CHAPTER 21
I t was Saturday afternoon before Damien secured an appointment with Mr. Sommerset, the solicitor for Mr. Fanshawe, formerly the partner of Henry Parke at the publishing firm, Fanshawe & Parke. His coach had just halted outside that man’s offices when he saw another man leaving the premises.
It was Arthur Beckham. That young man had a spring in his step, as if some matter of importance had been successfully accomplished. He donned his hat and set off in the direction of White’s with purpose.
Arthur Beckham had proposed to Miss Patience Carruthers, the daughter of Edward Carruthers. Was it merely a coincidence that Damien would speak to Mr. Sommerset about the affairs of a partner at another publishing firm? There was but one way to find out.
The solicitor fluttered when Damien entered his offices, showing an agitation uncommon in gentlemen so much older than the duke. He stood up, then sat down, stood up again and bowed, dropping into his chair like a bird landing on a perch after Damien had taken a seat. His wig was askew, giving him a comical air, but Damien dared not smile. He explained the reason for his call, which only agitated Mr. Sommerset all the more.
That man picked up his pen and replaced it beside the inkpot. He rearranged a stack of papers, straightening the edges, moving them from the left side of his blotter to the right. No doubt he would have polished his glasses, but he wore none. When his hands finally settled on the desk before him, lacking any further tasks, he met Damien’s gaze.
“But that is extraordinary,” he said.
“How so?”
Mr. Sommerset cleared his throat. “I am in the midst of settling the estate of Henry Parke, a partner in the publishing firm of Fanshawe & Parke, as you are evidently aware. Mr. John Fanshawe has wished to find an investor for as much as half of the company in order to ensure its future, and he asked me to seek a buyer. I have had no success in this endeavor for some weeks, and today, two parties have presented themselves with an interest. It is, as I noted, extraordinary.”
“Might I guess that the other party was Mr. Arthur Beckham?”
Mr. Sommerset flushed. “You surely understand, Your Grace, that I dare not be indiscrete with the interests and endeavors of any of the Beckham family, who themselves comprise the lion’s share of my business.”
“Of course not,” Damien said easily. “But I have an interest in young Beckham myself and in furthering his endeavors. That is why I asked, not for merely the sake of curiosity.”
“How so, sir?”
“There is an old connection of no relevance beyond my desire to see him succeed,” Damien said.
Mr. Sommerset blinked rapidly.
“And of course, I would not expect you to betray a confidence, but if Beckham was inclined to make an investment in Fanshawe & Parke, I would be interested in quietly supporting that endeavor.”
“I see. Although, I do not see how that might be facilitated without revealing your involvement…”
“My role must not be revealed to Mr. Beckham, at least not at first. What do you know of his plans?”
“He wishes to invest so that he and his wife might publish books of interest to ladies.” Mr. Sommerset halted, then apparently decided to confide more. “That also is extraordinary for I have never known him to have a care for any real labor, and I must say, my own estimation of his character has improved significantly. He always was a most genteel young man, charming and polite, but…”
“But one lacking in ambition or direction,” Damien supplied.
The solicitor nodded with enthusiasm. “Just so, Your Grace.”
“And so it appears his betrothed has had a good influence upon him.”
“Betrothed, sir? Mr. Beckham and Miss Carruthers were wed this very morning.”
Then Damien wagered that Beckham would persist in this objective. “Might we speak bluntly of the funds required? How much investment does Mr. Fanshawe seek?”
Sommerset named a number, which was not surprising. “Of course, Mr. Beckham has that much and more at his own disposal, though I am not convinced that his mother will welcome his venture into trade.”
Damien thought of Lady Beckham and winced. “Nor am I, Mr. Sommerset. Let me present a proposition, then, for if I know Beckham, he will persist in his objective even without his mother’s approval. It would be a shame for his plans to fail for a lack of ready funds.”
“It would indeed.”
“I think when a person wishes to accomplish something, particularly something so noble as a publishing house providing for the interests of ladies, that it behooves others to contribute to the success of that venture.”
“Well said, Your Grace. Well said, indeed.”
“On the other hand, I would not want Beckham to know of my contribution, not for at least a year. We might think of my investment as insurance.”
“Or, you might purchase an increment of Mr. Fanshawe’s ownership,” the solicitor suggested. “With a proviso that he might contact you if there is a need for further investment. I know that Mr. Fanshawe would welcome the opportunity to enjoy more of the fruits of his labors, especially since his long-time partner has left this earth.”
“If you think he would permit that situation to remain secret for the time being, that might be an excellent suggestion.” And Damien’s share of ownership would guarantee that Fanshawe could not protest against plans to publish Esmeralda’s book.
“I am certain he would be amenable, sir. We might make an appointment to discuss the details next week...”
“Or we might dine together tonight at my club, if both you and Mr. Fanshawe are available,” Damien said. “I do prefer to have details resolved while the enthusiasm to make the arrangement in question is at peak. The beef is rather good at White’s, if I may tempt you.”
“Sir! I should be delighted but I already have arranged to dine with both Mr. Fanshawe and Mr. Beckham to discuss this very matter.”
“Then, by all means, you must keep the engagement,” Damien said. “Perhaps you might meet me at White’s afterward.”
“I am certain you could join us, Your Grace.”
“But that would scarce guarantee that my participation remained a secret from Mr. Beckham. You might bring Mr. Fanshawe, if he is willing, and we will engage a private room.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The duke stood and Mr. Sommerset rose to his feet, fluttering again. This time, his bow tipped his wig back into its proper position, though he stood watching wide-eyed until Damien had fully taken his leave.
Ha. All would be resolved before Damien visited Esmeralda this night. He smiled in anticipation of her reaction to his news.
Three days without so much as a word.
Esmeralda would endure the duke’s silence no longer.
She had remained home, glad to take her leisure for a few days. She had refused all callers. She had reviewed her correspondence and read all of her newspapers. She had heard all of the gossip that Doris had gathered, and yet there was not a single mention of the Duke of Haynesdale.
She had tried to be patient, but could do as much no longer.
She would find him, and she would find him this very night.
Esmeralda dressed with care on Saturday night and set out to seek her elusive lover. She rented a cab for the first of her search, commanding the driver to wait for her at each location. It was too early for the duke to have taken up occupation of his box at Drury Lane so she went to Covent Garden theater first. There was no sign of him there, nor even a mention of his name among the crowd. She was at Drury Lane by nine, but again met without success. She remained there for a while, then made a brief stop at the Adelphi – though she was right that there was little chance of finding him there.
The gentlemen’s clubs were the most likely locations following that. She dismissed the cab once on St. James’ Street. Damien was not at Boodles, nor at Brooks’, and she did not see him at White’s either.
Her irritation rose for it was well past midnight. Surely Damien could not have gone to her home and found her absent?
She ventured into the gambling den at White’s, which was so crowded and noisy that she could not immediately confirm Damien’s absence. She worked her way through the crowd of men, smiling at one comment and another, then found none other than Arthur Beckham. He played with his usual intensity and she did not disturb him, merely stood back to watch. He did not drink when he played, and he played with smooth confidence, particularly when he was winning. She admired that he did not hesitate but snapped down his cards as if he had envisioned the entire game in advance.
He had rather attractive hands and he moved with grace.
When he gathered his winnings and made to stand, he glanced toward her, as if he had been aware of her presence all along.
“I do not mean to interrupt your pleasure, Mr. Beckham,” she said and he bowed to her.
“And you do not, Miss Ballantyne. It was my intention to leave the table now.”
“You depart triumphant, by appearances.”
“I do.” There was satisfaction in his smile. “I find the acquaintance of my lady wife has brought me good fortune.”
And there was a detail Esmeralda recalled from the newspaper. “And yet, I had understood that yesterday was your wedding day.” She spoke more sharply than was her intention, but why were men so reluctant to do as women expected? She would compose a chapter on that very subject before she slept this night and add it to her book. “How is it fortuitous to fail to share your bride’s companionship on your nuptial night?”
Mr. Beckham’s neck turned red and he averted his gaze. His response was so gratifying that Esmeralda chuckled.
Here was proof of the need for her book. The former Miss Carruthers had to be an innocent, and while Mr. Beckham was not, it was entirely likely that he had never met a virgin abed. If he cared for the lady, he would wish their first encounter to proceed well, and like many men confronted with a challenge, he chose instead to absent himself.
Goodness, but the world had need of her book.
“It is an honor to have the opportunity to introduce someone to intimate pleasures,” she said quietly and her companion clearly wished he might escape her and the topic at hand.
“If you say as much. I would not know.” He turned and gestured to a servant with a tray of glasses, his manner somewhat desperate. “Would you care for a glass of wine, Miss Ballantyne?”
“No, I thank you. I did not come for entertainment or sustenance.”
“Why else does one come to a gaming hell, Miss Ballantyne?”
Her smile was polite. “I seek a man who shares a common trait with you, Mr. Beckham. He also seems unaware of where he should be on this night.” Esmeralda surveyed the room once again, resolved to return home alone, and caught her breath when Damien appeared.
He was leaning heavily on his cane and he looked to be annoyed. Perhaps he had been to her house and discovered that she did not await him like a trained hound. He noticed her and Mr. Beckham together and she could fairly feel his irritation at that.
Surely, he would not be possessive after abandoning her for three days with the injunction that she should trust him? Where had he been? How could he doubt her regard for him?
She would make sure her feelings were clear.
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Beckham. I have spotted the man in question.” She left Mr. Beckham then before that man could reply and swept toward the duke. He smiled a little, watching her approach, and the crowd parted before her to grant her a clear path.
“Esmeralda,” he murmured, his eyes glowing.
“Damien,” she replied, reassured by his manner, then leaned closer. He smelled divine and the heat of him had her wanting to curl up against him. She met his dark gaze and smiled. “Did you forget that I love you?”
“Never,” he vowed with heat, then his arm locked around her. “But I had to prove myself worthy.”
“And have you?”
His smile was quick and wicked. “I believe so, though you will be the judge.” Then he lifted her to her toes to claim her mouth with a triumphant kiss, one that sent heat flooding through her veins. She kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, not caring who saw or what they thought.
When he lifted his head, his gaze was simmering. “We should go,” he murmured, touching his lips to her cheek. “We have much to discuss.”
“We have more, sir, to do,” she replied, welcoming his dark chuckle of anticipation.
Much later, Damien found himself before the fire in Esmeralda’s bed chamber, a blaze roaring on the hearth and the lady in question draped across his lap. Her hair was unbound and she wore only a silk robe, while he wore only his unfastened shirt. He sipped from a glass of brandy in the aftermath of their highly satisfactory lovemaking, while she simply inhaled of the scent of the liquor at intervals and nestled against him.
If this was to be his future, he could only be well pleased by the prospect.
“You are certain that it cannot harm the child?” he asked yet again.
“Not so early as this.” Esmeralda peered up at him, clearly reviewing all he had told her of his recent adventures. “And you are certain that the new Mr. and Mrs. Beckham will see to the publication of my book?”
“It is virtually guaranteed.”
She nodded, her pleasure in that evident, and turned her attention to the crackling fire. He knew she would ask a question of import since she averted her gaze. “And what now?”
“What now?” He pretended that he did not understand, and almost laughed aloud when her eyes flashed.
“You would tease me.”
“Perhaps I merely wait upon your instruction.”
She laughed at that. “I shall not expect that happy situation.”
“Happy? You would be dismayed if I groveled at your feet, awaiting your every command.”
“And yet you fulfill each desire without being asked.” She gave him a kiss then, one that almost distracted him from their conversation. Then she fixed him with a look and tapped her finger on his bare chest. “You offered to marry me once, sir.”
“I believe I was declined.”
“And that is the end of all discussion? Are you not more persistent than that in the pursuit of your goals?”
“The matter rests entirely in your hands, Esmeralda. My heart and my desire are precisely as ever they were, but I was taught that it was vulgar to press a lady for her approval to a scheme she did not welcome.”
She exhaled and frowned. “But we cannot wed. It would not be fitting, not if my book is to be published.” She slanted a glance at him. “Once you wished me to be your mistress.”
He shook his head. “No longer. That would not suffice.”
“What then?”
He leaned close as he lowered his voice. “I do have a notion that might grant a happy result for all.”
She began to smile. “You scheme again.”
“I wonder, that is all. It is true that Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne refused me, but I consider that Mlle. Alienor LaFleur might not.”
Esmeralda blinked. “I do not understand.” she said, although he thought she might.
“What if I were to find the lady who captured my heart before the war?”
“Alienor LaFleur,” she whispered and he nodded.
“What if I should finally locate her in Paris, persuade her to accept me, and marry her? She would be my duchess, a lady with a reputation above reproach.”
“If one who resembles me.”
He waved away this concern. “Consider that I sought her without success, first because of the war and later because her family home was abandoned. Consider that I noted a faint resemblance between you two.”
“Faint?”
“Faint,” he said with conviction. “It is around the eyes and so very faint that a casual observer might overlook it.”
“Ah.” Esmeralda fought a smile, which he deemed a good sign. “Should I be concerned, sir, about your skill in concocting a tale?”
“I should think not, my lady, for my every fiction is composed to ensure your happiness.”
She laughed and stole the barest sip from his glass. “Tell me more.”
His brow furrowed. “And so I asked you, Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne, of the matter, perhaps at Lady’s Rutherford’s masquerade ball.”
“I do recall a discussion with you on that evening,” she agreed. “Though I had forgotten its substance.”
“Quite understandably, as my inquiry would have been of little import to you. I recall that you confessed to having a distant cousin said to resemble you, one you had not seen since you both were children.”
“ Quelle coincidence ,” Esmeralda murmured.
“Indeed,” Damien agreed amiably. “Driven by this information, I returned to France, where I located Sylvie and recognized her as the daughter of myself and my beloved.”
“Who else might she be?”
“The eyes,” he insisted. “The eyes hold the key to the truth.” The lady in his lap smiled. “I brought her home as my ward, then returned to seek my elusive beloved.” He rubbed his chin. “Perhaps in May, even going so far as to abandon my guest, Mrs. Oliver, at Haynesdale Manor.”
“What a shocking breach of hospitality, Your Grace.”
“Just so, but I had word of my beloved and had to seek her out before she was lost to me again.”
“Such an ardent hunter.”
“I could be no less, with my heart so securely in her thrall,” he agreed and they smiled at each other. “My quest met with success, for I located her finally.”
“Ah!”
“Alas, the lady was not persuaded to put her hand in mine.”
“What of your reputed charm, sir?” Esmeralda teased.
He grinned. “Until I appealed to her again, some months later, at which point she accepted me. It was late in the summer.”
“Perhaps even September.”
“Perhaps even then. I subsequently wed her and she wed me, and we returned triumphant to London, to be married again before friends and family by special license.”
“Then?”
“Then we have only to live happily ever after.” He drained his brandy with a triumphant flourish.
“But what of Esmeralda Ballantyne?”
“She might profess herself bored of London and its charms. She might sell her house and depart for a Grand Tour, seeking a place to find happiness on her own.”
“She might indeed,” Esmeralda agreed. “But what of her loyal servants, Mrs. Nelson and Mr. Latimer?”
“Alas, they would be left without gainful employment.”
“No person of merit could bear such a circumstance.”
“But surely, Miss Ballantyne would give them such excellent references that they might each find another placement.” He nodded. “They might even find themselves in the employ of the Duke of Haynesdale, though I wager only Lady Penelope Wentworth would smile into her tea at that.”
Esmeralda’s brows pulled together. “I do not understand.”
“You will, when I tell you more of Lady Wentworth.”
“But not on this morning?”
“Surely we have details of greater import to discuss?”
“Surely so,” Esmeralda nodded. “When might you make this final and successful appeal to your beloved, sir?”
“I thought next week, if you could be persuaded to journey to Paris and meet me there.”
“I might leave as Esmeralda and arrive as Alienor.”
“Precisely,” he said with a grin. “Though I am smitten no matter what name you choose.” He leaned down. “What say you, my lady? Esmeralda Ballantyne declined my suit, but is Alienor LaFleur more inclined to accept me?”
Esmeralda smiled. “I say a man so claimed by love should win his heart’s desire.”
“And what of the lady?”
“Oh, she will have hers as well,” she managed to say before he captured her lips in a triumphant kiss.
The greatest gift that Damien DeVries gave to Esmeralda was not one she anticipated. It was neither wealth nor security, although both were more than welcome, nor was it social status or even the steadfastness of his affection. That was a marvel, but it was one she knew was hers before they pledged to each other.
It was the restoration of her past. She had not realized how securely she had locked those memories away. Initially, after the death of her parents, she had been afraid to think of them lest she be overwhelmed by her grief. Later, she had pushed all recollections of past comforts aside while she fought to survive. In London, she began a new life with a new name, and it was better to have no past, lest she err and make reference to it. She had not realized the magnitude of her loss, not until she returned to Paris with Damien.
And there, as they walked together, exploring the city she had loved as a girl, that forgotten key might have been turned in a lock – for her memories spilled forth, so vivid and numerous that she was astonished by them. She did not wish to bore him by recounting them, but Damien encouraged her, and so she returned to those happy days.
She showed him the path they always took in the Jardins de Luxembourg each Sunday, her mother’s favorite place to sit and paint. She heard again her father’s patient voice as he explained the notable marvels of each church or fortification they visited, smiling at his inclination to include whimsical details to ensure that she was attending his words. His specialty had been history, but he had a hobby of compiling folktales and recording them before the oral tradition was lost forever. When he recounted the history of a structure they visited, there might be a unicorn or a witch included in the story, some magic or a miracle. His eyes, as green as her own, would twinkle then, the sole sign that he made an embellishment.
They visited the square overlooked by the small flat occupied by the family, though she declined Damien’s suggestion that they strive to see it again. She knew it had been humble and small, though she remembered it fondly. She would rather have her recollection than see its current truth.
She walked him to the university, the Sorbonne, where her father had taught, and they followed another route to the school she had attended and been tutored by nuns. The bakery and the greengrocery her mother had favored were both gone, but the shop where she had bought her paints was still there. Another family owned it, so there were only her own memories as she walked the aisles and fingered the supplies.
She told him of her father’s love of Notre Dame cathedral, and how her parents had joked that one day they would buy an apartment on the Left Bank with a view of that great church. She even found the building that they had favored, though neither of them had ever stepped inside it. She told him how they had defied their parents and fled to Paris, her father determined to study and her mother equally fixed upon painting. They had been disowned by their aristocratic families but had been content with each other.
The memories flooded Esmeralda’s thoughts, making her breath catch in her throat and tears rise to her eyes. Finally, she took him to the cemetery where only her father had a small stone. Her mother had been buried alongside him, but there had been only enough coin to see her buried, not to have the place marked. It was a blustery October afternoon and they were alone in the small cemetery, so Esmeralda turned into Damien’s welcome embrace and wept for her loss as she had never allowed herself to weep before.
They exchanged their vows in French in the church her parents had attended, the medieval structure of St. Germaine de Près on the Left Bank. There were no witnesses save the divine, but they would wed again in London upon their return to England. Damien had obtained the special license already. But this moment in this place, where Esmeralda felt the presence and blessing of her parents, was the marriage she would recall. She entered the church believing herself to be Esmeralda Ballantyne, but left it as Alienor DeVries née LaFleur.
They were strolling back to the hotel when she saw the painting and stopped in shock to stare. It was propped up against the stone wall along the Seine, one of the offerings of a bookseller who also had a variety of old paintings and prints for sale. A girl looked out of the frame, a girl with green eyes and a tentative smile, a girl wearing a dress of embroidered muslin that Alienor could feel beneath her fingertips.
Damien looked between her and the painting, then went to the vendor. He crouched before the painting and she knew he read the signature. S. LaFleur. “Sylvie?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Alienor could only nod agreement. Of course, she had named her daughter in her mother’s memory.
The vendor looked between her and the painting, and his eyes narrowed. He asked Damien something in French so rapid that Alienor was obliged to reply. He had guessed that she knew the subject, and given the tiny inscribed date, that she might be the subject. Her eyes would always betray her.
She explained that her mother had painted it and he expressed admiration of her skill. Damien began to ask after the price, but before he could finish, the vendor was shaking his head. “It must be returned where it belongs,” he said, then wrapped it in a sheaf of blank paper and presented it to Alienor with a bow.
Almost overwhelmed, she thanked him, while Damien bought a few leatherbound books from the man. He chose quickly and she doubted that they were titles he particularly sought, but that he wanted to compensate the vendor in some small way for his kindness.
It was later, back in the hotel, that she looked within them and discovered that one – a history of Paris – was inscribed with her father’s familiar signature. They returned several times to that spot, but the vendor was never there again. He might have been conjured by magic, to fulfil her own wish and return some tokens of her own history to her, like a character in a tale her father might have told.
After three weeks in the golden autumn sunlight of Paris, they returned to London together just as Damien had suggested: the Duke of Haynesdale and his intended bride, Alienor LaFleur, who had captured his heart before the war. She had shopped in Paris, as well, steadily replacing each item in Esmeralda’s wardrobe and replacing it with one better suited to the elegant restraint of Alienor. She found she stood taller and walked with a more regal manner, a woman at ease with her place in the world. She abandoned paint almost completely, using only a small bit of pink on her lips, and changed the style of her hair.
It was a different woman who accompanied Damien DeVries by the end of their visit, a woman who existed only because this man had granted her the opportunity to recreate herself again.
Or perhaps she restored herself to the woman she had always been meant to become.
His gift to her was priceless, either way.
The Church of St. George in Hanover Square was crowded when the duke claimed his duchess. The lady in question wore a gown of pale gold silk, richly embroidered at the hems, and carried a nosegay of yellow roses, a gift from the dowager duchess. The bride’s parure of citrons set in gold, surrounded by diamonds and emeralds, was a nuptial gift from her lord husband and one that made her as radiant as the sun in the sky.
All the ton whispered of her remarkable beauty, though some noted that she was not as young as might have been expected of a bride. There could be no mistaking the satisfaction of the pair in question, however, for the duke made his vows with resolve and they never ceased to gaze at each other. Their daughter, some twelve years of age and dressed in white, attended her mother, while Captain Emerson stood up with the duke. They made a handsome party, to be sure. Curiously to some, that crooked old crone, Mrs. Delilah Oliver, was in attendance at both the wedding and the breakfast, though it had been rumored that she held the duke in great fondness.
The wedding breakfast was so generous and bountiful that it was the talk of the ton for months to come.
The happy couple were not present to hear such speculation, for they had retreated to Haynesdale Manor in Nottinghamshire, departing immediately after the breakfast and vanishing from London until at least the end of the year.
Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne returned to London briefly and unexpectedly after her decision to visit the Continent, making a surprise appearance at the December publication party for a scandalous new book of advice for ladies. She swept into the event and bought thirteen copies, then left in a cloud of perfume, not to be seen in town again. The mystery of her arrival and disappearance was sufficient to fuel speculation through the new year.
On Christmas Eve, Baron Trevelaine and his wife, formerly Catherine Carruthers, welcomed the arrival of their first child, a boy to be named Nicholas Edmund Bettencourt. The announcement was sufficient to prompt the smile of the Duke of Haynesdale, for it had been a year since his first encounter with Mrs. Oliver.