Duchess by Night

  “Harriet!” Isidore said. “I’ve never heard you swear. I think all this masculinity is rubbing off on you.”

  “I like riding,” Harriet said. “You can’t imagine, Isidore. It’s all different with men. You know how we perch in the side-saddle and then pick our way down the road?”

  Isidore nodded. “I don’t often bother, but I know how.”

  “Men just fling themselves into the saddle and pound down the road—so fast the wind blows their hair directly back. They don’t wear a wig because it wouldn’t stay on. They just go. It’s sweaty and tiring, but afterwards you feel so good.”

  “Watch out,” Isidore said. “You’ll end up dressing like this forever. You know, everyone always says that Lord Findleshanks is really a woman. Did you ever look at him closely? He does look like a woman.”

  “He has a beard,” Harriet pointed out.

  “So did my grandmother.”

  Harriet swung out of bed. “I have to meet Strange for fencing practice. Ouch!” She rubbed her bottom.

  “I am going back to my bed,” Isidore said. “Strange lent me a book of poetry.” She paused for a moment. “Do you still dislike him?”

  Harriet shrugged. “He’s acceptable. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s interesting,” Isidore said. “Really interesting.”

  Harriet looked at her. “You are married, Isidore.”

  “Not so anyone would notice,” Isidore said wryly.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “There’s something about Strange,” Isidore said. Harriet noticed with a pulse of alarm that her eyes were almost dreamy—and Isidore never looked dreamy. “He walks into the room and everyone notices. I like being with a man like that.”

  “Well, he is the host,” Harriet said. “Although I’m not sure he really knows who some of his guests are. Have you noticed?”

  “Povy reads him a list of his new guests every night,” Isidore said. “Lucille told me about it.”

  Lucille popped her head in from the adjoining room. “Do you need me?”

  “Does Lord Strange know who his guests are?” Isidore asked. “You said that Povy is in charge of informing him.”

  “Well, Strange does and doesn’t,” Lucille said. “He may hear about them, but that doesn’t mean he always knows who they are, if you see what I mean. This is a big house. That run of scientists in the east wing, for example. I’m sure he doesn’t know all of them.”

  There was a short knock on the door, a knock that Harriet was getting to know. Isidore gave a shriek as it opened. Harriet turned and looked at her through Strange’s eyes.

  Isidore was in dishabille, a sweep of curling black hair matching her eyelashes. Her nightgown was everything Harriet’s wasn’t. It could never be mistaken for a man’s.

  A smile of greeting appeared in Isidore’s eyes for one second, before she gave another little shriek (entirely unnecessary, to Harriet’s mind) and disappeared into the room next door, slamming the connecting door.

  Harriet had never realized that a woman’s legs could be seen straight through the thin lawn of a nightgown.

  Strange didn’t seem to be ravaged by desire, but what did she know? He had an eyebrow raised. “An early morning visitor, Cope? You constantly surprise me,” he said. His voice was unfriendly again.

  But this time he had a reason. It probably looked as if she was intruding on the woman he had selected for an affaire, given his flirtation with Isidore the previous night.

  “We’re friends,” she said quickly. “Friends.”

  “Ah, friends.”

  There was a moment of silence while Harriet thought desperately. “She’s my—my mother’s goddaughter. I’ve known her for years.”

  “For years. How lucky.” There was something inscrutable in his face.

  “Yes,” Harriet said. “When my mother was ill, Isidore was often the only person who visited for months.”

  “Are you ready for breakfast? I instructed the staff to put out a side of red beef for you and a good tankard of ale, of course. And Eugenia is eager to watch our lesson.”

  Harriet groaned inwardly. The beef she could manage, barely, but she truly disliked the beer.

  This time the fencing lesson went much better. Without saying a word, Strange put caps on the rapiers, which made Harriet feel more comfortable. She managed to keep a hand on her blade and even parried a pass in tierce.

  “I’ll teach you the prise de fer next,” Strange said.

  He walked behind her and reached around her body to hold her sword. “Look,” he said, “tilt your wrist like this, put your right foot at an angle.” He nudged her leg to get it into the right position.

  Surely he didn’t have to have his arms around her to demonstrate this move? His hand brushed Harriet’s breast. Of course, her breasts were firmly wrapped in bandages, so there was nothing feminine for him to discover.

  Still, she jumped away and turned, rapier on the ready. The truth was that every time he touched her, Harriet felt heat rushing up and down her body.

  Eugenia sat behind a glass cabinet and called out instructions. Harriet couldn’t help turning around and smiling at her, for all Strange insisted that she keep her attention on the rapier.

  Eugenia was a strange little girl, with a huge mop of undisciplined hair and an old-fashioned quality about her. To all appearances, she had never played with a child her own age, and it showed. She spoke with all the quaint rhythm of the plays she loved to read.

  Just when Harriet started to get tired, Strange said that they should try a match again. She leaned against the cabinet next to her and tried to catch her breath. “Are you sure, sir?” she asked. “You are injured from yesterday.”

  “Sir?” he said. “You drew blood yesterday; I think we might as well be on intimate terms. I like to be called Jem.”

  “And your given name is?”

  “Buried in the mists of time,” he said promptly. “What’s your given name?”

  “Harry,” Harriet said. Suddenly this was all making her nervous. Strange—or Jem—kept coming up behind her, pulling her arms into the right angles. It made her knees weak. Having his lean, muscular body, clad only in thin breeches and a white shirt, touch hers made her skin flare. She kept beating back an all-over body blush.

  This was so dangerous.

  Strange—or Jem—strode into position in the middle of the room.

  “Eugenia, you stay behind the case.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Eugenia said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to cheer for Harry.”

  “Not at all,” Strange said, shifting his rapier from hand to hand. Harriet couldn’t help it. She looked at the muscles in his legs and nearly groaned—and it wasn’t all her sore muscles this time. “Come on, Harry. Feeling a touch of fear?”

  She walked forward and fell into a defensive position. Strange began circling her, his eyes fixed on her face, a little smile curling the corner of his lips.

  “Down with him, Harry!” Eugenia called excitedly. “Down with him, down with him!”

  “I only know one attack,” Harriet complained. “This isn’t really fair.”

  Strange tensed his shoulder, and Harriet raised her rapier to blunt his attack. Unfortunately he spun in a circle and came in from the opposite direction. His blade stopped a hair’s breadth from her shoulder.

  “Not fair,” she grumbled, falling back a step. “You’ve never described such a move.”

  “You did watch my shoulder,” he said, starting to circle again. “You’re not a total loss.”

  “I think you must have some sort of hunter’s obsession,” she said, turning to keep always in front of him. “Are you one of those men who spend hours loping through the woods with dead creatures slung over your shoulder?”

  “Why, Harry,” he said softly, “you’re surprising me again. I thought you were an avid hunter. I’m sure you told me so.”

  “Humph,” Harriet said. Her arm was tired, and the rapier felt as
if it weighed at least three stone. It was taking everything she had just to keep it to waist level. She had to try to attack. So without thinking about it very much she just stabbed forward.

  His sword blocked hers instantly, moving so fast that she didn’t even see it. The shock of the two swords coming together went right through her shoulder.

  “To him again,” called Eugenia. “Cut him in the leg, Harry!”

  “Be quiet, you bloodthirsty child,” Strange said. He had turned his head to Eugenia, so Harriet took advantage and raised her rapier to his throat, stopping an inch from his skin.

  “Ha!” she said.

  He turned his head to look at her. “Foul play, Harry?”

  There was something in his eyes…she let the rapier fall. Could Isidore be right? Could it be that Strange was interested in her—as a man? “I’m finished for today,” she said, turning around to sheath her rapier.

  When she straightened, she glanced back at Strange to find that he was staring at her bottom.

  A little shiver ran through her. This was not good. It was one thing for Kitty to be leaning up against her, and another for a man like Strange to be thinking…whatever he was thinking.

  “I think you should just aim that sword a little lower and stab him in the leg,” Eugenia said, running up to her.

  “You are bloodthirsty,” Harriet said. “That’s your father you’re making into my pincushion.”

  “Do you have another letter for me?” Strange asked.

  She handed it over and he ripped it open, waving it in the air.

  “I don’t suppose you could ask my secret correspondent to be a little less generous with her perfume?”

  “No,” Harriet said. She’d used Isidore’s best French perfume.

  “My music’s in the night,” Strange read aloud, “So is the nightingale’s. Nice. Brief yet evocative. And it rhymes with yesterday’s delight and night.”

  Harriet shot Strange a look. “Your letters are hardly suitable reading for a young girl.”

  He ignored that entirely. “So, Harry, do you have any sense what my mystery correspondent wants from me?”

  Harriet frowned at him. “I have no idea,” she said, thinking his question as unsuitable for Eugenia’s ears as was the poem.

  “She wants your company, Papa,” Eugenia said.

  Strange grinned at her. “I agree.”

  “It’s a love poem,” she continued.

  “Or something along those lines,” Strange agreed.

  “I think she wants to meet you at night,” Eugenia persisted.

  “Well,” Harriet said brightly, “I suppose you’ll have to wait until the poem is complete to find out precisely what the poetess requests.”

  “Love,” Eugenia said flatly. “My governess was in love with Papa for a long time, but she finally gave up. He’s not easy to catch. Do you want to see the calculations I did last night, Harry? I stayed up til really late but I figured out all the angles on my dollhouse roof.”

  “How late?” Harriet said, before she thought.

  “You’re pitiful,” Strange said. “I can hear your mother speaking every time you open your mouth. It may be impossible to turn you into a man, Harry, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. Eugenia is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  “I’d like to see your calculations,” Harriet said to Eugenia, ignoring him. He was a fool to let his eight-year-old daughter stay up half the night parsing calculations but at least that explained the odd gray shadows under Eugenia’s eyes. She almost looked ill.

  Eugenia reached up and took her hand and even though Harriet was longing for a bath and a nap, she let herself be drawn past the barrier of the footman into the locked wing of the house.

  “Who lives here besides you?” she asked.

  “No one,” Eugenia said blithely. “That is, there’s always a maid with me, of course. Papa likes to keep me safe, so there’s always a footman on guard.”

  But when they got to the nursery, it was deserted.

  “Where’s your maid?” Harriet said, looking around. The fire was burning low.

  “She must have gone downstairs for a bit,” Eugenia said. “My governess will probably be here any moment. She’s in love with one of the footmen, so I always know where she is.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Kissing the footman, of course,” Eugenia said. “They kiss in the knife closet on the second floor.”

  “How on earth do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  Harriet nodded. Then she squatted down, suppressing a groan over her cramped muscles, and allowed Eugenia to show her the angle of every wall and roof on her three-story dollhouse.

  “Did you demonstrate all the angles for your father?” she asked.

  “Papa? No, Papa designed my house, so he knows the angles.”

  “I mean, did you figure out the angles because it will make him happy?”

  Eugenia looked at her with the clear, surprised eyes of childhood. “Why would that make him happy? It makes me happy.”

  Harriet, put in her place, began to sort out the tiny furniture that was toppled this way and that within the house.

  “Do you have a cat?” Eugenia asked, sitting down next to her.

  “I have a dog,” Harriet said. “He is a silly old spaniel named Mrs. Custard. Do you have a pet?”

  Eugenia shook her head. “I don’t know very much about animals.”

  “There’s nothing much to know. You feed them; they love you.”

  “But they need to run outside. And I’m in my room so often. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “But you must go outside, don’t you? A dog would be happy to be inside with you and then go outside for some exercise.”

  Eugenia frowned down at her little house. “I wouldn’t want an animal locked in my room. He might start to hate me.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t! If my spaniel, Mrs. Custard, were here, you’d see how much he would love it. He would curl up in front of the fire and be perfectly happy.”

  “Actually, he might be cold. I’ll add another log to the fire,” Eugenia said, getting up.

  “Wait a minute,” Harriet said, hurrying after her. “You’re not going to do that yourself, are you?”

  Eugenia cast her a pitying look. “Of course I am, Harry. You do know how to feed a fire, don’t you?”

  “I leave it to the footmen,” she said firmly. “And you shouldn’t be doing it either. What if your skirts caught a spark?”

  “They never do,” Eugenia said. “I’m very careful.” And before Harriet could stop her she picked up a small log and tossed it on the fire. A huge burst of sparks sprang into the air and slid up the chimney. “I like it when that happens,” she said. “It’s so pretty.”

  “I’m going to speak to your father,” Harriet said, pulling on the bell cord. “Where are your governess and the maid? What if there was a fire in this room, Eugenia?”

  “You do sound like a mother!” Eugenia said, giggling. “Papa never worries the way you do. I’d run out of the room, of course.”

  “But the hallway is locked,” Harriet said. “Is there another exit?”

  “That’s the only way out, but the footman is always there. Or do you mean a secret passage?” Eugenia’s face lit up. “I never thought of that.” She instantly started walking around the room and peering at the wainscoting. “Anyway,” she added, pulling at a carved knob on the elaborate fireplace, “I have a plan for escape in case I need it.”

  “What is it?”

  Eugenia nodded toward the window. “I’ll go out that window. There’s a huge oak tree there, and I’m sure I could scramble down without any problem.”

  Harriet looked out the window. The oak tree was a good two feet away and she wasn’t sure that even she would be able to jump to it.

  “You look so fidgety,” Eugenia said, giving up her search for a secret door. “Tell me more about Mrs. Custard, please. That’s a strange name for a
boy dog.”

  So Harriet did.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Which Harriet Finds Herself Shocked

  Dinner that night was a formal affair. Rather to Harriet’s surprise, she found that she was seated toward the head of the table, with Isidore between herself and Strange. Kitty was to Harriet’s left.

  “How are you?” Kitty whispered with an effusive smile. “Did you have a good day? We practiced for our next performance. We’re going to sing madrigals for a bishop.”

  “Madrigals for a bishop?” Harriet said, spreading her napkin in her lap.

  Kitty started giggling madly, so much so that she couldn’t speak.

  There was something about being dressed in men’s clothes that made Harriet far less patient, she was discovering.

  “He wants us dressed as little angels,” Kitty finally managed to say.

  “Angels singing before a bishop. I suppose it makes sense.”

  “But wait until you see our costumes,” Kitty said. “It must be very warm in Heaven, if you understand me.”

  She gave Harriet her practiced, naughty smile.

  Harriet smiled back, rather more stiffly. “Do you have wings?”

  “Yes, really lovely ones, made of real feathers. Lord Strange has a French secretary who helped with the costumes. The wings are so soft and pretty. At one point we take them off and actually lie down on them.”

  “Lie down?” Harriet said.

  Kitty leaned closer. “I could give you a private rehearsal if you wished, Harry. I couldn’t sing a madrigal without three of us, but I could sing another love song.”

  “Did you say rehearsal?” Strange said from the head of the table. “Are you discussing the angel performance? I would love to see that.”

  She instantly gave him the same dimpled smile that she had just bestowed on Harriet. “I’d be happy to include you, my lord.”

  “Isidore,” Strange said, turning to her with a touch on her arm, “would you be interested in seeing a private concert given by an angel?”

  “Of course,” Isidore said, but Harriet could tell from her voice that she didn’t like the idea.