CHAPTER 7
M rs. Oliver’s appearance was particularly hideous this morning, as she was draped in veils of an indeterminate pink hue. It truly was difficult to believe that Esmeralda was behind the disguise, so short and lumpy and hideous did his guest appear. Every item she wore was of the same muddled pink shade, and most heartily unflattering. Was her skin more orange than it had been? Damien could not be certain and he did not want to let his gaze linger upon her.
She peered at him and his mother, as if to ascertain their identities despite bad vision, then gave the sideboard a more thorough survey. Only the green of her eyes, barely visible behind the veils, hinted at Esmeralda. She rapped her cane on the floor when no one spoke, recalling Damien to his manners.
He set aside his newspaper and stood. “Maman, I do not believe you have met our guest, Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Oliver, this is my mother, Lady Haynesdale, the dowager duchess.”
His mother inclined her head regally. Mrs. Oliver made some creaky attempt at a curtsey that appeared to be so painful that Damien winced without intending to do as much.
“Good morning, Mrs. Oliver. I do hope that you slept well.”
“I might have, if not for that howling tom cat in your garden,” she said with some asperity. “What a raucous creature he was! There must be mice in the garden, or rats in the offings from the kitchen, for a cat to be so large and robust.”
“You saw it, Mrs. Oliver?” The dowager duchess appeared to be alarmed, but then the prospect of rodents in her rose garden could compel her to reach for her smelling salts.
“Such a volume of noise, my lady, could only come from a tom of significant size. Why he must have been bigger than a dog, and virile beyond compare. He yowled and howled, finding his satisfaction over and over, all the night long.” Mrs. Oliver paused by the sideboard for a moment of appreciation, then visibly struggled with the challenge of serving herself and managing her cane.
Damien nodded to Farrell who had already stepped forward. “If I might be of assistance, madame?”
She peered at him. “You are long in the tooth for a footman,” she said. “Too challenging a task for you? Lifting plates and serving from the proper side?” She cackled and gave the staid Farrell a nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “Ha! You should see your face!”
Farrell blinked then achieved his customary impassivity.
Mrs. Oliver pointed a crooked finger at one dish. “What is that?”
“Kedgeree, madame, a savory dish of fish, rice and eggs. This morning, it includes smoked kippers rather than smoked haddock.”
Mrs. Oliver leaned forward to peer at it. “Looks like a dog’s breakfast.”
“And yet it is a popular choice. It can be quite spicy, but ours is comparatively mild if that is a concern for you.”
Mrs. Oliver barked a laugh. “When in Rome,” she said, jabbing her finger toward the serving dish. “I will try it. And those are blood sausage, are they not?”
“Indeed, madame.”
“Excellent. I like those. No, another. And another. I have to keep up my strength, young man.” She laughed uproariously at Farrell’s reaction to being called a young man. “How old are you then?” she whispered. “I am eighty-two, which grants me the right to call most of humanity ‘young.’ Ha! The things I have seen and done. Oooo, fresh muffins. Two of those with a lot of butter, if you please. And the kippers alone, and the bacon, and the plain sausages. Broiled tomatoes! Splendid.”
“I believe, madame, that your plate is as full as it can be. You can always return for more.”
“Indeed, I can, and you can be sure that I will.” She pointed across the table to a place setting that would have her back to the windows. “There. I cannot abide the sun in my eyes.”
“Of course.” Farrell smoothly deposited the loaded plate in the indicated place, the volume of food making Damien’s portion look mingy. Mrs. Oliver settled into her place with a thump that might have been sufficiently vigorous to break the chair, burped loudly, then grasped her fork in her gloved hand. “Making space,” she said heartily, prompting Damien’s mother to give him a horrified glance.
Somehow, Mrs. Oliver had contrived to get a forkful of kedgeree beneath her veils for she was chewing noisily when Damien glanced back at her. She wagged her fork at his mother and resumed their conversation. “Mark my words, there will be kittens soon. You will find them in every corner of the shed and kitchen, and in every closet. That tom was at it all night long and enjoying himself well. Such pleasures do not come without results .” She nodded then poked at her plate, spearing a slice of blood sausage and making it vanish with impressive speed.
Fascinated and horrified, Damien retreated behind his newspaper. What was Esmeralda’s intention? Was she striving to repel him? If that was her strategy, she succeeded admirably.
Or was there something else that concerned her? He suspected that she was referring to him when she spoke of the robust tom, but did that mean she was worried about…kittens? It was true that intercourse could lead to conception.
What if she bore him a child?
He found himself ridiculously pleased by the notion. Esmeralda, his duchess, and their child as his heir. The notion was gratifying beyond all expectation, and he savored the possibility for a long moment before he realized how unlikely it was.
He glanced over the paper, watching Esmeralda goad his mother deliberately. How would his mother take to Esmeralda as his intended bride? Likely no better than she was taking to Mrs. Oliver, he had to admit.
He had never fathered a bastard and had no inclination to do as much. His mother was right that he needed a wife and an heir – but neither did he wish to abandon the delights of Esmeralda’s company as yet.
What might he do to avoid the inevitability of…kittens?
How could this conundrum be resolved?
Damien reached no conclusion before Sylvie came to breakfast, for Mrs. Oliver was highly distracting.
“A wedding?” Esmeralda repeated, then cackled with Mrs. Oliver’s customary glee. “Oh, there is nothing I like better than a wedding.”
“Indeed,” Lady Haynesdale agreed. “Doubtless the bride will be pretty and the pair will be happy.”
“I care neither for their looks nor their satisfaction. What is merry about a wedding is that it will be followed by a wedding night. Ha!”
The dowager blinked at this earthy comment but Esmeralda would continue.
She dared not fall silent as yet. Lady Haynesdale had a sharp gaze and was likely as perceptive as her son, if not more so. The sooner Esmeralda appalled the older woman, the better. Her disguise could only survive the duration of her stay if no one peered too closely.
“And a wedding night can be a celebration indeed. Why, I recall my second husband…or was it the fifth? Now I must consider. They both had hair of a similar hue and showed similar…assets.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned across the table. The dowager looked both shocked and fascinated, but she waited in silence for whatever her son’s guest might say. “There is nothing I like better than a man with more to share, if you know what I mean. Tell me, Lady Haynesdale, how endowed was your late husband?”
The dowager sputtered, glared at her son, and took a hasty sip of tea. She was clearly in a rush to finish her meal, so Esmeralda diverted her attention to Sylvie.
“Who are the fortunate pair, Miss LaFleur? Is the young lady a friend of yours?”
“A mere acquaintance, Mrs. Oliver, for I met Miss Helena Emerson when I arrived at Haynesdale Manor.” Sylvie spoke slowly and carefully in English. “She also had only recently come from London.”
Esmeralda chewed with gusto, striving to recall where she had heard that name. Emerson. Emerson. Was that not the name of the duke’s friend? The one who had won a fortune at cards while she had been incarcerated? The sum had been sufficient that the tale had barely begun to fade when Esmeralda heard it – though doubtless his winnings had increased by leaps and bounds in the telling. “Emerson,” she murmured to herself.
“Perhaps you recognize the name, Mrs. Oliver,” the duke said, coming unexpectedly to her rescue.
She glanced up to find him watching her, his expression inscrutable. No doubt he was appalled but thus far, managed to hide it. “I fancy I do, Your Grace. Was there a scandal associated with the family? A duel, perhaps? Something messy and memorable?”
“Even though you have forgotten it,” the dowager said softly, earning Esmeralda’s admiration.
“A duel indeed,” the duke said. “I was Captain Emerson’s second on that morning. A young whelp had spread untruths about his sister, this same Helena, and the captain defended her honor.”
“A duel!” Esmeralda gasped with pleasure, ensuring that a piece of egg fell out of her mouth in so doing. She scrabbled at her gown to retrieve it, deliberately smearing it across the cloth while her companions watched in dismay. “Ah well, the dogs will be glad to see me,” she said with a chuckle.
Knowing all eyes were upon her, she stabbed another slice of blood sausage and made it vanish beneath her many veils, ensuring that she made a loud gobbling noise as she dropped it down the bodice of her gown. It vanished into a pocket Ophelia had created there for precisely the purpose of making food disappear rapidly.
She glanced toward the duke, finding his expression approaching disgust. “I thought I might have heard your names together.”
He responded without emotion. “We have been great friends since we were boys and served together in Spain.”
“Heroes all!” Esmeralda crowed, toasting him vigorously with her tea, so vigorously that it sloshed over the rim of the cup. She sipped at it noisily, then grinned at him. “I do not suppose a thirsty soul might enjoy a sherry in the morning in your abode, sir?”
He hesitated only a second, then gestured to the butler. That man returned a moment later with a glass and a decanter, both of cut crystal. That there was only one glass was a message that could not be missed, but Esmeralda ignored it. She cast back the measure of sherry in a single gulp, then belched noisily and patted her stomach.
Then she tapped the stem of the glass with a heavy finger. The butler refilled the glass, exuding disapproval. As much as Esmeralda knew it would be in character for her to make it vanish immediately as well, her throat was burning from the first one. She attacked her breakfast instead. “And this Captain Emerson,” she said. “Is he still in the military?”
The dowager stirred herself. “No, he has married my daughter.”
“Another wedding!”
“But one already celebrated,” that lady said primly. “They make their home at Southpoint, which you passed on your way here. Captain Emerson is establishing a stable.”
“Horses at stud. Excellent!”
The older lady’s brows rose but she ignored Esmeralda’s reply. “In fact, his aunt lives at Bramble Cottage, not far from here. Perhaps one day you might enjoy a visit to Lady Dalhousie.” Her voice hardened slightly. “You might find that you have much in common.”
Her change of tone convinced Esmeralda that the dowager duchess was not overly fond of Lady Frances. “Lady this and lady that,” she snorted. “I would rather visit with a seamstress or a cobbler’s wife. They will have tales to tell worth the hearing.” She shook her fork at her hostess. “If you wish to know the way the wind blows, find a charwoman or a milkmaid, for many speak as if they are not even present and they know all of what is going on. Find an innkeeper’s wife or a solicitor’s auntie, for they listen at doorways and will have stories to share. Find an old woman who knits by the fire but has her eyes open, and she will tell you how past shadows color the present. But an aristocrat?” She coughed in disdain. “They know nothing but the hue of the ribbons on their own shoes, for they care for little other than themselves.”
There was a silence after this speech, precisely as Esmeralda had anticipated. She made the most of it by cleaning her plate noisily, clattering the silver against the china, scraping up every last morsel as if she had not eaten in a month, and conjuring a fruity belch at the end. The false front of her dress was filled with food and she wagered she should find a dog in the stables with some haste.
“You do realize, Mrs. Oliver,” the duke said, speaking with a precision that revealed his annoyance. “That you are the guest of an aristocrat?”
“Indeed, indeed,” she said cheerfully. “And fortunate I am in that.” She saluted him with the glass of sherry. “May God smile upon you for your charity and kindness, Your Grace.” Then she downed the contents of the glass and impishly ran her tongue around the inside of it before putting it down. “You may need it, if you are to have an heir before you die.”
“What is that to mean?” the duke asked coolly.
“Come along, Your Grace. You must have a mirror. You know you are not in the first flower of your youth, and if I may be blunt –”
“By all means, Mrs. Oliver, I would not encourage you to be otherwise,” he said, his voice low and dark despite his encouragement.
“Not all toms are as vigorous in their dotage. It is always best to see the future assured early. An heir and a spare before a man is thirty is what I recommend, for I have seen much in my days.” She waggled a finger at him. “You should wed, sir, while you still are able to meet a lady abed.”
A twinkle dawned in his dark eyes, though he did not smile. “I must thank you for such sage advice, Mrs. Oliver.”
She tapped her glass again pointedly as if that was the reward she sought.
The dowager duchess blinked, then carefully set her napkin aside. “I confess I must review the garden this morning,” she said, rising gracefully to her feet. “We will be sending roses to Addersley in the morning for the wedding breakfast and I must confer with the gardener as to which blooms should be cut.” She did not wait for Esmeralda to invite herself along, but swiftly left the room, pausing only to give her son a hard look.
He returned to his newspaper, pointedly ignoring Esmeralda.
She would provoke him into leaving her alone with Sylvie yet.
“Now tell me, Mademoiselle LaFleur, about this young couple. Tell me everything you know about them, if you please.”
“I do not know very much, Mrs. Oliver, for I met them both so recently. The viscount is so very handsome, and Miss Emerson is very pretty.”
“Pshaw. You must know a more interesting detail about them than that!” Once again, Esmeralda was searching her memory. She knew she had heard of Addersley. Had there not been a viscount, a widower rumored to compile the information gathered by spies? She was sure of it, but he had been elderly. He could not be the bridegroom in question – or if he was, Sylvie would not consider him handsome. There had been sons. Yes! Twin boys. Handsome troublemakers – or at least one of them had been. She wondered which would be marrying Miss Emerson. Had they not traded places as a matter of habit? Yes, Esmeralda rather thought they had.
Miss Emerson might be gaining more in her match than she anticipated.
“Well,” Sylvie pushed a piece of egg across her place. “They say the viscount asked for her hand when they first met, here in Nottinghamshire, but she declined him for she understood that he did not dance.”
“What a feckless reason for declining a suit.” Esmeralda nodded. “I may like this girl well.”
The duke snorted and strove to hide the sound with a rustle of his paper.
“I think that Lady Haynesdale had a notion that he might suit for me.” Sylvie confessed shyly. “But when we arrived here at Haynesdale Manor, there was a ball, and though he danced the first with me, then he danced with Miss Emerson.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “On the terrace, and she accepted him then.”
“Did she have a choice after such a liaison?” Esmeralda demanded, then nodded wisely. “Though perhaps there had been other liaisons, which convinced her of her error.”
“Mrs. Oliver,” the duke said sternly. “I cannot permit such speculation about a young lady in our vicinity, particularly one who is to wed on the morrow. There is not a scrap of scandal attached to Miss Emerson’s name, and I will not have you embellishing her reputation for your own entertainment.”
Esmeralda bowed her head in apparent deference. “You are right, Your Grace. You are right.” She was smiling beneath her veils, though, for she knew there had been a scandal associated with the twin sons of Viscount Addersley. She had remembered it.
If ever a bride had need of the volume Esmeralda was compiling, it was Miss Helena Emerson.
And Esmeralda meant to ensure she would have it.
First, she would learn every detail Sylvie knew about the couple.
“Get along with you then, Your Grace,” she said in Mrs. Oliver’s most jocular manner. “I want to hear all the details of this courtship and you’ll not be wanting to listen to women’s tittle-tattle. Indeed, you lose your patience with us already and would best be about your other business while we confer amongst ourselves. Send that old man back to top up my glass and leave us be.”
The duke looked so astonished to be dismissed from his own breakfast table that she almost laughed aloud. It was far too amusing to so tease him.
Perhaps she should agree to his request for exclusivity. Their first night had been more than satisfactory, and she could readily become accustomed to having the comforts he could offer.
Esmeralda pushed herself up from her seat and staggered toward the sideboard. “I know you will not mind, sir, if I avail myself of your most delicious morning buffet.” She seized a plate and began to load it up again. Feeling the weight of his gaze upon her, she claimed a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it at the sideboard, smacking her lips when it was gone. She could not resist the urge to glance toward the duke, given his silence.
He stood motionless, like a man struck to stone, his gaze locked upon her. His expression had changed from surprise to horror and evidently, he had also lost his tongue.
Clearly, no one ever challenged his expectations.
Perhaps it would be to his benefit for her to agree to his proposal. A man could become too confident in his circumstance, to be sure.
“What time do we leave for the wedding in the morning?” she asked Sylvie. “I must be sure to be ready on time. I would not wish to delay the party.”
“I am to be in the foyer by nine,” Sylvie supplied sweetly.
“Then nine it shall be,” Esmeralda agreed and the duke spun on his heel, departing from the room with impressive speed.
His leg was improving significantly. He had even forgotten his cane this time.
She would have to compliment him upon his recovery.
What had possessed Esmeralda to give such a performance? Damien did not know whether to be insulted, amused or puzzled. He was certain that there had to be a logical explanation, but was too annoyed at being dismissed like a beggar come to the table – when, actually, he had been preparing to leave of his own volition, but still – that he stalked down the corridor to his library in a sour mood.
He was not sulking.
He was not curious about what might be said in his absence.
He was…unsettled. Surprised. Taken aback. Shaken out of his customary routine.
Was that necessarily a bad thing? To be frank, Damien could not imagine that it was. He was the one who always confessed a fondness for surprise – though, to be sure, he usually gave the surprise rather than receiving it.
He sat in the chair at his desk and gazed out the window. His mother was marching across the terrace, Mr. Marchand, the head gardener, close behind here. The dowager duchess was talking quickly, her hands flying with unusual animation as she gave the habitually silent gardener an accounting of some such event. Damien could guess what it might be. Though he could not hear his mother’s tirade, it was clear that she disapproved of something or someone.
He found himself smiling that he and his mother had been similarly provoked by Esmeralda, no doubt deliberately.
If nothing else, Esmeralda had certainly ensured that his mother would avoid Mrs. Oliver, but perhaps that had been the point.
And his absence had been desired, it was clear, but why? He did not think himself to be such poor company as that. Ah! She had been left with only Sylvie for companionship. Perhaps that had been her intention. He could not imagine that the sisters had caught up on every detail in merely a few hours the previous day. The pair had not spent time together since Sylvie’s infancy, after all.
It all made perfect sense, and Damien supposed he should not be surprised that she chose an uncommon method of achieving her goal. Esmeralda was unpredictable, and he reminded himself that he admired that.
And what was she to do during the day at Haynesdale Manor? Either endure hours of relentless discussion about roses and their cultivation from his mother, or talk to Sylvie. Sadly, he could not meet her abed in the afternoon, though in this moment, their next evening encounter seemed entirely too distant. He had best settle to his books and prepare for his next meeting with his manager.
He would have to talk to Esmeralda about their return to London. Perhaps now that she knew how matters would be between them, she might be more interested in becoming his mistress, even exclusively. He knew his interest in the prospect had only increased.
To be sure, he did not wish to share the charms of Esmeralda Ballantyne.
Though, Mrs. Oliver could amuse him, even when she was provocative. He bit back a smile, knowing it was folly to imagine Mrs. Oliver at Addersley’s wedding the next day, though Damien had a feeling she would make the day a memorable one. He smiled, shook his head, and opened his ledger.
He should somehow ensure that his mother kept her windows closed at night. Was there a tale that could be contrived to achieve that end?
He thought again about kittens, and about Esmeralda bearing his child, and could not dismiss his pleasure in the notion. Why should he dismiss it? She was a fascinating woman, more than his equal intellectually. Their child could only be clever and attractive.
And it need not be a by-blow. To be his heir, the child would be better positioned as the product of a legal marriage.
Damien looked out the window and marveled that the notion of taking Esmeralda to wife was so appealing. In fact, of all the women he had known, she was the only one Damien could imagine by his side.
What would life with Esmeralda as his wife be like?
It would not be dull, that was for certain. His heart lightened at the possibility and he chuckled aloud. And perhaps marriage and its guarantees would ease her concerns about saving her attentions for him alone. Perhaps a settlement, a house, an allowance and even a title would combine to make marrying him an attractive proposition to Miss Ballantyne.
Oh, he could imagine what would be said about that! His mother would be outraged. The ton would be shocked. But he would undoubtedly be the most contented husband in all of England.
What was the point of wealth if it did not grant one freedom from other people’s notions of propriety? It was an outrageous and unexpected notion, but not one readily dismissed for all of that.
What was the likelihood of convincing Esmeralda to accept him? Damien suspected it was low, but he had always liked a challenge. The appeal of Esmeralda as his duchess was not readily dismissed, which meant he might have found a contest he might not readily win.
He would see how persistent the idea proved to be before he acted upon it.