Regency Rose

By Patricia S McFadden

When Rose Trewlawny eloped with a soldier six years earlier, she never expected to see Edmund, the Duke of Severn again. Now, here she is, a widow with a child, in London visiting her cousin for the season. Everywhere she goes, Edmund is there, looking daggers at her, and she doesn't know why. Edmund, for his own part, is laboring under a grave

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green Turtle Arts
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9780972019873

Patricia S McFadden

Ms. McFadden is an award winning children's author. This is her first novel for adults.

Book preview

Chapter One

April 1822

Edmund Amesbury, eighth Duke of Severn, was feeling indisposed. To be precise, he was suffering from the Father of All Hangovers.

What did Harry put in that punch? he moaned as he gingerly felt his way to his dressing table and peered blearily at his reflection.

Beg pardon, Sir? Garvey, his valet, inquired.

"I was just speculating on the nature of the poison Litton plied me with last night. I thought it was rum punch, but clearly there was something more lethal involved."

If it please Your Grace, I had Cook fix a dose of her special cure. Garvey motioned to a tankard sitting on the night stand.

Aargh, that stuff is foul. Give it here! The Duke closed his eyes, took a deep breath and swallowed the noxious brew in one gulp. Garvey took the tankard and quietly left the room.  When he returned ten minutes later, his employer was sitting in a chair by the fire, much recovered.

Garvey, the Duke said with some force, I am not a drunkard!

No, Your Grace, I am certain you are not. Garvey went to the dressing room and brought out a selection of well-tailored coats. He stood before the Duke, who pointed at the superfine in a cinnamon brown shade that matched his eyes and accentuated the golden hue of his thick, slightly wavy hair. Garvey turned to put the other coats away. 

            Edmund ran a hand through his disordered locks and gave a gusty sigh. Then why—if I am not a drunkard—am I often, of late, so very, very drunk?

            Perhaps, My Lord, you are not entirely easy in your mind about something? Garvey suggested tactfully, as he arranged the Duke’s clothing on the bed.

            Yes, perhaps that is it.

Edmund shrugged out of his dressing gown and allowed himself to be helped into his small clothes, buff pantaloons, creamy white linen shirt, green waistcoat, and polished hessian boots. He then submitted to only the simplest arrangement of his cravat before reaching for his coat. 

            Garvey kept his face expressionless while inwardly reflecting, as he did at least once a day, that it was a pity that such a magnificent specimen of manhood should be so indifferent to his appearance. If only the Duke would just once let Garvey tie his cravat in a Mathematical, or even better, in the arrangement of Garvey’s own devising that he regularly practiced in front of the mirror in his own room. Though it would no doubt be dubbed the Severn were the Duke to be seen sporting it, the other valets would know it was Garvey’s creation, which was all the glory he desired. But the Duke preferred ease and simplicity over style, drat him.

             The devil of it was that, even in a moderate shirt collar and simple neck cloth, the Duke outshone most of his peers. If only His Grace were ugly as well as lacking in sartorial aspirations, he—Garvey—would feel justified in seeking another position. Unfortunately, there were few men in the ton blessed with such classic features and such a perfectly proportioned physique.

It would be a definite comedown for Garvey to leave his present position and wait on some lesser specimen who would no doubt require buckram to square his shoulders and sawdust to bulk up his calves. Besides, he liked the Duke, who always treated him with respect--an even rarer trait in an employer than a handsome appearance. No, Garvey decided, as he also did at least once a day, he would not leave the Duke. But, neither would he give up his campaign to smarten the man up.

            Unaware of his valet’s dark musings, Edmund left his dressing room and made his way downstairs to the breakfast parlor, his head reasonably clear, but his spirits still more than a little depressed.

            Good morning, my dear, a bright voice greeted him as he walked into a sunny, well-appointed room dominated by a highly polished mahogany table and matching sideboard on which an array of covered dishes steamed. A lady who bore a marked resemblance to the Duke, except that her eyes were a deep turquoise instead of brown, sat at one end of the table sipping tea and daintily disposing of a plate of toast and jam. You look very nice in that coat, but I can’t say that the scowl suits you.

            Hello, Mama, The Duke grasped the graceful hand being held out to him and bestowed a filial kiss upon it. You look lovely this morning. That shade of blue sets off your complexion wonderfully.

            Fulsome compliments will not distract me, his mother replied, nonetheless blushing with pleasure and fluffing the lace frill of her fischu. What is troubling you, Edmund?

            Edmund grimaced. It’s this damnable--beg pardon ma’am--necessity to find me a wife.

            Lady Severn stared. Since when has the getting of a wife been any sort of object with you, much less a ‘damnable necessity’? If you have informed me once, you have informed me at least a hundred times that you have no intention of being caught in parson’s mousetrap.

            I know, I know. But I was much younger when I said that.

            Ah, I see. Lady Severn’s eyes sparkled with laughter, though her voice remained serious, One’s thirtieth birthday is rather a milestone.

            Indeed. The Duke helped himself to a generous portion of eggs and kidneys from the sideboard and seated himself at his mother’s elbow. Also, as you have pointed out to me more than once, I have an obligation to secure the succession. It would be criminal to allow Summerfield to pass out of the direct line.

            Understanding dawned on his mother’s face. Does this, by any chance, have to do with the fact that Delilah is increasing?

            Well, really, Mama, I do not mind the thought of Delilah’s son inheriting my estates, but I am damned if I will let any brat of Obermarle’s have them!

            Which is precisely what will happen if you have no son of your own. I see. I have to admit that I sympathize with your sentiments. Though Delilah’s marriage is, you must admit, a happy one.

            Perhaps, but the fact remains that Obermarle would have more hair than wit if he were bald as a marrow bone, which he soon will be. His hairline is beginning to recede even more than his chin.

             Lady Severn chuckled. It’s true the poor man does not have a very prepossessing appearance and does sometimes seem a bit lacking in sense, she admitted. But he dotes on Delilah, he is neither a gamester nor a lady’s man, and he is quite comfortably fixed.

            Yes, yes, all very true, and quite admirable, I’m sure. Nonetheless, I cannot abide him. And I certainly do not propose to allow him to father my successor.

            Well then, obviously you must shoulder that task yourself. But, seriously, my dear, is it so difficult to find a suitable bride?

            Edmund sighed. Suitable? The latest fillies on the marriage mart are all eminently suitable, but acceptable as a life mate is another matter altogether. Do you know what I did last night, Mama? I went to Almacks! Dreadful place, full of simpering misses and their rapacious mamas. I felt like a hare among the hounds.

            No, did you? And were there none among the simpering misses that caught your eye?  No slightest twinge of interest? Lady Severn asked with a raised eyebrow.

            "There were pretty faces aplenty, but they are all so young, without a thought in their head beyond murmuring what they hope may be pleasing."

            And you refuse to be pleased?

            I refuse to marry a chit barely out of the schoolroom with little sense and even less conversation. If I must spend the rest of my life with one woman, I would like her to be able to talk about something other than commonplaces. And, it would not hurt if she had a fine seat on a horse and knew how to run a household to admiration and was above average attractive and charming, he said, adding with a rueful grin, in other words, what I want is someone remarkably like yourself!

            Well, Lady Severn replied in a bantering tone, that is hardly to be thought of, is it?  Two of me would be too much to expect.

            Sadly true. I shall, therefore, have to do the best I can with what is available.

            The seriousness in his tone caused his mother to look at him sharply.

            My dear, she said gently, I am no such paragon of virtues as you paint me. It is your love for me that makes me seem exceptional to you. Find someone to love, Edmund--someone who loves you in return, and you will overlook each other’s flaws.

            You and Father loved each other that way, didn’t you? her son asked softly.

            Yes, very much so, Lady Severn’s eyes sparkled with tears.

            They ate in silence for a few moments, then the Duchess resumed their conversation. So, after you left Almacks--for I presume you did not spend the whole evening there--where did you go?

            The Duke gave a wry laugh. I went to Harry Litton’s lodging and drowned my sorrow in a most abominable bowl of rum punch. My head felt like a blacksmith’s anvil this morning. Bless Cook’s special cure. Were it not for that, I would still be moaning in my sheets.

            I expect you’d prefer to avoid any more social functions for a while. How unfortunate. I was going to ask you to accompany me to Lady Emory’s ball tomorrow evening. It is her daughter’s come-out, so I dare say there will be a fair sampling of eligible young ladies on hand, she added.

            The Duke grimaced and sighed, I may as well go with you, then. I truly am determined to find, if not the woman of my dreams, at least someone I can rub along with tolerably well.

            Oh, Edmund, surely you will be able to find better than tolerable.

            I hope so, but the ordeal at Almack’s has left me less than optimistic.

            The Duchess stirred her tea thoughtfully. You know, I once thought that you and Ben’s sister, Rose, would make a match of it. You were quite taken with her, as I recall.

            Edmund paused with a forkful of kidney and eggs halfway to his mouth. Yes, well. She was quite taken with someone else, he said after a moment’s silence.

            Ah, yes. Her soldier. What was his name? Trenton or Trotter—something with a ‘T.’

            Trewlany.

            Yes, that’s it. I’ve often wondered why they eloped like that. Rose was always such a proper little thing—well, except for a penchant for tree climbing, the Duchess said with a chuckle. Marrying across the anvil didn’t seem like her.

            People do all sorts of things that don’t seem like them, Edmund said dryly.

            True. But I always thought there must be more to that story than was generally known. Does Ben ever hear from her?

            Not that I’m aware of.

            A pity. Her husband died quite soon after the wedding, didn’t he? And wasn’t there a child?

            So I’ve heard, Edmund said with a studied show of indifference. What time does the Emory’s ball start tomorrow?

            Nine o’clock. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you changed the subject.

            Nonsense, I simply have nothing more to say about Rose Trewlany. I must be off.

            He threw down his napkin and rose, strode over and bestowed a kiss on his mother’s cheek, and left the room.  She stirred her tea thoughtfully as she watched him go, a puzzled frown creasing her brow.

Chapter Two

A week before the Duke’s conversation with his mother, Rose Trewlawny sat in the parlor of Lilac Cottage, her home in Surrey, knitting a small, pink sock. At the sound of a knock on the door, she looked up in surprise.

            See who that is, please, Amanda, Rose told her daughter.

            Yes, Mama. Five-year-old Amanda laid aside the somewhat grubby piece of embroidery on which she’d been laboring and hurried out of the room. She was back in a few moments with a letter in her hand. It’s Mr. Samuel, Mama. He says this comed for you on the mail coach. The little girl handed the missive to her mother.

            Came, not comed, dear, Rose corrected as she set aside her knitting, spread the pages open on her lap and smiled at the sight of the familiar handwriting. How nice. A letter from Tess. A frown creased her brow as she began to decipher her cousin’s handwriting. Oh, dear. It sounds as though she is all at sixes and sevens.  

            Well, that’s nothing new, commented Miss Gildman, the third occupant of the parlor, was a cheerful, round-faced woman whose light brown hair was liberally streaked with grey. Gildy, as she was called by her charges, had once been Rose’s nurse and was now Amanda’s. Lady Waverly is in a flap over something more often than not.

             I know, Rose responded. But she has reason to be upset this time. Lord Waverly left on a diplomatic mission to America and the French nursemaid she was so pleased with has run off with the second footman, so the whole weight of running the household and caring for the children has fallen on poor Tess’s shoulders.  

            "On an army of servants’ and his lordship’s man of business’ shoulders, you mean, Gildy said with a sniff. We both know Lord Waverly would never leave her without plenty of help. Still, ‘tis poorly done of the nursemaid to go off like that, but that’s the French for you. I suppose Lady Waverly claims she needs my