Page 23 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

The viscountess passed a glance at her other daughters.

Charlotte of course gave not one fig that Rosalie had commandeered all of the duke’s attention, but Maria and Louisa were clearly put out.

Though Maria was seated at the middle of the table and had been prevailed upon to converse with the earl, she still managed to send piercing looks downwind to her youngest sister, and as for Louisa, who sat directly opposite Rosalie and Sir Robert …

Well, Louisa’s glares of chagrin could not be missed.

Even Miss Falshaw who sat next to her appeared conscious of it, for the girl could scarce look up from her plate and her cheeks were a decided shade of pink.

Desperately Ambrosia took another sip of her wine.

Oh, how dreadful this was! Surely the other guests would begin to question why her daughters were behaving with such little decorum?

Over the rim of her glass the viscountess attempted to meet the gaze of her husband, but he was deep in conversation with Mr Busgrove – no doubt about his recent investment in those troublesome pineapples – and was therefore quite insensible to this horrid state of affairs.

Ambrosia pursed her lips. If her husband remained oblivious to the tribulations of his daughters, it was simply up to her to deal with the matter.

In fact, she would ensure that tomorrow and thereafter, until the Duke of Morley left Wakely Hall, her daughters would be seated as far away from the rogue as possible.

At long last, the moment to depart the table arrived. As soon as the ladies were gathered in the drawing room and Lady Warwick had seated herself at the pianoforte to play a minuet, Ambrosia wasted not one moment in pulling her daughter aside.

‘Whatever were you speaking of to the duke?’ she whispered, and a great blush spread upon Rosalie’s chest, up her neck, and blossomed in her cheeks.

‘Why, his grace was telling me of his excursions on the Grand Tour,’ her youngest exclaimed.

‘Did you know Sir Robert is a painter? His tutor instructed him in the style of the great portrait artists of Holland.’ At this Rosalie bestowed upon her mother a delighted smile.

‘Oh, Maman ! He said I was just as beautiful as any of their sitters, and that perhaps he might paint me one day, and looked at me with such sincerity that I feel sure fate is taking its course despite what Charlotte said, and that he shall offer for me before the Christmas season is out.’

Well, let it be said that it took some restraint on Ambrosia’s part not to fall into a fit of hysterics then and there.

Such anger did she feel in that moment! Not on her daughter’s part, for a girl of such impressionable mind cannot be blamed for thinking such idealistic thoughts, but for the Duke of Morley that he should, firstly, lie so blatantly (for as has already been ascertained Rosalie could not ever be called beautiful), and secondly, allow Rosalie to develop the impression that he felt more for her than he truly did.

Men such as he often played with young girls’ hearts and had no care as to the damage they might cause.

Well, Sir Robert Grey, Duke of Morley, would certainly not play with Rosalie, nor any one of her daughters. Ambrosia would see to it.

Determined, she guided Rosalie into the shadowed corner of an alcove, blessedly unnoticed by the other ladies who looked on in rapt admiration as Lady Warwick’s fingers danced skilfully over the piano keys.

‘Dearest,’ said the viscountess now, in as calm a voice as she could muster. ‘I believe that you must be on your guard. The duke will not – despite his ardent flattery – be looking to you as a partner.’

‘But Maman —’

‘You are far too young, first of all. The differences in your age would make the match improper. You are barely out the schoolroom. You know nothing of the world.’

‘I do not care about that!’

‘But I do,’ the viscountess pressed, ‘and so will he, I can assure you. Based on his standing in society Sir Robert will want to take a more experienced woman as his duchess and, perhaps more importantly, one possessing a fortune greater than we can allow for you.’

Rosalie gave a breathless laugh. ‘Oh, he is rich enough without my dowry and can scarce have need of it. And in regards to experience, well, I can learn, can I not? I shall be a good wife to him, Maman , I can assure you of it.’

Heavens! Ambrosia had hoped to dissuade her gently, but it was abundantly clear that poor Rosalie was blinded by na?veté and infatuation. It seemed there was no way to avoid it – she would have to break her sweet daughter’s heart herself.

‘Let me be clear, Rosalie,’ Ambrosia said, in a tone so unlike the one she normally employed with her daughters that her youngest’s eyes went positively round. ‘You will not marry the Duke of Morley. I forbid it.’

‘Oh, but Maman ! I do not understand. Why? ’

Rosalie’s voice had risen; Ambrosia glanced at the other ladies. Miss Falshaw had turned her head and was nudging Louisa with her elbow, who twisted in her seat with furrowed brow.

‘Because, Rosalie,’ whispered the viscountess, ‘I do not believe the duke to be an honourable man.’

‘Nicolas would not be friends with someone dis honourable.’

Ambrosia hesitated at this. ‘It is possible that Nicolas has been mistaken in his choice of friend.’

‘What proof have you?’

‘There has been talk, Rosalie. An actress in London. Some rather questionable behaviour in Bath—’

Rosalie turned up her pert little nose. ‘I do not believe it. Have you not warned us, Maman , of judging a person based on the gossipmongering of the ton ?’

Ambrosia had warned her daughters of such a thing, for society could be vicious, and though the viscountess was deeply troubled she still felt a measure of pride that her dear girl would endeavour to think the best of the duke.

Unfortunately, she had witnessed firsthand that – for once – the haut ton were completely correct in their remarks.

‘I myself observed Sir Robert in a dalliance.’

Rosalie stilled. Despite the dimness of the alcove, Ambrosia saw her daughter’s expression pale.

‘When?’

‘This summer, dearest, in Bath. I saw him in close proximity to a lady in the Pump Room. ’Twas crowded, I do admit, so such closeness might ordinarily be overlooked.

But I regret to say that the placement of his hands and hers were quite suspect.

I did not see the lady clearly for her back was to me, but she was blonde, tall, with a lovely tortoiseshell comb in her hair.

She appeared most enraptured by the duke, and he by her. I believe they shared a kiss.’

Tears sprang to Rosalie’s eyes.

‘No, Maman . ’Tis not true!’

‘Oh, dearest,’ Ambrosia said gently. ‘Why would I lie?’

‘To hurt me!’ cried Rosalie, whose voice no longer held within it a whisper but a shriek that caused Lady Warwick to stumble over a trill.

Ambrosia tried to take her hand, but Rosalie would not allow it.

‘Darling, I would never hurt you.’

But is that not just the thing Ambrosia had set out to do, so that she might warn Rosalie away?

‘I do not understand it,’ said poor Rosalie, who had succeeded now in drawing the attention of the whole room. The ladies stood, expressions of deep concern upon their faces. ‘ Père would not be so cruel!’

‘Whatever is the matter, Miss Rosalie?’ asked Frances Partridge.

‘Why does the girl cry so?’ queried Lucinda Busgrove, and in answer to both Rosalie covered her tear-streaked face with her hands and ran from the room. Louisa attempted to follow, but Ambrosia shook her head.

‘Let her go. Rosalie will wish for a moment alone, of that I am sure.’

‘ Maman? ’

‘Just a little misunderstanding, my dear.’

‘Indeed,’ interjected Lady Marshchild, ‘so it must be, for none of us here would ever say you were cruel, viscountess!’

Ambrosia inclined her head, and with a smile upon her face which she did not feel, chivvied her guests and daughters back into their seats, whereupon – after encouraging Lady Warwick to delight the company with a piece by Beethoven – she set forth to venture after her youngest child.

So determined was she to comfort Rosalie, she almost tripped over Mr Palamedes in the entrance hall.

He jumped, the ginger hairs of his back rose, his tale bushed, and Ambrosia knelt to reassure him.

Mollified, the cat sauntered off towards the stairwell with a purr, and if it had not been for this Ambrosia might have missed the movement from the shadows.

A hushed gasp caused her to pause, for it was evident that someone hid beneath the canopy of the grand staircase.

Rising, Ambrosia peered into the semi-darkness.

‘Who is that?’ she called, and the sharp scent of fresh pine from the garlanded banister assaulted her nostrils at the turn of her head. ‘Rosalie, is that you?’

There was a pause, then the reluctant drag of a foot, and to Ambrosia’s surprise the person who should emerge was not Rosalie at all, but the housemaid Molly Hart.

‘Molly!’ exclaimed Ambrosia. ‘Why do you linger beneath the stairs?’

‘I … my lady … forgive me, I—’

The manner of this stuttered declaration prompted Ambrosia to approach, and in doing so the viscountess observed three things: one, that an upper portion of Miss Hart’s garment was askew; two, that beneath the staircase there hung what appeared to be a small sprig of mistletoe; and three, that the maid was not alone, and the man with whom she kept illicit company was none other than the Duke of Morley himself.

If only Rosalie could witness this! Here, before Ambrosia’s very eyes, was proof that Sir Robert was indeed an abominable rogue, and the very person she needed to prove it to had fled.

‘Molly,’ Ambrosia bit out. ‘Go to your room. Immediately.’

Molly Hart – who was usually such a confident and spirited girl – felt no compunction to disobey.

The maid skittered from beneath the dark confines of the stairs and made a hasty retreat to the green baize door directly behind them, leaving the duke and viscountess alone together in the entrance hall.

As the duke emerged from beneath the stairs, Ambrosia took his measure.

It was no wonder that Rosalie, Louisa and Maria were so taken with him – dressed exquisitely, he was remarkably tall with dark hair that shone silkily in the candlelight; this was a man whom nature had favourably blessed.

But such dashing good looks would not have the least effect on Viscountess Pépin, of that one could be certain.

‘What, your grace, is the meaning of this?’ asked she. ‘Do you have no shame?’

For the Duke of Morley’s part, he appeared not the least bit shamed at all.

‘You come into my home,’ continued Ambrosia, ‘and abuse the hospitality of myself, my husband, and my son-in-law, whom you claim to be your friend, by contriving a dalliance with one of my servants, then have the gall to stand there as if you have done nothing wrong?’

‘Madam,’ came the drawled reply, ‘it is hardly as if I were attempting a dalliance with one of your esteemed daughters.’

‘But not through want of trying,’ she returned. ‘I know you have been whispering indecencies into Rosalie’s ears, and I’ve no doubt you have done similarly with Maria and Louisa. Regardless of the fact, a maid’s honour is no different to that of a lady of noble birth.’

Sir Robert barked then an obstinate laugh.

‘Is that so? I rather think differently.’

Ambrosia stared. The cad! If anything were to make her angrier than she already was, it was this.

‘No woman,’ she replied tightly, ‘no matter her station, deserves to be abused.’

‘I can assure you, viscountess, I was not abusing … Molly, was it?’ the duke shrugged, smiled. ‘I can assure you, the girl was willing. In fact—’

‘Be that as it may,’ Ambrosia cut in, in tones most scathing, ‘I will not stand for such indecent behaviour in my home.’

She waited for a stark reply, and was relieved that one did not come. Instead, Sir Robert merely stared at her languidly, and in turn she narrowed her eyes.

‘Because it is Christmas,’ Ambrosia said, ‘and because I neither wish to cause a scene that should embarrass my husband, nor upset the seigneur and in turn my eldest daughter, I shall not instruct your removal from this house. But mark my words, your grace, if I see you near any one of my daughters again, or my servants, I will not hesitate to change my mind.’

The Duke of Morley’s lip curled, but he inclined his head and deeply bowed.

‘Have no fear, madam. Your daughters – and your maids – shall be perfectly safe from me. I see now not one of them is worth my effort or aggravation.’

And with that the rogue turned on his heel and strode across the hall, blithely humming a festive melody underneath his breath, leaving Ambrosia staring after him aghast, clenching her fists, Mr Palamedes circling her feet with a sonorous purr.