Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

“ I don’t think he’s very handsome at all,” Emily said, wrinkling her nose. Her spectacles, almost identical to Beatrice’s, caught the light and winked.

Daphne, whose gaze was glued to a pair of passing gentlemen—both oblivious to the scrutiny—let out a sigh. “Oh, Em, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stuck between the twins, a girl hooked onto each arm, Beatrice suppressed a smile.

Emily and Daphne, Anna’s younger sisters, were twins, on the brink of their coming out. They were nineteen if Beatrice was not mistaken. Because of their somewhat sheltered upbringing, and the whirlwind of their older sister’s chaotic trip to and from the altar, they were just starting to notice the gentlemen of the world and consider marriage.

At least, Daphne was. She was drawn to anything with a male pulse. If not to get to know them, then to terrorize them with her boldness. Emily was much more guarded, quieter and more reserved than she had been in her youth.

Beatrice felt a pang, remembering how Emily had sworn that she would only marry for love, and how Daphne had insisted that she would not marry at all.

They had grown up so fast.

“Steady on, you two.” Beatrice laughed, squeezing their arms. “With your sister being such a wealthy woman, there’s no need for you two to rush into matrimony. You’re quite safe, and you can take your time and choose a decent man.”

Emily bit her lip. “I’m not sure there are any decent men in the world. I think perhaps spinsterhood is for me.”

“Nonsense,” Daphne said crisply. “I’ll marry a rich man for convenience, and you’ll come and live with us. Or better yet, you’ll find a way to make money. How does that sound?”

Emily chuckled at that, shaking her head. “What would I do without you, Daff?”

The two girls playfully bickered with each other, with Beatrice caught in the middle.

They were promenading in the Park at the usual hour, and Beatrice was glad to have something to distract her from thoughts of Stephen. She had replayed the events of the observatory over and over in her head, analyzing them from each angle.

She was fairly sure that spanking was not a regular fixture in the marriages of most people. Or perhaps it was and nobody had bothered to tell her before her wedding.

Either way, she had enjoyed it greatly and was not entirely sure how to feel about this new development. The twins’ chatter allowed her mind to wander, but she was no closer to a solution.

She had not seen Stephen since their encounter in the observatory two days ago.

That night, Beatrice had gone to her room—which she was already thinking of as their room—and discovered that his things were gone, moved to a guest room somewhere in the house.

A definite feeling of disappointment had prickled over her skin. She had considered, briefly, forcing Mouse to tell her where Stephen had gone so that she could go to his room and demand answers, ask why he ran hot and cold so very often.

She had not done that, of course, and had instead lain in her too-large bed, thinking.

Sleep had come eventually, but too late, and her eyes prickled and ached with tiredness.

It took her a moment or two to realize that the twins had stopped chattering.

“Those women are staring at us,” Emily said, her voice low.

Beatrice followed their gazes, and her heart sank. A gaggle of four women stood nearby on the edge of the path. She did not recognize them all, but one was certainly Miss Boules, a desperate gossip on her third Season.

Miss Boules was a pretty enough woman, but with her cruel character and unpleasant personality, she had managed to fade her looks away to nothing in the eyes of others. She had all but ignored Beatrice after her marriage and made no bones about declaring to others that a plump bluestocking did not deserve to marry a duke.

They were clutching a scandal sheet between them, poring over it, and Beatrice suddenly understood what was going on.

“You poor thing,” Miss Boules said, smiling in an unfriendly way. “Do you know, I think it would have been better for you to remain a spinster.”

Her friends giggled.

Emily clutched at Beatrice’s arm, and Daphne took a step forward, her finger raised warningly. “You’d better stop,” she threatened, “or else .”

Miss Boules ignored her, taking a step forward and thrusting the scandal sheet towards her.

“Here. Read it. It’s a sad story, I’m afraid. I do pity you, my dear. Nobody deserves this.”

“Perhaps you should inform your gleeful expression of that,” Daphne snapped. “Go away.”

Beatrice scanned the sheet. It was more or less what she had expected. Apparently, Stephen had not come home last night on account of spending time with Cornelia Thompson. There was an account of the pair of them, arm in arm and giggling together, departing from a party thrown by a particularly fast lady. There were no sketches, only one very detailed witness account.

A lump formed in Beatrice’s throat.

Am I just a pastime to him? A conquest? A way to entertain himself when Miss Thompson is not there?

It had meant nothing, then, either their intimacy in the carriage or their time in the observatory.

He did call himself Blackheart and warned me that his darkness would swallow up my light. I suppose he was trying to warn me, in his way. I should have listened.

She tore her eyes away from the paper to find Miss Boules staring at her, gleeful and expectant.

Beatrice smiled. “Goodness, you girls do spend a great deal of time reading this nonsense, don’t you? Perhaps if you concentrated on your characters a little more rather than gossip, you might catch husbands for yourselves. Time is slipping away, ladies.”

Miss Boules flinched at that, two spots of color blooming in her cheeks.

Beatrice stepped forward, inches away from the woman, and shoved the scandal sheet back at her, none too gently.

“Did you truly believe that this would upset me?” she asked, her voice low. “You will have to try harder than that, I fear. Good day to you, Miss Boules. Come along, girls. We have things to do today—can’t stay and gossip in the Park all day. Let us leave these… ladies to their business.”

She hooked an arm through Daphne’s and Emily’s again and dragged them down the pathway. Miss Boules was left clutching the crumpled scandal sheet, her face as red as beets.

Beatrice did not look back.

Anna’s carriage was waiting for the girls and Beatrice. They were meant to go straight back to Anna’s home, to spend the afternoon with her, Kitty, and the new baby.

Frankly, Beatrice was glad of the distraction. She had told Miss Boules that the scandal sheet had not bothered her, but it was not strictly true. Words stuck in her mind. Whoever said that sticks and stones could break bones, while words could do no harm, had clearly never had a particularly poisonous article written about them.

Words were jumbled up in her head, a combination of Miss Boules’ taunts and the scandal sheets’ contempt and pity.

I think it would have been better for you to remain a spinster.

The oblivious Duchess of Blackwood ventures out in Society once again, unaware of her humiliation.

I do pity you, my dear. Nobody deserves this.

Could the Duchess’s bluestocking tendencies be to blame for the failure of her marriage?

Beatrice Walford, the Duchess of Blackwood: An example to young girls everywhere!

She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut. The streets around the Park were not busy—anybody important was in the Park—and she prayed they would get to the carriage quickly while she could still maintain her composure.

A tug on her arm from Emily pulled her back to the present.

“Who is that woman? Why is she waiting by our carriage?”

Beatrice’s eyes flew open. It seemed that she already knew what she would see.

Miss Cornelia Thompson stood by the carriage. She was half-turned away from them, but Beatrice could easily recognize her fall of fair curls, her willowy frame, and the majestic sweep of her profile.

“Isn’t she that opera singer?” Daphne ventured doubtfully. “Is she waiting for us?”

At the sound of their voices, Cornelia turned. She smiled.

“She’s very pretty,” Daphne said, sounding a little begrudging.

Beatrice thought that her throat had turned to sawdust.

“Yes,” she managed. “Very pretty.”

Cornelia was wearing a deep blue silk gown, with matching gloves and embroidered white flowers on the hem. A fur cape hung down from her shoulders, an acknowledgment of the crisp, cold day. She looked beautiful, of course. Her clothes were in the latest fashion and suited her perfectly. The silk was, of course, untouched by the filth and slime that coated London’s streets.

“Your Grace,” Cornelia said, inclining her head in a bow that was not respectful enough for a duchess. “I am sorry to accost you here, but we really must talk.”

Beatrice considered telling her to leave. Surely she could ask the coachman to push Cornelia away from the carriage door, and then they could rumble away and leave the woman behind.

Whatever she wants to tell me, I do not want to hear it .

The idea was immediately followed by a miserable realization.

But I must hear it.

“Girls, get in the carriage,” Beatrice heard herself say. “I will join you in a moment.”

Emily and Daphne exchanged looks. For a moment, it seemed as if Daphne was ready to argue, but her sister reached out and touched her arm. Just a touch, but it seemed to say all that was necessary.

Daphne deflated. “Very well,” she muttered. “But not more than ten minutes, or I’m coming out.”

Cornelia and Beatrice eyed each other, their faces blank, while the girls climbed into the carriage. After the door slammed shut behind them, there was a long silence.

In the end, Cornelia broke the silence first.

“I never thought he’d marry,” she said. “I was secure of my hold on him. And then you came along.”

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek. “What do you want from me, Cornelia?”

“From you? Nothing. I came here to tell you what you need to know, from one woman to another.”

Beatrice snorted. “What, to warn me off? I already know that you’re spending time with my husband behind my back. There is nothing I can do about it. Stephen is free to lead his own life, and I don’t care to stand in his way.”

She made to move past her, heading to the carriage, but Cornelia stepped in her way. Eyes narrowed, she peered down at Beatrice.

“There is one thing I do not understand,” Cornelia said carefully. “Why would he ruin your wedding to the Marquess? That , I do not understand.”

Beatrice flashed a tight-lipped smile. “He did it because I asked him to. There is no other reason.”

Cornelia pursed her lips. “Hm. I should tell you, Your Grace, that he loves me. He always has, and he always will.”

“Really? I would have thought your comments about being unsure of your hold on him, and your presence here, say otherwise.”

Cornelia flashed her a smile that was almost pitying.

“I am not your enemy, Your Grace. You are not my rival. You are nothing more than a naive girl who does not understand that men are liars. They mean nothing they say. For the most part, of course, men are poor dissemblers, and we can easily see through them. Stephen is a little more complicated.”

Beatrice flinched at the careless use of Stephen’s first name. “He is His Grace to you.”

Again, Cornelia flashed that pitying smile. “No, my dear, he is Stephen to me. I do not need to think hard about where your trust in him comes from. I imagine he has been with you in certain ways. Am I correct?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Beatrice lied, although she could feel color rushing to her face.

Images and sensations rushed into her mind, from the carriage, from the observatory.

Cornelia sighed. “You are a pretty woman, and his wife, so therefore well within his reach. He enjoys a light challenge, and I imagine you make for rather stimulating company. I know him—it is exactly the sort of thing he would do. He has spoken to me about you. Never very flattering, I am afraid. Fond, but not flattering. And not often. Whatever activities you two may have engaged in, I imagine he has been careful not to do anything that would make you conceive?”

Beatrice said nothing. She didn’t have to.

Cornelia sighed, shaking her head. “He does not want you to bear his children, Your Grace. I am sorry. If you cared about him less, the rejection would not hurt as much as it does. You will learn this, in time.”

“I don’t believe a word you say,” Beatrice said, horrified at how her voice shook.

Cornelia eyed her for a long moment. She looked tired, Beatrice noticed for the first time.

“Yes, you do,” she said, sighing. “I am sorry to tell you all of this, but you had to hear it. Relinquish your grasp on Stephen, my dear, before you humiliate yourself further. Before you are hurt more than you are already.”

Beatrice drew in a shaky breath, straightening her spine. “I do not have to listen to this, and I won’t listen to it. Get out of my way.”

She moved forward with purpose, intending to shoulder Cornelia out of the way if she had to.

She stopped dead at Cornelia’s next words.

“I am with child.”

Beatrice’s mouth went dry. She glanced over her shoulder and found Cornelia watching her carefully, one hand hovering over her flat stomach.

“It is Stephen’s, of course,” Cornelia added. “He was thrilled when I told him. We have talked about children before. He wants children, you see. But as I said, not with you. I had not meant to tell you about the baby, but I think perhaps you need to know.”

Beatrice noticed, with horror, that her hand was shaking where it rested on the carriage door handle.

“I never wish to see you again,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Cornelia did not react and did not say another word as Beatrice climbed up into the carriage.

The twins sat inside, their eyes wide.

“What did she want?” Daphne hissed as the carriage lurched forward.

“Nothing of importance,” Beatrice said, smiling stiffly. “Girls, I am afraid I will not be coming with you to Anna’s, after all. I need to go home. I need to go home right away.”

Beatrice stood in the hall for a long moment, still dressed in her outer garments, staring down at the floor.

It made sense. Perhaps he did not want to have children with her because he wished to have children with the woman he truly loved—the woman he could not marry, on account of her being an opera singer.

Why would such a thing bother the infamous Duke Blackheart? He does as he likes, everybody knows that. Duty and reputation mean nothing to him.

But how can you say that with certainty? You don’t know him at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut. No wonder the arrangement was so detailed. What was it that Cornelia had said? Men are liars. They mean nothing they say.

He was drawn to me, attracted to me.

Beatrice swallowed hard.

It meant nothing. It never did.

“Your Grace?”

She flinched, glancing up into Mouse’s anxious face. No doubt she had been standing there for too long, staring off into space. Acting strangely, not at all like a duchess.

Clearing her throat, she plastered a smile on her face. “Ah, Mouse. Just the man I was looking for. His Grace plans to leave here and go to his townhouse. Would you be so good as to pack up his things?”

Mouse blinked, uncertain. “H-His Grace never mentioned anything like that to me.”

Something like frustration bubbled up in Beatrice’s gut.

“Just do as I ask, please,” she pressed, far more harshly than she had ever intended.

Mouse flinched, recoiling a little, and guilt washed over Beatrice like an acidic wave.

She swallowed hard. “I… I’m sorry, Mouse, I was too sharp.”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

“No, I was. I’m sorry. It’s just… His Grace is leaving. Please. Do as I ask.”

Mouse eyed her for a long moment.

For a second or two, Beatrice imagined herself blurting out the whole, horrible story about Cordelia and the observatory and her own misery.

She pressed her lips together to keep the words from tumbling out.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Mouse said at last, his voice soft and a little hesitant. “I shall see it done at once.”

Beatrice exhaled. “Thank you, Mouse. Thank you.”