CHAPTER 4
I t was an arduous journey to Nottinghamshire and a less comfortable one than might have been ideal. Esmeralda found her disguise hot and burdensome. That was not the worst of it, though. She was unsettled, as if she knew disaster was pending but was compelled to wait for it to occur. Esmeralda was not one who often left London, and told herself that was responsible for her unease, but the truth was that she was worried about Sylvie.
Could she rely upon the duke? In his absence, her concerns had found new power. It had been more than a fortnight since Sylvie had gone to the country with him, and Esmeralda knew many a man would not have been able to deny the temptation of sampling her charms. She had not jested when she had threatened him over touching the young girl. She would see any man dead who abused Sylvie and willingly return to prison for the rest of her days for that revenge.
But she hoped the duke’s word was as reliable as she wanted it to be.
The preparations for her visit to Haynesdale had been carefully made and followed to the letter. At the duke’s suggestion, Nelson had taken a long-overdue visit to her sister in Sussex, while Latimer had undertaken a journey to Cornwall, where he had been born. He intended to visit cousins and walk familiar trails. The duke had believed they should not be in the London house alone and that it should be closed in Esmeralda’s absence.
Whether or not he feared any retaliation from Jacques DesJardins, Esmeralda was quick to agree with his instruction. She knew better than to imagine that Jacques would forget any debt he believed her to owe, and she distrusted him beyond all other people. If anyone could escape the hand of justice, it would be Jacques. She would not sleep deeply before he was dead.
It was only natural to hope that situation might occur soon.
She had assumed that the two former soldiers would vanish and knew she would miss them. On the day of departure, Esmeralda followed her familiar routine of running errands, then visiting the theater. There, she donned her disguise and traded places with Ophelia Pearl, the actress, who took the guise of Perkins, her maid, as she had once before. The pair left the theater together as if they had been there all the day long.
To Esmeralda’s relief, when she climbed into the public coach at The Angel, Pearson came sauntering out of the common room to embark upon the same coach. He gave no indication that they were acquainted and she hid her relief at his presence. The duke’s other man, Tate, she soon realized, was riding outside.
Relieved, Esmeralda then did her best to be both offensive and memorable. She informed the prim lady seated opposite that her bonnet was an unflattering hue for her complexion – which was true – insisted that the gentleman beside her had commandeered more than his share of the seat – which was not true – then complained loudly about the lack of punctuality of the coach and its discomfort. When that gentleman left the coach at the next stop, she claimed the place he had vacated by the window and feigned sleep, snoring with gusto – much to the disgust of the lady with the unfortunate choice of bonnet.
Before Cambridge, she was in possession of a considerable measure of the bench. She had given the lady with the bonnet more fashion advice and tempted Pearson to smile into his book. When the duke’s coach appeared in Colsterworth, she struck up a conversation with the driver as if they were old comrades – she pretended to have known his mother – and boldly asked for a ride to Haynesdale Hollow.
It was accomplished with such ease that Esmeralda knew Damien had arranged it all in advance. She sat back in the luxuriously appointed coach and savored a rare sense that she did not battle the Fates alone. Pearson waved down the coach just outside of Colsterworth and Tate also swung onto the roof when they were halted. ‘Perkins’ nodded approval at how it had all been contrived. It was a rare indulgence to have an ally, though Esmeralda did not expect the duke’s courtesies to continue after he had his satisfaction of her.
Esmeralda would think of the present, rather than worry about the future.
It seemed a lifetime since she had seen him. She knew she should have been anticipating her reunion with Sylvie – it had been over a decade since they had been together – but instead, it was the Duke of Haynesdale who filled her thoughts as the coach came ever closer to its destination.
She had gained some weight and a great deal of strength. She had walked a little farther each day and had partaken of every beauty aid she knew. Her skin glowed as once it had, her hair gleamed, her nails were longer and stronger, and she felt the very image of vitality.
The duke would have his reward, to be sure.
Esmeralda could not help but think that she might find it satisfactory as well.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached their destination. Haynesdale Manor was impressively large and old, a house of many additions and multiple chimneys that looked as if it had always occupied the same spot, in one form or another. It had history and presence both, which she admired.
All the same, Esmeralda grunted as she climbed down from the carriage, leaning heavily on her cane as she surveyed the many steps to the door with apparent disapproval.
“Why is it that people feel obliged to build their homes like mountains?” she demanded of the footman, who visibly struggled to remain impassive. “Do a hundred steps increase a man’s importance over a dozen?”
“They might add to his longevity, if my physician is to be believed,” the duke himself said. He descended the steps, moving more like a man at a dance than had previously been the case. He still carried his cane but it touched the ground so seldom that Esmeralda marveled at his recovery. She was pleased by the notion that she had not been the only one building her resilience for their interval together.
He bowed before her, looking so much like the young rogue she remembered from years before that her heart fluttered. “Mrs. Oliver. How glad I am that you accepted my invitation.”
“Doubtless, I will be more glad that you offered it after I have recovered from the journey,” she said. She rubbed her hip. “The public coach had need of new springs.”
“It might never have had any, Mrs. Oliver,” he chastised her, his eyes glinting. “I did offer to send a coach to London for you.”
“And me beholden to the likes of you for more than a visit to the country? I thank you very much, Your Grace, but I have learned that a woman with her wits about her takes a care as to where she incurs her debts.”
“That is most prudent of you.”
“I hope there will be a good dinner,” she complained. “Not some ends of beef or a ragged bit of fish with thin gravy. I am nigh starved to death with the scraps to be found at coaching inns.”
“I believe you will find the meals at Haynesdale Manor satisfactory.”
“There had best be wine,” she growled. “And a good brandy.”
“There always is,” the duke replied mildly. Esmeralda gripped her cane and glowered at the stairs. “The ascent is not so bad if you take the steps slowly, and once at the summit, there will be no more stairs for you.”
“You are fulsome this day, Your Grace. Have you been sampling the merit of your own brandy?”
“It would only be hospitable to ensure it was sufficiently fine for a guest as discerning as you are reputed to be.”
“I could affirm that myself now, if you prefer.”
He laughed, again looking young and carefree. What had happened to his grim manner? “Your chamber will be on the main floor of the house, which I trust will suit you well.”
“That will indeed. I expect as a fellow invalid you have learned the limitations of your own home well enough.”
He offered his arm, his cane in his other hand, and Esmeralda hesitated only a moment before taking it. Her fingers curved around the strength of his forearm of their own accord and she felt warmer than she had.
“Ha!” she said with a cackle. “They will think you have made this place a hospice for the infirm.”
“Never that,” he declared as she hobbled up the steps beside him. “How is Montgomery? I have not seen him since Christmas at Rockmorton.”
She sensed that he was enjoying himself and permitted herself to do the same. “Nor have I, the ungrateful whelp,” she said and the duke started in surprise. “How am I to spoil Nathanial if I never have the chance to see the boy? Why he might be walking by now, and I have scarce rocked him to sleep.”
“He was only born at Christmas, Mrs. Oliver. It would be most precocious for him to be walking before he reached six months of age. I know little of infants, but I do know that.”
“He will be like his father, mark my words,” she began, then noticed the young girl who waited at the top of the stairs. Sylvie was taller than Esmeralda remembered and prettier than she had been able to discern at the theater. There was a compassion in her gaze as she watched the duke and his elderly guest climb the stairs that brought a lump to Esmeralda’s throat.
Sylvie.
Her heart stopped, then fluttered before it beat steadily again. She dared not gape at the girl, lest her attention be noted. Instead, she huffed and puffed her way up the last of the stairs, periodically making some comment against Montgomery. She could feel that the duke struggled to repress his laughter.
“Mrs. Oliver, this is my ward, Miss Sylvie LaFleur, recently come to stay with us.”
Sylvie curtsied elegantly, but Esmeralda whispered loudly to her companion. “Your bit of muslin or your by-blow?” she demanded, deliberately being crude, and heard him inhale sharply. One of the footmen choked audibly.
The duke’s eyes glittered like glass when he turned to her. “My ward , Mrs. Oliver.” His tone was hard but she leered at him.
“And she is your guest for no reason than your own kindness?”
“Yes,” he said, biting off the word. “Like you, although that situation could be revisited.”
Esmeralda cackled a little. “Which situation? Hers or mine? I wager she grants you more…delight than I might.”
His eyes darkened dangerously and his voice was low and dark when he replied. “You assume a great deal, Mrs. Oliver.”
“Who knew aristocrats were so burdened by kindness and generosity?” Esmeralda snorted, then stared at Sylvie. “Not I, to be sure. Not I.”
She felt the duke’s disapproval of her words, but she would hardly be Mrs. Oliver if she failed to give offense to all and sundry.
He turned to Sylvie. “I wonder, Mlle. LaFleur, if you might show Mrs. Oliver to the dark blue room and ensure that all is prepared as she prefers. Though I wished to greet our guest, my ledgers await.”
His ledgers. Esmeralda doubted as much.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Sylvie smiled at Esmeralda, as willing and polite as could possibly be hoped.
As Esmeralda hobbled toward the house, she cursed the discomfort of her disguise and how it slowed her passage. She wanted nothing more than to reveal herself to Sylvie in privacy and learn the truth of the girl’s situation, but she had to proceed slowly lest suspicions be aroused.
Sylvie was shocked by the sight of the veiled and swaddled old woman who descended with difficulty from the duke’s coach. The new arrival wore a dress and coat in an unexpected shade of dirty green, one that reminded Sylvie of lichen that grew on the stones of the convent, and one cut in a style of decades past. She was burdened with dozens of veils and a crumpled hat which had seen better days. Truly, the woman could not have contrived a more unattractive ensemble if she had planned to make it so.
Her boots were sturdy but old-fashioned and her cane was as gnarled as she. It was impossible even to discern her face through her many veils, but what skin Sylvie could glimpse was thickly adorned with warts and of a most unhealthy color. Her stained gloves appeared to hide hands that were horribly disfigured and bent.
Sylvie did not know what she had expected of the duke’s guest, but it had not been this.
It was not within her to be unkind to any being, though, and she had been taught at the convent to be particularly respectful of older people. She could not help but think that Mrs. Oliver was the most unlikely of acquaintances for the duke, whose manners were always fastidious. It was even more remarkable that this old lady was to be his guest for some weeks.
All the same, Sylvie smiled and curtsied, unable to be ungracious to the guest of a man who had treated her well. When the duke suggested that she show Mrs. Oliver to her room, Sylvie agreed, but more because the duke’s mood seemed to be souring.
Perhaps he regretted the invitation now that Mrs. Oliver was arrived.
It took forever to make their way along the corridor to the chamber assigned to the guest, for that lady insisted upon peering into every room they passed along the way. Her curiosity was unquenchable and her rudeness fascinating for its rarity.
Perhaps her hands gave her pain. Perhaps that accounted for her poor temper.
“You could seat fifty in this dining chamber,” Mrs. Oliver complained, her words so loud that anyone in the house or even outside of it might have heard. “All leaving food upon their plates while thousands of children starve each day. And ceilings of such height are a waste. Why there could have been another floor between this one and the next.” She tapped Sylvie on the arm and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The savings on coal would have been considerable.”
The older lady had to stop halfway to catch her breath, which necessitated a tirade about the waste of monstrously large houses.
Sylvie had to speak in defense of her protector. “Perhaps then you should not have accepted His Grace’s invitation,” she ventured. “If you so disapprove of his house.”
“I never saw his house before this day, missy. I could scarce have believed it would be bigger than his London house, but it is and for certain.” She paused to look around herself, pointing with her cane at some filigree on the walls. “Gold, even. I will not regret any expense of my residence here, to be sure.” She continued her laborious way to the door in question, then collapsed on a chair before the fire once inside.
“If all is comfortable, I will leave you to recover from your journey, Mrs. Oliver,” Sylvie said but the older woman drew herself up.
“Not yet,” she said, her voice suddenly crisp. She sounded younger and more purposeful, which was curious. She also switched to French, speaking with a fluidity that hinted it was her mother tongue. “I need help with my hat, if you please.”
Sylvie was intrigued. She conversed more readily in French, but had not expected this woman to either know that or care – much less to speak so well. “I can summon your maid.”
“Perkins will be making acquaintances below stairs. You are here. I will have your aid, if you please.” She smiled, a hideous sight even through the veils. “Or are you so unaccustomed to work that even helping in the removal of a hat is too burdensome for you?”
“Of course not.” Sylvie was stung by the implication that she did little. In truth, she had done almost nothing since leaving France and felt a measure of guilt about that, but at the convent, she had worked hard each day. In silence, she removed the pins from Mrs. Oliver’s veils, following that lady’s impatient directions to find them all.
“There is another,” that woman complained more than once when Sylvie would have lifted the monstrosity away. The disturbance of the arrayed veils released a scent that made Sylvie strive to hold her breath, a combination of camphor, dust and decay that was most noxious.
The veils finally fell away to reveal the crumpled state of the hat, which was made of straw and might even have had mildew upon one side of it. There certainly was a dark stain there. At Mrs. Oliver’s gesture, Sylvie reluctantly touched the hat and removed it. A wig was revealed, tangled and dusty, perched at an angle, in a musty array of colors. Perhaps it was made of horsehair, for it was neither fine nor artfully arranged.
At the older lady’s gesture, Sylvie removed the wig, struggling to hide her disgust. She was astonished to see that beneath it, Mrs. Oliver’s own hair was pulled tightly back – and it was both sleek and as dark as a raven’s wing.
What was this?
Mrs. Oliver’s face, no longer obscured by the veils, did not even appear to be real. It might have been a mask, perhaps for the stage, so unlifelike that it was less horrific to look upon when it could be seen more clearly. Sylvie was reminded of melted tallow at the base of a candle, all soft lumps and formlessness.
As Sylvie watched, the older woman removed her gloves, a feat which also conjured away the misshapen and gnarled appearance of her hands. Mrs. Oliver’s hands were slender and smooth, the hands of a much younger woman than she appeared to be.
Sylvie could make no sense of the transformation. She watched in fascination as Mrs. Oliver reached for a ragged edge above her brow, one that would have been buried beneath the fusty wig. She gasped aloud as Mrs. Oliver seemed to peel away her face, revealing it to be a creation of wax and cloth, a mask with holes for her eyes, nostrils and mouth. The warts came away along with the wrinkles and the yellowed flesh – and she found herself looking into the smiling face of an attractive woman.
Her companion resembled the miniature the sisters had shown her, the portrait of her older sister, the one who worked in London to support them both. The sister she barely remembered, for they had parted when she was an infant.
The sister she would have surrendered anything to meet again.
And now, that very woman sat before her.
“Esmé?” Sylvie whispered, not daring to believe the reunion had finally occurred. Her companion smiled in acknowledgement, even as she lifted a fingertip to her lips in a universal urge for silence.
Mrs. Oliver – or Esmé – stood then and unfastened the back of her dress, letting its heavy folds fall away to reveal her slender figure in a plain chemise. The garment was padded generously, to give her a heavier figure. Sylvie watched as her sister stretched in relief.
“Bonjour, Sylvie,” she said, her lovely voice kindling a memory. She opened her arms, the illusion banished, and Sylvie flung herself at her sister in relief.
“It is you,” she whispered in wonder and Esmeralda held her tightly.
“It is me.”
“But why…”
Esmeralda placed a fingertip over Sylvie’s lips to silence her and drew back to look into her eyes. “Has any man demanded intimacy of you?” she asked, her manner so urgent that Sylvie knew she was serious.
She shook her head. “The duke defends me as his ward.” She frowned, continuing in a whisper. “But why does he do this thing, Esmeralda? Why would he care?”
“He knows I fear for you and would be my friend,” Esmeralda said, caressing Sylvie’s cheek.
Sylvie smiled. “I hope, Esmeralda, that he will be more than your friend.” She meant to encourage her beautiful sister to hope for a good marriage, but Esmeralda’s smile was sad.
“Perhaps he will be,” was all she said, then beckoned to the place beside her by the fire. “Now, come and tell me everything. Have you been happy at the convent? What have they taught you? I want to know about your journey to London, everything I do not know.”
“We only write at Christmas,” Sylvie said. “There is so little that you know!”
“Then tell me,” Esmeralda invited. “Mrs. Oliver may take her dinner in her room on this night.”
Sylvie frowned, troubled by her sister’s deception. “But why do you hide yourself?”
“It is better that you do not know, chère,” Esmeralda said with heat. When she might have protested, once again Esmeralda silenced her with a touch. “The duke knows,” she said and Sylvie was reassured that she was not deceiving her benefactor. “Now tell me everything that has transpired since I heard from you at Christmas.”
Damien found himself disgruntled.
People did not question the merit and the measure of his hospitality.
People did not question his own merit, at least not in his own presence.
Guests most certainly did neither.
And no one had ever asked him outright if Mlle. LaFleur was his mistress or his bastard, as if there could be no other explanations for her presence in his house.
As if he lied .
No one save Esmeralda Ballantyne, who knew the entire truth of the situation. Why would she so insult him? Why would she be so audacious and offensive? He knew that she pretended to be a horrible old woman, but could not imagine such words coming from her mouth.
Yet they had, and he was affronted. He sat before his accounts, having no interest in them on this day. He had expected to spend this evening abed with his new mistress, whose services had been bought and paid for. He expected to be treated with courtesy in his own home. And he expected to be shown an increment of respect from those like Esmeralda, who were not his social equals.
Damien blinked at the snobbish tone to his own thoughts.
Did he think himself so much better than Esmeralda? He knew he had been born to a nobler family. Or did he? What was her origin? Why had she undertaken this trade? Damien sat back and looked out the window, considering that her distrust of men was likely due to her situation being inflicted upon her.
She feared for Sylvie’s future. Of that, he had no doubt. Was it because she knew her sister did not have a powerful family to protect her from sharing her own experience? Was it because some social error in her own past had led to her downfall?
Damien did not know. And as he sat and pondered Esmeralda’s outrageous comments and insinuation, he considered how very little he did know about her.
And he knew less of her sister.
Was Sylvie her sister?
There had to be a blood tie between them, given the similarities in their features. And their ages indicated that their being sisters was the most likely possibility. He found himself reassured that Esmeralda had not misled him in that detail.
Perhaps he should place more trust in her than he might be inclined to do.
There was no doubt that both ladies were beautiful and gracious, and Damien could not disguise the fact that he associated such fine features with aristocracy. If they were French, one did not have to look deeply to find aristocratic families who had lost their fortunes and their homes in the last fifty years, if not their very lives.
Perhaps Esmeralda knew that his lineage was not so much higher than her own, if indeed it was higher at all. He wondered then at her history and her family’s history, knowing full well that she was unlikely ever to tell him of it.
She was alone with Sylvie, as she had requested, and had undoubtedly revealed herself to her younger sister. How many knew the real identity of Mrs. Oliver? The maid, Perkins, certainly. Himself and now Sylvie. Had Montgomery known? What of his wife? What of his guests at Rockmorton last Christmas? The more who knew Esmeralda’s secret, the more who could reveal her, even inadvertently. Damien stared out the window and feared its revelation.
He pursed his lips, reviewing her words again. Perhaps she wondered whether he had fathered children. It would not be an absurd item of curiosity for one who intended to become his mistress. Nor would it be odd for her to wish to know of his past liaisons, or even if he had any current ones.
Perhaps she found amusement in provoking him. Damien frowned, having no difficulty believing that. There was something impish in Esmeralda’s nature, a playfulness and tendency to mischief that he did not believe she indulged very often.
He might encourage that in their intimate moments. He could ask her to speak her mind, or even to disguise herself. There were those who enjoyed such jests.
As much as he disliked admitting as much, such candor was refreshing.
He remembered meeting Esmeralda at Lady Rutherford’s masquerade some months before. Had there ever been a more seductive and lovely Leda? And the swan twined around her shoulders and her waist turned his thoughts to intimacies inappropriate to such a gathering, which might have been her intention. He thought of her green eyes dancing behind her black mask, her winsome smile, her confidence that she held his undivided attention.
And yet, she had challenged him that night. Provoked him. Questioned his view in a way that made him reconsider it.
She was an uncommon woman, to be sure.
He winced in recollection of his own reference to ‘her kind’, and how she had chosen to ‘spar’ with him, in her own choice of words. She had challenged his refusal to wear a costume, noting that he might have been Hephaestus the lamed smith. When he had said the notion had not occurred to him – for it was a clever suggestion – she countered that he had not made an effort at all.
Which was true, but no one else dared to say as much.
She had also told him that she would be owned by no man, and that her heart had been broken, though the injury had been due to her own negligence.
And she had lied to him, declaring that she knew no Mrs. Oliver.
He had even believed her, a warning if ever there had been one.
Damien frowned then, recalling the end of their conversation that night. He had given offense, speaking without considering the result, and she had been indignant. It had been about some book of rumored existence, one that purported to offer amorous advice to women. He had been disgusted by the notion, but Esmeralda had been impatient with him.
He could see her yet, posture straight and eyes flashing.
“So, you would prefer that a wife know little of amorous matters and that a husband should seek out a woman like me for his satisfaction?”
“Of course not!”
“But then by your own edict, it is unseemly for a married lady to know of seduction that she might merrily meet her husband abed. You cannot have it both ways, Your Grace. Either men find satisfaction in their marital beds and my kind cease to exist, or wives remain ignorant of what their husbands could teach them and my trade flourishes.”
“You feel strongly in this matter.”
“I tire of men and their edicts,” she said with heat. “I tire of their demands and their judgements and their refusal to see that the place of women in our society is of their own making. I tire of being blamed for what I cannot influence, much less control.”
Then she had finished her glass of wine, pivoted and marched away from him. There had been no parting words, no courtesy, certainly no curtsy, bow or other hint of deference. Her behaviour had been outrageous by any social code.
And yet, she had not been wrong.
Perhaps Esmeralda could give voice to truths when she was in disguise. Perhaps a mask gave her the confidence to speak her mind, or perhaps she kept a looser grip upon her usual reservations. She had a reputation for being both diplomatic and tactful, and he wagered she held any number of confidences about those of his acquaintance. A secret could be a burden, to be sure, and if she hinted at what she knew while garbed as Mrs. Oliver, no one would give credence to her words.
What did she want of him?
That he should keep his word, undoubtedly.
But Damien wagered that her challenge revealed that she wished also for his truth. Was there honesty between her and her other clients? He wondered. Might he distinguish himself in that regard? What if he confided in her and responded to her queries?
What if he treated her as an equal and a partner?
He might manage to prove himself different from all the others, and thus worthy of her trust. That was a sufficiently tempting prospect to convince Damien to try.