CHAPTER 10
E smeralda and the duke reached the front doors, which stood open. The ducal coach awaited them both. Lady Haynesdale was already seated within it, dressed in a gown of pale pink that was perfect for her coloring. She might have been one of her own prized roses. Esmeralda watched the dowager beam at the appearance of her son, who did look particularly handsome on this day in his customary dark garb. Though he carried his cane, he was not leaning upon it at all.
Sylvie had been collected by the bride’s family to be Miss Emerson’s bridesmaid, so she had already departed to Addersley. It would be just the three of them in the coach.
It was tempting to make a farce of her climb into the coach, knowing full well that the duke would feel compelled to support her and also would strive to give the situation some dignity. Esmeralda could not resist provoking him a little. She fussed over the two steps and swayed when she was on the first rung, as if she would fall backward and flatten him. He gallantly blocked her fall, then she felt him reach beneath her many shawls and veils. His hand landed on her buttocks, unseen by any but felt by her, and he gave her a decisive heft into the coach that almost sent her sprawling against the opposite side of it. She tumbled into the place beside his mother and caught the wicked glint in his eyes before he could dispel it. Then he was seated opposite them both, the door was closed, and they were off.
It was an excellent coach, very well sprung and comfortable. The upholstery looked almost new, and the four horses appeared to be identical bays with white socks. They set a crisp pace leaving the manor.
“Are you fond of weddings, Mrs. Oliver?” the duke asked, though she had seldom known him to initiate a conversation before. She felt his mother’s surprise and knew her impression was correct.
So, he wished to play today. Esmeralda would grant him more than his due in that.
“Oh, I do, I do,” she agreed heartily. “There is nothing like a wedding.”
“Save a wedding night, as I believe you noted yesterday.”
Esmeralda chortled. “The very ceremony itself makes one recall that first initiation into intimate wonders.” She nudged the dowager, who was visibly startled. “I suppose you miss such pleasures as much as I do, Lady Haynesdale. It is a dour business being a widow, to be sure.”
The dowager inhaled sharply, then spoke. “The situation has its trials, to be sure, but so can marriage.”
“True enough, true enough.”
“I assume you have been married yourself, Mrs. Oliver. Is it possible that Mr. Oliver was someone we might have known?”
Esmeralda laughed until she wheezed. “That scoundrel? I daresay you would not have spoken to him if you did know him, my lady, but oh, he was a fine-looking man.” She sighed rapturously. “Silver hair and what you might call a military bearing. He looked respectable, to be sure, and that was a detail he used to advantage.”
“I’m sure I do not understand.”
“He was a trickster, my lady, a man of no morals whatsoever. A thief, a scoundrel and a villain.” She smacked her lips loudly. “But so very fine in appearance.”
“And yet you married him?”
“I won a wager, did I not?” She chortled gleefully. “The long and the short of it was that I desired him, my lady, and when I caught him in the midst of a secretive and indelicate deed?—”
Lady Haynesdale cleared her throat again. Esmeralda could almost feel her appeal to her son with her gaze, but she carried on with gusto.
“—why, I made him an offer he could not refuse. The magistrate or the parson’s mousetrap. He was not that clever of a man – his looks were so superb that perhaps the good God had no more grace to bestow upon him – and he imagined he would outlive me. Ha! I am more robust than I might appear. And that –” she rapped her folded fan on the dowager’s wrist “– was a wedding night to remember.” She inhaled then emitted a little growl. “Even he was astonished, that rogue.”
“How unfortunate then that he passed away,” her companion said mildly.
“It was. It was indeed. And that very night as well. He had not much opportunity to tire of me, that is for certain.”
Lady Haynesdale turned to study her, her expression one of mingled horror and fascination. “Mr. Oliver died on your wedding night?”
“That he did. And a sorry business it was, particularly as he had not a sou to his name. But he died doing what he loved most, I will say that.”
There was silence in the coach, and Esmeralda waited for someone to ask for details.
She was almost tempted to kick the duke to action.
“Was he cheating at cards?” he finally suggested, prompting Esmeralda’s snorting laugh.
“That would have suited him well. But no, he died in bed, in the midst of the great passion itself. For a man who appeared so lean and fit, he was heavy, to be sure.” She tut-tutted to herself. “I thought I might be trapped beneath him until I expired myself, but the landlord was a gallant one.”
“The landlord?” Lady Haynesdale echoed, her tone incredulous.
“Or tavernkeeper, whatever you would choose to call him. A robust man and strong, though whether it was from hauling ale or dispatching drunken men, I could not say.”
“He entered your chamber?”
“In the nick of time, too. A veritable Samaritan of a man. We rubbed well together until he, too, met his Maker.”
“You married him?” The dowager’s eyes were wide.
Esmeralda coughed. “I wed three men, my lady, and that was sufficient for me. No, old Samuel and I simply enjoyed each other’s company, in every possible way, for the remainder of his days. We went to Rome and Venice, though it was no Grand Tour as the young men do. Still, he had always wished to go, so we found a way.” She nodded. “Adventures aplenty there were on that voyage. And then he died last summer and I returned to England penniless but my dear nephew was so good as to show me kindness at Christmas.” She beamed at both of them, watching as the duke shook his head. Was that a glint of admiration in his eyes?
Lady Haynesdale appeared to have nothing to say and they rode in silence for some moments.
Then the duke cleared his throat. “You may not be aware, Maman, but Mrs. Oliver is writing a book.”
“Indeed?”
Oh, he did wish to play. Esmeralda waited to hear what he might say. His eyes were dancing with mischief, a sight so enticing that she could have stared at him all of the day.
“A most unusual treatise. Perhaps you might explain it best, Mrs. Oliver.”
Perhaps, he thought to see his mother appalled by her project and thus prove his own view to be supported. Esmeralda was more than content to take his dare – for it assuredly was a dare. If she said she compiled a volume of tales for children, he would not challenge or correct her, but she was not so reticent as that.
“It is unusual, for there has never been another volume like it. I daresay I am rare in my talent in being forthright.”
The duke choked at that.
“But what is the book, Mrs. Oliver?” The dowager’s confusion was clear.
“I compose a volume of intimate advice for ladies, that they might know better what to expect upon their wedding nights, as well as how best to maintain the exclusive interest of their spouses over time.”
There was another silence and the duke’s eyes began to twinkle. He dropped his gaze and appeared to be fascinated in the head of his cane.
“Truly?” his mother declared, turning slightly toward Esmeralda. Her gaze was a little too searching in such bright conditions and Esmeralda feared her disguise would be pierced. She, too, lowered her gaze and developed an interest in the toes of her boots.
“Why, that is a marvelous proposal,” that lady continued. “When I recall how frightened I was at my own wedding, all due to ignorance of what lay ahead, I only wish someone might have confided at least a measure of the truth in me.” She patted Esmeralda’s gloved hand. “This is a great service you would offer. Why, I was utterly smitten with Percival and still terrified. Imagine if our match had been arranged and we met at the altar! Imagine if he had not been a man of gentle disposition.” She shuddered. “He was not one to talk overmuch, but he was patient and kind. Many a girl surely has had a worse wedding night than I did.”
The duke was staring at his mother. “You approve, Maman?”
“Most heartily. A book, even at the current costs of such volumes, is a paltry investment in a young lady’s happiness. Why, we had to send each of our sons to Paris for their educations in such matters.”
“Paris?” Esmeralda echoed, knowing by the duke’s quick glance that she sounded more like herself than Mrs. Oliver.
“Of course, Paris . Where else would a young man find a courtesan of any quality? To be sure, there are several in London, but it is such a small society. Who might anticipate what tales could be shared? Not every first encounter is a success. No, no, better that they are initiated abroad where no one knows truly who they are.” She leaned closer to Esmeralda. “But the cost was staggering. Even Percival wished that we might have had more daughters than sons.” She sighed and her voice softened. “But in the end, having three sons was no guarantee of anything.”
The duke reached immediately for her gloved hand and pressed it with his. She smiled a little and blinked back her tears, then turned to look out the window. A moment later, she cleared her throat. “I applaud you, Mrs. Oliver, for it takes a goodly measure of audacity to so challenge the assumptions of the world. Your volume, though, I wager, will be the salvation of many a young lady. I should like to procure a copy when it becomes available, if you please.”
Again, the duke coughed in surprise.
His mother fixed him with a look, not mistaking his reaction a whit. “There is still a possibility that I might have a grand- daughter in need of such instruction, though time does slip away.”
Esmeralda bit back her smile and turned to look out her own window, struggling against the urge to laugh at the duke’s obvious dismay. They were entering a small town, one bedecked in ribbons and roses, and the bells of a church were pealing in welcome.
“Addersley village?” she guessed and the dowager duchess nodded.
“The very same. I must tell you, Mrs. Oliver, that if your volume was available, the bride today might be a good recipient for a copy. She was raised by an elderly aunt, so likely has no notion what lies before her, but is a lively young lady. Her intended may not be aware of the size of his own undertaking. Do you mean to include advice for gentlemen as well?”
“I do. There is already a section for the newly wed upon the matter of first encounters.”
“Excellent. So many practices and habits begin without consideration. I look forward to the opportunity to review your volume.”
They halted before the church and the door was opened. The duke was swiftly out the door, offering his hand to the ladies. Esmeralda descended next, ensuring that she was as ungainly as possible, though he caught her readily. “You make trouble,” he murmured beneath his breath.
“You began the game,” she replied softly. She thumped her cane against the ground. “You had best save me a dance, Your Grace,” she said so loudly that no one could miss it.
“I do not believe there will be a dance,” he said. “A wedding breakfast and a strawberry tea is to be the sum of it.”
“Nonsense. I hear the bride loves to dance, and so she must dance on this day of days.” She waved her hand at him as if he was a schoolboy. “See that it is so, Your Grace. Does your will not reign supreme in Haynesdale? I can think of no more fitting gift for such a bride.” And then she hobbled away, leaving the duke’s mother staring after her in amazement.
The duke, she well knew, was striving to hide his smile.
Much later, on the lawns of Addersley Manor, Esmeralda met the bride, a pretty chit who was fairly made of mischief. She even had a puppy of that name, a boisterous creature that bounced around the new viscountess, nigh as smitten with her as the groom appeared to be. The bride revealed that she had read some of Mrs. Oliver’s book already, which was a puzzle, but one of little import. All in all, matters proceeded well. The gift would be well-received.
Esmeralda was sitting in the shade of a canopy, watching the festivities and thinking with yearning of the moment she could abandon her disguise, when a young woman approached. “Would you be Mrs. Oliver?” She was very pretty with fair hair and a gold wedding band gleaming through the white lace of her glove.
“I am, I am. And who are you, if you do not mind me asking?”
“I am Mrs. Emerson now, but am recently wed. I am the duke’s younger sister, once Eliza DeVries.”
“A woman of experience. I like you well already,” Esmeralda said heartily, her thoughts spinning as she worked through this list of credentials. The duke’s sister. Esmeralda was certain they had not met and that she did not know the other woman from town. Emerson was the former surname of today’s bride and had the dowager not mentioned that her own daughter had recently wed? Emerson was the duke’s friend, now establishing a stable at nearby Southpoint, she was certain of it.
“A woman should bury as many husbands as possible before her fortieth year, the better to ensure her financial future,” she said with spirit.
Her companion flushed. “Oh, I have no desire to bury this one,” she said, casting an affectionate glance in the direction of a tall man with fair hair. Esmeralda followed her gaze, noting how the man in question smiled, his attention clearly snared by his wife. “Perhaps you have met my husband, formerly Captain Emerson? He and the duke served together in the war.”
“I have not, though I like the look of him very much.”
Mrs. Emerson laughed and flushed more deeply. “Oh, as do I.”
“You have caught yourself a handsome husband, Mrs. Emerson, to be sure.”
“I have.” The lady leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And that is why I would speak with you, Mrs. Oliver. I had the good fortune to read some passages from your book in advance of publication.”
“You did?” How was it that so many people had read her book? It was not in wide circulation.
“You sent them to me, for my remarks. I responded to an advertisement. I was a widow then, and my name was Mrs. North.”
“Mrs. North! I remember your comments well. They were sensible and constructive.” She peered at the other woman, fairly leering at her. “And you were the one to demand more specific detail!”
Mrs. Emerson’s cheeks flared crimson. “I was. I confess it. But reading those excerpts aided me enormously. I would put the credit for our very marriage at your feet, and certainly its current happy state as well.”
“A testimonial then.”
“Of course. Though I should have to offer it under a pseudonym, or with only initials…”
Esmeralda had not thought of asking for such approval in writing, but the idea was a splendid one. “We can contrive a way to see it done. I am glad to have been of assistance.”
“Oh, Mrs. Oliver, you were indeed. If there is ever anything I can do to aid you, please do not hesitate to ask.” She cast an adoring glance at her husband, then smiled at Mrs. Oliver. “We are so happy and it might not have been thus if I had not read your book.”
“I do not mean to call that favor as yet, but perhaps you might mention your appreciation to your brother. I fear the duke disapproves of my project.”
“No! I will speak to him immediately.” And Mrs. Eliza Emerson bustled away with purpose, leaving Esmeralda well content.
Some scheme was afoot.
Constance DeVries could fairly smell it. The change in her son could not be ignored and the very presence of Mrs. Oliver in his house was beyond explanation. Was he indebted to the woman somehow? The dowager duchess could not contrive of a circumstance that would make him so – though she had most assuredly tried. His own manner only added to the mystery. Not only did he emerge from his library at more frequent intervals, but he relied less upon his cane. It was clear that his leg had healed more in recent months than in previous years.
She sensed that it was due to his own efforts – but why would he make an effort now after brooding for so long? What had changed?
Mrs. Oliver was present. That was an indisputable change. The woman was outrageous, dirt common, and coarse – and yet, Constance could not regret how the outspoken widow improved her son’s mood. She watched as he directed the musicians to set up and commanded a space for dancing be cleared on the lawns and shook her head.
It was as if he became again the carefree young man who knew himself devoid of responsibilities. He had been a merry companion before the war, a wicked tease and a boy who found trouble without apparently seeking it. She had missed Damien’s younger self and regretted how the title seemed sometimes to be a heavy burden to him.
Until now.
She accepted a cup of tea and claimed a seat in the shade, sufficiently distant from Mrs. Oliver’s chosen spot that she would not be obliged to speak to the woman, but close enough to observe her. In what spell had this unlikely woman snared the duke so completely? Those filthy veils hid a secret Constance was determined to know.
Indeed, if Mrs. Oliver had possessed any attractive features at all, the dowager duchess would have assumed her power over Damien was rooted in the oldest appeal of all.
Yes, she would have thought him smitten.
The notion was laughable, but was it? On this day, they jested together, like comrades long familiar with each other. Constance watched as the duke invited Mrs. Oliver to dance, while that woman scoffed at him for making such an invitation. He was not insulted, but amused. Hmm. He then escorted Eliza to the lawn and she smiled at the two of her children together, so handsome in the sunlight. They both wore straw hats and laughed at each other, each as graceful as the other.
Each apparently as happy as the other.
Hmm. Captain Emerson was a man to win a woman’s heart, to be sure, and Constance studied him as he watched Eliza with obvious affection. Sylvie was attracting more than her share of interest, and appeared flustered each time she was compelled to choose between her admirers. Damien was apparently indifferent to that maiden, though he cast a stern eye over every young man who approached her.
His manner was paternal, not possessive.
The bride was as merry a damsel as ever, and even the viscount thawed in her presence. They made an admirable pair and Constance did not doubt there would be an addition to their household within the year. The two danced together, evidently lost in each other’s eyes.
Yet the duke did not so much as glance their way. No, when his gaze strayed from his partner, it inevitably fell on Mrs. Oliver.
And what was this nonsense about cats? There were no cats in the gardens at Haynesdale. Constance was certain of it, and if there had been, they would not have emitted sounds such as the ones she had heard the night before. More than yowling, there had been a veritable roar at one point, a bellow that reminded her clearly of a long-ago night when Percival found great satisfaction in their coupling…
Oh!
Constance blinked and took a sip of tea.
Not with Mrs. Oliver!
It could be no one else.
And Damien had insisted that they have adjacent chambers. That could be for the most obvious convenience.
Constance recalled the glint of green eyes behind those veils, the hint of a gaze much sharper than she might have expected. So much of Mrs. Oliver’s appearance might have been intended to repel curiosity, but what if one looked more closely? What might one see?
Who might one see?
Constance wished very much to know, but that meant she must have Mrs. Oliver alone, away from Damien’s protection, and preferably in sunlight.
There was only one way she might ensure his absence from whatever she planned.
She eyed her old rival and sometimes friend, Lady Frances Dalhousie, aunt of both the bride and Captain Emerson and now resident of nearby Bramble Cottage. An invitation to Bramble Cottage for tea, for herself and her son’s guest, might see her goal achieved. Frances was fond of tea served in her garden, which was both sunny and prone to gusts of wind.
The afternoon would be an ordeal, of course, trapped in the company of two women who apparently could not control their tongues. But it was for the good of her sole surviving son: if Damien was smitten, Constance had to know every detail of the lady in question.
But how to manage the feat? Frances was cursedly mean with invitations, perhaps due to her limited financial means. Constance might invite Frances to Haynesdale Manor first, to secure a reciprocal invitation. Perfect. She knew that her old rival would not refuse a chance to criticize the layout of the new gardens, after all, much less the opportunity for a sumptuous tea. Nor would Frances be so rude as not to reciprocate with admirable speed. Why, Constance’s goal might be achieved within the week.
The morrow it would be.
The dowager duchess strolled toward Lady Dalhousie with purpose, intent upon setting the matter in motion without delay.