Читать книгу Compromising The Duke's Daughter - Mary Brendan, Mary Brendan - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Joan massaged her temples to ease her headache, then rolled on to her stomach, pulling a plump feather pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the sound of raised voices.

She had been in the process of replying to a letter from her beloved Fiona when her father’s bellows threatened to blow the roof off his opulent Mayfair mansion. Unable to concentrate, she’d abandoned the parchment and pen on her desk and curled up on her bed. Joan realised that her aunt had, despite being asked not to, blabbed to the Duke of Thornley about their disastrous trip that afternoon.

As the noise reached a crescendo, Joan swung her stockinged feet to the floor and felt for her slippers with her toes.

At any minute she was expecting to be summoned by her irate father so brushed the creases from her skirt and tidied straggling tendrils of conker-coloured hair into their pins. She knew the Duke would be livid...with good reason...and she would sooner go downstairs of her own volition than remain on tenterhooks till a sympathetic-looking servant tapped on her door. She knew that she must protect her aunt and Pip—especially Pip—from her father’s wrath. In a way she didn’t pity Dorothea; she’d asked the woman to keep quiet about the incident, as no harm had been done to them in the end. But it seemed her aunt had not been able to simply rest in her chamber while recovering from her scare.

Joan guessed Dorothea had found her brother in the small library, as that was from where the cacophony seemed to be issuing. Sighing, Joan immediately set off to own up to her father and take her punishment.

‘Ah...there you are,’ his Grace barked as his daughter entered the room. ‘You have saved me the task of sending a servant to summon you, miss. Philip Rook is on his way, as I hear he drove you on this madcap excursion. While we wait for him to arrive let me have your version of this afternoon’s folly.’

‘There is no need for Pip, or for Aunt Dorothea for that matter, to give an account, Papa,’ Joan said. She gave her aunt a rather disappointed look. ‘I can tell you what occurred and that it was all my fault.’

‘Very noble,’ the Duke said scathingly before snapping a harsh stare on his grizzling sister. ‘You can turn off the waterworks, madam. You were brought here to chaperon my daughter in my wife’s absence...a task as I recall you avowed was well within your capabilities.’ Alfred Thornley strode to and fro in front of the ornate chimneypiece. ‘There have been other instances when I have had to reprimand you over your inability to control a situation.’

‘I do my best, Brother,’ Dorothea mewled from behind her lace hanky. ‘I tried to dissuade her from having anything to do with the vicar. He is not suitable company for a person of Joan’s station...and neither are the brutes with whom he associates.’

‘The Reverend is perfectly nice!’ Joan retorted. ‘And the fact that he dedicates much time to those far less fortunate does him credit.’

‘Has Vincent Walters asked you to stump up any funds to assist him in his good deeds?’ Alfred demanded to know, depressingly aware of how alluring was his daughter to fortune hunters.

‘He has not, Papa,’ Joan replied flatly. ‘It was my idea to offer to teach the children to learn to read. How else are the disadvantaged ever to better themselves if they are denied skills to make accessible to them shop or clerical positions?’

The Duke’s expression softened slightly. ‘Your sincere concern for these vagabonds is very worthy, Joan. But you will not correct society’s ills by placing yourself in mortal danger.’

‘Getting lost was foolish...I admit it. But we arrived home safely,’ Joan argued. ‘We have so much and take it all for granted. It is our duty to endeavour to brighten the bleak futures facing those youngsters.’

‘I cannot gainsay you on that, my dear, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I might have been arranging the funerals of my daughter and sister and a member of my staff had things turned bad for you all. The Ratcliffe Highway murders are fresh in my mind, if not yours. You were but a schoolgirl at the time of the heinous crimes, of course,’ the Duke pointed out, but less robustly than he might have minutes before.

He despaired of his daughter’s impetuousness, but he grudgingly admired her, too, for her independence and benevolence. But from what he’d heard from Dorothea, and he believed it to be the truth, his travelling coach had been almost overrun with beggars threatening robbery and violence. And as a responsible parent he must punish his daughter’s bad behaviour.

The door opened and the butler, looking stern, ushered Philip Rook into the room.

Joan guessed that poor Pip had felt the rough side of Tobias Bartlett’s tongue; the youth looked terrified to be summoned into his eminent employer’s presence for the very first time. In the past the lad had merely seen the Duke in the stable yard from beneath the forelock he tugged. Pip’s complexion was alternating between scarlet and white as he stood, Adam’s apple bobbing, waiting to hear his fate.

‘You, Rook, were driving the coach this afternoon that got beset by a mob,’ the Duke stated.

‘I was, your Grace,’ Pip answered faintly, as his master continued to glare at him.

‘Pray why were you doing so and without a footman at least accompanying you?’

Pip licked his lips and blinked a glance Joan’s way.

‘He was doing so at my behest, Papa.’

Dorothea flapped her handkerchief at her brother, nodding vigorously to indicate the extent of the task confronting her to manage his wayward child.

‘And in this way you guessed the escapade might evade my notice, did you?’ the Duke suggested drily.

Joan winced as the barb hit home. Nothing escaped her father’s sharp mind.

‘In fact, had one of the other drivers taken you to St George’s in the East you might have avoided getting lost at all and returned home without me being aware of any of it.’

Joan’s blush deepened at the hint that she was an incompetent schemer.

‘My sister tells me that you were extremely fortunate that one of the locals did the decent thing and steered you out of the rookery before a disaster occurred.’ His Grace was frowning fiercely at his novice driver.

‘He weren’t a local, your Grace, he were Mr Rockleigh.’

The Duke of Thornley had been marching to and fro with his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered in concentration. Now he halted and pivoted on a heel to gawp at his servant. Joan also stared Pip’s way. She’d not believed for a second that her driver had recognised Drew Rockleigh from that one brief meeting, in the dark, over two years ago.

‘Mr Rockleigh?’ Alfred parroted in utter disbelief. ‘Do you mean Drew Rockleigh?’ The Duke looked to his daughter for a reply.

‘Yes, it was him, Papa,’ Joan answered quietly.

‘You knew that ruffian?’ Dorothea snorted. ‘I believed him to be one of them.’ She flapped a hand in disgust.

‘I believe he is now one of them,’ Joan said with genuine sorrow trembling her voice.

‘You may return to your post, Rook, and you, Sister, may also retire.’

‘I certainly did not know the ruffian was your stepson-in-law’s friend,’ Dorothea avowed while trotting towards the door. ‘I swear I got no proper look at him, Alfred...just his back was to me as he leapt down.’

His Grace hurried his sister on her way with a hand flap, but as Joan also approached the exit he halted her with a curt, ‘You stay, miss. I have much to discuss with you.’

Once the door had been closed the Duke again prowled about, much to his daughter’s relief. Joan had been expecting an immediate dressing down, but it seemed her father was still pondering on the startling news that Luke Wolfson’s best friend had been reduced to such poverty.

‘Did Rockleigh know your identity, Joan?’ Alfred enquired, still pacing.

‘He did, Papa.’

‘Did you talk about what prompted his fall from grace?’

‘No...we exchanged little conversation. It wasn’t the time or place for social niceties.’ Joan kept to herself that Drew Rockleigh had roundly castigated her for being abroad in the vicinity of Ratcliffe Highway.

‘I know some business went bad for him, but never would I have imagined he now frequents a notorious slum.’ The Duke of Thornley sorrowfully shook his head.

‘He seems quite able to take care of himself...but it was horrid meeting him there,’ Joan replied. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, that I put myself and my aunt and Pip in peril. But please don’t ask me to stop helping at the school—’

‘I ask nothing,’ the Duke interrupted. ‘I am telling you categorically that you will never attend that place again. And I shall write personally to your friend Vincent Walters to make it clear that I hold him responsible for imperilling you.’ The Duke’s impassioned speech had turned his complexion florid.

‘You cannot! It’s not the Reverend’s fault that I volunteered my services. And in any case he did impress on me that...’ Joan’s voice tailed away.

‘He did impress on you...what?’ his Grace demanded.

‘He said I shouldn’t undertake anything without your consent,’ Joan admitted sheepishly. She didn’t want Vincent Walters added to the list of people she’d caused to be scolded because of her determination to help those far less fortunate than herself.

The Duke appeared slightly mollified to know that the vicar had acted correctly. ‘I will not write and admonish him, then, if you promise to behave as you should.’ The Duke’s mind returned to the topic most engaging it. ‘Did Rockleigh appear much changed to you?’

‘Oddly...no...it took me only a short while to recognise him. Oh, the elements have browned his skin and bleached his hair. His body seemed broader, more muscled...’ The memory of that naked torso slick with sweat and blood streaks caused Joan to blush. ‘Of course his clothes were very grimy,’ she hastened on. ‘But he appeared quite healthy, apart from some cuts and bruises to his hands and face.’ She noticed her father’s deep frown. ‘He prize fights to pay for his keep, you see,’ she explained.

‘Fights? What...in the street?’ Alfred snorted. He recalled that he had once watched his stepson-in-law and Rockleigh sparring at Gentleman Jim’s gymnasium and thought them evenly matched. Rockleigh had won the bout and gone on to take a fencing match against Luke, too, that afternoon.

‘He pays his way by winning purses, so he said,’ Joan added.

‘I suppose something must be done to help him,’ the Duke rumbled beneath his breath. ‘Not so long ago that fellow did us a great service in keeping you safe and keeping confidential another of your hare-brained jaunts; now he has come to your assistance once more. He deserves a reward and methinks that he will be inclined to accept it this time.’

Joan shot a glance at her father. ‘You offered to reward him last time?’

‘I did, indeed!’ the Duke admitted forcefully. ‘What occurred wasn’t Rockleigh’s fault.’ He harrumphed. ‘I was embarrassed and humbled to learn that I’d wrongly accused him of seducing you, when all the fellow had done was put himself to the trouble of returning you home after you turned up on his doorstep.’

Joan flinched from the reminder of her shameful behaviour and from the memory of her father’s attempt to make Rockleigh marry her. He had refused to have her and in the end there had been no need for a forced marriage because the scandal had never leaked out. Only family and the reluctant bridegroom had ever been privy to what had gone on.

‘I will set an investigator to unearth him and arrange a payment.’ The Duke of Thornley was not simply being philanthropic; his busy mind was weighing up how the possession of a wealthy man’s secrets might corrupt a person down on his luck.

A muttered oath exploded between Alfred’s teeth as he imagined all manner of disastrous consequences following on from that dratted calamity in Wapping. He dismissed his daughter with urgent finger flicks, pondering on whether the vicar or Rockleigh or both of them might present him with a problem.

When she’d been about fifteen Joan had been soft on her best friend’s cousin. Vincent Walters, for his part, had encouraged Lady Joan’s attention more than was decent for a fellow of his calling or station in life, in Alfred’s opinion. His late wife had reassured him that there was nothing to worry about. Girls blossoming into womanhood liked to flirt at such a tender age, she’d told him, because they were fascinated by the new power they had recently acquired over gentlemen. She’d maintained that Vincent was simply being courteous and kind in his mild responses. By then the Duchess had been quite poorly and Alfred had not wanted to worry his wife by overreacting. Privately he had let the Reverend know by glowering look and barbed comment that he wasn’t happy about the situation. In hindsight, Alfred accepted it had amounted to little more than Joan fluttering her eyelashes and the vicar and his relations being entertained to tea more often than was usual. Within a few months his daughter had turned sixteen and had made her come out at her mama’s insistence. The doctor had warned that the Duchess might not survive the coming winter weather and his wife had dearly wanted to see Joan launched into society.

During that glittering Season in town Joan had been plagued by admirers. However, Alfred had made sure that the gentlemen’s clubs had been rife with talk that the Duke of Thornley considered his sixteen-year-old daughter too young to become a wife and wouldn’t countenance a meeting with any suitor for at least two years. But Joan’s girlhood crush on the vicar had mellowed into a friendship even before the leaves on the trees turned to gold that year, and shortly after her beloved mama’s passing had caused a black cloud to descend on the entire Thornley household.

With a sigh, Alfred wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was quite sure that no renewed infatuation with the vicar had made Joan risk the trip to the East End of London. She was a young woman who was too aware of her privileges and society’s injustices, and would help those less fortunate when an opportunity arose.

Alfred dragged his mind back to the pressing matter of the real or imaginary threat that a different fellow might present to his family.

Drew Rockleigh had it within his power to ruin Lady Joan Morland. Their unexpected meeting today might have jogged the fellow’s memory to the value of the information he held against her. Alfred knew the boxer might even now be pondering making contact with him to quote a price for his continuing silence. He would like to think that conscience and morals would prevent Rockleigh ever stooping so low, but an empty belly could make a sinner out of a saint.

Jerking open a bureau drawer, Alfred found a pen and parchment. He was keen to write to the Pryke Detective Agency to have the matter nipped in the bud rather than wait for it to flourish.