Authors: Jo Beverley
“No, Father,” she said as calmly and firmly as she could. “Thank you, but really, can you imagine me as a duchess? And as you say, he’s wild. I heard… I heard him mention holding wicked parties at his house.”
He pulled a face. “Aye, they’ve been the talk of the town, and I can see you’d not be one to turn a blind eye to that. Ah well, it’ll be exactly as you wish. There’s wealth enough here to ensure whatever future you want, Cressy.”
Cressida managed to thank him, then escaped. In the corridor, she leaned against the wall for a moment, fighting tears. Most problems could be solved by money, but not hers. Not hers.
She stopped in her room to press a cold cloth to her eyes and to be sure she was neat, then went quickly to the drawing room.
Tris was alone.
Was her mother being tactful by staying away? Cressida wished she hadn’t, then was glad she had.
She closed the door. No one inside this house was going to be scrutinizing the proprieties.
“You’ve been crying,” he said.
“Not quite. And it was to do with my father.” That was not a complete lie.
“He is still unwell?”
She shook her head and unglued herself from the door. She went to a chair and sat in it, waving him to the sofa. “No, he’s recovering, thank God. The jewels did the trick. He now has to regain his strength and deal with his guilt, but he’s of a positive nature. He is already turning his mind toward making more money.”
“Not at the tables, I hope.”
“Definitely not.”
Ah, but there was a poignant pleasure here that she had not expected. The pain hovered, and once he left for good it would strike, but there was such joy, such comfort, to see him, to be with him, to talk to him in such an ordinary situation.
“As you suggested,” she said, as lightly as she could, “his sickness seems to have been boredom. Now that he has the challenge of building a new fortune, he is in high spirits again.”
“And his venturesome daughter?”
She knew what image she must present. “Wants only security. Security and a quiet life.”
“I see. Then you will have it.”
She had to look down for a moment. “Thank you.” When she could, she met his eyes again. “Now, tell me your cousin’s story. Are you really going to give him some of your wealth?”
She remembered her father’s comments about the ducal finances. And her father would know.
Tris crossed his legs, not apparently in distress. “Prepare yourself for an outrageous saga. I explained about my uncle’s desperation for a son, and the bitter rivalry between him and my father. It seems that it pushed the duke to extremes.
“He traveled frequently to France—this was before the Revolution, of course—and kept a string of mistresses there. On one visit, he met a pretty country widow with two sons—Jeanine Bourreau. Jean-Marie insists that his mother was virtuous, but I suspect she was looking for a rich protector. Be that as it may, she conceived another child, and the duke came up with a plan. My mother had just announced that she was with child. It seems to have been the last straw for him.
“Perhaps my uncle was remembering the supposed origins of James the Second’s son—that he was smuggled into the birthing chamber in a warming pan to substitute for a dead child. He apparently promised Jeanine Bourreau that if her child by him was a son, he would be duke. His duchess would announce that she, too, expected another child. Later in the pregnancy, Jeanine would travel to England, and when her child was born, it would be made to seem the duchess’s.”
“Heaven’s above! Did the duchess agree?”
“Apparently. Remember, she was desperate to be the mother of the next duke, and to please her husband.”
“So what went wrong? The child was another daughter?”
“The child was Jean-Marie. Unfortunately, a minor inconvenience occurred—the Revolution. Marie’s travel to England was blocked, and Jean-Marie arrived before she could leave. She managed to get a letter to the duke, but now that his plan was thwarted, he rejected her.”
“Poor lady.”
“True enough. She survived by being mistress to a succession of men, and I gather from Jean-Marie that she raised him and his brothers well enough, and even arranged his training as an artist. She doesn’t seem to have planned any action until Napoleon was beaten— the first time, in 1814. Then she and a lover came up with a wild plot.”
“What? Jean-Marie couldn’t still be a substitute for a daughter.”
“No, but during the Revolution a great many records were destroyed. So they forged the record of her first marriage to show not marriage to Albert Bourreau but to Hugh Tregallows, then holding the heir’s title of Earl of Marston.”
Cressida stared at him. “Making Jean-Marie the true heir? Good heavens… But what of the older brothers?”
“They, alas, were dead by then. One of illness, and one in the war. Perhaps this helped turn the woman’s wits, or perhaps it simply cleared the way. For you see, her cunning intent was not to wait until the duke died to present this evidence, but to persuade him to endorse it.”
Cressida’s mind raced. “He wouldn’t. He
couldn’t
!”
“Would he not? We’ll never know, but my money says he’d have seized on it.”
“But that would have made his true marriage invalid, his daughters bastards.”
“To claim the ultimate victory—a son to inherit? To cut out his brother’s son, me? I think he’d have done it. The irony is, I would have been delighted.”
Cressida had her hand over her mouth. “What happened?”
“What happened? Oh, another twist of history. When Jean-Marie and his mother were preparing to travel to England, Napoleon escaped from Elba, and we were at war again. Jean-Marie was fully engaged in staying out of the army, and then his mother took a sudden fever and died. Not, however, before exacting a vow that he would pursue the plan. I told you it was good enough for a play.”
“And then?”
“And then Waterloo brought peace again, and Jean-Marie eventually made his way to Mount St. Raven—to arrive only days after my uncle’s funeral. To add to his frustration, I had gone abroad, to France among other places.”
Cressida bit her lip. “Is it wrong to feel a little sorry for him?”
“Not wrong, no, but unnecessary. His stay here has given him a deep dislike of England, especially our climate and our food. He now realizes that he wants to be an English duke even less than I do.”
“That’s hard to imagine.” She realized that they were sharing private jokes and it was dangerous, but she’d drink poison if it tasted as sweet as this. “So he settled to wait for you to return, earning his living as an artist. But why Le Corbeau?”
“Sheer deviltry, but he has his mother’s cunning streak. He balanced knocking on my door and presenting me with the evidence against making me come to him, and preferred the latter.”
“But you said he didn’t want the dukedom.”
“True, and his vow to his mother was only to make the duke pay. What he wants now is enough money to live graciously in France, to be a gentleman artist, moving in the best circles. I have agreed to give him that.”
“Why? You could call his bluff. It would take years to try to prove his claim, and his case is thin without his father’s support.”
He smiled. “I love to see you on your high horse…” Then the smile faded as he looked down.
Love
, the forbidden word.
He looked up again, smiling. “I suspect he’s a cool-headed gambler. If I’d refused, he might have dragged it through the courts, and I have no taste for the scandal or the cost. And,” he added, “there is right and justice to consider. He is owed something. He is my cousin. I believe that. He was created as part of a dastardly plot, and his mother was shamefully used. I have agreed to give him twenty thousand pounds.”
Not a huge sum to a dukedom, but to this dukedom now? She moved to the sofa beside him. She couldn’t help it. “Can you afford that?”
“My dear, I am the Duke of St. Raven.”
“Whose estate was reduced by your uncle’s extravagances, and by his diversion of all possible property to his daughters so it wouldn’t fall into your hated hands.”
His lips tightened. “How do you know that?”
“My father is a businessman. The men of the City of London know all about such things.”
“The devil they do. I hope they’ll still lend me money.” He took her hand. “You are not to worry about this, Cressida. This would all have happened if I hadn’t held up Crofton’s coach, if you hadn’t agreed to his bargain, if your father hadn’t gambled at all.”
“I worry because I’m your friend, Tris. We are friends, aren’t we?”
He raised her hand and kissed it, with no humor on his face at all. “We are lovers, Cressida, blighted though we be. Don’t deny that. But, yes, we are also friends. I curse myself hourly for bringing about this disaster.”
“None of this is your fault.”
“I should never have taken you to the orgy.”
“I should never have gone. It appears to be our
qismet
. See, I benefited from your book about Araby.”
He rose, bringing her to her feet, too. “Logic tells me that such a brief acquaintance cannot have etched deep into our hearts… Don’t smile like that, love.”
“Why not? I refuse to be sour-faced all my life. I want happiness for you, Tris Tregallows.”
“And I for you. But let me say it once before we part. At this moment, Cressida Mandeville, I love you, I desire you, and I wish there were some way I could ask you to be my wife.”
His honesty demanded her own. It was as perilous as plunging a dagger into her own heart, but she said, “And at this moment, Tris Tregallows, I might even be mad enough to say yes. But it wouldn’t work, love. You know it wouldn’t.”
“Do I?”
She felt rooted. She did not want to take the next step, but the woman should be strong for both. She tugged one hand free, led him to the door and opened it. There she freed the other.
“
Bon voyage, mon ami
,” she said.
He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, to kiss it, eyes intent on hers, as she’d once seen him kiss a lady’s hand at the theater. As she’d dreamed of…
But she’d always known that dream was not for her. “
Bon voyage, ma chere aventuriere
.” Then he let himself out, and she could, in careful silence, weep.
After that, Cressida threw herself into the preparations for removal to Matlock, wishing they could leave immediately, as if such a short distance would put her in another world.
To her frustration, her parents were in no great hurry. They entertained their friends, and within days were venturing out to be entertained. Many of the City gentlemen owned country properties near London, often on the river, and Cressida spent impatient afternoons traveling by boat down the wide waterway to a villa.
The lingering time gave her opportunity to see if she could do something about young whores, but it brought more frustration than result. Most important people were out of town, and the few she spoke to were appalled. Not at the whores, but at the idea of a lady having anything directly to do with them.
“Soot always leaves a mark,” as one woman said, urging her to prevent such things by even greater support of the foundling hospitals.
A man might be able to do more. A man like the Duke of St. Raven.
There was little chance of meeting him, however, and she had to be glad.
Shortly after their parting, she read that he was at Lea Park for a ball announcing the betrothals of two of the duke’s daughters, Lady Anne and Lady Marianne. The paper announced Lady Anne’s groom to be Mr. Racecombe de Vere of Derbyshire.
Matlock was in Derbyshire!
She spent an entire day in a fret imagining Tris visiting his foster sister, riding around the county, visiting the spas. Suddenly Matlock was no safe refuge at all. She was trying to think of arguments for her family to move to a safer spot—the Welsh hills, perhaps, or the Scottish Highlands—when her friend Lavinia Harbison paid a visit.
“A warm day for once!” Lavinia declared. “Do let’s walk in the park.”
Lavinia was stout, kind, funny, and practical and contentedly engaged to marry a Captain Killigrew. She was Cressida’s counterbalance to wicked dukes.
Captain Killigrew was a merchant captain currently sailing the world to make his fortune, and Lavinia seemed perfectly content to wait. Cressida often thought that this match would be much like her parents‘. She didn’t understand it, but she enjoyed Lavinia’s company very much.
Walking in Green Park was an excellent idea, too. It brought her back to earth. Tris would be wise enough to avoid Matlock. The Mandevilles did not move in the same orbit of Derbyshire society as the Duke of St. Raven and a daughter of the Duke of Arran. Tris would probably stay at Chatsworth, grand home of the Duke of Devonshire. Cressida had visited the house once, on an open day.
“Still no plan for the move?” Lavinia asked. “Of course, I don’t wish you to ever leave London, but I know you long for home.”
“What is home?” Cressida said without thinking.
Lavinia stared at her. “Not Matlock?”
Cressida laughed. “Pay no attention. I’m blue-deviled. But, Lavinia, when you marry Captain Killigrew, where will you make your home?”
“On board his ship for a while.”
“On board his ship? But then why aren’t you there now?”
“This trip is to be a riskier one with a lot of hard sailing in order to make a bigger profit so we can marry. After this, Giles plans some simpler trading routes in order to show me some of the world. I can’t wait.”
“Aren’t you afraid for him?”
The bright smile dimmed a little. “A little, but what good does it do? And he’s a very skillful captain. And he promised me faithfully to return.”
Cressida took her friend’s hand and squeezed. What a lot of secret emotions ran beneath social relationships.
Suddenly she felt impelled to say, “I’ve fallen in love with the Duke of St. Raven. A little…”
She’d told Lavinia about Hatfield. The public version, at least. She’d had to since the story was known.
Lavinia didn’t show shock. “I’m not surprised. I remember seeing him at the theater and thinking how wonderful it must be to be Lady Anne Peckworth. I saw in the paper that she’s to marry another, though. Is he brokenhearted?‘’