Duchess by Night

  “Harriet, do you really think that you’re simply going to leave and go back to your little estate, wherever it is?”

  She blinked at him. “Of course I do.”

  “You’re not.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate the moments in bed when you forcefully state your opinion, Jem, but this is different. I am not going to stay with you. I shall return to my own estate, and I would be very happy to bring Eugenia with me for a prolonged visit.”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, biting her lip. “It’s not good for her being in that room by herself all the time. Did you see the game she’s playing right now?”

  “I thought some of the rats were very well fashioned,” he said. “I do feel guilty because she wasn’t adequately bathed before bed. We’ve had the rat-catcher into the house. He hasn’t found any evidence of a rat infestation.”

  “What would an infestation mean?”

  “That this house held a whole village of them. He thinks the rat that bit Eugenia came in to escape the cold and was frightened. But she’ll have one of the terrier puppies from the village to stay with her, just as soon as it’s old enough to leave its mother. And no rat will never enter her room with a terrier there.”

  “I don’t think my house has rats—”

  “I didn’t think mine did either!” he said, his voice raising.

  “But I know there are little girls living next to me,” she said, pleading. “Please let her pay a visit, Jem.”

  “You don’t understand. She’s not paying a visit because you aren’t leaving.”

  Harriet was starting to feel a little exasperated. “You need to listen to me, Jem. You have just as much trouble being an audience as I do, it seems.” She swung her legs out of bed. “I wonder where Lucille is.”

  “She’ll be here within the half hour, and your reputation will be ruined forever.” There was a liquid note of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Not mine,” Harriet said, “Mr. Cope’s.”

  “Well, then, my reputation will be ruined forever,” Jem pointed out, “since you are Mr. Cope. All my father’s worst nightmares come true.”

  “You’d better leave then.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Harriet sighed and started looking about for her dressing gown.

  “When Sally died,” Jem said chattily, “I suspect that everyone thought that I would go back to my hell-raking ways. I didn’t.”

  “Because you loved her so much?” Harriet hoped her tone wasn’t surly. She didn’t feel surly…much.

  “No. I loved her, but loving a dead woman wouldn’t necessarily stop a man from sleeping with a lively courtesan.”

  This struck Harriet as male logic. “If you’re not leaving,” she said flatly, “I am. Do not follow me; Isidore is certainly still unclothed.”

  And she walked straight through the connecting door.

  When he thumped on the door, she took the precaution of locking it.

  Isidore stuck her head up from the covers. Her hair was tumbling around her shoulders. “What’s happening?” she asked fuzzily. Then her eyes widened. “Is there a rat in your room?”

  “Not exactly,” Harriet said.

  “Harriet, open this door,” Jem bellowed.

  Isidore fell backwards. “Oh, Harriet.”

  “You are going to marry me,” Jem bellowed. “And you know it!”

  Harriet choked. “I am not going to marry you. But thank you for the proposal.”

  “Lord Strange just asked you to marry him,” Isidore said in a faintly awed tone. “Harriet!”

  “And I said no,” Harriet’s heart was beating fast. It was the first time a man had asked her to marry him of his own volition. Benjamin’s proposal came about through an arrangement between their fathers.

  “Why don’t you?” Isidore hissed. “I don’t mean to be mercenary, but in case you’ve forgotten, he’s terribly rich. And charming.”

  The door shook as a fist pounded into it again. Jem bellowed: “Harriet, open this door or I’ll break it down.”

  Isidore gave a little shriek. “Open it!”

  “Let’s see if he can really break it down,” Harriet responded.

  The entire door frame shook and there was the groan of splitting wood.

  “He can,” Isidore said happily. She was sitting up in bed now. “This is so exciting. And romantic! I wish my husband would break down the door to fetch me.”

  The door shuddered under the next blow. “I listened to everything you said!” Jem shouted. “You have little girls next door, and kittens in the barn, and what you’re really saying is that you love Eugenia.”

  Harriet unlocked the door and swung it open.

  He was standing there, hair on end, eyes fierce. “You’ll marry me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “We’ll discuss that later. If you stay, I’ll let you take Eugenia for a visit.”

  “I can’t stay here forever, in breeches. This won’t work for me, Jem. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” he said promptly. “You’re the wife of a country squire, who died in some sort of accident.”

  Isidore made a sharp little movement but said nothing.

  “My husband didn’t die in an accident!” But she didn’t want to tell him the truth, either. Benjamin’s death was still her secret.

  “Call it what you wish,” Jem said. “He died in his own bed, then.”

  It was more or less true, so she nodded.

  “You came here on a lark, and now you want to fly back to your tidy little nest. But I’m not going to let you. I’ve never asked a woman to marry me, ever. Do you realize that?”

  “You didn’t ask me,” she pointed out. “You issued an ultimatum. And while I am gratified to think you are having new experiences, I don’t mean to marry you.”

  Jem, being Jem, instantly switched tactics. “The real point at issue now is whether you want Eugenia to pay you a visit, or whether you can reconcile it with your conscience to leave her here, locked up in the west wing like a cracked, aging relative, vulnerable to rats and Lord knows what else.”

  “You shouldn’t use Eugenia as blackmail,” Harriet said, frowning at him. “She’s your daughter.”

  “She’s my wild card,” he said. “You’re in a fair way to loving her, Harriet, which is a good thing because when we marry, you’ll be her mother.”

  “I haven’t said I’d marry you!” Harriet said with some exasperation. “You just won’t—”

  He grabbed her. You’d think his kiss would have been as aggressive as his talk, not to mention the way he practically beat down the door.

  But it wasn’t. It was so sweet it melted her heart. His lips were hot on hers, silent, delicate. But she was no fool. It was a diplomatic parley, his kiss. It was a shot over her bow from a pirate ship, a notice that she wasn’t going to leave his territory without a fight.

  And God help her, her arms went around his neck. He rewarded her by tightening his arms around her. She opened her lips to him like a starving woman, and what he brought her—what he brought her made her heart bloom, made the current in her blood turn to sparks, hot and burning.

  “Will you stay?” he asked her a bit later, his voice quiet and steady. “Please stay, Harriet. I know I’m not very good at listening, but I’m learning to be your audience. I remember everything you’ve said to me. Please.”

  Harriet heard Isidore sigh, behind her. “I’ll stay with you, Harriet,” she said softly.

  “All right,” Harriet managed.

  His long fingers cupped her cheek. “I can’t let you go.”

  “Will you keep me locked in the west wing?” She didn’t know where that came from, but it made sense.

  He froze for a moment, that long graceful body still. “I suppose you are giving me a lesson, Harriet mine.”

  “Good morning, Lucille!” came a sprightly voice from the bed behind
them. “Just ignore these two.”

  Harriet turned, but Jem pulled her back against him. “You see, Lucille,” he said, bending to kiss Harriet’s neck, “I have discovered your mistress’s secret and I must say, it makes me very happy.”

  “I’m going to stay a few more days, Lucille,” Harriet said.

  “I’ll stay as well,” Isidore said promptly.

  Lucille looked bewildered. She was carrying a stack of perfectly folded stockings, ready to be packed in Harriet’s trunk.

  “I can send you home with outriders, Isidore,” Jem said. “You’ll be perfectly safe. I could find a good woman from the village to accompany you.”

  But Isidore was giggling. “No. It’s like watching one of my favorite plays.”

  “But Your G—” Lucille began and then stopped, catching Harriet’s eye.

  “I plan to stay in my male clothing, of course,” Harriet said calmly, as if Lucille had said nothing. “We shall continue our visit for a brief period of time.”

  Jem laughed. “There goes my reputation.”

  “All you have to do is act in a normal fashion,” Harriet said, twisting around to look at him.

  “How much you have to learn, love.”

  “I shall enjoy watching it,” Isidore said, with a honey-like satisfaction in her voice. “I have a feeling that Lord Strange’s reputation is about to dive to a new level of disreputableness, and I shall be here to see it!”

  “Nonsense,” Harriet said briskly. “I shall stay away from Jem when in public, and all he has to do is keep to his normal impolite habit of ignoring his guests. I see nothing in that situation that should threaten his reputation.”

  Lucille obviously didn’t approve. Harriet saw all sorts of questions trembling on her lips, some stopped by Jem’s presence, others by the barriers between maids and duchesses.

  “Be off,” she said to Jem, giving him a little push toward the door.

  “Look at Harriet’s lashes,” Jem said, draping himself in the door.

  Isidore and Lucille looked in the general direction of her face.

  “Lushly feminine,” he said, his voice deepening. “I knew she was a woman the moment I saw her.”

  “You certainly did not!” Harriet exclaimed.

  “No man’s lip has such an erotic curve.”

  “When did you discover Harriet’s sex?” Isidore asked curiously. “Did you really know from the beginning?”

  “Villiers told me,” Jem said. “Though I guessed before he confirmed it.”

  “I’ll thank you to take yourself out the door before you ruin Isidore’s reputation,” Harriet said. “You might find yourself in a duel. Remember, Isidore has a husband to protect her.”

  “In a matter of speaking,” Isidore murmured. “I feel as if I’m learning so much about men and women just from watching the two of you. I may shock my husband if he ever arrives.”

  “His arrival is a given,” Harriet pointed out. “Still, I would prefer that the household doesn’t find Lord Strange standing in your doorway, and you in bed. Your husband will arrive only to divorce you.”

  Isidore’s eyes widened. “Out!” she said, pointing to the door.

  And this time, Jem obeyed, only sticking his head back in to say, “Fencing at eleven.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sources of Inspiration

  February 10, 1784

  “It’s very frustrating,” Isidore said, the next morning. “I would have thought to receive at least an answer from my husband’s solicitor by now. I first wrote everyone with my plans months ago. My mother-in-law should have been able to work her magic by now.”

  “Your husband is a dunce,” Harriet said. “Are you coming to breakfast?”

  Isidore was lying on her bed, deliciously gowned in a French negligée, reading a book. “Absolutely not. I’ve just started Tacitus’s war manuals.”

  “Who is Tacitus?”

  “Was,” Isidore corrected her. “A Greek tactician. If I ever need to lead an army into battle, I am entirely prepared.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Harriet promised, and left Isidore happily sipping hot chocolate and wiggling her toes.

  Nell was waiting for her outside the breakfast room. Harriet slowed when she saw her, but Nell took her arm and pulled her to the side. “I just want you to know,” she said, “that I don’t blame you for it.”

  “For what?” Harriet asked, confused.

  “For taking him away from me,” she said. “It was as if my eyes opened up night before last, because after you left the table, he went all drab and silent. And I knew that he had been witty for you, but he couldn’t be bothered for me.” Harriet felt a terrible pang of guilt.

  “I—”

  “I just want to know one thing,” Nell said.

  Harriet blinked at her.

  “Did you laugh at me? Were the two of you making up that poetry and laughing at me all the time?”

  “No!” Harriet cried. “Absolutely not. I wrote the poetry for you because I thought…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You thought he was interested in women,” Nell said. “I did too, obviously. You know, in a way that makes it easier? I really thought he fancied me. I just want to say that if it had to be someone else, I’m just as glad it’s you. Because it’s not another woman.” Her eyes flashed. “I’d have to kill you if you were a woman, Harry!”

  “Goodness,” Harriet said faintly.

  “I’ve been thinking about it…this is why no one ever hears of Strange actually being with a woman.”

  Harriet gulped.

  “I should have known. I mean, I work in the theater. But I was just blinded by the way he is.”

  “I know,” Harriet said, feeling a surge of sympathy.

  “We’re giving our final performance tonight, and we’ll be off to London,” Nell said. “And do you know, I was talking to Miss Linnet last night. She was the lead at Drury Lane last year, and she had a very nice understanding with a prince. I think a prince would suit me just fine. Don’t you think so, Harry?”

  “Absolutely,” Harriet said, nodding. “A prince would love you, Nell.”

  After breakfast, Jem crooked a finger, and they ended up in the gallery, fencing. Except the fencing turned into something else. They went to visit Eugenia, and on the way back, Jem suddenly whirled her into a spare bedchamber.

  That night at the Game she won the patent to a curious calculating machine that cast sums. It was very pretty, but not useful, to Harriet’s mind. So later she allowed Jem, who thought he could make improvements to it, to win it from her at another kind of game they played at night.

  “I want to know exactly when you guessed I was a woman,” she said, sometime near midnight.

  “Are you sure you don’t want it to be a secret? I could tell you on your fiftieth birthday. As a surprise.”

  She snorted.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Jem said. “This is a bit embarrassing. I didn’t know from the very beginning.”

  “Obviously.”

  “In fact, it was utterly demoralizing, the way I kept looking at you and—well—desiring you, and there you were, a man.”

  She laughed.

  “You’re going to think I’m a fool.”

  She just turned her head and looked at him.

  “All right, I am a fool,” he said with a groan.

  “Let’s take that as a given and move on,” she suggested, smiling at him.

  He started kissing her and they both forgot the subject of conversation.

  “I was idiotically slow in discovering your secret,” he said, some time later.

  “Let’s take that as a given as well,” Harriet said. “Just when did it first occur to you?”

  “The moment I accused you of kissing the stableboy. You were so horrified—and yet you had kissed him.”

  Harriet snorted. “Degenerate beast that you are. I remember you suddenly got very cheerful.”

  “I was. Do you know, I was actually
starting to contemplate the unthinkable?”

  She laughed. “For me?”

  “There’s something about you that’s just—mine,” he said. “Male, female…I’m not so sure it would really have mattered.”

  “I’m glad I’m a female. So what exactly did you and Villiers say to each other in Latin?”

  He frowned. “I can hardly remember. I thought up the test. Obviously, if you didn’t know Latin, you were a woman. And you didn’t. But then Villiers took the opportunity to tell me that if I allowed Kitty anywhere near you in a state of undress he’d take off my head.”

  “I love Villiers,” Harriet said with satisfaction.

  “Now love me,” Jem said, rolling over.

  Days passed like strings on a pearl necklace: luscious, erotic, sweetly spaced, beautiful.

  Harriet understood the Strange household now. Its secret revolved around the Game. No wonder Jem rarely came downstairs to meet new guests. It was the Game that mattered, and half the new guests were merely there to provide entertainment for the players.

  And now Harriet knew why the Graces stayed so long at Jem’s house, though Jem himself showed no interest in their talents. And how sundry other young ladies came by their jewels and the smiles in their eyes.

  Sometimes the Game continued until two or three in the morning. One night Lord Sandwich started a conversation about how to raise three hundred thousand pounds for the use of the Home Secretary. Villiers suggested a poll tax. Jem shook his head. Harriet suggested a wine tax.

  “And why is that, young man?” Sandwich said.

  “Wine is a luxury,” Harriet said. “Alcohol is the primary cause of most criminal incidents adjudicated in the family courts.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Sandwich grumbled.

  “You must study your Debrett’s more closely,” Villiers said, with a cutting edge to his voice. “I have very few relatives, Sandwich. I can’t afford to have any ignored.”

  “It’s scurvy few relatives you have on the right side of the blanket,” Sandwich said.

  “Young Cope is one of them,” Villiers said, unruffled. “A wine tax is a fine idea.”

  “I don’t like it,” a man said, who turned out to be the Lord of the Privy Seal.

  But conversation evolved around Sandwich’s love of fine claret, and in the end the idea of the wine tax carried. It was a heady sensation. She, Harriet, had influenced the policy of England.