Good Dukes Wear Black (11 page)

“But what happened?” her mother asked again, resuming her seat and pouring herself another cup of tea.

Ophelia bit her lip, debating whether telling her mother the truth would make her more or less upset. Finally, realizing that she'd likely hear the truth through gossip, she explained what had occurred with Maggie earlier in the day. Though she omitted the trip to the Hayes Clinic because she knew that would be more inexcusable in her mother's eyes than riding in an open curricle with the Duke of Trent for all the world to see.

“How ghastly,” Mrs. Dauntry said, clasping a hand to her bosom. “I hope you see now why I disapprove of your friendship with Mrs. Grayson. Her husband might be the son of Sir Michael Grayson, but only someone of bad
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would get herself taken to the madhouse.”

“I am not upset at the damage it might have done to my reputation, Mama,” Ophelia said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Maggie might have been killed in the scuffle. And I would not wish my worst enemy to be taken against her will to a madhouse. Much less a dear friend. Where is your compassion?”

“Oh, pooh,” Mrs. Dauntry said with a frown. “I have plenty of compassion for the lady. But as my daughter of course you are my first priority. I cannot sit idly by while your reputation is put into danger by a dispute between husband and wife. Truly, I fear what Lord Goring's response will be.”

And, Ophelia reflected with an inward sigh, this was why she wished to avoid her mother altogether when she arrived home. It wasn't that Mrs. Dauntry was callous, she simply had a single-minded dedication to seeing the realization of the match she and her dearest friend had hatched between them when Ophelia was born. And her daughter's reluctance thus far to abide by her mother's wishes was making her press even harder.

“Mama,” Ophelia said aloud, “I barely even know Lord Goring.” And what she did know of him was that he was quite dull and seemed to have as little interest in Ophelia as she had in him. Since seeing her two dearest friends wed men who adored them, and they in turn adored, she'd come to feel even more strongly that a match like the one her mother proposed for her would bring nothing but unhappiness.

“Oh, that won't matter,” Mrs. Dauntry said with a wave of her hand. “I barely knew your father before we were wed and look how well we rub along together.”

Ophelia forbore from pointing out that her parents spent most of their time apart from one another and barely exchanged three words at a time.

Even so, Mrs. Dauntry must have decided to try a different tack in the present conversation.

“The Duke of Trent is quite handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “Though not, I fear, as handsome as some gentlemen.”

It was all too clear to whom she was referring when she said “some gentlemen.”

“For all that his title is so illustrious, Trent is rather rough around the edges. A bit … harsh. Don't you agree? I much prefer a more refined countenance on a gentleman.”

Since it didn't matter what Ophelia said, she simply made a noise that could be construed as either agreement or protest depending on how the recipient interpreted it. As she'd hoped, her mother accepted the noise for a hearty agreement.

“Now that your sister is settled,” Mrs. Dauntry continued, pressing on despite Ophelia's lack of encouragement, “I think it's time for you and Lord Goring to come to some kind of formal agreement. Especially before any gossip about your involvement in this business with Mrs. Grayson comes out. And it would be lovely to announce your betrothal as soon as your sister's wedding celebrations are concluded. Perhaps as soon as they embark upon their wedding journey.”

Ophelia supposed she should be thankful that her mother hadn't encouraged her to press for an announcement at the wedding breakfast itself. She and Mariah were hardly best friends, but Ophelia had no wish to ruin her sister's wedding day.

“Oh, do not be so stubborn, my dear,” Mrs. Dauntry chided when she rightly interpreted Ophelia's silence for what it was: disapproval. “You may never get a better offer. And Lord Goring is willing to marry you despite your determination to ruin your reputation by writing for that dreadful publication.”

“That dreadful publication, as you call it,” Ophelia said stiffly, “is something I am quite proud to be associated with. Indeed, I enjoy writing my articles for the
Ladies' Gazette
, and I do not plan to stop anytime soon. Whether Lord Goring approves of it or not.”

Mrs. Dauntry's lips pursed. “Any occupation is shameful for a gentleman's daughter. As I have told you more than once.”

“And I have told you that there is no shame in accepting pay for my work,” Ophelia said sharply. “You are fond enough of Leonora and she made quite a good living by her pen before she was married.”

“Before she was married, yes,” Mrs. Dauntry said, still displeased. “But there is a world of difference between her birth and your own. Both your fathers might be gentlemen, but you know as well as I do that the Dauntrys have been in England since before the Conquest. And the Cravens? Why, they can only trace themselves back to the Reformation at best. There is simply no comparison. And I will point out that Leonora has not written nearly so much since she married into the Lisle family. She knows what is expected of the wife of a duke's son even if you do not.”

“Mama, you will not convince me to give up my writing,” Ophelia said firmly. “Especially when Father has seen fit to allow it.”

“He is far too lenient with you,” her mother said with a shake of her head. “He of all people should know what is expected of this family. But when has he ever shown any care for our reputations? He's too concerned with finding the next card game to pay any attention to us.”

Since to Ophelia's knowledge, her father limited his play to the card rooms at various
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entertainments, he was hardly making the Dauntry name a byword in society. It was just her mother's frustration with his refusal to bow to her on this one matter that made her speak so. Not for the first time, she wondered what on earth had brought her parents together in the first place. It certainly hadn't been mutual respect and affection.

Mistaking Ophelia's silence for censure, Mrs. Dauntry sighed. “I do not expect you to marry Lord Goring tomorrow, my dear. Just give the man a chance to woo you properly. I feel sure he will do so with the least bit of encouragement from you. Eleanor has assured me that he is quite fond of you.”

Wonderful, Ophelia thought. Marriage to a man who was “quite fond” of her according to his overbearing mother was just the sort of dream marriage she'd longed for as a little girl.

Unbidden, a memory of Trent's soft lips on hers flooded her with feeling. If just a kiss could move her thus, what would it be like if there were more between them? A slight shiver ran through her at the thought.

She knew now more than ever that she would never be able to settle for the sort of passionless match her mother was determined to force her into.

“You have been patient, Mama,” she said aloud now. “But I cannot make myself feel affection for someone when I don't. Even if he is the son of your dearest friend in the world. Why can I not choose my own husband as Mariah has done?”

“What makes you think your sister chose Kinston?” Mrs. Dauntry asked, frowning. “I am the one who first introduced her to him.”

“But she had to hold him in some degree of regard in order to agree to the match,” Ophelia argued, wondering if she'd read the situation all wrong. Perhaps Mariah hadn't been as defiant as Ophelia had thought.

“Oh, she likes him well enough,” Mrs. Dauntry said dismissively. “But it's hardly a love match. Unlike you, your sister knows how to show filial obedience. When Kinston asked for her hand she was more than eager to accept him. Both for her own sake and the family's.”

“Then let me make it clear now that I will not allow myself to be pushed into a similar situation by you or anyone,” Ophelia said firmly. “I know you mean well, but I will not sacrifice my own happiness just to fulfill some dream you and the dowager Lady Goring have concocted between you.”

For a moment Mrs. Dauntry stared at her daughter, as if trying to understand how such a creature could possibly be her very own. Then, when Ophelia didn't back down, the older lady huffed out a laugh. “All right. You've made your point. I will consider allowing you more time to get to know Lord Goring. I'm sure once you are better acquainted with the man you'll be more eager for the match.”

As concessions went, it was a poor one, but Ophelia was not so foolish as to look the gift of more time to escape the proposed match in the mouth.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said sincerely. “I will do my best to get to know him.” What she didn't say was that she doubted a dozen years on a deserted isle with the man would endear him to her. Even so, she knew further open defiance of her mother's wishes would only encourage her to be more determined about the matter.

They were silent for a moment as they both became lost in their thoughts. Then, looking up from her contemplation of her empty teacup, Mrs. Dauntry said, “I know you think me mad when it comes to this, but I do have good reason for my determination to see the two of you wed. I promise you.”

“I do not think you mad, Mama.”
Only stubborn.

“So, no more flaunting your relationship with the Duke of Trent where Lord Goring might hear of it?”

Really, she was like a dog with a bone, Ophelia cursed inwardly.

“Not without good reason,” she said aloud, giving herself an out so that she could spend more time with Trent without gaining a guilty conscience. After all, they would likely need to go on one or two more outings before they were able to get Maggie out of that awful place.

Was it too terribly shameful that she was looking forward to it for reasons that had nothing to do with rescuing her friend?

 

Eight

After supper at Brooks's with Freddy and Mainwaring, Trent left the two married men and returned home to dress for the card party at Viscount Wrotham's lodgings where he knew the majority of the Lords of Anarchy would be that evening.

Because many of the newer members of the club were either familiar with one another or indeed were already friends, from their time together in the military, such gatherings as tonight's party at Wrotham's had become commonplace. Trent saw the frequency with which the men assembled outside sanctioned club meetings as a good thing. Something that would ensure the club's strength even after his own tenure as president ended.

Still, as he handed the reins of his curricle to a waiting groom outside the apartments where Wrotham had lodgings, the sight of men spilling out of the entryway to the building did not reassure him that the club wasn't up to its old, rowdy tricks.

“Trent!” shouted Lord Edward Findlay from where he leaned against the balustrade smoking a cheroot. “Just the man we wanted to see!” He turned to the man next to him, Mr. Adam Vessy, and clapped him rather hard on the shoulder. “Didn't we just say that, Vessy?”

“S'truth,” Vessy said, screwing up his face to squint past the cloud of smoke shrouding both men's heads. “Just this very moment, Duke.”

Trent fought back a cough as he stepped closer to the smokers. “While I am, of course, grateful to be missed,” he drawled, “I'm afraid I didn't come to blow a cloud. I was wondering if either of you has seen George Grayson this evening.”

Lord Edward's eyes widened at the mention of Grayson. “No,” he said, his mouth forming an O as he did so. “I heard there was a bit of trouble this morning with his lady wife.”

Vessy nodded, and added in a stage whisper, “Had her sent to the … the…”

“Bedlam,” Lord Edward finished for his friend with a sage nod. “Or someplace like it. Not sure precisely the lady's destination. Only that Grayson sent her there, poor sod.”

If these two were to be the future of the club, Trent reflected with an inward sigh, then the club didn't have much of a future.

Aloud, he said, “I had heard about that, yes. But neither of you has seen Grayson this evening? Or even earlier in the day?”

“Just at your fencing do this morning, Duke,” Vessy said with a shake of his head. “Fellow's probably at home with a bottle. S'where I'd be.”

Lord Edward nodded his agreement, and Trent took his leave of the two men and pushed into the entrance of the building, making his way through the throng upstairs to Wrotham's rooms.

Once there, he was greeted by the sight of multiple card tables set up throughout the large sitting room. Several of the players called out their hellos, as did the ladies of the evening who were seated on several of their laps.

Scanning the room, Trent finally saw his quarry at one of the far tables, his teeth clamped around a cigar and a drink in his hand.

“Trent!” cried Viscount Wrotham as the club's president approached his side. “I didn't think you'd be coming tonight after this morning's debacle.”

“Bad business, that,” said the man to Wrotham's left as he discarded. “Not the thing to shame the family publicly like that. Much better to have waited until she got home.”

Trent didn't bother to suggest that it might have been even better for Grayson not to have his wife sent to an asylum at all. He wasn't here to argue the merits or lack thereof of the way Grayson had handled things. He wanted only to know where the man was now.

“Haven't seen him,” Wrotham said, glancing down at his cards for a moment before he discarded. “Which is a bit strange, now that I think of it. Grayson and I spend most Tuesday afternoons at Tatt's. A bit horse-mad is our Grayson. But he disappeared this morning before the gathering at your house was finished and I haven't seen him since.”