Chapter Sixteen
It stands to reason that your wife will understand that your first mistress is your duty...
A melia’s insides did a funny flip-flop at the familiar deep voice and she braced herself inwardly to be dazzled by the Duke’s smile before she turned and faced him.
‘Not at all, dear boy,’ Sir George replied cheerfully. ‘In fact, I insist you take my chair while I go and find something better to drink than this dreadful sherry your mother insists on serving.’ The traitor had made no complaint before this moment, which led Amelia to believe that he was leaving her alone with his nephew on purpose. As his uncle stood up, the Duke quickly sat in the seat that he had vacated. Amelia tried, and failed, to ignore the wonderful aroma of bay rum and golden duke that emanated from his well-fitting coat.
‘Have I missed anything interesting?’ He was leaning ever so slightly towards her so that he could speak quietly. This had two, very unwelcome, effects. Firstly, it made Amelia intensely aware of her own skin. Every inch of it seemed to have come alive at the sultry sound of this man’s melted butter voice. Whilst her nerve endings danced in anticipation of something they had no place to be anticipating, almost all eyes in the room were suddenly turned in her direction. Wondering why the Duke had singled her out for particular attention, the Potentials, as one, all shot daggers at her.
‘Not yet. So far, none of your admirers have entertained us with a reading from your book.’
Amelia was quite pleased that her voice sounded normal because enormous butterflies had arrived in her stomach and were flapping around ferociously as a result of his close proximity and the unexpected intimacy of their whispered conversation.
‘Thank Heaven for small mercies. Try to hide your disappointment at that, Miss Mansfield, or my feelings might be hurt. I know you disapprove of my book.’
When he was like this, affable, playful and unassuming, it was easy to forget he was a duke. ‘It’s not so much that I disapprove of it—although I do, of course, because it is drivel—just the more I learn about your character, the less likely it seems that you would have written it in the first place.’
‘Is it not stodgy enough?’
Without thinking, she nudged him playfully and that earned more evil glares from his admirers, which she decided to ignore. ‘Oh, it is stodgy to the point that it has atrophied—which I suppose is the problem. Underneath all of that stodginess, there appears to be a reasonable, enlightened man struggling to get out.’
He grinned triumphantly at her compliment. ‘Reasonable and enlightened. That sounds positively gushing. Are you feeling unwell, Miss Mansfield? All of this unexpected flattery might go to my head.’
‘Why did you write that book?’ Because it really did not sound like him.
The Duke sighed and then looked sheepish. ‘In my defence, it was never meant to be widely published. I simply jotted down all of the advice my father had given me. I wanted to honour his memory with something solid to pass on to the next generation.’ They were not really his words; that was something. ‘I never got to see him in action in the House, but he took a great deal of time to educate me about the legacy that I have inherited and the importance of doing things properly. It was only appropriate that I share that.’
‘But you must agree with your father’s advice or you would never have taken the time to write it down.’
‘Being a politician is a vocation and a great responsibility. Therefore, to do the job justice, you have to live by example. The difference between a good politician and a great one lies in their trustworthiness. How can the public have respect for their leaders if the leaders do not hold themselves up to a higher standard and, by default, their wives as well?’
Amelia could not help wondering if those words too had first come from his father’s mouth. ‘I should like to believe that most people have the good sense to judge our leaders by their deeds rather than their choice of wife. And who decided that your father’s high standards were the right ones to judge a great politician by, aside from himself?’
The Duke went to reply and then stopped himself. His sandy brows drew together in thought and he wore an expression of confusion as if he was contemplating a concept that was completely new but, whatever his answer was going to be, Amelia was denied hearing it.
‘Lady Eugenie, have you brought something to read to us?’ The Dowager brought the gathering back to order and smiled at the last Potential benevolently. Amelia could already see The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide clutched in the girl’s hand like an amulet.
‘I should like to hear Miss Mansfield read us something,’ Lady Cecily interrupted pointedly while her eyes shimmered with spite in Amelia’s direction. ‘This is the second time she has attended the reading salon and we are yet to hear anything chosen by her.’
Amelia smiled sweetly back at the girl, trying not to be intimidated. Stupidly, she had not brought anything even vaguely suitable to read because she had not thought that anyone would call on her to do so. Companions were usually ignored, so it was easy to blend into the background in situations like this. But now she had inadvertently incurred the wrath of the Potentials, who were all staring maliciously at her in the hope that she would disgrace herself, so she had become fair game. To make her discomfort worse, the political pamphlet she had brought to pass the time was a little too large to slot in between the pages of her book of poetry, so Amelia had chosen a substantial tome from the Aveley library, purely on the basis that it was large enough to hide the pamphlet. She glanced down at the book on her lap at exactly the same moment as the Duke. The Cultivation of Potatoes and Other Root Vegetables glared mournfully back.
‘Do you have an interest in horticulture?’ She could tell by his hushed tone that he was vastly amused.
‘Not particularly.’ Everyone in the room was watching her expectantly. Lady Cecily was smiling from ear to ear. It was blatantly obvious that the girl had also seen the potato book and was hoping to humiliate Amelia with it. It was inconceivable that she would read about root vegetables. Her pride would simply not allow that to happen, even if the alternative meant offending her hosts and all of their guests.
‘I have been studying the writings of Edward Poole.’ Boldly, Amelia slipped the controversial pamphlet from its hiding place between the pages. ‘I should be honoured to read you a small passage.’
The group stiffened at the mention of Poole; they would all be aware of him as a staunch Radical and supporter of the American Revolution. Undeterred, Amelia stood and began to read.
The rich have little concept of how their fortunes are made. They blindly make their investments without knowing how the profits come from the sweat and toil of honest working men.
Mining, for instance, is one industry that the aristocratic sensibility is happily ignorant of.
They do not see the deep, dangerous tunnels or the men that are forced to squat in the darkness and chisel away at the walls.
They do not see the bleakness in the eyes of the women and children who are forced to drag the black gold out of the ground.
They are happily ignorant of the noxious fumes that can rise unexpectedly from the mineshaft, poisoning the lungs of these people.
Nor do they hear their tortured cries when the walls of the mine collapse, killing all still inside. All the rich see is their profits. It matters not the human cost of such bounty.
A stony silence prevailed for what seemed like an eternity after she had sat down and slotted the offending pamphlet back into the folds of the book. Next to her, the Duke was the first to break it.
‘Have you ever been to a coal mine, Miss Mansfield?’
Expecting a public set-down for daring to read the work of a Revolutionary when he had expressly requested that she avoid all Radicals, she shook her head and waited for the onslaught.
‘I have. I visited the Felling mine a few years ago and I have never seen a more wretched place in all of my life. At the time, I was concerned for the safety of the workers but was assured that everything was perfectly safe. A year later, there was a horrific explosion deep under the ground. Over ninety perished, many of them children. I have petitioned Parliament many times since to make laws to force the mine owners to improve safety. Unfortunately, so far, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears.’
She really had not been expecting that to come out of his mouth. He had compassion. He did care. A small part of the wall she had built around her heart crumbled at the realisation.
‘I think it is time for some refreshments.’ The Dowager hastily rang the bell for tea, thus sparing her privileged guests from witnessing a discussion about the depressing and harrowing topic Amelia had inadvertently introduced to the room. All around them, the gathering began to rise to their feet and wander towards the sideboard, but the Duke was not one of them. Several seconds ticked by until Amelia risked peeking at him from under her lashes. Instead of a frown, she saw that he was watching her thoughtfully.
‘I wonder, Miss Mansfield, if you would show me around Seven Dials. I would be very interested to see it from a different perspective...now that I know there is a different perspective.’
What did that mean exactly? ‘I will happily show you around, Your Grace, but I am not sure how I can show you from a different perspective.’
‘What if I went as a common working man rather than the Duke of Aveley? Do you think I would see things as they really are?’
‘Are you suggesting that you will don a disguise?’ The very idea was as preposterous as it was intriguing. Would he lower himself that much? Was he truly brave enough to seek the truth? Yet, at the same time, a part of her was heartily impressed that an aristocrat was prepared to learn something new. Oh, the things she could teach him! This might be the perfect opportunity to finally do something which might make a real difference to the poor in the slums. It was also immensely flattering that he wanted to entrust her with the task, when most men would choose to ignore the words of any woman. Another piece of the defensive wall around her heart crumbled into dust and blew away in the breeze. And, just like that, Amelia was all aquiver again as she stared into his earnest, gorgeous, tempting blue eyes.
‘Why ever not? I am sure Lovett can procure me a set of clothes so that I do not stand out.’ He could be wearing a sack and he would still stand out, but that had nothing to do with his breeding and everything to do with his glorious good looks and fine shoulders. ‘I have nothing too pressing to do tomorrow that cannot be postponed. Would tomorrow be too soon?’
‘Not at all. I am sure Lady Worsted can spare me.’ Her pulse began to race at the thought of spending the day with him. Potentially alone. Perhaps this really was not such a good idea after all, considering her pathetic reaction. ‘Will Terence be accompanying us?’
‘I don’t think there is any need, do you? I am quite confident that I can keep you safe.’
Just the thought of him keeping her safe gave her a warm, fuzzy glow inside. It must be nice to have somebody big and strong to look after you all of the time, especially if they were as easy on the eye and as lovely to talk to as the Duke of Aveley. Amelia found herself gazing at his magnificent shoulders and almost sighed.
‘I should like to see your soup kitchen to see what draws you there, day after day.’
Shocked at the way her thoughts had drifted away from the important task she had been given, Amelia tried to focus on the practicalities. ‘I am certain that I can find a suitably menial job for you to do while you observe. For the sake of a different perspective, of course.’ She could not help grinning at the image of him hauling sacks of vegetables or peeling carrots. ‘Although I confess I am rather looking forward to seeing you labour and being in a position to order you around.’ And watching those impressive shoulders while he lifted things.
He gave her a lazy smile that did strange things to her insides. ‘You really are the most impertinent woman, Miss Mansfield. Do you know that?’
Amelia was spared from answering by the Potentials, who suddenly all clamoured around him in search of approval instead of taking tea. Judging by the calculated expression on her pretty face, Lady Cecily had orchestrated the mass interruption to separate Amelia from the Duke. Hot on their heels was the arrival of Lovett. He presented his master with a note and then hurried away.
The Duke opened it and scanned it, unaware of the fact that Amelia could read it from her position next to his elbow.
Your Grace,
This is your chance to escape.
From your saviour,
Lovett
She wanted to laugh out loud but did not. She could hardly blame him for orchestrating his own exit, even though such a thing was undoubtedly poor form, but she was curious to know how he would achieve it without appearing unforgivably rude. But, like the very best stage actor, there was a note of subtlety about his performance that was most convincing, almost as if he did this all of the time. His face clouded and he stood and quickly made his apologies.
‘If you will excuse me, ladies. An urgent state matter requires my attention.’
He strode purposefully from the room, the very picture of innocence, blithely and unrepentantly leaving the rest of them to endure Lady Eugenie’s interminable rendition of The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide without him. And Amelia could not help liking him for that as well.
* * *
Early the following morning, Amelia stood in the grand hallway with the butler, waiting for the Duke to make an appearance. Lovett was looking particularly pleased with himself.
‘I believe I gave His Grace’s valet a touch of the vapours when I instructed him to leave His Grace unshaven this morning. Then, when I showed him the suit of clothes he would be wearing, I swear I saw the upstart swoon. Mind you, I had the devil of a job finding workman’s boots big enough at such short notice. His Grace does have deceptively large feet.’
As if that were their cue, a pair of large, scuffed boots appeared at the top of the stairs and began to clomp down them. ‘Are you sure that these are not clogs, Lovett? They certainly sound like them.’
The worn coat, shabby trousers and frayed shirt should not have made him seem more attractive, but bizarrely the sight of the pompous Duke looking just like a man was quite intoxicating. The lack of cravat meant that the base of his throat was exposed and Amelia found her eyes were suddenly transfixed to that spot.
‘Those would be the hobnails, Your Grace,’ Lovett explained helpfully. ‘They are hammered into the soles of boots to increase their durability.’
By the time he had noisily reached the bottom of the stairs, she could see the day’s worth of stubble on his jaw and her own throat went dry.
‘This coat itches.’
‘Coarse wool has a tendency to be a little abrasive, Your Grace. Try not to scratch it. You will get used to the discomfort soon enough.’ Lovett made no attempt to hide his delight at the spectacle of his employer dressed like a labourer and stepped back so that he could take a thorough survey of his creation. ‘You almost pass muster, Your Grace.’
‘Almost? What is wrong?’
At that, Lovett stepped forward and held up his palms. ‘If you will permit me to make some minor adjustments, Your Grace?’
The Duke nodded and the butler plunged his fingers into his master’s hair and ruffled it mercilessly. At the top of the stairs, the valet whimpered at the destruction of his only piece of work this morning and then scurried away with his hand covering his mouth in mortification. Satisfied, Lovett grinned. ‘Perfection, Your Grace. Now you look as common as muck.’
No, he didn’t, thought Amelia with mounting alarm, he looked delightfully dishevelled and completely accessible. The mussed hair, stubble and bare throat made him appear as she imagined he would had he just got out of bed. A part of her was disappointed that he was wearing clothes. A larger part was horrified that she would even think such a thing.
‘The carriage is outside, Your Grace, and I have instructed the driver to drop you in Piccadilly.’
‘Very good, Lovett. Shall we, Miss Mansfield?’ Solicitously, he held out his arm and smiled at her boyishly, the last vestiges of the pompous Duke gone.
Amelia nodded curtly. It was the only response she could muster at that precise moment. It was all so surreal, and so utterly charming, that it was overwhelming. He was charming. And handsome. Even in hobnails.
And an aristocrat.
She had to remember that. The clothes did not make the man. Underneath the coarse coat he was still a duke and she should never lose sight of that fact.