The Dastardly Duke (19 page)

Chapter
Seventeen

“
I am glad you came to me, Hannah. You are a physician’s dream.”

When Jean-Marc Itard smiled, his protruding chin and long, hooklike nose almost met over his thin lips. Twin warts under his lower lip stood out like little rubber balls. The hollows under his prominent cheekbones gave him a saturnine air that did not go with the bristly mop of hair curling wildly at the top of his high forehead.

Hannah suppressed a shiver. Though she was determined not to be affected by Dr. Itard’s formidable appearance, she felt uneasy every time she met his penetrating gaze.

She forced herself to remember that many people viewed this man as a god for his work with a deaf-mute savage from the woods of southern France. The fact that Itard never managed to bring the wild boy up to the standards by which society accorded a human being civilized had not eroded his reputation as one of the physicians most knowledgeable about the deaf. In his present association with a famed French school for the deaf, he was said to work miracles.

A miracle was what she was hoping for.

“Do you think you can help me?” she asked, hoping her voice did not sound pleading.

He regarded her with a vaguely predatory look and stroked his chin. “It would be fun to try. The fact that you were not
born
deaf is reason to hope for the best.”

“But Mr. Goya was not
born
deaf, nor Mr. Beethoven,” Hannah pointed out, “and neither of them has regained their hearing.”

“Neither of them is my patient.” He smiled with a confidence
born
of years of fame. “We have had successes at the school, Hannah. The electrical prod was no good, nor the leeches. But one student responded to eardrum piercing, and I am working on a new method that requires inserting a probe into the eustachian tube.”

Some of his words were unfamiliar, but Hannah understood enough to
gain
a picture of the discomfort involved. She swallowed hard. “Are there less invasive methods?”

“I do have a concoction of ginger, horseradish, glasswort, and rose of Provence that, when put into the ears in the form of drops, is thought to have some effect. But it does not produce consistent results, and in any case is not a cure. I have also used a purgative that blisters the skin of the ear. There is an old Chinese remedy that involves heating a cylinder filled with dried leaves of mugwort and burning the skin with it from the back of the neck to the chin. I have even tried fracturing the skull of a few pupils, to rather interesting
effect...”

“Dear Lord,” Hannah murmured. “Are these measures successful?”

Dr. Itard tilted his head. “To be quite frank, medicine has offered very little benefit to the deaf-mute—though one day I may hit upon a cure.” He bent closer, and it seemed to Hannah that his eyes fairly glowed. “But you are not a deaf-mute, my dear. You speak wonderfully. You read lips perfectly. If I did not know it, I would never guess that you are deaf. You are very lucky.”

“
Lucky
?”
Hannah eyed him incredulously. “I do not feel lucky. That is why I have come to you.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I have known the song of the lark and the beauty of a symphony, Dr. Itard. I have heard the magic of voices united in song. I have heard how one man’s voice is different from the next, how a child’s laughter can delight the heavens. I cannot bear to do without these joys for the rest of my life.”

Dr. Itard’s large hand clamped down on her shoulder, and she was forced to look at him once more. “Do not despair, my dear.” She wondered whether his tone was kind or patronizing and suspected it was the latter. “The accident that robbed you of
hearin
g may have caused an injury that can be reversed. I have many methods at my disposal. What did not work on those who have been deaf and mute for a lifetime may very well work on a young woman who simply fell out of a tree.”

He seated himself at a writing table and began to take notes.
“
Now. You will tell me about this occasional ringing in your ears.”

Hannah lost track of time as she submitted to his questions and then to his examination of her ears. When it was time to leave, she felt much better. After all, she was in the hands of one of the world’s most famous physicians. The Duchess of Wellington and the Duke of Orleans, as well as members of both houses of Parliament, had flocked to his lectures at the Argyle Room, with the result that the demonstrations had been extended by several weeks. If anyone could help her, surely it would be Dr. Itard.

Still, she was not certain.

“I can see by your face that you still have doubts, my dear,” he said as he escorted her to the door. “Perhaps you will attend one of my little demonstrations and see the results of my work firsthand. Here are some tickets. I look forward to seeing you.”

Hannah left his office in a hopeful state of mind. Dr. Itard’s treatments might be painful, but she was accustomed to hardship. A little pain in exchange for the return of her hearing was worth the price. Perhaps she could get Lucy to accompany her to the lectures. It would be nice to have a friend there.

The buoyant mood carried her into the evening and Lady Melbourne’s ball, one of the premier events of the season. For the first time in a long while Hannah saw the future as ripe with promise, for in a few weeks the season would be over and she could collect the money to pay Dr. Itard.

To be sure, she had made a mess of things with the duke, but that would soon be in the past. The fact that she had lied to Lucy and to Lady Huffington would always distress her, but was not a troubled conscience a price worth paying to regain her hearing?

The answer to that question eluded her. Studying the faces of Lucy and Lady Huffington, who stood next to her waiting for the
duke
to bring them all punch, Hannah wondered whether she might have outstanding obligations too steep to walk away from.

Lucy, for example, looked miserable. Hannah knew her high color stemmed from the fact that Charles was nowhere in evidence tonight. Lady Huffington appeared preoccupied, almost troubled, and Hannah’s heart went out to her, for in these few weeks their shared love of music had brought them closer. A lonely, sensitive woman lay behind the countess’ formidable facade, and Hannah yearned to know her better.

As for the duke, a perpetual scowl had been glued to his face tonight. Except for offering to fetch the punch, he had studiously avoided her since accompanying them through Lady Melbourne’s receiving line. Hannah thought about his offer to
mak
e
her his mistress. It had been arrogantly delivered, but she sensed that in his own strange way he was perhaps a little fond of her.

For a few moments at Lady Greeley’s, he had had only her interests in mind. He had supported her after that debacle and taken care of her. More than raw lust had held her in his thrall in the carriage that night. She had felt treasured, even cherished as he wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. Under that gruff, contemptuous exterior, the Duke of Claridge was capable of heart-stopping affection. She wondered whether he realized it.

Her mind had barely completed that thought when a group of four frantically waving people hailed her from several yards away. She recognized them instantly as they approached, and her heart sank. The man and woman were speaking rapidly, and she missed many words. But the phrases she picked up as her met first one and then another set of beaming eyes made her heart sink.

“Hannah,
dear
!”

“...
child, how wonderful to see you again!”

“...
splendid you look! When we heard about the newest Original
...
deaf young lady ... see for
ourselves ... our
own, dear Hannah ... gratified that our dearest hopes were realized!”

The Earl of Rottenham, Lady Rottenham, and their two daughters, Elspeth and Gri
s
elda, stood before her with broad smiles pasted on their faces.

“Uncle Gerald
...
Aunt Madeline.” Thunderstruck, Hannah stared at her father’s brother and his family. She had not seen them since her aunt turned her out in a rage three years ago, vowing that her daughters’ chances on the Marriage Mart would not be jeopardized by a deaf relative. Evidently, neither Elspeth nor Gri
s
elda had yet found husbands, for they had no escorts and were dressed like the other debutantes, in pale pastels that did not suit them.

Lucy frowned, obviously trying to figure out where on Charles’s family tree these relatives belonged. Lady Huffington held up her lorgnette and subjected the newcomers to prolonged scrutiny. Neither moved immediately to greet the earl and his family.

Unfazed, Lord Rottenham executed a courtly bow. Lady Rottenham curtsied, with a sharp look at her daughters to follow suit.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Lady Huffington,” the earl said, smiling broadly. “I am Lord Rottenham, Hannah’s uncle. Her father was my younger brother. We have not set eyes on our dear niece for nearly three years.” He eyed her fondly.

Hannah felt positively ill, but she could do naught but curtsy in return. Lucy, meanwhile, looked even more confused. She turned to Hannah with a questioning look.

“I thought your father was Charles’ uncle.”

“Now that would be me, young lady,” interjected a man whose sudden appearance at Lucy’s elbow instantly caught Hannah’s attention. “And as far as I know, I have sired no offspring.”

Charles, who stood at the stranger’s side, smiled pleasantly. “Lady Huffington, Lady Lucille, Miss Gregory, allow me to present my uncle, Erasmus Tremaine.”

“Your father’s brother?” Lucy frowned.

“The same,” Charles replied.

Lucy stared.
“But ...
I thought he was deceased.”

“Certainly not!” Uncle Erasmus barked indignantly.

“
My
brother is deceased,” Lord Rottenham replied indignantly, scowling at Erasmus Tremaine.

“
Your
brother...” Lucy repeated, baffled.

“Hannah’s father,” the earl confirmed. “
I
am her uncle—her
only
uncle.”

“Her uncle.” Lucy looked positively dazed.

“And very proud of it, I might add,” the earl finished.

“Oh, yes,” added Aunt Madeline. “When Hannah left us, we despaired of ever seeing her again, but we are so glad to find her making her debut with such a distinguished family ... even if it is not our own.”

Lady Huffington squinted through her lorgnette at one speaker, then another and another. “This is all very confusing,” she observed with a censorious frown.

For a moment, everyone simply looked at each other. At last, Lucy spoke up. “I think we must ask Julian to help us. He is very good at straightening things out.”

Charles rubbed his jaw and winced. “By all means, let us ask Julian,” he said blandly.

“Do you refer to the duke?” asked Lord Rottenham, beaming. “Always wanted to meet him. Never ran in the same circles, of course, as he was reputed to be a bit of a rapscallion—”

“Hush!” His wife rapped his knuckles with her fan as her two daughters began to giggle.

Hannah took a deep breath, knowing that the hour of her greatest humiliation was upon her and that it was best to get it over with.

“As the duke is not here at present,” she began, with a sense of deep resignation, “I believe I can explain—”

A hand touched her arm.

“But I
am
here, Miss Gregory.” The duke’s eyes held hers, and there was an intensity in those midnight depths that made her heart race. There was also a shard of regret.

When his gaze turned to the rest of the group, however, it was cool and impassive. “Explanations are perhaps in order, but now is not the time,” he said, his air of command defying anyone to disagree. “Meanwhile, the dancing has resumed. Miss Gregory has promised me this set, so if you will excuse
us...”

Thrusting punch cups into his sister and aunt’s hands, and fairly tossing Hannah’s to Lady Rottenham, he bowed deeply. With perfect aplomb, he led Hannah onto the dance floor, away from eight pairs of questioning eyes.

“The fat’s in the fire, you know.” Julian said, watching Hannah’s face carefully as he pulled her into the figures of the waltz.

“For once, I agree with you,” she replied, grimly following his lead.

“We will have to give them some explanation. What do you suggest?”

She regarded him curiously. “Why not simply the truth?”

“The truth?” Julian echoed, frowning. What Hannah took for truth—that he had hired her to watch over Lucy—was but another lie. And yet, he did not know if he could bring himself to tell her about
the
wager.

“Everyone will be scandalized to learn about my time at the Lock Hospital, I suppose,” she added.

Julian cleared his throat. “Perhaps they need not be told.” He wondered at the oddly protec
ti
ve feeling that filled him at the thought of her becoming the object of such revulsion.

With a mulish tilt of her chin, she met his gaze. “I do not shrink from my background. At least in the hospital and in Covent Garden, I was accepted. It was better than living with my aunt and uncle.”