Page 5 of A Tale of Two Dukes

Viola saw her dearest friend married, shed tears that mingled joy and loss, and then left for London early the next day, carrying along with her, like so much extra baggage on the roof of the coach, a complicated mixture of feelings.

She wasn’t committing to anything by merely going to Town, she told herself.

It would do her good to get away from the empty mansion full of memories and ghosts.

She had never travelled unaccompanied like this before, without husband, children, sister or friend, she realised as she gazed out of the carriage window at the unspectacular passing countryside, her maid Hannah Owen nodding sleepily at her side.

She’d not made many journeys at all since Edward’s death, apart from visiting her sisters occasionally with Emily and the children.

Not that she was alone now, or sparsely attended – far from it.

She had several liveried outriders – her steward had insisted that they were necessary, both as a tribute to her status as duchess and a safety measure for a woman travelling without a gentleman to accompany her – and they, along with the crested ducal coach in all its shining state, were enough to make anyone stare.

As they slowed to pass through one of the small but bustling Hertfordshire towns on the run into London, she heard through the open window one passerby asking another if it was a procession, and if so, what was it in aid of?

My enormous consequence , she thought drily.

I am, like Ventris’s late aunt, very grand.

And if I want to drive sixty miles on a whim, I can do so without consulting another soul, because I am independent, and need explain myself to no man.

And not even to my own mother, for that matter, who is more intimidating than most men.

Do I really want to give that freedom up, and to a man I cannot trust, at that?

The outriders performed their function, even if that was only deterrence, and they crossed Barnet and Finchley Commons unchecked by bold highwaymen or any other manner of delay.

Late in the afternoon, the carriage rolled between the open gates of the big, old house on the edge of Hyde Park.

The staff had been prepared for her arrival, naturally, and appeared to be very pleased to see her.

She greeted them all, and ate her dinner in solitary state, sitting idle at table sipping wine for a while afterwards and then going up to yet another silent, silk-hung chamber with a large, empty bed in it.

It wasn’t cold, because it had been carefully heated for her by a well-trained maid with a warming pan, but that wasn’t the sort of warmth she needed.

She had thought she’d disciplined herself to overlook these persistent, nagging reminders of loneliness, but Ventris’s offer had made her freshly conscious of such things.

It was having an alternative, however complicated, she supposed.

So many things to balance against each other, and no choice to be made that did not involve some kind of risk and potential loss.

When she put her hands on her body in an attempt to relieve her tension so that she could gain some much-needed rest, it was Richard Armstrong’s face she saw behind her closed eyelids.

His face as it had been when she had last seen it – ironical grey eyes, crisply curling black hair, beautifully sculpted mouth.

His elegant hands on her instead of her own, his lips, pressing hot kisses onto hers, whispering endearments.

She very much doubted if he was lying alone in his chamber dreaming of her; if his reputation was at all merited, he wouldn’t be in his bed for hours, and when he finally got there, it wouldn’t be empty or cold.

She still found release despite that uncomfortable knowledge, but sleep was very slow to come, and when it came, her dreams were uneasy.

The next day she set off, with no outriders this time, to see her sister.

One of them. Viola was one of six, the second-oldest child.

Their father’s small estate had been entailed, and so their mother’s life had been ruled by a single, entirely rational obsession: that her many daughters should marry well and save the family from penury.

Society might scoff at her for it, call her a shameless social climber, but she cared nothing for the opinion of others.

Others, she was fond of saying, waspishly and in several languages for extra emphasis, were not facing destitution and homelessness because of their failure to produce a masculine child.

God knows she had tried; her six daughters with their elaborate Italianate names were ample evidence of that.

Viola’s marriage had been her shining success, dukes being rare and, normally, hard to catch.

The fact that Winterflood was a couple of years older than her own husband had been shrugged off by Mrs Constantine as a mere detail.

He was a good man, she had said, and would give her daughter a good life.

Viola herself had been sensible of the duty she owed to her family; she had accepted Edward without hesitation when he called on her to ask for her hand, having first sought her father’s (which was to say her mother’s) permission and unsurprisingly been given it with promptness.

The Duke had been diffident, shy almost, and despite her own fears and a lingering sense of regret, as if for a possible future vanished forever, she had felt sympathy for him.

He’d lost the wife he’d adored, making no attempt to conceal his continuing pain.

He was no great bargain, he had said humbly, and she would be doing him enormous honour if she agreed to take him on.

He was still handsome, a little careworn, anxious, and not at all puffed up about his status and wealth.

She had said yes immediately. She did not waste time now picking over whether she had regrets or not.

Of course she did – she was an adult, not a green girl.

Viola’s oldest sister Sabrina had also married young and married well, given the regrettable scarcity of dukes, marquesses and even earls; her husband, Laurence Da Costa, had no title nor grand connections, but was wealthy, and also amiable and easy-going.

He had loved her on sight, and Sabrina had grown to love him in return.

As a pledge of her affection, she had obligingly presented him with a son nine months after their marriage, not long before Edward had offered for Viola’s hand.

Mr Da Costa’s substantial fortune had originated in trade, a generation or two back, but Mrs Constantine and her daughter were too sensible to care for that.

The Da Costa pair now shared a contented, busy domestic life in a fine new London home, and a houseful of children.

If Sabrina could be persuaded to sit down and listen for five minutes, she was the wise and steady one, much less impulsive than any of her younger sisters.

And Viola desperately needed to talk to her.

Admitted to the untidy, comfortable sitting room, the Duchess checked swiftly that no children were in it, neither hiding behind the curtains nor under either of the sofas, and turned the key in the lock.

‘Goodness,’ said Sabrina placidly, ‘you must be desperate, and I collect not just to talk of Emily’s wedding.

Locking the door doesn’t ever work when I do it – if we are here alone for long enough, they will start coming down the chimney if they can’t find another way in – so you had better tell me quickly what the matter is.

Are the boys unhappy at school? Has Winterflood burned down and left you in the street in your shift? ’

‘No,’ replied the Duchess, refusing to be diverted from her purpose. ‘Obviously, it has not, or I would not be here, and yes, they have written; they are well, and settling in. Sam Muncaster confirms this in his own letters home. I’ve come to see you because I have had an offer of marriage.’

Sabrina blinked. ‘You must have had others since Edward’s death, and never came rushing pell-mell sixty miles to tell me of them.’

‘I haven’t, in fact; if anyone showed a disposition to be interested in me, I always became so chilly in my manner towards them that eventually, they gave up and moved on to easier targets.’

‘I can well imagine it. But targets ? You do know that it’s perfectly possible a man might be interested you for yourself?’

‘That would be a novel experience.’ Viola uttered these words as flatly as she could manage.

It wasn’t quite true – there had been a man once, or so she had thought…

But that could not signify now, and she had no intention of telling her sister about that, or even thinking about it too loudly in her presence, after keeping the dangerous secret for so long.

Mrs Da Costa absorbed her words. ‘Oh – I suppose it would be, at that. I’m sorry, my dear Vee.

I can see how that would sting. But you were content enough with Edward, weren’t you, at least once the boys were born, after that first difficult time?

You always seemed to be. I don’t mean because he was a duke and all that nonsense, but because he was kind and gentle, and so grateful. ’

There were faint scuffling noises outside the door already, but both women ignored them. No small Da Costas appeared to be breaking anything irreplaceable or injuring themselves or others just yet.

‘He was all that. I don’t mean to sound bitter, just honest. And this man doesn’t want me for myself either, but for the same reason Edward wanted me – to have a child, and quickly.’

‘He tells you so? That’s… unusually frank.’