A Most Improper Duchess, page 1
a most improper Duchess
Alivia Fleur
A MOST IMPROPER DUCHESS is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronics or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
A catalogue record for this work is available from the National Library of Australia.
Cover design by Evelynne Labelle at Carpe Librum Book Design www.carpelibrumbookdesign.com
A MOST IMPROPER DUCHESS © 2024 by Alivia Fleur
For Sidekick Sophie
I could write something profound,
about how much teachers learn from their students,
and how one of the greatest joys of my career has been watching you evolve from being my mentee to my colleague.
But that might sound a bit sappy and corny.
So instead I'll say,
I've got a bottle of prosecco in the fridge. Come round on the weekend. I'll bung on a roast, and we'll cheers the new book.
PS bring a salad.
Contents
who lives on Honeysuckle street?
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
epilogue
historical notes
Acknowledgements
a song and a snowflake
undercover with the heiress
Also by and forthcoming
about Alivia
who lives on Honeysuckle street?
February 1876
Number 1
Phineas Babbage, Bank Clerk
Number 2
Odette Delaney, Soprano
Number 3
Lawrence and Wilhelmina Hempel, Hotel Magnates
and their children:
Rosanna
Johannes
Elliot
Beatrice
Garnett (deceased)
Amadeus
Nova
Ottile
Thaddeus
Number 4
Albert Abberton, retired
Lord Hamish Dalton, heir to Earl Caplin
Lady Iris Dalton, Director of Spencer and Co Travel
Number 5
Mrs Crofts, President of the Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values
Number 6
Vacant block mostly inhabited by Spencer, King of Honeysuckle Street
Number 7
Petunia Hartright, choir leader
Elise Hartright, assistant to Lady Iris Dalton
Number 8
Dalton family town residence, currently being renovated for Spencer and Co Travel
Number 9
Benton Hunter, Diplomat, currently abroad
Number 10
His Grace Arley West, Duke Osborne
Chapter one
8 March 1876
Meetings at Lords were never like this.
Fundraiser committees weren’t like this.
The Ilex Rowing Club Annual General Meeting wasn’t like this.
Arley didn’t think there were any meetings in all of London quite like those held for Spencer and Co Travel.
‘Phineas and Lawrence. If we could please focus on the agenda.’ Lady Iris Dalton tapped at the list on the table before her. Her voice held her crisp, no-nonsense timbre, but Arley could feel her stamina waning. Or maybe that was just himself.
Further down the table, Phineas Babbage leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a slightly smug grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. Lawrence Hempel, sitting opposite, had half stood and leaned in as if about to give Phineas a well-deserved wallop.
‘He started it,’ Lawrence snapped, sounding as petulant as one of his many children.
Arley tried to shoot Phineas a look to say, must you, but Phineas determinedly avoided his glare.
‘You have five minutes. I have rehearsal,’ Odette Delaney, soprano, announced. Arley shot a look at the clock. The meeting was meant to have finished over half an hour ago.
He gritted his teeth, then forced his jaw to relax. Last summer, he’d become an investor in the travel company formed by Iris. She’d worked secretly with her adoptive father Albert at his trading company for years, even taking over when he became ill and his memory began to fade. But when her father’s decline had become known, the board of Abberton and Co had unceremoniously removed them both from the company. For Iris, her work was like air, and in a show of neighbourly comradery, the street had bound together to invest in Spencer and Co, her idea for a travel company providing bespoke and boutique tours for the middle classes. At the time, he had rather liked the idea, and Iris was more than competent enough to see it through. But he hadn’t envisaged regular meetings, and he hadn’t expected them to be so chaotic. Having to undertake the actual work, the affability of that afternoon had faded as quickly as the plate of biscuits that had been set before Iris’s husband Hamish.
‘Iris!’
Iris shuffled her papers and cleared her throat. ‘As I was saying, the current list of itineraries covers short samplers to appeal to couples, but we’d like to offer—’
‘Iris!’ Closer now, the voice of Albert Abberton bounced down the hall. Iris looked down, blinking fast.
‘Hamish, would you take over?’ She pushed back her chair and darted from the room. Hamish had been staring out the window. He shook himself to alertness and shuffled the papers in front of him.
‘As Iris was saying…’ His eyes skated the page. ‘Errrr…’
Arley internalised a frustrated breath. Hamish was many admirable things, but astute businessperson was not one of them. That moniker belonged to his wife, who had also taken the remaining shreds of calm with her when she left.
‘The park is looking fresh and green already.’ Phineas half turned to Odette. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Delaney?’
‘No one is interested in your view of the park,’ Lawrence snapped.
‘I wasn’t speaking to you,’ Phineas drawled.
Young Elise Hartright, Iris’s assistant, tapped her fingers together. ‘We really must continue with the agenda.’
Lawrence’s daughter Rosanna toyed with a bracelet on her wrist.
‘Two minutes,’ Odette said, half standing. ‘Covent Garden does not wait.’
Chatter, barbs and excuses, all of them swirled around the room, each one echoing louder than the one before. The grey tom with the white tipped tail leapt onto the table and skidded across the polished wood. The teapot rattled, milk spilled and splashed onto the floor. Sugar cubes scattered, and everyone gathered up their papers to stop them from becoming soaked. The cat lapped at the milk.
There was only one thing for it. Arley inhaled, broadened his shoulders, and found the necessary tone, the one he had started working on when he turned 6 and had mastered by the time he was twelve. His duke tone.
‘Can we please focus on the task at hand?’ His voice cut the raucousness, and the settling silence formed into a bubble that surrounded him, always, in everything he did.
Never raise your voice, but don’t be meek. Never lower your gaze but eschew condescension. Fill the space. Don’t impose. Always, always remember who you are.
Dukes led, they commanded, they directed. Even here, around the table where Iris had insisted all votes and opinions were of equal weight, being a duke inspired a special type of respect.
Odette pushed back her chair with a look at the clock. Arley frowned. She settled. No one was going anywhere until this was done.
‘Elise, the last item please?’ he said.
‘It’s an idea for a tour,’ Elise stammered. ‘We’re calling it a mini-grand tour.’
Phineas snuffled a laugh. ‘Do you hear the contradiction?’
‘It’s an excellent idea,’ Lawrence said.
‘You haven’t even heard what it is,’ Phineas snapped.
‘If you think it rubbish, it’s likely excellent.’
‘I never said—’
‘Gentleman!’ Iris, eyes weary, shoulders sagging, leaned against the door frame. Hamish pushed himself from the table and drew her against his side for just a little longer than was appropriate, before helping her settle into her seat at the head of the table. ‘It’s intended as a microcosm of the tour,’ Iris said, her words drawn. ‘A week in Paris, for the family who wishes to give a son or daughter a taste of the culture of the continent but cannot stretch to multiple locations or years of galivanting around. A concert or two, rather than a year in Austria. A few famous paintings, rather than every masterpiece. Enough French to get by, over fluency. A t
It seemed unfair that she narrowed her gaze on him. Like everything he did, his tour had been very measured. How could it not have been, when he’d been accompanied by a minder and his itinerary had been packed with meetings with city officials.
‘I was hoping someone would travel to Paris and put together a list of places. When I was there last year, parts of the city were still rubble as buildings were destroyed during the war and the Siege. Construction was only just getting underway. But every newspaper report I read speaks of a city reborn. There are likely new sights. I want to know what they are so that we can stay ahead of our competitors.’
Phineas looked to Arley. Odette looked at him, too.
‘Perhaps someone with experience in what a grand tour is would be a good candidate. Then they could make comparisons to inform the advertising, and even be a spokesperson for it. They could reassure potential clients that it’s a sensible investment in their child’s education,’ Iris continued.
Lawrence. Elise. Rosanna. Even the blasted cat, sat on the window ledge, seemed to shift his attention from the milk jug to Arley.
‘There is no time to co-ordinate such a trip,’ Arley said.
‘I’ve already planned it!’ Elise leapt from her seat and pushed a folder before him. ‘If you leave the day after tomorrow, you can get the train to Dover, then a steamer. You’ll connect at Calais…’
Arley looked to the ceiling as Elise ran through the itinerary. ‘The House returns in a little over a month. I need to prepare. I really cannot—’
‘Please, your grace,’ Iris said, her eyes damp with tears. ‘Phineas cannot obtain leave from the bank, and Lawrence and Rosanna will not leave Wilhelmina so close to her confinement.’
‘What about—’
‘Odette has rehearsals.’
‘And—’
‘Elise is far too young, and she keeps so much together. And before you suggest it,’ Iris continued, ‘I cannot go. Papa remembers less each day.’ All her assertion faded, and instead, was replaced with quiet grief. ‘He barely recognises Mr Rogers, and even sometimes forgets Gena, who has been with us the longest. I’m the only one who can keep him calm. If I go, and he forgets me, he’ll have no one. I would send Hamish, but I need him. I feel selfish, but I would crumble if he left. If I could split myself into multiple pieces, I would, but I am just one woman. Would you take this on? I know Spencer and Co is one of many interests you have, but it means so much to us.’
‘One problem. Paris is a little different when you’re a duke.’ He tried to keep his voice soft. He’d always liked Abberton. His deterioration was hard to witness, but harder still was its weight on Iris.
‘You could go incognito,’ Phineas drawled. ‘At least try not telling people you’re a duke all the time. Then you could experience the city like our clients might.’
Arley felt a sudden affinity with Lawrence, in that he could easily have leaned across the table and thumped Phineas. He didn’t tell people he was a duke all the time. He didn’t have to. They simply knew.
This is what happened from stepping out of his circle. From having associates.
‘I’ll give you one week,’ he said as he closed the folder.
‘I’ve booked two—’
‘One!’
‘Very well,’ Elise said as she took back the papers. ‘I’ll change all your tickets. How exciting. One day, I’d love to go to Paris!’
Arley stood, buttoning his coat. ‘It’s highly overrated.’
Two days later, Arley stood in the foyer of his home at Number 10 Honeysuckle Street, waiting for his trunk to be loaded onto the carriage. He flipped through the stack of envelopes and cards piled on the sideboard. Cecil, his butler, had already dispensed with the silver tray that held his correspondence over the winter, and had replaced it with a low wooden box to better contain the pile and stop it from spilling onto the floor. Lady Harrington, Earl Brimford, Sir Stuart, Mr Fenway, the businessman… Men and women he barely knew. Who knew nothing of him, except for his first name… duke.
Arley extracted two letters—one from his estate manager and stepfather Tillman, the other, likely a request for funds from his bastard half-brother Winton—and tucked them into his pocket. He scooped up the rest of the stack as best he could and handed them to Cecil.
‘Burn these,’ he said.
Cecil wrung his hands. ‘Your mother will be upset if you don’t at least open them.’
‘Then don’t tell her.’
Cecil produced the same shocked expression he always did when Arley suggested he withhold information from Arley’s mother. ‘Your grace, I could never lie. Especially not to the duchess…’ His hand wringing increased. With a huff, Arley tossed the stack of envelopes back into the box.
Of all the staff he could have brought with him from the estate to London, for reasons he could no longer remember, Arley had brought Cecil. Cecil served with devotion. He could not fault him that. It had even been from Cecil that he had learnt of his father’s death. Arley, then five, had been in the nursery with the governess. In what he assumed was a melding of grief and duty, Cecil had announced, his voice heavy with emotion, ‘Your grace, your mother requests you see her in her rooms.’
Arley shook his head to shake the memory. Outside, the horses snickered. He was due at the station in a little over an hour. One of the staff opened the door and began hauling his trunk onto the boards.
Arley leafed through the letters again. ‘Has Miss Hartright sent over the amended travel documents?’
‘Not yet, your grace. I will go over there immediately.’ Cecil made for the front door, but as he reached for the long brass handle, he half bent, rubbed at his lower back with an embarrassed smile, then continued forward at a hobble. ‘Perhaps I shall send young Timothy?’
Arley checked his pocket watch. He kept a light staff—after all, it was only himself in the house—and if Timothy went, his case would still need to be loaded onto the carriage, and he’d be later than he already was. Trains waited for no man, not even dukes. ‘I’ll go. Tell him to bring the carriage round to Number 7. I’ll leave from there.’
Cecil bowed as Arley left. ‘Bon voyage, your grace. Is that what the French say?’
A weak February sun strained against the grey clouds, and as Arley crossed the street, a cool gust bit his ankles. Despite his obstinance of a few days ago, a thrill dared to vibrate through him. What would Paris be like, as a mister?
The wall of five stucco clad townhouses shone bright against the overcast sky. The row had been constructed six or seven years before, and each house was built to an identical plan. Five stories high, the facade of the long row alternated between bay window and doorway, with a low fence delineating each connected residence. Elise lived with her Aunt Petunia in Number 7 and had done so since her older sister’s scandal. Their bright pink front door gleamed like peach glace. They were forever changing its colour and altering the décor inside. Every decorator in London must have done work for them at some stage.
Arley ascended the short set of stairs and rapped the knocker.
‘Pardon me, your grace, but I fear you have the wrong door.’
Arley sucked in a breath and looked across, past the window and to the landing of the neighbouring house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Crofts. How are you today?’
‘Much improved for having you attend one of our meetings. My ladies will be ever so thrilled to meet with you. They would love the opportunity to discuss matters of morality with our society’s patron.’
He couldn’t even blame alcohol, for it had been eleven in the morning, on his first day after relocating to London. Mrs Crofts had accosted him on his walk, introduced herself as the moral beacon of the street and asked him to be patron of her society. In a moment of confusion, 21-year-old Arley had stammered his agreement, and although he had never attended a meeting of the Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values, his name was still blazoned beneath their crest on the header of the newsletter she hand delivered each month.
Arley rapped on the door again. ‘I am at the correct door, Mrs Crofts. Following up a matter with your neighbour.’
