Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 10
As soon, as they stepped inside, she unwound her shawl and slipped her thick wool coat from her shoulders.
A young lady named Martha, her mouse brown hair tucked under a mob cap, took the things quickly and bobbed a hasty but efficient curtsy. “Good afternoon, Yer Grace. The Duchess of Blackstone and the Duchess of Harley be waiting for ye.”
“Thank ye, Martha,” she replied fondly. The girl had come far in but a short amount of time. When Martha had appeared on the doorstep, she’d been shoeless, covered in coal soot, and her hair had been a nest for small creatures. Her young gaze had darted about, suspicious.
Now, Martha’s cheeks bloomed red with health and her hair shone with brushing. Though she was still quite thin, her new soft wool gown helped to give her an air of wellness and confidence she had not had before. And she made an excellent member of their staff, assuring other young children who needed help that no harm would come to them here.
Diana quickly strode down the simple, yet bright hallway to the back kitchens where the scent of soup and bread was wafting.
At present, they had forty children and mothers in their care, all placed into ten rooms with two common rooms. They were all allowed to make use of the library and the tutors that had been hired to help in the instruction of letters for all.
At first, she had been at a loss as to how to supply the kitchens, but she had quickly discovered that she had almost endless funds, and her husband, though exceptionally busy, was a font of information if she asked.
So, she had realized that he had ensured her financial independence and that as mistress of all his houses, she could request fresh food to be brought down from the country as often as she wished. So, the larder was stocked with milk, butter, oats, eggs, winter vegetables, and game from the vast Raventon estates.
There was no need to fear dubious products such as diluted milk or adulterated bread. With food from their own estates, she knew she was giving these people the very best she possibly could.
“Aha!” chimed the Duchess of Harley. Her russet hair, though coiled atop her head, was unruly. The errant strands left her with a mischievous air. “You are here. Come taste this soup. Cook has outdone herself.”
Diana smiled at her friend, yes, friend, who had so eagerly taken up the cause.
While the duchesses might have easily remained in drawing rooms, raising money from the comfort of their gilded salons, Harriet and Eglantine had chosen to take an active part, learning to make soup, bake bread, and directly interact with each person in their care and helping to formulate a plan which would see them successful when they had left the Aid Society.
So many, when they left the houses, often punishing hells meant to help them, were worse off than when they’d entered and fell immediately back into ruin.
Both of the duchesses greeted Mr. O’Malley cheerfully and he nodded his dark mane of hair in a polite bow. However, excellent conversationalist that he was, he did not engage in discourse.
Most of the time, he stood with a readiness that was barely fathomable and his gaze seemed to be ever shifting, looking for any sign that something was amiss.
Diana crossed to the copper soup pots, each lined upon the range, and happily tasted the concoction inside.
She closed her eyes and sighed with content. The recipe had come from her own Highland home.
Though it was simple, potato, carrot, onion, leek, and parsnip with cream and butter, it was very nourishing and had a fresh taste which made her all but shiver with happiness.
It reminded her of the small crofter’s cottages with their ever-burning fires and smoke rising from the chimneys on cold winter nights, a pot always boiling.
Served with butter and good bread made of only the best oats, it was the sort of fare that was both comforting and healing.
“Do you think we should get holly in?” asked Harriet.
“Christmas is astonishingly soon,” added Eglantine.
Diana nodded. “I think it a fine idea. And a candle in every window. Let us fill the place with warmth and cheer.”
Eglantine grinned then added, “Shall we arrange for a present for each child?”
“And their mothers,” Diana put in. “Those women have kent little kindness and I think we can offer them a moment of it.”
Harriet and Eglantine nodded in agreement.
“Soon, we shall need more staff,” Harriet said pointedly. “And I think another building.”
“I agree,” said Diana. She nibbled her lip. “But we must ensure that our intentions remain true. We wouldna wish to get someone in who was too rigid.”
“Agreed,” Eglantine piped. “I’ve seen some of the matrons in the other establishments. I do swear they drink vinegar water instead of tea.”
Diana bit back a laugh. The description was apt and the accusation all too accurate. Some truly seemed to believe the poor should be treated without kindness or respect. She couldn’t understand it, but there was a great deal in this world she didn’t understand. She could only be glad that she and her husband believed in kindness. Without his support, she knew she’d be able to do little.
And soon, she’d be able to persuade him to take up certain causes in the House of Lords. For she knew, he would listen to her, even if they seemed to interact seldom at present. He was a good man.
A good man she wished to be closer to. . . but it did seem as if as the days passed, instead of becoming more intimate they were simply becoming two rather like-minded souls who lived in the same house.
Christmas was going to be most strange, indeed, this year.
He did not seek her out at night and most of their discussions took place at the long dining table that was always decked with dozens of pieces of silver, crystal, and porcelain.
She was tempted to ask Harriet and Eglantine how she might change things, but it was a terrifying thought asking for such advice. Besides, they did not know Max terribly well. Oh, they were all of a small circle, but they would not know him in the way she needed. No, the only ones who did were likely his male friends and she couldn’t possibly ask them. . .
She stopped mid-stir of the soup and placed the long ladle down upon the wood block beside the range.
There was someone she could ask. Someone who knew Max well. Someone who might be able to help her bridge the gap from acquaintance to wife, indeed.
A smile tugged at her lips. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
A wave of purpose washed over her. Something she liked very much, indeed. It was always best to feel as if one had made a decision.
She turned to Harriet and asked, “Where might I pay a call upon Madame de Coqueville?”
Harriet’s brows rose ever so slightly but then she cleared her throat. “Number 79. Just off of Fleet Street down a rather narrow way. Your coach driver will know it.”
Harriet and Eglantine exchanged glances.
Diana was tempted to ask what it meant but she refrained. She wished nothing to dissuade her. So much of her life had taken a turn for the better in the short time since she’d come to London. Now, she was determined that her marriage should take that turn. . . into a real marriage, indeed.
Chapter 16
Max dropped his head back against the leather chair before the crackling fire and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Much to his horror, he was beginning to wonder if marriage had been a mistake.
Oh, Diana was wonderful. But that was part of why he’d begun to wonder. She deserved so much more than he could give. If she only wished jewels, frocks, amusement. . . he could have supplied all that easily. But she was not that sort of woman. No, she was a woman he admired which made it all the more difficult. For so much of his life was a secret. The balance of being a husband and withholding so much of himself had not yet become evident to him and so he spent the vast majority of his time in the House of Lords, the East End, and here at Number 79, the refuge of himself and the dukes of Blackstone, Drake, Harley, Ardore, and Royland. . .
His secrets and the challenges they brought were always going to be a part of his marriage. He’d known that. But he’d never thought it would prove so. . . difficult. Not only did he admire his new wife. He liked her. But the depths of his pretense made a Highland loch look as shallow as a puddle.
Could she understand that so much of his life would always be a secret? That he daily worked to ensure the wellbeing of his government and the safety of those disenfranchised at the hands of Napoleon?
That he still went abroad in disguise? That once, he had stolen people away from certain death?
It had been no easy thing connecting the two but, at long last, through his networks in Paris, he had discovered that Diana’s aunt had been too political for her own good as a girl and that she had fallen in with certain rebellious sets. But he was still uncertain as to how she and Angeline were connected.
And that? That did not even begin to encompass the knowledge he held.
How could he ever trust her with so much information?
Even the other dukes didn’t know the extent of his subterfuges. Oh, they knew he ran a ring of information gatherers in London and throughout England. They did not know his spies extended to Paris, Naples, and St. Petersburg.
The door abruptly opened, leaving a square of darkness.
Habit caused Max to tense slightly, ready in case danger lurked in the shadows. It was the nature of all men who had known the dangers he had faced.
The Duke of Ardore strode into the fire-lit room, his dark hair wild, and his eyes glinting like hard obsidian. He bristled like a beast that might kill any that neared it.
Ardore had good reason.
Max waited patiently, trying to discern which way the wind would blow with his friend. He’d be ready, whatever the Scotsman needed.
“I need a bloody drink,” Ardore growled as he ate up the floor and crossed to the grog tray near the piano which Drake played the most often.
Max remained silent, merely studying his friend. Ardore had been gone for years. Traveling in the Americas. Once, they’d been inseparable as soldiers. But the trauma of his father had driven Ardore abroad and it seemed it had also sent his sister down a dark path.
Ardore poured more than half a glass of Scotch, a drink kept specifically on hand for him, into a crystal tumbler. He palmed it and tossed it back in one swift swallow. He poured again but, this time, took out a second glass.
This wasn’t drinking for a night of revelry. Max knew instinctively something had happened. Something terrible. Something worse than what he already knew had befallen his friend.
“I need yer help, mon,” Ardore bit out, his burr thick with emotion.
“You have it,” Max said quickly, unquestioningly. “But tell me what’s happened.”
A dark shadow passed over Ardore’s strong face. For a brief moment, his visage creased with impending sorrow but then anger burned into his gaze. No, not anger. Nothing so simple as that. It was fury.
Ardore leveled him with a serious stare. “I’m going to kill a mon.”
“Ah.” Max was careful to let little of the depth of his reaction show. It was clear that Ardore didn’t jest. So Max forced a jaunty quirk of his lips. “A good and righteous execution.”
A muscle tightened in Ardore’s jaw. “Aye.”
“The man who ruined your sister?” queried Max.
“The men,” Ardore gritted. “I need yer special skills to track them all down. And then I’m going to arrange their deaths.”
“Of course, I’ll assist you in locating them. I’ve no time for such base cowards. But. . . you’ve decided then? You didn’t seem bent on murder when last I heard from you.”
Ardore stood so still for a moment that Max felt alarm. He knew that look. He knew the glassiness of his friend’s eyes.
It was the look that occurred when something so horrific occurred that the mind could not truly accept it.
“Ardore?” Max prompted softly, dreading the words that would come out of his lifelong friend’s mouth. For they would be brutal.
At last, there was the slightest flicker in Ardore’s glance. His voice lowered to a bare whisper. “She tried to destroy herself.”
Max made no fast response, no assurances, no curses at the usually unspeakable admission. It was damned difficult to know what Ardore needed in such a harrowing moment.
Families went to great lengths to avoid such confessions. After all, accidents did occur with great frequency, and society would be understanding and sympathetic. However, when it came to self-slaughter, society was brutally cold. As was the church.
The bodies of people committing suicide could not be buried with the family in consecrated ground.
But Ardore was making no pretense, nor should he have to with a close friend.
Max stood and crossed to the grog tray. Picking up the whiskey, he poured himself a steep glass and then filled his friend’s.
“She did not succeed?” Max ventured carefully.
Ardore gave a tight, nearly imperceptible shake of his head before he lifted his glass and drank most of it down.
The Scot’s hand shook. “The bullet grazed her temple. It. . . cut bone but didna penetrate. She was unconscious when I found her.”
Max’s stomach tightened. His heart ached that his friend had been required to witness such a sight. To see a family member so stricken was often the cruelest thing. “I am so very sorry such a thing has befallen you. But she will recover?”
“There is some concern regarding her mental abilities,” Ardore choked, his hands shaking now. “She is kept sedated. The physicians think it best. Lest, she try again.”
Max gripped his friend’s shoulder. “You are not alone. She is not alone. Your friends will see you through this.”
Ardore lifted nearly possessed eyes to Max’s. “She used Father’s pistol.”
The very ground swayed beneath Max’s feet, for few knew that Ardore’s father had shot himself. They’d made it look like an accident. A shot that had fired while cleaning his weapon.
The lie had been simple and Ardore had arranged the scene so it had been believed.
The added blow of his sister’s state was almost unimaginable. It was true that Max had seen horror that most could never contemplate, but he had not experienced this sort of personal trauma. Not in relation to the loss of a family member.
Now, Ardore had nearly suffered it twice.
“She must have been in a great deal of pain,” Max said softly.
“Aye,” Ardore agreed, his voice guttural. “Now, ye promise ye’ll help me make them pay for it.”
Max nodded. “I will. I swear it.”
And he meant it. Whatever it took, he would help Ardore achieve justice for his sister. After all, that was what Max did. And he always would.
Chapter 17
Diana stood outside the elegant edifice of Number 79 and convinced herself, yet again, not to turn and hie for the hills. O’Malley stood just a few feet away down the dark, narrow alley.
While many might think the term alley denoted a nasty, frightening place, this was anything but. In fact, if felt as if she’d entered a portal to a more ancient, more powerful, and ever more wealthy part of London.
The coach had been unable to pass through this way from Fleet Street and so she and O’Malley had made their way by foot.
O’Malley, wise man that he was, had given her one stunned look when she’d mentioned the address, then nodded and began to whistle a sprightly reel.
He’d said little since they’d descended.
Now that she stood staring at the door as if it might be a portal to her doom, she gave herself a good set down. Highland lasses didn’t suffer such fits of indecision. Besides, Madame de Coqueville had been most pleasant.
So, she lifted her gloved hand and rapped upon the door.
Much to her surprise, the person who opened the door was not a servant. Not at all.
In fact, the blue panel swung open to reveal a woman bathed in amethysts and a gown so soft in its lilac hue, she appeared nearly nude in the dark light.
The fashionable gown hugged her full breasts, hiding only the color of her nipples. A jeweled belt cinched her slender waist and the silk skirts cascaded over the curve of her hips to swing to the floor about long legs.
Diana didn’t often feel a Highland coo amongst swans but, tonight, in her simple cloak and high-necked day gown, which she had not changed since morning, she did. Still, it was to be expected.
Madame de Coqueville was a former Parisian of the most fashionable set. Of course, she’d look utterly divine. All. Of. The. Time.
Madame de Coqueville’s mischievous lips curved. “Welcome, Your Grace. Do come in.”
There was an air of amusement to Madame’s being, as if she had somehow expected this visit, which seemed odd, but who knew the ways of things. Diana certainly didn’t.
She wasn’t certain she’d ever understand the upper echelons of the fashionable intelligentsia, but she had her own merits.
So, she stepped over the threshold and into the beautiful and rather elaborate hallway. Careful not to gape, she took in the hall discreetly. But just as she was about to take note of the various paintings, Diana stopped.
A scent wafted around her and she frowned.
It was undeniable.
“Is something amiss?” Madame asked, her voice lilting.
Diana cleared her throat. “I do beg yer pardon, a silly question, but has my husband been here recently?”
Madame de Coqueville’s dark brows shot up in surprise. “Whatever makes you say so?”
“His cologne. . .”
“Ah. Naturellement.” Madame de Coqueville nodded as though nothing was amiss. “Monsieur le Duc, Max, is here quite often.”
The way she, Madame de Coqueville, said Diana’s husband’s name was with a thick “r” and gave a sort of shrug as if this was the most obvious thing in the world, was unnerving.
Then the playwright leaned in and added, “Mon cher, he is here now.”
Diana paled, stunned. If Madame de Coqueville was trying to be rude or cruel, she didn’t seem it. Nor did she seem as if she were bragging that Max was here.
