Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (57 page)

Lord Cavendish threw up a lace-ruffled hand
in defeat.

“You always were an unashamed romantic.” He
sighed. “And the family had to wonder why Emily ran off with a
penniless second son of a second son who worked for the India
Company. Ha!”

“The name of the beauty at Roxton’s elbow,
Tommy.”

“What about your quest to have the
Strang-Leven inheritance returned? Put the Duke offside and you can
throw the ancient ancestral pile and Sarah-Jane’s marriage
prospects out with the bathwater!”

Jonathon gave a grunt, annoyed. He hadn’t
spent twenty years sweating it out on the subcontinent making a
fortune for his plans to slip out of from under him now before he’d
had a chance to fully persuade the Duke of his moral obligations to
return what rightfully belonged to the Strang-Levens. So he wasn’t
about to tread lightly on the off chance he might offend the Duke
and thus ruin his daughter’s chances of marrying into the
nobility.

“Sarah-Jane can find herself a titled
husband in Edinburgh just as easily as she can scuffing her silk
mules on these noble floorboards.”

Lord Cavendish was shocked. “Strang! A
Scottish
lord? One might as well say Macbeth to an
actor!”

“Do stop the French cook theatrics, Tommy,
and tell me the beauty’s name.”

Lord Cavendish avoided the question. “Kitty
is a remarkable woman,” he said and touched his eyeglass to his
nose knowingly. “Has the ear of the Duchess. But that’s between
you, me and the saucepan, old dear.”

Jonathon cocked an eyebrow. “Well,
old
dear
, the saucepan knows more than I, so out with it!”

“It should please you to know that Roxton is
rather ambivalent about your long-lost inheritance, particularly
the Hanover Square residence. He’s bought a larger, more palatial
house on the edge of Hyde Park which better suits his growing brood
and, so say the cynics, puts more distance between his dukedom and
the nefarious past of previous title-holders. As for Crecy Hall...
It’s said he’s in a dilemma about the Elizabethan turreted terror;
his words not mine. As you know, the house was let go to ruin and
unfit for habitation, that is until five years ago, when the old
Duke, breathing his last, decided to restore Crecy to its former
glory.”

Jonathon was surprised enough to take his
gaze from the beauty to look down at Tommy Cavendish. “For God’s
sake,
why
?”

“Hold on to the cream in your éclair,” Lord
Cavendish ordered and continued
sotto voce
. “This Duke of
Roxton sees himself as a morally upright nobleman and thus once the
true nature of the acquisition of the Strang-Leven inheritance was
made known to him by your lawyers, holding on to Hanover Square and
the Elizabethan manor does not sit well with our Duke’s high
principles.”

Jonathan was surprised. “Is that so? The
clouds part yet again and the sun shines through. And? There’s more
to tell. Your painted lips are twitching.”

Lord Cavendish rocked on his heels. “But
what the Duke feels and thinks is here nor there to your cause, I’m
afraid. It is the Duke’s French mamma who will be your undoing
because it was for her the old Duke restored Crecy, as a dower
house in her widowhood. And that is where she took up residence on
his death three years ago. And so it is
Antonia
, Duchess of
Roxton you must not only persuade Crecy should be returned to the
Strang-Levens but also whom you must
evict
.”

“Roxton’s
mother?
” Jonathon rolled
his eyes to the ornate ceiling, muttering, “A cantankerous old
widow to contend with, and French into the bargain!
Fabuleux
.
Un malheur n'arrive jamais seul!
The
weather is ever cold in this country and now it turns frigid.” He
let out a sigh and squared his shoulders, giving Tommy Cavendish a
nudge as he returned his gaze to the beauty, who said something to
the Duke over a bare shoulder that made the nobleman clench his
snuffbox and shut his mouth hard. That they were arguing couldn’t
be more obvious had they been shouting insults at each other from
opposite sides of the ballroom. “So who is she, Tommy, that Roxton
dares let off steam in public?”

Lord Cavendish made a noise in his throat
that greatly resembled the sound of a startled pheasant. He coughed
into his fist politely to find his voice.

“The—um—beauty who has aroused your lust is
the Duke’s—Lord! I can’t
believe
the first female to heat
your blood since your return to England is the Duke’s—”

“—cousin? Sister, distant third cousin, poor
relation—”

“Antonia, Duchess of Roxton. The
cantankerous old widow as you so amusingly put it.”

Jonathon swallowed hard.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered in utter
disbelief.

“And so you will be if you go near her.”

Jonathon cleared his raw throat.

“She’s not old enough, Tommy. Roxton must be
my vintage if he’s a day.”

“We were at Eton together. He’s turned
thirty. His grizzled locks and the fact his mother is cursed with
being absurdly youthful for her years don’t help.”

Jonathon frowned his distaste.
“Child-bride?”

“Do you doubt it? She was snatched from the
schoolroom. The fifth Duke was a notorious rake who reformed for
her. They were devoted to one another until his death. Enough
said.” Lord Cavendish waved to a gentleman across the room who was
making exaggerated head movements in direction of the refreshment
room. “Time to move on, Strang. Cards, conversation and comfits
await us through those archways, and I for one intend to enjoy
what’s on offer.”

Jonathon stayed him; gaze still very much
riveted to the Duchess. “Tell me you’re hoodwinking me, Tommy. Tell
me the truth. Tell me that such an extraordinarily beautiful woman
has no blood connection to Roxton. Tell me, Tommy.”

Lord Cavendish let out a heavy sigh. “I wish
I could. I cannot.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

“Will you have done staring openly at her,”
Lord Cavendish hissed, pulling at Jonathon’s velvet cuff. “Roxton’s
glanced at us twice already, and no wonder with your eyes glued
covetously to his mother. He’s damned protective of her, and who
can blame him? The old Duke’s death signaled open season on his
much younger wife. Her incredible beauty is matched only by her
personal wealth, an inheritance left her by the old Duke to do with
as she sees fit; the Strang-Leven inheritance amongst those riches,
old dear. Roxton’s hands are tied while she is alive. So you see
why he keeps her in a gilded cage. Well, that’s the line…”

“And the unauthorized version?” When this
was met with silence, Jonathon forced himself to look away from the
Duchess, down at Lord Cavendish’s frowning countenance. “Oh, come
on, Tommy! Tell me and then you’re free to stuff yourself from the
buffet tables with abandon.”

His lordship sighed. “You’re doggedly
persistent.”

He again took up his quizzing glass to
pretend an interest in the dancing, for not only was the Duke
regarding them under heavy brows but those who milled about on the
edge of the dance floor were beginning to turn heads in their
direction and whisper behind fluttering fans and perfumed lace
handkerchiefs.

“The old Duke died almost three years ago.
He was three score years and eight and had been ill for a number of
years, so his death was not unexpected. Except, that is, by his
Duchess, who still mourns his passing as if it was yesterday. She
is a divinely beautiful, sweet-natured creature who is to be
pitied. Rumor has it sorrow has unhinged her. Sir Titus Foley, a
dandified physician who’s made a name for himself in the study and
treatment of female
melancholia
, has been summonsed to Treat
by the Duke, and for the second time in as many years. It begs the
question about the balance of Her Grace’s mind, does it not? And
you didn’t hear this from me, old dear, for Kitty would surely have
me trussed and spit-roasted.”

Jonathon pulled a face of disgust.

“The poor woman has lost her husband, who
was the love of her life, her home and her exalted position in
society, and her son keeps her under lock and key? Is it any wonder
she’s suffering from
melancholia
? She has no life at all;
bullied and badgered and totally misunderstood is my guess. She
don’t need the peculiar attentions of a supercilious quack. What
she needs is someone to talk to and a sympathetic shoulder to cry
on.”

Lord Cavendish’s burst of high-pitched
incredulous laughter was heard across the ballroom.

“
T-T-Talk to
? Oh,
S-S-Strang
!
You are my bowl of chicken broth; so necessary to my comfort. Your
remedy? So appealingly uncomplicated that you have me almost
convinced. I take it you’re going to do the manly thing and offer
Antonia Roxton your own broad shoulder to cry on?” He wiped his
watery eye on the lace ruffles covering the back of a shaking hand.
“And for your efforts she’ll be eternally grateful and not only
sign over the Strang-Leven inheritance to you, but vacate Crecy
Hall forthwith, for you to do with as you wish?” He shook his
powdered head in disbelief. “May I live to see the day!”

Jonathon grinned. “Just watch me.”

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The girl in the narrow wooden bed was in
agony. Curled up in a ball, legs drawn up to her small breasts and
thin arms wrapped tightly about her knees, her whole body shuddered
with excruciating contractions. She had no idea if she had been in
pain for five hours or twenty. Exhausted and bathed in sweat, her
cotton nightshift with its little lace cuffs and pearl buttons had
become twisted and tangled with the bed sheet. Both were soaked
with blood.

In the small, brief moments of reprieve
between each painful cramp, she whimpered for the hurt to go away,
big blue eyes staring imploringly at her nurse, as if a simple kiss
from this most treasured servant would make everything better again
as it always had with a childhood bruise. But no matter how
tenderly the girl’s feverish forehead was bathed or soothing words
of comfort offered, the contractions continued unabated; the
intervals becoming shorter and shorter until the girl lost all
sense of time and space.

Tears coursed down the nurse’s sallow cheeks
and she pressed the wet cloth to her own mouth; it was all she
could do to stop herself sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of her
beautiful, sweet-tempered child in such torment.

“Have the girl drink this and tomorrow she
won’t be troubled,” she had been ordered.

Obediently Jane drank the bitter-tasting
draught, on reassurance that the medicinal would ease the nausea
and restore her appetite. She had then thrust the tumbler back at
her nurse, laughingly accusing her of poisoning her.

Poison.

Yes, Nurse had poisoned her beautiful girl.
She knew that now as she bathed Jane’s tortured forehead free of
sweat. She would pray to God for forgiveness for the rest of her
days for not better protecting her girl, for trusting her betters
to do what was right and proper when all along they had planned for
this to happen. But she had poisoned Jane unwittingly. The same
could not be said of the other two occupants of the darkened and
airless bedchamber; or the girl’s absent, unforgiving father, who
had disowned his only child for losing her virginity to a noble
seducer who lasciviously planted his seed then discarded her like a
used, worthless thing.

Murderers all.

Nurse dared not look over her shoulder. But
she knew the man and woman were there in the shadows, waiting.
Jane’s cries and her ministrations to help ease the pain did not
make her deaf or blind. She knew why they were there, why they
suffered the stench and the ignoble sounds of suffering, why they
could not avert their eyes from the offending sight of the
waif-like creature with the translucent skin and distraught gaze
who convulsed, sweated, and bled before them. They had to satisfy
their own eyes that the murderous deed was done. How else could
they inform her heartless father that his wishes had been
satisfactorily fulfilled?