Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Duke was not at home. Earlier, he'd mentioned needing to return to the town to meet with Castlereagh and the British delegation for an important meeting. He had seemed apologetic and reluctant to leave.

A courier had arrived later, delivering a dispatch into her hands, which she found strange.

"You must deliver this to him personally," the courier urged.

She turned the packet over in her hands, wondering what it could be. Normally, his mail was handled by his secretary.

Deciding to leave the packet in his room, she knocked on the door, just in case he was inside. When no one answered, she went inside.

The room no longer felt like Simon's. The Duke had been staying there for some time now, and his presence was palpable—his books, his clothes, his essence seemed to fill every corner. Considering that he had to fend for himself without any servants to tend to him or clean his room, it was surprisingly orderly. The bed was neatly made, and a few personal items were arranged carefully on top of the bureau. A small stack of books lay by his bedside. Curious, Lena picked one of them up.

So the Duke read in bed. Interesting.

‘The Conduct of the Great Negociation at the Treaty of the Pyrenees' by William Temple. No surprise that his reading matter would be a dull treatise on diplomacy. It would certainly put him to sleep quickly. She picked up the other book, which was titled ‘Pride and Prejudice, by the Author of Sense and Sensibility, Vol I.'

She flipped through the pages. This was an actual novel, light and satirical, certainly not the kind of thing she'd expected from a Duke.

She turned the volume in her hands and fleetingly wondered what the book was about before she put it back.

Her eyes travelled through the room and landed at the dressing table on a small flask with the name of the perfumer Floris on it.

She unstopped it, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

Cedar and musk filled her nose.

It filled her senses, flooding her with warmth, a painful yearning that was almost unbearable. Tears welled up as she gripped the furniture to steady herself, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

Her hand shook as she replaced the stopper on the flask. In doing so, she accidentally brushed a small pile of books and letters, causing them to tumble to the ground .

She bent to pick them up, her fingers closing around a small leather journal.

Flipping through it, she immediately recognised the handwriting.

She stared at it. Why did he have this? Why was it here? Had he read it?

Of course he had.

Turning it in her hands, she realised that there was no need for her to read it.

Not anymore.

With deliberate care, she placed the notebook back on the table and rearranged the letters as they had been before.

Oddly her movements were calm now. Even odder was the sense of calm settling within her, as if something had clicked into place.

She walked over to the window and stared out as raindrops slid down the glass.

That day, she'd gone to the dressmaker. Not because she needed more gowns, but simply because there was nothing else to do, and her friend Elizabeth had asked her to accompany her. The bell had rung and a tall woman in a carmine walking dress had entered, lifting her skirts as she gingerly stepped over the threshold to reveal a delicately booted foot.

Elizabeth gasped when she saw her. "Good heavens."

Catherine blinked at her in confusion. "What is it, Elizabeth?"

"Nothing," Elizabeth said urgently, grabbing Catherine' s arm and leading her further into the shop. "Here, look at this fabric. Isn't it beautiful?"

But Catherine had turned to look at the woman. Her dark hair tumbled around a narrow, elfin face, and her eyes were limpid and blue. She wasn't beautiful, she was breathtakingly stunning. "Who is she?"

"No one. No one at all. Look at this silk. Isn't it exquisite?" Elizabeth thrust a bolt of yellow silk under her nose.

The woman caught sight of them and ran her gaze down Catherine, sizing her up. Sneering slightly, she turned to the shopkeeper and said, "So this is who he's married. A little green girl, none too pretty."

Catherine froze, shocked at the stranger's rudeness. No one had ever dared speak about her like that in her hearing.

"Don't listen," Elizabeth whispered, placing her hands over Catherine's ears. "Don't look. She'll be gone soon."

The woman had cast one last sly smile at Catherine before sweeping out of the shop.

"Did you see her? Isn't she utterly gorgeous?" another customer, a buxom lady in a purple walking dress, said in a loud, strident voice to her companion. "Violetta Allan. The famous opera dancer. She's the Duke of Aldingbourne's mistress. He is said to be madly in love with her…"

The blood drained from Catherine's face. "It's not true, is it?" she whispered to Elizabeth, who was shaking her head vehemently.

"Lies, lies, all lies. "

But the strained expression on her face told Catherine that it was true.

Later, as they rode back to Aldingbourne Hall, Catherine stared out of the window, unseeing, the raindrops pattering on the glass. "Does everyone know?" she'd asked in a flat, monotone voice.

"No, of course not." Elizabeth did not meet her eyes.

"Please, Elizabeth. You knew."

Elizabeth winced.

"Since when?"

Elizabeth dropped her head. "It is well known that Miss Allan is his mistress," she finally admitted. "She has been for quite some time."

Catherine's gloved fingers toyed with the strings of her reticule, tying them tightly around her finger until it hurt.

"I see."

Elizabeth hesitated before speaking again. "It is, of course, perfectly normal for men like the Duke to have mistresses." She made a helpless gesture. "Horrible as it is. We are expected to look the other way and pretend not to know."

"Yes," Catherine replied, her voice wooden. "I know."

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably before taking Catherine's hand. "I am so sorry," she whispered.

There was nothing to say to that.

The carriage turned into a wide alley and Aldingbourne Hall came into view—tall, stately, and cold.

"But if my husband were ever to have a mistress, I wouldn't stand for it," Elizabeth suddenly burst out .

"No, you wouldn't," Catherine echoed. Then she looked sadly at Elizabeth. "But what if he loved her more than you? What then?"

Elizabeth's shoulders slumped. "I don't know. I don't think I could bear it."

Catherine nodded slowly.

Neither could she.