Page 54 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘What happens now?’ Vivianne sat in the sitting room of Number 10 with Lorelei. Dressed in black travelling clothes, the duchess remained as steady as she had been throughout all their lessons together.
‘Tillman will hire genealogists to comb the family tree and begin the search. A host of pretenders will come forward. There will be investigations. Eventually, the man with the strongest claim will petition parliament and become the next duke.’
‘I meant for you. The estate has been your home for a long time. You will have to leave?’
‘Tillman is my home.’ Lorelei spoke the gentle words with her usual abruptness. ‘I’ve always wanted to live by the sea. Perhaps, once all this is settled, that’s what we’ll do.’ Outside, wheels crunched on the gravel. Lorelei rose and embraced Vivianne briefly, before she stepped back, blinking fast. ‘Stupid tears. One should never show emotion to those below…’ Lorelei caught herself, then captured Vivianne in her arms again. ‘But I suppose I can make you my exception.’
Vivianne followed Lorelei to the door. Tillman handed his wife into the carriage and then climbed in after. The driver pushed the door shut. Lorelei leaned out as they drove away, her voice almost lost to the horse’s jingle. ‘Tell him I said he is allowed to be happy. He deserves to be.’
The carriage rolled down the drive, turned onto Honeysuckle Street, then disappeared from sight. Vivianne turned back to the entrance, then paused. No Arley. No Cecil. There was nothing inside Number 10 for her. She could have called for the carriage, but that was the transport of a lady, and she couldn’t summon the desire to play the pretence anymore.
And her boots would not wear themselves into comfort if she did not walk them in.
It really was a pretty driveway and a lovely villa with a beautiful garden. A hint of a branch from an ancient oak gestured from behind the tall sandstone columns. But overall, it was too set back from the neighbours, too distant from the people, for her taste, really.
The groundsman open a side gate, and Vivianne stepped out onto the street.
‘He left you an allowance, didn’t he? Made some kind of provision in his will?’
Vivianne spun and knocked hard into the fence. Winton, his hair a mess, his chin unshaved, stepped from the shadows.
Vivianne shook her head. ‘Why would he? We were to be married.’
‘But you must have had something. How did you get your dresses? Your shoes, and everything?’
‘He looked after me,’ she said. ‘Not always in the right way, but in the best way he could. I am sure Lorelei will not leave you destitute. She will still pay your allowance—’
Winton ran his fingers over his scalp before he cried out in anguish. ‘I don’t want an allowance, I want my bloody share!’ He looked up at her. ‘You’re lying. I’ll go to the papers, I’ll give them what I know. I’ll sell your story.’
Part of her tore at this man’s frustration, but she also railed against it. It wasn’t fair, but when was life? The poor of Paris, the dancers, thegrisettes, nothing about their life was fair. They did the best they could with the cards dealt by fate, and his hand may not have been as lucky as Arley's, but it was better than most.
Vivianne stamped her foot as her familiar fury bubbled and brewed. ‘I may not be a lady, but you will not speak to me that way. I was agrisette. I survived the siege. I ran the barricades. And after all that, I managed yourLondres. Do your worst, Monsieur West. I am not ashamed of my past. Perhaps you need to settle your debts with your own.’
And having nowhere else to go, Vivianne crossed the street and ascended the short set of stairs to Number 5, to the sanctuary still offered by Mrs Crofts.
Four days after Lorelei returned to the country, Winton followed through with his threat, and with a shake of a headline, Vivianne was once again a dancer of the Palais Garnier. Invisible informants claimed to have known all along, to have been her manager and arranged the meeting with the duke. And every report seemed to forget why he had even been there at all, as if she had tempted him from across the Channel. There was no mention of Spencer & Co.
That same morning, Vivianne upended her breakfast into her chamber pot for the third day in a row. Sitting in the parlour, waiting for her society members to arrive for their weekly meeting, Mrs Crofts’ conversation became shallow, and direct. Her once sympathetic gaze hardened.
‘You must miss Paris,’ she finally said.
‘Non,’ Vivianne replied.
‘You don’t have any friends there you’d like to visit?’
A knock sounded at the door, and Vivianne rose from her seat. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Crofts. I will always be grateful.’ Vivianne took up her small traveling case she had left in the hall and made her way to the door. Outside, on the street, a hack was waiting.
Mrs Crofts, her black skirts swishing, rushed to follow. ‘You’re leaving? Is that all you are taking? What about your wardrobe? Your belongings?’
‘They belong to a duchess, which I am not and will never be. Sell them if you like. You can use the funds for your society.’
Vivianne kept her expression schooled as Mrs Crofts visibly squirmed with the prospect of injecting a substantial amount of money into her cause but accepting it from a decidedly immoral source. Vivianne left the matron of morality to her deliberations and stepped out of the town house. By the door, the grey cat with the white tipped tail gave a small mew. She held out her hand, and he balanced on his hind legs to brush his head against her.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Monsieur Spencer. Please look after Arley’s friends for him. I know he will miss them very much.’
Phineas accompanied her to the French coast, then set her on her way to Nantes.
‘What will happen if he’s ever found out?’ she asked as they said their goodbyes.
