Page 2 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER ONE
CLARA BOSLEY
ONE YEAR AND TWO DAYS LATER
Clara Bosley ran a finger across the spines of the books on the third shelf in her small cottage’s overstuffed library. She knew the location of every book because she’d acquired them all herself, and even the poorly written and hopelessly shortsighted ones had long since become old, if not so dear, friends. “Here it is,” she said, pulling one down from its place and opening it. “ Women of Property and Women as Property, by J.A. Gustling.”
“I am not putting that in my trousseau trunk,” her niece, Lady Meg Pinwell, said, wrinkling her nose. “What if my husband—you know, the Pirate—sees it while the servants are unpacking?”
“If he does, then perhaps it will spark a conversation about how you are not to be treated as a servant or pirate booty in your own home. Or one about how he’s to stay out of your private things without your permission. Take it, Meg.”
“I’m going to be a duchess, Auntie. If he tries to order me to do something, I will have staff to see to it.”
Ah, the practicality of those accustomed to privilege. “Hmm. Well, there are some things the staff won’t be able to do in your stead. Your wifely duties, for example.” However little she personally knew of such things, she certainly knew about them. And while she wasn’t quite cynical enough to discount love, anything termed a “duty” had with it the subtext of something not being done willingly.
Behind her, Meg sighed. “Please put that down and come chat with me.”
Clara turned around. It was good to see Meg wearing color again; she herself preferred to consider the utility of clothes rather than their ability to serve as social indicators, but all the black and gray her niece had worn had made the younger lady look horribly pale, and they’d definitely affected her mood. Color, bright and warm, cheery and bold, suited Lady Meg Pinwell and her character much better.
“That sounded serious,” she said. “What did new Earnhurst do now?” Walking over, she sat in the cozy chair beside her niece’s and set the book on the table between them.
“It’s not so much that, as… Well, it is that. But not just that. I’ve been attempting to remain hopeful and positive about this. And yesterday one of his solicitors sent word that James Clay means to honor his father’s agreement and marry me. In just over six weeks. At Earnhurst Castle.”
“I have to say, I’m a bit surprised.”
“As am I. I mean, according to the newspapers he didn’t even make an appearance at Dorchester Cathedral for his own father’s funeral. Thank goodness Papa was still annoyed about the year of mourning forced on us and said I didn’t need to attend. Otherwise, I would have been there when none of his family was, circling the casket like a vulture and waiting to claim my share of the Earnhurst fortune.” She shuddered. “Whatever do rakes do while their fathers are being put into the ground, anyway?”
Reaching across the side table to take her niece’s hand, Clara covered her dismay with a smile. “Before I add my commentary, are we complaining about new Earnhurst, or am I encouraging you to believe that he was simply overwhelmed with grief that day, and that as he’s now declared he doesn’t mean to break an agreement and incur the wrath of your family and the disgust of his peers, he’s very much a gentleman?”
That made Meg grin, as Clara had thought it would. Thank goodness her own father, Meg’s grandfather, had defied his wife and declared that his younger daughter should be educated in what interested her and damn what Society thought, and that as a result she was more qualified to head a household—or a military battalion, really—than most men. And was more independent than most women. And she’d discovered that criticizing a man’s stupidity was a great deal easier when she hadn’t matrimonially bound herself to one of them.
“As much as I would like to think he was overwhelmed with grief and that he is being honorable by not breaking the agreement,” Meg said, “I’m also aware that the gossip pages put him at a three-day faro game at a notorious madame’s house during the time of the funeral. And I feel the need to point out that he hasn’t written me a single letter even though he’s known for a year that I’ve been wearing mourning clothes in his father’s memory and that we’re to be married. And I couldn’t write him even though I wanted to, because Mama said that would be forward.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Your mother is hopeless. Whether you anticipate a romantic attachment or not, letter writing at least shows an effort to become acquainted. You’ve truly received nothing from him at all?”
“Not a blasted word.”
“That’s horrid. You could break the agreement, you know,” Clara suggested. “I’d say you have just cause. Abject lack of correspondence.”
“You jest, but believe me, I’m tempted. I’ve spent the past year reading all about his exploits in the old gossip pages, and if Mr. Johnson’s dictionary needed an illustration for the words ‘unrepentant rogue,’ it would be James Clay.”
Clara sent her a sideways glance. “You know there are some women who would find being married to a rogue romantic.”
“This is an arranged marriage, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want someone respectable, manageable, and competent. Progressive minded would be the frosting on the cake. And you know, I’ve been thinking about your advice that an ugly husband would be less trouble. From everything I’ve read, His new Grace is not ugly.”
At least someone had listened to her criticism of this match, Clara reflected. “You seem to have made up your mind. So, break the agreement. Which, if you’ll recall, I advised twelve months ago and every month since then.”
“Yes, dear, I recall. But there’s another side to this, too. If I tell my parents I’m turning my back on all this, I’ll face their wrath, a very delayed debut Season, and double the scrutiny I would have had last year if no one had made any agreements at all. Now, I’ll have jilted a duke before I’m even presented at Court. Overcoming that and remembering not to call anyone a nodcock could well send me to Bedlam. And leave me unmarriageable.”
Clara snorted. “I do believe most people would understand your decision, given new Earnhurst’s reputation.”
“That’s another thing, though. All I have on my side of the argument is rumor. New Earnhurst is a rake. He wagers heavily. He is charming but heartless.” Meg picked up the property book to flip through it. “Which we all knew before, so it doesn’t precisely reflect well on me if I reject him now for not being other than what he is. We—or my parents, at least—certainly knew about and considered his reputation to be acceptable beforehand.”
“You could always say you expected his behavior to improve once his name became linked with yours, and you’re disappointed to see that it hasn’t. Or that you expected him to join you in mourning his father, and you’re appalled that he didn’t do so.”
Meg shook her head. “I don’t know if he’s been in mourning or not, but there has been less mention of him in the newspapers over the past year.”
“Well, that could well be because no one of note has been in London for months, nor will they be until the beginning of the Season—at which time you’re supposed to marry the man!”
“Pointing out more difficulties is not helping, Clara.”
Clara considered that for a moment. She’d been raised to understand that problems had solutions. It was merely a question of finding them. “Well, if you won’t withdraw on the basis of rumors, and no one with whom you might find answers is in London, then I suppose you could go visit friends of your parents who spend the Season in London and who might be acquainted with him and ask them. ”
“Ha. The fact that they’re friends of my parents makes their answers unreliable. At the least they will be far too diplomatic to tell me any painful truths.” Meg set the book next to her reticule; evidently it would be going into her wedding trunk after all. Good. “This is maddening, Clara. Advise me, won’t you?”
“I’ve been trying to advise you for a year, my darling. You won’t beg off the wedding.”
“I want to beg off the wedding. I can’t do so without some definitive proof of his poor character. Preferably, something that we didn’t know before. If you were me, what would you do? Other than beg off the wedding, so don’t even say that.”
Clara pursed her lips, her gaze on her niece. Not just her niece, either. She’d only been eight when Meg had been born; they might as well have been sisters. Since Meg had gotten old enough to have her own opinions and those had proven to be refreshingly modern and witty and sarcastic, they’d become fast friends. “Let’s be logical, then,” she said aloud. “To restate: You have a problem in that you don’t know the true character of your betrothed—whether he is what the newspapers say, or if he’s another creature entirely. You don’t know if there’s anything worse about him than what the rag sheets have written. Because of that, you don’t know if you wish to spend the rest of your life with him.”
“That is exactly the problem, yes.”
“Go visit him, then.”
Meg’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t! He wouldn’t be truthful, for one thing. I mean, if he was previously so horrible that no woman he already knew wished to marry him, despite the fact that he was a marquis and subsequently quite eligible, certainly he would pretend to be pleasant now in order to secure my hand and my cooperation in avoiding a scandal.”
That made a great deal of sense. People generally had excuses ready to explain away their own shortcomings. How, then, to find someone who would be honest in his or her assessment of new Earnhurst, and who would know him well enough that his or her opinion would be of use?
“What if,” she said slowly, still considering the details, “ I was to go chat with His new Grace? He doesn’t know me from Adam, and I wouldn’t have to give him my true name or relationship to you.”
Barking out a laugh, Meg sat back. “Because you would detest him on principle, for inheriting something he earned only by an accident of birth.”
“I’m not that horrid, Meg. You know I would be honest with you.”
“That you would.” Her niece gazed at her for a moment. Abruptly her eyes widened. “We couldn’t,” she whispered. Meg clapped both hands over her mouth.
“Couldn’t what?”
“Everyone knows that new Earnhurst resides at Clay House in London year round except when he’s visiting other people’s houses to seduce the ladies there. We could visit Earnhurst Castle in Dorset without worrying whether he’s present and have a chat with the staff there. Certainly, they would know the truth about him. And we could see with our own eyes what I’d be gaining from this union. At the least I would be able to weigh the value of his property and title against the current rumors concerning his reputation and make a logical decision about whether to go forward or not.”
Clara stared at her niece, in the back of her thoughts a realization that if Josephine had an inkling of what her daughter had just suggested, the woman would faint. And that when she awoke from her stupor, she would separate Meg from Clara for the rest of their lives. “We would have to pretend to be other ladies, perhaps viewing the great estates on our way to London,” she said aloud, thrilled by Meg’s suggestion despite her reservations. “If they knew who you were, we would never hear the truth. And you would have to be someone who could go unnoticed or be swiftly forgotten on the chance you did decide to go through with the marriage. In other words, you’d have to be a servant.”
“Oh, I like that. Well-considered, Clara.”
“Thank you.” She frowned. “I am obligated to say your mother would never allow such a thing,” she added reluctantly, because that was a problem that would definitely need to be addressed.
“But what if we simply told her we were leaving Devon early to see London and continue shopping for my trousseau? That would even be the truth. Earnhurst is barely out of the way on the road to London, and a few hours there as a visiting stranger might serve to save me a lifetime of regret, or at least ease my worries. Then, off we go to London to do precisely as we said, and no one the wiser—except for us.”
“And what if you discover that new Earnhurst is indeed a fiend and a villain?”
Taking a breath, Meg folded her hands into her lap. “Then once we arrive in London, I will have all the evidence necessary to write Mama and Papa and tell them I find new Earnhurst utterly loathsome and unsuitable. They can hardly deny the truth of what we’ve seen and documented with our own eyes.”
“Goodness. It is an audacious plan, Meg.” A young lady taking her future into her own hands, making certain a match that others had arranged was indeed the one she wanted for herself. Logical, bold, and with minimal exposure to censure or scandal. “I wholeheartedly support it.”
“Do you? Truly?” Meg clapped her hands together. “As you said, I would have to pose as a servant rather than strolling in as myself and asking bold questions. Because whatever happens, I wouldn’t wish my ploy to be revealed to Earnhurst. Oh, you could be a great lady, and I, your companion.”
“Indeed! If we’re assuming disguises I wish to have a horrible name, then. Thimble. Or Frumple. Yes, that’s it. I shall be Lady… Sophronia Frumple. Some earl’s daughter, I suppose, since you’re familiar with the rules for one of those. We’ll think him up later.”
Snorting, her niece stood up and turned a quick circle. “I’ve always thought Mabel a horrid name. I will be Mabel. Mabel… what?”
“Mabel Smith?”
“No, that’s too obviously a faux name. Oh! There was a book about propriety that Mama made me read last year. The poor, silly girl who never did anything properly was Mary Gooster. I will be Mabel Gooster.”
“Oh, that’s horrid. I love it! When do we leave, then, Mabel Gooster?”
“The sooner, the better. Thursday?”
Two days to pack for a trip to London, with a short detour—and her playing a grand lady—to Dorset. “Yes. Tell your parents, so your father can send word to have Pinwell House open when we arrive in Mayfair. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, Meg, or your mother will lock you in your bedchamber until the wedding.”
“I’ll have to figure out a reason to leave Nelly behind,” Meg said, naming her lady’s maid, “but I can convince her to feign a toothache or something. I don’t doubt she would enjoy a fortnight’s respite from putting up my hair, and I imagine the housekeeper at Pinwell House can aid me—us—once we’re in London.”
“We can certainly help each other dress until everyone joins us in Mayfair for the Season,” Clara agreed.
“I wish we’d thought of this ages ago, Clara. It might have gotten me out of that awful black crepe for a short time, anyway.”
“I’m proud of you,” Clara declared. “You are taking your future into your own hands, and not letting others decide it for you.”
Meg sketched a deep curtsy. “Why, thank you, Lady Sophronia Frumple.” She giggled. “And thank you for taking this poor companion along with you as you tour the great country houses of England.”
“You are quite welcome, Mabel Gooster, my dear.” An adventure, and it was about damned time. Clara hugged her niece. She’d been worried that Meg would get married without ever having the opportunity to make her own decisions or choose her own future.
This detour of theirs, though, would force her to do both, and while Clara might privately hope that Meg chose spinsterhood and standing on her own two feet over being married and installed as a duchess simply by virtue of her father being at the right place at the right time, at the least where her dearest friend ended up would be a choice. One gathered through a logical course of research and exploration, as sound decisions were supposed to be.