Chapter Ten

It was well after two in the morning by the time Lord Varnay and Miss Pickering returned home from the Duchess of Ralston's evening.

As was their habit, they sat in the sparse drawing room, much of its original contents having been sold off to pay debts. They drank from large glasses of brandy with the decanter between them.

They both knew they drank far too much, though they had different reasons for doing so. Varnay was always attempting to dismiss the idea of his mounting debts from his mind and his sister was always attempting to dismiss the idea of becoming a spinster from her mind.

"Perhaps, brother, you may wish to put your efforts toward another lady?"

"And give up our whole plan?" Varnay asked. "Where will we find such an ideal situation?"

It was an ideal situation, if only Barstow was not getting in the way. It had gone so well in the beginning. Lady Jemima had seemed to despise Barstow. But something had changed. He was not certain what, but there was a new tone between them.

Lady Jemima had written a perfectly hilarious and insulting poem about Barstow. But then, she had come to the duke's defense. She claimed that he, Lord Varnay, went too far in his teasing. She had so far appreciated his teasing. She'd liked it very much at the poetical tableau.

What had happened between her writing that poem and her new attitude?

It could not be allowed to stand. Their plan was too good to give up on. Lady Jemima's dowry would solve his near-term problems. Then, due to the lack of her father having near relations and enough of the vast estates being unentailed, one day Lady Jemima would be rich as Croesus. The dukedom might travel elsewhere, but there was plenty to go around.

If everything went to plan, he would live on one of those great estates and not have a thing to worry over as far as money was concerned. He would be in control of it all.

While he was wooing Lady Jemima, his sister was meant to defeat Barstow. She was meant to become his duchess and had perfected all the gentle manners to slay him. Barstow had been free with his opinions on what was required in a duchess, everybody knew what he wished for. His sister had assiduously taken on all those little habits he claimed were necessary.

Why was he not slayed? Why was he hanging round Lady Jemima, who was not at all suited to him?

Varnay took a long draught of his brandy. "I just do not understand what has happened. What has changed?"

"I fear neither of them are very steady these days because of their accidents," Miss Pickering said.

"What accidents?"

"According to the kitchen maid, the duke was thrown going over a fence and Lady Jemima was in a rather terrible carriage accident. Both received hard blows to the head that have seemed to affect them."

Varnay had not heard of either of these supposed accidents. It might well be idle gossip—let a horse lose a shoe and suddenly it was a terrible carriage accident. And, as for falling at a fence, what gentleman had not done it on occasion?

"You know, brother, perhaps that is what happened," Miss Pickering said. "My maid said that her accident has caused Lady Jemima to be unlike herself. Perhaps the duke has heard it and now excuses anything she does that might seem unusual. Even an insulting poem."

"That seems unlikely."

Miss Pickering shrugged. "I only mention it as it is said that Lady Jemima was everything embodying the feminine graces before her accident—very modest and reticent. That is what we've always felt the duke looked for. Lila also says that the lady is coming back to herself slowly. Perhaps the duke imagines she will be entirely herself sometime soon?"

"If he does, he is an idiot," Varnay said. He paused. Could that have been what had changed? One minute she's writing a scandalous poem and the next she's sorry over it because she'd had some bang to the head? It seemed rather ridiculous.

Then he set his glass down and looked thoughtfully into the fire.

Miss Pickering leaned forward. "You have thought of something, haven't you?"

"Indeed, I believe I have. Perhaps it matters not whether there ever was an accident. Perhaps it only matters what Lady Jemima hears about the duke's opinion of it."

"Whatever you will say, you must tread carefully, brother," Miss Pickering cautioned.

"I'll be even more careful than that," Varnay said with a laugh. "I'll have you do it."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper had leapt out of bed early on this particular morning. The mist was heavy over the private park outside his windows and there was but one light lit in the north wing. He did not bother ringing his bell, it would cause absolute chaos below stairs. At this time of the morning, with dawn not quite broken, only the kitchen maids would be stirring. They were a panicky pair of girls and would fly to Jacobs' door in hysterics if his bell were to be rung with nobody about to answer it.

He dressed himself and slipped out of the house and down the mews to the stables. He woke a groom, had Mercury saddled, and set off.

The ride through quiet streets as the mist was just lifting and then the gallop across a green had been marvelous. He'd since returned to the house to find it in a state of bedlam over where he'd gone with no help from a servant. Apparently, there had even been talk of a kidnapping.

As Randolph fussed with a stack of neckcloths, Jasper said, "I assume things have settled in the household?"

"Aye, though they'll be talking about it for years—the morning the duke went missing and we all thought he was dead."

"Certainly, you did not join in on such imaginings?"

"How was I to know what happened to you?" Randolph said. "It was worse for them, though. They don't know you can dress yourself when you have a mind. So, if I didn't dress you, how did you get out of the house? Jacobs tried to keep everybody in order, but what with the kitchen maids wailing about a murderer being about the place…"

"One would have thought if there was a murderer, he would have left the body behind."

"You can't talk any sense into them two lasses. Stranger at the door? It's a murderer. Somebody gone on a trip? He was murdered. A creak of floorboards over their heads? Definitely a murderer, maybe even two of them. The footmen read them too many gothic stories."

Though the minds of his kitchen maids were endlessly fascinating, Jasper thought he might wish to get round to what he really wanted to ask. "Do I seem in ill-health to you?"

Randolph looked him over. "Not murdered and not sick. Why?"

"It was very odd last evening. Lady Jemima and her mother kept inquiring if I felt well and whether I needed to sit down. When I suggested we sally into the refreshment room for a glass of wine, the duchess asked if I felt weak."

"They were probably alarmed that a big, strapping duke just suggested sallying anywhere."

Jasper ignored that last comment.

"Though," his valet said thoughtfully, "I suppose it's a positive sign that they're intent on keeping you in the land of the living."

"Perhaps."

"How does Lady Jemima's recovery come along, if you don't mind me asking."

Jasper knew it would not really matter if he minded or not. If Randolph wanted to know something, he would ask. And keep asking.

"I believe she makes slow and steady progress. I was correct in assuming that she'd done something dreadful for the Duchess of Ralston's event. The game was that the ladies were to write a four-line poem that described the gentleman's temperament."

Randolph snorted. "She painted you as grim as an undertaker."

"She painted me disapproving, in fact."

"Recite the poem, I'd like to hear it."

"I do not recall the exact wording of it."

Of course, that was not at all true. The words felt burned into his mind, but on no account would he ever repeat it, no matter how many times Randolph asked.

"I see," Randolph said, clearly not believing in his lack of memory.

"What I do recall, is that she went out of her way to apologize for it before it had even been read. And then, how masterfully she put Varnay into his place. He thought to joke about it and she quite forcefully stopped him at it. She will one day make a very prepossessing duchess."

"Hold on a minute," Randolph said, "none of that sounds like it's going in the direction you want it to. Masterfully putting a fellow in his place sounds exactly the sort of thing you don't like. Where's all the graceful reserve in that?"

"I've changed my mind on what I prefer. I suppose a duke can change his mind now and then? As it happens, Lady Jemima Fornay is perfect just as she is. She can laugh as loud as she likes and pour lemonade on every plate of food in the house and I shan't mind it."

Randolph sank down into a chair, which was an unfortunate habit Jasper ought to have put a stop to years ago. But then, that ship had sailed.

"This is a turnaround," his valet said.

"Yes. I know."

"But now you have a whole new problem. She will continue to recover, to become what she was. How are you meant to stop her where she is now?"

Jasper had not actually thought that through. "Well, I suppose I am hoping that her recovery has reached its limits."

"And if it hasn't?"

"I don't know," Jasper admitted. "I am certain that wherever she lands, it will be just the right thing."

"Wherever she lands," Randolph said, shaking his head. "Now I ask you…"

"Do not fret over it, Randolph. It is not your concern," Jasper said sternly.

"Hah! Not my concern. This house is about to see the installation of nobody really knows who. She's a moving target, an ever-evolving temperament, and I'm not to be concerned. Maybe she'll have outbursts right and left, or maybe she'll be quiet and reserved—nobody knows!"

Jasper ignored his valet's rather outrageous liberties. He was certain he was right. Wherever Lady Jemima landed would be quite fine with him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jemima had not slept very well the night before. There were far too many thoughts swirling through her mind. She still fretted that her father would somehow discover that she'd written that awful poem about the duke, though it seemed the Duchess of Ralston had kept that information to herself.

Then, there was the uncomfortable notion of that other poem that had been written about the duke. That one had been decidedly complimentary.

Who had written that?

She had spent so much time in ill-advised condemnation of the duke that it had not occurred to her that there were ladies floating round the town that admired him.

Of course, there would be. He was a beautiful-looking man and, as for his temperament, well she had not got that right at all. Could anyone have been more gracious under the assault of that terrible poem? He had been an absolute angel about it, and it had been far better treatment than she'd deserved.

Then, naturally, there would be those title-hunting ladies stalking the ton who would make it their life's work to become a duchess.

She'd thought she did not give a toss for the duke or his opinions, but it turned out she did. Jemima felt quite stricken to imagine him with another lady on his arm.

It should be her on his arm, as she had been last evening. She understood him. Finally. She could help him in his recovery from the blow to the head. His penchant for saying things he regretted would lessen. Then, what would she be left with—a good man. The man all of the ton knew was one of the best, as they had known him before the accident. A man who attracted her so powerfully that there were moments she wished to throw herself into his arms.

All of these ideas bounced around her mind, though it would not be apparent to anybody viewing her. She was sitting in the drawing room quietly sewing while her mother read a novel. Mr. Harkinson bustled about, directing the footmen in arranging the vases of flowers that had just been delivered to the house.

They were, unfortunately, only the usual order of flowers. None had arrived from any particular person.

Her mother suddenly laughed. "Goodness, why am I reading this drivel? All along the governess of the story was trying to decide if she could love a one-eyed duke. She's done positively everything to get a look under his patch. As it happens, he has both eyes and is only mad as a spring hare."

"That sounds ridiculous," Jemima said.

"It is entirely ridiculous, but I had to try it out. The author was recently revealed to be a matron somehow related to the Earl of Westmont. She's disguised herself for years with a nom de plume. It was too intriguing to miss."

"I likely will not borrow it."

Her mother laid down her book. "Nor would I recommend you do, there is a scene that finds the duke in a bath which is rather…well let's just call it rather."

"Really?" Jemima said, her interest piqued.

"Jemima," the duchess said, ignoring her obvious interest in a duke in a bath, "I could not help but notice that the Duke of Barstow stayed close by your side all of last evening."

Jemima nodded.

"Well, I suppose understanding does cover a lot of ground."

"Indeed," Jemima said. "Once we understood the circumstances of the duke's terrible riding accident it was as if we viewed him very differently."

The duchess snorted. "You throw round "we" very liberally."

"You know what I mean."

"I think so."

"Of course, I do not know if anything would ever be said…" Jemima trailed off.

"But if it were, you would accept him," her mother finished for her.

"Yes, I surprise myself, but I believe I would."

"Perhaps he might say something at his garden party on the morrow?"

"Perhaps as soon as that," Jemima said.

Just then a vase crashed to the marble floor and shattered. Jemima nearly jumped from her seat and her spool of thread rolled off the sofa.

"Gracious, Harkinson," the duchess said in alarm, "what has happened?"

"I apologize, Your Grace, very clumsy, it is only an old glass vase, not one of the Muranos. I will have it swept up this instant."

He sent a footman running for a broom.

Jemima observed the butler, who just now stared at the broken vase at his feet. Poor Mr. Harkinson, he always took it very badly when he made a mistake.

"It is no matter, Harkinson," the duchess said.

"Your Grace," he answered sadly.

All the early afternoon, Jemima had heard carriages rumble by out of doors. Now it seemed that her mother had done just the same. They had both looked toward the doors. A carriage had stopped.

They turned away and gazed at each other.

Jemima could not be certain what her mother was thinking, but her own thoughts were on one thing only—was it the duke?

She felt entirely flustered in considering it. How would it be? What would be said?

It was, on the one hand, entirely ridiculous that she had come to such a moment. How had one evening changed things so dramatically?

She did not know, but it had. She wished for nothing more than for him to stride in and declare himself. She wished to be in his big, lovely, strong arms. She had seen him as he really was last evening. She had seen his generosity of spirit, which she had herself been so lacking in. She loved him. She understood him now and she loved him. She must know if he loved her too. Jemima thought there was every chance of it, else he would not have been so kind in response to her unkindness.

The knockers on the front doors were knocked. A footman hurried to answer it. There were muffled voices.

And then…Miss Pickering.

The footman had brought in her card.

"Do show the lady in," the duchess said, rising. There was the slightest of sighs in her voice and Jemima understood she'd been hoping for the duke too.

Jemima put aside her sewing and hopped up from the sofa.

Miss Pickering hurried in. She curtsied to the duchess. "Your Grace, I know it is not your at-home day, but I thought I might presume my acquaintance with Lady Jemima had progressed far enough to dare come by unexpectedly?"

"Dare away, Miss Pickering, I am certain Jemima is delighted to see you."

"Indeed, I am," Jemima said. It was not the duke, that was a disappointment, but Miss Pickering must be the next best thing.

Miss Pickering glanced at the shattered vase and the footman who had hurried in with a broom to sweep up the glass.

"A minor accident," the duchess said, "and perhaps a fortuitous one—I never really cared for that vase. Now, I will leave you two to chatter about whatever young ladies chatter about these days. Harkinson? You will send in tea?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Harkinson answered, still looking dejected over the vase.

The duchess swept from the room. Though Jemima liked Miss Pickering very much, she suddenly felt a sense of awkwardness in her presence. She'd scolded the lady's brother just the evening before.

In truth, as her feelings for the duke had seemed to change, so had they for Lord Varnay.

She had thought his teasing very amusing, until he'd decided to tease about the poem she'd written. Jemima supposed that made her a bad sport—it was all entertaining until she was the subject of one of his teasings.

Mr. Harkinson had left to see about a tea tray and the footmen had cleared the glass and carried it in a bucket from the room. The doors closed.

Miss Pickering sat down beside her and said, "I wished to see you at the earliest possible moment to apologize on behalf of my brother."

Goodness. She'd gone right to it.

"I would apologize for being so abrupt in my words," Jemima said. "Lord Varnay was only jesting, after all."

Miss Pickering nodded sadly. "I do know that he goes too far on occasion. I also know why, and I do not mind telling you."

Jemima could feel her brow wrinkling. She would not have guessed there was a why behind Lord Varnay's jocular temperament.

"You see, our father was a…dark sort of man. He was often angry and he, well, he disliked me."

"Certainly not!" Jemima said.

"Certainly so," Miss Pickering said, nodding vigorously.

Just then, Mr. Harkinson led the footmen in with a tea service. He'd seemed to wish to atone for the broken vase and had arranged for all manner of cakes and biscuits on a tray. Cook must have despaired at having anything left in the kitchens.

They fell to silence as the arrangements were made on the table in front of them.

Mr. Harkinson said gravely, "Will there be anything else, Lady Jemima?"

"Heavens, no, Mr. Harkinson, you have quite outdone yourself here."

"I should say so," Miss Pickering said, admiring the display.

As Jemima had hoped it would, these accolades seemed to go a great deal toward restoring the butler's equanimity.

He bowed, left the room, and closed the door behind him.

Jemima poured the tea, and Miss Pickering said, "You see, Lady Jemima, my mother died in childbirth. With me. My father could hardly bear to look at me because of it."

Jemima handed Miss Pickering her cup and said, "That is entirely unfair."

Miss Pickering shrugged. "It has come to my attention in recent years that life often is not fair. Now, you must wonder what my father's attitudes while he lived have to do with my brother's joking now. It is just this—all my childhood, my brother would entertain me and make me laugh. Honestly, if he hadn't, I might have gone mad. He was my only friend. He was my anchor in a very stormy sea."

Now Lord Varnay's incessant joking made far more sense! It was occurring to Jemima that there seemed always to be a reason behind a person's behavior if she would only have the patience to wait and find it out.

It was a new thing to consider. In her neighborhood at home, it had not really been necessary. Everybody knew everybody's entire history. Now she could see that with people newly met one could not even guess what they'd been through.

Poor Miss Pickering and what a good brother Lord Varnay had been to her.

"In any case," Miss Pickering said, "I know my brother very well. He attempted some joking to make light of the poem he claims you wrote. He said he was certain it was the sort of thing a lady might regret she'd done. I did explain to him though that he had no sure knowledge of it and, worse, in attempting to make you feel better he'd made the duke feel worse."

Jemima felt she could trust Miss Pickering with the truth. She said, "I did write that poem and Lord Varnay was right, I did feel terrible about it afterward."

"But then, I suppose the duke himself did not take it so hard. He will have attributed it to your accident."

"My accident?" Jemima asked, entirely lost. "What accident?"

"Oh dear, perhaps it ought not to have been mentioned," Miss Pickering said. "It is just that everybody knows the duke is eagerly awaiting your recovery."

"My recovery?" Jemima asked. She set her tea down and said, "Dear Miss Pickering, do tell me everything you know about this matter."

"Well, I do not like to gossip, though one cannot stop oneself from hearing things if others are determined to speak."

"Miss Pickering, I count you as a friend. Really, you are my only friend in this town. Please do tell me everything."

Miss Pickering nodded. "Of course I would not hold anything secret from you. It seems the duke has attributed certain of your…habits…that he may not care for, to the terrible carriage accident you experienced."

"There has been no carriage accident," Jemima said.

Miss Pickering seemed very taken aback to hear it. "But, it is said that you were in a rather violent collision and experienced a hard blow to the head."

Jemima could not imagine why such a thing should be said. Though, that was not the real crux of the shock coming over her just now. Was she to believe that the duke disapproved of her, but thought all those things he disapproved of were due to a blow to the head? He was the one who'd had a blow to the head!

"Tell me absolutely everything you heard, Miss Pickering," Jemima said. She did not really wish to hear it, as she suspected it would upend everything she'd been thinking of this morning, but she must hear it.

Miss Pickering let out a long and doleful sigh. "Well, as it seems absolutely everybody knows, you were rather renowned as a paragon of the feminine graces before the accident. Now personally, I do not see that you have become anything less. But you know the ton. And the duke. They do have their ideas about such things. So I suppose it is said that the duke awaits your return to your former self."

"Because he does not care for my current self," Jemima said stonily.

"It does seem impossible that would be so," Miss Pickering said. "I quite admire your liveliness, as does my brother."

Jemima laughed bitterly. "Ah, but the duke does not admire it. He wishes for a weak-minded and abashed sort of lady. I should say little, laugh very quietly, eat like a sparrow, ride my horse at a slow pace, leave my cake as it is found, and never put a foot out of place. He hopes I will transform myself into the sort of creature who has no thinking mind—a pliable doll. Well, he is much mistaken if he thinks that idea is going anywhere."

Miss Pickering appeared rather wide-eyed. Softly, she said, "It is not the worst thing in the world to make some small adjustments to suit a gentleman you are interested in."

"Small adjustments? Miss Pickering, I would have to entirely sublimate my natural tendencies. There has never been a carriage accident, there was no blow to the head, and I never embodied all the feminine graces. I would find it quite impossible. For the duke to imagine it, perhaps he should look to his own blow to the head. It has affected his judgment mightily."

"Oh yes, I did hear of his being thrown over a fence," Miss Pickering said. "But then, Mrs. Krasen, I do not believe you know the lady, told me she attended that sporting party and it was actually Lord Bellam that was thrown. She suspects that somebody out gossiping mixed up Barstow and Bellam, hence that unfounded rumor."

Jemima sat back. The duke had not been in an accident? He had not experienced a blow to the head?

"Poor Lord Bellam is still at home recovering. At least, that is what I've heard."

Jemima felt as if her head would explode into a thousand bits. If she had not had a hard blow to the head from an accident, this must be a metaphorical blow to the head. She'd warmed to the duke, she'd thought she understood his various insults as only a part of the symptoms of his own terrible blow to the head.

My god, she'd fallen in love with him because of it. She'd felt so guilty over the poem, thinking it very unfair. She'd been so moved by his understanding of her misstep. He'd not held it against her, though it had been so unfair, considering the accident he'd experienced. All the while, he was only being gracious about it because he thought her own head was damaged. He'd called it an outburst.

In fact, he'd spoken of an outburst in the park too. He'd hurried off as he said he feared one might be coming on.

He did not care for her at all. He only cared for the invented lady she never was! He was only interested in Mr. Gamon's version of her.

A version that had never been and never would be.

"Goodness," Miss Pickering said, sipping her tea, "gossip is a terrible thing, is it not?"

Jemima nodded.

"Ah well, perhaps it is all for the best. Perhaps the thing is to turn one's eyes toward those gentlemen who find you an absolute delight. I expect there is no end to how many gentlemen do. I know my brother must be included on that list."

Jemima did not answer, as it felt quite immaterial what Lord Varnay thought of her.

"He often speaks of you," Miss Pickering continued. "Just yesterday, he said Sister, you ought to take your lead from Lady Jemima, there cannot be a more charming lady in London."

Jemima murmured, "That is very kind."

Then, she used all of her self-control to manage herself through the following half hour until Miss Pickering took her leave.

After the front doors were safely closed, she leapt up and strode from the room.