As the mantel clock struck midnight, the Duke of Strathmore was sitting on his bed in his quilted silk dressing gown, his feet propped against a hot water bottle. With his last pipe of the day tucked in the corner of his mouth he was glancing through a magazine when a light knock on the door pulled him back to the present. It was probably his friend come to wish him good night. “Come.” Peering over the rims of his reading spectacles his lips twisted in disgust as Agnes, balancing a tea tray on her hip, closed the door behind her and approached his side of the bed. She stood there staring at him with that frozen enigmatic look that said nothing, yet somehow conveyed an impression of contempt.
“I brought you a pot of warm honey-milk.” She set the tray on the bedside table and then returned to staring at him.
“Thank you Mrs Smirke.” Strathmore sighed in irritation as she eyed him like a flea under a microscope. “Madam, is your husband having difficulties performing his conjugal duties or is this just a midnight social visit? Either way, I’m not in the mood.”
Her eyes raked over the length of his person and then looked him in the eyes. “The day I’m tempted by your scrawny limbs Strathmore, I’ll be chained in Bedlam.”
“That’s a relief Madam; I find you as alluring as an empty coffin on a perfect day. If I’d been forced to wed you, you wouldn’t ever have died in childbed.”
Agnes pursed her lips, but it was impossible to tell if she was amused or irritated. “James says you loved your wife. Of course that would have required a heart. I find it difficult to believe such an organ resides in your chest.”
“You’ll have to take my word Madam that I have one. I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to carve open my rib cage to prove a point.”
“It’s just as well. Your blood would ruin my bedclothes.”
“So to what sin do I owe the purgatory of your presence Madam?”
“My curiosity was aroused this afternoon by Lord Warenne’s dramatic demand for lost letters. While you and James were smoking in the study early this evening I ordered the carriage and called on Miss Priscilla Stanley. It was quite illuminating; Lady Catherine was in hysterics at the thought of her old maid cousin becoming a Duchess. Lord Llewellyn had an ugly head wound where his wife had thrown a vase after he unwisely refused to call you out and your supposed fiancé was locked in her chamber sobbing for Lord Warenne. Her trunks were packed for what I suspect was a one way trip against her will to some uncivilised colony where you’d never find her. On learning that I too thought you a heartless fiend Miss Priscilla was exceedingly loquacious…aren’t you going to ask me what happened next?”
“I assume you’re about to tell me…there’s no torment in silence.”
“True; on finding me in her cousin’s room Lady Catherine abused me roundly as your accomplice. I then gave Lady Catherine some pointers on running a smooth household and removed Miss Stanley to somewhere safe.”
“Is that all? I was hoping to get some sleep tonight.”
“You certainly won’t have to worry about Captain Foster disappearing with your unwilling bride…I’ve taken care of him.”
“What did you do, give him the kiss of death?”
“Did you know your cousin Gwen was in town to take the waters? Apparently she’s been suffering from some sort of bilious complaint; probably due to eating too much marzipan. She’s a beautiful intelligent woman and desperate, as you know, to marry before her brother spends her dowry. It’s a pity her penchant for pirates seems to irritate most men. I would have thought they’d be keen for an excuse to swagger about singing, ‘What Shall We Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?’.”
Strathmore sat up straight, his eyes protruding in horror as the unthinkable was given weight by Agnes’s cold smile. “You didn’t. You couldn’t. Blast you!”
“I was quite lucky. I found her at home dressed to go to the Assembly rooms for the evening entertainment. It was easy to persuade her to meet Captain Foster otherwise known as ‘The Black Heart of Calcutta’. When she saw him her eyes lit up like…well like a woman who sees her dream man approaching like a storm at sea. Captain Foster took some convincing to attend a dance without being properly attired, but I assured him his rough seaman clothes would be to his advantage with a certain wealthy lady who dreamed of pirates. Playing cupid gives one such a good feeling, especially when there’s the bonus of knowing it ruins your latest scheme. I’d wager your carriage that Gwen beats you to the altar. I’m sure it’ll be a trial having Captain Foster in the family, but I suspect Gwen will keep him so occupied swaggering about singing awful songs, that he won’t have time to pinch your silver…at least not much of it.”
“You’ll regret your interference.” The ferocious growl merely raised an elegant eyebrow.
“I don’t think so Strathmore. James loves me; anything that hurts me will hurt my husband. Do you remember what it feels like to love a woman Strathmore? Ah, I see by the pain in your eyes that you do. Perhaps you have a heart after all. Perhaps you should use it, before it shrivels up and dies.”
“I’ve sent the announcement to the papers. I’m going to marry Miss Stanley and that’s the end of it.”
“Let it go Strathmore; making other people miserable will never ease your own misery.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Yes I’m sure you have…James’s family will start arriving soon for their annual Christmas gathering. I hope you’ll spend Christmas with us. You could even send for your son. Peter’s boys are all about Bowmont’s age. James’s little brother John is expected any day; he always sleeps in here. Just because you hate each other doesn’t mean you can’t share a bed for a few weeks. Good night Strathmore; pleasant dreams.” Strathmore sneered as the ice maiden gracefully put more coal on the fire and quietly pulled his door closed after her. He slumped over on his side overwhelmed by the awful need for his wife. He tried to imagine her in his arms, but the soft soothing roar of the fire was irregularly disturbed by the sound of the man in the next room sobbing in his sleep. It was impossible. He couldn’t pretend anything with that racket disturbing his thoughts. He jumped out of bed, unlocked his travelling desk and grabbed Lord Warenne’s love letters. He quietly crept into the next room and closed the door behind him. He marched over to the bed and viciously jabbed the sleeping man in the chest until long wet lashes fluttered open.
“What the devil…?”
Strathmore held up the letters, “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten; they’re all here. No one’s read them. Who’d want to? Look; I’m putting them safely under your pillow. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten; now shut up and stop bawling in your sleep. Are you a man or a milksop? Stop whinging and moaning about evil Strathmore cutting in. If you want your lucky Penny then get a spine and do something about it.”
“I can’t, I’m ill.”
“I feel ill every time I look at you Pinhead. Now stop bawling; you’re disturbing my sleep.” Back in his own room, Strathmore heartily wished he’d never met either of the sobbing lovers. His impulsive wrath had landed him in yet another miserable bramble bush. He was now honour bound to marry a woman who loathed him. It was true he needed to marry and produce a few more brats, but not at the expense of turning his favourite pleasure into daily torture. Sharing a marital bed with the sobbing Priscilla promised to be as pleasurable as hell and it was all Lord Pinhead’s fault.
Strathmore carefully removed his glasses and put out his pipe as he muttered curses at the sick man in the next room. The young idiot had insisted on wagering his stupid carriage in a game of cards and then refused to accept the worth of Strathmore’s old carriage in gold. The pinhead had insisted on like for like within earshot of a large sneering audience. Not wanting to expose his heart, Strathmore had been forced to wager the carriage his wife had finished refurbishing for him weeks before she died. The happiest months of his life had been stitched into the seat covers and window shades she’d lovingly embroidered with his coat of arms. He’d been forced to betray his sweetheart because the lucky pinhead didn’t want to win coins he’d have to count.
Her needlework had probably been torn out and thrown away along with his most precious memories. If Lord Pinhead had been as good and kind as Miss Priscilla Stanley thought him, he’d have taken one look at Strathmore’s old carriage with its faded feminine decorations and sent it back with a gentleman’s compliments. It seemed strange to think that he’d been younger than Lord Pinhead when he’d married the girl he’d courted for three years.
Feeling old and miserable, Strathmore gulped down a cup of hot milk, threw off his dressing gown and climbed into bed naked. The pleasant feel of clean linen against his skin reminded him of the imminent arrival of John Smirke. He’d burn in hell before he shared a bed with the pretty devil. He’d had enough of bramble bushes. He’d decamp first thing in the morning and return home where he could pretend his wife was away visiting her sister and pray his unwilling bride would jilt him. He’d have to see his son, but that could be kept to meal times. He’d have to remember to buy the boy a gift or the servants would think him cruel. Why did it always come down to what other people thought he should do or feel? It was a senseless chain around his neck that crushed him with hourly reminders of his inadequacies. The push and pull of daily life constantly threatened to wash away precious memories as if the cosmos had wagered it could tear even treasured moments from his heart, but he’d never forget his short taste of happiness. The insufferable Lord Pinhead had no idea of what it felt like to long for a woman or to suffer for love. Strathmore exhaled his jealous irritation into his pillow and cursed the sobbing lovers to hell. If he was lucky they’d run away to Scotland and leave him in peace.
Go to chapter 15