Chapter Nine
Genie’s nerves were in a state, balanced between hope and despair. She received her guests with the Duke and Duchess of Tindale at her side, for she’d appropriated the ducal town house in Brighton for her ball.
Her guest list had skimmed the cream of summer Society from the seaside towns, and no less personages than the Duke and Duchess of Seymouth had bestirred themselves to accept her invitation. Dunstable had called upon her nigh daily, while Adam had taken himself back to London with every appearance of having ended their association.
“You have the document?” Augustus asked during a lull in the receiving line.
“Adam sent it by express earlier today,” Genie replied.
“And where is your Mr. Morecambe?”
“On his way.” Though Genie had no idea if that was the case. Construction at the club had been plagued by the usual sorts of delays and setbacks, and cold weather would arrive without regard to an architect’s schedules. Horses went lame, coaches overturned, and plans went awry.
“I saw the house you purchased for your architect,” Augustus said. “Lovely property.”
“The ceilings,” Anne murmured. “I want those ceilings. Tindale, you are warned.”
“Our ceiling renovations will start in the bedroom.” Augustus and his duchess exchanged a look that confirmed where the couple spent most of their time when at home.
“The eighth biblical plague approaches,” Genie said, pasting her own darling-duchess smile in place and curtseying to Her Grace of Seymouth. “Your Grace, welcome. So glad you could join us.”
Genie endured the same sniffy perusal she’d been treated to a thousand times before, a copper heiress’s lot when she aspired to become a duchess. Now, though, she was a duchess, and she was soon to become Mrs. Adam Morecambe.
She returned the older woman’s rudeness.
“Dunstable told us to expect an announcement,” the older woman said. “I’d best not have spent three hours in a coach only to learn one of your protégés has snagged a mere honorable, madam.”
“We assure you,” Augustus said, “this evening will figure in your memories for years to come.”
The greetings proceeded at the pace of a turtle navigating a sandy beach, with Dunstable all but licking Genie’s glove, and still, no Adam. The time came to open the dancing, and fortunately for Genie, the Tindale dukedom had nearly a century’s precedence over the Seymouth dukedom, or she would have been forced to dance with Dunstable’s papa.
“This feels right,” Augustus said as he escorted Genie to the center of the dance floor. “I danced with you at your presentation ball, and now you dance with me at my first formal appearance in Society as a ducal host. Where the hell is Morecambe?”
“Adam will not fail me,” Genie said, sinking into the requisite curtsey, “and Dunstable has already appropriated my supper waltz, exactly as planned.”
The next two hours were spent in the usual fashion for Genie—matching wallflowers with bachelors, diffusing spats among the ladies in the retiring room, monitoring the punch and those who partook too often from the men’s bowl.
Dunstable’s gaze followed her everywhere, and when Genie spent a few minutes visiting with the Duchess of Anselm, a friend from the days of Genie’s court presentation, Dunstable went so far as to stand in Genie’s line of sight and pat his pocket.
Wherein a ring doubtless nestled.
The supper waltz arrived, and nothing would do but Genie must dance with Dunstable.
“Do I mistake the matter, my dear, or are we to make an announcement when our guests have sampled the buffet?”
His gaze dropped to Genie’s décolletage; she tramped on his foot.
“I have not the gift of seeing into the future, my lord, but I do hope Augustus will make an announcement by the end of the evening.”
“I suppose His Grace of Tindale is the host, though Papa does a fine job of commanding the attention of a large company. I thought we’d make our wedding journey to Paris, but then, everybody goes to Paris.”
“You have creditors waiting for you in Paris, and they will seize your coach and horses, if not my jewels, to settle the debts you’ve run up.” Adam had passed that tidbit along. Dunstable’s situation in London wasn’t much better, which explained his weeks by the sea sponging off of Lord Luddington.
Also his desperation to plunder Genie’s fortune.
“If Tindale has been looking into my finances, then I must assume he has raised no objection to our match. I thought a special license would suit, so that we can be married at Seymouth House.”
He tried to twirl Genie under his arm and ended up clipping her on the jaw with his elbow. The blow stung, not her first in the course of a polite waltz, and he had the grace to look horrified.
“Too much punch,” he said. “I do apologize.”
“If it happens again, Augustus will doubtless provide you instructions on how to properly stand up with a lady, though by the conclusion of his lesson, you will be hard put to stand without assistance yourself.”
The waltz came to an end, and Dunstable clamped his hand around Genie’s. “Tindale doesn’t plan to be an interfering sort of relation, I hope.”
“You know how fond I am of Cousin Augustus,” Genie said. “I expect if I remarry, he’ll be very much in evidence until he’s satisfied the union is happy. I did the same when he and his duchess were courting. Family looks after family, you know.”
“Any more looking after you with close embraces on secluded stairways after we’re married, and His Grace will become an outcast, his duchess with him.”
You will become the outcast, God willing.
They took their places in the buffet line, though Genie had no interest in the food. The Duke and Duchess of Seymouth were looking bored and impatient—also tired—and Augustus was nowhere to be seen.
Anne, however, caught Genie’s eye over the offerings of soufflés à la vanille and smiled like the cat who’d devised how to open the canary’s cage.
“He’s here,” she whispered.
Genie wanted to dump her plate over Dunstable’s head, but instead comported herself like a duchess, nibbling this and that, tasting none of it. All the while, Dunstable chattered about Continental destinations he’d never seen and sat so close his knee constantly bumped against Genie’s.
She felt sorry for him, despite his bullying and arrogance, for he’d very likely be living in one of those far-off cities unless his papa agreed to again pay off his debts.
At the top of the steps, the herald was consulting with a late arrival, a tall man with broad shoulders, his evening attire accented with a red rose boutonniere.
“I have a late-arriving guest,” Genie said, setting her plate aside. “Perhaps you’d like to greet him with me?”
Dunstable stuffed another strawberry into his mouth and rose. “Of course. My duchess is the soul of graciousness, and then we can find some library or parlor and get the bended-knee bit over with. Paid a damned fortune for the ring. Had to sell my Brighton property because the jeweler would only take cash.”
Good for the jeweler.
Adam smiled faintly as she approached.
“I don’t recognize him,” Dunstable said. “Looks familiar, though. Probably got some of his blunt at the gaming tables. Are you sure he was invited?”
“He is the guest of honor,” Genie said, gaining the top of the steps. “Mr. Morecambe, a sincere pleasure to see you here tonight. Have you met Lord Dunstable?”
Adam sketched a bow. “I have had that honor. My lord, good evening.” Adam was breathtaking in his formal clothing, and the mere sight of him settled Genie’s nerves.
“Morecambe. Suppose you’ve come for the free food and drink. Don’t bother the women, or this will be the last ball you attend.”
“Do you promise?” Adam asked, taking Genie’s hand and tucking it over his arm. “To be spared the tedium of Society balls would be a great blessing.”
Dunstable looked like his cravat had abruptly grown too tight.
“Shall we repair to the formal parlor?” Genie suggested. “Mr. Morecambe has some news to pass along to you, my lord.”
“Mr. Morecambe’s news had best not take long,” Dunstable said, starting down the corridor. “I have plans for that formal parlor that do not include him and his clumsy attempts at flirtation.”
Adam bent close to Genie. “You are well?”
“I will be. The letter is in the parlor, and I hope Augustus awaits us there with Their Graces.”
“Two dukes, a duchess, and a presuming disgrace of a lordling. Promise you’ll not abandon me in such company, Genie.”
“Never.”
“Then all shall be well.”
* * *
Disaster had struck, in the form of bad eel pie served at the pub nearest to the club’s construction site. For most of a week, Adam had had barely half a crew at barely half strength. He’d carried hod, he’d laid brick, he’d wielded saws, mallets, and hammers, while Tindale had passed along each debt and bet Dunstable owed money on.
The sum was astounding and showed a capacity for industry, albeit mischievous industry. Adam ached in every particular as a result of the past week’s exertion, but sore muscles and scraped knuckles faded from his awareness at the sight of his Genie.
He’d never seen her in a ball gown, and the shimmering russet velvet showed her off exquisitely. She’d chosen rubies for her jewels—fittingly precious—and gold settings. By candlelight, she glowed, while Dunstable looked pallid and effete.
When Adam arrived to the formal parlor, Augustus had served the Duke and Duchess of Seymouth glasses of wine. A missive sat on the escritoire’s leather blotter, the red seal unbroken. Augustus was looking severe, while Her Grace of Seymouth was looking dyspeptic.
“There you are,” she said when she caught sight of Dunstable. “Have you an announcement to make? I came all this way, braved the dust of the road and the heaving of that dreadful coach, because I was promised by your father that the evening would result in cheering news. The sea air does not agree with me, I can tell you that straightaway, young man, so you’d best be about your business.”
“Lord Dunstable will appreciate his parents’ support, I’m sure,” Adam said, withdrawing a folded paper from his pocket. “He’s considering paying his addresses to the dowager duchess, but sought to compel her agreement to his proposal by force.”
The Duke of Seymouth was on his feet in the next instant. “Who the hell are you, and what gives you the right to make any accusations against a ducal heir?”
“I am the lady’s intended,” Adam said. “I make no accusations, I state facts. This is a list of your son’s debts, Your Grace. If you ask him, he’ll tell you he sold his Brighton property to satisfy a few of his creditors. In fact, he spent a pittance with the jewelers on Ludgate Hill, then gambled away the rest.”
Dunstable sank into a chair. “Every gentleman has debts. His Grace knows that, and the Brighton property was falling in on itself.”
Dunstable’s mother glowered at Adam. “The Brighton property was an eyesore, which you’d know if you’d ever set foot inside it. Nothing was done as it should have been, because the architect was a cheating scoundrel who thought to ill-use his betters. Be off with you, whoever you are, and don’t think to show your face among polite society again.”
Adam bowed. He did not withdraw. “I am Adam Morecambe, son of the man who designed, financed, and oversaw the building of your Brighton property, madam. My father died in penury and disgrace because he was cheated, lied to, and taken advantage of by a pair of high-born scoundrels whose perfidy will soon become common knowledge. If Your Grace of Seymouth will please read the letter awaiting you on the escritoire?”
Seymouth stalked over to the desk and slit the seal. “To whom it might interest,” he began…
I have had the pleasure of recently examining the dwelling located at the corner of Monmouth and Exmoor Streets, Brighton, which dwelling first became known to me when a late associate in the architectural profession, one Peter T. Morecambe, consulted with me on plans for the building more than fifteen years ago. My inspection was undertaken in anticipation of the sale of the property by Lord Dunstable to a dear acquaintance of longstanding, the Dowager Duchess of Tindale. Though the house was in want of a thorough cleaning, I found all appointments carried out exactly according to the plans signed for by the late Mr. Morecambe, which plans I did examine in detail prior to visiting the premises.
A better example of domestic elegance on a tasteful scale does not come to my mind, and several of the innovations—plumbing on the upper floors, speaking tubes to accompany the bell system, a solar on the uppermost floor—have been incorporated into my own subsequent designs.
I cannot fathom why such a lovely and commodious home suffered so many years of disuse and neglect, but I hope that in future, the prospective owner will do justice to this jewel of architectural art.
John Nash, Architect to King George IV
Seymouth tossed the letter onto the desk. Tindale took it up.
“What do you want of me, Morecambe?” Seymouth asked. “The house has been sold. Your father is long dead. Take the matter to court, for all I care, but don’t expect me—”
“Seymouth.” The duchess spoke softly. “I told you not to believe a man of business who knew nothing of building. I told you to have a look, to get another opinion.”
“Your Grace,” Seymouth retorted, “now is not the time to air old and much-wrinkled linen.”
Dunstable looked from one parent to the other. “You mean to tell me that I sold a house John Nash has deemed a jewel of architectural whatever? Sold it for a pittance ?”
The duke and duchess spoke at the same time. “Hush.”
“You did,” Adam said, “and I now own the property. I’ll convert it into seaside quarters for the members of my gentlemen’s club, once it has been cleaned and refurbished. My wife will oversee the decorative scheme once we return from a protracted wedding trip to Derbyshire.”
“Derbyshire is lovely this time of year,” Augustus observed.
“Derbyshire is lovely any time of year,” Genie added.
“What’s the rest of it?” Dunstable’s mama snapped. “There has to be more, or you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Your father has been exonerated of cheating us. What else can you want?”
“Your son has attempted to extort not only an enormous sum of money from my intended, but also to force her to join him at the altar. In an effort to placate his ambitions, she has surrendered at least two personal heirlooms. Dunstable saw, years ago, an embrace between cousins by marriage during a private moment of grief and chose to misconstrue that memory when it became to his advantage to do so. He is no gentleman.”
“Now see here,” Dunstable began, “I cannot be responsible for the foolish fancies of a widow whose recollections are as inaccurate as they are unflattering to me. I never threatened, implied, or intimated in any way that what I saw was anything other than—”
“You did,” Genie said, marching up to him. “You promised me that not only would the present Duke of Tindale suffer the brunt of gossip and rumor at your hands, but you’d inform the authorities that he schemed with me to gain the title by nefarious means. You further threatened Mr. Morecambe and made it very plain that my fortune was the motivation for your proposals, threats, and plots. You extorted Papa’s snuffbox and Mama’s diamond bracelet from me. You are the proverbial blot on the family escutcheon, and I never want to see you again.”
This magnificent set-down was followed by a ringing silence. Adam wanted to applaud, but he’d save his expressions of admiration for later, perhaps on a picnic blanket.
“Do you contradict Her Grace of Tindale, my lord?” Adam asked.
Dunstable’s gaze slewed about the parlor, from parent to parent, to the door, which Augustus happened to be casually leaning against.
“Apologize,” the Duchess of Seymouth said. “For God’s sake, boy, apologize if you ever want to set foot in England.”
“Do as your mother says,” the Duke of Seymouth added tiredly. “One ignores her advice at one’s peril. You will return the snuffbox and bracelet as well.”
In the looks exchanged between duke and duchess, Adam understood something that hadn’t until that moment been clear: Seymouth had swindled Papa because the duke had lacked the funds to pay for the house and had been too proud to admit to his poverty. Seymouth had married an heiress and run through her money, and his son had expected to do likewise.
“I most humbly apologize,” Dunstable said, bowing to Genie. “I do think we’d have rubbed along tolerably—”
“Get out,” Genie snapped.
Augustus held the door. “Your valet is packing your effects, and you’re to be on a ship for Calais by this time tomorrow.”
“But I haven’t—”
The Duchess of Seymouth waved her hand, and Dunstable was gone. When Augustus had pulled the door closed behind him, the duchess aimed her next question at Genie.
“How much do you want? I warn you, the Seymouth dukedom is perennially pockets to let, but we have properties in abundance, and some of them even produce income.”
Genie took the place at Adam’s side. “What I want—what we want—is for the wrong done to Peter Morecambe to be put right.”
Adam slipped an arm around Genie’s waist. “What I want is to thrash your son within an inch of his useless, titled life.”
“I want to watch,” Augustus added, straightening his cuffs.
“If thrashing had done any good,” the Duke of Seymouth said, “Dunstable would not have made such a pest of himself. You have Nash’s letter. What will you do with it?”
“The letter will become part of the club archives,” Adam said, “available in our Brighton property for any to see who have an interest. I won’t hide it, but I won’t bruit it about either. Reparation to my intended for Dunstable’s bullying is another matter.”
Genie folded her hand over his where it rested on her waist. “I want Your Graces to remain for the rest of the evening, and when Augustus makes his announcement at the conclusion of the supper break, you will be visibly pleased at the news.”
“Very visibly,” Augustus added.
“And Dunstable?” the duchess asked.
Adam and Genie hadn’t discussed this. He’d been too busy keeping his construction project moving forward, totaling Dunstable’s debts, arranging Nash’s visit, and missing his beloved.
“I have two requests,” Genie said. “The first is simple: Make him pay his debts. He’s left everybody from tailors to bootmakers to haberdashers to finance his excesses. Don’t allow him to perpetuate a legacy of dishonesty and irresponsibility.”
Seymouth looked pained. His duchess looked vindicated. “What else?”
“Keep him away from England for at least two years,” Genie said. “My menfolk need some time for their tempers to cool—as do I. Dunstable was a nasty, vile, conniving disgrace and had I been just another young heiress in from the country, I’d likely be shackled to the likes of him for life.”
The duchess rubbed a gloved hand across her forehead. “We will remain for the rest of the evening. We will rejoice at any announcement. We will leave Dunstable to sell his coaches and rings and snuffboxes to pay the trades. We will send him abroad for a good long while.”
Seymouth assisted the duchess to her feet. “And we will apologize. By the time I could have made things right with Peter Morecambe, he had gone to his reward. I will recommend your services to all and sundry, Mr. Morecambe, and admit my part in the misunderstanding that sent your father into retirement. Honesty from me now won’t give you back your father, but it will allow me a very small measure of self-respect.”
He bowed and withdrew, his duchess at his side.
“That went well,” Augustus said. “I do believe Seymouth and his duchess consider themselves in your debt, Morecambe.”
“Honor is not the exclusive province of the titled,” Adam said.
Genie kissed his cheek. “Nor of those who wear breeches. Away with you, Augustus. Adam has something he wants to ask me.”
Tindale stayed right where he was. “If it has to do with capitals and astragals, then an estimate would be the first—”
“Out,” Adam said. “Now.”
Augustus scampered from the room—in as much as a largish duke could scamper—and Adam took Genie by the hand and led her over to the sofa.
“Your Grace,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “Would you do me the very great honor of reserving all of your future picnics for me and me alone?”
“Yes,” Genie said, wrapping her arms about his neck, “or yes, unless children come along, in which case, we will have to let them accompany us at least some of the time.”
Oh, that was the best, best answer. Adam kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, and only Augustus rapping on the door prevented Genie from holding their first picnic as a betrothed couple on the rug before the formal parlor’s hearth.