Carla Kelly (2 page)

He took another sip this time, less cautious, and noted that the animal in his brain was slowing down. In another moment, it was sleeping again. He handed the cup back to Luster.

“If this were Waterloo, you would have received a battlefield commission just now, Luster.”

The butler bowed and accepted the cup. “Your grace, there is a curious person waiting below who insists upon seeing you.”

“Oh?”

The butler raised his eyebrows in unconscious imitation of his master. “I do think he is nothing but a tradesman, and he has the most unusual sample case with him.”

“Come now, Luster, you know all salesman are shown the entrance belowstairs.”

Luster came closer. “Of course, your grace, but this one might require your attention. Look you here, sir,” he said, and held out a card.

The duke took it. “Why, this is Eustace’s calling card,” he said, turning it over. He peered closer at the words scrawled on the back. “You promised,” he read out loud. He looked up at his butler. “I do not perfectly recall . . .”

Hardly had Nez uttered a larger understatement. The last thing he remembered from last night was snatching a garter from an opera dancer at Covent Garden, and even that memory was not as sharp as he would have liked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the red satin garter.

Luster coughed again and looked away.

“Luster, you old prude,” the duke said, the hint of smile in his voice. “Never tell me my father never surprised you with one of these.”

“Your grace,” the butler declared, his voice shocked. He rocked back on his heels. “But now that you mention it—”

“I rest my case.” The duke stuck both hands in his pockets and stretched out his long legs. “This man below. Does he have a card?”

“Indeed, your grace. Here it is.”

The duke accepted the card. “Ignatius L. Copley,” he read. “Copley Chocolatier, by appointment to His Majesty King George III.”

A warning bell began to toll in the back of his brain, right next to the sleeping animal that started to circle about inside his head again. What in God’s name did I promise Eustace last night? he asked himself.

“Send him up, Luster. Let’s get this over with.”

The butler withdrew. Nez lurched to his feet and headed in the general direction of the sideboard, where he was vastly disappointed. Mother must have seen to the removal of the chamber pot that His Grace William Nesbitt, the Sixth Duke of Knaresborough, used to keep there, for situations such as this one. Considering the state of his much-abused kidneys, this interview with the candy man would be a short one. He would guarantee to purchase whatever it was he must have promised Eustace last night, and then beat a hasty retreat to the necessary.

The door opened and Luster showed in a gentleman as round as he was tall, who appeared to be all teeth and handshake. Weakly, the Duke of Knaresborough allowed himself to be greeted like a long-away cousin. He gestured to the chair next to him and looked at the salesman expectantly.

The man stared back just as expectantly. He cleared his throat finally when the duke appeared disposed to remain silent, and leaned forward. “My lord, do you not know why I am here?”

The duke shook his head, a motion he instantly regretted, and waited for his brains to fall out of his ears.

“Pray enlighten me,” he said when they did not, and looked at the man’s calling card again. “I am overfond of chocolate, to be sure, but I do not know that I require a salesman to look after my needs. A simple trip to the sweet shop will suffice.”

“But, your grace, the Earl of Devere said you were needing my services.” The little man strained forward, and the duke was compelled to lean forward too, his arms resting on his knees.

“Pray explain yourself, sir,” the duke said.

The salesman blinked in surprise. “He told me you would understand perfectly. See here, he paid me for the use of my sample case.” The little man winked. “I don’t doubt but what the Earl of Devere was a bit to let at the time, but he said you would be borrowing the case for a couple of weeks for a trip to Kent.”

Kent. The warning bells went off all at once in Benedict’s overtaxed brain. The Duke of Knaresborough could only admit defeat and slump back in his chair. “He paid you money?” he asked. Good Godfrey, Eustace is serious, Nez thought as the salesman nodded so vigorously that his stomach shook.

“If I may venture, sir?” began the salesman.

The duke was stricken into silence by the monstrous perfidy of his nearest and dearest friend.

“He admitted to me that you had made him the happiest man on earth.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” agreed the duke. “Well, sir, let me see your wares.”

The salesman opened the sample case, which had double rows of drawers with brass fittings. He opened one drawer and the duke leaned closer.

“Your grace, behold the prize of Copley Chocolatiers,” said the man with a flourish. He paused for dramatic effect. “King Charles Revels!”

The duke stared at the gleaming lump of chocolate, which nestled on a bed of white satin. “God bless us,” he breathed, his tone reverent. “Is that the one with a nougat center and just the hint of cherry?”

“The very same,” Copley said proudly. He opened another drawer. “And for those what like nuts, here is St. Thomas’ Temptation.”

“I know that one well,” murmured the duke. “Ate a whole box once on bivouac, and wasn’t I sick?”

Copley clucked his tongue. “Moderation in all things, your grace,” he said.

The salesman opened drawer after drawer, displaying his wares. “This would have been my last sales trip,” he explained as he lovingly patted each chocolate. “I don’t sell chocolate in summer, ordinarily. When Lord Wiltmore said he wanted to borrow my sample case, I was only too glad to oblige him.” He permitted himself a giggle behind his hand. “Lord Wiltmore said something about a prank you are playing in Kent involving a lady?” He tittered again and then closed all the little drawers.

The duke groaned as the conversation of last night came back to him again. I am supposed to disguise myself as a London merchant and travel to God-help-me Kent, where I will conveniently meet with an accident. I will survey the lady in question and give Eustace Wiltmore, formerly my best friend, a report.

He directed his attention again to the little chocolate salesman. “Yes, Mr. Copley, he did mention a prank. Leave your case, and I will consider the issue.”

Ignatius L. Copley got to his feet again. “To complete the disguise, you have merely to drop in on the occasional sweet shop and emporium that you pass in Kent. We are well known.” He fumbled in his pocket and handed a handmade card to the duke. “Lord Wiltmore told me that he is having these cards made up for you, and you may stop at Adams in Fleet Street this very afternoon.”

“I have never known Lord Wiltmore to act on any matter with such promptness,” the duke murmured.

He looked at the proffered card, wavered for another instance between cowardice and duty, sighed, and took it. He looked closer and chuckled, despite his roaring headache. “Nesbitt Duke, merchant for Copley Chocolatiers, et cetera, et cetera,” he read, and pressed his fingers to his temple. “So be it, Mr. Copley. I suppose you have . . . Goodness, what are they called? An order sheet?”

“Certainly, sir. In the top drawer of the case. Fill them out three times, your grace.”

“And how would you recommend I transport myself to Kent?” asked the duke, dreading the answer almost before he finished the question.

“A gig is best, sir,” was the expected reply, and Mr. Copley did not fail him. “Of course, this is slow going to one of your equestrian fame, your grace, but it would never do for a London merchant to jaunt about in a high-perch phaeton.”

His own wit sent Ignatius L. Copley into a coughing fit. The duke did not trust himself to render aid and pat the man on the back. He went instead to the window, looked out, and then leapt back, his heart pounding in rhythm with his head.

His sister, Augusta, and his mother were stepping down from a barouche outside his front door, business written all across their faces.

He fingered the mock-up card. “Nesbitt Duke, is it?” he mused out loud.

“Yes, your grace,” said the merchant. “And don’t you know that Lord Wiltmore was pleased with his own cleverness!”

“Scylla and Charybdis,” muttered the duke as his sister rang the doorbell with that vigor typical of all Nesbitts.

“Beg your pardon, sir? Might that be a new chocolate I don’t know of?”

“It should be,” said the duke grimly. “Those cards are ready this afternoon, did you say?”

The bell rang again, more insistent this time. Likely Augusta would tell him about the latest matrimonial prize and insist that he accompany her and this paragon driving in the park, punting on some river or other, or dining al fresco amid the ants and wasps. There would be another unexceptionable face to admire, more small talk to suffer through, and another day wasted in the company of a female he couldn’t care less about.

“I could pick up the cards on my way out of town, couldn’t I?” he murmured, more for himself than the merchant’s benefit.

“Indubitably, your grace. Think what a diversion this will be, your grace!”

The door opened and Luster peered inside again. “Your grace, your sister, Lady Wogan, and the dowager await below.”

The duke looked from the merchant to the butler, and back to the pasteboard card in his hand. He contemplated the ruin of his summer and the obligation of friendship and smiled at his butler.

“Luster, show this gentleman out. Tell my sister that you don’t know how this comes about, but I have already left the house and have taken myself off to the . . . oh, the Lake District.”

“They will never believe me,” Luster declared. “You know perfectly well that Lady Wogan will come storming up here.”

“Then I will hide myself in the dumbwaiter until she is gone,” said the Duke of Knaresborough, who had held off a whole company of Imperial Guards with only ten survivors of his brigade at Waterloo. “This is no time for heroics. Or hysterics. Stand back, Luster.”

“Very well, your grace,” said the butler as he opened the door to the dumbwaiter and tugged on the rope.

The duke winced as he ducked his pounding head through the little doorway. “A tighter fit since the last time I tried this ten years ago,” he said. He looked back at his butler, who was controlling his expression through mighty effort and years of training. “And if you can locate a gig, Luster, do so at once, only do not trumpet it about.”

“Very well, your grace,” Luster replied as he ushered out the candy salesman and bowed himself from the room. “And should I procure a moleskin vest for you, perhaps?”

“You do and we part company, Luster. There are some lengths to which I will not go, not even for friendship!”

2

AS much as she loved her cousin, Elizabeth Ames knew that when the carriage door shut, when the last instructions were shouted out of the window, and when the frantically waving handkerchief disappeared in a cloud of dust, she would go inside, kick off her shoes, and succumb to the bliss of a cup of tea in the middle of the day.

Such dissipation was rare. Elizabeth rarely found the time for such luxury, but she knew she had earned it.

“Libby, you are absolutely not attending.”

Elizabeth looked up from the sarcenet gown she was carefully wadding with tissue paper. “You are absolutely right,” she agreed, and flashed her sunny smile at her cousin, who was struggling with the strap of the portmanteau. “Lydia dear, I remember all your instructions. I will water your plants, pet your cats, feed your canary, and revive any would-be suitors who droop on the doorstep.” She leapt to her feet and kissed her cousin. “And that’s the best you can expect of me.”

Lydia hugged her cousin and gave the strap another halfhearted tug. “Oh, Libby, what a pickle this is.”

She took exception to her cousin’s grin, which went from animated to roguish. “Don’t think for one minute that this is easy,” Lydia said. She flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling, her hands folded across her ample chest in unconscious imitation of vaulted ancestors. “I will miss Reginald.”

Lydia paused a moment, as if waiting for the tears to fall. When they did not, she sat up and watched her cousin, who continued to pack. “Libby, not that way! You’re wrinkling my gown. Here, let me show you,” Lydia explained, and took the offending item from her cousin, folding it inexpertly. “Like that.”

“Yes, Lydia.” Libby turned away so her cousin would not see that her smile had broadened. “As to Reginald, he will recover, and probably still be here in the fall when you return, my dear.”

“I suppose you are right.” Lydia sighed and threw herself down again, her hands behind her head. “Oh, Libby, just suppose I meet someone special in Brighton—it happens, you know. I have it on the best authority—and suppose Reginald shows up.” She rolled her eyes. “Libby, there could be a duel. Imagine!”

“Yes, just imagine,” Libby agreed. “Blood everywhere.”

Lydia raised herself up on one elbow. “I don’t believe that a more practical human was born than you.”

“Likely not,” Libby agreed as she closed the trunk and sat upon it. She clasped her hands together and regarded her cousin seriously. “But that is not the issue. You know, my dear, it could be that Eustace Wiltmore is the very one for you.”

Lydia groaned. “Eustace! What kind of romantical name is that? I would as lief marry Dr. Cook as someone named Eustace.”

The cousins giggled together.

“It would never do, Lydia,” said Libby. “Dr. Cook would probably be fumbling about for his glasses at the altar! No, I think Eustace—whatever he is like—would have a bit more address than our good doctor.”

Libby went to the dressing table and began to sort through the jumble, throwing brushes and combs into a small bag. “Lydia, do you really think Eustace is coming here this summer? You have not even had your come out yet.”

“I told you! Marcia Ravens wrote me from London that she overheard him at a party talking to that man, Duke something or other. Oh, you remember. The Waterloo hero.” Lydia sighed. “I suppose I will have to meet Eustace some day, but not before my come out this winter. Surely Papa will understand.”

Libby sniffed at Lydia’s favorite rose scent and dabbed a drop behind her ear. “Your papa will wonder why you have come to Brighton. You know he will.”

Lydia made a face. “He will not! Papa is more absentminded than the king in his best moments.” She giggled. “He will wonder at the expense, as though he hadn’t more juice than a sirloin roast. No, the king is a regular paragon, compared to Papa, I declare.”

Both girls paused in silence for dear old mad George. Libby put her arm about her cousin. “Lydia, I do thank you for insisting that Mama go with you. It was a stroke of genius, and my uncle will be so pleased.”

Lydia returned the hug and then whirled about. “Button me, there’s a dear. You know my papa requires his creature comforts, and Aunt Ames’ occasional jam tart.”

“Which is probably why he got gout in the first place,” teased Libby, her eyes dancing. “Hold still! How can I do this?” She finished the row of buttons and patted her cousin on the back. “Goodness knows how long it has been since Mama went on holiday.”

“And what better place than Brighton in June?” Lydia declared. She went to the dressing table and tossed the last brush in her traveling case. “I only wish you were coming too, dear Elizabeth.”

Libby shook her head. “Who would watch over Joseph?”

“Who, indeed?” asked Lydia. She made a face. “At least with Papa gone, Dr. Cook will not come bumbling around.”

“You are entirely unfair,” Libby protested, and then laughed. “But I never did know anyone else trip over a pattern in the carpet. He will be safer with Uncle away.”

“I am only sorry that Father foisted Aunt Crabtree on you.”

“I must have a chaperone, and you know it, Lydia,” Libby replied. “I am sure she cannot be all that bad.”

Lydia’s lips straightened into an uncustomary thin line. “You never seem to have any trouble doing all that is proper, so I doubt she will get your back up. I would rather be chaperoned by Lucrezia Borgia, or . . . or . . .” Lydia groped about for another bad example, but her learning was faulty and she could think of none. “Well, any of those dreadful women. At least they would be interesting. Aunt Crabtree will bore you to death, and make you play cards.”

“Goose! I can deal with Aunt Crabtree.”

Lydia rang for the footman, who loaded the trunk on his back and took the portmanteau in hand. She picked up her traveling case and then set it down decisively. “I still think you should come, too. You would meet someone who would fall amazingly in love with you and—”

“Run for the hills when he discovered my pockets were entirely to let, you silly goose,” chided Libby, who picked up the bag and handed it back to her cousin.

But Lydia folded her arms, intent upon this new tack. “You’re the goose, Libby. Some wealthy man need only look at your face and fall in love and he will forget there is no fortune.”

“Men are more practical,” Libby assured her cousin, who scowled, picked up the traveling case, and then took one last survey of her room.

“I suppose you are right,” she said finally, her eyes roving over the bedspread and draperies. “Libby, be a dear while I am gone and have the draperies cleaned. And don’t trust it to the laundress. Do it yourself. I want the thing done right.”

“Very well, Lydia, very well,” Libby said as she pushed her cousin out the door.

Mama was sitting on the bottom step, weeping. Libby smiled and sat down beside her beautiful parent, putting her arm around her mother’s slight shoulders and drawing her close. “Mama! We will be fine here.”

Mama only buried her nose deeper into her handkerchief. “I have never left you and Joseph alone for such a time. Only think what your dear papa would think, if only he knew.”

Libby handed her mama a dry handkerchief. “Papa would tease you and wonder why in blue blazes you hadn’t done it sooner!”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Libby,” Mama scolded. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “I suppose you are right, my dear. You’re certain you can manage?”

Libby hugged her mother. “What is there to manage? The servants—most of them—will be on holiday, now that Uncle and Lydia are away. You will be maintaining Uncle, not me. The groom here will see to Uncle’s horses.” She gave her mother another squeeze. “And I will finally have time to paint.”

Mrs. Ames smiled at her daughter and touched her cheek. “I heard what Lydia said upstairs, pet. I wish you could come along and meet someone special.” She sighed. “I wish it were possible.”

“Maybe someday,” Libby said as she tugged her mother to her feet, straightened her bonnet, and retied the bow just under her ear. “There now! You look smashing, my dear!”

Mama pokered up. “I wish you would not use stable slang.” She frowned. “Which reminds me. I will depend entirely upon you to keep Joseph and Squire Cook away from each other.” Mama stared at her gloved hands. “How that gloomy man could sire someone like Dr. Cook I cannot fathom!” She colored. “Dear me, that was indelicate.”

Libby laughed. “But how true. I will keep them far away from each other, depend upon it. I will remind Joseph as many times as it takes that Uncle’s trout streams are entirely accessible—and that the fish will swim in our direction, too, if given the opportunity.”

Mrs. Ames nodded. “Very good, Libby.” She hesitated. “And—”

“—and I will check on Joseph at all odd hours of the day, Mama, you know I will.”

“I know you will.” Mrs. Ames patted her daughter’s arm. “But I worry anyway.”

“Don’t,” Libby said.

Breakfast was a dismal, hurried-up affair, with Mama sniffing in her napkin and Lydia eager to be on the road. Libby abandoned her plate finally and walked the delicate line of curbing Lydia’s spirits and raising Mama’s. By the time the last drop of tea had been drained, Libby’s head was beginning to ache.

With nothing but relief, she nodded when Candlow announced the arrival of the carriage at the front door. Trying not to sound overeager, Libby helped Mama inside the carriage, nodding as her mother told her again what to do with the melons in the succession house, how to make sure the butcher did not cheat her, and to look out for gypsies in the field beyond the hop gardens.

“Mind, we want them in late July when the hops are ready for picking, but not before, Libby. Make sure they understand,” Mama said. She sighed and made to open the door. “Perhaps I should stay.”

“Mama,” Libby exclaimed. “I wish you would not worry. After all, I am twenty.”

Mama regarded the upturned face through the carriage window and folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose you are.”

“Mama!”

Mrs. Ames rose up again in her seat, a smile at odds with the tears in her eyes. “Joseph,” she said.

Joseph Ames hurried from the stable. Libby watched his progress, her eyes alive with amusement. He was wet again, his brown hair curlier than usual from the river. She held out her hand to him and he took it.

“Joseph,” she said in her sternest voice, “have you been swimming again?”

He mimicked her perfectly, down to the crease between her eyes, and then tucked her arm close to his body. “Libby, I remembered this time, I remembered! I took off my clothes first this time.”

Libby smiled up at her younger brother and touched his dry sleeve. “So you did, Joseph. I am proud of you.”

He looked at her earnestly. “You don’t think I’m foolish?”

“I never think you are foolish, Joseph,” she said quietly.

His expression changed. There was shame in his eyes now as he ducked his head. Libby cringed to see his face fall, and tightened her grip on his arm without knowing it.

“The lads down the road . . . I heard them say I was a moonling as I walked by.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand how they can be that way. Didn’t I help their papa when his sheep had the staggers?”

“You did, Joseph,” Libby agreed. She loosened her grip on her brother and pulled him toward the carriage. “Say goodbye to Mama, my dear,” she directed.

Joseph stood on tiptoe and kissed his mother, who was leaning out of the carriage window and sobbing in good earnest now. He looked at her tearstained face in surprise. “Mama, you’re not going to America.” When she made no reply, except to shake her head helplessly, he kissed her again. “Mama, I will be good,” he said simply, and then stepped back as the coachman chirruped to the horses and the carriage set its ponderous course toward Brighton.

Lydia leaned out of the other window and waved to her cousins. “Libby! Tell Reginald I will return!”

Libby stood in the drive, her arms upraised. “And you tell Uncle I hope his gout is better.”

“Good-bye, my dears,” called Mrs. Ames as the carriage picked up speed and lumbered through the gates.

Brother and sister stood shoulder to shoulder until the carriage was a cloud of dust.

“I like to say good-bye to people,” Joseph said at last as they turned, arm in arm, toward the house again.

Libby stopped. “Whatever do you mean, Joseph?” she asked, a twinkle of good humor in her eyes.

Joseph tugged at his ear and engaged himself in thought for some moments. Libby knew better than to interrupt him. He let go of his ear finally. “Libby, when I say good-bye to someone, that means I am staying behind.” He looked around him and took a deep breath. “And I like it here.”

Libby gazed at her brother. How tall you have grown, Joseph, she thought as she admired his handsome face. No one would know, except for the slight blankness in his eyes, that he “wasna’ entirely home there,” as Tunley the groom put it. She hugged him.

“I know what you mean,” she said.

“And do you know something else?” he asked. He leaned closer and whispered. “I think Lydia is the moonling. Why would anyone be in such a pelter to leave this place?”

Libby burst into laughter. “I couldn’t agree with you more. Why, indeed?” She stood on tiptoe to smooth down Joseph’s hair, where it stuck up in the back, still damp from his bathe in the river. Her voice became conspiratorial. “Joseph, she is running away.”

He laughed. “And taking Mama with her? I call that odd.”

He hugged her, pecked her on the cheek, and headed toward the stable, whistling as he meandered along.

“Odd, indeed,” Libby said to his retreating back. With a slight smile on her face, she turned toward the sun and took a deep breath, too.

All of Kent was in bloom. She could not remember a June that was more beautiful than this one. The rains of spring had come in timely fashion, and had exited promptly, yielding to the aching loveliness of fields and fields of daffodils and jonquils, dancing about on March winds. The hawthorn and apple blossoms of May had been gracefully supplanted by clover in bloom, and lilies of the valley and wild violets, half-hidden here and there.

I could never leave this place, she thought as she shaded her eyes with her hand and strained for one last glimpse of the carriage. And yet . . .