Page 3 of A Most Improper Duchess
Two days later, Arley stood in the foyer of his home at Number 10 Honeysuckle Street, waiting for his trunk to be loaded onto the carriage. He flipped through the stack of envelopes and cards piled on the sideboard. Cecil, his butler, had already dispensed with the silver tray that held his correspondence over the winter, and had replaced it with a low wooden box to better contain the pile and stop it from spilling onto the floor. Lady Harrington, Earl Brimford, Sir Stuart, Mr Fenway, the businessman… Men and women he barely knew. Who knew nothing of him, except for his first name…duke.
Arley extracted two letters—one from his estate manager and stepfather Tillman, the other, likely a request for funds from his bastard half-brother Winton—and tucked them into his pocket. He scooped up the rest of the stack as best he could and handed them to Cecil.
‘Burn these,’ he said.
Cecil wrung his hands. ‘Your mother will be upset if you don’t at least open them.’
‘Then don’t tell her.’
Cecil produced the same shocked expression he always did when Arley suggested he withhold information from Arley’s mother. ‘Your grace, I could never lie. Especially not to the duchess…’ His hand wringing increased. With a huff, Arley tossed the stack of envelopes back into the box.
Of all the staff he could have brought with him from the estate to London, for reasons he could no longer remember, Arley had brought Cecil. Cecil served with devotion. He could not fault him that. It had even been from Cecil that he had learnt of his father’s death. Arley, then five, had been in the nursery with the governess. In what he assumed was a melding of grief and duty, Cecil had announced, his voice heavy with emotion, ‘Your grace, your mother requests you see her in her rooms.’
Arley shook his head to loosen the memory. Outside, the horses snickered. He was due at the station in a little over an hour. One of the staff opened the door and began hauling his trunk onto the boards.
He leafed through the letters again. ‘Has Miss Hartright sent over the amended travel documents?’
‘Not yet, your grace. I will go over there immediately.’ Cecil made for the front door, but as he reached for the long brass handle, he half bent, rubbed at his lower back with an embarrassed smile, then continued forward at a hobble. ‘Perhaps I shall send young Timothy?’
Arley checked his pocket watch. He kept a light staff—after all, it was only himself in the house—and if Timothy went, his case would still need to be loaded onto the carriage, and he’d be later than he already was. Trains waited for no man, not even dukes. ‘I’ll go. Tell him to bring the carriage round to Number 7. I’ll leave from there.’
Cecil bowed as Arley left. ‘Bon voyage, your grace. Is that what the French say?’
A weak February sun strained against the grey clouds, and as Arley crossed the street, a cool gust bit his ankles. Despite his obstinance of a few days ago, a thrill dared to vibrate through him. What would Paris be like, as a mister?
The wall of five stucco clad townhouses shone bright against the overcast sky. The row had been constructed six or seven years before, and each house was built to an identical plan. Five stories high, the facade of the long row alternated between bay window and doorway, with a low fence delineating each connected residence. Elise lived with her Aunt Petunia in Number 7 and had done so since her older sister’s scandal. Their bright pink front door gleamed like peach glace. They were forever changing its colour and altering the décor inside. Every decorator in London must have done work for them at some stage.
Arley ascended the short set of stairs and rapped the knocker.
‘Pardon me, your grace, but I fear you have the wrong door.’
Arley sucked in a breath and looked across, past the window and to the landing of the neighbouring house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Crofts. How are you today?’
‘Much improved for having you attend one of our meetings. My ladies will be ever so thrilled to meet with you. They would love the opportunity to discuss matters of morality with our society’s patron.’
He couldn’t even blame alcohol, for it had been eleven in the morning, on his first day after relocating to London. Mrs Crofts had accosted him on his walk, introduced herself as the moral beacon of the street and asked him to be patron of her society. In a moment of confusion, 21-year-old Arley had stammered his agreement, and although he had never attended a meeting of the Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values, his name was still blazoned beneath their crest on the header of the newsletter she hand delivered each month.
Arley rapped on the door again. ‘I am at the correct door, Mrs Crofts. Following up a matter with your neighbour.’
If he didn’t know her to be such a nosey old biddy, he would have felt ashamed of himself for her visible disappointment. But as she had spread a rumour last summer that he would soon be engaged to her niece, despite having never met the woman, he instead felt a perverse burst of glee.
‘Can we expect you at a meeting at Number 5 sometime soon?’ she called.
At his feet, Spencer the cat sniffed his cuffs, and before Arley could shoo him away, he arched and smooched against his leg with one smooth movement, leaving a trail of grey fur in his wake. The door opened. Melody spilled out as the cat shot inside.
‘Bloody feline.’ He slapped at his leg before glancing up. Mrs Crofts’ expression had gone from disappointed simpering to wide-eyed horror. Was she really so easily offended? ‘I am a tad busy at this time. Perhaps after the season.’ He looked at the man who had opened the door. ‘Miss Hartright was going to send over some travel documents. Are they ready?’
‘No idea,’ replied the man.
With an awkward nod at a slightly flummoxed Mrs Crofts, Arley stepped into Number 7, relief exhaling from between his lips as the door closed behind him.
Arley didn’t much need to call on the Misses Hartright, so didn’t recognise the butler who had opened the door. Completely lacking in decorum, although groomed to the point of fastidiousness, he had a thin twisted moustache, slicked back black hair, dark sparkling eyes and wore the most horrendous coloured waistcoat Arley had ever seen.
‘That woman could do with a right royal—’
‘I’m looking for Elise,’ Arley interrupted. He didn’t need to imagine Mrs Crofts receiving a right royal anything. ‘Is she here?’
‘The Misses Hartright are organising a performance for their singing troupe. I have been asked to step in as baritone. They are in the sitting room, picking costumes. Follow me.’
