Playing the Duchess

By Karen Lingefelt

Nicholas Maxwell, Duke of Colfax, has invented an American fiancée separated from him by war.  When peace intrudes, he plots to fake her death on the voyage to England and be too bereaved to find a new bride closer to home—until a mysterious woman throws his plans into chaos, and he conjures an even more outrageous scheme.   

Mistaken for a deceased passenger while sailing from America, Claire Tremaine arrives in London only to be swept into a dangerous deception when Nicholas claims her as his bride.  In exchange for passage home, Claire agrees to pose as his American-born duchess, feigning homesickness and difficulty adapting to her new role before deserting the handsome rogue.  He need never worry about remarrying—or that she'll learn his devastating secret.  What could go wrong?

But if Nicholas can't disguise his desire for this fiery hoyden, and Claire can't pretend indifference once he steals her heart…then what could go right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Lingefelt
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393424468

Karen Lingefelt

Author of historical romance and light paranormal, Karen Lingefelt probably dreamed of being a writer while still in the womb. As a preschooler, she scribbled with crayons in picture books to put her own spin on the text. In school she sat at her desk defiantly writing stories when she should've been working on her remedial math assignments. Later she joined the Air Force and when she wasn't traveling overseas, she spent her off-duty hours banging out epic sagas on a portable typewriter. Even after leaving the service to become a stay-at-home mom, she still eked out the time to continue pursuing her lifelong dream. Karen now lives in Florida with her family.  For more information about her books, please visit her website.  

Book preview

Chapter One

LONDON, SPRING OF 1815

Pardon me, Your Grace, but there’s a man downstairs, name of Lucifer.  Says he’s here to claim your soul and escort you to hell.

Or at least that was how the butler’s words sounded to Nicholas Maxwell, Duke of Colfax, as he sat at the breakfast table and nearly splashed tea into his lap.  His dreaded day of reckoning had arrived, and now he wasn’t sure he could go through with it. 

At long last! His mother flapped her linen napkin as she somehow managed to dance a jig while sitting in her chair.  His own mother!  He was truly damned. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this day.  Oh, but of course you do—three years now—though it’s seemed like an eternity.

Nicholas set his teacup into the saucer with an air of somber resignation.  Guilt shrouded him like a ghostly fog come to haunt him for his sins.

She rose from the table. Why are you sitting there looking so doleful?  I should think you’ve been looking forward to this.  Never say your feet are getting cold?

He stared glumly at the half-eaten eggs on his plate. Believe me, my feet will never be cold again.

Heaven be thanked. Never had anyone’s gratitude been so woefully misplaced. Now let’s make haste.  I’m coming with you, since I’m so anxious to meet—

Mother, I really don’t think you should go.

She bristled. And why not?

With both hands he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. I should think it’s patently obvious why not.  It’s no place for you.

She stuck out her lower lip, as if to pout. Now you sound like your father.  Truly, it can’t be that bad.

Wasn’t that just like her!  Nicholas pushed his chair back and jerked to his feet. Are you quite out of your mind?  I can’t believe you want to go all the way down to such a ghastly place.

I’m curious about what it’s like.  I’ve only heard bits and pieces—which only makes it all the more fascinating.

Nicholas sighed, arms akimbo as he gazed down at his highly polished Hessians, trying to see the dark reflection of a condemned man. Believe me, Mother, there’s nothing the least bit fascinating about it.  It’s filthy, it reeks, and I need not tell you it’s overrun with the very worst sort of people.

Which is why you shouldn’t keep Miss Robinson waiting there.

His conscience stabbed him at the mention of his fiancée. 

Now come along, you heard what Dobbins said, his mother prattled on. "The man downstairs says he’s from the Christabel and he’ll lead us to the very pier where it’s anchored so you can welcome Miss Robinson yourself.  And I’ll welcome her with you. When he didn’t budge, she tilted her head to one side, scowling at him. Now stop being so absurd, Nicholas, we’re only going to the London docks.  I agree it may not be the best place for any lady, but it’s not as if we’ll be descending into Dante’s Inferno."

ONE HOUR LATER...

The guilt was killing him.

Nicholas rode in the enclosed carriage with his mother, staring out the window at the buildings of London as if he might never see them again.  He shivered in a cloud of icy foreboding that had settled around him since learning the Christabel had arrived from Charleston, bearing his fiancée, Miss Venetia Robinson.

A fiancée who didn’t even exist. 

A fiancée invented solely to appease his family and fend off the matchmaking mamas and their daughters, who hadn’t deigned to even acknowledge his existence till his twin brother—scarcely half an hour older than he—had died, leaving Nicholas to become the next Duke of Colfax and the ton’s most eligible bachelor—if one discounted the King’s many aging sons. 

"Nick?  Nicholas!"

He started out of his bleak reverie. I’m sorry, Mother, I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.  Did you say something?

She smiled benevolently. I’m not surprised you’re woolgathering.  But you needn’t pine any longer.  I was saying you’ll need to get a special license at once.

His heart sank deeper into the pit of his stomach.  He’d been deceiving her and everyone else for years, and he couldn’t do it any longer. Mother, I think it’s time I confessed.

She stiffened. Confessed what?  Don’t tell me she sent a letter, crying off?

He might have eagerly responded yes, except his mother would have insisted on seeing the letter.  He’d long ago decided that ending his imaginary betrothal in such a manner was simply too—well, too simple.  Too mundane.  And therefore, too suspicious.  No, something much more convoluted and dramatic was required.

And now, it was all for naught, because he couldn’t bear the guilt a minute longer.  A fine rake he fancied himself to be.

She didn’t cry off.  But I’m afraid she won’t be waiting for us at the pier.

Her blue eyes widened. What do you mean?

He took a deep breath, and the words poured out of him in a torrent. I’m sorry, Mother, but there is no Venetia Robinson.  Never has been.  It’s all a hoax, for which I’m truly sorry.  I only meant to temporarily placate you and Father, but most importantly, I wanted to scare away all those silly chits and their mothers.

She stared at him, aghast. So the American heiress you met on your travels, fell in love with, and proposed to right before the war...doesn’t even exist?

For a fleeting moment, he wished now that she did.  But alas, No.

Of all the pranks you’ve played since childhood... She ripped a handkerchief from her reticule. You know how important it is for you to marry and sire an heir.  Do you want the dukedom to pass to some distant cousin we’ve never heard of?

Not especially.  I’d like to have a wife and a full nursery one day.  I just don’t want to marry any of those silly chits in the London marriage mart.

Then pray, what sort of bride did you have in mind to marry eventually?

Morose, he turned his head to gaze out the window at the dismally gray buildings and grayer sky. Just not any of them.

And why not?

He glanced back at her. "Because they never wanted me.  They wouldn’t even spare me a glance, as long as they had Geoffrey to dangle after."

But Geoffrey’s no longer here. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and the guilt knifed him again.  Damnation, but not even Julius Caesar could have been stabbed this many times before he finally gasped his last.

I know Geoffrey’s no longer here, Mother, and those silly chits know it, too.  For years they wanted nothing to do with me because I was the second son.  Not even Father wanted anything to do with me.  Only after Geoffrey passed away did those silly chits—and Father—finally notice me because suddenly, I was the heir.

So you invented this fiancée to keep the debutantes and their mothers at bay, and to—what?  To spite your father?

Nicholas smiled faintly. Assuring him on his deathbed that his only surviving son had secured a bride, even if she was a colonial, was hardly vindictive.

But a lie. 

What difference should it make, since he never believed me when I told the truth? 

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. I can’t argue with a thing you’ve said, but you’re over thirty now.  Your father and Geoffrey are gone, and every last one of ‘those silly chits’, as you persistently call them, have long since secured husbands elsewhere.  What about Lady Rosalind Woodard?

She’s just a child.  She’s barely eighteen.

I was that age when you and Geoffrey were born.

Mother, I refuse to marry someone whose christening I attended.

I’m sure you don’t even remember her christening.

I’m sure I do, considering what Father did to me after the priest dipped holy water out of the baptismal font, and poured a goldfish over Rosalind’s little head. Only Father did it to the wrong twin.

"So where exactly are we going, if we’re not going to meet Venetia?  Is there even a ship called the Christabel?"

Again the guilt lanced painfully through Nicholas as his mother abruptly returned to the original thread of their conversation. Yes, there is a ship by that name, and it did come from Charleston, a real place.

That much I knew.

We will meet the ship, where the captain will give me Miss Robinson’s betrothal ring, and very regretfully inform us that she took mortally ill on the voyage, and was buried at sea.  The ship’s crew and passengers will attest to the ceremony.

She gaped at him in disbelief.  He might never have believed it himself, had he not been the one to spin this tangled web.

How can the crew and passengers attest to a burial at sea, if there was no body?

Nicholas nodded, ready with an explanation. "All they would have seen was a shrouded form.  She would have taken ill as soon as the Christabel left port.  I paid the captain well to stage the deception, and I even provided him with the ring."

Why a ring?  And what sort of ring?

"It was nothing but a fake emerald, to make you think there really was a fiancée."

But I already knew that—or I thought I did.

I was only being thorough, Mother.

She narrowed her eyes. I think I understand now why your so-called bride is—was—an American.  As long as we were at war with them, she couldn’t come to England, could she?  I suppose you expected the war to last forever?

Why not?  Witness the war with France.

And who wrote the letter you showed me several months ago, if it wasn’t Miss Robinson?

He stared straight ahead. A friend.

A female friend?

Yes.

Probably not the sort of female friend who would make a suitable wife.

As it was more a statement than a question, and a deadly accurate one at that, he saw no point in responding.

And that miniature you showed us of Miss Robinson?

It’s an old one of that same female friend.  She never cared for the likeness.

His mother heaved a sigh. Don’t tell me that once informed of Miss Robinson’s demise, you were planning to play the role of grieving bridegroom all the way into your grave?

He shifted uncomfortably. Well, that was rather what I had in mind.

She shook her head. But it’s not what I have in mind.  I’m sorry, Nicholas, but I shan’t let you grieve.  Life is for the living, not for those who never even existed in the first place.  I want to see you married as soon as possible.  We’ll just have to find a bride whose christening you didn’t attend.  You may as well order the coachman to turn around.

He glanced out the window at the stark forest of ship’s masts towering along the Thames, and spotted the one with the chipped gold letters spelling Christabel along its bow. I’m afraid we’re already here.

But there’s nothing, no one here for you now, is there?  Let’s go home so we can get started on a list of eligible brides whose christenings you didn’t attend.

Not yet.  The captain expects me to give him the rest of his payment for his trouble, and I always honor my debts. The carriage lurched to a halt.  The footman opened the door, but Nicholas remained seated as he addressed the manservant. Summon the captain of that ship, and tell him we’re here.  He’ll know what to do.

The footman started to close the door, but the duchess pushed it back with the tip of her umbrella. Leave it ajar for now.  We need some fresh air in here.

I’m afraid you won’t find fresh air in this part of London.

Certainly there’s no mistaking the fish in the Thames. She bent forward to peer out the open doorway. It doesn’t look so bad along here.  Just a lot of great ships.  Where are the cutthroats, the vermin, the—the women? She sounded almost disappointed, as if seeing such women might have made this otherwise pointless errand all the more worthwhile.

You’re more likely to encounter them at night. He spotted the captain coming down the gangway. There he is.  Stay here, Mother.

Oh, what harm is there, if dangerous people are only abroad at night?

He was in no mood to argue as he climbed out of the carriage.  Right now he resolved to pay what he owed to Captain Harris and start doing his penance—which no doubt meant marrying a girl nearly half his age—a girl who would likely view him as an old man in his dotage.

A girl who, as his wife, would meekly obey his every command and mindlessly go along with everything he said, did and thought.  Perhaps that explained why some of the married men he knew were so bored with their wives, they kept mistresses.

Captain Harris approached Nicholas and sketched a bow. Your Grace, I’m afraid there’s a slight complication.

Was this how Harris planned to break to Nicholas the tragic news of his fiancée’s untimely death?  By referring to it as a slight complication?

His mother bustled forward. Never mind all that now, Captain.  My son confessed all, and I know everything.

"Mother, may I present Captain Harris of the Christabel.  Harris, this is my mother, the Duchess of Colfax."

Another bow. How do you do, Your—

Just fine, thank you, she said curtly. You can drop the charade now, Captain, and surrender the ring.

But that’s what I wanted to tell you. Harris glanced back at Nicholas. Your Grace did say that your fiancée’s name was Miss Venetia Robinson?

Yes, but as the duchess said, she—

She’s here, Your Grace.

Nicholas furrowed his brow, wondering if he misunderstood. What do you mean, she’s here?  Who’s here?

Harris seemed just as confused. Miss Robinson, of course.

Nicholas’s heart lurched. But that can’t be!  Didn’t you even do what I paid you to do?

Aye, we staged the burial at sea and everything.  The deceased simply had another name.

Her name was supposed to be Venetia Robinson!

The captain shrugged. I don’t know how to explain any of it to Your Grace, except to say that Miss Robinson is alive and well, and waiting for you aboard my ship.

Bewilderment swamped Nicholas.  It wasn’t possible!  How could there be a woman aboard this very ship with the very same name he’d invented for his very imaginary fiancée?

Then who did you bury at sea, if you didn’t bury Miss Robinson? his mother demanded.

Someone named Claire Tremaine.

But I don’t know any Claire Tremaine! Nicholas burst out.

The three of them exchanged puzzled glances, as if each expected one of the others to come up with an explanation for this strange phenomenon.

Then an odd gleam appeared in his mother’s blue eyes, as if she’d suddenly thought of something.  Something that Nicholas was not going to like. 

Well, you may not know a Claire Tremaine, she finally said, but you do know a Miss Venetia Robinson, and as the good captain said, she is aboard this ship!  How dare you play such a foul trick on me!

No, he didn’t like it at all. Mother, I told you—

"You sly thing!  Gulling me into believing your betrothal was a hoax, another one of your convoluted pranks, when in fact you have been betrothed all these years! She laughed joyously as she threw her arms around him.  He wished she’d box his ears instead, if for no other reason than to knock him back to his senses, which seemed to have deserted him altogether. I must say, my dear boy, you really had me aghast till now!  I should have known better."

He gawped over her shoulder at the captain. Where, Harris, did you come up with the name of—who is the decedent again?  Claire...?

Claire Tremaine, the captain supplied. ’Tis a long and tangled yarn I haven’t quite unraveled meself yet, Your Grace.

Nicholas was too appalled to speak or even move as his mother broke away from him and scurried up the gangway. 

Er—uhh—about the ring, the captain stammered. I’m afraid I gave it to Miss Robinson.  You did say that was the lady’s name, and since the matron sharing her cabin even vouched for her identity, I thought I should give her the ring lest I or my crew be accused of stealing from the passengers.  She was very grateful to have it returned.

I’ll just bet she was, Nicholas growled, as he turned to dash up the gangway.  Not that he cared about the ring, since it was only paste.  But he had to board this ship now, before his mother made things even worse.

Chapter Two

CLAIRE TREMAINE HAD to get off this ship now, before things got even worse.  The problem was Cousin Amy’s lecherous husband.

Of course you can come with us, if you agree to certain conditions, he told Claire.

She knew exactly what Desmond’s conditions were.  For the entire voyage, from Charleston to London, she’d been forced to sacrifice her identity to share this tiny, cramped cabin with a perfect stranger, a kindly widow who’d already left the Christabel to resume her own, less tumultuous life.  And all because Claire wouldn’t meet Desmond’s thoroughly repugnant conditions for staying in the cabin she was supposed to have shared with him and Amy.  She couldn’t afford her own berth, for she was entirely dependent on Desmond’s charity. Some charity!  And to make matters worse, he had the documents that identified her as Claire Tremaine, American citizen.  Without them, she might not even be allowed to leave the vessel. 

On the other hand, perhaps that meant the ship would take her straight back home.

And if you can’t or won’t meet those conditions, Amy chimed in, then we’ll simply leave you here and tell Great Aunt Judith that you died on the voyage.  Heaven knows there were plenty of witnesses. She feigned a convincing pout perfected from years of tearful sulking whenever something didn’t go her way. In fact, everyone aboard knows how devastated I am at the loss of my beloved cousin.

Her beloved cousin snorted. You’d dance on my grave if you could.

Nothing would give me greater pleasure.  Too bad it’s at the bottom of the sea.

All anyone saw was a shrouded body, Claire argued. None of the passengers actually saw the poor woman, whoever she was.  She could have been Dolley Madison for all you know.

"As far as I’m concerned, she was Claire Tremaine and you’re Venetia Robinson.  That’s who you’ve been pretending to be so you could share this cabin with the Widow Mackey."

I was fortunate she mistook me for her assigned cabin mate. Venetia Robinson must not have been any better acquainted with Mrs. Mackey than Claire was. What other choice did I have?  It was either that or let your husband be unfaithful to you.

So what if he is? Amy tossed back. At least then he’s not pestering me.

Claire almost laughed. You’re the one who vowed to obey him.  I really don’t want to take him away from you.

Why not?  You already took my mother away from me all those years ago, when you and Aunt Sarah came up to our plantation.

Twin blades of guilt and pity for all her young cousin had lost cut into Claire’s heart.  But hadn’t she also suffered her own losses?  Her father...her home...and her fiancé, the latter lost to none other than Desmond’s older sister, Doreen.  How different her life would be now, if only she and her mother had remained in Charleston to weather that yellow fever epidemic, instead of seeking refuge at Uncle Arthur’s rice plantation.

I’ve hated you ever since, Amy added, her voice dripping with venom. I didn’t even want you coming on this voyage.

Claire crossed her arms over her chest I never wanted to come, either. Certainly not with her cousins.  But Great Aunt Judith, who’d married a British officer and moved to England before the War of Independence, wanted to see the only two surviving grandchildren of her beloved twin sister.  She’d wanted to see her sister’s only surviving child, as well, but Claire’s mother had balked at making the long, arduous voyage.

Perhaps, thought Claire, she could at least pretend to agree with Desmond’s conditions—for now.  Once they reached Great Aunt Judith’s estate in Suffolk, then Claire could worry about trying to fend off his advances.  Surely it would be easier than it had been aboard ship.

Very well, Desmond, I’ll meet your conditions, she finally said.

He turned to his wife. Amy dear, kindly go up on deck and see to our baggage and hired chaise.  I’ll be along shortly.

Amy flounced out of sight.  Claire tensed, her heart skipping a beat as he closed the door.  That couldn’t be a good sign.

What are you doing, Desmond?  Shouldn’t we be going with Amy?

He smirked. First you have some conditions to meet.

Her heart began racing.  She hadn’t anticipated this!

Did you think I’d wait till we reached our final destination? he asked with a sneer.

In fact, she did. Then I change my mind.  I won’t meet any of your conditions.

He narrowed his eyes. So you won’t be joining us, eh?  You intend to continue being that Robinson woman?

No, I intend to return to America.  My mother needs me.

He grinned crookedly. Suit yourself.  You’d just better hope my sister hasn’t already thrown her out of your uncle’s house.

Claire balled her hands into fists. Doreen wouldn’t dare do that before she’s married to Uncle Arthur.

Desmond cocked his head to one side, looking at her as if she were crazy. "I’m sure they’ve already married.  At least he better have married her by now, or I’ll find my way back to Charleston before you do to make damned sure he does—just as I did with your fiancé and my younger sister.  Surely you remember, Claire?  After all, he was supposed to be your husband."

Her heart clenched at the painful reminder. But Doreen and Uncle Arthur weren’t planning to marry till we returned this fall.

That was before your uncle decided to claim his marital rights ahead of the wedding—just as your fiancé did with Isabel. Resentment soured his voice. My own wife won’t even let me touch her, yet neither of my whore sisters can wait till their wedding nights to start rutting! He threw the cabin door open with a vicious bang.

Claire flinched, though she hoped the open door was a good sign. How do you know that Doreen and Uncle Arthur have already...? She wrung her right hand, as if the gesture were a suitable euphemism. 

Hatred blazed from his eyes, as if it were all her fault. Because she’s carrying your uncle’s bastard.  She waited till the day we left Charleston to tell me.  And do you know why she waited?  So you wouldn’t stay behind to stop her from tossing out your mother.

Rage sizzled through her veins. Why didn’t you tell me this before the ship set sail?

He snorted. Whose side do you think I’m on, you fool?  Yours or my sister’s?

Get out of here. She pounded her fists against his chest, then pushed him through the doorway with all her might.  Desmond offered no resistance.  If anything, her angry assault seemed to amuse him.

He snickered. How are you going to pay your passage back to Charleston?

She stood back, gripping the doorknob. I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.

His mocking grin sickened her. "Well, I’d certainly worry about it if I were you!"

Claire slammed the door in his sneering face and collapsed against it, closing her eyes as she struggled for breath.  She wasn’t worried, just thankful neither Desmond nor Amy knew about the emerald ring.

She turned to pick up her reticule.  She opened it and fished out the ring Captain Harris had returned to her, thinking it belonged to her and not the woman he’d buried at sea.  She slid the ring onto her finger, and to her surprise it was almost a perfect fit—as if it were truly meant for her and not Venetia.  She’d never seen anything as beautiful as this emerald, glimmering like a green beacon in the faint light.  She couldn’t help wishing she could keep it.  She’d never had a betrothal ring of her own—even when she’d actually been betrothed. 

But Claire knew that returning the ring to Venetia’s next-of-kin was the right thing to do.  Unfortunately, she had no idea who that person might be, except for someone’s initials, NM, engraved on the inside of the ring along with Venetia’s.  If she couldn’t find N.M. or any of Venetia’s kin—and soon—then she would have to sell the ring to pay her passage back to Charleston.  She couldn’t stay in England for long, not now that she knew Doreen had probably already married Uncle Arthur, and banished Claire’s mother to heaven only knew where. 

Heavy raps echoed on the door like a death knell, heralding her doom.

Come in, she called out.  There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

The door swung open to reveal not only the first mate, but a plump and petite, well-dressed woman who looked old enough to be Claire’s mother.  The woman gaped back at her with scarcely bridled delight as she stepped into the cabin.

At last!  I’m so pleased to meet my son’s fiancée!

Lord have mercy.  Could being mistaken for a dead woman be any worse than being stranded in a foreign country without money or proof of who she was? 

So Venetia had never met her fiancé’s family.  Well, he’d certainly straighten out this coil.  Only where was he?

Claire took a deep breath. I’m sorry, but I’m not who you think I am.

The strange woman studied her from head to toe, then turned to the first mate. Isn’t this Miss Robinson’s cabin?

Aye, and that’s Miss Robinson.

The woman’s gaze shot to Claire’s left hand.  Horrified, she realized too late that she’d forgotten to remove Venetia’s ring.

You may go now, the woman told the first mate, and he quickly vanished as if he sensed impending trouble, and wanted no part of it.  Neither did Claire, but she was already part of it, much to her increasing chagrin.

The older woman took Claire’s left hand, and lifted it to study the ring in the dim light. Ah yes.  This is just as my son described it to me.  In which case, either you are Venetia Robinson, or you’re a thief.  There couldn’t possibly be two women aboard this ship with the same unusual name, and wearing identical emerald rings. She released Claire’s hand and gazed directly into her eyes, as if daring her to deny she was Venetia. Or is it possible?

Panic rippled through Claire.  Until this woman’s son arrived, she had no way of proving she was neither a thief nor Venetia Robinson—but she couldn’t prove she was Claire Tremaine, either.  What would he do once he met her?  Would he help her?  Turn her over to the authorities for stealing not only his fiancée’s ring, but her identity?

It isn’t possible, she finally said, which was the truth.

The woman smiled. I thought so.

Where is your son, Mrs.—uh, Mrs.—?

Oh la, you are American, after all, the woman said with a careless flick of her wrist. But I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony.  Call me Mother if you like.  Or you may even call me Phoebe. She held out her arms. Come, my dear, everything will be all right.  I can only imagine how frightened you must be, having come all this way alone to a strange country.

Claire could not resist yielding to this stranger’s embrace.  If anything, she desperately needed