Chapter Six
Genie was on excellent terms with the staff at the Pavilion, having lent her domestics to King George on any number of occasions when His Majesty was hosting some lavish entertainment. She knew her way around the building, or thought she did, and had already chosen several linen closets, dressing rooms, and stairways where she might have stolen a kiss.
Mr. Morecambe refused to oblige her.
If Carlton House was King George’s personal art gallery, the Pavilion was his architectural peacock. Minarets and onion domes topped a palace both thoroughly modern—the kitchen was a marvel in itself—and luxurious beyond imagining.
“I do wonder about that roof,” Adam said, taking one last look at the ornate ceiling doming the banqueting hall. “But I have reached the limit of what my sensibilities can absorb here. Shall I walk you home, Your Grace?”
The house steward stood by, having courteously escorted them from room to room—and closet to closet—answering Adam’s endless questions.
“Thank you, yes,” Genie replied. “One doesn’t appreciate the size of this edifice until one traverses every corridor and stair.”
Adam repeated his thanks to the steward and confirmed an appointment to tour the equally lavish stable the next morning.
“Will you come with me tomorrow?” he asked when they were strolling arm in arm along the walkway.
“I think not,” Genie said. “My interest in a certain architect remains undiminished. My interest in ventilation, drainage, bearing walls, and supporting beams has been sated.”
He patted her hand, a slow stroke of glove over glove. “My interest in those subjects is what keeps the roof over my own head, though I suspect even were my means abundant, I’d still be an architect. If you were not a duchess, what would you be?”
Happy. That reply would not do, not even for Adam’s ears. “I would certainly bide in London much less than I do. I’d make more effort to see my family, rather than exerting myself to launch the daughters and nieces of every woman to claim an acquaintance with me. I would knit, and raise my own sheep, and spend more time by the sea and in the countryside.”
“You enjoy Brighton?”
They wandered back to the house, with Genie expounding on the advantages of a simpler life, where gossip wasn’t a constant threat to one’s peace and expenses were reduced.
Adam held the garden gate for her. They’d come up the alley, in part because Genie preferred the quieter approach, but also because Dunstable was still in Brighton, doubtless up to no good.
“Does Tindale begrudge you your portion?” Adam asked.
“He would not dare,” Genie said. “Augustus did not expect to inherit and couldn’t care less what I do with my money. He was a mere cousin to the ducal line, and Charles was young and in good health when he died. Then Charles’s younger brother got into that awful accident, and Augustus was left with the title. I am quite well fixed, but one doesn’t speak of that openly.”
Adam’s gaze was serious—more serious than usual. “You are circumspect about your wealth because of the fortune hunters. I’m not after your money, madam. I can provide comfortably for a wife and children.”
“The fortune hunters are a constant plague.” As was a certain marquess, who any day now would once again insinuate his hand into Genie’s coffers. “Do you return to London soon, Mr. Morecambe?” For if Dunstable remained kicking his heels in Brighton, Genie would return to Town.
“I’m a failure as a suitor, aren’t I? Shall we sit?” He gestured to a marble bench before a circular fountain with a swan eternally gliding at the center.
Genie let him assist her onto the bench—another lingering touch of gloved hands—and realized what all the holding doors, taking her arm, and standing near her the livelong afternoon had been about.
“You are a very attentive suitor. I am a failure as a blushing damsel. All I could think about was accosting you in a linen closet, while you were doing the pretty.”
He took off his hat and set it on the bench. “The linen closet under the servant’s stair? The one scented with jasmine and lavender? I nearly pushed you inside and closed the door in the poor steward’s face. The scent of jasmine has become an aphrodisiac.”
Why should—? “Because I use jasmine in my bedroom?”
“And in the morning, the fragrance clings to your person when you rise from your slumbers. Very clever, Your Grace. Maddening, even.”
Maddening was lovely. “For me, the scent of fresh clover has become enticing. Puts me in mind of summer evenings and bucolic splendors.”
They enjoyed a moment, not touching, but very much courting, while a pair of sparrows splashed in the shallows of the fountain then fluttered away.
“I depart for London on Wednesday,” Adam said. “Locating a suitable property for purchase in Brighton will require, as you suggest, intermediaries. The houses that are fine enough for my purposes are not available to me, and I haven’t time to undertake new construction.”
“You mean the blue bloods won’t take your money.” The same members of polite society who would have cut a bumpkin like Genie without mercy, but for her husband’s title.
“A gentlemen’s club can attract enterprises of a less respectable nature. In London, that’s tolerated or even expected, because of the influence of the gentlemen attending the clubs. The titled gentleman’s convenience matters more than his neighbor’s refined sensibilities, and nobody says a word. For a club catering to the untitled, different expectations attach. I was slow to grasp what was going unsaid.”
He referred to the brothels that cluttered the streets of Mayfair, side by side with fine residences, respectable businesses, and venerable clubs.
“Do you mean to tell me Brighton has no such common nuisances?”
“Brighton has a history of promoting health rather than vice, despite His Majesty’s efforts to the contrary. His court is aging along with him, and the town’s residents look askance at any unknown quantity.”
No, they did not. If that quantity sported a title, they looked at her graciously, even fawningly.
“I must ponder this,” Genie said, “and you must accept an invitation to share a cup of tea with me in my sitting room. If I cannot at least kiss you, I will next be seen marching about the beach, ranting at the sea.”
He picked up his hat and rose, extending a hand to Genie. “A cup of tea after our tour of the Pavilion would suit nicely. Would you march about the beach in bare feet?”
He’d seen her bare feet. Grasped them in his warm hands, caressed them. Pleasurable heat rose from Genie’s middle.
“I’d remove both shoes and stockings,” she said, taking his arm, “and even lift my hems a few inches to avoid the encroaching waves. Then I’d come home and bathe thoroughly to get the sand and sea salt off my person.”
He paused before the back door, his gaze fixed on the brass knocker, a gull with wings spread. “Bathe with jasmine soap?”
Genie used her parasol to shade them from view, then whispered in his ear, “I’d use that jasmine soap everywhere.” Oh, this was marvelous fun. “We stock gunpowder tea scented with jasmine. Do you fancy a cup?”
He held the door for her, and as she swept past, he spoke very softly. “I fancy the whole, hot, delicious pot, with sweet honey drizzled into each steaming cup.”
She needed to catch her balance on the sideboard after that remark. Adam presumed to take her parasol and close it for her, while she untied her bonnet ribbons.
“Allow me,” he said, unfastening the frogs of her cloak.
This too was flirtation, for his fingers grazed her chin and throat, and when he drew the cloak from her, his palms stroked over her shoulders. Ye gods, she had not been done justice by her poor duke, and he had doubtless not been done justice by his copper heiress.
Genie would have stolen a kiss right there in the corridor, except that voices floated forth from the formal parlor at the front of the house.
“Guests,” she said. “Belinda and Diana would use the family parlor if they were alone. We could simply duck up the back steps to my sitting room.” Please, please, please.
“I leave that decision in your hands.”
His expression had lost any hint of flirtation, and Genie recalled his words about skulking through back alleys and renting a cottage in some obscure village.
“One cup,” she said, “and then I will find a way to extricate us from the clutches of strict propriety.”
He kissed her in the deserted corridor, and that only made Genie’s yearning worse. “You tease me, you fiend. I will have my revenge, and you may expect a few bars of scented soap delivered to your abode by this time tomorrow. I like cedar and cinnamon, though not at the same time. Do I look adequately composed?” Though she still didn’t know his specific direction.
A masculine voice punctuated Diana’s dulcet speech. Not friends, then, for Diana spoke freely with the few she considered friends and used that soft, amused tone only with bothersome bachelors.
“You look utterly demure, confound you.”
Genie smoothed her skirts, taking a moment to savor the joy of having a suitor. She swept into the parlor, trailing streams of glee and smiling on all creation.
Only to see Lord Dunstable rising from the sofa like a spider crawling forward to greet the newest victim entrapped in its web.
* * *
If there was one person Adam loathed more than he loathed the Duke of Seymouth, it was Seymouth’s heir and only son, Lord Dunstable. That disgrace to manhood bowed over Genie’s hand, and she curtseyed prettily.
“My lord, a pleasure,” she said, with every evidence of sincerity. “May I make known to you Mr. Adam Morecambe, and Mr. Morecambe, I present to you Isambard, Marquess of Dunstable.”
Adam managed a bow, while Dunstable wrinkled his nose and barely inclined his handsome head.
“I’ve made Mr. Morecambe’s acquaintance, though I can’t recall where.” His lordship resumed his seat next to a lovely blonde, while a third woman, with auburn hair and green eyes, poured out for the marquess. Genie had introduced Adam to her. She was the other duchess—Warminster, Winchelsea, Wrexham. Some damned W or other.
“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to all of the ladies,” Adam said. Nor was there anywhere for him to sit. The sofa held the marquess and the blonde, the auburn-haired duchess occupied one wing chair, Genie the other.
“I beg your pardon,” Genie said, introducing Adam to Mrs. Diana Thompson. “And I’ll have the footman bring us another chair.”
“No need,” Adam replied. “I’ll be on my way. Ladies, your lordship, good day.” Even that much civility directed at Dunstable was a tribulation, but he seemed to be on good terms with the women, and Adam would not embarrass Genie with poor manners.
“Not even one cup of tea?” the blonde, Mrs. Thompson, asked.
“The press of business calls me.”
Dunstable saluted with his tea cup. “Don’t let us keep you. Those who labor for their bread can’t be expected to savor the company of their betters when coin of the realm calls.”
Adam expected Genie to issue her guest a blunt set-down. She instead aimed a pained smile at the tea tray.
“I’ll see you out,” Mrs. Thompson said, springing from the sofa. She took Adam by the arm and all but dragged him from the room. “Count yourself fortunate, Mr. Morecambe, for his lordship has been swilling tea and decimating the tea cakes this past half hour.”
“You don’t care for him?”
She led Adam to the front door. “He’s not the worst of his kind, but he’s a trial, and Her Grace cannot abide him. She is too polite for her own good sometimes. Do call again, please, and I mean that.”
Had she meant Her Grace of Tindale? If so, Adam had no call to doubt her, but then, here he was at the door, while Genie had chosen to remain in the company of a man she did not like.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, and please give Her Grace of Tindale my special thanks for an enjoyable day.”
“Might I ask how that day was spent?”
“Avoiding the near occasion of linen closets. Good day.”
All the way back to his quarters, Adam wrestled with the possibility that Genie had been ashamed to be seen with him. Not ashamed before her friends, but ashamed before Dunstable. He was in line for a dukedom, well favored, smooth-spoken, moved in the highest circles…
“In short,” Adam muttered, letting himself in the door, “he’s everything I’m not.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The butler was a dignified old relic named Fawcett. He put Adam in mind of erudite headmasters and advanced Latin tutors, and when Adam bided here, he always felt as if he did so at Fawcett’s sufferance.
Adam handed over his hat and walking stick. “I’m lecturing myself. Will Cook have an apoplexy if I ask for a tray in the library?”
“Doubtless, sir. Her third of the week by my count. You have received a deal of correspondence, including an express from Town.”
The day had taken a sour turn when Adam had beheld Dunstable in Genie’s parlor, now sour threatened to turn rotten.
“Please ask Cook to send up a pot of jasmine gunpowder, if any we have. Otherwise, China black will do.”
Fawcett bowed and disappeared down the steps. The third stair always creaked when Adam dared trespass upon the kitchen, but Fawcett’s descent was silent.
Adam saved the express—from his builder in London—for last, because at this hour of the day, he wasn’t about to start a journey north, no matter what emergency had befallen the work site. He instead plowed through bills, progress reports, membership applications, and offers of employment on other projects before slitting open the express.
“Damn, blast, and to perdition with the lot of them.”
Fawcett paused at the door, a tray in hand. “Having a bit of an apoplexy yourself, sir?”
“My head mason has apparently quit, my builder is threatening to do likewise, and nobody has seen our tipper wagon since the day before yesterday.”
“Shall I have the livery alerted that you’ll need a horse?”
Adam would normally have bolted for the door, ridden through the night, and been at the work site before the sun came up.
“I’ll depart for London tomorrow, after I’ve toured the royal stables at the Pavilion and paid a call on a certain duchess.”
“Very good, sir. I regret to report that we have no jasmine-scented tea.”
The scent of plain China black wafted up from the tray Fawcett set on the desk. A plate of sandwiches accompanied the tea, though abruptly, Adam wasn’t hungry.
“My thanks for the tray.”
Fawcett withdrew on a bow, and Adam turned to the remaining half-dozen items of correspondence. Each one was a polite note from some man of business or solicitor with offices in Brighton. They all thanked Adam for his interest in a very attractive property, then explained that circumstances—a recent offer to purchase, schedule conflicts, the owner reconsidering the decision to sell—made showing Adam the property regrettably impossible.
They wished him best of luck on his search, etcetera and so forth, but did not foresee the property becoming available for inspection in the immediate future.
And what a coincidence that Lord Dunstable should be in town, just as door after door was closing in Adam’s face.
* * *
Diana and Belinda had apparently been entertaining Dunstable for a good half hour before Genie had returned home. They had their revenge by all but abandoning her with him shortly after Adam had decamped.
And thus did a lovely day turn to mud.
To horse droppings, even.
“Duchess, let us sit for a moment in your lovely garden,” Dunstable said, rising. “Old friends deserve privacy for the occasional chat about bygone times.”
Dunstable had never been her friend. He’d been one of the countless toadies orbiting about Charles, most of them waiting to inherit a title, a fortune, or both. Charles had been patient with them, while Genie had dreaded the “intimate dinners” for thirty that came around at least once a month.
“I’ll need a shawl,” she said. “Enjoy the fresh air for a moment in solitude, my lord.”
She scooted from the parlor and went in search of Diana or Belinda, anybody, who could ensure she wasn’t left alone with Dunstable for more than a moment. Neither lady was to be found, and the kitchen staff was busy with dinner preparations.
Well, drat. Genie grabbed a shawl and found her guest helping himself to a pink rosebud from Godmama’s bushes.
“If you have something to say to me, my lord, then best get to the point. We are observed from the house, and my lingering here with you will be remarked.”
He threaded the rosebud into the buttonhole on his lapel. “You are a dowager duchess, my dear. Your conduct will be remarked regardless of how you behave, but none dare chide you for it… yet.”
Genie waited, because she needed to know exactly what he was threatening. She could weather a little unkind talk, she could part with a bit of coin. She’d already paid Dunstable off twice, once with a diamond bracelet she’d inherited from her mother, once with a gold snuffbox passed down from her father. Even Augustus would notice substantial sums going missing from her funds.
“I adore a woman who can hold her tongue,” Dunstable said. “Such a woman would make an admirable Duchess of Seymouth, particularly when she has already learned to wear a tiara.”
Genie wrapped her shawl more tightly around her. “You are overcome with a violent passion for me, my lord? Perhaps you confuse me with my exchequer.”
His rosebud was drooping at an odd angle. He attempted to reposition it. “And droll wit—I am ever amused by droll wit. I’ve done some investigating, dear duchess.”
“Prying and gossiping?”
The rosebud hung all but upside down from his lordship’s buttonhole. He took it out and swung it by the stem.
“We needn’t be vulgar, Your Grace. Your late papa left you quite well to do, and he did a lovely job of protecting your inheritance in the marriage settlements. But then, you were bequeathed such an enormous pile of money that Tindale could have his portion and leave plenty for me.”
Genie sank to the bench before the fountain, her knees going unsteady. In her wildest nightmares, she could not have foreseen Dunstable proposing to her.
“You needn’t marry me, my lord. I’ll give you the money. Just leave me alone.”
He came down beside her uninvited. “Were you very upset when Cousin Augustus married his current duchess? That was bad of him, if you were still pining for his favors. He was supposed to marry you, wasn’t he?”
“I will tell you this one last time, my lord: What you saw was an innocent embrace. Augustus is family, and I value his affection dearly. At no time did he, or have I, entertained untoward thoughts. I honored my vows.”
Dunstable sniffed the rosebud. “I’m sure you did, but I’m also certain I saw you nestled quite close in the embrace of a man other than your husband. Within weeks, your husband was dead and that man had moved one giant step closer to inheriting the title. All quite distressing. If the wrong people learned of what I saw, then you and the current duke would be in enormous trouble. Your best option is to marry a man who can keep you safe from gossip and innuendo, and that man would be sitting beside you.”
Looking so innocent, while impersonating the serpent in the garden. “Take the damned money,” Genie said. “All I need—all I want—is a cottage in Derbyshire and my own sheep. I never wanted to be a duchess, much less a duchess twice over.”
Poor Belinda faced that ordeal.
Dunstable’s laughter was warm and friendly. “A cottage in Derbyshire and your own sheep? Will you give them names? Will you hire a handsome shepherd to keep you and your sheep warm on those bitter Derbyshire winter nights?”
He smacked her lightly on the back of the hand with the rosebud. “You have brightened my day, Duchess, so I’ll brighten yours. Present me with two sons—no, three, for we must be cautious, must we not?—and I’ll allow you to retire to your cottage in Derbyshire each summer when I do my duty by the house parties. A fair bargain, if I do say so myself.”
No sort of bargain at all, considering that many house parties were little more than discreet, rural orgies. All Dunstable sought was to pursue his debauches without a pesky duchess at his side.
“Why now?” Genie asked. “Why wait for years after Charles’s death to wreak your mischief? Most would consider eight and twenty too old to be anybody’s duchess, and I never bore Charles any children.”
The money must be very important to Dunstable, and the supply of heiresses rapidly dwindling.
“I have a parcel of dreadful cousins who can see to the succession if needs must,” Dunstable said, tossing the rose in the air and catching it. “But I will be diligent in attempting to fill our nursery. Make no mistake on that score.”
The tea Genie had managed to choke down threatened to rebel. “What explanation will you offer for waiting years to spread these accusations? Nobody would have believed them at the time of Charles’s death, and they won’t believe you now.”
He twirled the battered rosebud by the stem. “Ah, but your beloved Augustus became duke only earlier this year, and his good fortune brought to my mind the liberties he’d taken with you—a heated embrace, a passionate kiss, under poor Charles’s roof!—and my conscience has troubled me sorely.”
Augustus had kissed Genie on the forehead. “Your creditors have been dunning you sorely.”
“We needn’t belabor the obvious. A ducal heir must maintain a certain standard, which your settlements will allow me to do.” He stood, looking quite, quite smug. “Don’t spend too much time with your pet stone mason while I’m paying you my addresses. A little pity for the less fortunate is all well and good—was he your escort to Petworth?—but Morecambe is not good ton, according to no less authority than my own dear mother.”
He tossed the rose skyward, and Genie snatched the beleaguered flower out of the air. “If you think to make this farce of an offer believable, you will court me at length, my lord. You will show me every courtesy, you will dote, you will pine, you will flirt with me and flatter me. No dowager duchess has any need of matrimony, with its attendant risks and obligations. Only after you have convinced the whole of polite society that the sun rises and sets in my eyes will you think of approaching Augustus to ask for my hand, or he will laugh you to scorn.”
By which time, Genie would have a strategy for avoiding another tiara, even if it meant emigrating to darkest Peru.
Dunstable braced his walking stick against his shoulder. “You want to enjoy a dalliance with the stone mason, is that it? I could ruin him with a whisper, my dear, so please don’t think to cuckold your intended with Morecambe’s bastard.”
“Once again, you quite mistake a matter of which you have very little understanding. It’s time you left, my lord. You have a long and thorough courtship to plan.”
He laughed again—Genie already hated his laugh—and bowed over her hand. “So I do, so I do. What a delightful prospect.”
He was entirely too pleased with himself, and Genie was too distraught. “You will keep this scheme to yourself if you hope to see us wed, sir. I take a dim view of any suitor whose discretion cannot be trusted, and so will the rest of Society.”
Dunstable tipped his hat to a jaunty angle with the handle of his walking stick. “Said the woman caught groping her husband’s cousin on the stair.”
“What does your mother think of your plan to make a widowed copper heiress your duchess?”
Dunstable’s stick hit the paving stone. “We’ll leave dear Mama out of this for the nonce. She knows the occasional heiress has kept many a titled family tree thriving.”
Her Grace of Seymouth was an obnoxious old besom. Even Charles had had little patience with her, and for Genie, she’d served as an example of how not to be a duchess.
“Go plan our courtship,” Genie said, gently placing the rosebud on the edge of the fountain, stem trailing in the water. “And do a thorough job of it.”
Dunstable went chortling on his way, while Genie returned to the bench and contemplated a series of unfortunate choices. One certainty emerged: She could involve neither Adam nor Augustus in this tangled web. The one would be ruined, the other embroiled in scandal short months after inheriting his title.
“But I cannot marry that grasping, greedy idiot,” Genie informed the swan at the center of the fountain. “One duke was more than enough, and two would be a penance I do not deserve. I hope there are some sheep farms for sale in Peru.”