Page 7 of The Disgraceful Duchess

He climbed the shallow flight of steps and entered Beaufort House just as another cough burst out of him. A pair of young ladies turned to glare in disapproval. The footman bellowed, “His Grace, the Duke of March!”

The young ladies’ eyes widened. They exchanged glances and began to giggle and whisper behind their fans. “… looks just like Lord Byron!” he heard one of them say.

Surely they didn’t mean him. He looked exactly the same way that he’d always looked. Nobody had compared him to Byron when he was a junior undersecretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Another fit of coughing seized him. “Something to drink, your grace?” A footman materialized before him, proffering a tray.

“Thank you,” he gasped. He seized a glass and downed the ratafia it contained. The sweet fortified wine eased his throat enough that he was able to catch his breath. He placed the empty glass back on the tray, nodded to the footman, took another glass and tossed it back too.

Now the young ladies were staring at him with wide-eyed alarm. Perhaps his behavior was rather more Byronic than they’d hoped. On the other hand, his throat felt considerably better. He nodded calmly to them as he strolled past.

He was looking forward to catching up with Lady Beaufort. She was a friendly face, and her shrewd advice would be helpful as he stepped back into the treacherous currents of London society. But as he looked around, he didn’t see her. And he was feeling unexpectedly exhausted... and a little woozy.

He didn’t think that it was the ratafia. He thought that it was because this was the first time since he’d left Paris that he’d been completely warm. In fact, since the letter informing him that he was the new Duke of March had reached him in Paris, he hadn’t had one unbroken night of sleep. Inns had been noisy, the swinging hammock on the ship had been uncomfortable, and the billiard table had kept him awake half the previous night.

If only he could sit down and rest in this heavenly warmth, just for a moment... just until the first intermission of what was bound to be a long evening of musical performances. After all, he didn’t want to fall asleep in his chair on his first appearance in London in two years.

He looked around. The footmen had disappeared. Sounds of a string quartet tuning up emanated from the drawing room, and the young ladies had taken their Kashmir shawls and their fluttering lashes in that direction, though not without smoldering glances over their shoulders at the only duke under thirty in the kingdom.

He would be bothering no one if he simply went and rested his eyes in the library. Lady Beaufort would understand.

He knew the way, of course. It was just down this corridor. No candles were lit, and the banked fire was low, but it was still pleasantly warm. A comfortable settee facing the windows was long enough to accommodate his rangy frame. He lay down, pulled a pillow under his head, and was almost instantly asleep.

For the first few minutes after they arrived at Beaufort House, Pomona’s heart was light. Venice! She would finish her novel effortlessly. How could she not, with such inspiration? And they would travel about in gondolas, and see the Doge’s Palace and all the other sights that she knew only as engravings in Norwood’s Guide.

And with any luck, it would be many months before they had to return to London.

“You look remarkably well,” said Lady Theodosia, with great complacency. “That pale gold damask gives your ensemble precisely the right touch of the antique.” As usual her great aunt was turning heads in her sapphire blue gown accented with an extraordinary pearl and diamond choker that had been a gift from her late husband.

They joined the other guests in the drawing room, whose emerald-green walls were encrusted in gilt-framed paintings all the way up to the high ceiling. Pomona saw a young lady she used to know staring enviously at her gown. She turned away and said something to her companions. All of them turned to look in Pomona’s direction.

Perhaps her excitement about the trip to Venice had given her more self-possession than usual? She straightened just as Sir Simon appeared. “Ah! Lady Theodosia! And Miss Keynsham!” He swooped low over their hands. “Would that Sir Joshua were still alive today! What a portrait he would make of you two! We should have to call it ‘The Two Beauties Redux.’” He clasped his hands affectedly. “What a rare pleasure it would be to see such loveliness captured by the maestro’s brush!”

In their youths, Lady Theodosia and Lady Sophronia had been the subjects of a famous portrait painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which was still popularly known as “The Two Beauties.” Pomona was not a beauty. Also, Sir Simon was annoying.

“How do you do, Sir Simon?” said Lady Theodosia. Pomona tried to arrange her face in a pleasant expression, and not look at his eyebrows. Two of Lady Theodosia’s friends—also aristocratic, intellectual and turban-wearing ladies who shared her interest in philosophy—joined them. Whenever there was a pause in the conversation Sir Simon showered them all with flowery compliments. Pomona sighed inwardly. No; Sir Simon would never do. Venice, she told herself. They would be leaving within the fortnight. With any luck, after this evening she would never have to talk to Sir Simon again. She looked about the room, wondering when the concert was to start.

And then she saw someone infinitely worse than Sir Simon: Mr. Townley. To her horror, the moment he caught her eye he changed his trajectory and came straight toward her. “Miss Keynsham.”

“M-Mr. Townley,” she stammered. Her heart was hammering. Why was he speaking to her at all? All he’d ever done was scapegoat and humiliate her.

“What a charming gown.” He rocked back onto his heels, looking down his nose at her with a self-satisfied, almost proprietary smirk. His eyes lingered on her fashionably low neckline. Surely he couldn’t possibly think that… No. No man alive—not even Mr. Townley—could be that arrogant. “Do you know, I have heard the most fascinating on-dit about you, Miss Keynsham.”

Oh. So he was about to start some fresh calumny, and had come to gloat. But she was too panicked to make a retort. “Please excuse me.” It came out as a whisper.

She turned and began to make her way almost blindly toward the door. He followed, still smirking. “Miss Keynsham? Should you like some lemonade?”

She shook her head and kept going. She wished that she were as brave as the heroines of her novels. Violetta wouldn’t have run away like a coward. She would have exposed Mr. Townley as the villain that he was.

She hurried down a corridor. The important thing was to prevent Mr. Townley from starting any new trouble until they could leave for Venice. She would hide in the ladies’ withdrawing room until the concert was underway. Then she would slip back in, rejoin Lady Theodosia, and explain why they must leave at intermission.

Wait a moment. She hesitated. Had she been so flustered that she’d turned in the wrong direction? Beaufort House was enormous. She could no longer hear the noise of the reception. Everything seemed very quiet. Too quiet.

“Oh, Miss Keyn-sham!” The sing-song voice was coming from behind her.

Mr. Townley had followed her. Suddenly she was very afraid. If she were caught alone with him, she would be the one to face disgrace—not because she’d done anything wrong, but because she was a lady... and he’d already destroyed most of her reputation.

Unless… that had always been his plan?