A Most Suitable Duchess Page 2

  “I thought I might visit the shops today,” Penelope said. “We need new linens, and if they are not too dear, perhaps new drapes for the sitting room.”

  James made no response.

  “While I am out, are there any commissions I can execute for you?” Penelope asked.

  “No,” James said, his attention seemingly fixed on his newspaper. Yet he had been reading the same page for the last several minutes. Surely the Edinburgh Courant contained no news that would hold his interest so closely. He was simply using the newspaper to avoid speaking with her.

  He was deliberately trying to aggravate her, but she knew him too well to fall for such a transparent ploy.

  “Remember this evening I am to dine with the Lawtons. And then we are to go hear Mr. Creighton’s lecture on the latest astronomical discoveries. I believe this month he will be discussing comets. Will you be joining us?” she asked.

  The newspaper was folded with a snap of his wrists, and laid on the table with far more force than was necessary.

  “No, I will not be joining you,” he said, meeting her gaze for the first time this morning.

  Ah. A reaction at last.

  “Very well, I will convey your regards to the Lawtons,” she said.

  “I will be escorting Miss Carstairs to a musicale this evening,” James said. “You might wish to consider joining us instead. So you can make your apologies.”

  “Apologies?”

  “Certainly. Miss Carstairs told me all about the literary salon the other day. How she was humiliated and how you did nothing to defend her. I could not believe my own sister capable of such rudeness.”

  Now she knew what had prompted his earlier pique.

  “I regret that she did not enjoy herself,” Penelope said carefully, forbearing to mention that it had been his idea that she invite Miss Carstairs. “The members of the literary society enjoy lively debate, it is true, but it is a civilized discourse.”

  “Amelia told me they laughed at her,” James said, for once breaking from his careful formality.

  Had they? She could not remember, but in truth she had been too busy playing hostess, moving from one cluster of friends to another, to pay particular attention to Miss Carstairs. Perhaps she should have watched over her more closely.

  “I am certain they did not mean to be unkind,” she said. And yet she wondered. The members of the literary society would not be deliberately rude. But they had little patience for fools.

  “And you were rude to her as well,” James said.

  “I merely suggested that she actually read Waverly, before she ventured to give an opinion on the novel, or on the identity of its author.”

  Indeed the topic of that afternoon had been a lively debate on whether or not Sir Walter Scott was indeed the author of Waverly. Penelope and others had argued for this premise, noting similarities in the lyrical prose of the novel to Scott’s poetic works.

  When asked her opinion, Miss Carstairs had made the mistake of saying that she had never read the novel, but she was certain that a great poet would never lower himself so far as to write a mere romantic novel. Her ignorant remark had been received with polite disbelief.

  Rather than arguing her case, as any other member of the society would, Miss Carstairs had wilted and soon made her excuses to leave.

  “So now you blame Miss Carstairs?”

  Her brother seemed determined to pick a fight with her, despite her own good intentions.

  “If Miss Carstairs feels she was slighted, then I will make my apologies to her. Naturally she is welcome to join us for the next meeting, but I think it would be wise if she did not. Such gatherings are not to everyone’s taste.”

  “You will apologize,” James said gravely, as if he were her father and not merely her elder brother. “And the literary society is no longer welcome to meet here. You will have to make other arrangements.”

  “What?” He could not mean this.

  “This is to be Miss Carstairs’s home one day, if she will have me. And I will not have her feel unwelcome in her own house,” James said. His face had that stubborn expression that reminded her of a willful child, intent on getting his own way.

  A thousand angry words sprang to mind, and she bit her lip to keep them from escaping. How dare James criticize her manners, dismissing her as if she were the interloper here. Penelope rose from the table, intent on making her retreat before she said something she would forever regret.

  As she passed by her brother’s seat, she paused and laid one hand on his shoulder.

  “We have always rubbed on well together, haven’t we, James?” she asked.

  Indeed, in the three years since the death of their mother, they had settled into a comfortable routine. Penelope had taken the reins of the household, and James occupied himself with his business affairs and his clubs. While not precisely happy, she had been content. She saw no reason why this should change.

  “All things change,” James said, as if he read her thoughts.

  Indeed she should have seen this coming. More fool that she had not, for his attentions to Miss Carstairs had been marked. And now it was clear that he intended to make her an offer, one which Miss Carstairs would no doubt accept, after the required ladylike demurs.

  Then where would she be? Keeping house for her unattached brother was one thing. Living as the dependent of James and his young bride would be another matter entirely, especially since it was clear that Miss Amelia Carstairs bore her no goodwill.

  And yet where else could she go? She was barely one-and-twenty, far too young to set up her own household. And marriage was out of the question. She had once known true love, and though Stephen Wolcott was lost to her, she knew she could never find a man to be his equal. And she had vowed never to marry for mere convenience. No matter how difficult she found living with the insufferable Miss Carstairs.

  Perhaps when she was firmly on the shelf, she would be able to use her modest inheritance to hire a companion and set up her own household in Edinburgh. In the meantime, she would have to resign herself to making the best of her situation. She had endured the loss of her love, and the deaths of her beloved parents. Surely coping with her brother’s marriage was a far lesser challenge. Everything would work out for the best. It simply must, for she had no other choice.

  That evening she made her way to the Lawtons’ residence in Old Town. The Lawtons had been friends of her mother. Of an age with their youngest daughter Harriet, Penelope had always been treated more as a daughter than as a family friend, and tonight was no exception. She was welcomed warmly, her gown admired, and then admonished to enjoy herself.

  She joined the rest of the guests in the drawing room. It was a small party, merely a dozen guests besides herself and the Lawtons. Like herself, those present were patrons of the Royal Astronomical Society, and shared an interest in scientific matters.

  Harriet Lawton was chatting with Mr. Ian MacLeod, her auburn curls bouncing as she nodded vigorously in agreement with whatever point the barrister was making. Then she caught sight of Penelope, and waved her over.

  “A pleasure to see you this evening, Miss Hastings,” Mr. Ian MacLeod said. He was a pleasant enough fellow, although given to a certain portliness.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Penelope replied. “And, Harriet, I trust I find you and your family well?”

  “Yes, yes,” Harriet said, clearly out of patience with the social niceties. “But you will never guess what Mr. MacLeod and I were discussing.”

  “In that case, I pray that you enlighten me,” Penelope replied.

  Mr. MacLeod rocked back on his heels, crossing his hands across his ample waist. “Miss Lawton and I were discussing the Duke of Torringford.”

  Penelope wrinkled her brow, unable to place the name. While solidly of the gentry, neither she nor the Lawtons mixed with the aristocratic set. “I do not recall the name. Is he perhaps a new subscriber to the Royal Astronomical Society?”

  Harriet giggled. “No,
of course not. It is the scandal. Because of the advertisement.”

  “What advertisement?” Penelope asked

  “Did you not see it? It was in this morning’s Advertiser,” Harriet said.

  “And in this afternoon’s Gazette,” Mr. MacLeod added, not to be outdone.

  “I have not seen either,” Penelope replied.

  “It is most shocking,” Harriet said. She leaned forward and whispered, “The duke is advertising. For a wife!”

  “A wife?” Penelope repeated, certain that she must have misheard.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. MacLeod said. “It seems the new duke finds himself in need of a bride in order to secure his inheritance. Rather than approaching a female of his acquaintance, he has apparently decided to advertise for one who will suit his requirements.”

  “Surely this is a jest,” Penelope said.

  “It is no jest. The Gazette sent a correspondent to speak with Mr. Forsythe, the duke’s solicitor. He confirmed the terms of the will. The new duke must be married within the month,” Roger Lawton said, as he and his wife, Anne, joined their circle.

  Roger was of an age with her own brother, James, but whereas James seemed prematurely middle-aged, Roger was still youthful, with a mischievous sense of humor. Once their families had hoped that she and Roger would make a match, but in time they had come to realize that this was impossible. She valued Roger as a friend, but he could never take the place of her first love. No man could, which was why she had vowed to remain single.

  And she was genuinely happy that Roger had found Anne, who clearly doted on her husband.

  “I do not understand. Why should a nobleman, indeed, why should any man advertise to seek a wife? Surely that is madness,” Anne Lawton observed.

  “On the contrary, I find it a most logical course of action,” Roger replied.

  “Tell me you are jesting,” Anne said.

  “Of course I am, sweetheart,” Roger said, taking one of his wife’s hands in his. “I daresay the poor duke was overcome with despondency when he learned that you were wed, and no longer available. Fearing he could find no one to equal you, he resorted to this last desperate measure.”

  Anne Lawton blushed. “Now you are mocking me,” she said, with pretend severity.

  “The duke mocks us all,” Mr. MacLeod intoned. “Such an advertisement reduces marriage to the level of mere commerce. But he is caught in his own trap. Only a woman whose greed outweighs her decency would respond to such an advertisement. I wish the duke the joy of his mercenary bride.”

  Penelope could not comprehend what manner of gentleman could have placed such an advertisement. He must be either an eccentric of the first water or a cynical misogynist. What could he hope to gain with this scheme? No decent woman would respond to such an impertinent offer.

  Further musings were cut off when Mrs. Lawton summoned the party to dinner. Conversation was general, but soon turned back to the subject of the new duke and his strange behavior. His character was dissected at length, a process somewhat hampered by the fact that none of those present had ever met the new Duke of Torringford, who appeared to have lived a quiet country life before his recent elevation to the peerage. Nonetheless, many felt free to speculate on his character and motivations, based on the little they knew. Mr. MacLeod cast dark aspersions on the duke’s character, while Mrs. Lawton charitably attributed his folly to senility brought on by his presumably advanced years.

  Even Harriet Lawton, who normally disdained society gossip, was inspired to join the discussion. “For my part, I see nothing wrong with his advertisement,” she said. “Indeed, such a logical approach to finding a mate speaks of a scientific bent of mind. Instead of condemning this gentleman we should be praising him, as a proponent of rationality in all things.”

  “Surely, Miss Lawton, you would never consider answering such an advertisement yourself,” Mr. MacLeod intoned.

  “I will have to consider the matter,” Harriet Lawton said.

  Horrified, Penelope glanced over at her friend, and was relieved to see the twinkle in her eyes that meant Harriet was jesting.

  “You will do no such thing,” Mrs. Lawton proclaimed. “And now, I think we should turn our attention to more worthy subjects. Mrs. Spenser, since you have recently returned from London, perhaps you would care to share with us your impressions?”

  Following their hostess’s lead, the conversation turned to less scandalous topics.

  After dinner, the group proceeded by carriage to the University Lecture Hall, where the friends of the Royal Astronomical Society held their monthly gatherings.

  Mr. Creighton was a gifted speaker, but for once his words failed to capture Penelope’s attention. Instead her thoughts kept returning to this morning’s unsettling conversation with her brother. If her brother were to marry Miss Carstairs, what would she do? Surely they could all rub along together in a civilized fashion, could they not?

  Her distraction continued, as she joined the Lawtons in the carriage for the journey homeward.

  She was startled out of her reverie as Harriet Lawton touched her arm.

  “Will you join us?” Harriet Lawton asked.

  She must have missed the question. “I am sorry, I was woolgathering,” Penelope said. “What was your question?”

  “There is to be a public subscription next month, to raise funds for the building of the new observatory. Will you help us pen the letters to the patrons?”

  “Of course,” Penelope said. Her small inheritance from her parents allowed her to donate only modest sums to such public projects, so instead she donated her time and enthusiasm.

  “Something has been troubling you all evening,” Harriet Lawton observed softly. “Do you care to share it?”

  “The literary society will need to find another place to hold our gatherings. James has decided that he is no longer willing for me to play hostess,” Penelope said.

  “And does this have anything to do with a certain Miss Carstairs?”

  “Miss Carstairs does not care for such gatherings, and James wishes to please her in all things.”

  Harriet reached over and grasped her gloved hand in hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “There is no need to worry. My mother will be glad to host the society.”

  “Roger and I would be glad to take part as well,” Anne Lawton said from the opposite bench, as her husband nodded.

  “That is most kind of you,” Penelope said.

  But in truth, the hosting of the literary meetings was the least of her worries. Rather, it was the change in her brother’s attitude that concerned her. As an unmarried gentlewoman, she was dependent upon her brother’s goodwill. Till now, he had been most indulgent of her foibles. But if he should change his attitude—

  “Miss Carstairs seems a pleasant enough girl,” Anne Lawton said, breaking into her gloomy thoughts. “If she and your brother do make a match, I am certain you will soon learn to enjoy each other’s company.”

  “And if not, well then, I know Mr. Ian MacLeod would be honored to have you as his wife. I would be happy to have a word with him, to convince him to press his suit,” Roger Lawton added.

  Penelope laughed, as he had no doubt intended. “Matters are not nearly so grave, but I thank you for your kindness.”

  She pasted a smile on her face, and banished her worries from her mind. It was foolish to fret herself over possibilities that might never come to be. For all she knew, Miss Carstairs might disdain her brother’s suit, and then Penelope would feel foolish indeed.

  “Come now, enough of gloomy thoughts,” she said. “Pray tell me, what thought you of tonight’s lecture? Mr. Creighton’s plan to map the comets once the new observatory is built sounds most ambitious. Do you think he will one day rival the fame of Sir Edmund Halley?”

  Three

  Marcus Heywood entered his brother’s chamber and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.

  Reginald wilted unde
r his regard. “Marcus, you know I would never—”

  “But you did. You penned that cursed missive, so this disaster is your making,” Marcus interrupted. He had nursed the cold fury within him for the past two days, and he would not be gainsaid. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when I read the advertisement in the Edinburgh Courant. The next day I expected to read a retraction, but instead I find an entire column devoted to my private affairs. What were you thinking?”

  He paced back and forth across the small bedchamber, unable to stay still.

  Reginald rose to face his brother. He swallowed, and then began. “Yes, I penned that foolish advertisement. And the next morning, after you left, I was still in my cups when I gave the bootboy what I thought was the advertisement for the kennel master, and bade him bring it to the newspaper office without delay. If I had waited until I was sober enough to read what I had written, I could have avoided this whole mess. But what’s done is done. I take full blame for what happened.”

  This much Marcus had been able to reason out for himself. He could still taste the bitter shock he had felt, when opening up the newspaper, he had turned to the commercial notices. Fully expecting to read the announcement that Marcus Heywood sought a new kennel master for the Greenfields estate, he had nearly choked on his coffee when he read the notice for a wife that Reginald had penned in jest.

  “But why was there no explanation of the mistake? I expected to see an immediate retraction, and instead I find it treated with all seriousness, and news of my desperate search for a bride is carried in every paper,” Marcus demanded.

  Suddenly weary, he threw himself into a chair, stretching his long legs before him.

  After a long look to judge his brother’s temper, Reginald resumed his own seat.

  “For that, there is blame to share. The advertisement was printed in the afternoon edition. I was engaged to dine with Mark Clemens and a few others of his acquaintance that evening, and we then went to the opera. It was early morning before I returned to my rooms, and I did not know what had happened till someone mentioned it the next evening. By then, it was in all the Edinburgh papers. A correspondent had spoken with Mr. Forsythe, who was all too willing to confirm the details of our late cousin’s will. Once I learned what had happened, I went to James McGregor. He was able to convince the Courant to cease printing the advertisement, but they were unwilling to print a retraction. They claimed they were unable to do so without your written confirmation. If truth be told, I think they knew the lie for what it was, but were far more interested in selling papers than in reporting the truth.”