The Dream of a Duchess Page 7

  She had a wedding to plan.

  Chapter 10

  An Earl Claims He’s Going to Claim a Countess

  A week later

  David Alexander George Fitzwilliam regarded the missive he had penned the night before, wondering how the words would sound when Clarinda read them aloud. The letter included condolences on the death of her aunt. A comment as to how long he had known Arabella (but nothing of their affaire). Assurances her niece, Isabella, was probably in good health and simply hiding from her father. A mention of looking forward to their wedding day and an offer to delay the nuptials should she wish more time to mourn her aunt.

  He didn’t include the information that Isabella was his daughter or any word of the girl’s true whereabouts. According to his brief visit with Huntington at Brooks’s, Isabella was settled into a guest suite at Huntinghurst and thrilled she was allowed access to his stables. Her horse had his own stall and had recovered from whatever injury had him limping the morning the two had arrived at The Elegant Courtesan.

  What had David suddenly grinning just then was the mention by the duke that Isabella was so pleased with the arrangements, she had hugged Huntington and kissed him on the cheek. A bit flustered by the show of affection by his new ward, the duke had merely nodded and set off for London with word that he would return in a few weeks.

  Poor man probably hasn’t had a woman touch him since his wife died, David thought with a sigh.

  He sobered as he returned his attention to the letter he had written to Clarinda. Would she notice his handwriting was a bit different from Daniel’s? Had she received notes from his brother that would provide a comparison?

  He rather hoped not. The argument he’d had with Daniel the night before had nearly led to blows. They might still have a mill at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon if Daniel didn’t give up his pursuit of Clarinda Anne Brotherton. They were both abysmal boxers, so at least it would be an even match.

  “You cannot marry Lady Clarinda,” David had stated before he was even halfway through the vestibule of the townhouse Daniel maintained in Bruton Street. The batman had attempted to see to his coat and top hat, but David didn’t pause long enough to remove them.

  “Why ever not?” Daniel Jonathan Andrew Fitzwilliam countered when he appeared in the hall just beyond the vestibule. “You certainly don’t appear ready to marry her.”

  David angled his head to one side, as if he were addressing a recalcitrant child, attempting to ignore the fact that looking at his brother was like seeing his own reflection in a looking glass. “Because she’s betrothed to me, and has been since she was... twelve, I think it was.”

  His twin brother, younger by mere minutes, crossed his arms and gave a quick shake of his head. “Fourteen. You know nothing about her,” Daniel said quietly.

  “I know everything I need to know,” David countered, his frown making him appear far older than his brother. “Jesus, Danny, how could you do this?”

  “I love her.”

  Still wearing his great coat, David dropped into a wingback chair as if he’d been punched. He scrubbed his face with a hand, wincing at the growth of whiskers that had already made themselves apparent despite his valet having shaved him that morning. It wasn’t even six o’clock in the evening. “Obviously, since you’ve apparently been providing her with ‘delectable kisses’,” he accused.

  Daniel moved to a sideboard and poured scotch into two crystal tumblers. He offered one to his brother, scowling when David seemed to hesitate before taking it. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said as he set it on the side table. He took the adjacent chair, a smug expression suddenly giving way to a grin.

  “How can you find this funny?” David asked in dismay. He downed the scotch in a single gulp, immediately regretting the move as he nearly choked on the smoky fluid, his throat burning as it made its way down.

  “How can I not?” Daniel countered. “I finally have something in my life that is not yours.”

  David stared at his brother, rather wishing they didn’t look so damned much alike. “She is not yours,” he whispered. “Father arranged a betrothal with the Earl of Heath. We were all there in the same room when the contract was completed. They signed it. I signed it. She signed it,” he explained, exasperation nearly robbing him of breath.

  “Betrothals are breakable,” Daniel countered with a shrug. “It won’t hold up in a court, and you know it. Besides, Clarinda is already two-and-twenty. You were supposed to marry her before her birthday. And you made a promise you would divest yourself of the brothel and the gentlemen’s club, and ...”

  “The club is under contract. An agent is seeing to the sale of the brothel. I’ll simply close it if I don’t have a buyer by the end of June,” David interrupted, ignoring the comment about Clarinda already having turned two-and-twenty. He had forgotten about that particular clause in the contract, so he hoped the Earl of Heath had as well.

  Daniel stared at his older brother. “Who’s buying the club?” he asked, his expression displaying his shock at this bit of news. Surely he would have heard about an impending sale from someone at Boodle’s.

  “Frank O’Leary. He’s looking to expand his gaming concern to this side of London, and the club will allow him to do that,” David explained, not bothering to add that he had been the one to approach the owner of The Jack of Spades with news he was was willing to sell at a discount.

  He still couldn’t believe he was nearly done with the club. The monies it generated allowed him to purchase any number of accoutrements necessary for life in the capital. A fully-furnished house in Mayfair that he had since renamed Norwick Place. A sporty phaeton with a matched set of greys. A town coach at Tillbury’s. A wardrobe suitable for a member of the ton. An account at the Bank of England that would see to his wife’s future and their children when he died.

  And a dowry for Isabella.

  He wondered then if he would ever have to mention his daughter to Clarinda. Given the two were so closely related, he realized it was only a matter of time after he told Isabella before Clarinda would know of his affaire with her aunt. He would have to tell her before that happened. After Isabella, though. He owed his daughter that much.

  Or would it be better to tell Clarinda first? he suddenly wondered. Christ! How would she react when she learned of the affaire?

  David thought about mentioning Isabella to Daniel just then—she was the man’s niece, after all—but thought better of it. Give the man the opportunity to absorb the news related to his businesses. He would tell him about Isabella later.

  Maybe after he told Isabella he was her father.

  “The Jack of Spades Frank O’Leary?” Daniel asked, still in shock.

  Pulled from his brief reverie, David stared at his brother and blinked. Christ, he was getting as bad as Huntington when it came to bouts of melancholy. “Yes. He’ll keep the place up better than most. He runs the best Faro parlor of anyone in London.”

  “Jesus, Davy. When were you going to tell me?”

  David sighed, realizing he was pulling the rug out from under his brother in more ways than one. “I just did. It’s partly why I came tonight,” he replied. “As for The Elegant Courtesan, I rather doubt I can find a buyer in the next month or so. I’m thinking I’ll simply shut it down... I’ve hired an agent to see to selling the property, though.”

  “Can you live without that income?” Daniel interrupted.

  Angling his head while he regarded his brother, David sighed again. “You tell me. You’re the one who keeps all the books.” He suddenly frowned. “And may I remind you, I do have an earldom that generates a bit of income—”

  “Very little income,” Daniel interrupted just before he finished his scotch. His inheritance upon their father’s death had been proof of that. Although he had enough to live on if he never married, he wouldn’t be able to support a wife and family without the monies he earned from his accounting and clerical duties for the Norwick e
arldom.

  “And some race horses that might earn a purse or two.”

  Daniel gave him a quelling glance. “Those damn horses cost you more than you’ll ever win at a racing match,” he reminded him. “But, yes, I suppose you’re set for life with what you’ve earned with the club so far.” He paused a moment, his brows furrowing. “Seems I’ll be out of a job, though.” The thought had him wincing in more ways than one. His income depended on David’s. The money he earned from keeping the books was money he planned to use to support his life with Clarinda.

  David’s brows shot up. “How so?”

  Daniel waved an arm toward the desk. “I won’t have any books to keep.”

  “Nonsense,” David countered. “I’ll still have the expenses of Norwick Park, and Norwick House, Fair Downs, and the earldom. Tenant cottages and such. Seed. Maintenance on the plows.” A wife. Her dowry alone would sustain them if the earldom no longer generated any income. “I hope you’ll continue to keep those ledgers, as I really don’t wish to employ a secretary.”

  One advantage about having a brother who was good with numbers meant David didn’t need to keep an accomptant for the businesses. He rather hoped Daniel would be amenable to simply continuing what he’d been doing but on a smaller scale.

  Or larger, if Clarinda proved to be an expensive wife. At least he would be gaining a dowry upon their marriage.

  Furrowing his brows until a fold of skin developed between them, Daniel finally nodded. “I suppose I can do that,” he agreed. “But I’m not giving up Lady Clarinda.”

  About to tell Daniel about Arabella Brotherton Tolson’s death, David realized he wouldn’t be able to do so without sobbing. So he merely nodded. “Perhaps we should allow Lady Clarinda to decide,” he finally suggested.

  Daniel’s eyes darted to one side, as if he were trying to sort just how Clarinda would know to choose him should both brothers be in the same room with her at the same time. They looked so much alike, she might not realize who was who.

  He was never allowed to spend more than a few minutes at a time in her company—there was always a lady’s maid with her—but he did have the advantage of having courted her. He knew her favorite flower. He knew what caused her to blush. He knew how to kiss her when the maid wasn’t looking.

  David doesn’t know all that, he reasoned. “Perhaps we should,” Daniel agreed. “May the best man win.”

  David frowned. “No. May the one that needs a wife and an heir be the one that wins,” he countered. He blinked then. “But not for a couple of days.”

  “Why?”

  Shifting in his chair, David hesitated before answering. “I’m heading down to Boxgrove tomorrow. To see Cousin Connie,” he said quietly.

  At the mention of Constance Fitzwilliam, Daniel suddenly stiffened. “Is something wrong at Fair Downs?” The memory of what had happened to Constance on the night of her come-out had him remembering that was also the night David had killed a man at Norwick Park—the thief whose attempt to steal a race horse had been thwarted by Constance, but at the expense of her virtue. Although the woman wasn’t yet old enough to be on the shelf, he rather doubted she would ever gain an advantageous marriage. Besides, Boxgrove didn’t offer much in the way of eligible bachelors. Most of the men in the small village were Benedictine monks.

  The earl gave a shake of his head. “No. Nothing that I know of, at least. But it’s past time I pay a visit to Fair Downs. See how she’s doing.” He didn’t add that he wanted their cousin to pay a call at Huntinghurst and befriend Isabella. His daughter needed a confidante, and Constance’s interest in horses was a match for Isabella’s. “But when I return, we shall both pay a call on Lady Clarinda. At the same time,” David said with a nod.

  Daniel leaned back in his chair and finally nodded in return, wondering at the sudden pall that seemed to settle over him just then. For when Clarinda was faced with both Fitzwilliam brothers at the same time—and was told which was which—would she know to choose him?

  Or would she choose the earl?

  Chapter 11

  A Proposition Comes from an Unlikely Source

  Two days later in Boxgrove, Sussex

  Constance Fitzwilliam knelt next to her favorite horse, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes until they finally spilled down her cheeks. Favor, better known as Twins’ Second Favorite to those who followed the horse races in England, lie with his head pressed against her knee. For a moment, he seemed to gaze up at the woman who had ridden him since the day he had been put out to pasture, his racing days over and his time as a stud just beginning. That had been over seven years ago, and during that time, he had seen to the creation of several generations of Thoroughbred horses in the stables at both Norwick Park and Fair Downs.

  One of them became a racer. Even won the Derby at Epsom Downs.

  Too bad father gambled away all the winnings, Constance thought as she regarded the dying horse through watery eyes.

  Edward Fitzwilliam, brother of the Ninth Earl of Norwick and a widower, had been an inveterate gambler. The winnings from Favor, and later, from Mr. Tuttlebaum, only provided more grist for the gambling mill.

  And then Edward had died, leaving his only daughter with enough funds to run Fair Downs, pay the servants, and make it to her majority. Given she was just two-and-twenty, it would be another three years before she could expect to receive her inheritance.

  The man’s nephew and owner of Fair Downs, David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick, never took Favor or Mr. Tuttlebaum—or any of the other horses—back to his stables at Norwick Park. They are yours, he had told her following the brief graveside service for Edward. Part of your inheritance. I will be sure you have clear ownership of them all.

  The earl never visited Fair Downs after that—at least, not that she knew of. He only wrote on occasion to ask after her and her favorite horses. Now that he was set to marry Lady Clarinda in a month, Constance rather doubted she would hear anything more from her eldest cousin. She was sure he would prefer to forget about her, if only because of what he had done on her behalf the night of her come-out. What he claimed he’d had to do.

  Constance squeezed her eyes shut, the tears beginning anew for an entirely different reason.

  The sound of Favor’s labored breaths finally ceased, and Constance no longer suppressed the sob that robbed her of breath. The tears streamed freely down her cheeks as she dropped her head until her chin rested on her chest.

  “Oh, Miss Fitzwilliam, I am so sorry,” her lady’s maid said from where she stood several feet away. She had been on the hunt for her mistress for some time, rather surprised to discover Constance wasn’t in her bedchamber or in the stables but in the middle of the pasture behind Fair Downs’ manor house.

  Constance sniffled. “Thank you, Simmons.” She took a deep breath before using the backs of her hands to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  Simmons was quick to offer a hanky from her own pocket. “I realize it’s not a good time, but Mr. Cruthers has paid a call. He wonders if you might have a moment to see him.”

  Frowning, the expression forcing a fold of skin to appear between her eyebrows, Constance regarded her lady’s maid a moment.

  Mr. Cruthers?

  Constance attempted to take a breath as she realized what her lady’s maid had just said.

  Why ever would the vicar be paying a call today of all days?

  She rather doubted the man knew Favor was to die on this day, and even if he did, she didn’t think a vicar would be amenable to performing a service on behalf of the beast. “I’m hardly dressed to receive visitors,” Constance murmured, wincing when she realized her round gown would be stained from the grass upon which she knelt.

  The lady’s maid gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps he’s thinking to court you,” Simmons suggested.

  Reeling as if she’d been struck in the face, Constance stared at Esther Simmons. She blinked and made a most unladylike sound, something between a snort and a sniffle. “I rather doubt t
hat. He’s old enough to be my father,” she replied, finally deciding she had to get up. The prickling sensation in her legs, more pronounced now that she had been kneeling for so long, would only get worse, and then she would be unable to stand and walk without assistance. She dared another glance at Favor before lifting a hand toward Simmons. “Help?”

  Grasping Constance’s hand, the maid gave it a quick tug and stepped back until her mistress was on her feet. “Yet, the man is wearing his very best suit,” Simmons countered, her voice kept low as if she thought someone might overhear her.

  Not about to ask Simmons how she would know such a thing, Constance gave her a quelling glance. “Then I suppose I shall have to change into an appropriate gown,” she replied, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders against the sudden chill that crept down her spine.

  “I showed him to the parlor, and one of the maids is seeing to tea,” Simmons explained as they headed toward the house.

  Wondering at her lady’s maid’s comments about the vicar, Constance decided she didn’t want to know more. She wanted a chance to mourn Favor. “Could you let the groom know about Favor? I’d like him to arrange for a grave digger and a burial for him. I think a small headstone would be appropriate.”

  The lady’s maid stopped and stared at her mistress in shock before she realized Constance would have no patience for an argument just then. “Yes, my lady,” she replied with a nod. She dipped a curtsy before she hurried off toward the stables.

  The early spring morning was still chilly, the sun having just burned off the fog surrounding Fair Downs. As she made her way toward the main house, Constance allowed her gaze to sweep the horizon. The steeple in nearby Boxgrove was finally visible, as was a bit of blue sky. Perhaps it wouldn’t rain as it had for the past few days, although she felt her tears had been a close substitute on this day.

  A sob had her hiccuping as she entered the house, startled to find Mr. Cruthers standing in the hall directly in front of her. Why isn’t he in the parlor? she wondered as she gave a quick curtsy, Simmons’ hanky held to her nose. “Mr. Cruthers,” she said with a nod. Remembering the condition of her gown—and noting his gaze was about to take in the grass stains down the front—she added, “Please pardon my absence from the house. I’ve had a rather trying morning.”