Deceived

jest being played on him in retaliation for his attempt to slander Aurora. So he would come to Boodles and learn that he was indeed married to one of London's finest whores, Merry Maybelle Monypenny. And the Duke of Farminster and his duchess would both be there to witness their revenge.

***

And indeed at four o'clock the next afternoon the duke and his visiting cousin, St. John, were seated in the bow window of Boodles, awaiting the arrival of Lord Charles Trahern, who always arrived promptly at five past four each day, if he hadn't come earlier for luncheon. Lord Shelley and Sir Roger had already spread the news of Trahern's precipitous marital union with Merry Maybelle. Many of the club's members were in proximity to the front door and the bow window.

'He comes,' the duke murmured as Trahern stepped briskly down the street. He was attired, as always, in the height of fashion. His breeches were black and fitted above the knee. His stockings had not a wrinkle in them, and his shoes sported square silver buckles. His coat was buff, the patterned waistcoat beneath it a lavender and white. There was lace at his throat and at his wrists. His powdered wig was topped by a tricorn hat with gold braid, and he carried a long walking stick ornamented with an amber knot. He looked a bit under the weather, but the duke knew Trahern would never vary his daily routine.

As Lord Trahern stepped into the club, he was suddenly surrounded by its members all congratulating him upon his marriage.

'Nonsense!' he said. 'I've not gotten married. 'Twas only a jest, gentlemen.' His eye spotted the duke. 'Was it not, Hawkesworth? A fine jest that you played on me.'

'A jest?' the duke drawled. 'I played no jest upon you, Trahern. You are a married man these-' He paused, and drawing forth a round silver hunter's case from his watch pocket, snapped it open and peered closely at it. 'Twelve hours and six minutes. Yes, that is it. Your bride is well, I trust? You have certainly made a most interesting choice in a wife, Trahern.'

About them there was a flurry of knowing snickers, and Lord Trahern flushed.

'I am not married to her!' he said emphatically.

'But, my dear fellow,' Valerian Hawkesworth said pleasantly, 'I am afraid that you are. I witnessed it, as did my wife, and both Sir Roger Andrews and Lord Percival Shelley. Are you calling us liars?'

'I can't be married to her!' Trahern protested.

'Bridegroom's nerves after the fact, Trahern? You were certainly eager enough last night.' The duke smiled, and the other club members crowding about the two men laughed aloud.

'It is a trick!' Trahern cried desperately. 'You have tricked me into this position, and it is not legal! I shall hire a lawyer to protect me in this matter.'

'There was no trick,' the duke told him. 'No one initiated the marriage but you yourself. You insisted upon marrying the wench because, as you so succinctly put it, your Juliet wouldn't fuck without a wedding ring. The ball was over, and most of our guests had taken their leave, and you demanded we fetch a man of the cloth to marry you to Maybelle Monypenny. You cannot fault us for following your orders, my dear Trahern. You are a married man now, and we have witnesses to that fact.'

'I was drunk!' Trahern wailed. His life had suddenly become a nightmare, and if this marriage was indeed legal, he was ruined. While some of his male acquaintances might continue to associate with him here at the club-if indeed the club allowed him to retain his membership-no respectable hostess would invite him, nor would their majesties invite him. Not a man married to a notorious whore!

'You are quite frequently drunk, Trahern,' the duke said smoothly. 'I have never before known it to impair your judgment.'

Charles Trahern's eyes almost bulged from his head. He suddenly had the look of a trapped rat. The duke was adamant in his insistence that he was a married man, and both Andrews and Shelley were in his line of view, and they were grinning at him like smug loons. Maybelle had shown him the marriage lines, and these very respectable men were silently telling Trahern that they would go into court and swear to the validity of his marriage. They would not perjure themselves, he knew, especially not Valerian Hawkesworth, who prided himself on his ethics. 'You bastard!' he snarled at the duke. 'You did this! I know you did!'

His antagonist's eyes were suddenly cold with disdain as he scathingly dismissed Charles Trahern. Valerian Hawkesworth turned to his companion. 'Come, Cousin St. John,' he said. 'It is time to go home now.' Graciously he acknowledged Sir Roger, Lord Shelley, and the other gentlemen as they moved through the path opening for them amid the crowd. At the front door of Boodles the duke lifted his hat to the members and stepped forth onto the street where his coach awaited. His companion, catching Sir Roger's eye for the briefest of moments, winked mischievously.

Sir Roger Andrews burst out laughing as in a flash he recognized Aurora in the young man's garb.

Hearing him, Aurora grinned with satisfaction as she joined her husband in their carriage and it moved off into the London traffic back to Farminster House. Trahern, they learned the next morning as they prepared to leave, had gotten himself gloriously drunk, and when Boodles had finally closed the previous evening, Mr. Almack, its owner and founder, had asked several of the gentlemen to escort Lord Trahern home, where his wife, Lady Maybelle, was awaiting him with some very harsh words. This was reported to them by Sir Roger, who had come by to wish them a safe and speedy journey. The entire ton was alternately shocked, fascinated, and titillated by Charles Trahern's marriage, Sir Roger said, and he was already bestruck from the guest lists of English society. Mr. Almack, however, had a kinder heart than London's prime hostesses. As long as Lord Trahern paid his chits within a reasonable time, he would remain a member of Boodles.

'Almack says a fellow's got to have a place to escape the old ball and chain, even an unsuitable one,' Sir Roger stated as he took his leave of the Duke and Duchess of Farminster, never once alluding to Aurora's masquerade the previous day, for Sir Roger prided himself on his gentlemanly behavior. And he also secretly believed that the young duchess had deserved the opportunity to see the downfall of the man who had attempted to slander her name in so vile a manner.

***

Their journey home to Hawkes Hill was a pleasant one, for England was experiencing a spate of fair weather and the roads were hard and firm, not dusty with drought or muddy with rain. Their armed escort assured that no highwaymen would accost them or their baggage coaches. When Hawkes Hill came into view, the coach suddenly stopped, much to the duke's surprise, and a footman opened the door of the vehicle, lowering the steps for their descent. The duke looked puzzled, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Aurora spoke instead.

'I have asked to have the carriage stop here,' she said. 'Do you mind if we walk the rest of the way home. We can see the house, and it isn't really far, Valerian.'

'If it would please you,' he said, curious, and leaping out, turned back to help her descend. 'Go along, Mainwaring,' he said to his coachman when they were clear of the coach. 'Her grace would like to walk.'

Aurora slipped her hand through Valerian's, and they walked together as their transport rumbled past them and across the greensward toward Hawkes Hill. The air was sweet and warm, as they passed through a nearby field covered in rock rose, poppies, and daisies. 'Ohhh, it is so good to be home,' she said. 'I will never leave again no matter what,' Aurora declared vehemently.