The Very Daring Duchess Part 36

Then she stopped reading, unable to continue, and cried out with shock, and pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out again.

His Grace the Duke of Harborough continues to be the most elusive target for ladies of fashion who seek him for drawing rooms. How can they resist such a quarry, His Grace being well-favored in face and form, mild and charming in manner? All know by now that before his providential if sudden ascendancy from Captain Lord Ramsden to Duke of Harborough, he was also one of the sterling heroes of the Battle of the Nile.

How could this be true? Edward was a navy captain, not a duke. What could have happened to his three older brothers? Was this why he had been called home, to become a great lord? Is this what Lady Hamilton had predicted as the good fortune following the bad? Her heart pounding, she tore through the rest of the paper, desperate to learn more beyond that single paragraph.

There was no other mention of Edward in the first paper, but she soon found more in the second.

One surmises that the new Duke of H**b****gh must needs grow accustomed to the great change in his life & fortune, & is to be granted that allowance. Yet already the fair young Dianas of the ton are readying their bows and arrows for His Grace, surely the most prized bachelor to venture into their forest this season.

But Edward wasn't a bachelor. He was her husband, the single great love of her life. With trembling fingers she pulled the chain with his ring from the front of her shift, holding it tightly in her hand. He'd sworn he'd always be her anchor, and now instead he was a "most prized bachelor"?

But an English duke would need a true English lady for his d.u.c.h.ess, a beautiful young woman of breeding and refinement to take his name and bear his heir. He would not wish a wife who was dark and foreign and nearly twenty-six years old, or one whose unmarried mother had been an artist's model of dubious repute.

She bowed her head in misery, clutching the ring. If she and Edward had been unsuited to one another before, they were doubly, trebly unsuited now, and the best thing for them both would be to continue on the separate paths they'd already taken. She had been the one to insist that they would be together only for convenience, hadn't she? So why, now, when their marriage was no longer convenient to either of them, did its dissolution hurt so very much?

But still she could not resist searching through the last paper for his name, and soon enough she found it.

Whilst in mourning for his brothers, His Grace the Duke of Harborough has lately removed from his suite of rooms at the Clarendon to Harborough House, his residence on Green Park, where he is as yet receiving no callers.

That single sentence told her much. His brothers had somehow died, making him a duke. He had traded the packet's cabin for a hotel, then for his own house-of course he'd have one in London, and doubtless others in the country as well-on Green Park. Oh, how miserable he must be, so landlocked and apart from his beloved sea! And if he wasn't receiving callers, he wasn't yet courting any of those fashionable huntresses of the ton, either.

She looked across the room to the painting that her uncle had so admired. The model she'd used had been a fisherman's young wife and her first-born son, and the love between the mother and son had not only bloomed on Francesca's canvas, but had filled her with longing for a child of her own.

Had the painting made Edward feel that way, too? He'd spoken so warmly of having children that day in Palermo, in the carriage, yet as a man he'd never suffer the same emptiness that a woman would. Last week, when she'd first discovered the blotch of blood on her shift that meant her courses had come, she had waited for the relief, even happiness, that she'd felt sure she'd feel knowing that no child had been conceived during that last night on board the Antelope.

But instead she'd wept, deep, wracking sobs of grief for what she'd lost and what now she'd never have. No babe with golden curls and bright blue eyes like Edward's, no nursery full of sunshine and baby-laughter, no chance to become the family that neither she nor Edward had ever had. She couldn't give him that, not now, but she could give him something special to remind him of everything else they'd shared.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she took the pen and wrote what she'd told him the night of the storm. Senza di te non ce sole nel cialo: Without you there is no sun in the sky. Nothing more, for she didn't wish him to think she'd contacted him only because of his new good fortune. She folded the paper once, wrote Edward's name upon the front, and tucked it into the frame of the painting before she repacked it in the crate, and rang the bell for the footman.

"Have this crate taken to Harborough House, on Green Park," she said. "Leave no address, and do not wait for an answer.

Edward stood at the tall window in the front parlor of Harborough House, his hand clasped behind him and his legs slightly spread from long quarterdeck habit. The window was hardly the same as a quarterdeck, of course, being stable, dry, and not nearly as drafty, but for now it would have to do. If there were no sails to survey or crew to oversee, at least standing here between the silk damask curtains did offer one of the more elegant views in London.

To the left of his house stood Devonshire House, belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, the Earl of Spencer's home was diagonally across the park, and in the distance lay the Queen's Gardens. Despite the swirl of snowflakes on this chilly afternoon, a few hardy riders were parading up and down the park's drive, displaying their horses and themselves to the ladies in their carriages, snug behind the gla.s.s windows, hands tucked into fur m.u.f.fs and feet propped upon tin warmers full of coals.

This was supposed to be his world now. Since that first shock of the news in Lord Spencer's chamber, he'd tried to accustom himself to his new position. If he didn't want to be his father or brother, the surest way would be to accept the responsibilities of the t.i.tle, and not just the benefits. He had been the captain of a ship of the line, and he doubted that running an estate could be any more difficult than that. He was equally sure he could do much good in the House of Lords, once he set his mind to learn the ropes, and with grim determination he had spent most of the day again closeted with the family's solicitors and managers.

It was hard work, challenging work, and by the time they'd left Edward had a raging headache and a foul temper to match. But despite the solicitors' interminable explanations and the sheaves of papers covered with closely written numbers, one inescapable fact had trumpeted through: he was rich, richer than he'd ever imagined, one of the richest men in England and therefore in the world. Though his brothers had tried their hardest to gamble and spend themselves into oblivious ruin, not even they had made much of a dent in the Harborough fortunes.

And he hadn't a genuine interest in any of it.

Perhaps if Francesca had stayed with him, then he'd take pleasure in showing her the houses and the lands that bore his family's name. With her at his side, he might have enjoyed discovering a life that had, as a boy, been largely denied to him. He would have delighted in the changes she'd make to this grim old house, the sunshine and bright colors that she'd use to banish the dust and ghosts, and he would have laughed long and wickedly as they'd made themselves the most original duke and d.u.c.h.ess that fashionable London had ever seen.

And if they'd had a child, boy or girl, he would have an heir to inspire him as well as to love. That much at least was still possible, after that single night at sea; it would be early days for Francesca to know for sure, and he clung to the possibility with ridiculous hope. For if there were a babe, he would make sure that dear small person had all the love and kindness showered upon him or her that he'd never known himself, everything that his vast holdings could never buy.

But for now there was no Francesca and no child, and he was living like a lonely gypsy in a handful of rooms in his cavernous town house. Mourning for his brothers was an ironic mockery, but it did serve as a useful excuse for keeping to himself.

Already he was planning his escape. Yesterday, while those same solicitors had pulled long faces of disapproval, he had bought the sweetest, fastest schooner he'd ever sailed, an American smuggler taken as a prize in French waters. As soon as he'd settled his affairs here, he meant to fit her out, sign on a crew, and shove off for a voyage of, oh, at least two years' length. He would set his sails for all the ports around the great world he'd yet to see, and try not to imagine Francesca cozy in the teakwood bunk beside him.

Even in her absence, she had managed to make those solicitors' long faces longer still. When Edward had told them he had a wife, they'd smiled with happiness, for a wife was the first step toward securing the line. But when Edward had answered a few particulars regarding their wedding and Francesca's family, and admitted that she was at present missing, the solicitors' happiness had vanished, and at once they'd begun plotting ways for him to escape such a dubious marriage. But Edward wouldn't hear of it. No matter where she was hiding herself, Francesca remained his wife, and the only woman he'd ever love.

But blast and d.a.m.nation, why hadn't she loved him enough in turn to stay?

He heard a crash from the hall below, followed by raised, disgruntled voices, an unusual sound for this tomb of a house. Curious, he sauntered to the top of the stairs and leaned over the marble railing. Two footmen-his footmen, he supposed, since they were wearing Harborough livery-were wrestling with and swearing at a flat wooden crate while Peart tried to order them about as if they were seamen and not footmen, with predictably disastrous results.

"And what, pray, is that, Peart?" called Edward down. "More tribute for My Grace?"

He liked the shocked, upturned faces of the footmen, though he couldn't tell if he'd shocked them by speaking of himself so, or simply by catching them swearing at one another.

"Aye, aye, Captain Your Grace," answered Peart contritely. He was the only one who bothered to include the captain into his t.i.tle, and for that Edward would be forever grateful. " 'Tis another gift for you."

"Then take it the h.e.l.l out of here, if you please, Peart," said Edward. Because he'd refused to receive visitors, it seemed that all of London had decided to send him gifts of congratulation instead, Trojan horses designed to breech his walls and win his favor. Most had been mundane, trinkets, books, wine, and sweetmeats, but there had been one involving perfumed garters and a lewdly suggestive poem from his brother's last mistress that he'd found astoundingly distasteful. "I've rubbish enough, thank you."

"But this one is different, Captain Your Grace," said Peart. "I took the liberty, Captain Your Grace, of guessing you'd rather see it than not."

"Did you now, Peart." This could be interesting, for Peart knew him well.

"Aye, aye, Captain Your Grace, I did," said Peart with growing confidence. "because this here crate has come direct from Naples, and inside is a painting by an artist you favor most particular. Most particular, Captain."

"Then open the d.a.m.ned box, Peart," Edward roared, racing down the stairs. "Handsomely, now, handsomely!"

As soon as the top plank was pulled off, he was digging through the packing himself to pull the painting out. Before he'd unwrapped it, he knew what it was, and he knew who had sent it, yet still he caught his breath when he saw the finished picture. It was even more wonderful than he remembered, more luminous, more magical, and more full of Francesca, too. He was so enchanted with the painting that at first he didn't see the note tucked into the frame. When he did, when he read it, he swore, long and low and straight from his poor wounded heart.

"Senza di te non ce sole nel cialo": then why the devil didn't she come back to him? He'd hang that sun back in the sky soon enough once she did, and the stars and moon with it.

"Where'd this come from, Peart?" he demanded. "What house? What address?"

The footmen stared guiltily down at the floor.

"They didn't ask, Captain Your Grace," said Peart righteously. "They didn't know why's they should be asking."

"h.e.l.l." Disconsolate, Edward sat on the marble steps, the painting in his hands. Why the devil had Francesca sent this to him, anyway? Did she mean to remind him of that afternoon when she'd shown him her little garret room, or to torment him with the possibility of a child of their own like the one in the painting, or had she simply sent him a gift that she knew would please him, with no secret significance at all?

"Shove off with that crate now, you blighters," ordered Peart, and with a final significant glare, the two footmen cleaned away the crate and its packing.

The knock at the front door echoed like a cannon in the hall, and without bothering to wait for the footman to return, Peart himself opened the door, only enough to peer outside and preserve Edward's privacy there on the stairs.

"Tell me your mooncalf master's within, Peart," said William, pushing the door open to look over the servant's head. "Ah, there you are, Captain! I do believe I've caught the scent of your vixen."

He pulled a folded newspaper from his coat pocket as he entered, and handed it to Edward. "I came across a maid reading this in a tavern last night, and though I know it's low trash-the paper, not the dear little chit that was reading it-I thought you'd want to see this particular notice regardless."

Quickly Edward looked down at the paper, to the corner that William had thoughtfully folded to accentuate a small boxed advertis.e.m.e.nt announcing the opening of a new business in Westminster, of all places.

SIGNORA ROBIN.

Newly arrived from Naples & Palermo, Wishes to Advise all Ladies & Gentlemen of Quality, Rank, & Discernment, & those of her Especial Acquaintance that she welcomes Such Visitors to her Collection, viz., Only the Finest Examples of Antiquities & Paintings of the Greatest Masters of Rome & Florence, well-known to Connoisseurs & other Gentlemen of Taste in the Arts At her studio d'artista, in Barlow Street, Westminster

So she was still in London, still Francesca, even prospering, it seemed. At least now he knew she'd stayed away by choice, and not because she'd been, oh, captured by gypsies and sold to the Turks, which would certainly have been the more flattering eventuality from his perspective. But for her to have abandoned him for the sake of opening a common shop in Westminster was not flattering in the least. Did his love really mean so little to her, then?