Chapter Two
Because the seaside was the last place Lord Dunstable would look for Genie, to Brighton she did go. Then too, Diana and Belinda were joining her there, and the company of friends was a much-missed comfort.
“The scent here is always the same,” Belinda said, linking arms with Genie.
“I’ve never been able to determine if that stink is gossip or rotten eggs,” Genie replied, matching her steps to her taller friend. “Or court intrigue. Thank heavens the king’s entire coterie has not yet arrived.”
Neither had Diana, though she was expected that afternoon. Belinda and Genie were taking the air, one of the most popular activities in Brighton.
“How is Tindale?” Belinda asked.
Two gentlemen tipped their hats, though Genie recognized neither one. “His Grace thrives in the company of his duchess. I do believe they were a love match.”
She managed that observation without sounding too envious. Genie and the previous duke had not been a love match. Charles had considered himself a decent husband, meaning he’d never taken his mistresses to the theater when Genie attended, and he’d never openly chastised her for failing to produce an heir.
The rhythm of the surf was punctuated by the cries of gulls overhead, and Genie finally began to relax. Brighton had been her haven, her respite from all things London. She’d come here to escape from the relentless burden of having married far above her station and to heal from the miscarriage. Tindale had left her alone in Brighton, one of the truest acts of consideration he’d shown her.
“You’re quiet,” Belinda said. “Was the trip down from Town tiring?”
“I’m a trifle fatig—merciful powers, he’s here.”
A gentleman approached, a lady on his arm. He was exquisitely turned out and so, of course, was she.
Belinda marched along, though Genie wanted to dodge behind the nearest hedge. Why, oh why, did Isambard Bentley, Marquess of Dunstable, have to be in Brighton now?
“Duchess!” he called, tipping his hat. “And Duchess.” He bowed to Belinda and then to Genie, the dukedom of Winchester standing higher in precedence than the dukedom of Tindale. “What a pleasant surprise. I’m sure you’re acquainted with Lady Naughton.”
Lady Naughton was a sylphlike blonde who was no better than she should be, though she avoided outright impropriety. Genie silently commended the woman on organizing her life around who and what she wanted, though why anybody would enjoy having a parcel of randy men sniffing around her skirts was a mystery.
The ladies curtseyed, and Genie gave Belinda’s arm a discreet tug. “We’ll let you be on your way on this fine day,” Genie said. “One must enjoy the sea air while the weather remains obliging.”
Belinda, confound her, remained fixed to the walkway like a lamppost. “What brings you to the seaside, my lord?”
“The beauty,” he said, treating both duchesses to calf-eyed mooning. “The excellent company, the healthful pastimes.”
A ducal heir’s notions about healthful pastimes did not include sea bathing and likely did include gambling, horse racing, and large quantities of liquor.
Genie tried another tug on Belinda’s arm. “Taking the air is a pleasure on a day such as this, and I do so enjoy my constitutional.”
“Oh, but the sun,” Lady Naughton said, twirling her parasol. “One must have a care for one’s complexion, particularly later in life.”
God spare me. “With that in mind,” Genie replied, “I won’t ask you to tarry any longer.” She hauled Belinda forward before her ladyship could observe that exercise was beneficial for the elderly.
“What an insecure, jealous cat,” Belinda said before they’d gone far enough to be out of earshot.
“I find her impressive, insulting two duchesses at one go, but then, Dunstable was flirting shamelessly.” The marquess and her ladyship rounded a corner, and Genie’s pleasure in the outing fled with them.
“Are you considering him?” Belinda asked.
“For what? A posting to Gibraltar? Would that such a boon were in my power.”
“Genie, we’re widows. This ought to be when we finally have some say over our lives, some freedom. We’re dowager duchesses, for pity’s sake.”
“And Dunstable is a fortune hunter. Everybody knows his papa is pockets to let, despite holding the Seymouth ducal title. Let’s go back to the house, shall we?”
She and Belinda were sharing quarters with their friend Mrs. Diana Thompson, an arrangement that provided company, appeased propriety, and minimized expenses. Genie had a lady’s companion, in theory. In practice, Cousin Daphne took advantage of Genie’s hospitality during the Season and then jaunted off to make up the numbers and frolic at the house parties until winter.
On the way home, Genie and Belinda met two honorables, an earl’s second spare, and a bachelor earl fallen on hard times.
“I should remove to Bath,” Genie said. “Above all, I sought peace and quiet here, and it appears somebody has declared open season on wealthy widows.”
“In Bath the bachelors have fewer teeth and more ailments. Safety in numbers, Genie. We’ll fend off the more determined fellows, and the rest will soon take the hint.”
A fine plan, except that as Genie and Belinda approached their own doorstep, a pair of strolling gentlemen managed to intercept them before they could turn up the walk. Mr. Purcell Vandameer and his boon companion Mr. Trelawney Gaunt nearly climbed through the parlor windows in an effort to secure an invitation to tea.
Genie produced a headache from all the bright sun and a sour stomach from yesterday’s travel and then shoved Belinda through the front gate before the gentlemen could wedge themselves through the very door.
“I cannot do this,” Genie said as they waved the gentlemen on to their next quarry. “I cannot endure these strutting buffoons here, where I’ve come to rest and regain my wits.”
“Give it a few days,” Belinda said. “They like you because you’re so approachable.”
Not approachable—common, but lacking in the commoner’s ability to reproduce in quantity. Genie had overheard Charles lamenting that shortcoming and had been heartbroken for days.
“Here comes another one,” she said, though the gentleman coming down the walkway was alone and moving at a pace that suggested an actual destination rather than a need to be seen flaunting Bond Street finery.
“Yonder fellow is a sizable specimen of manhood,” Belinda murmured.
Broad shoulders, height, hat sitting straight on a head of dark hair, rather than tilted at the prescribed rakish angle.
“That is not a fortune hunter,” Genie said. “That is Mr. Morecambe.”
“His features are not exactly refined.”
No, but they were attractive. Genie had been married to a handsome fellow, one who’d spent more time with his tailor, hairdresser, and valet than most men spent at paying occupations. All the finery in the world wouldn’t disguise the fact that Mr. Morecambe’s nose had character, his jaw hinted of stubbornness, and his smiles were rare and more fierce than charming.
He had an air of purpose, and he was here in Brighton, looking formidable while simply traveling along the walkway. He’d plow over the fortune hunters without breaking stride.
“Mr. Morecambe!” Genie called. “What a surprise. Always a pleasure to meet a neighbor. Perhaps you’d like to come in for tea?”
“Oh, do,” Belinda said, putting on her Delighted Duchess smile. She was an attractive lady, and her smile exuded genuine friendliness.
Mr. Morecambe looked more annoyed than enchanted. “Madam, we have not been introduced, though of course I recall our previous discussion.”
“No matter,” Genie said. “Widows are permitted a bit of eccentricity, and you and I are to be neighbors. This isn’t a Mayfair ballroom, and we needn’t stand on ceremony. Belinda, Duchess of Winchester, may I make known to you my London neighbor, Mr. Adam Morecambe. Mr. Morecambe, Her Grace of Winchester.”
Belinda completed the introductions, though even as Mr. Morecambe bowed over gloved hands, he was sending appraising glances in the direction of the house.
“Is this Nash’s work? It’s in his style.”
“The house has been renovated based on plans drawn up by Mr. Burton for another property,” Genie said. “He’s young, but quite talented. Perhaps you’d like to have a tour of the premises? The whole dwelling is lovely.”
An offer of tea with two duchesses had produced only a scowl. The chance to inspect the house had Mr. Morecambe opening the gate.
“Most kind of you, though you needn’t bother with the tea.”
How refreshingly honest. Genie linked arms with him. “We’re duchesses. We always bother with the tea.”
He hesitated on the front step. “Both of you are duchesses?”
Hadn’t they just boldly introduced themselves as such two minutes ago?
“Dowager duchesses,” Belinda said, as if that was the most unremarkable status a woman could hold. Belinda was, in fact, the famed Double Duchess, having a second duke panting about her heels. She detested the nickname. Genie suspected Belinda detested her ducal suitor as well.
“We put out a hearty tray,” Genie said, “and you will find the arrangement of the pantries ingenious.”
The allure of the pantry layout appeared to intrigue him. He paused to study the knocker—a rampant gryphon rendered in brass—then followed the ladies into the house.
* * *
Adam had no use for duchesses.
They were merely a blight upon the social landscape, however, while dukes merited his unending ire. A duke had a legal right to consult with the sovereign, could not be arrested for civil wrongs, and any criminal charges against him were tried in the House of Lords—the original exclusive gentlemen’s club.
Worst of all, dukes could not be jailed for unpaid debts.
Duchesses, however, were technically commoners and thus earned a vague resentment from Adam rather than unrelenting disdain.
Resenting these two ladies would be difficult. Her Grace of Winchester was lovely, with expressive green eyes, a flawless complexion, and a voice that conveyed equal parts refinement and gracious warmth.
She was, in other words, exactly as a fairy-tale duchess ought to be.
Her Grace of Tindale, however, was in need of some renovation if she sought to present herself as the former helpmeet of a duke. She wore the same plain bonnet she’d had on last week, her dress was several years out of date and loose about the bodice, and across her nose and cheeks appeared a smattering of freckles.
Adam liked those freckles. They put him in mind of goose girls and tavern maids, women who did honest work and didn’t put on airs. Her Grace’s eyes were brown, friendly, and intelligent, and what she lacked in stature, she made up for in unpretentiousness.
“What brings you to Brighton?” she asked.
Adam accepted his tea in a porcelain cup adorned with pink roses and gold trim. “Business.”
Both ladies gazed at him expectantly. Making conversation with proper women felt like taking a sledgehammer to a plaster wall—sheer effort and slow going.
“I’m looking over some residential properties,” he added. “For possible purchase.”
“You’re shopping,” the Duchess of Tindale said. “I haven’t the knack for shopping.”
Adam set down his tea cup carefully. He’d smashed more than one porcelain delicacy by accident.
“Choosing real estate to invest in isn’t the same as picking out a new pair of slippers.”
“Oh yes, it is,” Her Grace of Tindale replied. “You examine all the possibilities, consult your budget, consider the priorities controlling your decision, then make a choice and hope for the best.”
Her Grace of Winchester nodded. “Shopping, in a nutshell. Would anybody like more tea?”
Adam wanted to bolt from the tufted sofa and take his quizzing glass to the scrollwork running in two vertical columns above the mantel. The elaborate carvings framed a space occupied by a picture of a small boy standing beside a seated mastiff.
At the ceiling, the carving branched out into molding, which echoed a pattern of grapes and leaves interspersed with flowers. The transition from wooden carving to plaster molding was nearly invisible and exactly matched by smaller carvings on the underside of the mantel. The leaves appeared to be oak, the symbol for bravery, while the flowers—
“Mr. Morecambe?”
The duchesses were looking a trifle perplexed.
“Beg pardon?”
“I asked,” said Her Grace of Tindale, “if you were in the market for any particular sort of property.”
He was searching for a bargain, an overlooked jewel that wanted only a little care and appreciation to make it shine.
“I’m building a gentlemen’s club in London, as you know. It has been suggested that we obtain smaller properties in Brighton, Bath, and Bristol for the convenience of our members.”
“You’ll want a residential property, then,” Her Grace of Tindale said. “Close to the Pavilion and the beach, but not so close as to be prohibitively expensive.”
“Recently refurbished,” Her Other Grace added. “Not too recently. New construction is out of the question—a house newly built might start to leak or shift at any time—but those poky little medieval houses won’t do either. The stairways in them are not to be borne.”
The ladies commenced tossing back and forth the qualities of various streets—this one was near the market, that one had lovely neighbors—and Adam tried to listen, but it was no use. The scrollwork called to him, the mechanism for latching the windows wasn’t one he’d seen before, and a vent at floor level along one wall intrigued him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the Duchess of Winchester said, rising. “I’ve still some unpacking to tend to. Mr. Morecambe, a pleasure.”
Then he was alone with the Duchess of Tindale and a house that cried out to be explored.
“I promised you a tour of the premises,” she said. “Shall we start in the attics?”
“Always a fine plan.” For the proof was in the roof, as one of Adam’s master masons liked to say. If a house had been poorly constructed, the inferior materials, uneven foundation, and cut corners first took a toll on how the structure and roof joined. Water soon made an unwelcome appearance where water didn’t belong—in chimneys, walls, attics, and so forth—and then the whole building was jeopardized.
“You will not find a water stain, if that’s what has your gaze fixed to the ceilings,” the duchess said as she led him into a dormitory under the eaves. “The present owner is my godmother, and she stewards her resources carefully.”
The dormitory was both dry and airy, a comfortable place for the maids to sleep, with windows to let in light.
“Building properly is always the better bargain,” Adam said, running his hand down the plaster wall. No subtle dampness, no unevenness better perceived by touch than sight. “Practice too many economies, take too many liberties, and you invite cracks, leaks, shifts, and poor workmanship.”
“Rather like falsehoods in a relationship,” Her Grace said, trailing a finger over the mantel. “An omission becomes a white lie, which becomes a well-meant untruth, that over time becomes a breach of trust.”
She dusted her fingers together, rubbing away a fine smudge. Whatever had brought such a farfetched analogy to her mind had also chased the warmth from her eyes.
“Shall we inspect the attic?” Adam asked.
“Of course. I doubt there’s much stored on the premises. Godmama mostly lends the house to friends or stays for only short periods herself.”
The duchess spoke knowledgeably about each piece of art on the walls, each sideboard and reading chair. The dwelling was lovely, and the library a masterpiece in miniature. For those carvings, Adam did take out his quizzing glass to admire work so delicate, the hand of a master was obvious.
“These have to be Grinling Gibbons’s work,” he said. “Certainly from his workshop, but I’d be surprised if they weren’t original to him.” Personal woodcarver to both Charles II and James II, Gibbons had created works of genius for many a great house. His lintels of flowers were said to be so lifelike, a passing coach would cause them to bob in the breeze.
The duchess stuck her finger into a bouquet of daisies in a bowl of Delftware. The bird-pine-flower design suggested the vase was at least a hundred years old.
Her Grace shook droplets of water from her finger. “You’ve seen Petworth, I take it?”
“I’ve been marched through the long gallery once, by a housekeeper who clearly feared I’d be filching the valuables.”
“That does sound like Mrs. Bryce. I can take you back there any time you please, and I can assure you, Mrs. Bryce will be more accommodating. What is the point of having such beautiful homes if they are admired and enjoyed by only a few? As an architect, you should have been welcomed.”
The duchess used a pitcher from the sideboard to give the daisies a drink.
“You do know what the vase is worth?” When the Chinese had closed their porcelain export business in the early seventeenth century, the Dutch potters had created designs to compensate for the lack of imports. The work was exquisite, but when the Chinese resumed trading their wares, the Dutch had moved on to other inspirations. The container holding the mundane bouquet was a rare and beautiful antique.
“The vase is pretty enough to merit a spot in the window,” she said, “so passersby can enjoy the lovely flowers too.”
She was like no kind of duchess Adam had imagined, and as she’d led him all throughout this jewel of a house—the pantries were ingenious, the parlors exquisite, the bedrooms delightful—he’d admired everything, from the appointments, to the architecture, to the craftsmanship.
He’d admired her architecture, too, from trim ankles, to rounded hips, to hands that were both graceful and competent. She was not overly endowed in the bosom, but Adam had always preferred modest perfection to ample mediocrity.
He mentally dropped a hammer on his foot at that ungentlemanly thought.
“Would you like to sketch that scrollery?” she asked, crossing to the desk. “You’ve been staring a hole in it.”
“Sketch it?” He would dearly, dearly love to make a drawing of the woodwork and to make enough notes to recall the layout of the whole dwelling. “If that wouldn’t be too great an imposition.”
She set paper, pencils, a penknife, and standish on the blotter. “I’ll leave you to it. The bell-pull will summon the housekeeper, and I’ll have the kitchen send you up a proper tray. Tea cakes and gunpowder will hardly be adequate for a man of your robust proportions.”
Her gaze was frankly appraising. Not flirtatious, simply a hostess taking the measure of a guest and pronouncing him hungry.
Which Adam was—for food, but also to capture this house on paper. “Your hospitality is much appreciated.”
“We’re to be neighbors,” she said, beaming at him as if being neighbors was the most enjoyable mischief known to humankind. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll look in on you later.”
She left the room after one more quick perusal of the accoutrements on the blotter, and Adam took a seat at the desk. The pencils were sharp, so he could set immediately memorializing what he’d seen. The carvings, the floor plans, the window latches, the ingenious vent that let heat from the kitchen rise to the family parlor.
The image that took shape on the page was a homage to lovely architecture: gracious, pleasing, and—where was the harm in a quick portrait?—sporting freckles across her cheeks.