Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Have these taken to the post, Barrington,” the Duke of Westall instructed the butler who answered the summons of the bell-pull, and took up a pile of signed and sealed envelopes. “There will be another batch later this afternoon.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Will Her Grace be returning for dinner tonight? Cook wishes the kitchen to be properly prepared to serve you both well, whenever you need, and we are all very much aware that you do not like good food to be wasted…”
Ambrose smiled and nodded, understanding both the spoken and unspoken meaning behind the butler’s polite questioning.
Neither Barrington nor any other servant would dream of offering direct comment on the state of the Duke of Westall’s marriage, but the belated and now all-consuming honeymoon phase of his relationship with Frances must have affected the running of the household in multiple ways.
“Yes, the duchess expects to be back from London in good time for dinner, Barrington. Do also pass my apologies to Cook for the recent, ah, disruptions to mealtimes. The fault lies with me. No slight was ever intended to her excellent food.”
“I shall do so, Your Grace, although I am sure no apologies are necessary.”
After Barrington departed, Ambrose yawned and stretched at his desk, feeling the pleasant aftermath of recent days’ physical exertion and a dreamy kind of tiredness. He had now managed to reply to the most important letters awaiting his attention and planned to answer several more before Winnie finished her lessons and came to find him.
The duke hoped that his wife would be back well before the evening, in good time for yet another bout of erotic play, perhaps while they dressed. Yes, he would send away all valets and maids and undress Frances with his own hands. His duchess would be thoroughly and pleasurably rodded again before they descended, her eyes and cheeks glowing with the joy of it as they dined.
In his mind’s eye, Ambrose could picture his hand sliding over the curve of Frances’ haunch, and feel her lips pressing hot kisses into his chest, the very thought of this causing his heart to surge and blood to run to his loins…
It really was as well that Frances went out for the day. Ambrose wanted his duchess far too much for good sense and could nothave concentrated on anything else if she had been at Westall Park.
Sitting back in his chair and trying to put his fantasies aside again, Ambrose took up and reread his most recent letter from the Duke of Redford. Now that correspondence from his bank and lawyers was dealt with, he could move on to other issues and Colin’s report was very encouraging.
…You will be pleased to know that after leaving me dangling for almost a full week, Miss Ellen Yates accepted an invitation to dine in my rooms last night. You will be even more pleased to hear that my offer of months of luxurious travel on the Continent was well-received, and that the silk nightgown you purchased found equal favor with both of us…
Ambrose laughed as he conjured the scene. He hoped that Colin really was as robust as he believed himself to be. Ellen Yates was no innocent shrinking flower and their planned European travel promised to be an adventure like no other, in every sense.
…We sail tomorrow, on the tide, and I will write to you again from Paris. Ellen sees no need to inform her mistress of her departure beforehand, sensibly concerned that Miss Sinclair might find some way to obstruct her passage, especially if she learns all that Ellen has revealed to me of their dealings with you - see attached sheets for a full account. Use this information well.
I regret that my present excellent understanding with Ellen Yates was achieved too late to prevent one further story aboutyou being sold to a scandal writer, this time at Miss Sinclair’s direct behest and with no factual basis. I can only suggest that you ignore the story and do your best to reassure your wife that the worst is past.
Your friend always,
C
PS In speaking of her wish to evade Miss Sinclair before we sail, Ellen hinted even at criminal matters in which they were both involved and implied that it was just as well to leave the country! More of this next time, perhaps. How dull the lives of some of my friends presently seem in comparison to mine…
“Dull? My life is not dull at all,” Ambrose scoffed, reflecting on the long, slow, sweet and satisfying seduction of his duchess. “It is safe, but it is not dull.”
He took up the pages in which Colin had laid out Annabelle Sinclair’s active campaign of pursuit and manipulation against him. It was an story presumably all obtained either from Ellen’s pillow talk or with her active connivance, now that a rich man had given her the financial opportunity to cut ties with her employer.
Little in the account surprised Ambrose, having suspected for a long time that Miss Sinclair’s repeated appearances in his path were more than mere coincidence. The final paragraphs roused his anger, however, describing as they did the selling of stories of his private life to the gutter press.
While knowing it was wisest to turn the matter over to Baron Chedwidden, Ambrose was sorely tempted to turn to the courts instead.
As he was debating each of these courses of action, Barrington returned to the study unexpectedly. Was there some issue with the letters, or their seals? Or had the butler misunderstood that the second batch must still be written, and returned to collect them too early?
“There is a young lady to see you, Your Grace,” announced Barrington, his well-controlled face showing only faint confusion and a strange hint of potential disapproval. “Alone.”
A young lady? Ambrose frowned and caught up his jacket from the back of his chair, not wishing to be caught in his shirt-sleeves by this unexpected visitor, whomever she might be.
“Anyone I know, Barrington?” the duke asked as he fastened his jacket and straightened his cuffs. “Or is she rather a caller for the duchess?”
“I could not say, Your Grace,” Barrington told him, his neutral tone still managing to convey the same uncertainty and mild judgement. “I have shown Miss Sinclair to the drawing room.”
“Miss Sinclair?!” Ambrose repeated, the name almost exploding from his lips. “What in God’s name is that damned woman doing here? You may send her away immediately.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” said the butler with a bow, neither reacting to the oaths nor making any objection as he backed out of the room and wended his way back towards the drawing room.
