Nigel winked at her. “A leveler, I vow! Was it you that drew Justin’s cork?”
Elizabeth winced. “It was an accident.”
“We all have our little lapses,” Nigel assured her. “They don’t signify. A pattern-card of propriety, ain’t you? Paragon of all the virtues? Well brought-up young woman, quiet demeanor, lack of artifice? A Nonpareil, in other words.”
Elizabeth doubted Nonpareils went about casting up their accounts all along the Bath Road. “How dull you make me sound.”
“Bloodied Saint’s nose, didn’t you?” Nigel said comfortably. “It’s early days yet. Briggs, my man, bring in that chest.” A servant staggered through the doorway carrying a heavy wooden box.
An irritated mutter came from beneath the birdcage cover. Elizabeth’s attention was caught. “Oh! Is it a parrot?”
“Shush! Never use that phrase in her hearing, lest you see her sulk for days. Yanks out her feathers, and flings them all about. Dreadful mess. You should also refrain from mentioning that she is very old.” Nigel pulled back the cage’s cover. “Say hello to Birdie. That is,
I
call her Birdie. Her real name is something unpronounceable. Birdie don’t admit it, but she’s a macaw. She’s been on the Grand Tour, rubbed elbows with royalty, and had her portrait done. The dratted painting hangs in my aunt’s house. Would that Birdie hung there also, but my aunt can’t abide her. Nor can she get rid of the creature, because it belonged to one of her husbands, and is mentioned specifically in his will. Therefore Birdie lives with me. Spends the majority of her time dozing on her perch and biting anyone who comes within range. You wonder why I don’t arrange a fatal accident? I admit I’ve considered it, but Aunt Syb would fly into the boughs. I’m obliged to keep on Aunt Syb’s good side. A matter of financial practicality, you see.”
Elizabeth saw that the duke’s oldest friend was an incurable humbugger. She stared at the big scarlet macaw. Yellow feathers on its upper wings blended into blue. Its tail was a deep blue mixed with red, its cheeks a pinkish white. The bird clicked its great curved beak at her and stretched out one long wing. “How pretty she is.”
“That’s the ticket!” approved Nigel. “Empty the butter dish over her head and maybe she won’t bite you just yet. It won’t do you any good to try and ignore me, Saint. I hate to do anything to disoblige you, old fellow, but Aunt Syb requires my presence and I dare not leave that damned feather duster with my servants for fear they’ll toss her into the soup pot.”
Lord Charnwood turned away from his valet, who was trying to discreetly impart disjointed tidings that seemed to concern baggage arrived unexpectedly from France. “Lady Ysabella is ill?”
“Doubtful,” said Nigel. “The last time she threatened to turn up her toes it was result of the sawbones saying she was to eat meat and plain boiled rice, and forbidding her all wine. I expect she’ll threaten to cut me out of her will as usual, and feed me on boiled beef and cabbage until I am ready to turn up
my
toes, at which point her health will improve immeasurably. Do say you’ll board Birdie. You know she’s monstrous fond of you.”
The duke eyed the birdcage. “I know nothing of the sort. The last time you left her here she abused every member of the staff from Thornaby to the laundry maid. Have you ever been shaved by a valet with a bandaged hand? I’m lucky he didn’t slit my throat.”
“Too late,” Nigel murmured. “Birdie already has taken a liking to your bride.”
Justin glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth had knelt by the cage. Head tilted to one side, Birdie was studying her through one and then the other gold-rimmed eye. “What you mean is that my bride is too green to know chalk from cheese,” he said softly. “That bird is incapable of liking anyone.”
Elizabeth glanced up at him. “She is so pretty. May we keep her, Your Grace? Maman does not approve of birds. She says they are dirty and make too much noise. I have always longed to know a bird.”
Nigel beamed. “And here’s your opportunity. I am heaven-sent.” Then his eyes widened and his smile faded. “Mouse!”
This pronouncement caused a remarkable reaction. The footman blanched, the duke swore under his breath, and Thornaby so far forgot himself as to clutch his master’s sleeve.
Nigel strode swiftly toward the front door. “I’d love to stay, truly I would, but Aunt Syb awaits! Anything you’ll need for Birdie’s comfort may be found in that chest, Saint. I shan’t forget I’m in your debt.”
What a fuss to make over a wee mouse! Not that Elizabeth had ever met a mouse, or any other rodent, due to Maman’s fiercely held dislike. But shouldn’t people be jumping about and flapping things, instead of standing as if transformed to stone? She winced at she raised from her crouch. And then she stood shock still herself.
No rodent occupied the staircase, but a voluptuous female some thirty years of age, a stunning creature with a porcelain complexion, short curly black hair, and heavy-lidded emerald eyes. Her Empire gown of floss-trimmed gauze left not an inch of her lush person to the imagination. Her hands were clasped to her bosom. Around her slender neck hung a cameo. Pale green slippers adorned her dainty feet.
Dramatically the woman paused, as if savoring the moment. Then she flung open her arms.
“Eh bien,
my
Saint! Your Magda has come home.”
Chapter 3
“Obedience is the indispensable virtue in a good wife.”
—Lady Ratchett
“A pattern-card of propriety, am I?” muttered Elizabeth, as she paced the bedroom floor. “A paragon of all the virtues? Well brought-up young woman, quiet demeanor, lack of artifice, and an utter bore?” She kicked at a tapestry footstool that had been so ill-advised as to place itself in her pathway.
The room was hung with puckered green satin that matched the damask draperies, and furnished somewhat overwhelmingly with a tallboy and writing desk, dressing table with an oval glass, upholstered chairs with overstuffed seats, satinwood-veneered wardrobe, and a great mahogany bed with delicately carved posts. Candles blazed on the mantelpiece, and a fire burned in the hearth. This was the duchess’s bedchamber, which connected with the duke’s by way of his lordship’s dressing room. Currently, the dressing room door was closed.
Elizabeth tossed her reticule on the carpet. She might well have stomped on it had not her abigail entered the room, followed by servants carrying hot water in cans and a large hip bath.
Apparently St. Clair had decided that his duchess was to bathe. That, or the entire household already knew of the countless times she’d caused the carriage to pause along the road. Elizabeth felt half-sick with mortification. Her abigail snatched up the discarded reticule and removed it from harm’s way.
The servants departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with her servant, who helped her out of the carriage dress and petticoat, unhooked her corset. She sighed with relief. “Thank you, Daphne. Perhaps you might find me something to eat.”
The abigail curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The door closed behind her. Elizabeth untied her garters, stripped off her knitted silk stockings, pulled off her chemise, rebelliously set aside her wedding ring, and stepped naked into the tub. Maman would not approve of such immodesty, but Maman wasn’t there.
Elizabeth sank up to her chin in the blissfully warm water. She might have been grateful to her husband for his thoughtfulness—if it
was
his thoughtfulness—had he not banished her to her bedchamber as if she were an inconvenient child.
She lifted the soapy sponge to her chest, smoothed it down her arms. St. Clair was accustomed to having all his whims gratified. Maman had said he would expect the same unquestioning obedience from his wife.
Maman had also said that when a gentleman married a damsel for her fortune, that damsel could consequently expect no rude awakenings. “Hah!” But in all fairness, Maman could hardly have anticipated that Elizabeth would find two extraneous females residing beneath her husband’s roof, one a relative and the other definitely not, for to embrace a relative like that green-eyed temptress had embraced St. Clair must be against the law.
Elizabeth raised one foot out of the water, and applied the soapy sponge. Lady Augusta, at least, wasn’t eager to do her cousin’s bidding. Elizabeth found herself briefly in charity with that disagreeable female. She was
not
in charity with the exotic creature Mr. Slyte had referred to as “Mouse.”
Obviously, this Mouse female was no stranger to either Mr. Slyte or Lord Charnwood. Mr. Slyte, however, had not closeted himself with her. Unlike the blasted duke. Perhaps it was the long carriage journey combined with the various trying events of the day that had so overset Elizabeth’s equilibrium. She could not recall that she had ever before wished so strongly to wring someone’s—anyone’s!—neck. The sponge slipped out of her fingers, and landed on the floor.
Daphne re-entered the chamber, followed by a maidservant carrying a tray. The housemaid set down her burden, curtsied, and withdrew. The abigail held up a large towel and wrapped it around her mistress as she climbed out of the bath. “Well, Daphne, we have grown very grand,” said Elizabeth as the abigail patted her dry, slipped a nightgown over her head, and seated her before the dressing table with its array of glass bottles and flasks. “What are they saying belowstairs?”
Daphne met her mistress’s gaze in the oval glass. She looked her usual practical red-haired self. Her mistress, however, looked pale and drawn. “Little that I’ve been able to hear, Miss Elizabeth—I mean, Your Grace. I’m a stranger to them, so they don’t talk in front of me. That Magda woman is known to the staff. At least to the housekeeper and butler and cook.”
That Magda person was better known to St. Clair than was his wife. A pity he hadn’t married
her.
Elizabeth reached for the refreshment tray, on which sat a pot of chocolate and a plate of digestive biscuits.
Digestive biscuits? The entire household
did
know of her adventures along the Bath Road. After those adventures, Elizabeth would have liked to enjoy a proper meal. Boiled salmon and dressed cucumber with anchovy sauce. Roast loin of veal. Artichoke bottoms. Followed by a rhubarb tart.
Her stomach protested. She picked up a digestive biscuit and nibbled at it cautiously.
Daphne had already seen her mistress’s belongings unpacked and stowed away in the tallboy and wardrobe, had arranged the dressing chamber to her liking. Now she unpinned Elizabeth’s long hair and picked up a silver-backed hairbrush. Lady Ratchett had been all cock-a-hoop that her daughter had made so illustrious a match, and determined the new duchess should do nothing for which her mama might blush. Daphne had been instructed to inform Lady Ratchett immediately if Elizabeth made a misstep.
There was nothing new in this; Daphne had been frequently quizzed by her ladyship in the past. In Miss Elizabeth’s place, Daphne would have married Old Nick himself to get out of that house. Though Lord Charnwood might be a duke of the first stare, he could only be cast into the shade by Lady Ratchett when it came to raking a body over the coals.
Gently, she drew the brush through her mistress’s hair. Daphne was handmaiden to a duchess now, and no longer dwelt under Lady Ratchett’s roof. Whatever she told Milady—and she must eventually tell Milady something or Milady would raise a dreadful rumpus—there’ be no tales told just yet.
Soothed by the rhythmic brushstrokes, Elizabeth closed her eyes, and wondered how long it would be before Daphne sent Maman a report. “No doubt there is some good reason for that woman’s presence. I mustn’t make a piece of work of it. It would never do for me to disoblige my husband. Maman has said so.”
“Seems to me His Grace might benefit from some disobligement,” Daphne replied pertly. “Though it’s not my place to think. But if I
was
to think, I think I’d want some explanations in your place. No true gentleman would have his ladybird under the same roof as his wife. A proper lady might well swoon from the shock.”
No proper lady, Elizabeth reflected, would gossip with her servants. Maman would not approve.
But what was Daphne saying? “Ladybird?”
The abigail set down her hairbrush on the dressing table. “Ladybird. High flyer. Bread and cheese and kisses. Bachelor’s fare, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth raised her fingers to her aching temples. She might have felt better for a few kisses herself. Although not from her husband, because Maman had been precise about what
that
led to. But it wouldn’t, would it, if Daphne was correct in believing the duke had brought his bit o’ muslin into the house?
Elizabeth’s rebellious stomach churned. “You have been reading too many romantic novels,” she scolded, with more conviction than she felt.
True, Daphne was fond of romantic novels; tales of damsels in distress who managed to preserve themselves, if not their virtue, in the very nick of time. Damsels not unlike her poor mistress, who might have been being powdered and perfumed in preparation for her initiation into some wicked sultan’s harem, while the brute amused himself elsewhere.
Daphne pulled a bottle from her pocket. “Do you have the headache, Your Grace? A couple drops of laudanum should ease the pain.” Meaningfully, she paused. “More than that and you’ll fall fast asleep.”
Elizabeth eyed her abigail, and the little bottle. Maman had not approved of laudanum. “If you ‘Your Grace’ me one more time, I swear I shall throw this hairbrush at you.”
Daphne placed the laudanum on the dresser. Her mistress would soon enough grow accustomed to her title. As well as other things. The duchess looked quite pretty in her square-collared nightdress and dressing gown of fine lawn, her thick golden hair curling to her waist. Daphne wondered if the duke had yet noticed that his bride wasn’t exactly platter-faced.
A knock sounded on the door. Two footmen entered the room, carrying between them Birdie’s huge cage. Panted one, “Compliments of His Grace.”
Elizabeth gestured toward a mahogany table. The footmen set down the cage. Birdie sidled across her perch, head feathers ruffled, hard hooked beak opened to bite. Quickly the footmen stepped back.