The Duke and the Vicomtesse: (Clean & Wholesome Regency Romance Book) Read online

  The Duke

  &

  the Vicomtesse

  Regency Romance

  Grace Fletcher

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Paris has Fallen

  Chapter 2 The Vicomtesse

  Chapter 3 The Duke’s Tragedy

  Chapter 4 The Luncheon & Lord Byron

  Chapter 5 The Duke Dances

  Chapter 6 Kitty’s Plan

  Chapter 7 Eden Hall

  Chapter 8 The Engagement

  Chapter 9 A Walk in the Country

  Chapter 10 The Ladies’ Visit

  Chapter 11 The Note

  Chapter 12 A Dangerous Journey

  Chapter 13 The Search

  Chapter 14 A Vicomtesse Returns

  FREE Gift:

  About the Author

  Preview of: Protected by the Duke

  Other Titles by Grace Fletcher:

  Chapter 1

  Paris has Fallen

  Paris, 1793

  “V

  ive la révolution!”

  The battle cry was echoing down the streets, growing louder and louder as the angry mob drew closer. Francois, the Vicomte of Genlis, looked at his family, crouching in the corner of the shabby room. His wife, Estelle, her sister, Celine, and their infant daughter, Marie-Therese were huddled together, as if mere proximity to each other could block out the awful sounds of the rabble. As if their collective willing could reverse what had been happening in Paris—and indeed, all over France.

  The king had just been executed, dragged to the block as if he were a common criminal. Francois still could not believe it. How had things progressed so far? How had Louis not realized that it was coming to this? As much as Francois had admired his leader, he couldn’t help but place some of the blame on the king and his refusal to address the worsening situation, back when something might have been done about it.

  No, the king hadn’t had a clue up until the very end; he had gone to the block convinced— Francois was certain—that the people would come to their senses and bow down to him again, release him, with an apology. Francois could still see his astonished face—finally, the realization, too late—as his head was thrust onto the guillotine. That look would be frozen to his face for eternity: the blade had severed his head, and it rolled onto the ground with a great gush of blood and a cheer from the crowds.

  Francois had watched covertly, appalled. He had disguised himself as a peasant in old clothes and a ripped cape, and stolen out into the city to witness it. The deed was done. Francois had needed to see the execution with his own eyes, he supposed, to accept what he already knew to be true: life as he knew it was over. He crossed himself, offering up a prayer for the doomed king. Then he had fled, traversing the city until he got to the old tavern where his family was hiding.

  “It is done?” Estelle had looked at him with round eyes, clinging to his cloak.

  “It is,” he said, hanging his head. “King Louis is dead, God rest his soul.”

  Estelle had cried, then. Softly. “I thought they might pardon him. I thought they would see the error of their ways.” They all knew what she meant: she had been hoping their family, all the nobility, would be pardoned.

  “It is too late for that, now,” Francois said darkly. “Paris is burning. It is the end for the nobility in this country. At least for now.”

  Estelle shook her head, denying it. “How can it be? I still don’t understand!”

  “My dear,” Francois said, shaking his head. “It was inevitable. The king stuck his head in the sand like an ostrich, refusing to admit things were as bad as they were. He could have saved the situation, given concessions to the people. But he was stubborn. There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

  Estelle was pale. “And the Queen? Marie-Antoinette?”

  Francois shook his head. “I simply do not know, ma chérie. I fear her end will be as bloody as her husband’s.”

  “What will become of us?” Estelle gripped her chest, suddenly unable to breathe. “Are we to live as paupers in this hovel forever?”

  She looked at her infant daughter, Marie-Therese, named for one of the princesses of France. So innocent, crawling on the filthy floor. Her heart constricted to see her beloved child amid such degradation and squalor.

  “Hush, ma chérie. It does not help to get upset. We need to keep our wits about us if we are to survive. I am trying to work out a deal with a fellow. He might be able to get us to Normandy, and from there a boat can take us to England. There is no other way anymore. We cannot stay here.”

  “Leave France?” Estelle’s voice rose. Francois hushed her again, looking fearfully around him. These walls had ears. You never knew anymore who would betray you.

  “Oui. We have such few options, Estelle,” he said. He cast a hand over his brow, wearily. “We should rest, now. Give the babe the last of the milk, then try to settle her. I will meet with the fellow first thing in the morning. Time is of the essence; we have to leave Paris.”

  Estelle did as he asked, carefully pouring the near sour milk with pap and giving it to Marie-Therese. The little girl fussed and cried, but ate it in the end, hunger overtaking her distaste. Estelle sighed. They had lost the baby’s wet nurse on the journey, and Estelle had despaired, thinking her daughter would surely die. But by some miracle they had procured a pap boat—an implement designed to feed infants, which mixed pap and milk together—from a poor family, and it had saved their daughter’s life.

  Marie-Therese fell asleep toward the end of the feed, her mouth hanging open slackly so that milk dribbled out. Estelle laid the baby down, using her cape as a pillow. Then she curled up next to her. Her sister, Celine, was already asleep on the floor. She had curled up in despair as soon as she had heard that Louis’ head had rolled.

  Francois watched them. Asleep, they looked like they had not a care in the world. The two sisters, uncannily alike, their blonde heads contrasting against the dark of the floorboards. The baby, Marie-Therese, as still as a china doll, except for the occasional suck of her thumb in her sleep.

  He felt a pang of sorrow. It would be a dangerous journey, with no guarantee of safety at the end of it. If they survived at all, it would be a miracle. The peasants were like bloodhounds, able to sniff out an aristocrat from the crowd, even when in disguise. They were in real danger.

  He thought back to their grand house in Genlis, abandoned now. All the furniture and silver, left to the looters. Heirlooms that had been in his family for generations, smashed on the floor in a million pieces, he’d wager. The world had gone topsy turvy. He could trust no one, and yet trust he must. He just hoped and prayed that the fellow whose help he had enlisted would not betray them for a few sous.

  He should not give in to such dark thoughts. But when the shadows of the night started to creep through the hovel, it was hard not to. He wrestled with his fears, eventually subduing them with difficulty. It would all turn out well. He had to believe that. He had hidden the bulk of their wealth in the house at Genlis, on that hope. They had only taken a fraction of jewels with them, to barter along the way.

  They would return one day and claim it. It was their right. One day, soon, this whole mess would be gone, and they would return to their old lives and pick up the shattered pieces.

  And their wealth would be waiting for them, slumbering like a princess in a tower until then.

  He had to believe it. It was the only thing that was getting him through.

  ***

  He woke his wife in the cold half-light, shaking her gently so that she didn’t make a
sound.

  Estelle’s eyes opened slowly, blinking. He waited for the painful realization of their circumstances to hit her anew. He hated to see the hope fading in her eyes, as it slowly dawned on her where they were, and what the world had become.

  “Arise, ma chérie. We must depart,” he whispered.

  The baby stirred, about to let out a cry. Francois picked her up, shushing her gently. Celine had already risen and was throwing cold water on her face, in an aborted attempt at a toilette. Estelle stumbled to her feet, wrapping the cloak around herself.

  Then they were on the streets, weaving amongst the crowds, keeping their heads down as Francois had instructed. They attempted to follow the man, whose name was Marcel, but he was fast, ducking and diving through the streets so quickly they became breathless. Estelle pulled at Francois’ sleeve, begging a break.

  “We cannot, ma chérie,” he whispered. “We must move quickly. Even being on the streets for a short amount of time is dangerous. This part won’t be for much longer. We are to meet up with a fishmonger’s carriage and travel in it to the coast. From there, a boat should be awaiting us.” At least, he hoped and prayed that it would indeed be a boat that waited for them, and not an angry mob.

  The fishmonger’s cart, when they eventually got to it, was mercifully empty. The women clambered into the back with the baby, lying low. Francois draped their cloaks over them. He would ride in the front with the fishmonger, pretending to be his assistant.

  “Remember, not a peep,” he said, as he covered them. “Estelle, try to keep Marie-Therese as quiet as possible. We will try not to stop before Normandy, but there are unofficial checkpoints everywhere. We must be prepared for anything.” He stepped down, moving to the front.

  The trip was uneventful, almost boring. Estelle was just drifting off to sleep when the carriage lurched to a stop, the horses pulling up suddenly.

  Marie-Therese awoke, whimpering. Estelle rocked her, straining her ears to hear what was going on. She knew that they hadn’t arrived at their destination; too little time had elapsed. They had to be still in Paris.

  The baby kept whimpering, gearing up to a loud cry. In desperation, Estelle handed the baby to Celine, opening the back of the carriage so that she could slip out with the baby and hopefully quiet her at a safe distance.

  “As soon as we are clear,” Estelle whispered to her sister, “We will come back for you. Hide behind a rock, or a tree. As far away as you can. I fear they will discover us if the babe stays here, crying. Go, dear sister. Look after her for me.”

  The two sisters gripped each other for a moment before Celine, the baby swaddled to her chest, slipped out of the back of the carriage, crouching as she fled into the woods.

  Celine found a safe spot in a thicket of trees and set up watch. The baby grizzled, but soon fell asleep again. Estelle had been right to be wary. A group of men with pitchforks had stopped the carriage and were questioning the fishmonger. She could see Francois nodding, but mostly, he was silent, letting the fishmonger do the talking. He knew that his noble accent would betray him.

  Suddenly, a man lent forward, wielding a knife and began to antagonize the fishmonger and Francois. When the brief struggle ended, Celine could see that the man had pierced Francois’ heart; blood flowed from the wound in the center of his chest. The nobleman staggered in his seat before letting out a cry and careening to the ground. Celine gasped in horror. Sweet Jesus, what was to become of them?

  She watched in horror as her sister leapt from the back of the carriage, running to her husband’s side, oblivious to the dangers. Celine cried out in warning. A hand came and clamped her mouth.

  “Be quiet, if you want to live,” a voice hissed in her ear. Celine barely registered the hand to her face, she was so stricken with fear for her family.

  Her eyes widened as she watched her sister, screaming and crying. The men with the pitchforks had grown into a crowd, and now they sneered at Estelle’s show of grief cruelly. Then one man stepped forward, grabbing her viciously from behind. He jabbed his large pitchfork into the folds of her cloak.

  Estelle lurched forwards, her eyes wide, in shock. And then she collapsed, her blood flooding the ground, spreading around her like skeins of crimson silk. A cheer erupted from the crowd, and the man yanked the handle of his pitchfork to retrieve it from where it was lodged in Estelle’s blood-soaked back.

  Celine closed her eyes, tears trickling down her face. Her sweet sister, who had never harmed anyone in her life. Her dear brother-in-law, one of the most just and decent men who had ever lived. Had they deserved to be slaughtered like this? For being noble? She offered up a prayer for the souls of both of them. They would soon be in heaven, sitting alongside Jesus and the saints.

  She opened her eyes, slowly. The crowd dispersed, dragging the bodies away. The fishmonger, fear in his eyes, continued on his journey. She looked down at the baby, still sleeping in her arms. The hand that covered her mouth released its grip, and only then did she remember the presence at her back. She breathed deeply, her heart racing with fear.

  “You are noble,” the voice hissed again. “If you have jewels, I will take you to a boat.”

  Celine looked at the man. He was dirty and ragged, clearly a peasant, not unlike those in the crowd that had just murdered her family. But what choice did she have? She was alone, responsible for a baby. Her sister and her brother-in-law had just been slaughtered before her eyes. She, too, would be killed, if she stayed outside. And the baby. Her dear sister’s only child.

  She looked down at the soft skin of the babe, the curve of the cheek, the rosebud mouth and dark lashes. She must stay strong, for her. She felt in her pocket—yes, they were still there. The note that Francois had given her, and their sole means of getting out of this nightmare: A ruby ring.

  “Lead the way,” said Celine.

  Chapter 2

  The Vicomtesse

  London, 1814

  “M

  arie-Therese! My goodness, cousin, but you do tarry. The carriage is almost ready. Make haste.”

  Marie-Therese glanced at her second cousin, Minerva Bloom, known to all as Minnie. In a flap as usual. They were getting ready for a ball at Lady Clarence’s smart townhouse. It was to be the ball of the season—or so Minnie claimed. She knew more about such things than Marie-Therese did. Really, it was tiresome watching Minnie get so excited about it. Marie-Therese would much rather spend the evening perusing poetry. She had procured a copy of Lord Byron’s latest endeavor, hot off the press, and was eager to peruse his new work.

  “Minnie, if you stop harassing me, I will be ready sooner,” Marie-Therese said now, calmly putting her necklace on. She looked at her cousin’s reflection in the dressing table mirror.

  Minnie pouted. “You do baffle me sometimes, cousin,” she said. “You are acting as if this is an occasion of little consequence, when it is no such thing. The crème de la crème of London society shall be in attendance. And you know, better than I, that you need to meet an eligible gentleman.”

  Marie-Therese smiled, but it was sour. “Of course, dear cousin. I am well aware of the fact that I must marry well and cease to be a burden on your good family.”

  “That’s not what I meant…” Minnie bit her lip. She liked her second cousin—they had grown up together as sisters—but Marie-Therese seemed oblivious as to how the world worked. She was an orphan, the impoverished daughter of a murdered vicomte in pre-revolutionary France. Her options were limited, and unless she wanted to be a spinster and nursemaid to Minnie’s aging parents and her Aunt Celine for the rest of her life, she must take these social occasions seriously.

  “Minnie, I am almost ready.” Marie-Therese said conciliatorily, taking pity on her cousin. “Why don’t you get your cloak, and I will meet you in the foyer?”

  Minnie nodded, slowly. With one last glance at her cousin, she left the room.

  Marie-Therese sighed heavily. Minnie meant well, she knew that. She was very fond of her, but she was a bit
superficial. Obsessed with the social scene, she could talk of nothing but the rich and eligible gentlemen and sophisticated ladies that she met. She could go on for hours of gowns and jewels, this lady and that lord, until Marie-Therese’s ears hurt.

  Marie-Therese simply couldn’t share her enthusiasm. She thought of most of that world as insufferably stuffy and boring. Maybe it was its very English nature, but she herself had been reared as an English lady, despite being French by blood. Not that she could remember anything of France. She had only been a baby when her beloved Aunt Celine had fled with her across the Channel, escaping the revolution. The revolution which had claimed her parents.

  Marie-Therese tapped the dressing table with her fingertips, wondering as she frequently did, about her heritage. What her parents would have been like. How different her life would have been had the revolution never happened. She would have been a titled lady in France, wealthy and connected. She would have had a family as well. She wouldn’t have grown up in the house of distant relations, always the poor orphan, tolerated well but never the social equal. Told since she was young that she must make a good match as soon as possible to succeed in life.

  Poor Aunt Celine. The revolution had soured her, making her a nervy, hysterical woman who clung like a limpet to Marie-Therese. Her smelling salts were her constant companion. But Marie-Therese loved her completely, understanding how much she had endured—she had witnessed the brutal murder of her sister and brother-in-law. And, most importantly, she had somehow found the strength in that terrifying moment to save herself and Marie-Therese, fleeing to England and throwing them both on the mercy of her cousin, Mr. Thomas Bloom and his wife, Amelia.

  No, she would not hear a word against Aunt Celine. She knew Mr. and Mrs. Bloom found her aunt taxing, but they had been compassionate in taking them both in.

  If only they would stop the relentless badgering, filling her days and nights with social engagements when she desired nothing more than to be left alone to read poetry and plays.