Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  The waiter bowed and departed. Gesturing for another, Solomon ordered wine for Mr. Wolcott as well as supper. Within a few moments, Thomas appeared at his table, bowing. Solomon studied him for a quick moment, observing his open but wary expression, and gestured for him to seat himself at the table.

  “Your butler informed me where you were, Your Grace,” Thomas said as he sat down.

  “Yes, I dine here every Thursday night, Mr. Wolcott,” Solomon replied. “I took the liberty of ordering supper for you.”

  “That is very kind of you.”

  Solomon sipped his wine, watching Thomas over the rim of the glass. “What made you change your mind about investigating who might wish me dead?”

  Thomas smiled slightly. “You did. I hardly slept that night, thinking back to Suzanne and the rumors, what she said to me. I came to realize that there were signs I failed to see.”

  “Such as?”

  Thomas shrugged, glancing up as the waiter set a glass of wine in front of him. “Mysterious absences, statements she told me that did not make sense at the time, but do now. I loved her, and could never believe she would play me false.”

  “And now you realize that she did.”

  “Indeed. I do recall her lust for a title, but told myself she was just being fanciful. Friends tried to tell me, and of course I would not listen.”

  Solomon took a bite from his delicious fish as the waiter returned with Thomas’s supper. “I am sorry for your suffering, and yet am happy for you that you have found a wife.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas cut into his own fish, nodding at the delectable flavor. “So who do you think might be trying to kill you?”

  “The Baron Beaulieu.”

  Sitting up straight, Thomas wiped his lips with his napkin and took a sip of wine, all the while gazing into Solomon’s eyes. “Why him? If he did indeed murder his wife, why would he wish you dead in particular? She had many lovers, rumors say.”

  “She did. But I also learned recently that she was in love with me whereas I did not return her feelings.”

  “Ah. Did the Baron also know of this?”

  “Yes, she made no secret of it.”

  “Kill her for revenge, kill you out of jealousy. Outside of greed, those are the prime motives for murder in my estimation.”

  “So how will you prove it?”

  Thomas continued to eat for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Solomon finished his own supper and drank his wine, waiting patiently. At last, Thomas asked, “Did you get a good look at the man who tried to shoot you in Hyde Park?”

  “Indeed, I did. He was of middling height with black curly hair, brown eyes, lower class. Young, perhaps five and twenty, square jaw, and most likely with an injured shoulder. My carriage struck him when the horse spooked at the shot.”

  “Then I will begin by speaking to physicians and apothecaries, Your Grace. They might recognize the description if he went to any of them for help.”

  “Very good. I also have another matter I would like you to look into.”

  Thomas’s brow rose. “Two cases? Are they related?”

  “I do not think so. One of my business associates is stealing from me. Your reputation for honesty and integrity makes you the only man I can trust to find who it is.”

  “And if word got out you know you are targeted, it will only drive the thief deeper into hiding.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me everything you believe is happening.”

  Keeping a wary eye out for eavesdroppers, Solomon replied, his voice low, “Either Lord Aldric Hammond or Edward Crane have been forging my signature to write promissory notes in order to purchase goods for my import business, then sell them privately.”

  “Lord Hammond, as in the Earl of Oakshire?”

  “The very one. We knew each other in school, and thus I trusted him enough to offer him a place within my business. Our fathers were on friendly terms as well.”

  Thomas sipped his wine. “And Mr. Crane?”

  “He is a commoner,” Solomon answered slowly. “Yet, another I felt I could trust. He has worked with me for over five years now, quite adept at making deals with our contact in other countries. I hate to think that either of them would steal from me, yet no one else seems a likely suspect in my opinion.”

  Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Thomas said, “I can look into possible warehouses where your imported goods might be stored before being sold. And look into the forgery aspect of this.”

  “Thank you.” Solomon drew in a deep breath, smiling. “I knew you were the perfect man for this, Mr. Wolcott.”

  “I will also inform you that I can no longer consider you a suspect in the Baroness Beaulieu’s death, Your Grace,” Thomas went on. “I discreetly inquired as to your whereabouts the evening she fell down the stairs and discovered you were in truth entertaining the Countess of Stratshire.”

  Solomon glanced away, his jaw clenched, fighting his anger. “You spoke with her?”

  Thomas smiled, taking a long drink of his wine. “No. Her servants. The scandal sheets declared her one of your lady friends, so I thought to ask a few of her staff. Lord Stratshire was away, obviously, and her cleaning maids were most happy to gossip about your all night visit.”

  Solomon forced himself to relax. “As long as the Countess’s name was not dragged into your investigation, I suppose I have no quarrel with your means of clearing me of Elize’s death.”

  “No, I made sure to speak with them without the Countess knowing and without witnesses.”

  “Excellent.”

  “That was another reason why I decided to help you,” Thomas went on. “If you were not involved in her death, and honorable in your business dealings, which I discovered you are, then perhaps I misjudged you.”

  “That is understandable, given my certain impulses.”

  “While I do not condone your activities in that regard, I must also comment that you are certainly not the only one in this town who is entertaining someone other than his or her spouse. Your only crime is lack of discretion.”

  Solomon laughed. “And not caring what people think, Mr. Wolcott.”

  “That, too.”

  Sobering, Solomon gazed at Thomas. “If I may, I have sent letters to your sister and have received no response. Do you have any idea why she will not write back?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I do not, Your Grace, nor will I interfere with what might be going on between you two. I will not investigate my sister. You must ask her yourself.”

  “Do I have your permission to pay a call on her?”

  “Yes. Provided me or my wife are there to chaperone.”

  “Fair enough. I will arrive at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, if that is acceptable.”

  “It is.”

  Solomon extended his hand across the table. “Thank you, Mr. Wolcott. I will bring twice your normal fees when I arrive.”

  Thomas shook it. “No, just the regular fees is all I ask. I cannot accept more.”

  “A very honest man. I will see you tomorrow then.”

  ***

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  Teresa added the latest letter from the Duke on the pile, all of them unread. Chastising herself for not burning them, she sat at her desk and stared at them. “I do not need to read his paltry excuses,” she muttered.

  Still the nagging question as to why he was writing so diligently to her crept into her mind yet again. “If he is in love with that hussy, why is he writing to me? I have nothing to offer him.”

  Torn, she reached for the pile, then resolutely stopped herself. “I am just a game to him, a victim of his womanizing.”

  A knock came at her door. “Teresa?”

  “Come in, Thomas.”

  Opening it, Thomas stood in the doorway, not crossing the threshold to fully enter. “His Grace is here to see you.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mouth went dry. “Why?”

  “He did not say,” Thomas replied wit
h a grin. “You might ask him.”

  Standing, Teresa paced, unable to think properly. “I cannot imagine what he wants. Does he think I will become one of his conquests, one of his many mistresses?”

  Thomas’s smile faded. “His behavior does not indicate such to me, little sister. I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. I did. Until I saw him with Miss Calhoun at the Rotterdam ball.”

  “I see. What do you want me to tell him?”

  Teresa bit back a suggestion that His Grace can go straight to hell. “I do not wish to see him,” she replied, her chin high. “I am not one of his toys he can play with for a time, then forget about.”

  “You are sure that is what you want me to say?”

  “Yes.”

  Shrugging, Thomas left and quietly closed the door behind him. Continuing to pace, Teresa could not help but second guess her actions. Again, she asked herself why he was still so interested in her when he clearly loved someone else. “Perhaps she is not giving him what he wants and thinks he can get it from me.”

  She quickly dismissed that idea, as he easily took his pleasure among any of his willing mistresses. “He certainly isn’t interested in gaining an additional title from me, as I do not have one. I certainly cannot compare to wealthy heiresses with what little money I have.”

  Growing more and more confused and wretched, Teresa finally left her chamber to see what Thomas may have learned from the Duke’s visit. She found him closing the front door as she descended the stairs, an envelope in his hands. He glanced up at her. Waggling the paper, he said, “He asked me to give you this.”

  Teresa took it and glanced at it. “Even after you told him what I said?”

  “Yes. He seemed puzzled, as though he had no idea what you were talking about.”

  Snorting, she said, “Of course he does. He clearly loves someone else, yet is playing some obscure game with me.”

  “That is for you and His Grace to work out. I will not interfere. Now I must go, as I have work to do.”

  Taking the unopened letter back up the stairs to her room, Teresa set it with the others, then once again stared at them. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped in an undertone. “I need to go out for a while.”

  As Amelia was lying down, feeling sick again, Teresa informed the cook that she was going to near the newly constructed Regent’s Park for a walk. Though the park itself was not open, she often enjoyed strolling near it and watch the activities within. The late morning air felt wonderful on her skin, the light breeze lifting her hair as though with invisible fingers.

  Naturally, she ignored the sharp stares for being seen in public with her hair falling past her waist, and strolled past shops and small market squares filled with shoppers and merchants. As she wandered, she tried to forget about the Duke and his letters, and the emotional conundrum he posed. Pausing often to examine trinkets or lace as she passed the market stalls, she paid little heed to her surroundings.

  From behind her came the sudden sound of flesh striking flesh, grunts, and then running footsteps. Whirling, Teresa saw the Duke, dressed all in black, chase a man with a cudgel in his fist. Voices lifted in shock and exclamation as the man knocked people down in his effort to escape the Duke who ran on his heels. The two vanished into the press of people.

  “Are you all right, miss?” asked an older woman, stepping toward her.

  “Yes,” Teresa answered, “but I am not sure what just happened.”

  “That man with the stick was creeping up behind you, dear,” the woman replied as more people crowded in close to also inquire if she was all right and to ask why the man appeared to be sneaking up behind her. “The other man, the one in the black coat, hit him to stop him.”

  “Why would someone want to harm you?” asked the merchant from his stall.

  “I – I have no idea.”

  Too many people shoved their way around her, asking questions, speculating, talking to one another. Teresa gazed around at them, her chest tightening, dizziness swamping her. “Please,” she begged, “I must get through.”

  She tried to push her way through the horde, but none yielded or stepped aside to let her through. Her throat closing, she fought to breathe, to remain calm, to not have an episode of her anxiety right there in full public view. “Please,” she choked, pushing at the implacable wall of bodies.

  “Miss?” The old woman peered at her anxiously. “Are you going to swoon?”

  Nodding, Teresa gasped for breath, unable to see straight past the dizziness. The woman waved at the crush of people in front of them. “Let her through,” she ordered, “she needs to sit down. Get out of the way now.”

  Following her, Teresa struggled to get through the thin path the woman created as she bulled her way through the mass. At last in the open, the old lady pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit down, dear.”

  Obeying her, Teresa sat, at last clear of the immediate crush of milling people. With no more drama to witness, they gradually continued on their way with no few last looks at her and called questions. The tightness in her chest gradually loosened and some of the dizziness passed as she drew in small trickles of air.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I am glad I could help,” the older woman replied with a smile. “You were very lucky that man saw what was happening. You could be dead right now, dear.”

  “He saved me.”

  “That he did.”

  The Duke returned, his face a mask of concern and anger. Seeing her, still gasping for breath, her face no doubt read from the effort, he stepped toward the bench she and the woman sat on. “Miss Wolcott. Did he hurt you?”

  Shaking her head, Teresa rose to curtsey, lifting the other woman’s brow. “Your Grace.”

  Her eyes wide, the woman also stood, behaving as though she were preparing to run.

  “This is the Duke of Thornehill,” Teresa explained.

  “The Devil Duke.” The woman’s voice was almost inaudible, but Teresa heard it and hoped the Duke did not.

  With a hasty dip of her knee, the old lady turned and hustled down the street to disappear. “I expect she reads the scandal sheets,” the Duke said, his tone sardonic. “He did not hurt you?”

  “No,” Teresa murmured, clasping her hands together in her lap as the Duke sat beside her on the bench. “Too many people.” Glancing at him, she tried to smile. “You know what happens when I am in a crowd.”

  He did not return it. “I could not accept your answer, Miss Wolcott,” he said, his voice low. “I lingered in the area, watching your house in the hopes I might speak to you.”

  “You owe me no explanation, Your Grace. You love another.”

  “You saw me talking to Miss Calhoun.”

  Teresa nodded. “Your expression, so happy, filled with love. And she is so beautiful. I cannot in truth blame you.”

  The Duke shook his head. “Miss Calhoun has been my friend for many years, Miss Wolcott. We are close, but we have no intimate desires for one another. I am sorry you were forced to learn of this in such a fashion, and that you believed ill of me. I do not blame you, for had I seen you with another man, I might also feel jealousy.”

  Teresa felt her jaw slacken, searching his eyes. “You would? But we hardly know one another, and with all the women to choose from, you are interested in me?”

  His Grace smiled slightly. “I am interested in you, in getting to know you. Where it will lead, I do not profess to know. Is that why you did not write me back?”

  “I have not even read them,” Teresa whispered. “I felt you were playing a game with me.”

  The Duke half turned away, gazing at the traffic rushing through the busy street. “I confess it is difficult for me to form anything save a casual relationship with anyone. I do not mean to toy with your feelings.”

  Uncomfortable, Teresa could not be certain she could trust him, despite his apparent sincerity. If Miss Calhoun and he were so close, why did they not marry? Finding him difficult to believe, she
stood up. “Thank you for saving me. I should go home now.”

  He also stood, his green eyes filled with an emotion she could not read. “May I escort you? I wish to talk further with you about this person who wished you harm.”

  “Very well.”

  With the tall Duke pacing at her side, Teresa felt both protected and insecure. “Who do you think that man was?” she finally asked.

  “I do not know,” he replied, flashing her a quick glimpse. “Nor do I understand why you were the target of his violence.”