Scandal And The Duchess

Steven inserted the large key into the rusting lock of the summerhouse’s door. He had to put all his strength into turning it, grunting with the effort. Just as Rose feared the key itself would break, the lock screeched, the tumblers moving.

“No one’s oiled this lately, that’s for certain,” Steven said.

He pulled at the door—which nearly fell on top of him. The hinges were weak, rust flaking from them as they pulled partway out of the wall.

Steven started to laugh. “I see I needn’t have bothered wrestling with the lock. Careful, Rosie.”

He propped the door open, took Rose’s arm and steered her inside. The dog, who’d sat down patiently while Steven had fought the lock, pushed past Rose, his head up, nose working.

The interior of the summerhouse was dank and dim. The rotunda floor had once been paved with fine marble, but now the blocks were chipped and loose. Light came from windows high above to show them dirt and bird droppings, niches containing now-empty pedestals, and a jumble of furniture, covered with overlapping sheets, in the middle of the floor.

The dog sniffed around this pile curiously, then sat down and wagged his tail as Steven reached for the sheets.

“Hold your breath,” Steven advised.

Rose backed away, grabbing the dog by its scruff and dragging him with her.

Steven started pulling the old sheets away. He gathered them into his arms, trying to mitigate the cloud of dust that rose from them, but he lost the battle. Rose sneezed, pressing her finger under her nose. The dog sneezed as well, throwing droplets of moisture through the air. His entire body rippled as he drew another breath and sneezed again.

The dust settled over Steven, coating his black coat a light gray. He ruffled his hair, sending up another cloud of dust, and tossed the sheets aside.

The furniture beneath didn’t look like much. Odds and ends, much of it broken.

Rose started to express disappointment, then she wiped her streaming eyes and pointed. “What’s that?”

Steven waded among the chairs with no seats, the canted table with a broken leg, and lifted a shell of a bookcase out of his way.

Buried beneath the jetsam of mahogany and walnut was a hint of black and a gleam of gold. Steven started throwing aside the broken furniture, which shattered to the floor like so much firewood.

“This is it,” he said, then he stopped. “Dear God, what a mess.”

Rose hurried to him. The dog, caught up in the excitement, dove under the wrecked furniture, emerging with a large stick that once belonged to a spindle-backed chair. The dog presented it to Rose, wagging his tail faster.

Rose absently took the stick and tossed it for the dog to chase. “It’s ruined,” she said dispiritedly.

Steven pushed more furniture aside, revealing what once had been a finely crafted, if ugly, settee. “No wonder it was brought out here with the discards.”

Rose had seen the piece before her marriage to Charles, when he’d brought her to the house to show her where she’d live. The settee had rested in an unused parlor high in the house, given pride of place under wide window and flanked by tall, ebony and gilt candelabras.

After the wedding, Rose had been caught up in preparations for her new life and then Charles’s death. She’d never noticed the settee had gone from the house, hadn’t much thought about it until now.

It had been placed out here for mice to nest in, it seemed, and for the wood to be split and ruined by damp. Only the inlay had survived, though it was covered in dirt and muck. Steven scraped at the patterns with his gloved fingers to reveal more gold.

“Someone painted over that,” Steven said. “What a bizarre thing to do.”

“Maybe hiding its worth?” Rose suggested. “Not that sitting out here for a year and a half hasn’t destroyed it. Why would Charles do such a thing? Or did the servants lug it away by mistake?”

Steven stepped back to survey the room and the settee’s position in it. “No, this was set here on purpose, buried under a pile of useless junk. Charles hid it, love.”

“But why would he?” Rose took the stick from the dog, who’d brought it back to her. He sat down and looked at Rose expectantly, so she tossed it for him again. “And why would he draw the rose on the back of the sketch? Not to mention hiding the sketches in the cabinet?”

“He was saving them for you,” Steven suggested. “He must have changed his will at the same time, to add you to it and leave you the furniture.”

“But he didn’t know he was going to die so soon,” Rose said. “How could he?”

Steven came to stand next to her, his warmth cutting the chill. “Maybe he did, love. Doctors might not have told him his heart would give out, but maybe he knew, deep down inside. Perhaps he didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did, but he must have known he’d have to leave you to Albert’s mercy.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Steven slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “A man doesn’t like to confess weakness to a lady, especially not one he loves. Trust me on this.”

“Poor Charles,” Rose said. Her heart ached for him.

She knew now, after these few days with Steven, that while she’d loved Charles, she’d loved him in a different way than she did Steven. Charles had been kindness, comfort, caring. Steven was passion, excitement, offering her a world behind her narrow confines. Steven was a man who felt deeply, never mind that he covered it up with joking, self-deprecation, and drink.