Page 88 of His Mad Duchess
Cecily swallowed visibly, but before she could reply, a knock sounded at the door. The butler entered, a silver tray in his hands. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low, “a note has just arrived, sent from Grosvenor Square. The Dowager Duchess requests the honor of your company for tea this afternoon.”
The tray gleamed as he held it out. The seal, heavy with crimson wax, pressed like a weight upon Margaret’s gaze.
Margaret took the note with steady fingers, though her heart gave a strange, heavy beat. The seal bore the Ravenscourt crest.
Beatrice leaned forward at once, eyes alight with curiosity. “From your formidable mother-in-law? That promises entertainment—or doom.”
Cecily shot her a look, but Margaret scarcely heard. She broke the wax and unfolded the paper. The lines within were few, written in the Dowager Duchess’s bold, imperious hand:
You will attend me for tea this afternoon at my townhouse. There is much to discuss.
There was no signature beyond her title, no plea, no softness. Only command.
Margaret let the paper fall into her lap. Her mouth was dry, her pulse quickening. The very thought of sitting opposite the Dowager Duchess… Sebastian’s mother… stirred unease that made her breath falter. Yet etiquette afforded no refusal. A summons from the Dowager Duchess was not a request.
Cecily reached for her hand. “Must you go?”
Margaret folded the letter once more, carefully, though her fingers trembled. “Yes. I must.”
The Wexley carriage turned into Berkeley Square at the appointed hour, its wheels rattling against the cobbles. The air pressed close, heavy despite the open window, but it was not heat that made her breath come shallow.
The townhouse loomed ahead, stately in its white stone, the Ravenscourt crest above the iron-banded door gleaming even inthe weak afternoon light. The sight alone was enough to twist Margaret’s stomach.
When the carriage halted, a liveried footman descended the steps at once. He opened the door with a bow. “Your Grace.”
Margaret inclined her head faintly as she stepped down, her skirts brushing the stone. Inside, the marble-floored hall was cool and hushed, the faint fragrance of beeswax and sandalwood lingering in the air. Another servant took her gloves, and yet another guided her toward the drawing room.
The doors were opened, and Margaret entered. The drawing room was as Margaret had expected it to be. It held high ceilings painted with pale garlands, chairs so stiff they looked intended to correct the spine, and not a single cushion or rug out of place. It was a room built for appearances, not comfort.
The Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt sat already in her place, as though she had been waiting, a vision of commanding elegance in dark silk trimmed with jet beads. A silver teapot gleamed upon the tray before her, steam rising in elegant spirals. She did not rise, but her keen and assessing eyes fixed on Margaret at once.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice smooth but edged, like velvet stretched over steel. “At last.”
Margaret dipped into a graceful curtsey, her heart knocking against her ribs. “Your Grace.”
“Come, sit,” the Dowager directed, gesturing to the chair opposite. “We shall dispense with ceremony; the tea is already poured.”
Margaret obeyed, folding her skirts carefully, her fingers moving almost mechanically, though her stomach roiled with tension.
“You will take sugar,” the elder lady observed, not asked, and dropped a lump into Margaret’s cup herself before lifting her own. “There are matters we must speak of plainly. I trust you understand why I summoned you.”
The china cup set before her trembled slightly in its saucer as she lifted it. The Dowager’s gaze did not waver; it pinned her as surely as a hawk fixes upon its prey.
Margaret’s throat felt tight, but she forced her voice to steadiness. “I presume it is not for idle chatter, Your Grace.”
The Dowager’s lips curved, though it was no smile. “Indeed, not. Let us speak plainly, then. The Ravenscourt name cannot weather further disturbance. Do you comprehend me?”
Margaret’s fingers tightened around her cup, porcelain warm against her skin. “Perfectly.”
For a moment, silence ruled. Only the faint clink of china broke it as the Dowager stirred her tea with exquisite leisure. Her gaze, unwavering, rested upon Margaret with the unsettling patience of one who need never hurry.
At last, she spoke. “You look pale, child. The country air does not agree with you? Or is it London that has worn you thin?”
Margaret’s lips parted, but no words came. She turned her eyes down, as though the pale steam rising from her cup required her attention. To answer either way would feel like a confession.
The Dowager made a faint sound in her throat, something between pity and disapproval. “I suppose it is natural. You have endured… a great deal. Loss upon loss. I will not deny that.”
Margaret inclined her head slightly, unsure whether gratitude was expected. The words themselves were sympathetic, yet the tone was not. To thank her felt absurd, yet silence seemed no safer. She lowered her gaze to the rippling surface of her tea, pretending great care in steadying the trembling cup.
