Page 28 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter twenty

The Jester

B el cringed inwardly at Lady Maltrousse’s familiarity with the duke.

There was so much she did not know about this man with whom she had shared a kiss in the barn.

And yet, when he told her of his past, she felt the ring of truth in all his revelations—that, and a wave of pity for the small boy he had once been thrust into a role he was never meant to fill.

“What are you doing here, Callista?” he demanded.

“Why, what do you mean? I’m here to see you,” she said, coyly tapping him on the arm with her fan.

“I knew you’d want your valet after a month or more in this godforsaken countryside, so I brought him along with me to Chatsworth House.

And now that Christmas is over, I’ve left Devonshire to his own devices and come to find a duke more to my liking.

Have I come too late? Are you rusticated beyond repair? ”

“A month in the country can hardly destroy a man’s character,” he said, his tone affecting a sophisticated drawl that had been wholly absent in his fervent conversation with Bel. “But a month in London, on the other hand—” He shrugged.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Her white shoulders dipped as she fluttered her kohl-rimmed eyelashes, exposing even more of her decolletage.

“I’m afraid that I’m promised to the other Miss Morrison,” the duke said carelessly. “You’ll have to wait your turn.” He paused. “Your servant.” Lifting a gloved hand to his mouth, he kissed it.

Bel stood in wooden surprise. Those last two words had been directed at her, and the gloved hand that had just touched the duke’s lips was her own.

He released her fingers, slowly, like a man holding onto the dice as long as he can before making one last desperate cast. She watched him move to the other side of the room where Aunt Lucy was in animated conversation with the Ferris brothers.

“Oh, you poor dear,” said Lady Maltrousse, in annoyingly intimate tones. She did not seem at all offended that the duke had declined to partner her immediately. “I see he’s caught you—like a bird in the lime. It doesn’t take much for his gorgeous grace to lure a new pigeon in for the plucking.”

“Your ladyship presumes too much,” said Bel, refusing to be bowled over by Lady Maltrousse’s manipulation of events. “His grace is nothing more than an acquaintance.”

Lady Maltrousse laughed, and all her blond ringlets bounced with gleeful artifice. “’Pon rep, you coy creature. Are you trying to tell me he has not made overtures to become more than that?”

Bel’s tan face took on a dusky hue. She could not help remembering that kiss from yesterday evening, or his promise to find her in some dark corner tonight and kiss her again .

“I thought so,” said Lady Maltrousse, opening her fan ostentatiously to both shield and showcase their private conversation.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Morrison, but you seem both old enough to be on the shelf and naive enough to be an innocent schoolgirl. I feel compelled to warn you that with a man like the duke, his favours are only too fleeting. I’ve come to take him back to London with me before he can break more hearts here in Derbyshire. ”

“But what if he doesn’t wish to leave?”

“Oh, he will soon enough once he hears what sweets I have in store for him.” She tsked. “Men are all the same—easily led by their appetites. I’ve only to rouse his hunger and he’ll hurry back to London to be sated.”

“I assume you refer to lust.” Bel’s tone was completely straightforward without any simpering or embarrassment.

“My, my, what a forward little thing you are,” said Lady Maltrousse.

“Perhaps you’re not quite the innocent I thought you were.

Does the vicar know what naughty ideas are lurking in the parish spinster’s head?

” Her fingers began to fiddle with the neckline of her dress.

“Indeed, I do refer to that appetite, but also to the appetite for fame, for acceptance. He has it in spades. He wants to be somebody.” Her blue eyes raked over Bel’s unembellished evening gown.

“He would never be satisfied indefinitely with”—she waved a dismissive hand at the cramped assembly room whose greenery had looked so cheerful two hours prior— “all this.”

The coldness in the lady’s tone appalled Bel. It was the same sort of unalloyed meanness that Mrs. Hogg displayed each time Bel brought her an undeserved basket. But for some reason, it was even uglier in a woman of wealth and means.

“How much does he pay you?” asked Bel .

“Why, what do you mean?”

“For his lessons. For his tutelage on ‘how to be a dashing duke.’ Surely, you must be turning a profit off him, for it’s easy to see that you don’t do anything out of the goodness of your heart.”

Lady Maltrousse laughed. “How clever you are. I must own that he pays me a small percentage of his winnings at the card table.”

“But you do nothing to stake his losses?”

“Of course not. A man’s losses are his own affair.

And once his niece’s marriage is settled, he’ll owe me the fee for finding the bridegroom.

And then, of course, there’s the matter of his own marriage.

I’m on the lookout for an heiress for him.

Someone whose money is not in…sheep.” She looked disdainfully at Bel.

“He’ll pay another fee for that, once the matter is concluded. ”

Before Bel could reply, the small maid rushed up to her mistress’ side. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but your jewelled lorgnette has gone missing.”

“Lud, what did you say? Missing?”

Bel could hear fury building behind the London lady’s affected voice.

The maid hung her head. “I set it down, for just a moment, to go relieve myself, and when I came back, it was gone.”

“How careless of you, Pinn! Utterly careless!” She turned to take Bel into her outburst. “And who would have thought Derbyshire would be full of sneak thieves?”

“Sneak thieves? What’s this?” asked a cheery voice. Bel was relieved to have the spry Jack Ferris join the conversation. Apparently, since the duke had secured Aunt Lucy for the dance floor, dear Jack had no one else to talk with .

“My lorgnette has been stolen,” said Lady Maltrousse with feeling.

“Ah,” said Jack, tapping his nose. “That’ll be the jester. He takes things when he’s feeling overlooked.” He quickly explained the ghostly legend surrounding the inn and gave a catalogue of things that had been taken in the past.

“And does he give them back?” demanded Lady Maltrousse.

“That depends,” said Jack, with a cackle, “whether he’s feeling mischievous or malicious.”

Lady Maltrousse stormed away with her maid to find the Colemans and lodge a complaint. Meanwhile, Mrs. White sidled up to Bel and Mr. Ferris. “Dear me, what a mercurial creature.”

“A fine figure of a woman though,” said Jack appreciatively. Then, remembering to whom he spoke, he tagged a compliment on to the observation. “Much like present company, if I do say so. What do you think of her?”

“I think,” said Mrs. White from between pursed lips, “that she’s no better than she ought to be, despite her lofty title. I wonder Mrs. Brownlee allowed her to attend this function.”

Bel, who had always wondered about Mrs. White’s morals, thought it quite a case of the pot castigating the kettle. If Mrs. White’s dress was more demure, it was only because she did not have the figure to pull off the fleshly display that Lady Maltrousse shared so openly.

Discovering that neither of her interlocutors was keen to gossip with her, Mrs. White soon lost interest and passed on to Harold Brownlee. Mr. Ferris kept Bel company until, once again, the music ceased, and the duke returned with a breathless Aunt Lucy on his arm .

“Your grace knows how to tire an old lady out,” said Aunt Lucy.

“Old lady? Where?” said the duke, looking around the room. “I don’t see anyone matching that description.”

“That’s the spirit, Warrenton,” said Mr. Ferris appreciatively.

He gave Aunt Lucy a wink, and Bel watched her aunt’s cheeks pink with enthusiasm.

There was clearly something more than friendship forming between these two—she wondered if Jack Ferris would ever have the gumption to give up six decades of bachelorhood to keep that pink on Lucy’s cheek permanently.

“My fan!” shrieked Lady Maltrousse from the other side of the room.

“I had it in my hand just a moment ago. And now it’s gone!

” Her maid, the one she called Pinn, hurried to her side again, reaching into the reticule to find her lady’s vinaigrette.

Lady Maltrousse inhaled the mixture of hartshorn and lemon oil with an angry sniff.

“Is she always like this?” Bel asked the duke, a hint of distaste in her tone.

He cleared his throat apologetically. “Yes.” He cast Bel a sidelong glance. “It has a different effect on the circles she frequents in London. She receives approbation for ‘feeling things’ so deeply.”

“Ah, we rustics are too phlegmatic to have such sensitivity.”

“ You certainly did not need hartshorn after pulling a sheep out of a mud pit.”

“But you might have needed your hartshorn after your pantaloons were splashed with mud by a passing carriage.”

“ Touché ,” murmured the duke ruefully. “You are made of sterner stuff than I.”

“Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” said Bel.

Overcome by the truth of her own statement, she turned her back on him and walked quickly into the adjoining parlour.

There, she caught sight of Jenny, her maid-of-all-work who had taken an extra job on her day off helping Mrs. Coleman with the refreshments.

“Jenny, I commend you. You’ve kept the punch flowing all night. ”

“Oh, that’s easy as custard, miss. And Mrs. Coleman has all the trays prepared, so all I need to do is bring them in to replenish.” Her brow wrinkled. “Archie’s here, though, back in the kitchen. And he’s squawking like a mean goose about being turned off from his post.”