Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
20
“Miss Grantly,” Jacobs, the Marsh's butler intoned, “you have a visitor.” He held out a silver tray.
Dear God, she hoped it wasn’t the dressmaker again. She’d been pricked and poked with enough pins within the last fortnight to last her a lifetime. The woman usually made an appointment, but her last visit was not planned. Jemma’s betrothed kept adding to her trousseau. Nick, as it turned out, could be more thorough in the dressing of a woman than a lady’s maid. She wished to warn him of his highhandedness, but he avoided her, neither attempting to see or speak to her since that day in the conservatory. All communication for her came through Uncle John.
I caused this. I asked for this.
Her father’s deceit would be with her always, but at least she no longer woke up every day feeling as if a stone sat on her chest. She thought if she waited, perhaps a bit longer, Nick would make the first move and try to see her. As the weeks dragged on though, it was becoming clearer that if she wished to speak to her future husband before their wedding, she would need to extend the olive branch first.
Sighing, she took the card, expecting to see the dressmaker’s name but instead her eyes flew to the Dunbar coat of arms. Beneath, in perfect gold script read Lady Arabella Tremaine.
Petra looked up from her embroidery. “Oh dear, is it the dressmaker again? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many fittings and so many gowns. I wonder that you’ll be able to wear them all.”
Jemma’s mouth went dry.“No, not the dressmaker, though for once I wish it was.” Nick’s sister did not bother to disguise her dislike for Jemma, so there was little likelihood that Arabella was paying a social call.
Petra laughed. "I've never seen such an assortment of gowns and underthings. I still can't believe you are to marry the Duke of Dunbar. I wish you had told me of your prior relationship as I pattered on about him.”
“He called himself Viscount Lindley when I met him,” Jemma said lying automatically, using Nick’s former title. Her uncle explained to the family that Jemma, living in Bermuda, would not know of the death of Nick’s grandfather, and thus not know Nick by his current title. It was the simplest way to explain why Jemma remained silent as Petra spoke of the duke.
“Yes,” Petra shot her a look of sympathy, “and all that time you thought he didn’t care and he thought you were dead.” Petra was a rather hopeless romantic. “But you have found each other again.”
“Indeed we have.” Could she pretend not to be home for her future sister-in-law?
“My lady?” Jacobs, with a servant’s intuitiveness, said, “Shall I say you are not at home? Perhaps abed with a headache?”
Petra put down her embroidery hoop with a frown and marched over to Jemma, her skirts swinging. Snatching the note out of Jemma's hand, her eyes widened in panic as she saw who called upon her cousin.
“Good Lord. Lady Arabella.” The blood left Petra’s face. “Why is she here?”
“I’m here.” Lady Arabella waltzed in, pausing only to wave Horace away. “To speak to my brother’s betrothed.” She said the last with particular distaste, her full lips pursing as if she sucked on a lemon. “Your presence.” She glared at Petra. “Is not required.”
Lady Arabella sauntered over to the sofa facing Jemma. “Be useful,” she said over her shoulder to Petra who stood still clutching the calling card in one hand, shocked into silence by Arabella’s intrusion. “Send for tea." She flounced down across from Jemma, her dark eyes glittering with dislike.
Jemma wondered what on earth Arabella wanted. They’d been re-introduced, of course at the Cambourne ball, but barely spoke, Arabella’s attitude one of chilling indifference. If the two women did see each other in public, Arabella made a point of avoiding Jemma. Invitations from Aunt Mary for luncheon or tea were returned with curt regrets, followed by much hand wringing from her aunt. Jemma wondered that Nick’s own aunt didn’t take Arabella in hand and teach her better manners. Truth be told, Jemma did not care for Arabella either, finding her to be so bitter she could likely turn wine to vinegar.
Arabella's eyes, such a dark brown they were nearly black, looked Jemma over from head to toe. Her lips curled in disdain as if Jemma were wanting in some way. Hair, a shade darker than her brother’s but with the same red glints, was pulled back severely from the thin oval of her face and twisted into two large braided hoops over each ear. Bits of topaz dangled from each ear, complementing the coffee colored gown she wore. She looked privileged and elegant, though the gown and hairstyle would better suit a woman twice Arabella’s age.
“Well?” Arabella said, addressing Petra while keeping her eyes firmly on Jemma. “I’m quite parched. Do get on with it. Surely you can ask for tea to be sent?” Arabella tapped her foot in irritation.
Petra stood frozen, her mouth still slightly agape. She looked like a mouse paralyzed upon being discovered by a cat.
“I knew the Devils of Dunbar were infamous for many things, but I did not think rudeness one of them,” Jemma said curtly to Arabella. “Do not speak to my cousin in such a way.”
Lady Arabella favored Jemma with a taut smile that could have curdled milk. “Would you please,” she addressed Petra, “leave us and send for tea.”
“Of course.” Petra fairly raced from the room, nearly upending a cluster of figures on a table in her haste to get away.
A satisfied smirk crossed Arabella’s lips. “It boggles the mind that Nick would even have considered her. What little backbone she has would have been destroyed by my brother within a week, and myself the following.”
“I’m thrilled, Lady Arabella,” she kept her tone mild, “that you have graced me with a visit. I know how busy you must be as evidenced by the number of times you’ve refused my aunt's invitations to tea.”
“So you are the girl from Bermuda.”
“Clearly. I believe that has been established.”
“Yes.” Arabella raised a brow. “The traitor's daughter. From Bermuda.” She lay back against the plump cushions of the sofa as if they were discussing the latest fashions.
Jemma tried not to let her surprise show on her face and kept her breathing normal, even though inside her stomach shifted so forcefully she thought she’d be ill all over her aunt’s favorite sofa. How could Arabella know the truth? She clasped her hands calmly in her lap and ignored Arabella’s little speech.
“Do you have something you wish to discuss?” Jemma asked pointedly as a maid brought in tea, setting the tray down gently between Jemma and Arabella. “Or is there more? I'll pour if it will hurry you along.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed. “My, my, Nick did say you have a bit of a temper. Jem.”
Jem.His nickname for her, and one she did not think he would use in front of his sister or anyone else for that matter.
“Do I?” Jemma reached over to the steaming teakettle and poured for Arabella, then herself. “Sugar? I'm certain you could use a bit of sweetening. For your tea, of course.” Jemma had absolutely no intention of cowering in front of this rude, mean spirited girl, nor did she dare give credence to Arabella’s words about Jemma’s father.
A small hissing noise came from Arabella’s lips and she blinked twice. “You would not be so smug were your father rotting in chains and your precious family branded traitors.”
Jemma forced herself to remain calm to Arabella’s baiting. “I’ve a busy day, Lady Arabella, I’ve a wedding to plan and a trousseau being readied. I pray you—”
“I’ve heard the whole of it. I know the truth,” Arabella declared.
“Indeed?” Jemma sipped her tea, the heat of the brew on her tongue helping to steady her. If Arabella knew, what was to stop anyone else knowing?
“Yes. All of it.” Arabella brought the teacup to her lips and inhaled the subtle aroma. “Jem.”
Nick’s name for her coming from his sister unnerved her. “My name is Jane Emily. Forgive me, Lady Arabella, while I find our discussion most entertaining, I fear I must cut our conversation short.” Why would Nick tell his sister when he swore to her uncle to tell no one?
Arabella didn't budge. “My brother calls you that, doesn’t he?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Jem.” Arabella's resentment seeped through her words, filling the drawing room with a horrible dark bitterness.
What did Arabella want, exactly? A confession? A confirmation that Jemma’s father was a traitor? If Arabella did not leave soon, Jemma would leap across the table between them and perhaps pelt her future sister-in-law with sugar cubes until Arabella ran screaming from the room.
“Jem,” she said again. “I heard him say your name every evening, weeping, as he sought to drown his grief over you in a bottle of fine Irish whisky. But then, here you are,” she waved her hand, “miraculously alive and returned to my brother, the wealthy duke.”
Arabella’s words cut into Jemma like tiny swords, each nipping at enough of her flesh to leave her bleeding but still aware. She had never allowed herself to truly imagine how news of her death affected those she cared for, and certainly she did not contemplate Nick’s reaction, but the knowledge that he’d wept over her, broke Jemma’s heart. The words she’d said to him in the conservatory made all the more vile by the fact that he had mourned her so deeply. She walked through every day wishing she had not spoken such horrible things to him. Over the last weeks she’d had much time to consider the past and the future. Prideful and foolish she may be, but she loved Nick. She hoped he would at least allow her to tell him so.
Jemma's hand shook slightly, and she immediately set her cup down on the tray.
“More tea?” Arabella widened her eyes innocently, clearly enjoying Jemma's discomfort.
“Does the duke know you are here?” Jemma said softly.
The triumphant look in Arabella's eyes faded a bit, and she looked away for a moment.
“I thought not,” Jemma said, her voice neutral.
“I came to ask you something.” Nick's sister put down her cup next to Jemma's. Arabella's eyes, sharp like bits of brown glass, stared Jemma down and her voice took on the same whiskey filtered tone of her brother's. “You already have a betrothed, do you not? Why come to my brother under false pretenses? Have you not had enough of the Dunbar wealth that you must follow my brother to England to claim more?”
The reference to Augie made Jemma's heart skip a beat. How in God’s name could Arabella know about Augie? A chill crawled up her spine. Why would Nick tell Arabella such a thing? “Did His Grace tell you this incredible fable?”
Arabella gave a small shrug as if what they discussed were of no consequence. “Perhaps. I’m not sure you are even free to marry my brother. Surely, if you were betrothed to another man, that man would have a prior claim.”
She thought of Augie as he slapped her to the floor at Sea Cliff, of his gambling debts, of his greed for everything she owned. She thought of the Corbetts’ betrayal of her father and of her. She wondered if they had taken Sea Cliff for themselves and found she didn’t care, she cared only for Nick and what was left of the Marsh family. She would never return to Bermuda.
Poor manners though it was, it was time for Arabella to leave, whether she wished it or not. Jemma stood, looking down her nose at her future sister-in-law and used her most haughty demeanor. She would not allow this woman, nor anyone else, to harm her family. Nick may not love her any longer, nor ever forgive her, but Jemma was still betrothed to him.
“I’ll be sure and let His Grace know how much I enjoyed our visit, Lady Arabella.”
“I am not done speaking to you,”Arabella sneered.
“Yes, but I am quite done speaking to you, Arabella.”
Arabella drew in her breath sharply. Her nostrils flared with outrage.
“I’ve had quite enough of you for today, your reputation is well earned.” Jemma stood and regarded the woman who was now almost hissing like a trapped cobra on Aunt Mary’s sofa. “You do not frighten me, Arabella. You may be the sister of a duke,” her voice was even, “but I will be a duchess. I will not be subjected to your foul temperament. Nor do you have leave to speak to me so.”
Arabella shot off the sofa, her hands curled into fists at her sides. An ugly, mean look crossed over her beautiful features. “Make no mistake, I know what you are.” She made a choking sound. “You are nothing but the daughter of a traitor, by all rights you should be in rags begging in the streets. You lived well for years because of my family. My parents are dead because of you.” Her voice shook with rage. “You are the daughter of a servant. A maid. And you think you are good enough to marry a duke?”
Jemma placed both hands across her waist. Dear God, she would be ill. Had her uncle told Nick about her mother? He must have for how else could Arabella know such a thing?
“Did I not tell you, Jem, the Devils of Dunbar know everything?” Arabella smiled gleefully at her. “I will spend every moment dissuading my brother from this marriage. Every moment.” Her head shook, and her earbobs swung against the length of her neck.
Jemma stepped back carefully lest she trip on the rug and embarrass herself in front of this viper. She reached behind to grab at a tasseled cord to summon the butler, pulling so forcefully she thought she might tear the ringer from the ceiling.
Jacobs immediately appeared at the door. His knowing glance flitted over Arabella before looking directly at Jemma, belaying his concern at her evident distress. “Miss Grantly?”
“Please show Lady Arabella out. She's feeling ill and must return home immediately.” Would Arabella contradict her? She thought not.
“Yes. I’ve developed a sudden headache.” Arabella gathered her gloves and stood to face Jemma, tilting forward so that their noses nearly touched. “I wish you had stayed dead,” she snarled before sailing past Jacobs and through the drawing room doors.
“Is there anything I can bring you Miss Grantly?” Jacobs inquired politely.
Jemma didn't answer, she couldn't. Her temples throbbed with Arabella's horrible words. She must speak to Nick and end this foolish stalemate.
The butler nodded and began to shut the drawing room doors.
“Jacobs.”
The doors swung open again, and the butler’s head immediately reappeared. “My lady?”
“Bring me pen and paper. I need to send a message to His Grace immediately.”
