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The Vagabond Duchess
Claire Thornton
He'd promised to returnBut Jack Bow is dead. And Temperance Challinor's quietly respectable life is changed forever.Practical Temperance has no time to grieve for the irresistible rogue who gave her one night of comfort in a blazing city. She must protect her unborn child–by pretending to be Jack's widow.A foolproof plan. Until she arrives at Jack's home…and the counterfeit widow of a vagabond becomes the real wife of a very much alive duke!
Temperance hardly heard the duchess as she gazed unseeingly at the carved legs of the desk, finally allowing herself to believe Jack was alive.
Joyful excitement suddenly bloomed in her heart. She would see Jack again. She would!
New energy surged through her. She leaped to her feet—
And stumbled with shock as she registered what else the duchess had said.
“Your son?”
“Yes, he’s my son.”
“B-but…”
“Sometimes he calls himself Jack Bow,” said the duchess. “
But his full name is John Beaufleur, second Duke of Kilverdale.”
Praise for Claire Thornton
THE DEFIANT MISTRESS
“If you are looking for something decidedly out of the ordinary, this novel is worth checking out.
—All About Romance
“Sweeps readers from Cromwell’s London to France, Italy and back…colorful backdrop, varied settings and vivid details.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
RAVEN’S HONOR
“Claire Thornton has written an exciting historical unlike anything I’ve read this past year…. I highly recommend this intoxicating love story.”
—Romance Junkies
GIFFORD’S LADY
“Claire Thornton is truly gifted in creating stories that are so unusual—with charismatic characters, intriguing plots and subtle humor. Her hero steps off the page and into your heart with his bravery and sensibilities.”
—Romance Junkies
“[Abigail] and Gif share a wonderfully tender and intimate love scene that’s one of the best I have read this year…. It’s a standout.”
—All About Romance
The Vagabond Duchess
Claire Thornton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Author Note
The stories in the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy take place during the reign of Charles II. This was an era of great color, drama and variety. The king scandalized some of his subjects with his many mistresses, but his reign also saw the emergence of modern banking among the London goldsmiths. Actresses appeared for the first time in London theaters, while members of the Royal Society met every week to witness scientific experiments.
Athena Fairchild, Colonel Jakob Balston and the Duke of Kilverdale are cousins, but they’ve led very different lives. Athena grew up in England, Jakob in Sweden, and Kilverdale spent his childhood exiled in France as a result of the war between Charles I and Parliament.
The cousins’ romances take place in various locations, but London is at the heart of the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy. The cousins all meet the one they love in the city—although Athena’s happiness is destroyed almost before it begins.
Athena’s story, The Defiant Mistress begins in May 1666 in Venice and the events span the rest of the summer. Jakob’s story, The Abducted Heiress, and Kilverdale’s story, The Vagabond Duchess, both begin in London at the start of September 1666. In the early hours of the morning of 2 September, a fire in Pudding Lane will burn out of control….
While I was writing these books I fell in love with the characters and their world. I hope you enjoy reading their stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Prologue
The Palace of Whitehall, London, April 1666
A French youth sang a love song. A group of courtiers played basset around a large table, gambling huge sums with fashionable disregard for the consequences. The King lounged at his ease, amused by the clever, cynical conversation of his noble companions.
The Earl of Swiftbourne stood aloof from the clamour around him. He was nearly half a century too old to be part of the circle of witty young men who entertained the king, and too hard-headed to risk his fortune at the gambling table. He owed his status at court to the fact he’d been one of the men, along with the Duke of Albemarle, who’d helped Charles regain his throne. Swiftbourne was well aware royal gratitude could be fickle, but he was adept at navigating the hazards associated with power. For the time being, he was confident his position was secure.
A few feet away from Swiftbourne, an aristocratic rogue was trying to seduce one of the ladies of the court. From the tone of her responses, Swiftbourne judged the rogue was close to success. He ignored the couple as he focussed on the group around the King. His grandson, John Beaufleur, the Duke of Kilverdale, was among them.
Kilverdale was just short of twenty-six and in the prime of his youth and power. He looked every inch the courtier in his periwig, silk brocade coat and Venetian lace, but he also had the manners and intelligence necessary to hold his own in the Court of Charles II. It was an environment where little was sacred and noble poets could shred the reputation of a rival with a few anonymously circulated verses.
Kilverdale had been the target of such satires in the past, but now he was doing nothing more scandalous than asking the King’s permission to leave the country.
‘A retreat! Kilverdale seeks a retreat because he has been over-matched by Rochester’s wit!’ Fotherington exclaimed.
Swiftbourne controlled a scornful curl of his lip. The youthful Rochester was a fine poet and a brilliant conversationalist, but he did not intimidate Kilverdale. Swiftbourne was confident his grandson could match wits or swords with any man present should the need arise.
‘I must fetch my cousin from the English convent at Bruges, your Majesty,’ Kilverdale said.
‘A nun, by God!’ said Fotherington.
‘She is a guest of the nuns,’ Kilverdale said, continuing to address the King.
‘I visited the convent at Bruges myself, when I was on my travels,’ said Charles. ‘Remember me to the Abbess.’
Kilverdale bowed gracefully in acknowledgement of the request. His expression, as so often, was courteously unreadable. Swiftbourne knew the English nuns on the continent had done a great deal to help the King’s cause when he was in exile. The Abbess might justifiably have expected a little more from Charles than his remembrances now.
‘Is she beautiful?’ asked Fotherington. ‘I have heard rumours her name is Athena and your mother sent her to the nuns because she is so beautiful.’
‘You must present her to us,’ said the King, his interest caught.
‘I thank your Majesty for your kindness. She will be honoured to attend Court—but I must present her to my mother first,’ Kilverdale replied. ‘Athena has lived retired from the world for several years. She must become accustomed to society by degrees.’
‘Is she an heiress?’ asked one of the fops crowding around.
‘That depends on the quality of the man who courts her,’ Kilverdale said, a cold glint in his eye.
The fop opened his mouth and then shut it again. It was well known that, unlike many of the debt-ridden noblemen adorning Charles’s court, Kilverdale’s title was backed by a large fortune. The implication in his words was clear—if he approved a suitor for his cousin’s hand, he would bestow a dowry on her. If he didn’t approve of the man, he would be ruthless in preventing access to his cousin.
Of course, Kilverdale’s cousin was also Swiftbourne’s granddaughter, but Swiftbourne had no intention of interfering with Kilverdale’s plans for her. Athena had been living in the convent to hide from her abusive husband, but she’d recently been widowed. It seemed Kilverdale had decided it was time for her to return to England and make a more satisfactory second marriage. Despite his sometimes eccentric reputation, the Duke had always had a well-developed sense of responsibility for those who depended upon him. Swiftbourne was curious to discover what kind of matchmaker his grandson would prove. So far he’d been notably reluctant to enter marriage negotiations on his own behalf.
Kilverdale took formal leave of the King and turned to make his way out of the chamber. As he did so he looked straight at his grandfather for the first time.
Even after fifteen years it still shocked Swiftbourne to be confronted by that flat, hard gaze. There were times when he was convinced Kilverdale hated him, other times when he was sure ruthlessly controlled rage seethed behind the polite stare. And sometimes he caught glimpses of the devastated eleven-year-old boy whose world had been overturned by a few short words. It was those occasions Swiftbourne found most disturbing, though he always concealed his feelings behind the impenetrable mask of the professional diplomat.
‘My lord.’ Kilverdale paused to acknowledge his grandfather. ‘I am glad to see you in good health.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swiftbourne, allowing just a touch of irony to shade his cool response. ‘It’s an inconvenient time to cross the channel, now we’re at war with the French as well as the Dutch.’
Kilverdale raised one eyebrow. ‘I dare say the enemy will come to more harm than I if we encounter each other,’ he replied. ‘Good evening, my lord.’
‘Good evening.’ Swiftbourne watched Kilverdale walk away. Two sons and a grandson had already predeceased him—he did not wish to receive the news of this grandson’s death. Of all his children and grandchildren, Kilverdale was the one who most resembled him. Swiftbourne had survived seventy-four years with his health and wits intact and his fortune significantly enlarged. He comforted himself with the thought Kilverdale was more than capable of equalling that achievement.
Kilverdale was approached several times as he made his way out by his friends—or those who sought his friendship. Swiftbourne watched with cynical amusement as one enterprising girl nearly tripped up at Kilverdale’s feet in her efforts to catch his eye. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened. The young, unmarried and wealthy duke had been a target for matchmaking parents and ambitious daughters ever since he’d returned to England six years earlier.
Kilverdale restored the girl’s balance with a deft gesture, spoke a few coolly courteous words and moved on. The next attempt to waylay him was far more determined. The Earl of Windle stepped away from the basset table and moved directly in front of Kilverdale. Even at this distance Swiftbourne could see the bullish expression on Windle’s face. It was well known the Earl’s fortune was in a desperate state. His plans for recovery centred on finding a rich husband for his daughter. At first he’d tried to lure Kilverdale into marriage negotiations. Recently his attempts at persuasion had become less subtle. Swiftbourne began to stroll towards the two men.
‘I regret I do not have time to linger tonight, my lord,’ Kilverdale said.
‘You can spare the time to take some wine with me, I’m sure, your Grace,’ Windle replied unctuously.
‘Unfortunately not. I’m bound for Flanders at first light,’ said Kilverdale. ‘I—’ His eyes narrowed as Windle caught his coat sleeve.
The Earl flushed angrily, but released his grip. He was naturally inclined to be a bully, but Kilverdale’s prowess with a sword was too well known for Windle to risk forcing a quarrel on the Duke. ‘I will be pleased to travel with you to the coast so we can conclude our discussions before you leave,’ he said.
‘I do not recall starting a discussion with you that cannot be concluded with a simple “good evening”,’ Kilverdale said, turning away.
‘By God, Kilverdale, you must take a wife soon!’ exclaimed Fotherington. ‘Why not Windle’s daughter?’ He glanced between the two men, clearly hoping his meddling would incite some entertaining fireworks.
‘With all due courtesy to the Lady Anne, I am already committed to another,’ Kilverdale snapped. ‘Good night, my lords.’ He turned on his heel and strode out before any of them could respond.
After a second’s shock Swiftbourne found himself the focus of all eyes. He’d been as startled as the rest of them by his grandson’s announcement, but his expression remained impassive as he said, ‘Do not expect me to reveal Kilverdale’s secrets, gentleman. No doubt he will provide further enlightenment when it suits him.’
‘Are you in his confidence, my lord?’ Fotherington asked. ‘I had not realised you were on such warm terms with him these days.’
Swiftbourne raised an eyebrow. ‘I am pleased to assure you that Kilverdale and I enjoy terms of more than adequate warmth, sir,’ he said, and took even more pleasure in the way Fotherington wilted under his icy gaze.
There was a sudden commotion at the basset table as one of the players won a considerable sum. It was a signal for a general regrouping and a few moments later Swiftbourne discovered the King at his elbow.
‘Committed to a bride, or a paramour?’ Charles asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘Either will be something of a novelty for Kilverdale—if there was any truth in what he said to Windle. Let us hope he returns swiftly to Court so we can enjoy the next act in this drama.’
Chapter One
London, Friday 31, August 1666
T emperance kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she followed the link boy through the dark streets. It was nearly midnight, and the bustling daytime crowds had long since gone home. Normally she would never venture out so late, but business had been slow all summer. She could not afford to lose the potential sale at the end of this journey. She listened for threatening sounds in the shadows and kept a firm grip on the stout stick she held by her side. She maintained an equally firm hold on the carefully packed goods she carried in her other arm.
