The Seduction of a Duke (5 page)

She couldn’t remember where she had placed the journal when they’d returned from that Paris shopping trip, so she hadn’t the chance to employ any of the advice by the woman known only by the letter
B
.

Her hand reached for the forgotten journal when an unanticipated knock on the door altered its course. Instead, she grabbed another book to place on top of the wanton diary to hide it from sight.

“
Entrez,
” she called, without any real interest in the intrusion. Since her mother had locked the door several hours earlier, her only visitors were the servants bringing her meals. The sooner the interruption passed, the sooner she could return to the licentious material. A key scraped metal in the lock, and the door slowly opened. Harrelson, the butler, forced his head inside.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Miss Winthrop, but you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” A memory of the handsome stranger that had buggered her escape immediately popped into her mind. But that remote likelihood, coupled with the even more improbable possibility that her mother would permit such a visit, swept the fanciful notion from her brain. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Whitby of Whitby and Essex, miss. He has asked to speak with you.”

“My mother’s attorney wishes to speak with me?” Her mother had never seen fit to include Fran in any of her frequent consultations with Mr. Whitby. Pawns were rarely allowed legal counsel. That the man waited for her now must mean he had something private to discuss. Something for her ears only. A cautious delight threatened to spill to her lips. Randolph must have sent a letter.

“I put him in the gold room,” Harrelson intoned.

Fran nodded and stood to smooth the wrinkles from her extravagant day gown. Worth had created it and many others specifically for her on their last trip to Paris. She checked her hair in the small wall mirror that Alva had selected for Fran’s room.

The Winthrops, like the rest of the elite society, only lived in their Newport “cottages” for six to eight weeks in the summer. The rest of the year was spent at their estate in Hyde Park or in their New York town house. Much like her gowns, the Newport cottage had not been designed for comfort. It was meant to impress, or more appropriately, stun a discerning eye with its opulence. The gold room, so named because of carved gilt walls, served as both a reception room and a ballroom. Although other rooms had proportions more conducive to an intimate conversation, the pure opulence of this room took a visitor’s breath away. Thus, it was used to flaunt the owner’s advantage when serving as a reception area. Alva had always maintained appearances were paramount, and in anticipation of tomorrow’s ball, the gleaming surfaces had been polished profusely.

Fran, however, felt none of the confidence the room’s designer had intended. Instead, her stomach fluttered as if a dozen hummingbirds had taken residence.

“Mr. Whitby.” She nodded with a quick, casual curtsy. The elderly man’s full white beard absorbed the room’s warm gold reflection as if he had stumbled into a fountain of youth. Or perhaps the anticipation of Randolph’s letter had made the world young and fresh and beautiful. She knew he would write. She could rely on Randolph. Just as she had been taught, she kept the smile in her heart and not on her face. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes. Thank you for obliging, Miss Winthrop. I hesitate to disrupt your mother at such a busy time.”

A small sense of annoyance registered in Fran’s chest, knowing as she did the reason for her mother’s activity. “How may I assist you?”

Whitby scowled. “Yes, indeed. I brought some papers that require her signature. Papers that she had insisted be drafted in the most extreme urgency. Now I’ve been informed that I cannot deliver them due to her costume fitting or some such activity.”

“I see.” Fran worried her lip with a sense of unease. In all her years, she could not recall a single time that her mother turned away Mr. Whitby, who had served as a close friend and confidant.

“I wonder if you could take these papers to her?” Whitby asked. “I would not trouble her if not for her very insistence on their necessity.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Fran replied absently, taking the offered sheath of papers neatly tied with a blue ribbon.

Whitby looked down, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze. As an invited guest to the ball, he knew its purpose and most likely her desperation to avoid it. “There is no hurry to return the papers once they are signed. I’ll send someone in a day or so to collect them. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Winthrop.”

He collected his hat and turned to leave. His imminent departure pulled Fran from her maudlin thoughts of the upcoming nuptials.

“Mr. Whitby?” she asked, delaying his departure. “Have you received any news from Mr. Stockwell? Has he completed his business affairs in Germany?”

“Oh.” He glanced nervously about the room. “I had hoped not to be the one to tell you.”

A sense of foreboding dimmed her earlier exuberance, still she maintained her countenance even though events were making it increasingly difficult.
Never show emotion, or risk the scorn that follows,
her mother had always counseled. “Not to tell me what, Mr. Whitby?”

“Randolph has married a German girl. We’re hoping he will be instrumental in representing our client’s interests in that part of the world. Now that steam has made shipping more reliable, the world is becoming a smaller place.” His lips pulled tight in a sad smile.

She stood still, her smile frozen on her face, her mother’s axiom pounding in her brain. Never show emotion. Appearances are paramount. Her heart screamed at the loss of her future, the loss of a quiet life as Mrs. Stockwell, the loss of children loved for themselves and not for the position they could bring her in society. All her hopes and dreams dissolved in six short words.
Randolph has married a German girl.
Her last foothold in a sane world crumbled, and she felt as if she had tumbled into a deep, black abyss. Still, she smiled and nodded as if she had known it all along.

“You must pass along our congratulations, Mr. Whitby, when next you see him.”

“Good day, Miss Winthrop.” The attorney tipped his hat and stepped around her to leave. She stood frozen with her smile, fighting back tears. Her mother would have been proud.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood alone in the gold room, a devastating hole boring through her heart. The gilded mirrors surrounding her reflected so much glitter and gold, they managed to disguise the passing of time. Perhaps that’s how so many years had slipped away from her, she wondered. It had all been a trick of those mirrors.

Had Randolph’s affections been a trick as well? Those mirrors made them all believe they had more time. She was twenty-six years old, abandoned and alone. Her mother planned upstairs, her hard-fought battle to gain admission to New York’s Four Hundred—the most elite group of American society—driving her to purchase a title by selling her daughter. It was all so worthless, so pointless.

A tear plopped onto the sheath of papers in her hand, the sound amplified in the vast empty room. She rubbed the moisture from her cheek, unaware she had been crying. It would do no good for her mother to see her this way, and see her she must if only to gain her signature on these documents.

As she left the room and began to slowly climb the winding staircase to reach her mother’s bedroom, she noticed a housemaid with a laden tea tray.

“Sally,” she asked. “Is that for Maman?”

“Aye,” she responded. “I’m taking this tray to her now. Is there something you’d be wanting?”

She placed the sheaf of papers on the tea tray, thus eliminating the need to see her mother and evidence of a family’s betrayal.

“CHAMBERS, I DON’T THINK THIS IS A GOOD IDEA.” Percy glanced at his reflection in the mirror, twisting from side to side, admiring the fit of the military blue jacket with the gold braid trim of a Prussian prince. “This costume was meant for you. The note said as much.”

“Ridiculous.” William picked up the brilliant green papier-mâché frog head that would ultimately complete his costume. “I much prefer wearing your costume. This headpiece will allow me the freedom to move throughout the crowd without the demands placed on a performing pig.”

“So now I’m a pig, am I?” Percy laughed. “Seriously, why are you doing this?”

The painted face on the frog held a ridiculous grin, the eyes much larger than those on a natural frog. It would certainly hide him completely. William slipped the hollow construction over his head until the neck opening rested on his shoulders.

“Hiding in that mask won’t stop my questions,” Percy said. “We’ve gallivanted about Newport all yesterday, and you’ve still not told me why you’re here.”

The mask muffled the sound of Percy’s voice. William heard the gist of the question. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it. He peered out the two holes placed for vision. He could see, but not clearly. The world took a darker turn when wearing the mask: confining, hot, trapped. Yes, definitely the latter. As restrictive and uncomfortable as the headpiece felt on his shoulders, he didn’t remove the covering. He picked up the green gloves that had come with the costume.

“You’re going to propose to her, aren’t you?”

William raised his head but didn’t address Percival’s question. To speak of what he was about to do would make it too real, too embarrassing.

“Miss Winthrop. She’s the reason you’re here, isn’t she?”

He started to reply, but the sound amplified inside the mask, making the sound of his own voice painful to his ears. Placing hands on either side of the head, he lifted it off his shoulders. If only he could lift the responsibility of the family name as easily. The warm, humid air of Newport brought relief to his overheated face.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Percy said after a glance. “Men have married women for their dowries for centuries. It’s a part of England’s tradition.”

William looked away, discomfort souring his stomach. “It’s not part of my tradition. I had thought never to marry again after Catherine died. If there were any other way . . .”

“You must have loved Catherine a great deal,” Percy said, sympathy evident in his voice.

William frowned. Percy never knew of Catherine’s infi delities. Revisiting past injustices would serve no purpose now. He picked up the sword that had accompanied the prince costume and tested the point with his finger. “The engagement is to be announced tonight at the ball.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “Tell me then, why are we switching costumes?”

“I’d like a chance to view the chit without her knowing that I’m her intended.” William handed the sword to Percy, who placed it in its scabbard. “Women act differently once they discover I have a title. It was difficult enough as a marquess, but I’ve discovered the shorter the title, the more ridiculous the pursuit. They mask their true selves.”

He tapped the giant frog head, reflecting on his choice of words. “This is my last ball as an unencumbered man,” he continued. “I’d like to experience how it feels to be an unknown.”

He didn’t feel the need to mention his faint hope to locate the woman in the window. At this late juncture he wasn’t sure what could transpire even if he were to locate that particular miss. Once his engagement was made public he would be ethically bound to his new fiancée. However, donning the frog disguise would provide more opportunity to observe both the costumed guests and the servants.

“But the Winthrops are expecting a duke.” Percy practiced a stern expression in the mirror.

“Then be a duke,” William replied. “Just look disapproving and nod your head ever so slightly when introduced. There’s really nothing to it.”

“There’s everything to it!” Percy insisted. “We’re talking about marriage. You said yourself that the Winthrops plan to announce your engagement tonight. I will not stand before the elite of Newport and pretend to be engaged to a woman I don’t know. It’s not honorable.”

William sighed. “I won’t let it go that far. When the time comes, I’ll announce my presence to the Winthrops. I will not prevail upon you to do something less than honorable.” Although by Percy’s own words, William was again struck how his whole situation was little less than the public purchase of a mistress. Where was the honor in that?

Percy appeared mollified, but still hesitant. “Are you sure they won’t know instantly that I am not you? Have they not seen your photograph?”

“That young attorney assured me the negotiations were finalized much too quickly for the exchange of photographs. As I would arrive about the same time as the mail from London, it was decided that such an exchange would not be necessary. After all, she is marrying for my title, not for my appearance.” Just as I’m marrying for her money, he silently added. He could be an old geezer and she a pox-marked hag for all that it mattered.

“Look at you,” William said, pointing to Percival’s reflection in the mirror. “What woman wouldn’t be pleased to find herself shackled to such a handsome figure of a man? I suspect the poor girl will be beyond disappointment when she discovers that I’m to be her true groom.”