Beau nodded.
“Yes,” St. Albans said with venom in his voice. “That cad took the best part of my life from me. She deserved better”
Shock left her speechless. She shot her gaze to Beau, searching silently for answers.
“Perhaps we ought to show her,” Beau volunteered.
“Indeed.” The duke held out his arm to her and she accepted it, still completely astonished.
They took her to the portrait gallery. Both men stopped in a darkened corner.
“Bring the light,” the duke called out. A footman soon brought them a candelabra. The duke held the candle aloft and gestured to a painting.
Philippa barely controlled her gasp of surprise as she glimpsed the figure reclined on a settee in the portrait—none other than herself. Yet she knew she’d never posed for such a portrait in her life. The woman in the painting wore a silver gown and she had laughing gray eyes and a mischievous smile. She was an ageless beauty that went beyond her features. It was clear, whoever this woman was, she was full of fire and life in a way Philippa had never felt. So this was Lord Monmouth’s wife…St. Albans’s daughter.
“The ghost…” She remembered Beau’s pain-induced whisper from when he lay on the ground after being shot.
How is this possible?
“She was your daughter?”
“Her name was Albina.” The duke patted Philippa’s arm gently. “She died twenty years ago this month.”
Albina, her mirrored reflection caught in oil in and canvas had been dead for as long as she’d been alive. Goosebumps prickled over her skin and the fine hairs rose on the back of her neck.
“Did… Did you know her, Beau?” Philippa wondered if perhaps that’s why her kisses had left him distressed. Had he known and loved this vibrant woman? Was she some painful reminder that rubbed salt in his old wounds?
“No, she died a year before I met Lord St. Albans.”
Philippa stared at the reflection of herself, spellbound. Then she saw the duke’s eyes were upon her.
“She died in childbirth as she brought my grandson into this world.”
“Philippa, this is why I believe Monmouth is trying to hurt you. You remind him of his late wife.” Beau was watching her with worried eyes.
She struggled past the ringing in her ears. “But… I am not his wife. Why would he lash out at me when I have no connection to her?”
“We feel there must be some connection. It’s possible her death was not so innocent, and that perhaps Monmouth carries the guilt of her death upon his shoulders. Seeing you might have driven him mad with that guilt,” Beau replied as he put a hand on the small of her back, offering more than physical support. His touch sent wild flutters of excitement through her. Yet she also felt calmed by it, knowing he was there beside her.
“We are all invested in this matter, Miss Wilson,” the duke said. “I have love for my grandson, but none for his father. It would give me some peace to see him punished for what he did to you, since there was no justice served when he stole away my only beloved child.”
“I wish he’d never seen me, that I’d stayed to my duties and followed Ruth to the servants’ quarters that night.” Philippa felt the dizziness sweep through her. She’d never been prone to fainting and here she was swooning, a headache pounding behind her eyes. It was all so overwhelming now, so real. The evidence of what she’d been told but never truly believed staring back at her across time.
Beau’s hold on her back became firm as he banded an arm around her waist. “Philippa?”
“I believe I need to sit down,” she managed to say.
“Yes, of course.” Beau and the duke took her to the dining room where she almost collapsed into the chair St. Albans pulled out for her.
“Let me fetch you some water.”
“Would you feel better if you ate? You haven’t had anything all day,” Beau reminded her. The duke poured her a glass, then waved to the footmen attending them to bring in dinner.
Philippa ate with relief. St. Albans took this opportunity to provide some advice on how to maintain her façade at future engagements, and Beau told St. Albans more about her past.
“Your parents are named the Wilsons?”
She nodded. “Yes, they own a textile shop on Bond Street.”
“Yet you work in service? Not in their shop?” The duke seemed intrigued by that. No one else had ever really questioned her decision.
“I love my parents very much, but I felt it was important to earn my place and to learn about myself while being on my own. I wanted a place in a shop, but no one would hire me.”
“Why on earth not, my child?” The duke’s brows rose he leaned forward in his chair.
“My looks, Your Grace. I was too pretty. Too much of a distract distraction bound to catch attention of men in the wrong sort of way.”
“What?” Beau laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It isn’t.” She fixed Beau with a look. “Imagine you take your wife shopping and she sees a shop girl far lovelier than her. You might be tempted to show her attention and your wife would be upset. Shopkeepers are not fools. Pleasing the customer is their paramount concern.”
“Oh…” Beau reddened a little. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
Philippa stared at her empty dinner plate as footmen collected it. She reached for a loose lock of her hair that had slipped from the hairstyle Louisa had done for her. She twined it about one finger and pulled, tightening the coil. If she did enough it would leave a loose curl to bounce against her cheek. It was a habit her mother had tried to break her of but never been fully successful. She glanced up and found the duke watching her, an unfathomable look in his eyes.
“I wish you could have met my daughter, Miss Wilson. I believe she would have been delighted in seeing the striking similarities you bear.”
“I wish I could have met her as well,” Philippa agreed. Other women might have been threatened by the idea of looking so much like a countess, but Philippa found it intriguing. Were there others with a mirror double running about England? Would she see another Beau as she walked down Pall Mall Street?
“Well then, what are your plans, my boy?” St. Albans asked. “How do you plan to draw his attention, short of issuing a formal invitation?”
“Lady Essex is throwing the ball tomorrow evening. I know Her Grace well and I believe I have no doubt I will be able to secure an invitation for my new ward.”
“I shall attend as well. Essex and his wife are lovely, and it would be good to see them. It will also allow me to keep a watchful eye over your new charge.”
The duke smiled at Philippa and the tenderness in his eyes made her heart clench. If Beau had been taught the ways of a gentleman by this wonderful and kind man, it was no wonder he was so charming.
After dinner, Beau and Philippa bid the duke good night, but as she turned to leave the duke’s home, she broke with propriety to throw her arms around the older man and hugged him fiercely. He was startled a moment before he hugged her in return.
“Rest well tonight, my dear,” the duke said and let her go.
She bit her lip and joined Beau on the sidewalk.
“I take it you liked him?” Beau asked.
“Very much. He’s a wonderfully kind man. I can see why you adore him.”
Beau grinned boyishly. “He’s like a father to me. I owe him much.”
They walked in companionable silence in the darkness, stepping through pools of light every dozen or so feet as they passed beneath the tall oil lamps lighting Pall Mall.
“Are we truly attending a ball tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. You must suffer pretty gowns, jewels, and the attention of the richest men in London.”
“Sounds dreadful,” she muttered.
Beau laughed. The sound echoed down the nearly empty street.
A flash of embarrassment made her hot all over. “What?”
“You never cease to surprise me, that’s all. Most
women would be thrilled to be in your position.”
She huffed. “To have men so desperate for you they make you feel unsafe? To have other women scorn your presence because they believe you will seduce their husbands?”
“Hmm,” Beau hummed softly. “I’m sorry, Philippa. That does indeed sound dreadful. Once we ferret out Monmouth plans, you may return to anonymity if you wish.”
Philippa didn’t wish that, but she did wish that she could do something different, something more with her life. Being with Beau had awakened other desires within her, ones she was afraid of. But she would be strong and survive all of this. Even Beau.
* * *
Alastair Sommers stared up at the edifice of the old country estate of the Earl of Monmouth. He told his coachmen to wait for him as he knocked on the door. Given the lateness of the hour it took a few minutes before someone answered the door. He was shown into a drawing room where he paced the floor by the fire. When Cornelius entered the room some time later, Sommers’s temper was fraying.
“What are you doing here?” Cornelius demanded in a low growl.
“I’m here to tell you that the little chit escaped. I had her in my hands, only to have her stolen from me.”
Cornelius’ color drained. “What? Who?”
“A fool by the name of Beauregard Boudreaux.”
It seemed Monmouth knew the name. “Boudreaux? But he and St. Albans are close. If he has the girl, he might…” Cornelius stopped speaking, as if he knew he’d revealed too much.
“You owe me answers, Monmouth.” Alistair stared at Cornelius. “Who is this woman to you? Your wife’s illegitimate child? A woman can’t inherit. Why would she matter?”
“Albina was never with another man. Neither she nor I have any base-born children.” Cornelius snapped.
Alistair spun on him. Cornelius tried to step back, but Alistair grabbed him by the throat and squeezed hard.
“Talk or I’ll kill you where you stand!” Alistair was done with the man’s games. He preferred to be in charge, to know all the players and the rules in order to cheat and win. If that meant threatening to kill an earl, well that was far less than many sins he’d happily committed before.
“All right!” Cornelius gasped. Alistair released him. He stumbled and cursed, massaging his throat.
“Well?” Alistair’s tone was icy.
“That girl is my daughter,” Cornelius said.
“Your daughter?” Alistair stared at him. “What does that matter? And why did you not claim her if she wasn’t illegitimate?”
“Albina bore twins, a boy and a girl. The boy was stillborn. He never even drew a breath upon this earth. Philippa is my only living true heir and as such, she cannot inherit my estate or my title.”
“But your son, Roderick…”
“Is not mine. Not by blood.” Cornelius wiped a hand from his face.
Alistair was not following him at all. “Then how…?”
“The local miller and his wife bore a son a few days before Albina. I gave them my daughter and took their son in exchange.”
“All to keep your title and lands?” Alistair was amused. Such a silly charade.
“I’ve worked my whole life to build my fortune. I’m not dying only to pass it onto some oafish cousin. Better to have a boy I raised, a boy I love.”
“Why kill the girl now after all these years?” Alistair asked.
“You saw her… She’s looks just like her mother. I never imagined she would grow up to mirror Albina. Once I saw her, I knew that if the Duke of St. Albans or anyone else who knew my late wife saw the girl, they would know she was mine and Roddy’s inheritance would be challenged.”
“They wouldn’t assume your wife took a lover?”
“No, everyone who knew Albina knew she loved me and would never have strayed from my bed. The pretty little fool truly cared about me.”
“Why let the girl live then? Why not kill her that night she was born?”
“I thought about it,” Cornelius said quietly, dark shadows flitting across his face. “But I thought if I sent her away, I’d never see her again. I didn’t expect her to grow up into a beauty, or to take after Albina so thoroughly. Such a foolish assumption has cost me. Thanks to your inability to do the task I assigned you, the girl’s in the midst of some of the most influential men and women in London.” Cornelius turned dark, loathing eyes upon him. “We have to go back to London and finish this.”
“This is more trouble than it’s worth already,” Alistair warned. “I’m doubling what you owe me.”
Cornelius’s face hardened. “Money is not my problem. You may stay here tonight; I’ll have a room prepared. Tomorrow you and I shall return to London after we see to a few loose ends.”
Alistair followed Cornelius out of the drawing room, but his mind was miles away. He was imagining Philippa in his bed and Beau Boudreaux dying on the floor, watching helplessly as Alistair took her. The thought brought a cruel smile to his face.
Chapter 11
Beau stared at the array of jewels before him. Mr. Preston, one of the most prestigious jewelers on Oxford Street, waited expectantly as Beau considered the pieces.
“We have the most exquisite sapphires and the darkest garnets.” Preston retrieved a tray from beneath the glass counter and set it out for Beau’s inspection.
Beau waved the tray away. “Pearls, show me pearls. A double strand perhaps, and earrings that match. Teardrops, if you have them.”
The jeweler scrambled to collect some new items per Beau’s request. While he was in his storeroom, Beau looked out the shop window. Oxford Street was full of shoppers, despite the cold late-fall wind rushing down the streets; it was strong enough that it tugged at the cloaks and skirts of passersby.
Beau lost himself in a pleasant daydream about Philippa, wondering whether she would be a good dancer and what they would talk about at dinner. His thoughts were interrupted when he noticed a red-haired man staring at him through the window.
“Boudreaux!” The man laughed warmly and came inside the shop, offering his hand in greeting.
“Rochester, how are you?” He grinned back at Lucian Russell, the Marquess of Rochester. “It’s been too long.”
“That it has. I heard from Ashton and Cedric that you found yourself in charge of a little beauty. A ward?” The rakish marquess winked at Beau as though they were in some sort of secret club.
So, word was already spreading. “Not by choice, but yes.”
“Never complain about having to care for a lovely woman.”
“Noted,” Beau replied with a smile. “What brings you to Oxford Street?”
“My wife. I’m shopping for our anniversary. It’s still a few months away, but I thought it was wise to start early. And you?”
“I’m purchasing some jewels for my new charge. Something to be seen in at social gatherings.”
“Ahh.” Rochester nodded in understanding.
Preston reemerged from the back rooms with a velvet-lined tray covered with pearl jewelry. Beau and Rochester examined the necklaces he presented. Beau settled on a double strand that held a quiet elegance and a pair of small pearl drop earrings. They would suit Philippa perfectly. She didn’t need an abundance of jewels, she already sparkled more than any gem, but he did have a strange longing to spoil her. With past mistresses, these sorts of purchases had been obligatory, but right now he wanted to buy these for Philippa simply because she was Philippa.
“Lovely choice, Mr. Boudreaux.” Preston packaged the items up, leaving Beau to talk with Rochester.
“Are you and your wife attending the Essex ball tonight?”
“We are.”
“If it’s not an imposition, would you inquire of your wife whether she could take my ward under her wing a bit? I assume has Lennox shared the details of the situation?”
“He did, and I’m sure Horatia would be delighted.”
Beau wasn’t surprised Rochester knew about Philippa. For as long as Beau could remembe
r, the lords Sheridan, Rochester, Essex, and Lonsdale were close friends of Lennox. The London papers often called them the League of Rogues. While many saw that moniker as either scandalous or charming, Beau knew better. The League were dangerous men to their enemies, but they had good hearts and could be trusted.
Rochester pointed at an expensive but elegant pair of garnet studded earrings. “Preston, let me see those earrings.”
“Yes, my lord.” His business with Beau now complete, the jeweler turned his attention to Rochester.
“I shall see you this evening.” Beau nodded at his friend and collected his purchases. He had a few more stops to make. Jessica had placed orders for hats, boots and corsets, all of which he’d planned to collect for Philippa before returning home. He waved at his young footman, who followed behind as he headed toward his next stop.
Two hours later, he was home, packages in tow. They had a few hours until they needed to leave for the ball, and he thought he should rest his sore shoulder. He could feel the stitches pulling in his skin. He’d have to have them removed sooner rather than later.
“Sir?” Stoddard met him at the door. “Is it your shoulder?”
“Yes, rather it’s my back,” Beau muttered. “The bloody stitches are pulling.”
“Why don’t I have a look? My father was a surgeon.”
“That’s probably for the best. I don’t want to bother a doctor just yet.” He headed to his room, Stoddard on his heels. Beau stripped out of his shirt and tossed it on his bed so his butler could examine his back.
“The area is a bit red, sir. But it doesn’t seem to hold any inflammation. I believe you’re healing well, and the stitches are tight as your skin connects back together.”
“It itches and aches.” He felt like a child for complaining.
“I could fetch some laudanum,” Stoddard offered.
“No, no more of that for a while. It gives me bad dreams.” He also didn’t like the way it made his brain feel, as though someone had stuffed it full of thick wool.
“Sir!” Philippa’s anxious tone startled him and Stoddard. They turned to the open doorway where she stood dressed in a pale green gown like frost covered jade. “I’m so sorry. I heard your voice and came to tell you…” Her eyes roamed the length of his body and settled on his bare chest.
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