Gayle Wilson - His Secret Duchess

The slightly patronizing question reduced the social highlight of the London year to the most inane of activities—at least as far as His Grace the Duke of Vail was concerned. They were well aware that the duke seldom left his vast country estate, disdaining the society they adored. So they racked their brains for some town event that might prove he had, by his voluntary seclusion, missed a great deal that was entertaining.

“Lucy Sanderson produced a new brat to add to her brood.” someone ventured. “And, of course, no one may be sure of his patrimony—other than that it is certain not to be Sanderson’s.”

A poor choice of topic, since there was nowhere to go with the story. Although there had been heavy wagering posted in the betting books on the outcome of that pregnancy, the child had proved remarkably ordinary, and no one had been certain enough of the father to claim to have won.

The polite boredom in His Grace’s eyes did not change.

“Cheatingham’s youngest eloped with a fortune hunter. The earl chased them halfway to the Border, but a broken axle delayed him long enough that the wicked deed was done by the time he arrived,” Lord Alton added.

“More than one wicked deed had been accomplished by the time of Cheatingham’s arrival,” another corrected archly, and appreciative laughter greeted the sally.

“Since the girl has spots and a squint, besides her ten thousand, she’s lucky someone was willing to suggest the anvil,” Alton said.

The story was greeted with silence by the man they were attempting to entertain. Vail apparently found the petty scandal exactly that.

“And then there is the ongoing rustic sensation,” someone suggested. “That entertaining morality tale of Mary Winters and the merchant.”

It was a story with which they were all familiar. The interest with which the ton had followed the unfolding events, was rather amazing considering that the scandal involved no one who had the remotest connection with the beau monde. Their fascination, however, was characteristic, bred from the same ennui that caused them to worship the latest opera dancer or prizefighter, or to choose the worst of the numerous highwaymen who plagued the countryside to lionize and applaud, even as the man dangled on the gallows, as inevitably he did.

The story of Mary Winters contained the sordid elements that titillated the jaded imaginations of London’s elite: sexuality and violence. The tale had circulated for weeks, and as her trial approached, one still might find animated arguments in the clubs on aspects of the case that had not been brought to any suitable resolution and might never be.

“Mary Winters?” Vail repeated the name softly, his tone subtly different from the gentle cynicism of a moment ago. The deep voice had expressed the merest hint of interest in what the speakers had said, but since it was the first he had shown in any of the gossip they had offered, they hurried to enlighten him.

“A serving girl who tried to murder her master,” Alton began to explain, only to be silenced by several protesting voices.

“Governess,” someone corrected. “She was the child’s governess.”

“There’s no proof she was attempting to kill him.” Another voice came clearly through the hubbub. “She claims she struck in self-defense.”

‘Of course,” someone else said derisively. “What else could she say, given what she had done?”

“Apparently the merchant discovered the woman had been stealing the household moneys, as good as taking food out of the mouths of his dying wife and his son while he’d been away on business,” Alton continued, over several protesting voices. “Naturally, Tray wick was horrified, angry enough to upbraid her, even to threaten legal action. The thought of prison must have frightened her to death. Later that night, she attacked him with the poker and knocked him unconscious into the fire. He suffered the most abominable burns to his face. It’s said his visage is permanently marred.”

“That’s the merchant’s version,” the viscount said dismissively. “The few villagers who had contact with the woman, however, are openly doubtful of that sequence of events. For one thing, it doesn’t explain the blow to her face.”

“And what do they believe?” Vail asked. His eyes were not on the speaker, but rather on his fingers, which, despite the sudden pounding of his heart, still appeared relaxed, idly playing with one of the cards from the now forgotten game. Ironically, he noted, the card was the queen of hearts.

“That Mary Winters was defending herself from Traywick’s unwanted sexual advances,” Salisbury said succinctly. “His wife had recently died, and the merchant is deemed to be a man of strong and…somewhat strange sexual appetite. He has an unsavory reputation for cruelty among the local prostitutes. Despite the death of the wife, the governess was still living in his home. She has no family, no one to offer her protection. Maybe he thought he could get away with assaulting her, or that a spinster in her situation would welcome his advances in the hope that eventually, if she pleased him, they would lead to an offer of marriage.”

“But she was dressed,” someone reminded him. “Remember that. She was fully dressed when she came into the village to get help.”

“With a torn nightgown left behind as proof of his attack.”

“Which she could have torn herself to back up her version of events.”

The excited babble of argument grew and expanded, each speaker repeating assertions that had already been made innumerable times since news of the country scandal reached the capital. No one could have explained why, but the circumstances surrounding the case had fired enough interest that the trial of Mary Winters had become something of a cause célèbre.

“Consider that the child cannot speak,” Alton said. “Sure evidence that something untoward occurred.”

“Perhaps evidence that he had watched his beloved governess being attacked by his drunken father.”

“Traywick had been drinking. There’s no doubt of that. The constable found the empty decanter of port overturned in his room.”

“The woman poured it out to give weight to her version.”

“Why was she fully dressed?”

“Would you have her run into the village naked? Use your head, man.”

“And no one knows whether or not the child is capable of verifying either story. Traywick won’t allow anyone to question him.”

“And the outcome?” Vail asked. The quiet authority in the duke’s voice broke through the confusion. There was silence for a moment as they considered the surprising question, but after all, they gradually realized, Vail had been out of the country. He could not be expected to know the details they were so familiar with.

“Well,” Alton admitted, “there has been no outcome. Not yet, at any rate. The charge of attempted murder was too serious for the local magistrate to hear, so it’s been put over until the assizes. The trial is to convene…” He paused, uncertain.

“This week,” someone supplied.

“The location?” Vail asked. The gray eyes lifted to the speaker who seemed to have more factual knowledge than the rest. Somehow the duke’s face had changed, its planes reset into granite, as cold and as hard as the gaze he was wont to direct at those who had dared through the years to encroach upon his fiercely protected privacy.

“Penhurst,” Harry Caldwell supplied. He was better versed in the controversy than anyone, since his father’s manor house was the largest in the district where the assizes would be held.

The duke’s mouth moved slightly. It was a location less than forty miles from his own estate. Despite the failure of the searches he had launched, Mary Winters had not traveled far in the intervening years.