The Devil In Disguise (23 page)

“It’s a pleasure to meet a close family friend of the Greys,” Will replied with a polite, ducal nod.

Lord Rowton returned the pleasantry with a perfunctory bow. “If you will excuse me, I must tell my staff we’ll be one more for dinner.” He gave the group a vague smile, ventured one last, lonely glance at Lucinda, and took his leave.

“Well, I suppose that leaves you, Miss Winstead,” Will said.

The young woman’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

Will gave her a devastating smile. “Forgive me. It’s most improper to speak before being introduced, but I simply could not wait any longer.”

Lucinda took pity on the blushing girl. “Miss Winstead, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

Will bowed over her hand.

“Your grace …” Miss Winstead began as she rose from her bench, her voice trailing off into confused silence when Will refused to release her hand.

“I am a most devoted student of all things musical. And you,” he said, gesturing for her to be seated once again, “are a truly talented musician. Please, gift us with another piece. Do not deny the world your talent.”

Miss Winstead giggled and succumbed with blushes and an agreeing nod. She retrieved her hand from Will and thumbed through the sheet music, uttering an “Aha” when she found just the one.

Will left her, returning to stand between Charlotte and Lucinda. The three clapped softly as Miss Winstead readied herself.

“Just what are you playing at?” Lucinda asked Will from behind her fan.

Miss Winstead boldly began a piece by Handel, her pleasure at being singled out by a duke evident in the particular enthusiasm with which she played.

“Your Miss Winstead is a more accomplished player than most young women of her acquaintance,” Will murmured. “If Rowton is ever to take notice of the chit, she’ll need to make use of any assets at her disposal. I’m simply helping her along.”

“How sweet—and quite clever of you, to boot,” Aunt Charlotte commented. “If I did not know better, I’d say you’re a bit of a romantic, Your Grace.”

“You overestimate my capacity for kindness, Lady Charlotte.”

A servant entered the room, tapping a small metal gong with a padded mallet. “Dinner is served.”

“I think not, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “My estimation of my fellow man, or woman, is rarely wrong.” With that, she tucked her arm into the crook of Will’s and allowed him to lead her away.

Will escorted Lady Charlotte to her seat, then looked about for his own, the many-armed epergne placed strategically in the middle of the table making it a rather more difficult task than it should have been.

“I do apologize, Your Grace,” Lord Rowton began from his place at the head of the table, “but the servants were hard-pressed to rearrange the placement on such short notice.”

Will walked to where Rowton sat, nodding in understanding. “Of course, Lord Rowton, think nothing of it.” He continued on, pausing to stand over Lucinda.

He leaned in slightly so that Rowton would not overhear. “Now, where do you think I might find my seat?”

Lucinda’s expression, only just a moment before one of happiness, turned serious as she gestured for Will to move closer. “About that,” she began. “You’re seated next to Lady Shipley, at the end of the table.”

Will schooled his features to match Lucinda’s. “Is this information meant to inspire fear in my heart?”

“Well … That is to say …”

“Lucinda,” Will urged gently.

“Do be kind to her, please,” she asked solemnly.

Will raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. “You wound me, Lady Lucinda. Truly,” he replied.

“Oh, and do remember to speak directly into the trumpet. And the louder, the better,” she whispered urgently.

Will looked at her quizzically, but thought it best to end their conversation before any more mysterious oddities were introduced.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must join my fellow dining companions in what I can only assume is the northern wing, if I am to judge by distance.”

Lucinda laughed, then mouthed “Thank you” as Will left her side and walked to his seat.

Lady Shipley enthusiastically swung the brass trumpet about and raised it to her ear in anticipation of a conversation.

“Lady Shipley, how delightful to find myself sitting next to you,” Will offered, smiling at the woman as if she were the only person in the room.

Confusion crossed the older woman’s face. “You must speak into the trumpet,” she yelled, pointing at the apparatus as if Will might confuse it with another ear trumpet in the room.

“Bloody hell.”
This is going to be far more difficult than I’d anticipated
.

“What was that?” Lady Shipley yelled again.

“I could not agree more,” a raspy voice offered from the seat at the very end of the table.

Will turned to take in the man. Slight of build with wispy tufts of white hair and a nose that was far too large for his face, the elderly man stared back at Will with a look of boredom.

“Shipley,” the man said, then gestured toward his wife. “And you’ve met Lady Shipley.”

“Alistair, you know it vexes me so when you leave me out of the conversation.”

“Precisely,” the baron answered, though his wife could not hear.

Will arched an eyebrow in response. “I am Clairemont.”

“Ah, the man who has stolen Lady Lucinda away, then.”

“I don’t know that I would put our courtship in such terms—”

“No need to be polite on my behalf. Rowton had every opportunity to land the woman. Tactically, his campaign was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Gentlemen,” Lady Shipley pleaded, her voice quivering with curiosity. “Do tell me what you’re speaking about.”

The baron rolled his eyes then leaned forward toward the trumpet. “This is Clairemont, the ‘devil of a duke,’ if I recall your words, who’s attempting to steal Lucinda away,” he yelled, the polite conversations at their end of the table coming to a sudden halt, all eyes turning toward the baron.

Will could feel Lady Shipley shiver next to him, her ample bosom shaking the table as she threatened to expire on the spot.

“Your Grace,” she said in a shrill whisper. Rowton’s wolfhound let out a pained whine from the corner of the room.

Will turned to the woman, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Lady Shipley, I have been called far worse, and, I might add, by far less charming individuals. And in truth, I am courting Lady Lucinda, though,” he paused, looking down the length of the table with a possessive gaze to where Lucinda sat, “it remains to be seen whether or not the lady’s heart will be won.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows shot shockingly close to the crown of her head while every other woman in the room sighed with sentimental enthusiasm. The men simply took the opportunity to begin eating.

“Ah, the soup,” the baron said, a servant having appeared silently at his elbow with a silver tureen. Another servant carefully ladled a portion of the white soup into his bowl, then moved to fill Lady Shipley’s.

Will waited patiently while his own bowl was seen to, then brought a spoonful of the fragrant soup to his lips, the scent of chicken broth and a hint of peppercorn filling his nostrils. “Tell me, Lady Shipley,” he began, shouting into her trumpet. “Have you always resided in Oxfordshire?”

“Glutton for punishment,” the baron said under his breath, then quietly slurped up a spoonful of soup.

Will acknowledged the man’s comment with a perfunctory glance then turned his attention back to Lady Shipley.

“
That
is a fascinating story, Your Grace,” she replied, her eyes bright with excitement.

The courses flew by in a blur of savory and sweet until the end of the meal was at hand. Will popped a walnut into his mouth and smiled at Lady Shipley.

He would have been hard-pressed to repeat most of what she’d shared, the pace at which she narrated simply too swift to follow. But one thing he knew without a doubt: He’d enjoyed himself, because
she
had.

Good God, what is becoming of me?

The women began to stir, Rowton’s great-aunt being the first to rise from her chair and the others following suit.

“I do hope Miss Winstead will honor us with a song,” Lady Shipley announced, nodding to her husband and standing.

Will rose and gave Lady Shipley a charming smile. “It was truly a pleasure, Lady Shipley.”

“Oh, Your Grace, I dominated the entire conversation,” she replied, color heating her cheeks.

Will could not argue. But more troubling, he didn’t want to.

“When I remember Oxfordshire, it will be with great fondness. Do you know why?” he asked, speaking into the trumpet.

“The white soup?” she replied, clearly pleased with her cleverness.

“No, not the soup. You, Lady Shipley.”

He bowed politely to the baroness, noticing as he rose that Lucinda was watching him. The smile on her face indicated she’d been doing so for some time.

He returned her smile, though the emotions playing across her face jangled his nerves.

Was he unsettled because he’d so thoroughly enjoyed an evening spent in the company of a woman such as Lady Shipley? Or unsettled because Lucinda had so thoroughly enjoyed his enjoyment?

Or maybe—

Ah, hell. The night was too fine to pick apart one’s feelings.

“Come, Your Grace, do sit down,” Shipley instructed. The port will appear any moment. Rowton’s port is the best in the county—and the reason I allow myself to be dragged to these dinners at all.”

Port is just the thing
, Will thought to himself, then obeyed Shipley’s command and reclaimed his chair.

“Our country air appears to have failed you,” Lady Charlotte said, approaching the bench where Will sat in the morning sun.

The gravel path ran throughout the large kitchen garden just off the north end of the Bampton Manor. He’d chosen this particular place to sit because he was sure no one would find him there.

He shaded his eyes with his hand in an attempt to block out the bright sunlight. “And how is that, Lady Charlotte?”

She joined him on the stone bench. “The country is known for its restorative qualities. And you, Your Grace, look anything but restored.” She settled herself on the bench, neatly smoothing out the fabric of her bishop’s blue morning dress before folding her hands in her lap. “Did you attempt to rest in a tree?”

“I must say, Lady Charlotte,” Will propped his elbows on his knees and grinned at her with honest amusement, “you are the most surprising of all the Furies.”

“How dare you say such a thing!” she exclaimed, pretending irritation. Unfortunately, the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

“How dare I what? Make reference to society’s affectionate name for the three of you?”

“No, not that,” Lady Charlotte answered. “I no longer take notice of such silliness after all of these many years. No, I speak of your inference that I am the least colorful of the group.”

Will ran his hands over his face, beard stubble rough against his palms. “With all due respect, Lady Charlotte, is that not a good thing?”

Lady Charlotte paused to consider, frowning at the rows of green herbs that neatly unfolded before them. “Mmmm, you may have a point, Your Grace.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a short while, entertained by a honeybee that buzzed busily around a tuft of daffodils.

Will would have preferred not to have to speak, but he liked Lady Charlotte too well to be rude.

“Will Lady Lucinda be joining us?” he asked, looking at the manor.

The bee completed his business and flew off, his route cutting between the two humans.

“No, not this morning,” Lady Charlotte said, flinching slightly when the bee came close to her shoulder. “Lady Thornton, a dear friend of Lucinda’s from childhood, invited her to call.”

Will already knew Lucinda’s whereabouts; the report of her invitation from Lady Thornton had been relayed by Weston during their morning ride. Still, Will kept up the charade, pretending not to know Lucinda’s plans rather than risk the elderly woman’s suspicions.

Lady Charlotte squinted at Will, her assessing gaze traveling over his face. “You look exactly like your father, you know.”

The muscles in Will’s jaw contracted, his teeth clenching of their own accord. “So I’ve been told,” he responded, his voice flat, unengaged.

“I meant that as a compliment,” Lady Charlotte said quietly, returning her gaze to the rows of green shoots before her. “He was the most handsome man I had ever seen,” she continued, her countenance softening. “Every single woman that season wanted him as a husband.”

“Even you?” Will asked, surprise punctuating his question.

“Even me,” she said. “But it was not to be. He had designs on your mother from the very beginning. No other woman compared.”

Will laughed, a short, hard sound. “No, I’m sure they didn’t. It is difficult to imagine any other woman being quite so perfect a victim for the Duke of Clairemont.”

Lady Charlotte’s gaze turned abruptly to Will, her eyes flashing with anger. “You’ll do well to remember we speak of your mother.”

Will stood swiftly, forcing down the urge to reach out and break something. “Pardon me, Lady Charlotte,” he said tightly, “but it’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

Much as he’d tried.

His father may have been a monster, but his mother had been something much worse.

She had been … She’d been …

Nothing.

She had been nothing. She had watched when his father had beaten him, and then—No, she hadn’t even done that. She had turned away. She had allowed it all to happen, never once lifting her voice in his defense.

He was alone in this world. The message had been clear. If he sought comfort, if he sought protection, he was on his own.

“I was lucky enough to count her as a dear friend,” Lady Charlotte said quietly. “A force to be reckoned with, Her Grace was. Did you know that?”

Will began to count backwards in his mind from ten to one. “Is that so?” he asked in response, hardly aware that he’d done so.

Charlotte stood and joined him. “She really was extraordinary, which is why, I would imagine, the duke chose her.”