Duchess by Night

  “More to the point,” Jemma put in, “impress it upon his mother. Because if Cosway were interested in his estate, he would have come home years ago.”

  “You truly mean to lose your virginity?” Harriet asked. It was so fascinating to see another woman face loneliness—and do it with all the courage that she, Harriet, lacked. Isidore wouldn’t sit around on the side of a ballroom weeping onto a stuffed goose.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Isidore said airily. “I shall make that decision based on how long it takes my husband to return. I just need a potent kind of man.”

  “In order to father your child?” Villiers asked. “May I say that this is a fascinating conversation? I can’t say I’ve ever seen adultery planned with such ruthless lack of emotion.”

  “I’d prefer he were potent in terms of scandal,” Isidore said. “Someone like you, Villiers. If I were flirting with you, the news would travel to Africa by the end of the month. Harriet, you must know who’s the most scandalous man in England besides Villiers.”

  “Oh, Villiers isn’t truly scandalous,” Harriet said.

  Villiers opened his eyes. “You surprise me, Your Grace. Truly, you do.”

  “I don’t know why. You never really step beyond the bounds of the commonplace.”

  “I have children out of wedlock,” Villiers said, looking slightly wounded.

  “What nobleman doesn’t?” Harriet retorted.

  “I am lowered by a sudden sense of my own inadequacies,” Villiers said. “Not truly scandalous. Commonplace. My pride is dashed to the ground.”

  Harriet ignored him. “There are no interesting men in the ton.”

  “Worse and worse,” Villiers mumbled.

  “Then who is the most scandalous man in England, to your mind?” Isidore asked.

  “Lord Strange, of course,” Harriet said.

  “Lord Strange?” Isidore asked, knitting her brow. “Surely a lord is part of the ton.”

  “Not Strange,” Villiers said, sipping a glass of water. “Strange is the richest man in England, give or take a shilling or two. At some point the king gave him a title. After all, he keeps rescuing the English economy. Strange could certainly afford to pay for a dukedom if he wished, but he told me that the only reason he accepted the title was because he liked the sound of Lord Strange.”

  “He’s odd, very intelligent, and truly scandalous,” Harriet said. “Not like the men who claim to be rakes in London but really just trot around after opera singers—”

  Villiers groaned.

  “He’s mad for architecture, by all accounts, and has built his own replica of the leaning tower of Pisa,” she continued.

  “I’ve seen the original,” Isidore said. “Surely Strange didn’t gain his interesting reputation by copying defective Italian architecture?”

  “His reputation stems from the motley collection of loose people with whom he lives,” Harriet said.

  “Actors and actresses,” Villiers put in. “Those who work the streets, and those who work the court. Inventors. Scientists. Strange boasts that every interesting person in the country passes through his estate at some point.”

  “It’s true,” Harriet said. “I no sooner read about someone powerful in government, or at one of the universities, but the gossip columns note that he’s visiting Strange.”

  “How did he come by all his money?” Isidore asked. “Is he a merchant of some kind?”

  “Oh, no, his father was a perfectly respectable baronet,” Villiers answered, “with a beaky head, like an old eagle. There was some sort of problem with the family years ago. Could be his mother flew the coop. Or a sister. Perhaps an aunt? At any rate, Strange is a gentleman born and bred, but you’ll never seen him in the normal haunts. He goes where he wishes, while hosting an endless house party.”

  “I would love to pay him a visit,” Jemma said. “I bought a gorgeous little chess queen that he had sold to a curiosity shop. He promised me the whole set if I gained the courage, as he put it, to pay him a visit.”

  “Brilliant!” Isidore said. “I shall travel there at once!”

  “Oh, but—” Jemma said.

  “But what?” Isidore interrupted. “I wish to make a scandal, and this man appears ideally suited to create one for me. I shall brush shoulders with all those light-skirts and theater people and have an excellent time doing so. And meanwhile I shall flirt madly with my host, thereby creating a scandal that will burn its way straight to my husband’s ears.”

  “You’re planning to flirt with Strange himself?” Harriet said. “Your reputation could be ruined throughout England, merely by walking through the doors at Fonthill, let alone by flirting with Strange. No one flirts with Strange.”

  “Why on earth not?” Isidore asked. “Is he hideous? I flirt with everyone! Unless—” she wrinkled her nose “—is he shorter than Lord Beesby? There are certain physiques in which I cannot feign interest.”

  “Oh no, he’s actually quite good-looking,” Harriet said.

  “Then I shall be the first to flirt with him. In a very public way, naturally.”

  “He doesn’t flirt,” Harriet explained. “From what I understand, he beds women but doesn’t toy with them.”

  “He shall flirt with me,” Isidore announced. “I’ve yet to meet the man who couldn’t be taught to flirt. All one has to do is lead him to think that bedding is a possibility and voilà!”

  Harriet laughed. “I’d love to see your lessons!”

  “Then you must come with me,” Isidore said, grinning at her.

  “I? I could never do such a thing. You couldn’t really mean to visit Fonthill. It’s just not done. Not done by—by us, I mean.”

  “Us?” Isidore said scornfully. “Us is short foolish men like Beesby, and tall, uncaring men like my husband. What do I care for us?”

  “It is useful to have a good reputation,” Jemma said.

  “How would you know?” Isidore demanded. “You left your husband years ago, Jemma. Left him in England and went to Paris—and don’t tell me that you were tending to your reputation all those years! Not when you had parties that even Marie Antoinette hesitated to visit—”

  “Though she always did,” Jemma put in.

  “But you have skirted the edges of propriety for years—yes, and well beyond propriety,” Isidore stated. “And now you say there is a place in England which you dare not visit? Why? What could happen to you there? Will you be struck by a great desire for an actor and have an affaire with a man from a different class?”

  “Well—”

  But Isidore was just gaining her stride. “Because that is what you are really talking about!” she said, her Italian accent increasing. “You, all of you, are saying that Strange is scandalous and not one of us because he is a mere baronet’s son. Because he, unlike all of us, is not a duke or a duchess!”

  Harriet looked around. Until that moment she had not realized that they were all duchesses, except for Villiers, who was a duke.

  “Apparently, we live in such rarefied atmosphere that we cannot flirt with men who do not have a ducal crest on their carriage doors,” Isidore said scathingly. “You, Jemma, you who set Paris on its ears with your parties of half-dressed satyrs, you cavil at the idea of Strange because he is not a duke!”

  “The problem is more complicated than you present it, Isidore,” Jemma replied. “If a man flirts with a duchess, he flirts with her rank. When they feign affection, if you don’t see the foot-licking behind it, you are a fool. No man ever forgets your rank at the moment he kisses you—if your rank is the highest in the land.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “You will never truly be able to forget your rank either,” Jemma said remorselessly, “unless you are in a room like this one, in which we share the title. The scandal caused by your flirtation will undoubtedly be greater due to Lord Strange’s low birth, but it will temper your pleasure. At any rate, I cannot accompany you. I am done with scandal-broths.”

 
“And why is that?” Isidore demanded.

  “My husband requested it of me. Beaumont has many responsibilities in the House of Lords, and it is not helpful when his wife makes herself a byword on the street. And believe me, Isidore, anyone who visits Fonthill will be a byword.”

  “Fine!” Isidore said. “A byword is precisely what I wish to be. I shall write my mother-in-law immediately and tell her of my plans, and then I’ll write Cosway’s solicitor, and tell him to send me funds at Strange’s house.”

  “In my experience, when a woman has decided to lose her virginity, one can’t stop the impulse,” Villiers said, grinning. “It would be like trying to dam—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” Jemma said.

  “I’ve been invited to Strange’s and was planning to travel there after this party,” Villiers said, “but I can’t take you with me. That is, not unless I put together a party. Or you find a chaperone.”

  “I gave up my chaperone two years ago,” Isidore snapped. “When I turned twenty-one and there was no husband in sight, I let my aunt return to Wales. I shall travel alone.”

  Villiers looked at Jemma. “Please tell your fiery friend that she cannot arrive at Strange’s house unaccompanied and—I might add—uninvited.”

  “I am a duchess, even if I don’t use the title,” Isidore said instantly. “Show me the house that will deny entrance to the Duchess of Cosway!”

  “Strange doesn’t like titles,” Villiers said. “You’re more likely to be admitted as Lady Del’Fino.”

  Jemma shook her head. “I cannot accompany you, Isidore. I really can’t.”

  “I’ll take her,” Harriet said.

  She heard the words in her own ears with that queer double sense one gets when one hasn’t thought out a comment. It just sprang from her lips.

  There was a moment of dead silence. All three turned to look at her.

  “You?” Isidore said.

  And: “You mustn’t take Isidore’s starts so seriously,” Jemma said. “She’ll forget about this scheme of hers by tomorrow morning.”

  “No, I won’t,” Isidore stated.

  “Why shouldn’t I go?” Harriet said. “If the Duke of Villiers accompanies the two of us we won’t be turned away.”

  Villiers gave a short laugh. “You must be as feverish as I.”

  “You can’t go, darling, because you are not a wastrel like myself,” Jemma said, “nor yet a wastrel-in-training like Isidore.”

  “I may not be a wastrel,” Harriet said, “but I’m not really anything else, either. No one recognizes me, because I’ve lived in the country for so long. Like Isidore, I am a duchess without a duke. But unlike you, no one’s career would be diminished by the tarnishing of my reputation.”

  “Everyone knows you!” Jemma said, horrified. “You are our own, darling Harriet.”

  “I am a dumpy widow who lived in the country during my marriage and thereafter,” Harriet said flatly. “My husband committed suicide, and those of the ton who don’t blame me for his death are morbidly sorry for me. No one will pay the faintest attention to whether I go to Strange’s house or not.”

  “They don’t blame you for Benjamin’s suicide,” Villiers said. “They blame me. And God knows, they’re right to do it.”

  She gave him a little half-smile. “It was his life—and his decision. There’s no one to blame.”

  To her shock, he reached out his hand. And she took it. There was no need to say anything else. His hand was surprisingly comforting for someone as sharp-tongued and uncomfortable as she considered Villiers to be.

  “How long ago did your husband take his life?” Isidore asked. “And please forgive me for not knowing the answer; I have only been in this country for a few months.”

  “Two and a half years ago,” Harriet said. “I am well out of mourning and can attend whatever party I wish.”

  “Then I would welcome your company,” Isidore said.

  “I just can’t imagine either of you at Fonthill,” Jemma exclaimed. “From what I’ve heard, Lord Strange’s household is one long bacchanalian orgy.”

  “Splendid!” Isidore said immediately. To Harriet’s mind, she looked ready to throw herself straight into the fray.

  Jemma shook her head. “Harriet isn’t—”

  “She certainly isn’t dressed for an orgy,” Villiers interjected.

  Harriet looked down at herself. She’d forgotten she was dressed as Mother Goose. But why shouldn’t she be part of an orgy? “I want to go. I am dressed in a nightgown; I’m half way to the bedchamber already.”

  There was a wry smile in Villiers’s eyes.

  “We can both wear our costumes. I’ll announce myself as an actress.” Isidore had a wicked grin.

  Villiers was shaking his head. “Everyone dresses like that at Lord Strange’s house and they don’t bother with explanations. He owns the Drury Lane theater, so his house is haunted by actors. I do think it’s a good idea to go in costume,” he said to Harriet. “And under a false name.”

  “Something like Isidore’s dress? I couldn’t.” She couldn’t wear a scrap of fabric that barely covered her breasts.

  “No,” Villiers said. “More of a disguise than that. As I said, Strange is not fond of titles and he wouldn’t welcome a duchess—or two—on his doorstep.”

  Harriet felt a stab of humiliation. Naturally Villiers didn’t want to see her in a scanty costume like Isidore’s. “What are you suggesting? I go as a man?”

  It was a joke. The word flew from her lips but—

  “You couldn’t be so brave,” Isidore said laughing.

  “Lady Cosway need offer no proof of her courage,” Villiers said. “Please recall that she just carried a goose into the ballroom while wearing a nightgown. One doubts Saint George exhibited such steel while setting out to fight the dragon. Yet I am not certain…” His eyes rested thoughtfully on her chest.

  Raising her chin, Harriet reached inside her voluminous sleeves and pulled out a rolled woolen stocking. And another. A third and fourth.

  Then she flattened the fabric against her chest. “I think,” she said coolly, “that I shall look very well as a man.”

  “Indeed,” Villiers said. “The idea has possibilities.”

  Chapter Four

  In Which Sin & Silver Boxes are Itemized and Explained

  January 7, 1784

  Fonthill

  Lord Strange’s Country Estate

  “I don’t like his blue hair powder,” Eugenia Strange observed. “Papa, are you listening to me? Today his hair is all covered with red powder, and yesterday it was blue. I think he looks better in red. Do you agree, Papa?”

  “Absolutely.” Justinian Strange, known to his closest friends as Jem, let his eight-year-old daughter’s words flow by him as he frowned down at the architectural drawing on his desk.

  “Do you know what Augusta did to him, Papa? She locked him in the closet. She said that she was tormented by being surrounded by foolish men and she only allowed him out of the closet when he promised to have her coach relined in yellow silk. It’s going to cost two hundred pounds. But she says that her diamond earrings cost three hundred pounds, and those were given to her by Mr. Cornelys. I asked if she locked him in the closet as well, but she didn’t.”

  “I expect not,” Jem said, looking up from the drawing he had spent the afternoon creating. “Eugenia, what do you think of the idea of putting this false floor in the ballroom? It’s quite ingenious, you see.”

  His daughter came around the table and stood at his shoulder. “This mechanism would cause the platform to rise, Papa?” she said, putting her finger in precisely the place.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because it would be striking,” he said, rather lamely. “The table would rise suddenly in the air when it was time for supper.”

  But his daughter shook her head. “Striking is not a good reason, Papa. Striking is why Mr. Hodes is wearing blue hair powder, and I assure
you that is not a good decision.”

  He drew her little figure against him. “You’re my Sensibility,” he said into her curls. “Did you spend time with your governess today?”

  Eugenia didn’t answer, but said, “Papa, did you know that Mrs. Mahon brought fourteen silver filigreed boxes with her? She carries them everywhere.”

  “She’s the new lead from The Beggar’s Opera, isn’t she? I haven’t met her yet. Whatever does Mrs. Mahon keep inside her fourteen boxes?”

  “Love notes. I believe that she has had fourteen protectors, which is a great many. Miss Linnet told me that when she was playing at the Hyde Park Theater a prince gave her ten pairs of diamond earrings, one a night for ten nights. I should very much prefer diamonds to silver boxes.”

  “A prudent observation,” Jem said, pushing back in his chair. “A box is worth a few pounds, Eugenia, but a diamond might be very expensive. Though I trust you shall never have a protector. I’ll give you any earrings you wish.”

  Eugenia had her mother’s turned-up little nose and sweet brown eyes, but other than that she looked just like him, which meant that she had an awkward face for a child. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as always: pale, too gaunt. Clever, he supposed. The kind of hawkish cheekbones he had looked acceptable on a man in his thirties, but rather odd on a young girl. One had to hope that she would grow into them. Or out of them.

  In fact, she looked rather odd today in other respects as well. “What are you wearing?” he asked, peering at her.

  “My riding costume. But I put a silk petticoat underneath it, because I like the way the dark serge looks against this pink. Look, Papa.” She twirled, and sure enough, there was a light flutter at the bottom of her somber habit. “It makes me feel more festive to be in pink. And I pinned these roses here and the scarf breaks the color, you see?”

  “What did your governess think of that?”

  “We haven’t seen each other today. She’s in love, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. Who is she in love with?”

  “Well, for a long period of time she was in love with you, Papa.”