NothingLikeDuke-27

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next book in the Duke’s Sons series

Lord Randolph Gresham attracted more than one admiring glance as he walked along Grosvenor Square toward Bond Street on a Tuesday morning. And indeed he felt unusually dapper. His dark-blue coat had arrived from the tailor only yesterday. His dove-gray pantaloons outlined a muscular leg. His hat sat at a jaunty angle. He’d often been told that he was the best looking of the six sons of the Duke of Langford—tall, handsome, broad-shouldered men with auburn hair and blue eyes—and today he thought he almost deserved the accolade. He breathed in the early April air, invigorating with a tang of spring, and listened to the birds calling in the trees. For the next four months, in the interval between parishes, he was not a vicar or a model for proper behavior. He had no special position to uphold and no clerical duties. He was free to enjoy the London season, and he fully intended to do so.

A familiar shape caught his eye in passing. He turned, then went quite still. His feet had taken him automatically into Carlos Place. How odd. His body had somehow remembered what his brain had passed over. He would not have come here consciously, although in an earlier season, six years ago, he’d walked this route nearly every day.

Randolph went a bit further and stopped again to gaze up at a narrow brick house. Behind those tall, narrow windows he’d wooed Rosalie Delacourt, asked for her hand, and been delightfully accepted.

A vision of her laughing face assailed him. She’d so often been laughing, her lips curved in the most enticing way. Her hazel eyes had sparkled like sunshine on water. She’d been elfin slender, with chestnut brown hair and a few hated freckles on her nose. She was always trying to eradicate those freckles with one nostrum or another.

From the moment they met, introduced by a friend of his mother’s at a concert, he’d thought of no one but Rosalie. The fact that she was eminently suitable—by birth and upbringing and fortune—was pleasant, but irrelevant. He would have married her if she’d been a pauper. She said the same. It had all been decided between them in a matter of weeks. Life had seemed perfect to a young man freshly ordained, with a parish, ready to set off on his chosen path.

Gazing at the unresponsive house, Randolph felt a reminiscent brush of devastation. Why had he come here? His grief was muted by time. He didn’t think of Rosalie often now. The Delacourts no longer lived in town. Indeed, he’d heard that they rarely came to London. And who could blame them?

Not for the first time, Randolph was glad that only his mother had known about his engagement to Rosalie. Randolph had enjoyed keeping his courtship private, away from the eyes of the haut ton. His brothers had been busy with their own affairs. And so, in the aftermath, he’d been able to stumble quietly off to Northumberland and what he’d sometimes thought of as exile, though of course it wasn’t. He’d found solace in his work and the good he could do, and gradually his pain had eased.

Randolph took a moment to acknowledge the past with a bowed head and then walked on. He wouldn’t come this way again.

A few minutes later, Randolph reached his original goal, another place he hadn’t been in years, Angelo’s Academy on Bond Street, next to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. Entering, he heard the familiar sounds of ringing steel and murmured commentary. Pairs of men fenced with blunted foils, guided and corrected by the famed proprietor and his helpers. Others worked on their stance or observed. Randolph joined the latter until he was noticed, and the owner of the place hurried over. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you, Lord Randolph,” said Henry, scion of a dynasty of fencing masters.

“And I’ve probably forgotten most of what you taught me,” replied Randolph. “But I thought I’d try a match if it could be arranged.” The clash of blades filled him with pleasant nostalgia. He’d spent many a satisfying hour surrounded by that sound. Angelo’s was a fashionable gathering place where gentlemen socialized as well as learned the art of swordsmanship.

“Of course. I’d like to see how one of my best pupils has kept up his skills.”

“You mustn’t be too harsh,” replied Randolph with a smile. “I had no opportunities to fence in Northumberland.” He had practiced the moves, now and then, but he’d found no partners in the North.

A young man nearby stepped forward. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

Henry’s smile went slightly stiff. “Unnecessary, Mr. Wrentham,” he said. “I’ll take on Lord Randolph myself.”

“Oh, but I’d like to try my chances against one of your best pupils.”

The newcomer spoke with a belligerent edge, as if Henry had angered him somehow. Randolph eyed him. A well set-up fellow in his twenties with dark hair and eyes, he looked familiar. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“At Salbridge,” the younger man agreed. “Charles Wrentham.”

“Of course. You acted in the play.”

Wrentham grimaced as if he’d criticized him. “So, shall we have at it, then?”

Randolph understood from Henry’s stance and expression that he would prefer otherwise. But Wrentham’s face told him there was no way to refuse without giving offense. Randolph agreed with a bow.

Donning fencing gear brought back more memories. Randolph relished the feel of the canvas vest and wire mask. He took down a foil and swished it through the air, feeling old reflexes surface. It was said that physical skills learned as a youth stayed with you, and he didn’t think he’d lost his touch. He tried a lunge and parry. Fencing had fascinated him from the moment he’d picked up a sword. The combination of concentration, precision, endurance, and strength exactly suited his temperament, and he’d picked it up quickly. Faster than any of his brothers, which added to his enthusiasm, he acknowledged. Here was one area where he outshone them all. Well, except Sebastian, who had a cavalryman’s fine slashing style with a saber from horseback. That was quite a different thing, however. No one fought to the death at Angelo’s.

Randolph moved to an open space on the floor. Wrentham faced him, raising his foil in a salute. Noting that Henry was hovering, and wondering why, Randolph matched Wrentham’s gesture and took his stance. Muscle and mind meshed in the old way. He smiled behind his mask.

Randolph let Wrentham make the first move, to get a sense of his style and skill. The young man came in with a lunge. He overextended, and Randolph parried the thrust. Wrentham pulled back and slashed downward. Randolph blocked the blow. And so it went for some minutes, Wrentham attacking and Randolph easily fending him off. The younger man had some ability, Randolph noted, but he lacked control. And he didn’t seem to pay much heed to his opponent. Divining your adversary’s next move was half of winning.

Satisfied, Randolph went on the offensive. He knocked Wrentham’s blade aside with a ringing clang and scored a hit on the younger man’s chest with a clever riposte. Wrentham sprang back, then surged forward again. Randolph feinted left. Wrentham reacted. Randolph struck through the resulting gap in his defenses, scoring another hit.

Wrentham reacted with a flying lunge, a move usually reserved for saber matches, leaping and thrusting all at once in an effort to surprise.

Randolph dropped low, touching the floor with his free hand for balance. Straightening his sword arm, he stabbed upward and scored a third hit to Wrentham’s ribs before drawing back under his opponent’s blade.

Something seemed to snap in Wrentham at this clever exhibition of superior skill. He went wild, beating the air with his foil like a windmill. Randolph met his slashing blows—above, left, right—with a clang of metal that he felt all the way down his arm. He could hear Henry commanding them to stop, but he couldn’t spare an instant’s attention. The blunted foil wouldn’t stab him, but a great whack to the head or shoulder would nonetheless hurt. He’d seen men knocked silly by flailing like this. Nothing for it but to fight him off. Randolph blocked and parried over and over again, waiting for a chance to end it.

At last, Randolph found an opening and used a move Henry had taught him, twisting and flicking his sword to disarm Wrentham. The younger man’s foil went flying across the room, hit, bounced, and skittered over the floorboards to a stop.

With a curse, Wrentham jerked off his wire mask and hurled it against the wall. A flake of plaster came loose and dropped with it. He stalked out, chest pumping, teeth bared.

Silence filled the academy. All the other fencers had stopped to watch this unusual bout. “Well done,” called several of them.

Randolph removed his own mask. He was breathing fast but not panting, he was happy to see.

Henry took his foil. “Very well done,” he said quietly. “You’re as skilled as ever, my lord.”

“What the deuce is wrong with Wrentham?” Randolph asked.

“He’s an overly dramatic young man,” said Henry. “With a tendency to lose his temper at the least obstacle. I’ve been trying to teach him there’s more to fencing than the win.”

“Can you teach that?”

Henry shrugged. “Sometimes. Mr. Wrentham was doing much better before he went out of town for the winter.”

Randolph unbuckled the straps of his fencing vest and pulled it off. “I can see why you tried to discourage that bout.”

Henry bowed. “Discernment was always one of your greatest strengths, my lord.”

This remark came back to Randolph later that day, as he sat in his room at Langford House. He was in London, in fact, to acquire a wife. A churchman was expected to have a partner in his parish work, and it was past time for him to find one. He’d waited long enough for another love. He was reconciled to the idea that he’d had his chance with Rosalie and lost it. There would be no other grand passion for him.

This was no huge hardship, Randolph told himself not for the first time. Or the twentieth. He would find a young lady who shared his values, and they would come to an agreement. During a London season, he’d be surrounded by eligible girls eager to find husbands, a plethora of choice. What more could a man ask?

Randolph rose and went over to the cheval glass. He gave himself an encouraging nod. He’d been invited to an informal evening party, a mere nothing before the season truly began, the hostess had claimed. It sounded like an ideal opportunity to ease his way into the haut ton.

* * *

Verity Sinclair looked around the opulent drawing room, drinking in every detail of the decor and the fashionable crowd. She had to resist an urge to pinch herself to prove she was actually there, and not dreaming. It had taken her five endless years to convince her parents that she should have a London season. They hadn’t been able to see the point of it, no matter what advantages she brought forward. Papa and Mama were quietly happy living in a cathedral and being held up as models of decorum for the whole bishopric. Verity, on the other hand, often thought she’d go mad within those staid confines.

Verity sighed. She loved her parents dearly, but for most of her life she’d felt like a grasshopper reared by ants. Indeed, at age eight, she’d shocked her parents by asking if she was adopted. She hadn’t meant to hurt their feelings, or to imply any lack of affection. Their differences had just seemed so marked. Mama and Papa relished routine; she yearned for adventure. They read scholarly tomes; she pored over Robinson Crusoe and the voyages of Captain Cook. They preferred solitude or the company of a few friends; she liked a large, lively company. They took sedate strolls; she tried to teach herself knife throwing, which would come in very handy if—when—she required food in the wilderness.

Her mother was watching her with the expression that gently suggested skepticism. Verity smiled at her and turned toward the chattering crowd. She was in the capitol at last, in position to carry out her plan. Surely this room was full of men who were not clergymen—who were, or were acquainted with, far more intrepid types. Indeed, from some news she’d picked up recently, it appeared that 1819 might be the perfect year for her purposes, even if it meant she was twenty-four and seen by some as practically on the shelf. She would succeed, despite the misfortune of possessing hair the color of a beetroot and milky skin that freckled at the least touch of sun. Despite the fact that nature had chosen to endow her with a bosom that seemed to positively drag men’s eyes from her face and her arguments. Which was not her fault, as her father sometimes seemed to think. It was a reasonably pretty face, she thought. Her features were regular; she’d been told her blue-green eyes were striking.

“Miss Sinclair.”

Verity turned to find her hostess beside her, along with a tall, exceedingly handsome man. He had wonderful shoulders and intense blue eyes. Compared to the fellows she knew, he looked polished and sophisticated. More than that, he met her gaze, with only the briefest straying to other regions of her anatomy. Verity smiled. This was promising.

“May I present Lord Randolph Gresham,” the woman continued. “Lord Randolph, Miss Verity Sinclair.”

A lord, Verity thought. Not a requirement from her list, but nothing to sneeze at either.

“I think you will have much in common,” their hostess added. Addressing each of them in turn, she said, “Lord Randolph is vicar of a parish in Northumberland. Miss Sinclair is the daughter of the Dean of Chester Cathedral.”

As the woman left them together, Verity’s budding elation collapsed. It could not be that the first man she met in London—and such an attractive man—was a clergyman. Were there so many in the world that she couldn’t be spared another? Possessed by an oddly urgent sense of danger, Verity blurted, “I could never abide life in a country parish.”

He blinked, clearly startled.

“I would find the limited society unendurable.” It came out sounding like an accusation. Verity bit her lower lip. There was no reason to be this keenly disappointed. What was the matter with her?

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he said.

“The isolation makes people narrow-minded.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looked offended. Verity couldn’t blame him. She was right, of course; she’d observed the tendency often enough, but there was no need to say it aloud. Or to continue this conversation. She should move away, find a more promising prospect. Instead, she said, “And quite behind the times. Antiquated, even.”

“Indeed?”

His blue eyes had gone cool. What had come over her? She was never rude. She ought to apologize.

“If you will excuse me, I see that some friends have arrived.”

Lord Randolph gave her a small bow and walked away. Which didn’t matter, Verity thought. She’d meant to stop talking to him. And yet a pang of regret shook her. Stop it at once, she told herself. That was not the sort of man who searched for the wellsprings of the Blue Nile or discovered unknown species or peoples. Silently, she repeated her talisman phrase—Twelve Waterloo Place—and turned to find other town dwellers to meet.

Randolph crossed the room to join his brother Sebastian’s party. They’d come in at just the right moment to cover his escape from the opinionated young lady. Who had asked what she thought? Who did she think she was? “I’ve just met the most fearsome girl,” he said.

“Really?” His military brother looked sleepily formidable, as usual.

“Which one?” asked Sebastian’s lovely blond wife, Georgina, resplendent in pale-green silk. Her sister Emma stood just behind her, a younger, less self-assured version of Stane beauty.

“The one over there, with the extremely vivid hair.”

“And the generous…endowment?” Sebastian said. When Georgina elbowed him, he added, “I was only making an observation. It’s nothing to me.”

The pair exchanged a lazy smile that told anyone with eyes of their marital bliss. Randolph envied both the fact and the ease of it. “That’s the one. Miss Verity Sinclair. Daughter of the Dean of Chester Cathedral, if you please.” Which had seemed promising. Until it turned out that it wasn’t.

“Cathedral? I would have thought that was right up your alley,” his brother replied. “What’s so fearsome about her? She looks harmless enough.”

“She imagines that I am narrow-minded. And antiquated.”

“What? Why would she do that?” Sebastian frowned.

“Whatever did you say to her?” Georgina wondered.

“I had no opportunity to say anything. She…graced me with her opinions all unasked.”

“Will there be any dancing?” Emma asked.

Georgina turned to her sister, shaking her head. “Not tonight. This is a small party, a chance for you to make some acquaintances before the big squeezes later in the season.”

Emma scanned the crowd. “Everyone looks old.”

“Not everyone. You’ll meet plenty of young people.”

“Georgina’s been studying up,” said Sebastian proudly. “She means to give Emma a bang-up launch into society.”

“You make me sound like some sort of ship,” Emma replied. But she smiled.

Scanning the crowd, Georgina did look rather like a canny navigator plotting a course. “Come along,” she said to Emma, ready to plunge in. Then she paused. “Sinclair,” Georgina said. “Wouldn’t she be a connection of the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“Would she?” It needed only that, Randolph thought. Given his unfortunate…incident with the archbishop, the chit was a walking recipe for disaster. It was fortunate that she’d put him off. Who knew what trouble he might have fallen into otherwise? Now he could make a point of avoiding her.

The ladies went off to begin Emma’s introduction into the ton. The Gresham brothers snagged glasses of wine and stood back to observe.

“Did you meet Georgina at an evening like this?” Randolph asked after a while.

“At a ball,” replied Sebastian.

“Dancing is a good way to become acquainted.”

“I had to fight my way through a crowd of fellows to snag one.” Watching his wife, Sebastian smiled. “Say, Georgina could give you a few pointers.” He offered Randolph a sly grin. “Bring you out along with Emma.”

“I’m no bashful eighteen-year-old,” replied Randolph, revolted.

“Or you could marry Emma. Two birds with one stone and all that.”

“No!” The word escaped Randolph without thought. “I mean, she’s a nice enough girl, but—”

“Only joking,” Sebastian assured him. “You’ll want a serious, brainy female. Likes poetry and that sort of thing. Emma’s more along my line, a bit dim.”

“You aren’t dim,” said Randolph. Unwillingly, he found his gaze straying back to Verity Sinclair. At first glance, she’d seemed so beguiling, her eyes brimming with interest and…a crackle of spirit.

She turned, and he looked away before he could be caught staring at the archbishop’s relative, for goodness sake. It was a sign, he concluded, a warning to be careful on his hunt. One spent one’s whole life with a wife. A mistaken choice would be disastrous. He turned his attention back to his brother.

Toward the end of the evening, Verity found herself briefly alone. Even though this had been called as a small party, her mind whirled with names. It seemed as if she’d been introduced to scores of people, more than she met in a month at home. The buzz of conversation was positively thrilling.

Verity ran her eyes over the crowd. She noted the whirl of colors in the clothes, particularly the ladies’ dresses, the sparkle of jewels and candlelight. She breathed in the mingled scents of perfumes and pomades and hot wax. She absorbed the oceanic rhythm of talk. The taste of lemonade lingered on her lips. She gathered all these details into one impression and fixed it in her mind with a mental click. Then she added this Moment to a string of such memories stored in a special place in her mind—a string of vivid scenes that punctuated her life. She’d been creating Moments since she was quite young. She could move down the string and revisit each epoch of her life. And before long, she’d be adding far more dramatic, exotic Moments to her collection. She was absolutely resolved on that.

Verity looked about her. The blond girl nearby was Lady Emma Stane. Verity remembered her not only because she was one of the few here near her own age, but also because she was part of the group Lord Randolph had joined when he abandoned her. Not abandoned, Verity thought. What a poor choice of words. She’d wanted him to go away. Indeed, she’d repelled him. On purpose. A country clergyman! Still, she drifted toward Emma. They’d been introduced as cohorts, both at their first ton party. Emma was obviously younger, but Verity had as little experience of high society. “Have you enjoyed the evening?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Emma replied. “I’ve waited so long to be in London!”

“I too. I had such a time convincing my parents to give me a season.”

“Mine just refuse to come to town,” said Emma with an incredulous smile. “They are absolutely fixed in Herefordshire.”

“And so you are here with—?”

“My sister Georgina.” Emma indicated the beautiful blond woman Verity had noticed earlier. “She married Lord Sebastian last summer.”

Following her gesture, Verity eyed the two handsome men in the corner of the room. Lord Sebastian and Lord Randolph, then. They were clearly brothers.

“And now she’s brought me to London just as she promised. I intend to have a splendid time. The duchess has promised me an invitation to her ball.”

“Duchess?”

“Lord Sebastian’s mother. She’s positively the height of fashion.”

The man was a duke’s son? As well as handsome and obviously self-assured? Why bury himself in a country parish? Not that she cared. It had nothing to do with her. Verity turned her back on the impossible Lord Randolph. Her mother was beckoning. It was already time to go.