Chapter Eight

Jemima had not expected to feel so much excitement for a day spent indoors. Today, though, was the Duchess of Ralston's annual Secrets Dévoilés, or secrets exposed, entertainment. By all accounts it was to be a day and night of merriment.

The gentlemen who'd agreed, or rather, been ordered, to participate were handed seven sealed papers. They would then arrive at seven different ladies' houses, hand over the paper, and then receive it back resealed with the lady's house seal. The gentlemen were never to know what was on the paper until that evening at a grand rout. The Duchess of Ralston would then reveal those results she found entertaining.

Jemima's mother said that nobody really understood how the lady chose what to reveal from season to season, but it had become quite a tradition. In the usual way of things, the lady was asked to make some comment on the gentleman bringing the envelope. Further, the duchess paid close attention to who attended, or did not. Therefore, everybody who received an invitation must go or else suffer the consequences of disapproving looks and whispered condemnations for the rest of the season.

Aside from the Duchess of Ralston sending out invitations to the gentlemen invited to participate, she'd sent them to the ladies whose houses were to be listed for the gentlemen. Jemima's mother claimed that she had come to the Duchess of Ralston's notice by observing her handy tip of pouring liquid on her cake at Almack's.

There were twenty ladies on the list and only seven papers given to each gentleman, so it was also thought to satisfy the ton's curiosity as to which gentlemen admired which ladies. Where would they go, which houses would they choose?

Jemima did not know how much interest it would really show, it was after all only a game. For all that, though, she would be embarrassed if nobody came to her door.

The duchess hurried in and surveyed the drawing room. "Everything seems to be in order," she said.

"Mr. Harkinson would hardly allow it to be otherwise," Jemima said.

The butler had followed his mistress' instructions to the letter. As one entered the drawing room, one was to find a sideboard pulled crosswise into the center of the room, dividing it in two. There were chairs and side tables set up on the door side of the room, so that gentlemen waiting for their envelopes to be returned might sit and take refreshment.

On the other side, Jemima was to wait to receive an envelope and follow the directives within, then fold it up and seal it with her father's crest, handing it back. She would not see any of the gentlemen again until that evening.

If there were any gentlemen to see, that was.

It all sounded such fun and yet also a bit terrifying. She did not know what would be inside the paper and she could not be certain she would find out. If she were to sit alone all afternoon with nobody to come knocking, she would sink through the floor with shame.

The whole household was on edge about it and watching to see what would happen. She almost felt as if failing to attract a single person to her door would reflect very badly on her entire family. She supposed her father was pacing his library just now, thinking the very same.

But then, there came the sound of hoofbeats coming to a stop. The glorious sound of hoofbeats stopping at her door.

She casually pulled the curtain aside.

It was Lord Varnay. Of course, jolly Lord Varnay would not let her down! Good Lord Varnay, saving her from embarrassment.

Jemima felt relief flood through her. Even if he were the only gentleman to arrive it would be all right. One had come and one was all she needed to avoid desperate humiliation.

Mr. Harkinson led the lord into the drawing room. He greeted the duchess and then called, "Lady Jemima."

She stood and curtsied from her place on the other side of the room. "Lord Varnay," she said. "I am very glad you've come. However, I am to stay all the way over here."

Lord Varnay nodded, laughing. "The Duchess of Ralston is very stern with the rules. We must all follow her orders."

Lord Varnay handed over one of his seven sealed papers, her mother hurried it to her, and then returned to see the lord was given whatever refreshments he cared for.

Jemima sat down and broke the seal.

My dear lady,

Here you are with some keen gentleman arrived to your door and here is what I would like you to do about it:

Write a four-line poem describing the gentleman's temperament, but do not use his name.

(It need not be good, nor need it rhyme. Though, I do like a rhyme.)

Margaret Ralston

Jemima was delighted. She'd had a wonderful governess who showed her how to compose such things, and who had regretted it when her charge had written one amusing but not very complimentary poem about the vicar.

And here was Lord Varnay, so easy to like and describe.

After a few attempts on a separate sheet of paper, Jemima read it over to see if she were satisfied with it.

This lord is the jolliest chap,

He thinks of a joke or quip mayhap?

Grim is not a thing he knows,

And smiles follow wherever he goes.

It was not Wordsworth, but it conveyed just the right tone.

She wrote it out on the Duchess of Ralston's paper and pulled the lit candle toward her to melt the wax and reseal with her father's crest.

Just then, she heard the Duke of Barstow announced.

It came upon her as a shock and she felt at once complimented, offended, annoyed, and curious. Why had he thought to come? Was it a part of the grand apology of the hyacinths? Or perhaps he'd thought of something else that was wrong with her and was anxious to inform her of it.

She kept her head down and pretended she'd not heard him arrive.

"What do you do here, Varnay?" the duke said.

What was he doing? Why would he ask Lord Varnay to explain his arrival when he would know perfectly well why.

"I've just as much right to be here as you do, Duke."

"I have never given you leave to address me as duke."

"Ah yes, very true. My apologies, Your Graceless. Did I say graceless? I stumble upon my words this day. Again, apologies, Your Grace."

Jemima snorted over her paper. Your Graceless. Yes, that was very apt. Lord Varnay had a very comical way with words.

"My lords!" her mother broke in. "Now, you will not be in company for long. Jemima?" she called. "You are nearly finished with Lord Varnay's paper?"

Her mother's tone was an octave higher than it ought to have been.

Jemima rose and brought it forward. "Indeed I am. It was a pleasure, Lord Varnay."

Lord Varnay bowed. "I thank you, Lady Jemima," he said. "Now I leave you to whatever thankless job awaits you."

"You are treading dangerous ground, Varnay," the duke said, looking close to being enraged.

"Harkinson?" Jemima's mother nearly cried. "Do see Lord Varnay to the door!"

Lord Varnay bowed and said to Jemima's mother, "Your Grace." He then turned on his heel and followed the butler out.

"Now then, Duke, I will take that," her mother said. "Do avail yourself of the sideboard."

Her mother hurried back to her looking very nervous.

"It is all right, Mama," Jemima said, taking the paper. "The two bulls have been put in separate fields."

Before her mother could answer that unique description of the situation, another gentleman arrived. It was Mr. Welding, a rather quiet and inoffensive man she'd danced with at Almack's.

Heavens. What on earth would she write about Mr. Welding?

As for the Duke of Barstow, that was no trouble at all.

Jemima set to work and it did not take too long a time to express her feelings adequately.

This lord looks down his disapproving nose,

Dealing out insults wherever he goes.

One might think he'd look within on occasion,

But that would be a lord of a different persuasion.

Jemima sealed it and stamped it with her father's crest. That had been the easy part. Now came poor Mr. Welding. She would think of something very kind, if not altogether true. Mr. Welding had offended nobody, which she could not say for every gentleman who had turned up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I am very concerned, Randolph," Jasper said, as his valet worked on the knot of his neckcloth. "I really do feel as if Lady Jemima's current infirmity is going to lead her into trouble."

"Well now, you're not her guardian so there's naught to be done about it."

"I seriously wonder what her actual guardians are thinking! Her mother, the duchess, did not seem at all alarmed that her daughter was galloping a horse when the lady should not have been atop a horse at all! If she were to fall…"

"You can't stop her, though," Randolph said.

"No, and I did try. I even hinted that being atop a horse at all was ill-advised. Well, you would have thought I'd insulted her in some manner."

"P'raps she did feel insulted."

"But why should she, when it is only good sense?"

Randolph snorted. "And that's where you got no idea of women at all. Sense don't come into it. My own Da once asked my Ma why she always burned the bottom of the bread. Why don't she keep the fire lower or take it out of the oven sooner? Very good sense, when you consider it. And yet, I did wonder if she would murder him in the night over it."

"Your whimsical childhood continues to astound, Randolph."

"I'm just sayin' that all the sense in the world might not get you far with Lady Jemima."

"No, that is the problem. In her condition, she is not entirely rational. She may be convinced to do the entirely irrational and accept Varnay. I have reason to think he's working himself in that direction and she does not seem to see him for what he is."

"I know you do not care for Lord Varnay."

"Nobody should care for him. He is an utter scoundrel and masks it all under a happy and laughing veneer."

"You might want to try on one of those veneers for yourself. That would shock the ton to its shoes. Look, there is the Duke of Barstow laughing. The world has gone mad."

"Do not be ridiculous, this is a serious matter. There he was, at Lady Jemima's house today."

"You shouldn't have let yourself be pulled into the Duchess of Ralston's mad scheme anyway. Secrets exposed, who ever heard of such a thing? If you'd begged off, then you wouldn"t have had to see Varnay."

"Nobody begs off. The invitations to her Secrets Dévoilés evening are no more optional than a general's order. Those that do not accept always pay in one way or another."

"What the ton look at as fun, I'll never understand. The whole point of secrets is to not expose them."

"Varnay is up to something, and if I am correct that something is the lady's dowry. He gambles way over his head and is already in significant debt."

"He won't be the first to marry for the pounds and pence."

"Then," Jasper said, ignoring his valet's attempts to prop up Varnay, "he had the audacity to call me "Duke," as if he is somehow my equal. Then, when I pulled him up short on that idea, he smugly said, "My apologies, Your Graceless.""

Randolph snorted. "Now that is funny."

"No, it is not. It is childish and if he continues in that vein, he'll find himself on an early morning green. He has no respect for rank and it will not be tolerated," Jasper said.

Even to his own ears, his tone sounded a bit petulant. Varnay was quick on his feet with repartee, but that was about all he was good at. He had the moral compass of a turtle.

"Well…now…," Randolph said, in one of his soothing tones. Jasper recognized it as the tone that said: ‘It is very hard to serve the Duke of Barstow, but I stoically soldier on.'

"Well now, what?" he asked.

"You'll get the lay of the land this evening at the Duchess of Ralston's rout. Who knows what was in them envelopes—it might be something that will do Lord Varnay no good."

That was a pleasant hope, but Jasper did not dare allow himself to hope it. Lady Jemima had seemed well-pleased with Varnay, and less than well-pleased with him. He would be lucky if whatever was in those envelopes did not damage him in some way. Her Grace, the Duchess of Ralston, seemed to like stirring up trouble for her own amusement. Past years had done just that.

Last year, it had been an open secret that Lord Bastion had thrown over Lady Mary, though the families involved all gave the credit for ending things to Lady Mary. Though Lord Bastion had not gone anywhere near Lady Mary's house with his own envelopes, several gentlemen had. Lady Mary had taken the opportunity to name the lord and pronounce him a scoundrel in every envelope she'd got her hands on. The Duchess of Ralston had read them all aloud.

There was every chance that he was to be skewered this evening, while Varnay walked out smelling like a rose.

It really was incredible. But also possible.

"Whatever will go on this night," he said, "I'd best go get it over with. I will remind myself that Lady Jemima is not well. I will further remind myself of the delightful fact that the Duchess of Ralston's ridiculous entertainment only comes only once in every three-hundred and sixty-five days."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jemima and her mother were examining dresses for the evening's rout that would serve as the conclusion of the Duchess of Ralston's Secrets Dévoilés entertainment. Just now, the duchess was looking over a dark blue silk.

"They are all such dark colors, though," Jemima said. "I had hoped for something brighter and more lively."

"These colors suit you. I sometimes think you do not see yourself as you are."

Jemima shrugged as she did not wish to answer. Her mother often came a little too close to the mark for comfort. Never in her life had she spent so much time thinking about how other people viewed her.

It was not a pleasant pastime and she had determined to give it up.

"Are you really not going to tell me what was in those envelopes?" the duchess asked.

"I'm not supposed to tell anybody," she said.

"I am hardly just anybody."

"I only wish to follow the rules exactly, Mama. From everything I have heard, the Duchess of Ralston is very strict about them, and hard on those who do not comply."

The truth was, she'd written a terrible poem about the duke and now rather regretted it. She had no regrets regarding the veracity of the sentiments, but she did regret that it might be made public. He would know from whose hand it had come, even if that part was not announced. And then, the rest of the ton might be a bit taken aback. For one, they all seemed to think the duke a god among men. For another, perhaps its sharp points would not be expected from a young lady so recently arrived.

She would really like to stop worrying and wondering what people thought of her! It had never occurred to do so before she came to Town and it had been a far nicer way to go on. Why was she having such trouble in stopping the habit?

"Regarding Her Grace's strict ideas, I will give you that point," the duchess said. "Two years ago, Lord Bunson opened an envelope ahead of time and dropped out in a pique. Her Grace roasted him over the proverbial fire the entire evening, people joked about it for months, and he ended wishing he'd just put up with the whole thing."

Aggie hurried in with Jemima's gloves and pelisse. Her maid seemed very out of breath and Jemima could not work out the cause. They were not at all running late.

Then she noted Aggie's wide eyes—those eyes that said something alarming had occurred or been said. Her maid would have been down in the servants' quarters with the hot iron. That location of the house was an ocean of gossip, the news rolling in like waves from all directions. The staff seemed to have brothers and sisters and cousins working in houses all over London.

Aggie had heard something and it was something that had upset her.

The duchess, being nobody's fool, said, "Aggie? What is it?"

"What is what, Your Grace?" Aggie said.

"Whatever it is you are nearly jumping out of your skin over. Whatever it is that you plan to tell my daughter as soon as you can get me out of the room."

"I can't think, Your Grace," Aggie said nervously.

"Take another run at it, then. I'm sure your ability to think will come back to you," the duchess said, sitting herself in a chair and indicating she had all night to wait until Aggie could think again.

With a defeated sigh, Aggie laid the gloves and pelisse on the bed. "I've just heard something tragic about the Duke of Barstow."

"Tragic?" the duchess asked, sitting straighter in her chair.

Jemima felt a cold hand grip her heart. Was he dead? My god, had she written a terrible poem about him and now he was dead?

He could not be dead! She did not wish him to be dead. She had only wished him to be quiet.

"Is he dead?" the duchess asked.

"Dead?" Aggie asked, as if the idea had never occurred to her. "No, he isn't dead, though by all reports he only lives by the grace of our lord."

Jemima sat down, as her legs had begun to feel wobbly. Something very terrible had happened.

"Out with it, Aggie. This minute," the duchess said.

Aggie nodded. "Bessie, our kitchen maid, has a cousin what knows a footman working for a butler named Mr. Penny—"

"Mr. Penny is the Earl of Winthrop's butler," the duchess said. "They live on the other side of the square."

Aggie fiddled her hands. "Well, she was told a terrible story that came from Mr. Penny, who knew it as he's somehow connected to somebody who works nearby the duke's estate in Somerset."

"Gracious, servants do gossip," the duchess said disapprovingly.

Aggie nodded sadly, as the charge could hardly be denied. "She says that during the shooting season, the duke took a terrible fall from his horse. He was going over a fence, you see, and didn't quite clear it. They all thought he was gone for certain and for good. Somehow, he did pull through, but the consequences of the fall have been severe."

"Have they?" the duchess said skeptically. "I have not noticed any consequences."

"Not in his person," Aggie said softly, "but in his mind."

"In his mind?" the duchess asked.

"Aye. They say it was very terrible in the beginning. He would rave like a madman in the middle of the night and become confused about where he was. One time, they even found him well after midnight wandering about outdoors in his nightshirt."

Jemima felt as if she could hardly breathe. It was all so unreal—she'd not ever imagined anything could fell the duke. He was so well-built, and he sat a horse with such confidence. How could it be possible that he'd nearly died?

"Now," Aggie went on, "he's recovered quite a bit, though they say there have been lingering effects."

"Lingering effects?" Jemima whispered. "What lingering effects?"

"Darla listed them all out for me," Aggie said. "For one, he still doesn't sleep well. For two, he's seemed to acquire this habit of disapproving of everybody and everything and then feeling sorry about it later. They say that is what keeps him up at night—half the things he says he doesn't even mean. They just pop out of him like water from a spigot. He's also been known to take a dislike to a person for no reason whatsoever. It's said that one of the footmen had to be placed in another household on account of it. And the third thing was, that while he don't worry about himself on a horse as he's more careful now, he's developed a terrible fear of other people getting into a riding accident."

The duchess sat back. "This does explain quite a lot!"

Yes, it did explain a lot. It rather heartbreakingly explained a lot. It explained why the duke had been so irrational in his condemnations. How did she not see it? His comments had never made any sense!

It explained the hyacinths—he'd been sorry all night and then sent the flowers. It explained his aversion to seeing her on a horse. He'd not wished her to be hurt!

It explained him apologizing and then doing again the very same thing he'd apologized for. He could not help it—it was from the fall.

Now Jemima saw the truth. She was a terrible person. An absolute witch of a person. And she'd written that terrible poem!

"Aggie," the duchess said, "do they say anything about how his recovery is proceeding? Is there hope that he may entirely return to his old self?"

"They say he makes small and steady progress and his whole household remains hopeful," Aggie said gravely.

Her mother turned to Jemima. "Now you see? That's why I found myself a bit confused over his behavior in the park. The duke is not entirely himself. You have not yet met the real Duke of Barstow."

No, she had not. She had only met the injured Duke of Barstow and then decided to be hateful and write a hateful poem.

She had to fix it! Somehow, she had to repair what she'd done.