The Dastardly Duke (14 page)

“What the devil are you about, Higgins?” Julian halted outside the music room door where his aunt’s majordomo knelt, giving every impression of listening at the keyhole.

The man brought himself up stiffly. “I was enjoying the music, Your Grace.”

Julian frowned. A faint, disturbing melody that sounded vaguely familiar wafted into the corridor. The sound was delicate and pure, too subtle to have come from his sister’s artless banging.

Though he had been headed out for a morning gallop, Julian could not resist pushing the door open slightly to see what was afoot.

Miss Gregory was seated at the old clavichord his aunt had once owned and which she had inexplicably given to his father years ago. Aunt Eleanor herself sat stiffly in one of the straight chairs, staring straight ahead as Miss Gregory’s hands moved over the keys.

“Good God,” he murmured.

Julian stepped forward, but Higgins touched his sleeve. “I do not think it wise to intervene, Your Grace. Something momentous is occurring.”

“Momentous?” He arched a skeptical brow. Certainly it was surprising that Miss Gregory could play the clavichord and that his aunt had deigned to listen, but surely “momentous” was too strong a word. “I am pleased that your efforts have resulted in my aunt’s condescending to come downstairs, but I hardly
think...”

Just then, the playing stopped. The countess rose quickly, and Miss Gregory looked up at her with an expression that could only be described as bemused.

“That instrument used to reside in my music room in Yorkshire,” Aunt Eleanor declared. “I believe its tone has improved over the years.”

Julian cast a jaundiced eye at his aunt. “I suppose that must pass as a compliment,” he muttered dryly. “I wonder Miss Gregory does not swoon in shock.”

Higgins pursed his lips but did not reply. Julian could read indignation in every dour line of the man’s features, but as Aunt Eleanor turned to leave the room, that quickly changed. Higgins threw open the door and stepped back so that she might pass. The look on the man’s face was almost worshipful.

Briefly Aunt Eleanor met Higgins’s gaze. In that wordless moment, Julian realized that there was something odd going on here. In the instant that thought flew into his head, however, his own gaze met Miss Gregory’s as she sat at the clavichord. All else receded in the startling impact of those intense gray eyes.

Quickly, she looked away.

“Good morning, Miss Gregory,” he said
with
perfect aplomb, priding himself on his ability to pretend that every
thing
was as usual between them, that he had not made a fool of himself last night trying to seduce her.

When she did not answer, he strode away from the music room, a silent curse pounding in his brain. Damned wench would ignore him, would she?

It was only later, after he had ridden through the park at breakneck speed, that Julian realized she had looked away and could not have heard his wonderfully composed greeting.

And why should he care? Disappointment shot through him. Somehow he did.

Aunt Eleanor appeared for nuncheon as if it was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she had not spent the last three days secluded in her room with a purported case of the megrims.

“There is no need to gape, Lucy. It is most unladylike. Julian, wipe that insolent smile off your face. Miss Gregory, your posture is abysmal.”

And just like that, Lady Huffington restored herself to her usual position in the household. Julian suspected his bet was all but won. At his aunt’s next pronouncement, he was sure of it.

“A young lady making her come-out must be a pattern card of posture and behavior, Miss Gregory. We have our work cut out for us, it seems.”

“We—we have?” Miss Gregory stammered in surprise.

“Yes, indeed,” his aunt replied, buttering a roll. “I am not yet certain that you are up to it, but let us assume for argument’s sake that you are able to make a passable impression.”

“Oh, very passable, I think,” Lucy put in, amused.

Aunt Eleanor eyed her niece sharply before turning again to Miss Gregory. “We must see to the matter of your wardrobe.”

The two young women exchanged glances. “I ordered quite a few gowns for her,” Lucy said, “while you were indisposed.”

“Oh?” Aunt Eleanor looked dubious. “I hope your tastes have improved since we commissioned
your
wardrobe,” she said acidly. “If I had not been present to see to things, I daresay the modiste would have concocted all manner of outlandish creations.”

“Julian escorted us.” A steely glint flashed in his sister’s eyes. “You can rely on his tastes.”

His aunt looked appalled. “The tastes of a known libertine? No, that does not give me cause to rest easy, Lucy. I daresay Julian’s preferences in ladies’ garments do not coincide with mine. Why, he would dress her like some strumpet from Covent Garden.”

Julian set his wineglass on the table with a loud thump. “Why do we not wait until we see Miss Gregory’s gowns before passing judgment?”

“Procuring vouchers for Almack’s will be easy enough,” the countess continued, oblivious to the interruption. “Several of the patronesses are my particular
friends
, and in any event they would not dare refuse a woman of my position and wealth. And,” she added, with a sour look at her nephew, “there is something to be said for being the aunt of a duke, I suppose.”

“You are too kind, madam,” he muttered.

She frowned at a sudden thought. “But what will she
do
there? I daresay dancing is out of the question.”

A small but distinct wave of irritation swept Miss Gregory’s features. “I can manage a credible waltz, and last night Charles taught me the quadrille.”

“What?” Aunt Eleanor stared. “How can you dance when you cannot hear the music?”

“By being most particular in my choice of partners,” she replied. “Charles says that a good partner should be able to guide me with little difficulty.”

Aunt Eleanor eyed her dubiously. “Very well. Let us assume she will be able to manage a few rudimentary dances. She cannot dance all night, however. How will she entertain her suitors, assuming she has them?”

“In the time-honored way of all women,” Julian replied sardonically, wondering how long his aunt would continue to speak about Miss Gregory as if she were not present. “By batting her lashes and murmuring a few words of agreement with the gentleman’s witty remarks.”

“But she cannot hear!” his aunt protested. “How can she appreciate the nuances of conversation—and flirtation, for that matter?”

Julian took a sip of wine. As it slid languidly down his throat, he pondered just how well they had compensated last night for any real or imagined difficulties in that area. Nuances proved no barrier for Miss Gregory’s understanding. Was it his
imagina
tion, or was she even now looking at him quite presciently?

“In the same way that I do now,” she said firmly. “By studying a person’s demeanor and expression and, of course, by reading lips.”

“How did you learn to do it so well?” Lucy asked.

“My speech and vocabulary were fully formed years before I became deaf,” she replied. “I can easily recognize words, although it may take me a while to become familiar with each person’s distinctive speaking patterns. As long as the person faces me and does not speak too fast, I have little difficulty.”

Aunt Eleanor’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “But you are bound to miss things here and there, are you not?”

“Less than you might imagine,” Miss Gregory replied, and this time Julian knew he was not mistaken in reading the challenge as those gray eyes held his. As their gazes locked, an odd current leaped between them.

“You will report to my sitting room, Miss Gregory,” his aunt was saying, “so that I can review certain requirements of behavior with you. We will also study the protocol for morning calls. Later I will examine every stitch of this much
-
vaunted wardrobe Lucy chose for you.”

Julian’s mouth curled into a lazy, amused smile. Miss Gregory had not the slightest inkling that his aunt had issued a volley of imperial commands. Her gaze remained locked with his, and a distinctly scarlet color had begun to creep over her features.

To his great annoyance, his pulse thundered an answering response, and he felt his own skin grow warm. Abruptly, he scraped back his chair. He was not an unfledged lad to be affected by a mere look from a woman, even one who last night had left him in the throes of unrequited lust.

As he turned to leave, Lucy caught his eye and shot him a knowing smile. “Do not forget you are to escort us tonight, Julian. Hannah will need your support for her first ball.” Julian did not miss the hopeful note in her voice.

Whose support, he wondered, would see him through an evening of enduring his
protégé
e’s disconcerting gaze? For a moment, panic filled him. Then he remembered that Charles was to accompany them. He sighed in relief. It would be a simple matter to foist Miss Gregory off on Charles.

Thank God for good friends.

Chapter
Thirteen

“ ’T
is a pity about Rose,” said Reverend McGougal, failing to muster a credible impression of that quality himself. “She was not one of our successes.”

Hannah looked at the frail woman who had once been saucy and vibrant, if unwise. Her teeth were gone, and she was blind. All that remained of her nose was an ugly black cavity. She would not live to enjoy the extra bedding, night rails, and dresses Hannah had brought over from Claridge House.

“Rose could never bring herself to reform that stubborn nature of hers,” McGougal continued mournfully. “Unlike you, she did not have a prayer of being returned to society.”

This last was uttered with something of a smile as he led Hannah away, Rose’s dreadful plight all but forgotten. “We are very proud of you, Hannah.”

Hannah said nothing. An ineffable sadness swept her. Rose Jenkins was the last of the Lock Hospital patients whom she had accompanied from Mrs. Simpson’s boardinghouse in Covent Garden. The others had either died from disease or its treatment

Outrage filled her. None of the women had wanted to die, to waste away as Rose was doing. None of them would have refused a decent job or a chance to better themselves in a life devoid of licentiousness and the threat of infection and disease. None of them had embraced their fate; it had embraced them.

Hannah had seen how women like Rose, who had seemed so gay and careless, had little real choice about their lifestyle. The options for women of a certain class who possessed neither money nor husband were slim. One had to survive, even if the price was terrible. And once they grew sick, there was no one to protect them from quacks trying out their latest “cures.” Hannah had watched helplessly as one by one, her friends had succumbed to mercury poisoning.

“Rose might have lived if she had not been dosed with such a free hand,” Hannah said grimly.

“Now, Hannah”—Reverend McGougal shook his head in reproach—“such criticism is unworthy of you. Look at what we did for you. You are living in a duke’s house, by all appearances a respectable young lady. How can you doubt our success?”

Hannah stilled. “What do you mean, sir, ‘by all appearances’?”

A knowing smile wafted over his pallid features. “Come, dear. The duke does not seem possessed of infinite patience. I saw the way he looked at you. If you are not his mistress by now, I would be shocked to the tips of my toes.”

“Reverend!” Hannah gasped. “How could you
think
such a thing?”

“There is no need to put on airs here, my girl,” he replied. “I know what you are—remember? To be sure, you always were one of the clean ones.”

Hannah stared in disbelief, but he merely smiled. “I know what you are about. You want to play the lady, to leave us behind. Oh, you have brought all those gowns and blankets from the grand household, but the day will come when you will no longer think of us. You have found your fortune, and you will make the best of it. That bit of defiance you showed him in my office was quite effective.”

“What?” She frowned.

“Otherwise, the duke might not have been interested,” he continued. “You were very smart. A man is intrigued by the unattainable—even if she is a whore. Perhaps,” he added reflectively,
“especially
if she is a whore.”

“Dear Lord,” Hannah murmured.

“Shocked?” A wistful smile played over the minister’s thin lips. “I have always thought you a wonderful actress, Hannah, and look where your talent has got you. Further than a deaf prostitute has any right or reason to expect.” He paused. “I would have taken care of you, you know. The Lord made it clear you would have been mine in time.”

Hannah felt suddenly ill. She gripped her reticule tightly and rose. “Good day, Reverend,” she managed.

Reverend McGougal eyed her sorrowfully. “Do not worry, Hannah. I will not hold it against you. Have I not always looked after your interests? Why, just the other day I told Dr. Itard that you—”

“
Dr. Itard
?” She froze.

The minister smiled. “Did you not think that I knew your secret? Remember, I was present during that first examination he gave you so long ago. You still hold out hope of regaining your hearing, do you not?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Hannah said stiffly.

“Hope is not a bad thing, my dear,” he assured her, “although acceptance is the more worthy lesson. But perhaps now that you have latched on to a wealthy protector, your hopes may be realized.”

“The duke is not my protector,” Hannah protested, but she knew she would never make Reverend McGougal understand. His eyes bore the slightly fanatical look she had come to recognize from the most intense moments of his sermons.

He shook his head. “It is all right, my dear. You do not need to pretend with me. The duke is your best and last chance of attaining that which you have wanted since the age of seventeen. I could not give you that, for I am not a wealthy man and Dr. Itard is very expensive.” He waved a piece of paper at her.

“This is his direction. He has always been very interested in your case—not enough to reduce his fee, of course, but even men of science have financial concerns. He will be in London for a month before returning to France. His lectures have created quite the sensation, you know. Thanks to that episode with that wild boy, he is very famous.”

Gingerly, Hannah accepted the paper. Staring at the minister’s snakelike scrawl, she felt rather like a snake herself for coveting what she might never have. And yet, Reverend McGougal was right: this is what she yearned for.

“Thank you,” she murmured, regarding that inelegantly scribbled name with a mixture of awe and loathing.

Aunt Eleanor stormed into a ballroom much the way she had taken over his household—with every expectation of being treated like the queen herself.

Julian eyed his aunt’s fuchsia gown and matching turban with the dyed ostrich plume and decided that Lady Fairchild had not a prayer of regaining control of her own ball. Aunt Eleanor cut a magnificently intimidating figure, her lorgnette dangling from her begloved wrist like a sword to be wielded in the event anyone dared to challenge her judgment that the two young women at her side were themselves worthy of royal treatment.

A gentleman seeking to remain in the same firmament with the ravishing Lady Lucille and her quietly intriguing friend, Miss Gregory, must needs curry Aunt Eleanor’s parsimonious favor with all of the skills at his command. A young society matron seeking to claim Aunt Eleanor’s valued patronage was obliged to herald the two debutantes as the diamonds they clearly were. Any high-sticklers wishing to avoid alienating the extremely powerful and wealthy Countess of Huffington knew precisely what was called for when Aunt Eleanor presented Miss Gregory with an admonition to “Look directly at the girl, as she is quite deaf.”

After a startled moment, the woman would smile carefully and murmur, “Ah, an Original.”

Julian watched these proceedings with a detached amusement that had been strained only during the ride to Lady Fairchild’s, when Aunt Eleanor had insisted on claiming Charles for her carriage, leaving him to escort the young ladies in his own vehicle. Lucy had spent the entire ride making flattering remarks about Miss Gregory’s appearance until Julian had been forced to murmur his agreement.

He wondered whose idea it had been to put Miss Gregory in a gown with such a dramatic
décolletage
. To be sure, the color pink—not one of those bland, insipid shades but something deeper and a bit more complicated—might have been invented with her in mind. Her deep gray eyes had never looked so compelling or so filled with mystery.

The g
li
ttering ornament that caught her hair back over one ear drew his eye to the exposed part of her neck, while allowing the rest of her hair to fall gracefully over one shoulder. Julian had never been able to decide the color of her hair. When she tucked it away under those caps and bonnets, he had thought it a mousy brown. But tonight, in the glow of lamp and candlelight, it was honey and cinnamon swirled together in perfect harmony.

But it was that swath of creamy skin exposed by her gown that truly unsettled him. The small but distinct rise of her breasts dared him to forget the night in his study, when he had all but seduced her.

Damnation. He wanted her still—a whore who looked like the princess his aunt decreed her to be.

Where the devil was Charles? It was time for the opening set. His aunt expected him to partner Miss Gregory and put the
finishing
touches on her dazzling debut. Julian had intended to slip that particular noose and prevail upon Charles to perform the duty; his friend, however, was nowhere to be seen.