Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

Chapter Seven

The day dawned uncomfortably bright and early, and Miranda pulled the hangings shut against it. After her visit from the duke the previous evening, she was at a loss as to what she could possibly say in the morning. No doubt her bags were packed and waiting for her in the entrance hall. But would he think to arrange transportation, or assume that she could purchase a ticket from her own funds?

She laughed bitterly. As if there were such a thing. Her purse had been emptied by the trip to Devon, and showed no signs of magically filling itself for the return trip. And if she should return, where would she go? Her father had made it quite clear that there was to be no turning back from this course, and while the parting had been sweet, she knew he was sincere in his desire to get rid of her, for her own safety and his peace of mind.

Unless she abandoned all pride and made a living on her back, as more than one nobleman had suggested. And what fool thought it better to be the whore of a rich man then to be a wife?

There was nothing for it. This morning, she would seek out her husband and throw herself on his mercy, such as it was. If she ate nothing else today, it would be her words of the previous evening.

‘Your Grace, are you up?’ Polly poked her head between the curtains and offered her the tea tray. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to eat downstairs this morning. Cook says there’ll be something in the breakfast room. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but a bit better than you’ve been having.’ The tea was at least warm today, and she hoped that this was a sign of things to come. She took a small sip and felt a wee bit better.

‘His Grace told me that you’d no doubt be tired this morning, and that I was to make sure you had plenty of sleep and a decent breakfast, if I had to stand over you and force it in,’ she said, proudly.

‘He did, did he?’ She considered refusing to eat, but reminded herself of her promise of a few minutes ago. ‘And what else did he have to say?’

‘That you’d know what you wanted to do, and that you was the mistress of the house now, and I was to help you in any way, but to make sure that you ate and rested. And then he was in the carriage and gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Last night, after midnight. He was off to London and then Lord St John was back from wherever he goes. It was busy as the courtyard of the inn here.’

‘St John, back?’ She tried not to let the relief show in her voice. Perhaps he could help her understand the actions of her husband.

Polly helped her to dress and she crept down the stairs towards breakfast, then stopped herself halfway. Why was she hesitating? This was her house. Her stairs. Her servants.

Well, not really hers. Her husband’s, perhaps, until he came back from where ever it was he went. Probably with the necessary paperwork for an annulment if such was necessary, since she’d assumed she would have to sign some sort of licence and it hadn’t happened yesterday. She was sure of that fact. Well, reasonably sure. The day had gone by so fast, and she’d been so tired …

She raised her hands to her temple and pushed against them, trying to silence the thoughts that were running through her head. It did no good to try to analyse the events of the last two days. Even if she had been clear headed, they’d have made no sense and they just seemed to get stranger and stranger.

She was going to focus on the task before her. Not one step behind. Not one mile ahead. Just one step at a time until she could walk herself out of the maze she was lost in.

And the first step was breakfast. She entered the breakfast room to see St John, lounging at the head of the table in the place she’d expected to find the duke. He was reading the mail as though he owned the place. She wondered what her husband’s reaction would be if he were there to take in the picture, and then checked herself.

She knew perfectly well what it would be. Similar to all the other reactions she had seen him make when he saw something that displeased him. Yelling. Threats. And St John banished from the house without a hearing. If she could do nothing else in the house, perhaps she could find a way to end the foolish bickering that these two seemed to revel in.

‘Miranda.’ He stood and beamed at her and she felt unaccountably less lonely than she had. ‘You are already having a positive effect here. There is breakfast for a change. And, although I would not trust the kippers, the eggs today seem fresh enough. Come, sit down.’

‘Aren’t you a trifle free with your brother’s hospitality, for one I saw banished from the house yesterday?’

He smiled again. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps. But they informed me at the inn that my brother was riding out for London. And although he cannot abide my company, the servants here are still quite fond of the black sheep and I count on them to hold their tongues when he comes home to pasture. And …’ he looked probingly at her ‘… I wondered if the new duchess might need assistance after being abandoned by her husband on her wedding night. Are you well?’ The question was gently put, but he was no longer smiling and he tensed, waiting for a response.

‘Of course,’ she lied. She had not been dismissed, if Polly’s attitude was any indication of the duke’s mood. And to be left alone by her new husband, but allowed to stay in the house was quite the best of all possible results, if a trifle annoying. ‘I am beginning to feel at home here already. Is that the mail?’ She reached towards the letter in front of him and he gathered it to himself.

‘Expecting a billet-doux, little sister? No, not the mail. Just something I brought with me to dispose of. Damn bill collectors tracked me to the inn. Let us show them what I think of them.’ And he resealed the letter, than twisted it into a roll and walked towards the fireplace. ‘The less time spent with this odious missive the better for all concerned.’ He struck a lucifer on the mantelpiece and held it to the paper, watching it blaze before tossing the smouldering end into the fire.

‘Really, St John, you should not be so casual with your responsibilities.’

‘Miranda, my dear, I am quite serious at times, when a goal is before me. You have not yet seen me at my best. And I am sure, if you have talked to my brother, you have heard nothing but the worst of my character.’

‘Oh, no, I assure you. There was very little time to discuss anything with the duke last night.’ She paused, embarrassed. It sounded rather like they were occupied in other ways. She looked down at her plate and nibbled on a slice of toast.

‘Did he take the time to tell you, then, why he was leaving you so quickly?’

‘I am sure he has a good reason for his actions,’ she answered.

St John nodded over his coffee. ‘I’m sure he does. There might be certain people in London that need to be informed of his nuptials. So as to avoid embarrassment later.’

‘Certain people?’ She waited for him to continue.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well. Yes. It doesn’t do to let the rumours come back to town before him. It needn’t change the current situation, if he has married again, but it is wise to put her mind to rest. To let her know that her position is still secure. Jealousy, thy name is woman, and all that.’ He looked at her and a faint blush was visible on his cheek. ‘I know I shouldn’t even hint at such things, especially not to a lady, and on your first day here. But I felt you deserved to know the lay of the land. I meant no insult.’

So her husband had left the marriage bed still cold and gone to London to be with his … She very deliberately buttered another slice of toast and bit into the corner, chewing as it turned to sawdust in her mouth. And there was no reason that it need bother her in the least. She had expected something of the sort. And this was neither a love match, nor she some giddy girl. ‘It is all right, St John. Thank you. You are right. It is better to know how things stand.’

He sighed in obvious relief. ‘Good. I am glad you are taking this so well. And remember, as I offered before, if you need a strong arm to support you, and my brother is nowhere to be found, you can always call on me.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled wanly back at him.

‘And now, my dear, I must be off. To see about the responsibilities you would have me attend to.’ He sighed. ‘To appear as idle as I do requires a surprising amount of effort. May I have the honour of joining you at supper this evening?’

‘Of course.’ As she watched him go, it occurred to her, if he was to join her for dinner, it meant that there must be a meal. Which required menus, shopping, and co-ordination of the staff. Perhaps the duke had managed to subsist on weak tea and stew, but surely there must be something else in the kitchen.

She was in charge here. At least until the duke came and relieved her. And if she was in charge, there were going to have to be some changes.

She stiffened her spine as she walked down the last of the steps to the servants’ hall and the kitchen where she had been the night before. The remains of breakfast were congealing in plates on the table. That they had not been cleared bespoke a slovenliness she wouldn’t have believed possible.

When she examined the contents of the plates, the situation grew worse still. The crusts of bread were soft and light. Jam. Porridge in bowls. A single rasher of bacon still sat on the edge of one plate.

She remembered her runny eggs and the inedible kipper and fought down an urge to scoop up the remains on the table before her and sneak them back to her room for later. As she stood there, a door at the far end of the room opened and a woman entered. She was short, stout and sour faced, and fixed Miranda with a glare. ‘Who might you be and what are you doing below stairs?’

Miranda drew herself up to her full height and smiled. ‘I am the lady of the house. And who, exactly, are you?’

‘There ain’t a lady of the house. Least not since the dowager, her Grace, died.’

‘There is since yesterday, when his Grace and I were married. Mrs …?’

‘His Grace didn’t say nothing to me about it.’

‘As I understand it, you were out, and the servants had no idea how to contact you. Mrs.?’

‘His Grace didn’t say nothing about getting married,’ she argued.

A kitchen maid crept in to stand quietly in the corner, drawn by the housekeeper’s raised voice.

‘It was a bit of a shock to him as well. Perhaps he neglected to inform you. But surely Wilkins …’

‘That old drunk ain’t allowed to get within ten feet of me or I’ll—’

Clearly the woman was used to having her way with the running of the house. Miranda took a firmer tone and a half-step forward. ‘His Grace didn’t have to say anything to you, Mrs …?’

She paused again and the woman reluctantly supplied, ‘Clopton.’

‘Mrs Clopton. You knew I was here, since you must have sent breakfast up to me earlier.’ She decided against mention ing the quality of the food. It could wait until she’d mollified the housekeeper.

‘I don’t pay no attention to what ladies they keeps upstairs. It’s no never mind to me.’

‘But it should be, Mrs Clopton. You are, after all, the housekeeper, are you not?’

‘I am in charge here,’ the lady informed her.

Miranda waved a hand in the direction of the house, and glanced around the room, noting the growing cluster of servants gathering to witness the dispute. Whatever was to come of this, it would be known all over the house by the end of the morning and she could not afford to lose. ‘If you are responsible for what I have seen in this house, you had best not brag of it. It is no point of pride.’ She pointed down at the staff dining table. ‘I see evidence that someone in the house is sustaining themselves in comfort, but that is not the case above stairs.’

‘An’ I suppose you’ll be expecting the staff to work like dogs without a full stomach.’

Miranda countered, ‘But I see no evidence that the household staff works like dogs. Perhaps in the stables, where the duke has had time to observe.’

‘The household staff does the work they’re paid to do, and they’re paid damn little.’

She raised her eyebrows in shock at the curse. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Clopton. If you’ll gather the household expense books, we will see what can be done.’

At the mention of books, the housekeeper took a step back. ‘His Grace never thought it was necessary to check the bookwork.’

‘His Grace is not here.’ The words snapped out from between her clenched teeth as she gave the housekeeper a share of the morning’s marital frustrations. ‘But I am. And, whether you choose to recognise it or not, I am the duchess and from now on you will be dealing with me. Mrs Clopton, bring me the books.’

A murmur ran through the staff, and Mrs Clopton pulled herself up to her full height, glaring. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

Miranda kept her voice flat, but firm. ‘I do. Unless there is some reason you don’t want to show them to me.’ She waited.

‘When the old duchess was alive …’

‘She never checked the books either, I suppose. How many years, Mrs Clopton, have you been skimming from the household accounts? Skimping on the food and the staff and lining your own pockets.’ It was a blind shot.

‘Who do you think you are, callin’ me a thief?’ Mrs Clopton shot back. ‘And you, stealin’ into this house, no better than you should be. Tryin’ to pass yourself off as a duchess.’

Mrs Clopton was shooting blindly as well, and Miranda struggled not to show how close the bolts were to hitting their target.

‘I don’t know what you are, but you ain’t quality.’

‘Because I won’t let you steal from the duke?’

The housekeeper spat back. ‘Helpin’ yourself from them that don’t need it is no great crime. But stealin’ a title …’

‘Sacked!’ The word came out of her in a roar that would have been worthy of the absent duke. ‘I hope you took enough, Mrs Clopton, to last you for a long time. I want you packed and out of this house before noon.’

She ignored the gasps and tears from the staff in the background. ‘Wilkins?’

The butler had joined the audience at some point and stepped forward in answer.

‘See to it that this woman finds her way out of the house. And then assemble the staff in the entrance hall. I wish to speak with them.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’ He looked doubtful, but the words were what mattered, not appearances. And he’d obeyed an order. It would have to do.

Messieurs Binley and Binley had been family friends and solicitors since the first duke, when the two names on the sign had belonged to the ancestors of the man currently in the office. Binley the elder was retired now, but his son Claude, a man slightly older than Marcus himself, kept the name on the sign out of respect and simplicity. After several years at Oxford, there would be a new Binley in the office, and it hardly seemed necessary to repaint.

Claude ushered him in to the oak-panelled office and seated him in a heavy leather wing chair before taking his own seat behind the enormous desk. ‘And to what do I owe this honour, your Grace?’

‘I have a problem, Claude.’

‘We have a problem, then. As I must always remind you, do not feel that you need face these things alone.’

‘This one, I might. The utmost discretion is required.’

‘Discretion is my watchword.’

Marcus smiled. There were times at Oxford when discretion was the last thing he’d sought when in Claude’s company.

‘There is a lady involved.’

‘And St John?’ Claude Binley reached for the chequebook on the corner of the desk.

‘I don’t believe so.’

Claude relaxed into his chair.

‘This time, I am the one most intimately involved.’

Claude’s body snapped back into alertness. ‘You, Marcus? This is most surprising. I have been relieved to find you most circumspect in these matters.’

‘Unlike the previous Dukes of Haughleigh?’ Marcus grinned.

‘Your family has found its way into some damned awkward situations in the last few generations.’

‘And your family has got us out of them.’

‘But you? I’d thought after—’ Claude stopped in mid-sentence, before stepping beyond the acceptable boundaries of both friendship and employ. ‘Well, you haven’t been much of a problem for the last ten years.’

‘And I had hoped to go another ten before finding myself in this position. This particular situation washed up on the doorstep almost a week ago. It seems I have got myself leg-shackled.’

‘Married?’

‘But not legally.’

Claude choked on his tea.

‘To a complete stranger.’ Marcus stepped around the desk and pounded his lawyer smartly on the back, refilling his teacup.

‘No tea,’ he gasped. ‘There is whisky in the decanter behind the bookshelf.’

‘So early in the day?’

‘When the situation calls for it. Pour one for yourself and explain.’

Marcus went to the decanter and poured a healthy inch into the bottom of each empty teacup. Behind him Claude muttered, ‘I knew you were too good to be true. My father warned me about the Haughleighs. And I thought, perhaps, that we might skip a generation. Or that the mess would limit itself to your scapegrace brother.’

Marcus smiled and offered him the cup. ‘We can never be truly free of our heredity, Claude.’ And he began at the beginning, telling of his mother’s request and of finding Miranda in the drawing room.

Claude sat, fingers steepled and a look of intense concentration on his face. When the story was finished he reached again for the chequebook. ‘The solution to this problem is simple. A substantial settlement. Enough to set the girl up in a respectable trade, preferably somewhere far away.’

‘But if she is a gentlewoman as the letters claim?’

‘Then enough to get her home to her family where she can seclude herself.’

‘The marriage?’

‘Is not legal. Or consummated. Breach of promise, perhaps. But I doubt it would hold in court since you were trapped into your offer. Another thousand pounds should still any complaints.’

‘And the blackmail?’

‘Would have surfaced before now if the charge were serious. The claim, whatever it is, is forty years old and made against a dead woman.’

‘But I want to know what the scandal was. And if this girl was hurt by it …’

‘Then you were not at fault. If you truly want my advice, Marcus, you’ll buy her off. If you’d come to me earlier, I’d have told you to send her packing. A family who cared for her reputation would never have sent her to you, and when she arrived …’

‘She met St John. If I had not taken her in, there is no telling what might have happened to her with him there, ready to offer assistance. And in my own home. Was I to stand by and watch?’

‘If you’d taken my advice about St John, you’d have cut him off long ago. He continues to be a problem because you continue to pay his bills. And now your soft heart and your soft head combine to land you here.’

Marcus drew himself up in his chair, but, before he could speak, the lawyer cut him off.

‘I apologise, your Grace, for speaking so freely.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But if you do not wish to follow my counsel, then give me instruction. Just what is it you want from me in this situation? Congratulations on your nuptials?’ His gaze was cold and intent and his fingers drummed on the edge of the desk as he waited for Marcus to make a decision.

‘I want …’ What did he want? He wanted to make a wise decision that would benefit everyone involved, not just save his own skin. He wanted to be a better man than his brother. Or his father. Or the other Haughleighs down through the generations. Men who had, invariably, chosen folly and self-interest over the needs of others.

‘I want to know the truth of the matter. I want to know where the girl came from. And what part my mother played in her life. If there is truly some fault, if she needs my help in any way, I want to assist her.’ He inhaled and went on. ‘And I want you to procure a special licence.’

Claude exploded. ‘You don’t seriously mean to make this marriage legal. Your Grace, I cannot condone such a course of action. It is madness.’

‘Did I do any better when I married for love? For better or worse, I am home to stay and there is much work to be done. I was going to have to settle the matter of marriage and succession sooner, not later. St John is sniffing around the house, drinking my brandy and hoping that I choke on my soup. The household is in shambles and I have no idea how to bring it round. This Miranda Grey may be a fortune hunter, but, by God, she’ll earn her fortune if she means to stay. When I return in two weeks, if she hasn’t already fled in despair or locked herself in her room, or if I have not found evidence that she is disgraced beyond all acceptance, I might do worse than to make the situation permanent and keep her on.’

‘Marcus, you talk as if you are hiring a housekeeper.’

‘At least I am not so crack-brained as to be pining for eternal love and divine happiness. I am not the green fool that I used to be, Claude, whinging for my broken heart and shattered dreams. One woman is much like another, once the lights are out. I never thought I’d say it, but my mother was right. If this girl is chaste and willing, I could do worse. At least she gave no indication, in our brief time together, that she was some empty-headed, society chit. Nor prone to illogical tears or fits of giggles.’

But, occasionally, to shouting. He smiled as the picture formed in his head of his new wife, storming up at him, and could almost feel the weight of her in his arms as he’d carried her to her room. The next time he carried her there, it would be different.

‘No, Claude. If I can find no major fault, I mean to keep her.’ He laid the blackmail letters on the table in front of him. ‘And I wish you to direct me in my search for her family.’

Chapter Eight

Marcus entered his third stationer’s shop of the day, with a growing feeling of despair. Perhaps Claude had been right when he’d offered to make the inquiries himself. But, since there was no telling what he might find at the end of the journey, he had wanted to do the leg work himself.

And he’d discovered that there was indeed a Lady Miranda Grey, aged three and twenty, daughter of Sir Anthony, but that neither had been seen in years. Sir Anthony had run through the family fortune after the death of his wife, and was rumoured to have decamped to the continent like a filthy coward, or quietly put a bullet through his brain. What remained of the family goods had been sold at auction years ago, but the daughter had not been present. There was no known family, although one would have expected to hear of an aunt or female relative of some kind to step forward and claim the girl. The name Lady Dawson did not appear in any of the accompanying records, nor was it familiar to those questioned.

He looked imperiously at the stationer in front of him and tried to hide any hopes that he might feel for the outcome of the visit. His title was enough to send the clerk scurrying to get the storeowner, who fell over himself in an effort to win what he’d hoped would be a lucrative order.

‘How can we help you, your Grace?’

‘I am recently married and will need a wide variety of things. Announcements. Engraved cards for my wife. Some writing paper for her, I think. With a monogram. And a watermark. The family crest. Can you manage that?’

‘Of course, your Grace.’ The man was fairly drooling at the prospect.

‘I’ve seen some fine work recently, letters posted to my late mother, and am looking for the purveyors of the papers in question. Would you be able to identify things you’ve supplied to others, so that I might know I have found the correct store? I’ve tried several, but have been unsuccessful.’