Duchess by Night

  He raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I haven’t the faintest impulse to laugh.”

  “If he had been madly in love with me, or some other woman, and had killed himself because he failed to win her, would you call him a coward?”

  “Merely a fool,” he said flatly.

  “Perhaps.” Harriet couldn’t think where this argument was taking her. “But not a coward,” she persisted.

  “It would have to be a grand passion, a love so great it was intolerable to live without the other person.”

  “Yes, and everyone would have felt the grief along with him. Whereas if a person commits suicide for love of something other than a woman, no one shares their grief.”

  “I count myself lucky to have escaped such a passion,” Villiers said. “I can picture it, but I haven’t been afflicted by it. Have you?”

  “I—” Harriet stopped. “I loved Benjamin. He was the first man to pay me any attention.”

  “Then he’s not quite the fool I thought,” Villiers said, more gently.

  “You needn’t.”

  “Needn’t what?”

  “Give me that practiced flummery you’re so good at. We both know who I am, and exactly how attractive I am to men. Not to mention the fact that I am now wearing breeches.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said. “Nor your breeches. Your derrière is a pleasure even for me to behold and believe me, my wish to bed a woman is at an lifetime low.”

  “You never wished to bed me,” she pointed out.

  “I actually did,” Villiers said thoughtfully. “When you kissed me, years ago, I was quite happy to reciprocate. But the fact that Benjamin was my friend leaped into my mind and I admit it took the pleasure out of it.”

  “I can’t believe I did that,” Harriet said miserably. “I would have loathed myself if I had been unfaithful. I really did love him.”

  “Rage, I expect,” Villiers said. “Did you try to seduce anyone else, or was I your only foray?”

  She felt herself flushing. “You were my only try at adultery, though the fact doesn’t reduce my shame.”

  “I am the more honored,” he said.

  “Don’t be. I chose you because you were Benjamin’s closest friend and I wanted so bitterly for him to notice me. To put me before a chess match, even just one time.”

  Villiers nodded. But his silence said what she knew: even had she slept with Benjamin’s friend, it wouldn’t have meant she was loved above chess. Or even accounted above a good win at the game.

  “Well,” she said brightly, “this is a dismal topic. When do you think that you might be able to rise?”

  “A day or two,” Villiers said. “I wish I were better. I’m worried that you will be discovered long before you wish to be. Are you quite sure you wish to stay here?”

  “I love being in these breeches,” Harriet said, looking at them affectionately. “And not because my derrière shows to advantage, but because it makes me feel free. It is very nice not to be Benjamin’s widow for a time.”

  “Is it so terrible?” he asked.

  “Everyone loved Benjamin. He was always cheerful, always friendly, always ready with a kind word or a loan, if it came to that. That was easy, because he didn’t care deeply for people or money. Only for chess.”

  “It’s an illness,” Villiers said.

  She stood up and grinned, looking down at him. “No chess for a month. I count it as my revenge.”

  He groaned. “I’m reading.”

  “Not chess books, I hope.”

  “The History of Tom Jones.”

  “Who’s Tom Jones? A politician?”

  “It’s a novel, not a real history. So far he’s a naughty sort who has stolen a duck and seems doomed to be hanged. Given the length of the novel, I shall be surprised if he escapes the scaffold. Do go amuse yourself. Strange’s house parties exist for that sole purpose.”

  “It is enormously fun to be male,” Harriet agreed. “You can have no idea. Unless you tried to be female.”

  His heavy lidded eyes lowered a bit. “I’d rather not.”

  “From what I’ve seen, Strange’s party is not so different from any other house party, beyond the fact that I can’t name everyone’s lineage. Should any dancing girls appear, I’ll send you a message.”

  “And will you pay me a visit and tell me how your manliness develops?”

  Harriet smiled faintly. “Saving you from the high moral tone of that book?”

  “At least tell me how it goes with the young lady who desires your further acquaintance. I am like to die of boredom here without—” He stopped.

  “Without chess,” Harriet filled in. “It’s all right. I’m used to men who can’t stop thinking about the white queen. At least you haven’t acquired a wife, only to slight her for every chess match within three counties.”

  “I have tried,” Villiers said.

  “You were briefly engaged to Jemma’s ward, weren’t you?”

  “She threw me over for Jemma’s brother. Then I thought I was making inroads on a certain Miss Tatlock, but she threw me over for my heir.” The mockery in his heavy-lidded eyes almost made her laugh, despite herself. “Do you suppose that there’s something intrinsically wrong with me?”

  “A chess malady. The irrevocable inability to make a woman believe that he will love her more than the chess game. No woman wants to be ranked below a set of toys, Villiers.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Well, Mr. Cope, go forth and be wooed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Tahitian Feast of Venus

  “I don’t know if I can make it downstairs,” Harriet moaned. “Everything hurts! I can’t lift my arm. My bottom is in excruciating pain.”

  “I couldn’t possibly go to the Feast of Venus by myself,” Isidore said, looking a little panicked.

  “Why, Isidore,” Harriet said, laughing. “You look a bit nervous.”

  “If only Villiers would get up from his sickbed! I think he’s malingering.”

  “I doubt it. He looked played out, and he’s not the sort to lie down if he didn’t have to. What are you worried about?”

  “Lucille said that there is to be a dance performed by six virgins this evening. Apparently there were supposed to be twelve, but they couldn’t locate another six girls who would agree to the label.”

  Harriet snorted. “It sounds dissolute enough that Strange will enjoy it.”

  “Why do you say that? Don’t you like him?”

  “He’s a typical male: arrogant, irrational, and rather snappish. He likes to make me feel like a fool. You should have seen how chagrined he was when I managed to prick him with the sword, though it was entirely his fault for insisting we didn’t need rapier caps. At any rate, what’s frightened you about the six virgins?”

  “The obvious,” Isidore said. “A French demi-rep put on some sort of impromptu performance here last month that involved a visiting sugar baron from the Americas. I am not ready to witness that.”

  “Neither am I,” Harriet said, pulling out a cravat so that Villiers’s man could tie it for her. “If it looks as if the six virgins have found close friends, we’ll leave.”

  “Perhaps we should just eat in our room tonight.”

  “Is this the brave Isidore, who wanted to create a scandal large enough to bring the Duke of Cosway back from deepest Africa?”

  “It’s one thing to create a scandal and another to see six virgins losing their status.”

  Harriet couldn’t help laughing. “I thought you were so sophisticated. Frighteningly so.”

  “I put on a good show,” Isidore said, with her lightning quick smile. “But in fact, I’m a good daughter to my Catholic mother. She was very protective. I love to flirt but that’s all.”

  “I promise I’ll drag you out of the room if it looks as if the entertainment is turning salacious. I’ll probably need you to rescue me, anyway.”

  “Why? Is there a man after you?” Isidore said. “You know, I would
n’t have mentioned this, Harriet, but I have a funny feeling about Lord Strange.” She lowered his voice. “He looks at you in such a way…”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Harriet said. “He finds me incredibly irritating, but Villiers told him to look after me, so he has to do it.”

  “I don’t know,” Isidore said dubiously. “Are you following what I’m saying, Harriet? He—”

  “My problem is Kitty,” Harriet interrupted.

  “Kitty?”

  “One of the Graces. Have you met them?”

  Isidore wrinkled her nose. “I met Caliope. She has the biggest breasts I have ever seen, and she wears such a rigid corset that they swell up around her chin.”

  Harriet laughed.

  “Truly! She must have a very short neck. What’s Kitty like?”

  “Very pretty, rather sweet, and—and interested.”

  Isidore started hooting with laughter. “You have a suitor!”

  Harriet stood up, wincing from all her sore muscles, and looked at herself in the glass. Tonight she was wearing black silk breeches with a scarlet waistcoat marked with a border of embroidered silver chains. “Do you think I look too gaudy? Finchley says that I can’t possibly dress all in one color, though I think that the Duke of Fletcher looks wonderful when he does it.”

  “No one wears a plain suit, except for Fletcher,” Isidore said. “I like the embroidery on your waistcoat. It marks you as a protégé of Villiers, which is important. No one could think that Villiers would sneak a woman into Strange’s house in disguise. What coat will you wear?”

  “Velvet,” Harriet said, turning to the table where it was laid out. “Scarlet. I’m a scarlet woman, in every sense of the word.”

  “Lovely embroidery around the buttonholes,” Isidore said. “I do wonder how I’d look as a man. You look utterly delicious, Harriet. I’m not at all surprised that Kitty is chasing you.”

  Harriet pulled on the scarlet coat and then glanced at herself. Even sore in every muscle, she looked—well—good.

  Isidore appeared at her shoulder. “Please don’t be insulted, but I think you make a lovely boy.”

  “I’m not insulted,” Harriet said. “Just sad that I can’t dress like this at all times. I’ve always disliked my hair, but I love it pulled back in a simple queue.”

  “You could dress like this. It’s merely a matter of eschewing ruffled and ribboned gowns for a more masculine style. You could set a new fashion!”

  Harriet shook her head but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “It’s just so ironic. I feel beautiful, for the first time in my life. But no one of the right sex is interested in me!”

  “Do you want me to scare off Kitty by telling her you are mine and only mine? We should probably go downstairs now, Harriet. That gong went off at least an hour ago.”

  “I can manage Kitty,” Harriet said, loving the fact that she didn’t have to pick up a knotting bag or a shawl, but could just stroll from the room.

  Povy was outside the ballroom doors when they arrived. “The entertainment is about to begin,” he whispered. “If you would be so kind as to stand in the back, I’ll seat you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Harriet said, remembering at the last minute to allow Isidore to walk through the door before her. As Duchess of Berrow, she was used to taking precedence over almost every woman below the level of nobility: it was hard to remember that a male always followed a female, with no regard for rank.

  The company was assembled on rows of gilt chairs facing a raised platform stage, so Harriet and Isidore moved to stand behind the last row. One side of the ballroom was lined with tall narrow windows looking onto a formal garden. It was undoubtedly quite handsome in the summer, but at the moment it was a few degrees above arctic, due to a draft stealing under the windows.

  On the stage a young woman glared furiously at the heavens. She flung out her arm and cried: “Bright star of Venus, fallen down on the earth, how may I reverently worship thee enough?”

  “She must be freezing,” Isidore remarked, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders.

  The actress was wearing a gown made of twists of gauze, sewn all over with glittering bits of glass. Her hair was free and strung with glass beads.

  “It’s a lovely costume,” Harriet whispered back. “Look how her hair glitters.”

  “It shimmers with every shiver,” Isidore said.

  Another woman appeared, wearing a crown and a scanty toga-like costume. “Here be Venus of the sky. Ask me your request, fair maiden.”

  “I wanted to be at least a little bit shocked,” Isidore hissed. “This is like a bad masque at Court.”

  Harriet felt a pluck on her sleeve and turned to find Kitty beaming at her. “Come join us,” she whispered. “I saved you a seat.”

  Lord Strange appeared from nowhere and began speaking to Isidore. He didn’t even greet Harriet, and when she glanced at them, he didn’t raise his eyes.

  Though obviously he knew she was standing there. Fine.

  “Isidore,” she said, interrupting whatever Strange was saying. Isidore was laughing and there wasn’t a trace of worry on her face any more.

  Strange was one of those men who made everyone in his vicinity fade away. He was standing there looking a bit tired, but burning with fierce intensity and she felt like—

  How ridiculous.

  “Don’t worry about the duchess,” Strange said, not bothering to greet Harriet properly. “She can join me in the front row. You trot off with the lovely Miss Kitty.”

  Harriet ground her teeth. “If the ballet of the six virgins grows too risqué, Isidore will not be comfortable in the front row.”

  Strange gave Isidore a wicked little half-smile. “I’ll leave it entirely up to her,” he murmured in such an intimate way that Harriet felt her face grow a little hot. Not surprisingly, Isidore kissed Harriet goodbye with indecent haste.

  “You go with your friend,” she said brightly.

  Kitty had returned to her seat and was beckoning in an extremely unsubtle manner.

  “What a lucky young man you are,” Strange murmured. He took Isidore’s arm. “I fancy Mr. Cope will occupy himself this evening, Your Grace.”

  Isidore smiled at him. “I don’t use the title. Please, you must call me Isidore.”

  Harriet forced herself to walk away without looking back. Strange wasn’t for her. By all appearances, he was interested in Isidore, which was good for Isidore’s plan.

  She felt a tinge of sympathy when she realized that her seat turned out to be next to Nell. Poor Nell, in love with Strange and soon to be disappointed, it seemed.

  “Did you give him a letter from me?” Nell whispered eagerly.

  On the stage, Venus seemed to be rather angry about something. “I fear the sparkling majesty that issues from your most imperial eyes,” the maiden said, falling to her knees.

  “Yes, I did,” Harriet whispered back.

  “What did he say? Is he coming to my bed tonight?”

  Nell’s eyes were shining the way Kitty’s did when she looked at Harriet. Both Nell and Kitty had woefully misplaced affections. At the moment, for example, Kitty was almost leaning on Harriet’s shoulder, although she was pretending to be interested in the histrionic acting on the stage.

  “I tried to be more subtle,” Harriet said. “I sent him the first two lines of a poem, and I’ll give him two more tomorrow.”

  Nell looked unconvinced. “What did the poem say?”

  “The dark is my delight,” Harriet said.

  When Nell smiled, her whole face transformed from an almost plain collection of features to something truly enchanting. “Lovely!” she said. Then she leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I told Kitty that you were the heir to a coal mine, so be sure and act like it.”

  Harriet goggled at her. “You what?”

  “Not that you needed it,” Nell said, smothering a giggle. “She’s got a stupendous attraction to you.” She bent over and whispered in Harriet’s ea
r. “She says you’re a gentleman of voluptuous beauty. Voluptuous! What a word to use for a man.”

  Harriet’s heart sank. She wasn’t voluptuous even in female clothing. At that very moment Kitty’s hand crept onto Harriet’s knee. Harriet nearly jumped out of her seat and whipped her head around, only to meet Kitty’s naughty little smile.

  She picked up Kitty’s hand and moved it firmly off her knee; Kitty pouted but didn’t say anything, so Harriet looked straight ahead and pretended to be following the performance.

  Venus was gone, replaced by two more shivering, wailing virgins…Who knew that Lord Strange’s disreputable house parties were so tedious?

  Isidore and Lord Strange left after ten minutes, but Harriet didn’t think it had anything to do with the six mournful virgins. More likely, Isidore was bored.

  She was bored.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” she whispered to Kitty, when the six virgins had been joined by six extremely scantily clad young men. Harriet fancied she could see their goose-bumps from her seat.

  “I think there might be a more interesting part coming,” Kitty whispered back. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the stage since the male actors appeared.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harriet said firmly.

  She escaped just as one of the virgins collapsed into her male counterpart’s arms. Harriet could only be glad that at least they would be able to share a little warmth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Leaning Brothel of Fonthill

  February 7, 1784

  He walked into her room the next morning with hardly a knock on the door, but Harriet was ready this time. She was up and dressed, casually seated in an armchair reading, as though she hadn’t flung herself there two seconds before.

  “Oh!” Strange said, coming up short.

  She rose, smiling, as if men strode into her bedchamber regularly. “Are you ready to go, sir?” she asked, ignoring the fact that her bottom throbbed like a pincushion at the very thought of a saddle.

  “Yes,” he barked.