Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Read online

  Designs on a Duke

  The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

  Ellie St. Clair

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Inventing the Viscount

  Chapter 1

  Also by Ellie St. Clair

  About the Author

  ♥ Copyright 2020 by Ellie St Clair - All rights reserved.

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  Cover by AJF Designs

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  Also By Ellie St. Clair

  Standalone

  Unmasking a Duke

  Christmastide with His Countess

  Her Christmas Wish

  Happily Ever After

  The Duke She Wished For

  Someday Her Duke Will Come

  Once Upon a Duke’s Dream

  He’s a Duke, But I Love Him

  Loved by the Viscount

  Because the Earl Loved Me

  Happily Ever After Box Set Books 1-3

  Happily Ever After Box Set Books 4-6

  Searching Hearts

  Duke of Christmas

  Quest of Honor

  Clue of Affection

  Hearts of Trust

  Hope of Romance

  Promise of Redemption

  Searching Hearts Box Set (Books 1-5)

  The Unconventional Ladies

  Lady of Mystery

  Lady of Fortune

  Lady of Providence

  Lady of Charade

  Blooming Brides

  A Duke for Daisy

  A Marquess for Marigold

  An Earl for Iris

  A Viscount for Violet

  The Bluestocking Scandals

  Designs on a Duke

  Inventing the Duke

  1

  London ~ 1820

  The door knocker appeared to be frowning.

  Rebecca tilted her head to better study the gigantic lion that stared her in the eye. This one was quite stoic and serious, its eyebrows narrowed in anger and, perhaps, a bit of worry. If the duke was attempting to discourage visitors, then he was certainly achieving his purpose.

  “A door knocker should be welcoming, should it not?” she asked her father, who was making his own study of the front exterior of the house.

  “It's a shame, really,” he murmured, looking around. “A house of this size, in the middle of London, kept secret from all eyes for years now. Look at the gardens on the southern side! But Becca, this house… why it’s not finished!”

  “You’re right,” she said, her eyes widening. From afar it looked rather extravagant, but upon closer examination, all of the finishing details had not yet been completed. “We shall see what the interior holds. But Father, let’s not tell him any of our thoughts on his home until we further determine just why he has asked us here.”

  “He quite obviously wants to hire us!” her father exclaimed indignantly. “I am in high demand, Becca. High demand! I have heard much of Wyndham House, you know. There were plans for it to be rather grand, but there is no need to determine just why it wasn’t completed, for it is quite obvious. Clearly the initial design was flawed. The duke must know that I will not simply follow another’s designs.”

  “Father, we need this commission,” Rebecca said, tapping her foot nervously, hoping that her father would move on from his passionate criticism of what could be one of the grandest mansions in London.

  All knew of Wyndham House, as it covered one of the largest footprints of any home in the city. But its fame was partially hinged on the fact that it had become something of a mystery.

  It was nearly a decade now since the first brick had been laid, but for the past eight years, no one besides servants had set foot in it. The recently passed duke had been quite ill during his final years, and his visitors consisted solely of caretakers as he had no immediate relatives.

  Which was partially why the dukedom had passed into the hands of this man, a far-removed cousin, who apparently had been unaware that he would someday become one of the most powerful men in England.

  It was all quite intriguing. But Rebecca was intent on dismissing all of the gossip and fascination that surrounded the new duke and focusing on the task at hand. It would take all of her concentration to do so.

  She took a deep breath as the door swung open.

  “Good morning,” said the man Rebecca assumed to be the butler, though he was much younger than any butler she had ever met.

  He was tall, handsome in a boyish way, and had a spark in his eye as he looked Rebecca up and down before turning his gaze onto her father.

  “You must be Mr. Lambert,” he said. “I am Dexter. Do come in.”

  Rebecca and her father stepped into the foyer, both of them immediately more interested in their surroundings than any of the human inhabitants.

  The foyer was designed to impress but was lacking the details of a completed room. A dome in the ceiling had yet to be ornamented, and Rebecca thought that a gold inlay would make it sparkle like the sun. Perhaps with diamonds. There were cutouts in the wall for statues, the arched doorway beyond providing a glimpse of a grand staircase. How much better would it look, Rebecca mused, to be rid of the wall and have the staircase greet the arrivals? Something worth a discussion.

  When they had finally finished their initial review as Dexter waited patiently, the three of them stood staring at one another.

  “Is, ah, the duke in residence?” Rebecca finally asked. The butler, who stood before them, was unexpectedly hesitant.

  “That’s just the thing, Miss…”

  “Lambert. Mr. Lambert is my father.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Lambert. The duke was supposed to be here to meet you, but has not yet returned home.”

  “I see,” Rebecca said, though, in truth, she was rather annoyed. So the new duke, despite his supposedly common upbringing, had already become like the rest of the nobility. “Shall we wait?”

  “Of course,” he said, though he made no move to show them into the house.

  “Is the drawing room available?” she suggested with a raised eyebrow.

  The butler looked rather flustered.

  “Perhaps the parlor would be better.”

  “Very well,” Rebecca said, willing patience.

  So they were to be relegated to the parlor. Apparently they were not fine enough quality to be shown to the drawing room.
r />   It was likely under the duke’s own instructions. Rebecca had been around more than her fair share of the nobility as she had spent her life following her father from one commission to another. In some homes they were seen as upper servants, though her father had gained much respect over the years, the better his name became known. She was most often looked right through, seen almost like furniture.

  “You see, Becca?” she heard her father murmur in her ear. “Unfinished. Ragged. Shameful.”

  He was right on the first two accounts. Despite the fact the house had been standing for a decade, many of the walls were bare, unadorned, some of the ceilings half-painted. Draperies covered some windows but not others, and furniture that had been accumulated had the look of that which was to have bided time until new furniture was procured.

  That day had obviously not yet come.

  They passed through the foyer and then into a long chamber that Rebecca guessed was to be a ballroom. It was currently empty except for two long tables, upon which sat a curious collection of objects.

  She was so busy looking at their contents that she walked right into her father, who had stopped to stare at everything in front of him.

  “What in the…”

  “Father,” Rebecca warned, cutting him off. Just then a jar of green liquid on the table began to bubble, and Rebecca took a step backward, pulling her father with her.

  Just as it exploded with white foam shooting out the top of the jar, a tall, slim woman dressed in green raced into the room.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, clearly flustered as she attempted to push back some of the strands of blonde hair that floated around her face, though she refrained from touching her skin with her gloved hands. “I didn’t know we were having company and I should have had this in another room. That being said, I think I am close to—”

  “Jemima!”

  “Oh, Mother!” the woman whirled around as an elegantly dressed white-haired woman sailed into the room — Rebecca didn’t think walked was an adequate description. A strong floral scent wafted around her like a cloud.

  “Hello there,” she said, waving a hand in front of her demurely, giving Rebecca the idea that the woman hailed herself near to royal status — which, Rebecca supposed, she now was, as the immediate family of a duke. “You must be the architect. Please, do wait in the parlor. We look forward to our discussion. Dexter, please show them in. And next time, perhaps walk them the other way, through the drawing room?”

  “Very well, Mrs. St. Vincent,” he said with the slightest of bows and he waved a hand in the air, biding them to continue to follow him.

  Rebecca and her father exchanged a look, but Rebecca shrugged and urged her father to continue, though they both jumped at the bang that exploded from the table behind them.

  “Sorry,” the younger woman — Miss St. Vincent— said with a cringe and a bit of a wave before she returned to her work.

  “How very curious,” Rebecca’s father murmured as they finally entered the parlor.

  While this room, too, was not yet complete, Rebecca was drawn to the large Venetian window on the far wall, which overlooked the back court. A huge green expanse flourished beyond, though there was much potential to expand the gardens. This should be the focal point of the room, Rebecca thought. The furniture should look out beyond the window, the remainder of the room simple and unornamented.

  The door opened behind them, and Rebecca turned, hoping to see the duke so they could be on with it, but instead it was the woman she assumed to be his mother.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Lambert,” she said with a wide, practiced smile on her face, as though they had not just encountered one another in the ballroom. She took a seat in one of the mismatched chairs, this one a royal-blue upholstered mahogany one that had been home to many bottoms, artfully arranging her expansive, clearly expensive, skirts over the chair so they fanned out evenly. “I am Mrs. St. Vincent and my son is the Duke of Wyndham.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Rebecca’s father said, his practiced charm emerging as he bent to kiss the woman’s hand, though she pulled it away before he was able to do so.

  “Yes, well. My son was supposed to be here to meet you, but unfortunately, he was called away on very urgent matters. As you may know, we have only recently arrived at this home in London, and as you can see, there is much to complete. I know my son has more particulars in mind and will review them once he arrives, but obviously the house has the potential to be quite opulent.”

  “Actually, Mrs. St. Vincent, we haven’t seen much of it,” Rebecca said, growing rather impatient. They hadn’t much time to waste waiting. “Perhaps while we wait, we could tour the house?”

  “And you are…?” she asked, fixing her pointed stare on Rebecca.

  “Miss Lambert. I assist my father as his secretary.”

  “Oh. How unusual. Well. I suppose Dexter can show you around, if you must see it now.”

  They rose and Rebecca followed her father out. He began chattering away in Dexter’s ear, and Rebecca followed behind, pulling out her sketchbook and making notes as well as drawing sketches and designs as she went.

  The style was Palladian with a hint of neoclassical, she realized as they wandered through, and she wished she was able to better question the duke as to what had happened over the past decade. At least the current duke was willing to pay for additional work. While her father may have blamed shoddy design, the truth was evident. The previous duke had run out of money.

  She poked her head into one room and then the other. It was a travesty, really, and Rebecca wondered what the country estate looked like. Stripped of all its finery, perhaps, in order to attempt to pay to keep up appearances? No wonder this place remained a mystery.

  She stopped for a moment, attempting a quick drawing, when suddenly she realized how quiet the hall had become. Rebecca looked up to find that her father and Dexter were nowhere in sight. Drat. She had become too caught up.

  She quickly ascended the staircase in an attempt to catch them, but the upstairs corridor was empty as well. Rebecca put her ear against one door and then the next, but there was no sign of them. There was, however, a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall. She continued toward it, pushing it fully open to reveal a long, wide bedchamber. The windows were covered in heavy navy draperies, the bed itself taking up a large portion of the room. Goodness, how large was the duke that he needed such space?

  Curious, Rebecca walked further into the room, though she was aware that this was likely not one of the rooms Dexter would have included in his tour. But she couldn’t help herself. She loved studying how people lived. And, unlike many rooms in the house, this chamber was obviously occupied.

  There was a small dressing room and another door that Rebecca assumed connected to another bedroom. She pushed it open, finding the bedroom entirely bare. So there was clearly no her grace. Rebecca was about to retreat when she heard a heavy tread in the hallway, the steps coming closer and finally entering the room.

  Not the wandering, unhurried steps of her father. Not the quick steps of Dexter.

  It must be the duke.

  Her heart began to race at the thought of being caught in the bedchamber of one of the highest peers in all of England. How would she ever explain herself? Rebecca did the first thing that came into her mind.

  She hid.

  2

  Valentine St. Vincent, the sixth Duke of Wyndham, was tired.

  He was tired of balls. He was tired of operas. He was tired of pretending to be the Duke of Wyndham when all he had ever aspired to be was a man making a name for himself in his chosen profession, which was the only thing he truly excelled at. One who would be perfectly happy spending his life without any pressure or great responsibility placed upon him.

  But then his brother had died. His father had died. His cousin was deemed illegitimate. And then the old duke had finally succumbed to the illness that had kept him bedridden for years, and Val remained the fortuitous
one to be alive and declared the duke after a lengthy inquiry by the College of Arms.

  He let himself into his house — though it was styled more of a mansion than anything else, and finding his butler utterly absent, he hung his hat up himself.

  A crash resounded from down the hall and he smiled to himself. Jemima. At least some things never changed. His sister was still as curious in unraveling the next great scientific discovery. He didn’t understand half of it, though she was always more than pleased to provide a running commentary of her most recent hypothesis. Currently, it was something to do with the effects of the cleanliness — or lack thereof — of water.

  He strode through the foyer to what was supposed to be a ballroom but had become Jemima’s laboratory. He found her blonde head bent over a microscope, so focused that she didn’t even look up when he walked into the room.

  “Good to see you haven’t destroyed our new home quite yet,” he said, and she yelped as she jumped up.

  “Val! You scared me.”

  He chuckled as he tapped a hand against his leg, where an old injury still aggravated him from time to time.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Hmm?”

  Her mind was still elsewhere.

  “Dexter wasn’t at the door. Usually he is so eager to prove himself as a new butler that I can hardly untie my own cloak.”