Chapter Three
Genie sat in the family parlor and tried to ignore the fact that a man occupied the library only a few yards away. An attractive, intelligent man.
Mr. Morecambe had accepted the tray from the kitchen more than an hour ago, and Genie had spent the intervening time staring at the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. The story was too much about brave knights hiding who they really were, getting wounded and killed, and acting like complete gudgeons. The ladies merely looked pretty and endured propositions, except for Rebecca the healer.
She possessed courage and lifesaving skills and doubtless had had wonderful adventures in far-off Granada.
“I am no Rebecca,” Genie informed the marmalade cat. “I am merely a dowager duchess without offspring.” The most pathetic creature in all of Debrett’s.
One of few appointments in Godmama’s house that Genie disliked was a stuffed nightingale arranged in a gilded cage amid silk roses. The little bird stared at her out of glass eyes, until Genie wanted to fling Ivanhoe at the wall.
Mr. Morecambe’s interest in the house had been passionate. He’d traced the woodwork with his bare fingers, sniffed the dried herbal sachets—lavender for the library, rose for the parlor, jasmine for Genie’s sitting room—and rapped on any number of walls. He’d engaged with the house more purposefully than some men engaged with their partners for the waltz.
“What could he be doing over there?”
He’d merely peered into her bedroom, an airy, high-ceilinged retreat featuring a bed large enough to hold most of Genie’s six brothers. She’d been seized with an impulse to lock the door and fling herself into Mr. Morecambe’s arms.
“There will be none of that,” she muttered, rising. “Dunstable is underfoot, and any breath of scandal will reach his ears, and then where will I be?”
The one consolation left to Genie, was that she was invited everywhere, had friends of varying degrees in most fashionable neighborhoods, and came and went as she pleased. She had worked long and hard and paid a very high price to be worthy of polite society’s acceptance. Should Dunstable make good on his threat to drag her name through the sewer, even those comforts would be gone.
“But nothing says I must forgo an outing with a prospective neighbor,” she murmured, hand on the door latch. “I am a widow and have earned my freedom up to a point.”
She crossed the corridor and paused outside the library long enough to rap softly on the paneled door.
No response. Mr. Morecambe was likely absorbed in his sketching. What would it be like for him to focus on her? She had known one moment in his arms back in London, and those arms had been strong and sheltering.
“I’d likely need a roof and shutters before he took any special notice of me.”
She pushed open the library door to find her guest seated at the desk, boots propped on the corner, arms folded, chin on his chest. A gentle snore wafted across the room, and as the cat stropped himself across Genie’s ankles, she feasted on the sight of Adam Morecambe in shirt-sleeves, fast asleep.
* * *
A sharp rap on the door startled Adam from dreams of wooden flowers and freckled geese. His boots dropped to the floor, nearly clobbering an indignant orange cat.
“Where did you come from?”
The cat squinted, and the knock sounded again on the door, more firmly.
“Come in.”
The Duchess of Tindale presented herself, looking as feminine and pleasing as she had in Adam’s dreams, but wearing a good deal more clothing. He rose from behind the desk, holding his sketches in a manner intended to hide the evidence of his wayward imagination.
“Mr. Morecambe.” She popped a brisk curtsey. “I’m looking in on you, as a hostess ought to. Do you have all you need?”
“I apparently needed a nap,” he said. And a thorough dousing in the frigid Channel surf. “That is a diabolically comfortable chair.” He shrugged into his coat as casually as he could, though Her Grace had been married. A man in dishabille would hardly shock her.
“I have remarked the same on the occasion of tending to my ledgers,” she said. “The combination of accounting and that chair induces sleep even first thing in the morning. I’ve sent off a note to Petworth House.”
Petworth was the finest collection of interior woodcarving in all of England, possibly in all the world.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I hope Friday suits. Godmama’s gardener vows the weather will hold fair for the rest of the week. We can make a picnic of the outing.”
She was inviting him on a tour of Petworth. Also, a picnic.
With her.
On the occasion of Adam’s first encounter with the duchess, he’d swept her into his arms to spare her a soaking. The contact had startled him. He’d not held a woman closely for ages, hadn’t wanted to. His every spare moment and thought went to building his business, and he liked it that way. Her Grace had tolerated the embrace for exactly two instants before she’d righted herself and shaken her skirts, but they had been lovely instants.
She was sturdy, lively, and friendly. None of which explained why Adam wanted to kiss her.
“I trust Lord and Lady Egremont will not be in residence?” he asked.
“Off to Paris. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”
To themselves and an army of servants. “Friday, you say?” Adam mentally rearranged lunch with friends as well as four other appointments to see properties for sale.
“Have you a conveyance?” she asked. “We can take my traveling carriage or the landau if the weather’s fine.”
“I’ll drive,” Adam said, lest he find himself plodding through the countryside when the time could be better spent marveling at the wonders of Petworth. “Shall we leave around eight in the morning?”
“Earlier than that,” she replied, rolling up his sketches and handing them to him. “We have the long hours of daylight, we might as well use them. Leave the picnic basket to me and plan on a lovely day.”
“The crack of dawn, then,” he said, bowing over her hand as best he could with his sketches tucked under his arm. “I’ll look forward to it.”
The prospect of a day bouncing along the lanes of Sussex had her beaming at him, and her pleasure turned an unremarkable countenance luminous. Her eyes lit with such benevolence, that Adam held on to her hand longer than was strictly proper. She had a subtle beauty, not the boring, cameo-perfect appearance of the typical titled lady, but a personal loveliness that would make the hours until Friday morning long.
And busy.
She saw Adam to the front door, where no servant sat in attendance collecting gossip and spying on the walkway.
“Do you know,” Adam said, “I do believe you are my favorite duchess in the entire world.”
“How many duchesses do you know, Mr. Morecambe?”
“Two.” Not strictly true. As a youth, he’d once been introduced to the Duchess of Seymouth, who’d regarded him as so much dung clinging to her slipper.
“You are my favorite architect.”
“How many do you know?”
She went up on her toes and brushed a kiss to his cheek. “One, and I am looking forward to getting to know him better.”
Adam tapped his hat onto his head, accepted his walking stick from her, and left the house without even taking the time to examine the fine Palladian window above the lintel.
* * *
The hamper was packed—a hamper, not a mere basket—and Genie had dressed in her most fashionable carriage ensemble. The early hour was not a reflection of her enthusiasm for stately country houses, but rather, her need to leave Brighton unobserved.
Mr. Morecambe’s chaise pulled up in front of the house before the sun had topped the horizon, while the world was still in that sweet, quiet, predawn gloom. Rather than make him come into the house, Genie met him on the walk.
“Good morning, Mr. Morecambe. You are punctual.”
He bowed over her hand. “Are you running away from home, Duchess? That looks more like a wicker trunk than a picnic basket.”
Genie had longed to run away, back home to Derbyshire, which guilty thought had her climbing into the vehicle unassisted.
“The day could be long, and who knows what fare will be available at the posting inns? Is this fine fellow yours?” The horse was a handsome bay, easily seventeen hands, no white on him anywhere.
“Caliban will eat my oats and pretend he’s doing me a favor,” Mr. Morecambe said, setting the basket behind the seat and taking the place beside Genie. “We can leave him at the first change, let him rest all day, and pick him up on our way home. Move, horse.”
With a flick of a dark tail, the gelding trotted on.
Dunstable might have stayed at the Seymouth family property in Brighton, except his mama the duchess complained to all and sundry that the house was uninhabitable, a musty hovel built by an incompetent scoundrel.
Having no family residence at his command, Dunstable was thus biding with his friend, Viscount Luddington, heir to the earl of the same title. Genie had made it her business to know that the viscount’s house lay on the opposite side of the Steyne from Godmama’s. No telling from whose bed Dunstable might be stumbling home at daybreak, though, so Genie tied her straw hat with a scarf, securing it to her head like a brimmed bonnet.
“I should tell you that I am not highly regarded among some titled families,” Mr. Morecambe said.
Interesting place to start a conversation. “Neither am I. I failed to produce a baby duke. What was your transgression?”
He glanced over at her as the horse gained the fields at the edge of town. They’d drive mostly north, toward the Downs, and being away from even the genteel streets of Brighton helped Genie breathe more easily.
“I am a commoner with airs above my station,” Mr. Morecambe said. “How long were you married?”
“Five long years. You will think me awful, but becoming a duchess was not a pleasant adjustment. I was a gentry heiress—copper mining proved a very wise investment several generations back—and thus I was bound to marry a man with an impoverished title. My father was determined to see his progeny rise in the world, and I was determined to make my papa happy.”
“That sounds like a fine ambition, to make your family happy. What does your father say now?”
“Not a word. We laid him to rest three years ago. This is such a beautiful time of day.” Genie had forgotten how cheering, how fragrant with hope dawn was. She’d never quite lost the sense of having disappointed not only Charles, but also Papa, and to have this conversation so early in the day was especially painful.
“Do you miss your husband?”
The question was personal, also one Genie had considered many times. “Yes, and no. Charles was not a bad man, but he was an indifferent husband. He needed a duchess, a gracious, poised woman who could produce multiple sons in quick succession while making no demands of him that couldn’t be met from her pin money. I was a disappointment, and it took me some while to realize just how egregious my shortcomings were. I exasperated him, he bewildered me. I wanted a marriage, he wanted a secure succession.”
The sun crested the surrounding hills as Caliban trotted through the first crossroads, and Mr. Morecambe steered the chaise smoothly onto the northward turning.
“What could you miss about such a union?” he asked.
“Charles was not much older than I, and in odd moments, I’d see the man he could become. He could be funny, he was generous with his friends, and would never insult me or upbraid me publicly. In his way, he was honorable. He simply expected the world to do as he bade and hadn’t much experience with frustration. Had there been a child, perhaps in time…”
“Your story confirms my conclusion that dukes are a blight upon society, and we’d be better off without them.”
Mr. Morecambe’s driving was deft and tactful, his opinion on dukes quite firmly stated. “You consign the entire senior branch of the peerage to perdition, Mr. Morecambe? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”
The wind whipped the end of Genie’s scarf behind her, and the sun warmed her cheeks. Why had she gone to Brighton instead of home to Derbyshire?
“I’d keep Wellington, and a few others, but a duke ruined my father. I haven’t much patience for the lot of them.”
He leaned closer to make that admission, bringing with him the scent of lavender. He favored clean linen, then, and made conscientious use of soap and water. Fine qualities in a man.
“Is there a scandal I should know about?” Genie asked, though any warning he offered was coming at least two miles too late, if that was the case.
“A quiet scandal, the worst kind, because then nobody champions the outcast. He’s left to slink away, hoping the rumors die down along with his fortunes. Papa built a fine dwelling just as Brighton was becoming truly popular, and the duke not only refused to pay, he claimed Papa had done shoddy work. Papa was old-fashioned. He never built a house he wouldn’t be proud to live in, and the work was anything but shoddy.”
“But the damage was done,” Genie said. “His reputation in tatters, and then nobody else felt compelled to pay him or to hire him. That is a dreadful tale, Mr. Morecambe.”
“A tale you believe.”
“Oh yes. When a man is seldom told no, or not now, or not at that price, he develops little patience or understanding. Such a man can either be grateful for the privileges of his station, or he can be a complete donkey’s arse. Your papa’s client doubtless had solicitors, barristers, and even judges in his pocket, while your father had a family to feed. I’m sorry your father ran afoul of a donkey’s arse. Tell me how you came to build your gentlemen’s club.”
By degrees and questions, Genie drew him out, until it was time for the first change. She heard a tale of hard work, determination, sound investment, and more hard work, as well as several panegyrics to houses that had enthralled Mr. Morecambe.
“How can a house enthrall?” Genie asked as they trotted away from the posting inn. “A house is a place to get out of the wet, to take meals, or to sleep. A fine idea, but not… not enthralling.”
He clucked to the horse, a gray this time. “Consider that vent in your parlor, the one that lets warm air waft up from the kitchen. That is genius, Your Grace. The bane of every soul in Britain the livelong winter is cold feet, and some mason, architect, or apprentice noticed that if a gap was allowed just so in a wall and a vent placed thus, the people in that one parlor in all of England would have warm feet, and without roasting their boots by the fire. I’m enthralled by such ingenuity.”
And when he was enthralled, Mr. Morecambe became animated, charming even.
“Might I ask for a slight innovation where our dealings are concerned, sir?”
“You may ask.”
Caution was usually a virtue, but Genie wasn’t feeling cautious. She was feeling like herself for the first time in years.
“Will you call me Genie when we are private? This business of your-gracing and her-gracing, when I’m really not much more than a farmer’s daughter, has long struck me as ridiculous. I’m Genie to my friends, and I hope we are to become friends.”
He drove along in silence, and once again, Genie feared she’d blundered and failed to grasp soon enough the extent of her error.
“You truly do not like being a duchess, do you?” he asked.
“If I answer honestly, I’m the most ungrateful fool in the realm. Every little girl aspires to be a duchess.”
“You are not a little girl, which fact gives me significant joy. My name is Adam, and I invite you to use it, Genie.”
* * *
“You look like the tomcat who got into the cream pot, Dunstable.” Jeremy, Viscount Luddington, moved the teapot to his house guest’s elbow.
Dunstable had come to the breakfast parlor from the front door rather than down the steps. His cravat was wrinkled, and his hair was styled a la mare’s nest. One button of his falls was loose, and the chain of his watch fob had come undone from its buttonhole to flap about his waist.
“I need coffee.” He ran a hand through his hair, creating further disorder. “You see before you a survivor of Lady Naughty’s worst excesses.”
Luddington motioned for the footman to pour the marquess a cup of coffee. “One doesn’t romp and tell, Dunstable, particularly not with a married lady.”
Dunstable slurped his salvation with all the delicacy of a thirsty coach horse. “If she’s romping, she’s not a lady, is she?”
“If you’re telling, you’re not a gentleman. Would you like some eggs?”
Another slurp. “Let’s start with toast.” Dunstable reached for the rack. “Some hair of the dog would likely serve a medicinal purpose as well.”
Luddington passed over his flask, which held a fine Madeira. Dunstable was getting old to be sowing wild oats, particularly when he’d started on the project shortly after birth. The marquess’s hand shook slightly as he buttered his toast, and he got a spot of jam on the tablecloth.
“When the hell is the rest of George’s set coming down from London?” he asked. “The place livens up considerably when his toadies are in town.”
“I honestly prefer Brighton when our dear sovereign is elsewhere. I did notice that the Double Duchess is among those enjoying the seaside.”
Her Grace ought to be a double duchess because she was as gracious as she was good-natured, but the woman had married one duke and was rumored to be the intended of another. Luddington felt sorry for her—duke number two was hardly a prize—but she gave no sign of feeling sorry for herself.
Dunstable bit off a corner of toast. “That one. Doubly difficult. She’s due for a comeuppance, I say. Did you know she’s biding with Her Grace of Timid-dale?”
Luddington had never learned to appreciate the harsh charms of coffee. He poured himself another cup of tea and cursed Eton for the crop of inconvenient friendships it had produced.
“Her Grace of Tindale was kind to both of my sisters upon their come outs, and they are a provokingly shy pair of young ladies. I doubt they would have taken without the duchess’s aid. You insult her at your peril.”
Dunstable laughed, getting toast crumbs all over his cravat. “When did you become such a bishop, Luddy? If we didn’t talk about who we’ve swived, who we’d like to swive, and who’d like to swive us, what conversation would remain?”
A note to Mama was in order. Both of Luddington’s sisters were happily married, but Mama was quite the hostess. Her guest list needed to become shorter by one name. Luddington caught the footman’s eye, and that good fellow took up the almost empty teapot and departed on a bow.
“Dunstable, allow me to presume on our long and amiable association. You are nearly penniless, which I gather is something of a family tradition. Not your fault, but there it is. Unless you want to be refused my hospitality effective immediately, you will cease to slander every woman who has granted you a waltz. We are no longer boys, trying to impress each other in the public school dormitories.”
Luddington meant the rebuke kindly. There had been talk in the clubs of Dunstable playing too deeply and taking too long to make good on his vowels. His most recent mistress had left him for the company of a mere cloth merchant, and nobody had seen Dunstable’s high-perch phaeton since April.
The marquess stirred sugar into his coffee. “No need to get up in the bows, Luddy. I’m still a bit cup-shot, not at my best.” Dunstable smiled by way of further apology, and such was his inherent charm, that Luddington felt an iota of relenting.
“We’re none of us at our best after a night of carousing, and if you’re not inclined to sea bathing, Brighton can be a challenge.”
Dunstable shuddered. “Sea bathing. Tried it once. My stones were the size of raisins by the time the ordeal concluded. Never again.”
Which raised a puzzle: If Dunstable wasn’t in Brighton to enjoy the sea, and the Carlton House set wasn’t present in any great numbers, what was the marquess doing here, and when would he be finished doing it?
“I find a dip in the ocean invigorating. Have some more toast. When are you off to the family seat? The countryside is ever a pleasant respite in the summer.”
Dunstable finished his coffee and refilled his cup. “I dare not show my face at the ancestral pile, lest visiting heiresses pop out of linen closets at me. My parents think I’m in Brighton to refurbish the sole asset deeded to me on my twenty-first birthday. That abysmal excuse for an abode is not four streets from the Pavilion, but a sorrier dwelling you never did see.”
Only a ducal heir could complain about owning such a prestigious address. “Have you inspected the property?”
“Had to. The solicitors would tattle otherwise. It’s an awful place, all dusty and gloomy. Not a stick of furniture, not a potted salvia to be seen. Pater says the roof leaks, the cellars let in the damp, and the parlors are drafty. Not exactly what you call a bachelor establishment for one of my station.”
“That was his idea of a birthday gift?” No wonder Dunstable was in the doldrums.
“For which I’m to be grateful,” he said, rising. “You defend Her Grace of Tindale as the wife of our late friend, but Luddy, I could tell you a tale in confidence that would tarnish your regard for her considerably.”
“If you told such a tale,” Luddington said, “my regard for you would be tarnished as well. When you’ve finished breaking your fast, I suggest you have a bath and a nap. I’m off to call upon my aunt.” He patted his lips with his table napkin and rose.
“It’s easy for you,” Dunstable said, brushing toast crumbs from his cravat onto the carpet. “Your papa doesn’t meddle. Your properties send cash flowing into your coffers. You haven’t got four sisters beggaring the family exchequer while you try to make a pittance serve as a quarterly allowance. There’s nothing I can do, Luddy. I’m not to have a profession, Papa doesn’t want me mucking about with ducal properties, I haven’t a head for academics, and yet, I’m to appear charming, well informed, and gracious at all times.”
Was that such a burden? But then, Luddington had spent an occasional school holiday at the Seymouth family seat and did not envy Dunstable his parents. They were an arrogant, unsentimental pair who had high expectations of their son and little sympathy for his situation—or anybody else’s.
“You bear up wonderfully under these hardships,” Luddington said, “most of the time. Have that nap, and your outlook will be brighter for it.” Luddington spoke to his four-year-old nephew in the same tone.
“I suppose I shall, and I’m working on a means of making everything come right. I intend to have a conversation with a certain dowager duchess, and then I’ll not need to impose on your hospitality.”
That did not bode well for the duchess. “If you need a small loan, Dunstable, you know you can count on me.”
Dunstable waved a hand. “Small loans ceased to make a difference months ago, but thank you for the gesture. I’m for my bath and a bottle of that fine Madeira.”
He sauntered from the room, his gait a bit unsteady, and Luddington sent up a prayer for his friend—and for any duchess upon whom that friend sought to call.