The Emerald Duchess Read online

  THE EMERALD DUCHESS

  Barbara Hazard

  DISHONOR’S DAUGHTER

  Emily Wyndham heartily hoped never to follow in her mother’s straying footsteps, for Emily’s mother had followed a path of love that made her the scandal of society—and her death left Emily not only penniless but branded with her mother’s shame.

  Emily changed her name to Margaret Nelson and became a lady’s maid. But one legacy of her mother she could not escape—the ravishing beauty that drew swarms of aristocratic suitors to her like bees to honey.

  One such gentleman was the devastatingly handsome, immensely powerful Duke of Wrotherham, whose imperious love Emily could not deny, but whose demand to wed her could bring only disaster to them both. Emily was far too sensible to allow that to happen... if she could just convince her foolish heart—

  Prologue

  It had been over two years since her mother’s death, but Emily Wyndham could still remember that brilliant September afternoon with a clarity that refused to fade. Indeed, she knew she would remember it all her life, for how could she ever forget the day when she had changed so suddenly from a highborn lady of quality to a disgraced girl with a tarnished name, so poor she was forced to earn her bread to survive?

  Sometimes there were only fragments of memory, like pieces of dreams spinning in her mind: her aunt’s dislike, her uncle’s lechery, the sneers of the maid and barely concealed contempt of the housekeeper, the elderly lawyer reciting in a dry, unemotional voice the nonexistence of any inheritance. Or she would see those letters she had found from her mother’s lovers, and her stomach would chum anew in horror and revulsion.

  And then she would remember how innocent she had been, how insulated and protected by the knowledge that she was a Wyndham from Berks, the daughter of the late Captain Thomas Wyndham of the Royal Navy and the niece of Lord Gregory Wyndham. How little she had known that her mother’s indiscretions had brought such infamy to the name of Wyndham that she would never be able to use it again.

  But sometimes, instead of fragments, she would remember in detail the afternoon of her mother’s funeral.

  She remembered how quiet and empty the cottage had seemed after the carriages of the few mourners had driven away, and how she had gone to her mother’s room, where she had spent so many hours, hoping to feel close to her still. She had opened the curtains and the windows as well, for the room was dim and stuffy. As she did so, the bright sunlight streamed in as if to mock her sadness. The room was neat and impersonal, with all signs of illness and death removed. Now the table near the bed was almost empty, instead of being crowded with pills, medicines, and cordials. She stared at the smooth counterpane of the bed with its primly aligned pillows, and clasped her hands together tightly, trying not to give in to her grief.

  It had taken Althea Wyndham a long time to die, and her daughter felt it was almost more than she could bear, to see her beautiful mother fade away, getting thinner and thinner, but still with the bright complexion of the consumptive that seemed such a mockery next to the faded blond of her hair. Her uncle had brought baskets of delicacies to tempt the invalid’s appetite, and flowers to cheer her, but outside of his visits and those of the doctor, the rest of the village left them strictly alone. They had arrived here from London only a year before, when her mother could no longer ignore her illness, although she claimed the country air would cure her faster than any smart city doctor could.

  Her daughter had wondered then why she had chosen this little cottage, with only a housekeeper-cook and a raw country maid as staff, but Althea Wyndham had offered no explanation, and somehow her daughter had not liked to question her. They had always had plenty of money in the past, even though her father had died in the Battle of the First of June, serving with Howe in the Royal Navy, when his only child was two years old. From the time she could remember, her mother had been a gay widow, always going to this party and that, beautifully dressed and coiffed and jeweled. They had lived in an elegant town house surrounded by servants, and although Mrs. Wyndham had not married again, her daughter knew it was not for lack of opportunity, for she had been much sought after. As a little girl, Emily had often been dazzled by the sight of her mother dressed for a rout or a ball, and one evening had exclaimed as Mrs. Wyndham whirled to show off her new gown of white satin spangled all over with tiny beads. “Oh, Mama, how beautiful you are! Just like an angel!”

  Her mother had laughed gaily and replied, “Hardly an angel, but thank you kindly, Miss Emily Margaret Wyndham. Someday, my dear, you shall look like an angel, too, and break all the young men’s hearts.”

  “I shall?” Emily had asked doubtfully, her eyes wide, but then she had looked in the pier glass and compared herself to her mother, and had shaken her head. She was twelve then, and thin and pale with fine, flyaway blond hair. “Never to compare to you, Mama,” she had said sadly, and her mother had kissed her for the compliment.

  She had been a lonely child, although she was unaware of it. There were no young relatives or friends to play with, and so she lived in a world of her own devising, a world of fantasies made up from the books she read. There had been some talk of sending her to school, and Emily had looked forward to it with a delicious sense of dread for the unknown, but it had not come to pass. Mrs. Wyndham had come back from inspecting one excellent school for the daughters of gentlemen in such a temper that she had frightened her daughter with her wild talk of silly old maids and jealous cats. Somehow Emily had stayed at home, and various masters came and went, teaching her to dance, to play the pianoforte and to sing. She had begged to be allowed to learn French and Latin, and her mother had agreed reluctantly. “For it would be fatal to turn you into a bluestocking, my dear,” she had said.

  Emily had no idea what a bluestocking was, but she wished to be able to read and understand her father’s books. Fortunately, the elderly tutor who was engaged saw nothing amiss in the girl with an acquiring mind and taught her languages, science, and history.

  She was happiest when she was with her mother, but of course, Althea Wyndham was so busy with all her engagements that Emily often found herself alone with the servants. Of them all, after her nanny, Darty, left, she liked her mother’s dresser best, for Miss Witherspoon was always happy to talk to her while she ironed or mended Mrs. Wyndham’s gowns. And when she was off duty or out on an errand, Emily had her books. Indeed, they became her closest friends, for how could anyone be lonely when they could open a page and be transported to ancient Greece, or the Alps, or the excitement of the colonies?

  And then, as the years passed, Mrs. Wyndham stopped going to so many brilliant parties, and there were fewer new gowns resplendent with spangles and lace. Emily enjoyed the quiet evenings together, but it was obvious that her mother was bored and impatient. Besides an expression of petulance, there was often a worried look on her face, but when Emily asked if anything were wrong, Mrs. Wyndham always changed the subject.

  And then, when Emily was sixteen, Miss Witherspoon left. As a most superior dresser, it was due to her skill that Mrs. Wyndham remained a reigning beauty long after she could lay any claim to youth. Emily was bewildered when Withers left without even saying good-bye, and watched with concern as her mother sat at her dressing table, trying to brush her hair.

  Mrs. Wyndham caught sight of her expression in the glass and shook her head impatiently. “Try not to look so glum, Emily,” she said. “We shall manage very well without her. She has a better position now, and to tell the truth, I was growing tired of her anyway.”

  She caught the brush in a snarl and threw it down in a temper, and Emily picked it up. She began to brush with the long, smooth strokes she had seen Withers use.

  Mrs. Wyndham smiled. “How good that
feels. Why, you are as accomplished as Withers any day.”

  And somehow the dresser had not been replaced, and it was Emily who took over her mother’s hair arrangements and facials, and the care of her clothes.

  And now, after barely a year in Wantage, Althea Wyndham lay dead, and never again would Emily lay out a gown, or apply lotion to that still-beautiful face, assuring her mother that the wrinkles were hardly noticeable, or hear again that gay, lilting laugh of disbelief. Her mother may have been flighty and frivolous, but Emily had loved her. Now, remembering her former gaiety, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and she turned away from that empty bed and went to sit down at her mother’s dressing table.

  Idly, she opened the drawers, one by one. There were her mother’s combs and hairpins, and here the preparation she had used on her hair. Emily had always hated the pungent odor, and protested, but her mother had said sharply, “Believe me, it is necessary when you get to be my age. How did you think the color stayed so bright?”

  Emily shook her head and opened another drawer filled with handkerchiefs and gossamer stockings. The lavender sachet her mother always used sweetened the air, and Emily was quick to close it. She opened the deep bottom drawer. On top was her mother’s jewelry box, and she lifted it out. There had been no occasion for Mrs. Wyndham to wear her jewels this past year, and Emily was anxious to see her favorites again, the emerald and diamond set given by her father on their first wedding anniversary. The box seemed oddly light, and when she had the lock undone and had raised the lid, she saw why. She gasped as she realized it was practically empty and only a few fripperies remained: a necklet of coral, some amber earrings, a broken pearl bracelet, and a small cameo. But where were the emeralds? And, yes, the ruby pendant? And those creamy ropes of pearls? She sat perplexed, a tiny frown between her eyes, and then she shrugged and set the box on the dressing table. She would ask her uncle tomorrow; perhaps Mama had given him the jewelry to have it cleaned.

  Left in the drawer were a few fans, old loo masks, and party favors, and Emily ruffled through them casually. She was about to close the drawer when she spotted the heavy leather case at the bottom and drew it out. She remembered the dark-red moroccan leather from years ago when it had been placed on the library table of the house in London. Once in a great while, her mother would take out one of her father’s letters and read it to her. She tried the clasp, but the case was locked, and although she searched the drawer impatiently, no key came to light. It was then she remembered the little china heart on her mother’s bedside table. There was a secret rosebud you pressed, and the box flew open, disclosing a tiny hiding place. She went to the table, opened the heart, and as she had hoped, found the key inside. Taking it and the case, she went to the chair by the window and sat down to explore the contents.

  On top, she found a great many unreceipted bills, and she frowned. Careless Mama, to leave them hidden away, instead of paying them, she thought as she put them to one side to give the lawyer. Under the bills were piles and piles of notes and letters. They did not look like her father’s handwriting; indeed, they were all in different hands. She turned one over, wondering if she should read the contents, but then, remembering her mother’s death, she withdrew the note from its vellum envelope and began to read. Her face grew pale, and she threw it away from her after only a few sentences and picked up another. Her hands were shaking, but she continued until she had read them all, and then she dropped them to the carpet and stared out the window, fighting a wave of nausea at what she had discovered.

  Putting her hands to her hot cheeks, she began to sob. Suddenly all the events of the past that she had tried so hard to ignore were made plain, for here was indisputable evidence. They were love letters, all of them. And not from her father, but from any number of men, even including her Uncle Gregory. Why, Mama had been the mistress of all these men! No wonder her aunt had stiffened whenever they met, and stared at them both with cold hatred. And she, in her innocence, had never guessed. She had thought her mother’s comings and goings were because she was so beautiful and popular. She squirmed, remembering all the “uncles” she had had over the years. Emily shuddered. She had never known because her mother had not lived with them openly, but now she remembered all the house parties her mother had gone to, all the three-and four-day excursions that she had always been excluded from.

  “This is not the kind of party for a little girl, pet,” her mother would say as she put on her furs and a dashing hat before she ran downstairs, leaving her daughter alone with the maids. Obviously they were not parties for little girls, Emily thought bitterly. But how could Mama? Hadn’t she realized that if Emily were to make her come-out, everyone would remember the gay widow who passed so quickly from one member of the haut ton to the next, with never the tiniest regret for her lack of morals in her pretty head? Hadn’t she cared? Had she been that selfish?

  Wearily, Emily picked up the letters and began to arrange them in piles, one for each correspondent. When she was done, there were twelve, some larger than the others. Her uncle’s was very thick. What a foolish man, she thought, to write so often and in such a revealing way. She did not know how she was to meet him on the morrow with any composure. At least she never had to see any of the others again: the Duke of Wrotherham, Count Philippe d’Aubrey, Lord Andrews, the Earl of Jarrett, Sir Percival Gunther.

  She restored the letters to the case, and one bold handwriting leapt up and made the bile rise in her throat again. It was from a Colonel Rogers of the Coldstream Guards, suggesting he might be willing to part with a large sum of money in return for her—Emily’s—favors. Emily remembered him. He had been a stern, forbidding-looking man who had stared at her one evening when she ran down the stairs with a handkerchief her mother had forgotten. How horrible men are, she thought as she put the case away and restored the key to its hiding place. She wished now she had never seen her mother opening the china heart one morning as she was laying out a clean nightgown in the dressing room; she wished she had destroyed all those horrible letters without reading them, for then she would still believe that her mother had been a good woman, faithful to her husband and careful of her daughter’s name.

  Suddenly she remembered the first time she should have realized that her mother was not like other women. She had been reading in the library, curled up in the window seat and hidden by a large wing chair, when her mother and her Great-aunt Bess had come in. She would have run to join them, but their voices were so angry she pressed back against the window and remained silent.

  “And who is this new one, Althea?” her great-aunt asked sharply. “I have heard such tales, even in Berks, that I could hardly credit it—Althea Wyndham, a common demirep!”

  Her mother had laughed an angry, disagreeable laugh. “Dear Aunt, if you please! I may be a demirep, but I can assure you no one would call me ‘common,’ You may ask anyone you like.”

  “I am sure I may,” came the swift rejoinder, “for your reputation appears to be known throughout England. How could you, Althea?”

  Mrs. Wyndham threw down her gloves and reticule and went to stand before the fire. “How could I not?” she asked. “How else was I to live when Tom died and left me a young widow with a baby? A practically penniless widow, as I am sure you know.”

  “You could have come to me. I would have taken you and Emily gladly.”

  “I thank you, but burying myself in genteel poverty in the country was never my intention.”

  “Better to be a common doxy? Oh, very well, an uncommon doxy? You should be ashamed of yourself, Althea.”

  “But I am not. I have had a lovely life, and if I did not marry again just to acquire respectability and an assured income, that was my choice.”

  There was a short silence, and then Aunt Bess asked in a severe voice, “And what kind of life do you think your daughter will have? What kind of marriage can she possibly contract with such a notorious mother? Who will overlook her background as well as her poverty, no matter how b
eautiful she is? Unless, of course, you have sunk so low that you contemplate having her follow in your footsteps.”

  Peeping around the corner of the chair, Emily was afraid that her mother would strike Aunt Bess, she looked so fierce. “That was unworthy of you, Aunt,” she said finally, her face white. “When the time comes, Emily will be well taken care of, for I shall see to it. She is only nine, there is plenty of time to think of her future. Perhaps I shall marry, after all; I tell you it is not impossible even now, for there have been offers ... Why, you would be amazed!”

  Aunt Bess sniffed. “Most men are fools, that comes as no surprise. Is it this latest lover that makes you so sure of yourself?”

  “Lord Burr? No, he is too conventional. But there are others...”

  Just then a footman knocked with a note for Mrs. Wyndham, and the two women left the room. The memory of that afternoon came flooding back, and Emily called herself every kind of fool that she should have forgotten it. Perhaps she had put it in the back of her mind because she did not understand what the words meant, and her great-aunt had been so cross, her mother so angry.

  The day Aunt Bess left them, she stood in the front hall and said, “Yes, you will go your own way, Althea, but you will regret it someday. And poor Emily!” Here she had stooped and drawn the little girl into her arms to kiss. “You may always come to me, my dear,” she had whispered ... but of course, Great-aunt Bess had been dead these past five years.

  Emily shook her head and sighed, memories of the cottage at Wantage and the interview with her uncle and the lawyer coming again to her mind. She had worn her hastily made black dress, her blond hair pulled back into a severe knot. She had tried not to look at herself in the mirror as she did up her hair, although for years she had searched every day for signs she was growing up to look like her mother. Now she wished that, instead of her blond hair and delicate rose-tinted complexion and graceful figure, she were ugly and commonplace. She steeled herself as she entered the parlor and both men rose.