The Duke of Dellborough

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Tea with the Duke of Dellborough

 

“Your Grace,” said the Duke of Dellborough, the deep inclination of his head showing his respect for his peer’s estimable wife.

“Your Grace,” replied the Duchess of Haverford, with a polite curtsey, equal to equal.

He offered his arm. “May I purchase you a cup of tea?”

The duchess checked the whereabouts of her intrepid sons. The oldest was sailing a boat on the pond, with his tutor watching indulgently. The youngest was currently feeding ducks under the supervision of a nursemaid, but was as likely as not to take it into his darling but stubborn little head to leap into the pond after either a duck or his brother’s boat.

“Yes,” she said to the duke once she was reassured the tutor and nursemaid had all under control. “That would be pleasant. But if you would, Dell, not out of sight of my son.” An innovative street peddlar had set up a little booth with a pot-stove to boil water and little round tables with chairs. Undoubtedly the park authorities would move him on before long, but in the meantime, Eleanor would enjoy a cup of tea.

“Of course.” His smile was for a memory, distant and sweet. “My beloved duchess was similarly concerned with our brood, though we had nursemaids and governesses and tutors galore. Tell me, Eleanor, as an old friend, how are you? And how is that husband of yours?”

Trust Dellborough to tread into such fraught territory. Nobody else in Society dared to mention the Duke of Haverford to his duchess or vice versa.

“I could not tell you, Dellborough,” she replied. “I have not seen  him in nearly a year.” Not since he had attempted to revisit his duchess’s bed despite the state of his intimate health and in breach of the agreement they had made for two sons, and she threatened him with documented evidence of lèse-majesté.

Dell sent her an amused glance, his eyes twinkling. “Dear me, I am Dellborough again. Do I owe you an apology, Your Grace? Or is it not me you are cross with?”

Eleanor swatted his arm with her fan. “You are far too perceptive, you impertinent man. And what is this I hear about you marrying that young man of yours to an even younger bride.”

“Tit for tat, Eleanor? But as it happens, Thornstead and his Aurelia are what I wanted to talk to you about. Aurelia in particular. She has the makings of a good wife and a magnificent duchess, but she is only seventeen. I am concerned about the pair of them. The marriage seemed like a good idea at the time, and once Thornstead met Aurelia he was besotted.” He sighed.

“What can I do to help, dear friend?” Eleanor asked, though in truth, it had been Dell’s duchess who was her friend. Still, for Maryanne’s sake…

“Just keep an eye on her, if you would, and I know I can trust you for a word in time, if needed.”

“Whether it will be heard is another matter,” Eleanor warned, “but of course I will do what I can.”

***

The Duke of Dellborough is a character in my current work in progress, The Sincerest Flattery. The year is 1791. Dell’s son and heir, Percival Versey, Marquess of Thornstead, is the hero, and the heroine is Aurelia Moreland, the daughter of the Earl of Byrne.

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Family on WIP Wednesday

I am rather enjoying my hero’s father in The Sincerest Flattery. Here’s a sample.

“I believe our children are in here,” Lord Byrne was saying, as he walked in the door. A step behind him was His Grace, the Duke of Dellborough.

Both young men shot to their feet, and bowed. “Your Grace,” they chorused.

“Here are mine,” His Grace said to Lord Byrne. “Yours appears to be missing. What have you done with your betrothed, Thornstead?”

“You missed her by a few minutes, Your Grace. Her mother sent for her.”

“I shall have her fetched,” Byrne announced, and disappeared back out the door.

His Grace approached his sons. “So. You are both here. Thornstead, you are back on your feet, if not quite as hale and hearty as a fond parent might hope. Lancelot, you have also been ill, from the look of you. Sicker than Thornstead, one might even guess.”

Lance blushed and Percy felt a stab of guilt. “Did my letter not reach you, Your Grace? I wrote to let you know what happened at the inn, and that I was better.”

The ducal eyebrows lifted halfway. A sardonic remark was on its way. “Your letter was—I shall not say appreciated, Thornstead. One struggles to summon appreciation for a letter that explains one’s eldest son and heir has been robbed and left for dead by a villain one selected oneself to be that young man’s most trusted servant.” His Grace their father held it as an important tenet that a gentleman never showed emotion, but apparently even His Grace made exceptions, for cold anger edged every word.

“I survived, sir,” Percy pointed out. “Thanks largely to the innkeeper’s wife.”

“Yes,” the duke drawled, “and you will no doubt be gratified to know that that part of your message pleased me. Especially since the previous mail had brought me no fewer three other messages that left me in doubt about that agreeable fact.”

“I wrote as soon as I could, sir,” Percy protested.

“Yes, my boy. And I am glad you did. The gratifying news that you were alive was, of course, a relief to a father’s heart. I could have wished for slightly more detail before I set off up the Great North Road at a pace not consistent with my dignity nor, I fear, my age. ”

Percy, processing that remark, was touched to think his father had set off north at high speed.

“I am, however, pleased to see you, young Lancelot, since my three letters all mentioned Thornstead, and ignored the existence, or at least the presence, of my second son. And Thornstead’s letter was sparse on the details important to a father, saying only, ‘I am now heading off to join Lance’. But one was left to wonder, joining Lance where? And why were my sons, who left together, in two different places?”

At that point, Lord Byrne reappeared, escorting Lady Byrne and Aurrie. Aurrie looked unhappy. No. Subdued was a better word. As if some vital part of her had been extinguished. Lord and Lady Byrne fussed over the duke, who thanked them politely for their letters. Apparently, they had both arrived on the same day, one calling His Grace north as soon as possibly, for his son Thornstead was seriously ill, and the doctor feared for his life, followed by one that assured the duke that Thornstead was on the mend.

That accounted for two of the duke’s three letters, but Percy realised that they must have left His Grace with the wrong impression.

“Sir,” he said, when there was a pause in Lady Byrne’s assurances that they had been delighted to look after the young lord. “Lord and Lady Byrne did not realise that their patient was actually Lance, and not me. Lance was sick when he arrived, you see, and they found my signet ring and assumed he was me.”

“Thornstead, you have no ambition to become a novelist, one hopes,” His Grace replied. “I would not mention it, except that you seem to be beginning the story in the middle.”

He bowed to the two ladies. “Perhaps, if Lady Byrne and Lady Aurelia would permit, we might be seated to hear what happened in its proper order?”

Aurrie flushed a bright red at the subtle rebuke. Lady Byrne, whose responsibility it was to make guests feel welcome and comfortable, did not even notice she had been reminded of her duties. “Of course, dear duke. Do be seated, please. I haven’t heard this story myself. I wondered why Lord Lancelot was pretending to be his brother, but Lord Byrne said it was all a mistake and I was not to be concerned. It seemed very peculiar.” She frowned. “It was very peculiar. Do you not think so, duke?”

“We shall hear what Thornstead and Lancelot have to say, shall we?” His Grace replied.

Lord Byrne comment, “I have sent for tea and my daughter has ordered a room made up for you, Dellborough. Ah, yes, and here is the tea.”

“I shall pour for us all and the maid shall pass the tea around,” Lady Byrne announced. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

His Grace, who would have preferred a wine, inclined his head in polite appreciation and asked for a cup with tea only, no additions. His sons, who were familiar with his smallest gesture, picked up his impatience from the tap of one middle finger on his thigh, but he said nothing as the lady continued chattering as she poured the tea.

He spoke, however, as soon as Lancelot was served and the maid withdrew.

“Now, if you please, Thornstead, and in order.”