the Marquis of Aldridge

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Tea with an interviewer

(I wrote this for Caroline Warfield’s blog back in 2015. I thought it was time to dig it out again. Enjoy!)

Eleanor Grenford, Duchess of Haverford, seldom consents to an interview. Though she lives, perforce, in the public eye—as wife to one of the most powerful men in England and mother to two of England’s most notable rakes—she carefully guards her private life.

She agreed to answer our questions only after being assured that this interviewer is from the future and from real life, not the fictional world she inhabits.

Born Eleanor Creydon, eldest daughter of the Earl of Farnmouth, she is related by birth or marriage to most of the noble houses of England and many in the wider United Kingdom and Europe. She married the Duke of Haverford before she attained the 18th anniversary of her nativity, and has since become one of the ton’s leading hostesses.

She has a supporting (but important) role in many of Jude’s books.

  1. What are you most proud of about your life?

“My two sons,” says the duchess, without hesitation. “Aldridge—the Marquis of Aldridge, my elder son and Haverford’s heir—is responsible and caring. And Jonathan, too. They are, I cannot deny, a little careless. But they are not heartless, dear. I’ve always thought that being heartless is the defining feature of a true rake.

“They take responsibility for their by-blows, which is so important in a gentleman, do you not agree? And neither of them has ever turned a mistress off without providing for her, or at least not since they were very young.

“Sadly, the example set by His Grace their father was not positive in this respect. I flatter myself that I have been of some influence in helping them to understand that they have a duty to be kind to those less fortunate and less powerful than themselves.”

  1. What are you most ashamed of in your life?

The duchess does not answer immediately. She seems to be turning over several possibilities. “I neglected him, you know. I neglected Aldridge. When he was born, I left him to his servants. I thought that was normal, and Haverford… he was very angry when I suggested I should stay at the castle instead of going to London for the season.

“Why; even his name… Haverford insisted everyone call him by his title. But I could have called him ‘Anthony’ in private, could I not?

“Dear Aldridge had no-one but his staff. I was seldom at Margate, and when I was… His Grace thought it my duty to spend my time with him. I saw Aldridge once a day, brought to me clean and quiet of an evening before his bedtime.

“I had no idea what I had done until Jonathan was born. He timed his birth for the end of the season, and His Grace left for his usual round of house parties, so I could do as I wished. I wished to be in the nursery with my sons.

“After that, I found ways to bring them to London with me, and to spend time with them at play as often as several times a week! Even so, I did not dare go against the duke’s orders, and I call my son by his title to this day. Everyone does. Poor dear boy.”

  1. What impression do you make on people when they first meet you?

“People don’t see me, my dear. They see the Duchess of Haverford. I cannot blame them, of course. I am at pains to project the image of ‘duchess’. I have cultivated it my entire adult life. Why! If people truly saw me, they would be very surprised, I think.”

  1. Do you think you have turned out the way your parents expected?

“My parents expected me to marry well and to present my husband with heirs. Had I married beneath their expectations, I daresay I would never have seen them again. I cannot say, dear, that such an outcome would have been entirely a bad thing.”

  1. What is the worst thing that has happened in your life? What did you learn from it?

“I could say losing James, or I could say marrying Haverford, but it is all of a piece. I cannot tell you where the one ends and the other starts. I gave my heart to James, but he was a second son. My father gave my hand to Haverford.

“And by ‘hand’ I mean the rest of me, dear. Imagine a sheltered seventeen-year-old, innocent but for a stolen kiss with the man she hoped to wed. And instead of that man, I spent my wedding night in the hands of a hardened roué with no patience… He is two decades my senior, dear. Thirteen years older than James.

“I believe my sons are known for their skills. (I speak of bed sports, dear, and do not blush for it, for at our age we should scorn to be coy, and this article will be published, you have assured me, some two hundred years in my future.) If Haverford has such skills, and the rumour is not just flattery aimed at money to be made from his patronage, he did not feel inclined to waste it on a mere wife.”

  1. How do you feel about your life right now? What, if anything, would you like to change?

“I am fortunate. I live in luxury. I have my sons (or, at least, I have Aldridge close by and regular letters from Jonathan, who is on the Tour, dear). I have the little girls, too—Haverford’s by-blows, but I love them dearly. I can give them an education, respectability, a little dowry… I do these things, too, for my poorer godchildren, and I love nothing better than to present one of my goddaughters for her Season.

“I enjoy entertaining—balls, musical evenings, garden parties and picnics in London, and house parties at our other estates. My entertainments are famous. I have promised to be honest with you, so I will say ‘not without reason’.” The duchess laughs, her eyes for a moment showing glints of the self-deprecating humour that is part of her elder son’s attraction.

“And, dear, I have come to an accommodation with Haverford. He leaves me to live my own life, while he carries on with his. Between you and me, my dear, my life is pleasanter without him in it.”

  1. What have you always wanted to do but have not done? Why?

“I have always wondered what my life might have been like had I defied my father and eloped with James. He came to me, you know, after the duel; after his own father exiled him. I turned him away. And then, six months later we heard he was dead. I didn’t care what happened to me after that, so I gave in to my father’s demands and married Haverford.

“It wasn’t true, as it turned out. He arrived back in London not long ago, with a great band of wild children. I could have been their mother, had I been brave enough to go with him.

“But there. Had I married James, I would not have Aldridge and Jonathan. Perhaps all is as it should be.

“You asked what I have always wanted to do? I want to see James again; to talk to him, just the two of us. Haverford… he and James do not speak. We Grenfords do not acknowledge the Winderfields and they do not acknowledge us. If people are inviting James or his offspring to their social gathering, they do not invite us. If us, then not him. We do not meet.

“But Society is surprisingly small. One day… one day…”

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Monday for Tea

Another excerpt post, this one from A Baron for Becky

When Aldridge sought her out the following afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop: writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

“May I have a moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

“Not at all, Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son. Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery? Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

“Now, my dear, tell me how Mama can help.”

Aldridge waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak in private.

“Mama, Overton has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies before the girls are grown and married.”

Her Grace nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by then.”

Aldridge ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would marry when he must and not before.

“Of course I have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be done.”

The Duchess tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes distant.

“Something more might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

Aldridge watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a barony.”

His mother blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and contemplative.

“Only the old ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

“Letters Patent can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

“Over a century ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

She fell silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our little Belle cannot be a baroness.”

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Celebrating To Tame the Wild Rake week two

Second contest over. Congratulations to Andrea, our winner for week two.

See the new post for the week three contest, discount and giveaway.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Second week prize is:

Grand prize for the full six weeks

Each entry also gets you a place in the draw for the Grand Prize, to be drawn in six weeks.

  • A $50 gift voucher, provided I can organise for it to be purchased in your country of origin
  • A print copy of To Wed a Proper Lady
  • A personal card signed by me and sent from New Zealand
  • A made to order story — the winner gives me a recipe (one character, a plot trope, and an object). I write the story and the winner gets an ecopy three months before I do anything else with it, and their name in the dedication once I publish.

This week’s discount is 99c for To Wed a Proper Lady

Runs from 31 August to 7th September

Available at this price from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0841CJ7TQ/

or from my SELZ bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/to-wed-a-proper-lady-the-bluestocking-and-the-barbarian

This week’s giveaway at my SELZ bookshop is Hearts in the Land of Ferns.

Runs from 24 August to 6th September. Pick up from my bookshop: https://judeknight.selz.com/item/hearts-in-the-land-of-ferns

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The Rakehell in Fact and Fiction

A Rake’s Progress, Hogarth (1732-33). This progress was a series of eight paintings by William Hogarth showing the decline and fall of a man who wastes his money on luxurious living, sex, and gambling.

In modern historical romantic fiction, the hero is often described as a rake. Frequently, he has the reputation but not the behaviour. He is either misunderstood, or he is deliberately hiding his true nature under a mask, perhaps for reasons of state.

Even the genuine player is not what they would have called a rakehell back in the day. He cats around, sleeping with multiple lovers (either sequentially or concurrently) or keeping a series of mistresses, or both. But when he falls in love with the heroine he puts all of that behind him, and—after undergoing various trials—becomes a faithful husband and devoted family man.

Yesterday’s rakehell was a sexual predator

John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester was part of the Merry Gang, the original Restoration rakes who surrounded Charles II. He is known for his lovers, his poetry, his profligate behavior, and an unending stream of scandal. He is said to have been constantly drunk for five years, and died at only 33 years of age.

The Georgian and Regency rakehell was a far less benign figure. Back then, a rakehell was defined as a person who was lewd, debauched, and womanising. Rakes gambled, partied and drank hard, and they pursued their pleasures with cold calculation. To earn the name of rake or rakehell meant doing something outrageous—seducing innocents, conducting orgies in public, waving a public flag of corrupt behaviour under the noses of the keepers of moral outrage. For example, two of those who defined the term back in Restoration England simulated sex with one another while preaching naked to the crowd from an alehouse balcony.

Then, as now, rakes were self-centred narcissists who acknowledged no moral code, and no external restraint either. Their position in Society and their wealth meant they could ignore the law, and they didn’t care about public opinion. What they wanted, they took. A French tourist, writing towards the end of the 19th century said:

“What a character! How very English! . . . Unyielding pride, the desire to subjugate others, the provocative love of battle, the need for ascendency, these are his predominant features. Sensuality is but of secondary importance. . . In France libertines were frivolous fellows, whereas here they were mean brutes. . .”

Real rakehells were sexual predators and morally bankrupt, seducing innocents and partying their estates into debt and themselves into early graves. Not at all befitting a romantic hero!

Most 18th and early 19th century aristocrats (1700 to 1830) would not have called themselves rakes

Francis Dashwood, 11th Baron le Despencer, fount time between his political duties and his promiscuous sexual activities to found and run the Hellfire Club, whose members included some of the most powerful men of the day. They gathered to share their interests: sex, drink, food, dressing up, politics, blasphemy, and the occult.

Historians have commented that we see the long Georgian century through the lens of the Victorian era, and our impressions about moral behaviour are coloured by Victorian attitudes. The Georgians expected men to be sexually active, and where women were concerned, they worked on the philosophy that if no one knew about it, it wasn’t happening. If visiting brothels, taking a lover, or keeping a mistress, was all it took to be defined as a rake, most of the male half of Polite Society would be so called. And a fair percentage of the female half.

Drunkenness certainly didn’t make a man a rake—the consumption of alcohol recorded in diaries of the time is staggering. (Even taking into account that both glasses and bottles were smaller.) Fornication and adultery weren’t enough either, at least when conducted with a modicum of discretion (which meant in private or, if in public, then with other people who were doing the same thing).

In the late 18th and early 19th century, one in five women in London earned their living from the sex trade, guide books to the charms, locations, and prices of various sex workers were best-selling publications, men vied for the attention of the reigning courtesans of the day and of leading actresses, and both men and women chose their spouses for pedigree and social advantage then sought love elsewhere. The number of children born out of wedlock rose from four in 100 to seven (and dropped again in the Victorian). And many women had children who looked suspiciously unlike their husbands.

The more things change, the more they remain the same

Lord Byron. Described as mad, bad, and dangerous to know, Byron was admired for his poetry and derided for his lifestyle. When a series of love affairs turned sour, he married, but within a year his wife could no longer take his drinking, increased debt, and lustful ways (with men and women).

Some of today’s sports and entertainment stars, and spoilt sons of the wealthy, certainly deserve to be called rakehells in the original sense of the word. And just as the posted videos and images of today show how much the serial conquests are about showing off to the rake’s mates, the betting books that are often a feature of historical romances performed the same function back then.

Given access to social media, yesterday’s rakehell would be on Tinder.

Lord Byron earned the appellation ‘rake’ with many sexual escapades, including—so rumour had it—an affair with his sister. His drinking and gambling didn’t help, either. But none of these would have been particularly notable if they had not been carried out in public.

The Italian adventurer Giacomo Casanova mixed in the highest circles, and did not become notorious until he wrote the story of his life.

On the other hand, William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Devonshire, lived with his wife and his mistress, who was his wife’s best friend. The three did not share the details of their relationship with the wider world, so there was gossip, but not condemnation. Devonshire is also rumoured to have been one of Lady Jersey’s lovers (the mother of the Lady Jersey of Almack fame). He was not, at the time, regarded as a rake.

(This is an update of a post I wrote in 2016, when I published A Baron for Becky, in which an actual rake hires a mistress, falls in love with her, falls out of love with her, and arranges for her to marry his best friend. This year, I’m publishing the book in which he finally is the romantic hero.)

Also see a couple of posts on some of the consequences of the lifestyle:

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Family in WIP Wednesday

Today, I’ve typed THE END in To Tame the Wild Rake, which is the fourth novel in The Return of the Mountain King, and the long-awaited love story for the Marquis of Aldridge. My excerpt is from that novel, and shows Aldridge with his half-brother, David. The two have become easier with one another since their confrontations in Revealed in Mist (four and a half years ago in author time, seven years in book time). But there’s still an edge there.

“I don’t like this unrest in the slums,” Aldridge said to his half-brother, David Wakefield, as they rode side by side to Winshire house to visit their newly discovered nephew.

“It is bad,” Wakefield agreed. “Arson attacks, riots, assaults—all seemingly unrelated, and all against philanthropic organisations.”

“Supported by the Haverfords, the Winshires, or both,” Aldridge pointed out.

“Which is not necessarily a link,” Wakefield cautioned. “The ladies of both families are heavily involved in many different charitable ventures.”

Aldridge raised an incredulous brow. “Are you telling me that you don’t see Wharton’s hand in this?”

Wakefield shrugged. “So far, the incidents appear to trace back to widely disparate sources. Individuals with a grudge, such as the chimney sweep who broke into the orphanage on Fairview Street with ten of his mates, purportedly to find boys to replace those he claims the trustees stole from him, or the brothel keeper with a grudge against Vicar Basingstoke’s mission to offer alternative occupations to sex workers.”

“It’s Wharton,” Aldridge insisted.

“You could be right. But I can’t prove it, Aldridge. It may be a series of coincidences.”

Aldridge shook his head. “I don’t believe in that level of coincidence.”

Wakefield grimaced. “Whether it is a plot or coincidence, those behind the attacks have overstretched. The little people of the slums have been hurt, and my agents can scarcely keep up with all those wishing to slip us bits of information.”

They broke off the conversation as they moved into single file to pass a stopped cart that blocked most of the street, and only resumed once they had turned the corner into a wider avenue.

“A dozen people have been taken into custody, all of them linked to at least one of the crimes, none of them to all of them. And none of them are known to be working for Wharton. I have to follow the evidence. I’d hate to miss something by concentrating on him when something else is going on — or someone else is behind all this turmoil. But if there is a link, I’ll find it.”

“I’ve suggested that Mama and the girls leave early for Christmas with our sister Matilda, but Her Grace insists that they have accepted several invitations for the next week.” Aldridge sighed, then shook his head. “At least she has agreed that none of them will go anywhere without armed footmen in attendance.”

“Your men are well trained,” Wakefield agreed, “and if the ladies will stay out of the slums, they should remain safe. So far all of the attacks have been in areas no lady should visit.”

Aldridge response was a rude noise, which drew a smile from his brother. Like the Winderfield ladies, the Haverford ladies took a hands-on approach to philanthropy, and several of the institutions they supported were based in areas that Aldridge would prefer his ladies to stay away from.

“It could not come at a worse time,” he told Wakefield. “I have to leave in the next couple of days if I am to get to Haverford Castle and back in time to escort the duchess to the Hamners’. I need to see the duke’s condition for myself and make sure the doctors are very clear about what I expect from them. If I don’t go now, while the weather is reasonable, it could be a month or even two before I am able to make the trip.”

“What do the doctors say?” Wakefield asked.

Aldridge snorted again, this sound closer to disgust than laughter. “Three of them, and all of them with a different opinion. One wants to dose him with mercury. One insists on a scalpel to remove the worst of the growths. One counsels leaving him to his well-deserved misery.”

He nudged his horse closer to Wakefield and lowered his voice. “His mind is all but gone, David. This time last year, he was reliving times past, when he was still one of the foremost rakes of the ton and a power in the realm. Now—or so my people say—he’s little more than an animal, and a wounded animal at that. A dangerous, nasty animal driven by constant pain.”

“How long?” Wakefield asked.

“How long can he last? None of the three doctors in attendance is prepared to give an opinion. The disease will kill him, but Bentham says he could survive a long time in this condition. Or his heart might give out tomorrow. You’ll look in on Tony while I’m gone? He should be safe with the Winderfields, and Lady Charlotte says they will take him to Shropshire with them when they leave for Winds’ Gate.”

“The broken arm will slow the boy down for a while, and even someone as crazy as Wharton is not going to make a direct assault on Winshire’s mansion,” Wakefield reminded him.

“True. I take it you’ll be telling Winshire what you’ve told me about the turmoil in the slums?” Aldridge didn’t mind Wakefield working for the Duke of Winshire, but it amused him to let his half-brother know that he knew about it.

Wakefield didn’t rise to the bait. “Of course. And I’ll keep you both informed as I find out more.”

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Authorly devices in WIP Wednesday

Part of the fun of writing is coming up with solutions for ways to tell the story that keep the reader engrossed while giving them the information they need. My current Work in Progress, To Tame the Wild Rake, depends on the past history of the protagonists, both as a couple and as individuals. Managing this in conversation and reflection proved tedious, and I’m not fond of flashbacks. So I’m adding the occasional interlude, taking the name from music to mean a short scene set in a different place and time to the story in the chapters. Here’s the first. (If you have an authorly device you’d like to share, pop it in the comments.)

Applemorn Hall estate, July 1807

“Mathematics is truth,” the girl told Aldridge, her thin face glowing with passion. “It is beauty. The world is patterns of logic and shapes, and the task of mathematicians is to understand those patterns, Lord Aldridge.”

Aldridge was drunk, but not so much that he didn’t know he was in dangerous territory. He should not be trespassing on the wrong side of the pond that marked the boundary of the estate he was visiting. He should not be alone in this quiet folly with a girl who was both younger and better born than he had at first assumed. He should not be listening, enraptured, to her explanation about why she was beguiling her convalescence from an embarrassing childhood illness by solving puzzles.

Richport’s house was hidden from their sight by a small tree-covered hill that rose on the other side of the pond. It was filled, as Richport’s houses tended to be, with willing women, good liquor, wagers of all kinds, and countless inducements to forget the sins and follies that haunted him.

Yet he had been here for nearly an hour, in peaceful conversation—intellectual conversation—with a chit not yet out of the schoolroom, and he was already planning to return tomorrow.

“You know my name, my lady. May I know yours?”

She blushed, then, and cast her eyes around as if a suggestion might be written up in the rafters of the folly. “I am called Charrie.” 

He looked at the basket that held cherry pits, all that was left of the fruit they had been sharing, and raised one eyebrow. 

“Not Cherry,” she told him. “Charrie.” 

“Cherry suits you better,” he told her, though he was by no means drunk enough to explain why. The alcohol must be clearing from his system, though, for an errant memory surfaced. Didn’t Elfingham refer to his twin sisters as Charrie and Sarrie? And didn’t Elfingham’s grandfather have an estate somewhere in this area? 

She was Lady Charlotte Winderfield, then, and the granddaughter of the Duke of Winshire. Highly eligible, then. Still too young, but she would be marriageable in a year or two.

And if he was thinking such foolish thoughts, it was high time he found another drink. He had not been sober for more than a month, and he had no intention of starting now. He stood.

“I must take my leave, Cherry, but I will visit tomorrow, if you will admit me. I shall present my card at the door.” He gestured to the open side of the structure.

She giggled at his fooling, but said, “If we are to be friends, and if you are to call me Cherry,” the blush deepened, “then I shall call you Anthony. That is your name, is it not?”

Hardly. It was one of several names that had been bestowed on him at baptism, but no one had ever addressed him by anything but his title. He was Aldridge even to his closest relatives, and would remain so until his father died and he became Haverford. If she called him Anthony, he would look around to see who was being addressed.

Still, fair was fair. If he insisted on calling her by a name he had selected, she had every right to choose what to call him.

“Then we shall be Anthony and Cherry. Friend.”

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Setting the scene on WIP Wednesday

Today I’m thinking about how to provide information without doing an information dump. How much do people need to know? Can I get it out in action or conversation? Show don’t tell, but then, if it is important but would be boring at length, tell it and get on. How do you set the scene? Do you have an excerpt you can share? Here’s a rather raw piece from To Tame a Wild Rake.

Why on earth had he agreed to escort Jessica to a musicale?

In the vicious hunt most debutantes and their mothers made of the marriage mart, a title, wealth, acceptable looks and amiable disposition marked a gentleman as a prime quarry. The Marquis of Aldridge, heir to a duke since birth, regarded the scene before him in near despair.

He would retire to the country to become a hermit, if he could. The business of the duchy required him to be social and in London, but the risk of being saddled with a wife he hadn’t chosen required constant vigilance.

He defended himself with his abysmal reputation, constant watchfulness, and the willingness to be ruthless when required. Even so, the inevitable gossip about his father’s swift decline and approaching demise sent the hunt into a frenzy.

He went nowhere without first considering how to avoid any traps that might have been laid. If forced to attend a ball, he eschewed the dance floor for the card and billiards rooms. He ventured outside of these rooms, and to other entertainments, only in the company of his mother or one of his sisters. He’d not been to a house party in over a year, and the last one was under his mother’s own roof, and had required him to administer a sharp lesson to a particularly rapacious debutante.

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Tea with Cedrica

monday-for-teaCedrica stared out of the window, but she saw nothing of the scene before her: the rectory garden, bounded by a low wall, and beyond it the village lane; the gray church through a small gate to her left, and on the right another gate leading to the rectory orchard.

The view was as familiar to her as the shape of her hand—she had known both her whole life. But she sat and looked into the future, and which was unfamiliar and had no shape at all.

Whatever was she to do?

At least here, the villagers knew what to expect from Papa when he wandered off, visiting from cottage to cottage all over the district, bewildered that the parishioners of his youth were not there to greet him; that his beloved Hannah, Cedrica’s mother, was nowhere to be found.

The children and grandchildren of those parishioners would bring Papa back home, where—until today—he recognised his daughter and came back at least a little to himself.

Today, he had stared at her blankly, and become angry when she insisted that she was Cedrica. “This is a cruel joke,” he told her, with great dignity. “I must insist you leave before you upset my wife by taunting her with her childless state.”

In the end, cook had taken him upstairs and put him to bed, and Cedrica had come to the study, filled with memories of the kindest father in the world. Her long-awaited birth had killed her mother, but her Papa made sure she never wanted for affection. How many evenings had she played on this very hearth rug while he wrote his sermon? Here, he told her stories, taught her to read, helped her with her first stumbling letters. Here, as she grew older, they worked side by side, Cedrica proud to help her father with his careful little monographs on English wild flowers, and his letters to other botanists all of Europe.

Where were they now, all those friends with whom he had corresponded? She had written to them and to everyone else she could think of when she and the good people of the village could no longer hide their dear rector’s increasing confusion. Few had replied. Those who did sent only good wishes.

Good wishes would not save Papa from the bishop’s plans to put them out from the only home Cedrica had ever known. Oh, his letter was polite enough. The new rector would require the rectory. Mr Cedric Grenford would be better off in a place where people of failing minds were cared for. The bishop would be happy to write Miss Grenford a recommendation for a position. Perhaps as a companion to someone elderly?

In desperation, Cedrica had written to the last person her father would wish help from—the distant cousin whose great grandfather had banished his son, her own grandfather, for the unpardonable crime of falling in love outside of his class and station.

But the Duke of Haverford, head of the Grenford family, had not replied.

Movement on the lane caught her attention; a magnificent coach, pulled by four black horses, perfectly matched down to the one white fetlock. The equipage was slowing, stopping, one of the two footmen up behind leaping down to open the door with its ornate crest, and put down the carriage steps.

First through the door was a tall man immacutely dressed in a coat that hugged his broad shoulders and pantaloons that hugged… Cedrica schooled her eyes to turn back to the door, as the man himself did, holding out his hand to assist a lady to ascend. A very fashionable lady.

A great lady, as Cedrica would have known by her wise eyes and her kind face, even without her escort, the carriage, and the servants.

The footman opening the gate, and the gentleman gave his arm to the lady and led her towards the rectory door.

Cedrica shook herself. The door. With cook upstairs and the maid on her half day, Cedrica must answer the door, and there. That was the knocker.

Refusing to speculate; refusing to hope; Cedrica hurried into the hall and checked her appearance in the tiny mirror. Reddened eyes. Old fashioned dowdy clothes. She could smooth her hair back under her cap, and she did, but she could do nothing about the rest.

With a sigh, she answered the door.

“Please tell Miss Grenford that the Duchess of Haverford has come to call,” said the man, barely glancing away from the duchess.

“I will… That is, I am…” Cedrica trailed off. She was sure the duchess had never in her life opened her own door. Despite her embarrassment, she could not take her eyes off her illustrious visitor.

The duchess was shorter than her, and elegant in a redingote of a deep wine red that matched the silk flowers inside the brim of her straw bonnet. Yes. Cedrica had been correct. The lady’s eyes were kind, her mouth curving in a gentle smile.

“I think, Aldridge, that this is Miss Grenford. Miss Grenford, allow me to present your cousin, my son, the Marquis of Aldridge.”

Startled, Cedrica turned to look at the man that most of England called the Merry Marquis. He did not look like a dissolute rake. Although, to her knowledge, she had not before met a member of that tribe.

He bowed, a graceful gesture at odds with his dancing hazel eyes.

“Miss Grenford, your humble servant.”

Servant. What must two such aristocrats think of her opening her own door? Cedrica blurted, “It is the maid’s day off, and cook is sitting with Papa.” She could feel her own blush, heating her all the way from the roots of her hair to her- her chest.

“Aldridge, find the kitchen, dear, and put on the kettle,” Her Grace ordered. “Miss Grenford—or may I call you Cedrica? Cedrica, come and sit down, my dear, and you and I shall have a cup of tea and discuss the safest place for your Papa, and the best place for you. You have family, Cedrica, and we will not let you down.”

Cedrica, following her new sponsor blindly into the shabby parlour, could not stop the tears, and in moments she was in the duchess’s arms, crying on her shoulder.

“There, there, Cedrica. You have been very brave, but you are not alone any more,” the duchess assured her.

It was a great deal to take in, but the situation was too strange not to be believed. A duchess was sitting in her parlour, the shoulder of her gown damp with Cedrica’s tears. And in her kitchen, a marquis was making the tea. Cedrica’s sobs stopped on a shaky laugh.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“Call me Aunt Eleanor, Cedrica. For we shall become very close, you and I. I have what I think you need, my dear. And you are just the person that I need.”

EDITED TO ADD THE FOLLOWING

Cedrica Grenford is the heroine of A Suitable Husband, a novella in the Bluestocking Belles’ holiday box set, Holly and Hopeful Hearts. The vignette above is a prequel to the novella. Cedrica also appears in the other novellas in the set, as does Her Grace. That rogue Aldridge wanders in and out of the pages, too. Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles book page.

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You can’t choose your relatives on WIP Wednesday

au_bistro_at_the_bistroI’m deep in edit mode for Revealed in Mist, and I think I’m improving it. Sibling relationships are a big part of the story—Prue’s with her sisters, and David’s with his half-brothers. As the saying goes, you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your relatives.

I’ve just edited chapter two, where David meets the Marquis of Aldridge for the first time in years, so I figured I’d make relatives the focus of this week’s post. Here’s a short excerpt. Feel free to post one of your own in the comments.

He frowned at the fire in the small hearth. The private parlour he had hired was small and shabby, but at least its size made it easy to heat. And it was neutral ground, which mattered. David hadn’t had a prolonged conversation with his expected guest in a decade and a half.

He must have been seventeen or eighteen on the last occasion, staying at Haverford Castle in Kent between the end of the school term and his first term at university. The Duke of Haverford’s son and heir, the Marquis of Aldridge, would have been 12. The day had begun happily enough with the boy tagging along while David went out after small game with a gun. It had ended with David beaten and driven from the property.

Aldridge had tripped and knocked himself out, and Haverford, finding David leaning over his unconscious heir, had not waited for explanations.

Once the young marquis left school and entered Society, they met from time to time, usually when the Duchess of Haverford insisted on David coming to one of her entertainments. Her husband, the duke, was almost always engaged elsewhere, but her sons often attended. They paid their mother the courtesy of not being rude to her protégé, and he responded with the same polite reserve.

He was expecting Aldridge now. Older brother to one of the courtesan’s lovers. David’s despised father’s oldest legitimate son. His half-brother.

A knock on the door heralded Aldridge’s arrival. A maid showed him into the private parlour. He’d clearly been treating her to a display of his facile charm; she was dimpling, blushing, and preening.

David examined him as he gave the girl a coin “and a kiss for your trouble, my darling.” The beautiful child had grown into a handsome man. David had heard him described as ‘well-put together, and all over, if you know what I mean.’ The white-blonde hair of childhood had darkened to a guinea gold, and he had his mother’s hazel eyes under a thick arch of brow he and David had both inherited from their father.

Aldridge navigated the shoals of the marriage market with practiced ease, holding the mothers and their daughters off, but still not offending them, and carrying out a gentleman’s role in the ballroom with every evidence of enjoyment.

But his real success, by all accounts, was with bored widows and wives, where he performed in the bedroom with equal charm, and perhaps more pleasure. Society was littered with former lovers of the Merry Marquis, though he had the enviable ability to end an affair and retain the friendship.

Aldridge ushered the laughing maid out of the room and closed the door behind her, acknowledging David’s appraisal with a wry nod.

“Wakefield. You summoned me. I am here.”