“It is, if you will not call for help,” Lydia pointed out, finishing her ice cream and looking at Frances’ glass. “If you’re not going to eat that, may I have it?”
Chapter Nineteen
“So, the Duke of Westall only married for money and does not even care enough for his bride to bother bedding her,” laughed Annabelle Sinclair, tossing her long, dark locks scornfully as Ellen finished the account of her recent spying, gossiping and eavesdropping activities. “How delicious!”
Ellen was a real asset and her intelligence was, as always, both useful and entertaining, especially the account of following the new Duchess of Westall and her friend to that café in Hyde Park… Now, Annabelle retrieved two purses from the the dressing table before her and counted out a number of silver coins and copper coins, to cover the various expenses incurred.
A network of newspaper and delivery boys and other working children had long been primed to send word when they spotted the Duke of Westall’s coach in town, with a whole shilling for the first useful report. In the past, this mechanism had sometimes enabled Annabelle meet the duke “coincidentally.” Now, Ellen could use it to snoop on his wife.
Annabelle Sinclair had recruited her lady’s maid after finding her pilfering someone's jewelry box at a house party several years ago, having already established a perfect alibi. Impressed by such daring and capability, Annabelle had helped cover Ellen’s trail in exchange for a share of the profits. Money was scarce since Baron Chedwidden’s financial failures and Annabelle felt she could not afford scruples.
They had soon struck a deal to guarantee both of their futures, with Ellen helping Annabelle to catch a rich man and then receiving a payout in due course, while accepting low wages now. There were other side benefits too, like the cases of champagne from the Duke of Redford, permission to sell occasional gossip to the scandal sheets, and the sheer enjoyment of clever scheming and deception.
Despite Ellen’s initial reluctance, Annabelle had also seen to it that some other maid at the house party was blamed for the jewelry theft that brought them together. That girl was probably still in jail, or transported to the colonies…
“Ambrose Clark is now even richer than that bank clerk told me last year,” continued the devious Ellen, gathering up the coins, “and his bed is still as empty, or maybe even emptier. There have been no calls on his various dowager friends since the wedding, as far as my watchers know. If any man is ripe to take a mistress, it is the Duke of Westall.”
“What a pity that Lady Frances isn’t sickly and ailing, or out of her mind,” sniffed Annabelle, rising from her dressing table. “On the right terms, I’ll be his mistress, of course, but there’s somuch more security in a marriage. I would be the perfect third wife for the Duke of Westall, don’t you think?”
“If he only knew it,” chuckled Ellen, but then looked more thoughtful. “Ambrose Clark isn’t the murdering type either, unfortunately. There’ll be no crimes of passion to clear the way for you. Even with a wife and daughter, he can afford to be generous with a mistress, but as you say, marriage provides more security over time. I think we should also keep exploring other avenues.”
“What other avenues? Other prospective husbands, you mean?”
“Well, London is full of rich old widowers in dubious health who would be bound to remember their young wives fondly in their wills, especially if someone else guided the pen. Look at Lord Calforth. I doubt he’d survive the wedding night if someone rode him hard enough.”
Annabelle’s dark brows knitted crossly at this suggestion.
“I don’t want that stinky old goat Calforth, with his huge eyebrows and jowls! I want the Duke of Westall, young, fit, virile and helpless beneath me…”
“I can’t say I blame you,” responded the maid with a shrug. “I just don’t want either of us to waste our time or lose opportunities. Lady Frances is an immovable obstacle to marriage, and mistress is only ever a temporary position…”
“What did you think of his little duchess, Ellen?” Annabelle asked, interrupting this unwanted reminder. “Was she good-looking or plain? Was she a simpleton?”
“Dull as ditchwater and entirely without passion,” the maid pronounced. “Nor do her looks compare to yours, Miss Sinclair. I thought her pretty-ish but insipid. The story of Lord Mulford’s pursuit astonished me, I must confess. I should not think Duchess Frances the type to inspire great lust or interest.”
“Perhaps it is only in her imagination,” suggested Annabelle cattily, “or perhaps Lord Mulford is half-blind or senile. You might look him up when you have time, and see whether there is any useful material for blackmail or extortion in either direction, but concentrate on our aims for the Duke of Westall for now.”
“As you wish, Miss Sinclair. We’ll have you in the duke’s bed before the summer is over, I swear, whether he ever tups his wife or not.”
“It does not sound as though he should be so hard to seduce, does it?” Annabelle mused, preening herself before her looking glass. “Ambrose Clark has resisted me so far, but that was when I had marriage at the forefront of my mind. Likely he will be more amenable when he knows I am leading him towards the bedroom rather than the altar.”
“Most men are,” chuckled Ellen. “Only remember not to give too much away too quickly without any return. He must only have you at the right price.”
“I may not have your extensive experience, Ellen, but I am not a complete fool,” Annabelle snorted. “I know how far to go and when to stop. You need not worry for your share of my expected good fortune. Now, leave me. Tomorrow, we can discuss my next contact with the Duke of Westall.”
“Very good, Miss Sinclair,” responded Ellen with a laughing curtsy that showed deference to her employer only in form, their private relationship far more one of confederates in crime than mistress and servant.
Lying in her bed by candlelight, Annabelle visualized herself backing the Duke of Westall into his bedroom, his face conflicted between propriety and lust.
“You will be mine in the end, Your Grace,” she laughed aloud. “One way or another.”
Chapter Twenty
“You have such a wonderful home here, Frances,” sighed Lady Scovell happily, walking arm-in-arm with her eldest daughter around the upper gardens at Westall Park. “I am so happy to see it at last, and to meet your stepdaughter too.”
The June roses were in bloom, the sun was shining and a warm breeze stirred the air around them pleasantly. Bees buzzed, birds sang, and Beatrice hummed a tune as she walked behind them with Lord Scovell. At least for a few moments, it was a perfect English summer day.
“Winifred is a little darling, isn't she?” Frances agreed. “She is very shy, however. Do not be offended that she hid behind me every time you spoke. It is usual for her the first time she meets anyone.”
