Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (7 page)

Tobias jumped to the side just in time as Naffi bashed against the wall and rebounded, his nose gushing startlingly red blood.

Ashmole, Villiers's ancient butler, grinned at Tobias. In his right hand he held a large golden staff with a huge knob, with which he had apparently jabbed Naffi in the back. The Frenchman lurched around, clutching his nose with one hand and screaming incoherently.

"That'll teach you to insult the young master," Ashmole said, his voice cracking only once.

Blood was splattered down Naffi's white shirt. "How dare you lay a hand on me, you disgusting
imbecile!"
he shrieked.

Tobias began to laugh, when he suddenly realized that Naffi still had a rapier in his right hand, and that if the man would hesitate to assault a son of the house—even a bastard—he would feel no such compunction about a servant.

"I'll teach you to touch your betters!" Naffi snarled, bringing his blade up.

"Stop!" Tobias cried.

But the Frenchman was already poking the old butler hard in the chest, prodding him with the button-covered tip of the rapier. His lips curled happily, and Tobias could see that he was enjoying Ashmole's squawking protests and the way the old man stumbled back each time he was struck.

Villiers had left his rapier on the bench, and Tobias picked it up.

Naffi swung to face him, uttering his horsey laugh.
"You
dare to face me with a sword?
Moi,
the great Naffi? The man whom even the Duke of Villiers begs to train him?"

"That duke beat you twice this morning," Tobias observed.

"I could slash you," Naffi hissed. "Such a regrettable accident. Yes, I think that's what I'll do. A little slash to the face that will mark you as the gutter rat you really are."

Naffi had spittle around his lips, which made Tobias feel faintly nauseated. He tossed the rapier to the ground between them. The man broke into that donkeylike laughter again, throwing his head back so his chin pointed to the ceiling. "So you're not so stupid but that you—"

Tobias snatched the staff from Ashmole's hand and slammed its large knob under Naffi's chin. The man fell straight backward without a word.

The thump echoed in the empty ballroom. "I doubt you kilt him," Ashmole said. He prodded the man with his toe. Naffi made a snorting noise but his eyes stayed shut.

"Unlikely," Tobias agreed. He picked up the duke's rapier and twisted the button off its tip. It was sharp as a needle's point.

"Are you going to kill him now?" Ashmole inquired. He didn't sound terribly scandalized. "It'll make a terrible mess."

Tobias put the rapier in position and brought it carefully straight down. "Absolutely not."

Ashmole cursed and jumped back. "You're set to ruin the polish on my floor." "No." Tobias was concentrating. The rapier was heavy, and employing it as precisely as a knife took all his attention.

Ashmole peered over his shoulder. "No blood." "Of course not."

"You're putting a cut in his coat? What's the good of that?" Tobias looked at him incredulously.

"Have you been wearing the duke's getup your whole life? This fool is wearing all his money on his body." Ashmole cackled. "Not anymore."

They both looked down at the floor. Naffi's mouth hung open; he was breathing heavily through it.

His brocaded waistcoat was now vented like an apple pie. Ashmole raised an eyebrow. "Yer leaving him with his breeches, lad?" Tobias raised the rapier again.

"Careful around them jewels of his," the butler commanded. "Wouldn't want to be responsible for changing him from a rooster to a hen."

Tobias cut a slice down the right leg of Naffi's pantaloons.

"I'll get one of the footmen in here to drag off the riffraff," Ashmole said with palpable satisfaction.

"He won't wake up for a while, from the look of him."

"A blow beneath the chin can put a man out for hours," Tobias said. He was wiping the duke's rapier carefully. "This blade might have been slightly dulled by slicing that brocade. Perhaps you should have it sharpened."

"Frosty, that's what you are," Ashmole said. "You're yer father's son all right."

"The duke is leaving in a few days for Kent," Tobias said.

"He's got to follow up on them twins," Ashmole said. "Not that we need more brats around this house." He started rubbing his chest. "I'll have bruises tonight, so I will, thanks to that French varmint. The duke'll never take you with him. You stay at home with the little girl. It's sweet the way she's taken to you."

"What time of day does he usually call for his carriage?"

Ashmole peered at him. "Think you'll beg him to take you?"

"I never beg," Tobias stated.

"Father's son," Ashmole cackled. "Father's son. He's prone to leaving early, for him. He's not one to see the sun rise. Likely around ten of the clock. So you can make your case, but I wouldn't hold your breath. He's like you, if you see what I mean. Not going to take you up just out of the goodness of his heart."

London residence of the Duke of Montague

Same day

"We'll pack all your best gowns," the duchess announced at luncheon. "And your riding habit. It
is
the
country, and one must make the effort, I suppose. But not that trimmed habit you were wearing in the park last week. Trimming suddenly looks rather tawdry."

"Plain
is
best," Anne agreed. "Lady Festle wore such a cunning riding habit the other day. It had a waistcoat of ribbed white dimity..."

Eleanor wasn't listening, which didn't matter, as her mother didn't consider conversation to be an occasion for interaction. Her sister Anne had appeared that morning in a costume that Eleanor would never have dreamed of ordering: a close-fitting coat of sky-blue taffety with a low neckline.

It flared into folds at her hips, with a short petticoat of white linen underneath. In short, Madam Bouchon looked like the dashing and delectable young matron she was.

Whereas her own gown was a perfectly good stone-colored muslin. It was definitely serviceable. In fact, she thought it had served her for at least two or three seasons. The petticoat had a deep flounce, which was all one could say for its claim to fashion, especially since it also had the dreaded ruffled sleeves.

"I do not wish to pack my best gowns," Eleanor interrupted, putting her fork down.

Anne raised an eyebrow.

Her mother just kept talking. "I shall send a message to Madame Gasquet and beg her to deliver the costume we ordered a few weeks ago."

"I no longer want that particular gown," Eleanor said, thinking of its long sleeves and longer petticoat.

"You simply must make an effort," her mother scolded, finally looking up from the head of the table. "Anne took me to task this morning for allowing you to look so passe, and she's right.

You have shown so little interest in your appearance that I had lost heart for the battle. But now you are to be a duchess. You
must
dress
a la mode."

"I intend to," Eleanor said. "The problem is that I own very few gowns that are akin to what Anne is wearing this morning. I would like to be as fashionable as she is at this moment."

"The only thing that could make my jacket more modish would be tassels on the collar," Anne said, with a complete lack of modesty. "I am considering the alteration. Did Villiers effect this miraculous change in your attitude? His coat
was
rather magnificent."

"He has little to do with it. Your assessment brought me to my senses."

"Brought you to your senses?" their mother intervened. "You've always been comfortingly sensible, Eleanor. Unlike Lisette."

"What Eleanor means," Anne said, "is that she's agreed to stop hiding her beauty. She intends to dress like a desirable lady instead of a frump."

"No daughter of mine could be a frump," the duchess said. "I wouldn't allow it." Still, Eleanor could see that the idea was sinking into her mother's head. She picked up her lorgnette and frowned through it at her. "I wouldn't want you to dress like trollopy slattern. I find some current styles unacceptable."

"Certainly not," said Anne, who prided herself on wearing the most risque fashions in all London.

"You needn't worry, Mother. I'll send the footman for an armful of my gowns. Another footman must go to Madame Gasquet because I have three gowns on order, and I'll donate them to the cause.

Perhaps she will even have time to adjust for Eleanor's bosom. If not, the necklines are quite low, and I doubt it will matter much."

Eleanor bit her lip. She was apparently going from modest to decadent overnight.

"What we must consider," the duchess announced, "is that your sister made a splendid match in her very first year. She turned down a marquis for Mr. Bouchon; he may not have an illustrious title—"

"But darling Jeremy has that lovely land in the dells," Anne pointed out. "Acres and acres and acres, all filled with sheep. I am
very
expensive."

"That is certainly true," her mother agreed. "I do believe that your wardrobe this year cost double mine and Eleanor's put together. Your father complained bitterly."

Eleanor had never been expensive. If her mother indicated that a new gown was in order, she got through the fitting without fuss and with only one dictate: that she didn't resemble a hussy.

"You and I are not so dissimilar," her sister said now, apparently guessing exactly what was going through Eleanor's mind.

"There I disagree," the duchess said. "From the moment you debuted, Anne, I lived in fear that you would be compromised, whereas I've never had a moment of worry about Eleanor."

"Eleanor is certainly prudent," Anne said with a little snort that her mother didn't hear. "You must try to look more like your sister," their mother said, nodding at Eleanor. "Now I think on it, Anne, you'll have to accompany us."

"Oh, I couldn't leave Jeremy!"

"Of course you can. There's nothing better for marriage than farewells. Your father and I rarely quarrel, a fact I attribute entirely to our lengthy separations."

Since their father was prone to travel and spent most of his time in foreign climes, it was true that the opportunities for marital strife were limited.

"You needn't come with me," Eleanor said to Anne. "I'll just inform Rackfort that I wish to pay more attention to my attire." There was a moment of silence as her female relatives examined her.

Eleanor raised a self-conscious hand to her hair. "I thought it looked quite nice, given that Rackfort was complaining of a toothache."

"You're right, Mother," Anne said decisively. "I shall come, and I shall bring my maid. No, I shall do even better. I'll give you Willa for the trip, Eleanor. It will be a true sacrifice and I expect I'll gain a halo just for it. Let no one say that I don't love my sister!"

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Couldn't Willa just give Rackfort a lesson or two?"

"Rackfort is worse than no maid at all," Anne stated. "You shall have Willa, and I will make do with my second maid, Marie. I've been training her, and she's quite good with hair."

"I suspect you want to travel with us just for the sake of gathering gossip."
"Someone
has to make sure that you look your best," Anne said virtuously. "I can lend you one of my gowns, if need be,"

their mother said. "Luckily, I have retained my figure."

"Eleanor is not going to wear your gowns," Anne stated, "though I know you meant it kindly. She already has the knack of dressing like a dowager; now she needs to learn a different style."

By nine in the morning two days later, the redoubtable Madame Gasquet had sent the gowns ordered for Anne, as well as a deep blue brocade designed for some soon-to-be disappointed lady who happened to have appropriate measurements.

"It's utterly perfect," Anne said with satisfaction. "I happened to wander into the back room, and the moment I saw the girls stitching I knew that the color was just right for your eyes."

"You snatched it away from whomever had ordered the gown?" Eleanor asked, eyeing her sister.

"Snatched has such unpleasant connotations," Anne said. "I offered Madame Gasquet three times the price. Of course, she was lavishly grateful and practically threw the gown at me. You do know how much your patronage will mean once you are the Duchess of Villiers, don't you?"

"Because the duke is so fashionable?" Eleanor asked, with a pang of misgiving.

"Precisely," Anne said with a nod.

Eleanor opened her mouth to say that she couldn't imagine herself achieving Villiers's splendor when their mother called from the entrance hall. "I just need to say good-bye to Oyster," she said, looking about for him. "He was here a moment ago."

"Oh no, Oyster will come with us," Anne said. "I'll tie a bit of white lace on his collar so that he's more fashionable."

"Don't be a fool," their mother said, appearing in the doorway. "Of course Eleanor is not bringing her potbellied little horror of a dog."

"She must," Anne explained. "She and Villiers had a laugh about Oyster at the benefit the other night. He's a joke between them, you see. An intimacy."

"Nothing could make Oyster look fashionable," Eleanor said flatly.

"I'll pin one of my ostrich feathers into his collar. Queen Charlotte herself adorned her dog with ostrich feathers. Or was it peacock feathers? This will show Villiers that you are truly
a la mode.

Everyone has a pug these days."

"But I am not
a la mode,"
Eleanor began. "And more to the point, Oyster is not a pug."

"Part of him is a pug," Anne said, patting the dog. "Wait until you see how wonderful he looks with an ostrich feather." She was wearing a wildly fashionable chip hat lined with sarcenet, with a cluster of white feathers on one side. Without pausing for breath, she plucked one of her plumes and knelt beside Oyster.

"He
is
a pug," her mother announced. "Mr. Pesnickle said so, and although he might have been more tidy in his dog's domestic arrangements, we must take him at his word."

"No pug has those ears," Eleanor said. "And more to the point, Oyster will not add to the occasion."