eyes were huge in her face. “He said that? In those very words?” she breathed.

Esme nodded. “Except the part about Easter Day and Michaelmas.”

“Why it sounds perfect!” Verity chuckled. “You are the most independent creature, are you not? And you will be able to paint to your heart’s content. No one will bother you. I wish I were you. I would like nothing better than to never again be under a brother or a future husband’s thumb.”

Esme looked away. “I know,” she said slowly. “I am happy.”

Verity grabbed her friend’s chin between two fingers and drew her face back toward her. “Now, you listen to me, Esme Mannon Morgan March Montagu . . . My, you have a lot of M’s in your name. Listen to—”

“Yes?”

“Your problems are very simple compared to mine.”

“I know. They always are.”

“Stop agreeing with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You just told me to stop agreeing with you so I did. Make up your mind.”

“Oh, Esme. I’ve missed you. Can you not steal me away when you depart? I am certain I will find a solution to my awful predicament if you allow me to hide in your trunks along with my abigail.”

“Your abigail? And how is the fair Amelia?”

“As beautiful as always. And just as outspoken. But then that is why I adore her, as you know.”

“Won’t Amelia be hurt if you ask Madame Cooper to attend to you and even do your hair?”

“I don’t care about my hair. There is very little one can do with hair as straight as a stick. But . . . what did she do to your eyes? They are very different.”

Esme harrumphed. “ ’Tis not my eyes. She plucked half my brows. Can you not tell?”

“Well, now I can since you mention it. Your eyes look farther apart, and larger. They are the most important part of your face now. I should attempt to take a likeness of you. I’d like nothing better than one of your canvases right at this moment.”

Esme looked at her and they both dissolved into a gale of giggles.

Verity mopped her face. “Oh, all right. I won’t. I do owe you far too many canvases than I can afford now that my brother has cut my quarterly pin money to a third of the usual.”

Esme took both her cousin’s hands in her own and really looked at her. “Will you not tell me what Abshire did or said to you? Why is he coming to call?” She desperately hoped it would lead to her cousin’s happiness.

Verity stared at her. For a very long time—until Esme squirmed.

“Oh, all right, cousin. Don’t tell me. But it is highly unfair. I tell you everything and you are like a tomb.”

“Actually it appears as if this moment is long overdue. Usually—no—
always
, the reverse has been the case. Perhaps now you will see how unpleasant the sensation is.” Verity examined her fingernails. “By the by, will you please come to Boxwood tomorrow for dinner? For propriety, I will not see Abshire without others present,” Verity said very properly.

Esme sighed. “I suppose the invitation includes Norwich as well as my mother and William?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace,” Verity smiled in the moonlight. “You have no idea how much I adore addressing you as such. And by the by, have you told Norwich about your bewitching ancestor?”

Esme sighed. Why had she thought her cousin could be counted on not to remind her of the one thing she wished she could ignore?

Chapter 11

R
oman Montagu would never understand females. Oh, he tried with the best of men, but failed right alongside the hordes of comrades left dazed and confused.

After their long afternoon at the mill, her comforting, silent presence, and his attempt to ease the tension between them after the disastrous moments in her bedchamber, he had thought they might find their ease with each other.

Yes. He had.

Instead, he, like all the many fools before him, was pacing the floor of his chamber, trying to decipher the best course of action to please a mysterious female.

Should he or should he not go to her bedchamber? Would she welcome him? Or would she throw a slipper at his head? Would she be insulted if he did not go? Or would it be more insulting if he went to her?

Lord, he needed a glass of brandy. It was the best idea he’d had the last hour. Enrobed in his dressing gown, he descended the front stair, as quiet as you please.

Roman opened the door to the room he presumed was the absent earl’s study, and found four heavy crystal decanters as empty as his brain, concerning ideas for how to please a woman. And damn it all, she was his wife! This should be easy, should it not?

He refused to search for spirits in another chamber. It was downright lowering. She had very likely emptied the manor of all spirits the day her husband had died.

Roman marched out the door, and headed off to bed sans brandy. At least he had taken his decision. Tonight was not the correct moment to seek out Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich.

Said duchess, seated in the half-curtained window seat in the far corner of the study, silently watched Roman Montagu as he examined the empty decanters, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She wanted to laugh because she suddenly remembered the intricate etching of geese or ducks in tall grasses that decorated the decanters. Had he noticed?