Duke's Diamonds (Endearing Young Charms Book 1)

  Duke’s Diamonds

  M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Duke’s Diamonds

  Copyright © 1982 by Marion Chesney

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795320262

  For Lynne Shapiro

  with love

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  “The fact is, my dear Duke, we have a great deal to be thankful for,” Miss Emily Winters said severely.

  And Duke, a great shaggy mongrel, stared up at her out of his rather close-set, mean-looking eyes and wagged his ridiculous plume of a tail.

  “But sometimes,” Emily went on, looking with large, sad eyes across the expanse of lawn to the mellow brick facade of Manley Court, “it is very hard to remember. If Sir Peregrine dies—and it seems more than likely he will, and very soon, too—then you and I, Duke, will be looking for a home.”

  Duke parted his black lips and yellow teeth in an idiotic grin and buried his narrow head in her lap.

  A chill November wind sighed through the bare branches of the lime trees that bordered the drive and ruffled the waters of the ornamental lake.

  Emily was a distant relative of Sir Peregrine Manley, “about two hundred times removed,” as Sir Peregrine’s sister, Harriet, was wont to remark.

  But at least that acid comment was better than the openly expressed view of Sir Peregrine’s other kin, which was that Emily was no distant relative at all but one of the old man’s by-blows. Since Emily herself did not know the names of her parents, she could do little to stand up for herself.

  She was seventeen years of age and, until six months ago, she had known no other life than that of the Baxtead Orphanage. It was not an orphanage for destitute children but for unwanted children, placed there by relatives who did not want to house them. Her fees were paid through a lawyer’s office in London. But the lawyers refused to disclose the secret of her birth, simply saying that a relative of the Manley family paid for her keep at the orphanage and had requested that his name be kept secret.

  Just before Emily’s seventeenth birthday, Sir Peregrine Manley had arrived at the orphanage. He was a florid, gouty, tetchy gentleman in his fifties. How he had come to learn of Emily’s existence he would never say, but he had looked her over with his watery blue eyes and had announced he was taking her to his home because he had a job for her.

  The patroness of the orphanage had given her up without a murmur, and Emily had gone with him very unwillingly indeed, having been brought up on scarifying tales from the other girls about the peculiar lusts of gentlemen.

  But the job turned out to be ludicrous, although Sir Peregrine was perfectly in earnest about it. She was to be keeper and companion to his dog, Duke. She was to spend her days and nights with the dog, since Sir Peregrine believed that one of his relatives planned to poison the animal.

  At first Emily was inclined to sympathize with the relatives, since Duke was hideously spoiled. He lay in the best chairs and no one was allowed to move him. He blocked the heat from the fire in the evenings by standing in front of it. He loved hiding in dark corners and bounding out to nip an unwary ankle.

  But after the rigors of the orphanage, Manley Court had seemed like a dream with its well-appointed rooms and beautiful gardens. Emily had set herself to win the affections of Duke. At first it was difficult, and her future hung in the balance. Duke had eaten her only pair of slippers and she had smacked him, and, like a spoiled child, he had gone whimpering to Sir Peregrine. It was only when Emily had discovered that the dog was overweight, his coat dull, that he lacked exercise and was badly in need of a good staple diet, that things took a turn for the better. She walked miles with the mongrel panting happily at her heels, and after the third walk, Duke became her slave. Emily was apt to think that a devoted Duke was every bit as repellent as an antagonistic Duke, since the animal had a creeping sycophantic manner, but Sir Peregrine was delighted, and that was all that mattered.

  And so her life would have been quite perfect had it not been for the other members of the household. First, there was Sir Peregrine’s sister, Harriet, a thin, acid spinster with a razor tongue and a jealous eye. Then there was Sir Peregrine’s brother, James, a thin, ascetic clergyman with a knack of making everyone in general and Emily in particular feel they were not good enough for this world or, for that matter, the next. And finally, there were his two nieces, Fanny and Betty, who were not orphans but who had been sent along by their parents as sort of permanent house guests at Manley Court in the hope that Sir Peregrine would die soon and leave them some of his wealth.

  That, in fact, was what they were all waiting for—with the exception of Emily. The Manleys were waiting for Sir Peregrine to die. Aside from Manley Court and its profitable estates, he possessed a fortune in diamonds.

  It was not that he was so very old. He was fifty-four. But a long life of self-indulgence, bachelorhood, bad temper, and utter selfishness had left their mark on Sir Peregrine’s health.

  He was a prey to gout, and his heart was said to be bad. He had already had two seizures, from which he had miraculously recovered. The doctor had prophesied that a third would kill him.

  In recent weeks, he had been confined to his bedchamber quite a lot, leaving Emily to the mercy of his relatives. They had been quite charming to her at first, fully expecting her stay to last only a week. But the growing affections of Duke and consequently the growing affections of Sir Peregrine had made them eye Emily with open hostility. As far as they were concerned, she was a threat to the inheritance that they had begun to look on as their own. Emily sighed, and Duke slobbered his tongue over her hand and grinned at her again.

  Sir Peregrine had promised to be present at dinner that evening, as his neighbor, Bartholomew Storm—Lord Storm—had returned from the Peninsular Wars and had been invited as guest of honor. He was rumored to be extremely rich and handsome—and unmarried. Fanny and Betty had been in a flutter all morning and had wandered around with their hair in curl papers, planning elaborate toilets to dazzle this possible suitor.

  They had tried their hardest to have Emily excluded from the dinner, going so far as to tell the housekeeper that Emily would have a tray in her room. But the housekeeper had referred the matter to Sir Peregrine, who had gleefully countermanded the order. He loved his relatives’ jealousy of Emily and did everything he could to make it worse. It gave him a feeling of power to have all these people vying for his affections, although he knew very well they were only after his money.

  After having delightedly mused on the joys of upsetting them further, he recalled that he had asked his young cousin, Clarissa Singleton, to stay, and with any luck she would arrive in time for dinner.

  Mrs. Singleton was a widow of considerable beauty and charm. Sir Peregrine considered her to be like one of his finest diamonds. Glittering, beautiful, and extremely hard.

  In any case, Fanny and Betty’s twittering spite and sister Harriet’s acid remarks had driven Emily to take refuge in the park. They were all very greedy people, she mused. Harriet possessed a fortune of her own; James Manley was
rector of Baxtead and had a rich living; and Fanny and Betty’s parents owned considerable property. But one thing was sure. They all wanted the Manley fortune and were prepared to go to any lengths to get it.

  Emily found herself wondering about this mysterious Lord Storm. He was accounted “quite young.” Perhaps he would be someone merry and cheerful who would treat her kindly.

  She certainly could not dream of matrimony to a lord. She was some sort of legal parcel which had been delivered to the orphanage and then to Sir Peregrine. As far as the law was concerned, she had no say in anything, and Emily had come sadly to the conclusion that she must be illegitimate; otherwise the lawyers and the orphanage would surely have told her the identity of her parents.

  She was unaware that there was an added reason for Fanny’s and Betty’s spite and their determination, now foiled, to have her excluded from the dinner party.

  Emily was quite beautiful. She had masses of jet-black hair, which curled naturally. Her skin was extremely fair, the cheeks a delicate pink. Her eyes were a wide and candid blue with a dark ring around the iris and very slightly tilted at the corners, giving her a somewhat Slavonic appearance. She had a slim figure, a neat ankle, and a deep bosom.

  Of course, the ladies of the household had taken steps to extinguish some of this “blowsiness,” as Harriet put it. Her hair was severely scraped back and confined in a knot at her neck. Her gowns were of the simplest style, since she was not a very good needlewoman and had been presented with some lengths of cloth and told to make her own.

  It was not only the cruel remarks of the ladies of Manley Court that had upset her, thought Emily, but a certain something inside her, a frustrated yearning for kindness and warmth and laughter.

  And mixed up with all these mixed emotions was a feeling of rebellion. She tried to remind herself that she was a penniless orphan and that she should be grateful for any charity, but she longed for balls and jewels and pretty dresses with all her feminine heart.

  Emily suddenly shivered, feeling stiff and cold. She arose from the fallen log she had been sitting on and began to walk slowly across the lawns toward the house. She seized Duke’s collar just in time. His ruff had gone up and he had shown every sign of being about to mangle an adventurous deer that was ambling placidly along.

  Emily began to wonder what on earth she should wear that evening and if there was any way in which she could prettify her meager wardrobe.

  She was still deep in thought when she reached her room. Duke had a special bed made for him, in the corner by the fire. But in his usual perverse way, he ignored it completely and stretched his muddy paws luxuriously out on the counterpane of Emily’s bed.

  Emily pulled her one silk gown out of the closet and looked at it in despair. It had been made for her by a friend at the orphanage and had the merit of being in the latest fashion, with a low bodice and little puffed sleeves. The skirt fell straight from the high Empire waistline and ended in two deep flounces. But the color was a sort of streaky, muddy brown, which is why a great bolt of it had been so generously donated to the orphanage.

  It was then that she noticed that the curtains in her room were edged with gold silk fringe….

  * * *

  Emily was to make her entrance in the drawing room some twenty minutes late, having been sent by Harriet to look for a mythical work basket that that lady was supposed to have mislaid.

  Emily was to be seated at the table well away from Lord Storm, but Harriet was determined to take care of that traditional half hour in the drawing room before dinner when the ladies and gentlemen assembled for a drink.

  Harriet had ranged herself on the side of Fanny and Betty, secretly feeling that if one of these young ladies could entrap Lord Storm, it would take their minds off the inheritance. She had reckoned, however, without the arrival of Clarissa Singleton.

  From the top of her well-coiffeured head to the points of her bronze kid slippers, Mrs. Singleton was the very picture of modish perfection. Her red-gold hair blazed above a perfect oval face, painted with the hand of an artist.

  Harriet had not been present when Mrs. Singleton arrived, and so she met her for the first time when she walked into the drawing room. Dressed in puce, which matched her complexion, Harriet, who had felt very elegant in the privacy of her bedchamber, felt old-fashioned and dowdy beside the glittering Clarissa. Why, even her brother, the reverend James, was making a cake of himself over the woman.

  Both Fanny and Betty were attired in flimsy muslin gowns decorated with a great quantity of ribbons. They were sulking over in a corner as far from the merry widow as they could get. Lord Storm had not yet arrived.

  Sir Peregrine was ensconced in an armchair by the fire with his gouty foot up on a stool. His face was a muddy color and his breathing harsh and rapid, but his eyes sparkled maliciously as he looked from one face to the other.

  “Where’s Emily?” he barked.

  Harriet bit her lip. Emily was bound to arrive and blurt out her reason for being late. “I sent her to look for my work basket,” she snapped. “Time she earned her keep.”

  “You ain’t got a work basket,” said Sir Peregrine. “Never could sew a seam. Never will. Anyway, it ain’t any use you worrying about Emily being competition when we’ve got Clarissa here.”

  “Sweet uncle,” murmured Clarissa. “Always the flatterer!”

  Fanny and Betty bridled in their corner and tossed their heads. They did not like being outclassed by Clarissa. In truth, both Fanny and Betty were very well in their way. Although Fanny was a year older, being twenty to Betty’s nineteen, they could have been taken for twins.

  Each had fat glossy ringlets in profusion, wide dark eyes, a long nose, and a mouth small enough to meet the demands of fashion. Each was inordinately proud of her tiny mouth and would make it smaller by speaking in sort of prunes-and-prisms voices, warbling her native woodnotes wild out of a little hole prissed up in the center of the mouth.

  They should have studied their Aunt Harriet’s face to see what could happen to a lady in later years who had pursed her mouth all her life to meet the dictates of fashion. Harriet’s mouth was surrounded by a radius of wrinkles. She always looked as if she were about to spit.

  “Do you think Lord Storm has had an accident?” asked Harriet, her eyes gloomily noting that Clarissa had dampened her gown of gold tissue so that it would cling more closely to her voluptuous figure.

  “Not he,” said Sir Peregrine. “Tell ’em to set back the dinner quarter of an hour.”

  Lord Storm had in fact just arrived, and, finding a servant had left the main door a little ajar, he pushed it open and let himself into the hall, placing his hat and cane on a side table and looking about him.

  He was about to ring for a servant when he noticed a beautiful girl descending the staircase. She was holding a candle in a brass candlestick and had an evil-looking mongrel at her heels.

  At the same moment, Emily caught sight of him and stopped on the half-landing, looking down. At first glance he looked like the most handsome man she had ever seen. His hair was worn longer than the current fashion and was tied by a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His hair was so blond it was nearly white, and his face was deeply tanned. He had light-gray eyes under heavy drooping lids, a patrician nose, and a square chin. He was wearing a swallow-tailed coat with the tight-fitting evening trousers pioneered by Brummel that fitted the leg like a second skin and reached to just above the ankle, displaying an expanse of striped silk stocking.

  His cravat was intricately folded and starched, and a single sapphire pin blazed against its snowy whiteness.

  He stood watching her in silence until she became aware that she had been staring at him and blew out her candle—for the hall was brightly lit—and made her way down the stairs toward him.

  Her silk gown rustled about her, and the gold fringe from the curtains that she had used to embellish it fluttered as she moved.

  He made her a deep bow and said in an attracti
ve, husky voice, “I am Storm. I was about to ring for a servant, but perhaps you may save me the trouble, Miss…?”

  “Winters, my lord.”

  “Miss Winters, will you show me to the drawing room?”

  Emily swept him a low curtsy and murmured, “Certainly, my lord.”

  She fought down a little twinge of disappointment. His eyes were hard and cold, and he seemed very haughty.

  He held out his arm, and she tentatively laid her gloved hand on his sleeve, indicating the drawing room with a little nod of her head.

  A footman suddenly materialized and rushed to throw open the doors for them, and Lord Storm, not knowing whether this young lady was a guest of the house or no, gave the footman both their names.

  “Miss Winters and Lord Storm,” announced the footman.

  The party in the drawing room, with the exception of Sir Peregrine, rose to their feet. From the looks on the ladies’ faces, Emily realized she was being damned for having stolen a march on them.

  The drawing room was a blaze of gold and crimson; gilt furniture with crimson upholstery, gold-painted ceiling, crimson curtains, and two fine Waterford chandeliers.

  “Come in! Come in!” cried Sir Peregrine. “No need to stand on formality, heh? Your name’s Bartholomew, I believe.”

  “My friends of long standing call me Bart,” said his lordship pleasantly. “But others address me by my title. You may call me Storm.”

  Insufferable, thought Emily, who had detached herself from him at the earliest opportunity.

  “Hey, well, well,” said Sir Peregrine, looking slightly taken aback. “I’d better make the company known to you. This here is m’sister, Harriet, and the thin one in the dog collar is m’brother, James. He’ll save your soul for you, heh?” He let out a bellow of laughter while Lord Storm eyed him coldly.

  “And the ladies?” queried Lord Storm in a tone that plainly implied Sir Peregrine should have introduced them first.