Authors: Christina Dodd
“Then I’ll freshen these up fer tomorrow.” Daisy took them away to the bedchamber.
Caroline had begun to feel as if she had fallen into an odd sort of dream, where she lived in a beautiful house, was attended by a maid, visited with a duchess, had her garments bought by a duke and approved by an earl…It was hard to remember who she was. Not the debutante, but not the same desperate young woman poised on the brink of starvation, either.
“Miss Ritter will have a tray in her room,” the duchess instructed, when Daisy returned.
Daisy curtsied and went to the door.
To Caroline, Nicolette said, “Nevett and I had an early supper, and I know you must be exhausted after your fall from that fractious French horse.” She laughed again.
“It was very fatiguing.” Caroline laughed with her. “What a beautiful chamber this is!”
“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it?” Nicolette gazed about her in satisfaction. “Come and visit while we wait for Daisy to finish.” She seated herself on one of the comfortable chairs placed beside the fireplace, and when Caroline had joined her, she confided, “When Jude returned from abroad, he was much changed from his previous self, and I find myself longing for the old Jude.”
“Changed…how?” Caroline’s curiosity was more than just politeness. Huntington had aroused her interest. While in society, she’d met a number of fops, and Huntington was singular. Caroline couldn’t put her finger on it, but he showed flashes of a powerful masculinity. He observed everything around him intensely, and she, who took pride in understanding men and catering to their inflated sense of self-worth, didn’t quite know how to handle him. She needed to handle him, for she had to complete this task Nevett had assigned her.
She had to. This was her last chance. She would not fail.
“Most obviously, he didn’t used to dress like a French coxcomb.” The duchess rolled her eyes. “It’s driving his father mad. But also, Jude always got his own way. He would manage me and everyone in the family.”
“Oh!” Caroline remembered how he had swept her out of her poor room before she had time to truly consider the situation.
“I see you have experience with his autocratic ways.” At Caroline’s nod, Nicolette continued, “The only one Jude could never manage was his father. They’re too much alike—or rather, they used to be. Jude used to be cautious and thoughtful. He dressed with dignity. He pondered literature and logic. When he was a lad, he was complex, not easy to understand. Rather…stuffy, and solemn beyond his years. Now”—Nicolette shook her head in bewilderment—“he blurts out what’s on his mind, and it’s seldom of import. He’s frivolous. He flings himself at every event as if it is his last.” In a lower voice, the duchess said, “I suppose that’s the legacy of Michael’s death. We’ve all been changed.”
Caroline thought about the dark green journal she had in her bag. She had filled its blank sheets with her plans for flirting lessons, and even now she wondered if her simple strategy would work with Jude. “But to have changed so much seems improbable.”
“I think that sometimes, too, but what game could he be playing?” Nicolette smiled. “Of course, you didn’t know him, he had left before you had your Season, so how can you answer?”
Caroline winced, and reluctantly approached the matter she knew must be on the duchess’s mind. “I’m so grateful for your kind offer to house me while I teach Jude, and I promise there’ll be no embarrassing incident while I’m under your roof.” When the duchess looked startled, Caroline decided she liked this lady more than she had ever liked anyone before.
“I would say not,” Nicolette said. “The people who should be embarrassed by that incident four years ago are Lord Freshfield and his harridan of a wife! You must be so very angry about what happened to you.”
Astonished, Caroline blinked at Nicolette. “Angry? No. No, how could I be angry?”
“How could you not be? You weren’t guilty.” The duchess’s eyes shot gray sparks. “Everyone knows you were a victim of Lord Freshfield’s desire to obtain a divorce. He ruined your reputation, yet he is still accepted. Your father tossed you out without challenging Lord Freshfield or his dastardly deeds. Your friends couldn’t help you. Of course you’re angry.”
Such thoughts had never occurred to Caroline. “But it was my fault. I flirted with Lord Freshfield even though I knew he was married.”
“You were young. You were inexperienced. He had bribed your chaperon. What happened was not your fault—but you and you alone have suffered.”
“I deserved everything that’s happened to me. What’s more, I ruined my father’s expectations—”
Nicolette raised her eyebrows.
“All right,” Caroline admitted. “I don’t really care about Father. But I do care about my sister, and she’s so alone without me.”
The duchess reached across, put her hands over Caroline’s, and said, “If it were me, I would be angry.”
“No. I’m not.” Caroline truly didn’t understand what the duchess was saying. She did not. “I’m
not
angry.”
From the duke of Nevett’s box in the rapidly emptying opera house, Jude watched Monsieur Bouchard walk to the stage. He handed Miss Gloriana Dollydear a bouquet of flowers and a folded piece of paper. She accepted both with a coy smile and broke the seal on the note. She took the money within, tucked it into her copious bosom, then read the note. Nodding at Monsieur Bouchard, she indicated her acceptance and watched him walk away. Her gaze swept the theater, never seeking Jude in the shadows, but she slid her hand over the back of her neck as if she were exhausted.
It was a signal arranged between them. She had directed them to meet in the alley behind the opera house.
Throwing his concealing black cloak over his beaded jacket, Jude slipped into the darkened corridor. The opera house smelled of dust and greasepaint, and the gilt decorations glinted in the dim light. Only a few people lingered; now that the performance had concluded, the ton made their way to parties or dinners. He walked backstage where the hands shouted and joked as they put away the props and the costumes. The chorus threw cloaks over their stage clothes and left in a steady stream. The stage door opened and closed, letting in puffs of fog and chilly air. People called out good-byes, and no one paid attention to Jude. Male visitors backstage were common; several of the girls cast inviting smiles his way. He kept moving right out the door. The pale fog shimmered in ribbons on the night breeze. He hung back, straining to see the light of Gloriana’s lantern or hear her voice.
And then there she was, smiling into de Guignard’s face while Bouchard held the veiled lantern.
“Mr. Throckmorton is a lovely gentleman, quite the craftsman with everything he does.” Her husky tones carried clearly to his ears. “But he’s got an air about him that’s dangerous, if you understand me, and I’m not likely to cross him.”
“I do understand you, but I assure you, I can protect you from him.” De Guignard smiled so charmingly Jude wanted to vomit. “I’m quite a rich and powerful man myself, and noble, too.”
She tilted her head and studied him. “What is it you want to know?”
“I understand Throckmorton is an important man in this Home Office, where the English make their decisions about foreign policy.”
“I’m a simple opera singer, dearie.” Placing her hand on her hip, she fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s not commerce he talks with me.”
“You could find out, couldn’t you?” Bouchard asked impatiently.
Gloriana transferred her smile to Bouchard. “I could—for the right incentive.”
De Guignard nodded at Bouchard. More folded bills exchanged hands.
“What do you want to know?” she asked in a businesslike tone.
Celeste Throckmorton was a genius.
This was going to work.
C
aroline’s early training had covered many things. It covered how to dance with a man while appearing both modest and appealing, what a man liked to talk about (himself), how to walk in a manner guaranteed to catch a man’s eye.
Yet her early training had never covered how to enter the breakfast room of the duke of Nevett while in his employ. She didn’t even know that she should be there at all, but the previous day, as Her Grace had hospitably welcomed her to the home, she had informed Caroline of the time and location of breakfast.
So there Caroline stood, hovering in the doorway while His Grace remained ensconced behind his paper and the duchess read a book. The utter quiet in the cozy room intimidated Caroline; not even the footmen made a sound as they trod back and forth with fresh rashers of bacon and steaming plates of scones.
At last, the smell of food and rich, hot coffee drew Caroline into the room. Lately, as she made her money stretch farther than she had ever imagined possible, she had only allowed herself two meals a day. She wanted to laugh as she remembered how, in the days when she had stood poised on the edge of social success, she had imagined she would escape the coldness of her father’s house and spring into the warmth of an adoring man’s arms. What a fool she had been.
Now she made her way toward the duke’s intimate table, her planning journal held in her hands, making an effort to be as silent as the gliding servants.
And her stomach growled.
“Damn it!” Nevett smashed his newspaper onto the table. “Do you have to be so god-awful noisy?”
Caroline froze.
The duchess was on her feet before he had finished speaking. “Come and sit down, dear Miss Ritter, we have your place set.” Taking Caroline’s arm, Nicolette ushered her toward the table while Nevett glared with unmitigated wrath. “We don’t make a sound around Nevett until he’s had at least two cups of coffee,” the duchess confided in a low voice. “We find they substantially improve his disposition.”
“I heard that! I’m not yet deaf,” Nevett trumpeted.
“No, dear.” Tranquilly, the duchess signaled to the footmen, who began offering platters of food to Caroline.
“I do not require coffee at this or any other time.” Picking up his cup and saucer, Nevett held it as if he disdained the brew within. “I am always even-tempered—except when people are excessively loud and unable to maintain their composure.” He took a sip, then set it down.
At once, a footman filled it with fresh, hot coffee.
Distressed, Caroline put her planning journal beside the place setting. She ignored the plates of kippers, eggs, and fruit, and stared at the still-glaring duke. He must be angry that she hadn’t yet thanked him for allowing her to stay there. He must consider her ungracious to the extreme. Faltering, she said, “Your Grace, I’d like to express my gratitude for your hospitality—”
The duchess touched Caroline’s arm and shook her head.
But it was too late.
“Are you going to be joining us every morning?” Nevett demanded. Before she could answer, he spoke over the top of her. “Because if you are, you’re going to have to learn not to chatter every damned moment of the day.”
Tears sprang to Caroline’s eyes.
“And crying won’t get you sympathy.” Picking up his newspaper again, he flapped it in front of his face. To the newsprint, he asked, “Don’t people have a palace they can go to anymore?”
Nicolette pushed his coffee cup toward him.
His hand came out, groped for the handle, and pulled the steaming brew beneath the page.
Then the duchess patted Caroline’s hand, but Caroline could see the twinkle in her eyes. Her husband amused her. Rich, powerful, he held her life in his hands, yet his wife laughed at his foibles. Perhaps he was not as fearsome as Caroline feared. Perhaps he was not cold and exacting like her father.
Once again silence reigned, broken only by the click of porcelain against porcelain as Nevett drank his coffee.
Without making a sound, Nicolette filled Caroline’s plate and, with a smile, encouraged her to eat.
Caroline found her distress wasn’t the equal of her hunger. She reasoned if she didn’t eat, her stomach would growl again, and Nevett would be furious. She took her first bite of an egg poached in chicken broth and laid on a slice of ham, and she could scarcely stifle her exclamation of delight. She hadn’t put such an exquisite flavor in her mouth for far too long.
Nevett put down his paper, and, as if that were a signal, the footmen moved more briskly, their shoes made noise on the floor, the dishes clattered in their hands.
From the entry, a door slammed and voices murmured.
“Dear,” Nicolette said, “Jude says you hired Miss Ritter to teach him how to flirt.”
“That’s right,” Nevett said in a tone so reasonable he might never have snapped in his life.
“I wish you had consulted with me first. The plan is fraught with peril.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He dismissed her trepidation as easily as any husband ever dismissed his wife’s concerns. “I’ve thought it through.”
“Have you thought that when Jude goes to the opera with Miss Ritter, the ton will gossip?”
He smiled at his duchess with such charm, Caroline was startled. “Not if you go with them, Nicolette.”
The duchess’s eyes grew round, and her complexion heated. “I hate the opera!”
“You’re a female,” he said. “All females like opera.”
“I don’t,” she retorted. “A flock of squawking men and wailing women carrying on and on until they collapse on stage and die.”
Caroline listened and ate. She liked the opera—the costumes, the music, the stories about honor and infidelity moved her to tears. And it seemed that she was to have the chance to go once more, and sit in the ducal box.
Nevett pulled a coin out of his pocket. “We’ll toss for it. I’ll take heads.” Before Nicolette could object, he tossed the coin. “Heads,” he said with satisfaction. “You have to go. It’s better that way. Your presence will be unremarkable at the opera.”
The duchess blew a stray strand of hair off her face. “The gossips will natter more, believing that we’re giving sanction to a match between Miss Ritter and Jude.”
“I’ll tell them it’s not true” he said, complacently. “I’ll explain that Miss Ritter is a friend of the family.”
“I believe that will only fuel the rumors.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the duke of Nevitt. They will gossip as I command.” Finishing his breakfast, he touched his lips with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it on the table. As if noticing Caroline for the first time, he said, “Good of you to arrive early, Miss Ritter. Good job. As soon as my son gets here, you can go to work.” Dropping a kiss on the top of his wife’s head, he left the room.
He was so calm, almost pleasant, that Caroline stared after him in amazement.
“It will last until three, when he takes tea, or until someone irritates him. He is the quintessential duke, who wants nothing more than to live his life exactly as he wishes.” Lady Nevett turned toward the other door as Jude strolled in. “Dear, your father and I tossed a coin to see which of us had to escort you to the opera, and he won. He always wins. Is he using a two-headed coin?”
Jude looked amused, and bowed to his stepmother and to Caroline. “Are you calling my father a cheater?”
Jude looked different in the morning light. The hint of aristocratic dominance had disappeared beneath his overly stylish green-and-white-striped trousers, green waistcoat, and cravat embroidered with fleur-de-lis. A purple splash of a scarf rested across one shoulder and a large brooch shaped like a lavender flower pinned it in place. His smile could only be described as amiable, and his eyes were wide and indolent.
Nicolette turned to Caroline. “That means he’s not going to tell me. It’s difficult being the only female in a household of males.”
Seating himself beside his stepmother, Jude lifted her fingers and kissed them. “It guarantees you’re always our favorite lady.”
“Such a compliment!” She touched Caroline’s arm, and for a moment, Jude and Caroline were joined by the hands of the duchess. “I’m glad to have Caroline share the privilege of being the favorite and having the gentlemen tease.”
He watched Caroline eat so intently she became self-conscious and put down her silverware.
“How good to see you here,” he said. “You look as lovely as a flower this morning.” He examined the new day gown she wore. “A very badly dressed flower.”
Smoothing the skirt, Caroline said, “I rather like it.”
“Yes, on a petite debutante. But you should never wear vertical stripes; it creates the illusion you’re as tall as a giant. You should never wear a plain style; it, too, contributes to the impression of overwhelming height. And never should you wear pink”—he sighed and flapped a hand—“because you shouldn’t.”
Now Caroline felt as if she were an awesome Goliath.
The duchess studied Caroline. “You’re right, Jude, this is an unfortunate choice. I shall take over the ordering at once.”
“I shan’t need many more,” Caroline objected.
Nicolette pulled a long face. “Sh. You’ll take my fun away from me. I always wanted a daughter to dress. Now I have you.” She studied Caroline. “What do you suggest, Jude?”
“Some lace, a few furbelows that would take down her height so she doesn’t intimidate lesser men.” His gaze mocked Caroline, and she knew very well he wasn’t intimidated, nor did he consider himself one of the lesser men. “I want to approve the choices before they’re made up.”
“And create more rumors, and those of a less-respectable nature?” Nicolette answered crisply. “I think not.”
Jude looked offended. “But I have impeccable taste!”
Tired of being discussed as if she didn’t exist, Caroline said, “No, you don’t.”
His eyebrows shot up. His fingers went to his brooch. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean you can have the right to approve my clothing,” Caroline said crisply, “when I have the right to approve yours.”
“But you like that pink gown!” His eyes grew round and horrified. “You obviously have no taste.”
“Then we’re at an impasse, are we not?” Caroline retorted.
Nicolette laughed, a brief chuckle, and when both sets of eyes turned to her, she rubbed her hands together. “So, Caroline, what do you have planned first for Jude?”
“Breakfast?” Jude suggested.
“If you’d arrived earlier, you could eat. As it is, you’ll have to wait until your governess takes pity on you,” Nicolette said decisively.
“And I’m pitiless.” A silly statement, of course. Caroline was no such thing, but she liked saying it, as if the words would make it come true.
She flipped open her planning journal as Jude sneaked a scone off her plate and consumed it. Although she knew exactly what lesson came first, she made a show of reading what she had written while Jude picked up several pieces of bacon and wrapped them in a slice of toast, and ate those, too, and swallowed a steaming cup of coffee as quickly as he could. Jude wolfed his food like the kind of man who relished horseflesh, boxing, and fast women, and nothing at all for fashion, and she wondered at the dichotomy between appearance and reality. Or perhaps all men, no matter how fussy, were the type to drink straight from the brandy decanter when given a chance. “I thought first I would see what he knows and what I can build on.” She asked the duchess, “Do you have a piano and a place we can dance?”
“The ballroom! It hasn’t been opened since last season. How lovely to have a chance to air it.” Nicolette rose to her feet and hurried out of the room.
Caroline lingered behind and observed as an elderly footman slipped Jude a sausage and another scone. “You could have eaten before you came,” she said.
With a toothy smile, Jude said, “I did.”
As Caroline hurried after the duchess into the ballroom, she considered that he had none of the puffiness of a glutton. Jude was, in fact, lean and muscled, with the kind of healthy appearance a sportsman might exhibit. He truly was a mystery, flippant and serious, kind and mocking, intelligent…and the worst sort of fool.
He followed on Caroline’s heels, so when she stopped short at the door of the ballroom, he trod on her skirt. She didn’t care. She could only gape as the footmen threw the draperies wide. The sunshine lit the giant chamber, sparkled through the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and the crystal candelabras that sat on the tables. Rainbows danced on the gleaming golden oak floor and up the warm, cream-colored walls, and the gilt-trimmed cove moldings that decorated the ceilings. The windows looked out over the small garden, where spring roses climbed the wall, and the first yellow buds opened to the sun.
“This is magnificent,” she breathed, then realized how much like a waif she must sound. She supposed she’d seen rooms as lovely as this in other homes during her Season, but the years between had been filled with paltry, dingy flats overlooking open sewers and rotting refuse. She’d forgotten what it was like to stand in the middle of the floor and smell the clean odor of beeswax, and see nothing but glossy wood and unmarked walls, or how her heart lifted at the sound of dance chords on a grand piano.
“It is beautiful,” Jude agreed. “Mum decorated all the rooms in the town house, and she is universally acknowledged as a leader of style in London.”
The duchess sat at the piano, running through the keys, limbering her fingers. “I doubt if Lady Reederman would agree.”
“Of course not. Everyone knows she’s deathly jealous of you,” Jude answered.
“There
is
an advantage of being the only female in the house, Caroline.” A smile quivered on Nicolette’s lips. “The men flatter you at every turn. Are you two ready to dance?”
“I’d hoped to play for you,” Caroline said. “I need to observe Lord Huntington and his skills.”
“You’re young.” Nicolette waved an impatient hand. “You should dance. Are you ready?”
Ready? Caroline supposed she was. For four years she hadn’t skipped in happiness, hadn’t heard music even when it played, and didn’t know if she remembered the steps. She should have worn gloves, but the only decent pair she owned were for riding. Jude had already expressed his dismay for her gown.