“Shall we build up the fire in the drawing room again, Your Grace? Or would you prefer to sit elsewhere this evening?”
“There is no need for that, thank you, Smithers. I have some small personal matters to attend to this evening. Only my bedroom need be warmed for later. I will ring for Mabel when I go to bed.”
Confident enough now as mistress of the house to dismiss the butler with a civil nod, Rose took up a candelabra and walked thoughtfully towards the Duke of Ravenhill’s study, knowing that it would be unlocked. He had told her many times that as Duchess of Ravenhill, nowhere and nothing in the house was forbidden to her. Tonight Rose would take him at his word.
Dorian took a strange pride in the openness of his attitudes and actions, and she already knew that the only items locked away in safes and cupboards were valuables and legal papers. These were not what she sought.
Closing the study door behind her, Rose’s fingers brushed a jacket left hung on the back of the door. Setting down her candelabra, she impulsively buried her face in the fabric, breathing in the scent of her husband and feeling the faint thrill that his physical presence always aroused in her.
It was a sensation that seemed to intensify over time rather than fade, built ever higher on the foundations of shared pleasure. Even this was not what Rose was looking for tonight. Desire was evoked by Dorian in the present. Rose had come looking for his past.
Tearing herself away from the jacket, she sat down at the desk and began to methodically go through its drawers. Estate business, correspondence with agents in London and the most insignificant kinds of bank letter were all that Rose found there.
Another drawer contained hand written lists of paints, canvas and other art materials along with bills paid for their provision, evidently something that he did not delegate to staff. Then came a few theatre programs and notes on equine bloodlines relating to recent purchases for the Ravenhill House stables.
When Rose found a collection of letters from the Duke of Ashbourne, her hopes rose for a moment, but were quickly disappointed. Men did not write to one another as women didand these brief notes spoke only of horses, arrangements to meet and the hope that Rose herself was well.
There seemed to be no family records or personal correspondence of any kind. Dorian had only lived at Ravenhill House for a few months. What had she expected? A diary of the duke’s most intimate thoughts and feelings? Letters of passion from Lady Lepford and other elegant widows of his acquaintance…?
Rose shook her head at this last thought. Dorian had told her once that he had never kept letters from lovers, so as never to risk compromising a lady’s reputation. Whether he had written recently or not, there would be no evidence in here. Likely, everything of a personal nature was instantly burned upon reading.
Accepting that she would not find Dorian’s past in his study tonight, Rose closed the drawers and cupboards and went back to the hall to ring for Mabel.
“I shall sleep in the Duke of Ravenhill’s suite tonight,” she announced to the red-headed young maid when she answered the call. “You may help me change into my nightgown and then I shall not need you until morning.”
With sad sympathy on her face, the maid nodded and asked no questions as they went upstairs.
While Dorian locked away his paintings and drawings from prying eyes, Rose felt certain that this was not intended to exclude her. After all, he had even shown Rose where he kept the keys to the rooms that had once been the Duchess of Ravenhill’s suite.
Furthermore, Dorian had discussed some of his works with her, and even encouraged her to browse further, if largely amongst the more indecent works.
Rose took the key from inside the clock on the mantelpiece and went alone in her nightgown to walk among the canvases and sketchpads. There were so many – a whole lifetime of works.
When she first saw these collections, Rose had not been able to detect any themes or patterns. Now, she thought she could distinguish the rawer paintings of youth from the more structured works of experience. It was not only Dorian’s expertise with pencil and brush that had evolved. Rose believed she could see a harnessing and control of emotion evolving as he grew from boy to man.
In the night scenes that the Duke of Ravenhill seemed to favor, those she believed to be his earliest had an air of fear and instability to them, like the horse in the storm. The shadows in the later pictures had a different, more sensual, quality as though the artist no longer feared them and even sought to draw the viewer into this seductive darkness.
Rose’s fingers trailed the moonlight in one of the paintings and sighed. These were likely the most personal items of Dorian’s in the house, and yet they were mute, conveying only feelings, not facts. Returning a picture to its position against the wall, Rose’s eyes caught sight of a faint pencil scrawl on the back.
“Haybridge Hall, 1796,” she murmured to herself.
Haybridge Hall…Was that the seat of the Barons Knyvett, and the estate where Dorian had grown up? If so, likely he still owned the property and might have lived there, before acceding to the Duchy of Ravenhill. But hadn’t he spent all his time in London? Rose had the latter impression. Likely there was nothing more personal at Haybridge Hall than at Ravenhill House.
Locking the rooms once more and replacing the key, Rose retired alone to the Duke of Ravenhill’s large bed and curled herself into a ball in its center. She fell asleep longing for strong arms to hold her safe, soft lips to incite her desire, and caressive hands to raise her nightgown and stroke her thighs…
“Have the carriage readied for ten o’clock, Smithers,” Rose instructed, emerging from the library the following morning, half an hour after a swift early breakfast. “I shall be going out for the day and may not be not back until late. I will not require luncheon, and perhaps not dinner.”
“Shall I instruct the driver that you will be going to Westvale Park?” the butler inquired cordially, but the duchess shook her head.
“No, not this time. If the Duke of Ravenhill should come home, tell him I have gone to visit Haybridge Hall. For anyone else, I am simply not at home today.”
The name Haybridge Hall seemed to spark no recognition in the impassive face of the black-clad butler. Considering Dorian’s recent accession, there was little reason why it should. Even if the butler knew this had been his master’s childhood home, he would accord it little significance. The Duchess of Ravenhill was free to visit any property in her husband’s holdings.
“Very good, Your Grace,” acknowledged Smithers. “I shall make the necessary arrangements.”
Rose had gone to the library to consult Debrett’s peerage and relevant maps even before breakfast. It transpired that Haybridge Hall was indeed the estate of the Barons Knyvett. It lay not in the countryside, but on the outskirts of Richmond, only a short distance from London. Once it might have been a more rural location but now it lay close to the main road.
It occurred to Rose that this was a very convenient distance from London for discreetly arranged visits from lovers. Yes, even if Dorian had never lived at Haybridge House since childhood, he would have made use of the place and there would be something of him there, surely. Or would Rose find only a closed up house and an old caretaker?
