Christmas with the Duchess Page 5

  Nicholas was horrified. “Indeed, ma’am, I did not!”

  “My lord, pay no attention to my brother,” Emma said quickly. “I never do. Lord Scarlingford believes himself to be amusing, and nothing can persuade him that he is wrong. No doubt, you are as eager to get away from him as I. I have come to take you on a tour of the house. We can escape him together, if you like. If you have finished your billiards game, that is,” she added, as Nicholas seemed to hesitate.

  “Oh, I was not playing, ma’am,” he assured her. “I should be glad to see the house. But I would not wish to inconvenience you. My uncle already has offered to show me around.”

  Emma forced a smile. “I’ve just spoken to your uncle, my lord. He has been detained by—by—” She stopped, frowning in concentration. Lord Hugh did nothing but eat and drink and play cards, so it was difficult to imagine what might be detaining him. “Oh, by something or other,” she said hurriedly. “Business of some sort,” she went on, improvising rapidly. “Something to do with the estate, no doubt. And, of course, your aunt and your cousins are still exhausted from the journey. They are sleeping in this morning. Uncle Hugh asked me to look after you, and, of course, I said I would. Shall we go?”

  She held out her hand to him.

  Nicholas had the distinct feeling that his charming new friend was lying, but he was not sure he cared. By a clear mile, her company was more agreeable to him than his uncle’s or his cousins’, and, if she was an adventuress, he could not wait to see how adventuresses went about their adventures.

  “It would be my honor,” he said, taking her hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, Emma quickly tucked her arm through his and led him from the room.

  Before beginning his game, Otto had tossed his silver-embroidered coat across the leather sofa. He picked it up now and followed them. “A moment, Sister!” he called after Emma. “May I inquire if my nephews have arrived?”

  Emma gave him a sharp, quick glance over her shoulder. “Not yet,” she said sunnily. “We’ll talk about it later, Otto,” she added, gritting her teeth. “Later. Now, will you go back to the billiard room, please? No one wants you here.”

  Otto frowned. “My sister will be with you in a moment,” he told Nicholas sharply. Taking his sister by the arm, he drew her to one side. “Now tell me what the devil is going on,” he commanded her, speaking in German for additional privacy.

  Emma answered him in German, their mother’s native tongue. “Hugh is demanding ten thousand pounds,” she said quickly, “or I will not see my children.”

  “You said he had your letter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, what do you think you’re doing with this boy? Hugh obviously wants him for one of the daughters.”

  “That is what makes him useful,” said Emma. She glanced over her shoulder at Nicholas. He stood a short distance away, his hands clasped behind his back as he pretended to study one of the paintings on the wall. “I am hoping that Lord Camford can be persuaded to assist me.”

  “Why?” Otto said sharply. “What does he know of the matter?”

  “Nothing, I hope,” Emma replied. “My plan is simple. I shall make him fall in love with me. Then he will do anything I ask of him. He will get my letter back for me.”

  “He seems half in love with you already,” Otto observed. “But you cannot risk antagonizing Hugh. He may very well expose you—and Aleta. He can make your letter public at any time.”

  A shudder of fear went through Emma. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He will not be so quick to give up his power over me. I’ve agreed to give him ten thousand pounds, but you and I both know he’s already thinking about the next ten thousand pounds. As long as he has hope of getting more money out of me, he will not do anything with my letter.”

  “I do not like it, Emma.”

  “I don’t like it either,” she snapped. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” he was forced to admit.

  Reluctantly, Otto let her go. With a bright smile and profuse apologies for the interruption, Emma took Nicholas’s arm and led him away.

  “I don’t think your brother likes me,” Nicholas said ruefully.

  “Otto hates everyone,” she shrugged, leading him down the cool, empty corridor. “I like you, and that is all that matters.”

  He turned red. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Fitzroy.”

  Emma nearly choked. “Mrs. Fitzroy! No, my lord. I am Emma, Duchess of Warwick. I’m sorry; I thought you knew.”

  “You are teasing me, ma’am,” Nicholas stammered. “I—I have it on very good authority that the Duke of Warwick is only twelve years old. You could not possibly be his wife!”

  “I am the duke’s mother,” she told him bluntly. “And Harry is thirteen. I distinctly recall giving birth to him.”

  “Impossible,” Nicholas declared. “Why, you’re just a girl. You can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen!”

  Emma grimaced. If this was flattery, it was hardly original.

  “Oh, forever young!” she said, with a light laugh. “I am thirty, my lord. That is to say, I will be thirty on the first day of the new year. But I thank you for the compliment! My late husband was the tenth Duke of Warwick. My eldest son became the eleventh last December.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, flushing with embarrassment. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

  “Sir, I’m no lady,” Emma told him smartly. “I’m a duchess, and that is not quite the same thing. You may address me as ‘your grace,’ or ‘Duchess,’ or even ‘madam,’ in a pinch, but, never, ever as ‘my lady.’”

  Not realizing that she was teasing him, Nicholas silently cursed himself for his ignorance. “Please forgive my blunder,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “I am only joking you,” she assured him gently, squeezing his arm. “Actually, I find the regulations of Society quite stifling. Shall we fly in the face of convention, you and I?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What is your Christian name?”

  “Oh! Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas,” she repeated, smiling. “I hope you will call me Emma, at least when we are alone. May I call you Nicholas?”

  “Of course,” he said, flattered. “I prefer it.”

  They came to a set of tulipwood doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “The library,” Emma announced, as two footmen silently opened the doors with gloved hands.

  The room within was immense, but rather dark, with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and few windows. Nicholas stared around him in disbelief. He had never seen so many books in his life. “It’s so dark,” he said. “You’d ruin your eyes reading in here.”

  “The light is bad for the books,” she explained. “One doesn’t read in here, of course. We have a reading room for that, if you’re interested. This is the archive. You’re welcome to borrow anything you like,” she added. “The secretary will fetch you any book you fancy. Are you a great reader, sir? Our secretary works very hard to keep the library thoroughly up to date.”

  “Apart from our technical manuals, we had nothing on board ship but the Bible and the works of Shakespeare,” he told her, with an odd mixture of pride and deprecation. “When I passed my lieutenant’s exam, my captain gave me Nelson’s biography. I’ve never felt the need to read anything else.”

  “Oh,” said Emma, quite taken aback. “I’ve always loved reading.”

  “If your grace would condescend to recommend something,” he said eagerly, “I will gladly take a stab at it.”

  Emma thought for a moment. “I would recommend Montaigne to anyone,” she said presently, “but he may be especially suitable to someone who hasn’t read very much. He covers such a variety of subjects in his essays. You’re almost certain to find something to interest you.”

  “What’s an essay?” he asked.

  Emma laughed. “You’re teasing me,” she accused him, wagging her finger at him playfully. “Just because you’re not widely read d
oesn’t mean I think you’re completely ignorant.”

  “No, really,” he assured her. “I am that ignorant. What is an essay? I assume it doesn’t mean a good try?”

  Emma had never been required to give a definition of an essay before, and she did not have a ready answer. “Well,” she said, frowning, “I suppose it could be defined as a brief dissertation on a topic. It usually includes some personal reflection.”

  “Brief?” he said. “I like that. Brief is good.”

  Emma hid a smile. “I’m sure we have a good translation. I’ll have it sent to your room, shall I?”

  “Oh, I won’t need a translation,” he assured her. “I don’t know any other languages.”

  Emma decided it would be useless to explain that Montaigne was a sixteenth century Frenchman. “I see. What room are you in?”

  Nicholas frowned in concentration. “Ophelia, or something like that.”

  “Westphalia?” Emma guessed.

  “That’s it.”

  “Then I will send Montaigne to Westphalia.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Well, if the Westphalia won’t go to the Montaigne…”

  Emma did not like puns. Like Voltaire, she thought them the death of wit. But she managed a weak laugh. “Shall we move on?” she quickly suggested, taking his arm.

  Chapter Four

  “We have so many treasures here at Warwick, I hardly know where to begin,” she said smoothly as she led him back out into the brightness of the corridor. “My father-in-law, the ninth duke, was an avid collector of fine porcelain, I seem to recall. Do you like porcelain?”

  “We always made do with crockery on board,” he said apologetically. “The captain did have a you-know-what with Bonaparte’s face at the bottom, now I think of it. I’m pretty sure that was porcelain. I shouldn’t have said that,” he added, catching sight of her startled face. He turned beet red. “Forgive me, ma’am! I’m afraid we sailors are a rather coarse lot.”

  “Not at all,” she said faintly. “It was very amusing. Perhaps you would like to see some of our paintings?” she suggested as they walked. “We have a very good collection of the Flemish masters, and a rather important Raphael.”

  “I love paintings,” he told her. “My father was an artist.”

  “Really?” Emma began, breaking off as she caught sight of a group of officers at the other end of the hall. “Let us go this way,” she said, hurrying into another room. “As you can see, we have quite a few paintings in here,” she said, closing the door behind them. “Portraits, mainly.”

  She looked around the room, puzzled. She could not recall seeing it before. The walls were paneled in green silk. The wainscoting was painted a dazzling white. There was no place to sit, but a big round table stood at the center of the room, supporting a tall vase of hothouse flowers. The windows faced full west. Other than showing off a few dozen overly large portraits, the room seemed to have no purpose at all.

  “My father did portraits,” Nicholas said, looking up at a life-sized portrait of a Restoration gentleman wearing a long curly brown wig and scarlet knee breeches. “Who’s he when he’s at home?” he asked her, laughing.

  “That would be King Charles the Second,” she told him. “Did your father ever paint anyone famous?”

  “No,” Nicholas said, chuckling at the very idea. “Mostly he did miniatures of people, sailors mostly, on bits of ivory. The sort of thing a man sends to his sweetheart when he goes to sea,” he added, coloring faintly.

  “Oh, how lovely,” said Emma.

  “My father was disowned when he married my mother,” Nicholas told her. “She was not considered good enough, I suppose, for the younger son of an earl. My father couldn’t afford to paint big canvases after that. I remember his last painting. He couldn’t pay our rent. He had to give it to the landlady at the Barking Crow. She hung it in the taproom, though,” he added proudly.

  “It must have been a very good painting,” Emma said kindly.

  “Aye, it was. A ship at sea. A gentleman offered her ten shillings for it once, but she would not sell.” With two fingers, he dug behind his collar, coming up with a cream-colored pendant on a long piece of brown twine. “I carved the frame myself, out of whalebone,” he told her as he placed it in her palm.

  It was a crude locket, made along the lines of a clamshell, with a design of hearts carved into the lid. Emma opened it gingerly. Inside was a tiny, delicate painting of a doll-like young woman with big blue eyes and yellow curls.

  “Is this your sweetheart?” she asked him.

  Nicholas looked surprised. “My mother,” he said.

  “She was very beautiful,” Emma said gently.

  “She was a kind soul,” said Nicholas. “She died too young. They both did. When my father died, I was put to sea. The Royal Navy is Portsmouth’s orphanage, you know.”

  “Did you not know that your grandfather was the Earl of Camford?” Emma asked.

  He shook his head. “I had no idea. My father never spoke of his family. I believe he blamed them for my mother’s death.”

  Emma carefully closed the locket and gave it back to him. Nicholas kissed it quickly before tucking it away under his shirt. “Who’s that fellow over there?” he asked.

  Emma spun around, fearing that another person had come into the room.

  “I like his mustaches,” Nicholas went on, walking up to another painting. “Very useful for straining soup, I should think.”

  Emma laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m only a Fitzroy by marriage,” she reminded him. “If you’re really interested, I could summon the housekeeper. The servants know everything.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” he said quickly.

  “I’m a very poor guide,” she said ruefully. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure I can find the Raphael.”

  “I know I couldn’t,” he said. “And I’m sleeping in it!”

  Emma laughed. “You’re sleeping in Westphalia,” she told him. “Raphael is the Italian Renaissance painter.”

  Nicholas flushed with embarrassment. “Raphael,” he murmured. “Of course. He painted battle scenes, I believe.”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “He painted madonnas, saints, and angels.”

  “That would have been my second guess,” he muttered. “You must think me so very ignorant.”

  Emma shrugged. “I prefer nature to art myself.”

  “So do I,” he said eagerly. “I confess I hate to be indoors.”

  “Then, by all means, let us go for a ride,” Emma suggested. “We keep an excellent stable here. It will take but a moment for me to change into my habit.”

  The grounds of Warwick Palace were extensive, and she knew a great many lonely, beautiful places where she could take him and seduce him.

  Nicholas sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t ride. I’ve never had the opportunity to learn,” he went on, in answer to her obvious surprise. “There are not many horses at sea.”

  “No,” she smiled. “A nice, long walk, then?”

  “I would love a nice, long walk.”

  Emma rang the bell and sent the responding footman for her gloves, her cloak, and her walking shoes. Another footman brought her a chair. Nicholas watched in astonishment as the footman knelt at her feet to remove her high-heeled slippers. “You have servants for everything,” he remarked.

  “Well, he is a footman,” said Emma, wiggling her toes. “Why do you think they’re called footmen?”

  “I have never thought about it.”

  Emma jumped up, her feet now encased in sturdy walking boots. “Shall we?” she said brightly, fastening her sable-lined cloak at her throat.

  They went out onto a small terrace at the back of the house. Ornamental gardens and bright green lawns stretched out before them, and, in the far distance, shadowy woodlands crowded the horizon. The quiet enormity of it made it seem bleak. To Nicholas it lacked the dangerous energy of the constantly moving sea.

/>   “Let us go out to the secession houses,” said Emma, deliberately leading him into an obscure, rarely traveled path screened by tall, beautiful lime trees. “We will be hungry by the time we get there. Have you ever tasted a pineapple?”

  “Oh, yes,” he answered immediately. “Many times.”

  Emma was slightly vexed. “Oh. What about a nectarine?”

  “Of course.”

  Emma frowned as she tried to come up with something even more exotic. “Breadfruit?”

  Nicholas chuckled. “I have been all over the world, ma’am,” he told her. “We sailors learn very quickly to eat whatever we can get in the local markets when we put to shore. When one is subsisting on hardtack biscuits, salt pork, and watery rum, fresh fruit and vegetables are like manna from heaven. Have you ever eaten a carrot, ma’am? Raw, I mean.”

  Emma stared at him. “You mean…right out of the dirt?”

  “Well, washed of course,” he amended. “They’re nice and crunchy.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all healthy,” Emma said disapprovingly.

  Nicholas laughed.

  Though her intentions had not been honest, Emma had not lied about Lady Anne and the Miss Fitzroys. The journey from Plymouth had indeed exhausted them, and, just as she had told Nicholas, they were sleeping in.

  Octavia Fitzroy was the first to rise. A stately young woman of twenty-four, she was the eldest of Lord Hugh and Lady Anne’s five daughters. Intelligent, cold, and pompous, she commanded more obedience from her sisters than their nervous mother ever could. While Lady Anne sat up in bed, nursing a splitting headache, Octavia herded her sisters into the room for a council of war.

  Apart from herself, only Augusta was dressed.

  “It was a mistake to bring all of us to Plymouth to meet Cousin Nicholas,” Octavia declared while the younger girls were still rubbing their eyes. “By the time we got to Warwick, he was heartily sick of us all.”

  “Cousin Nicholas is not sick of me,” declared Julia, preening. At fifteen, she was the youngest, and, with her lively, dark eyes, bright red hair, and flawless alabaster skin, she was the only sister with any claim to beauty.