Standing straighter, she offered him a purely false smile.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Montague. I refuse to help you in whatever scheme you’ve concocted. In point of fact, I find it difficult to believe you’re actually here, on my property, suggesting I would be so insecure and afraid as to bow down to your disgusting requests.” Her upper lip twitched as she lowered her voice to add, “Leave now or I shall scream and you will surely find yourself acting within the walls of prison.”
Undaunted, he nodded once. “As you wish, madam. However, before I do so, I think you should see this.”
Vivian watched as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Opening it, he read from the top line.
“Dear Mr. Hathaway, I have read the provisions in the separation agreement, and I shall adhere to them immediately…”
Vivian grabbed a post at her side as her body began to shake.
“… My husband has agreed to the terms and has made his plans to retire to trance posthaste—”
“Stop it. Stop!”
He ignored her.
“My gravest concern is, naturally, that this legal matter remain our secret. I mil be moving to Cornwall in the coming months, there to live quietly on the settlement funds provided at my marriage. I know that as my solicitor you’ll keep this matter confidential. My family cannot be harmed socially by the knowledge of my—”
Vivian reached out and snatched the note from his fingers, crumpling it in her trembling hands.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course thaf’s just a copy. The original is in very safekeeping.”
In safekeeping. As she’d always thought of the legal documents.
She swallowed, staring at his stomach. “How… How did you get this?” She jerked her head up, her eyes piercing his with loathing. “How much did this cost you, Mr. Montague?”
His lids narrowed. “Not nearly what it will cost you should you not comply with my wishes.”
Comply with his wishes? She positively could not speak to that. Never had she been more appalled.
The man must have sensed her hesitation, the heat of her disgust. With one final glance down her person, he turned away from her and began a casual stroll between the flowering plants, toward the side gate where he’d made his entrance, his large hands clasped behind his back. From this angle, Vivian thought he looked deceptively like a gentleman.
He’s an actor.
“To be able to keep this… standard of living, shall we say, you will acquire something for me,” he informed her, his voice now brusque and to the point.
Her mouth opened slightly in disbelief, not only at his demand of conspiracy, but at the idea that should she fail, her life as she knew it would end.
“It is a pristine, original sonnet, written and signed by the great one himself.”
That left her thoroughly confused.
“This manuscript,” he continued, his back to her as he eyed fine yellow roses to his left, “is in the possession of the Duke of Trent.”
Vivian sucked in a sharp breath, which he undoubtedly heard, even from where he stood.
“I’m sure a woman of your age and experience won’t have trouble calling on the secluded man for something.” He glanced back to her. “He’ll have it locked away, so you cannot steal it. You must use… other means to actually get him to let you see it, acquire it.”
“I won’t do it,” she managed to breathe, her tone chilled and raspy.
He turned to face her fully again, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Of course you will, madam. It shouldn’t take you long. Send a note to me at the theater when you’ve finished your task and I’ll quickly be in touch.”
Again, he moved toward the gated entrance, and then stopped abruptly, caressing his tapered beard. Over his shoulder, he said matter-of-factly, “I should take care of the matter soon, as well. I’ll only be in Penzance for another fortnight after which I will be traveling to London. I wouldn’t want there to be any confusion regarding what society at large might or might not know of your separation decree. And I shouldn’t have to tell you not to mention my name, my involvement, or this meeting between us.”
Vivian could see the side of his mouth lift into a twisted smile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”
With that, he took his leave, closing the gate behind him most meticulously.
Vivian stared at the spot where he last stood, forever, it seemed, realizing that since he had walked into her presence she hadn’t moved her feet.
Slowly her eyes dropped to the wilted, crushed orchid on the cobblestone path, and a burst of absurd laughter threatened to escape her suddenly. How very odd that with such drama, such flair, in a matter of ten little minutes, her secure world and future, which she’d so perfectly constructed for herself, had been stolen.
Chapter 2
His full name was William Raleigh, Duke of Trent, Earl of Shreveport and Kayes, Baron Chesterfield, and husband of Elizabeth, the wife he’d been rumored to have murdered. Of course Vivian didn’t exactly believe that… exactly.
Standing now at his front gate not far from the cliff’s edge near Mousehole, she paused to take in the elegance of his stately home, simply called Morning House, as noted on the engraved plaque at the entrance. The look of the rectangular, light brown brick building, with its dark gray shutters and fifteen-foot-high, massive black front doors suggested more of a home in mourning than an example of the beautiful countryside around it. But then that was a play of words that likely didn’t occur to the duke himself.
Vivian had come here several times by coach to deliver floral arrangements but had chosen to walk the distance from the village to the duke’s house on this day since she carried nothing but a reticule to match her pale plum-colored day gown. It had been raining at dawn, and though still cloudy this early afternoon, a fine mist lingered in the air, and the cool breeze off the ocean made the skin on her face and neck tingle. It was a feeling she adored.
It was rumored that although the duke spent as many as eleven months of the year here, he owned very little of the land, presumably only the immediate area surrounding the home itself. The view was certainly incredible, though. From where she stood now, Vivian could see not only the house and grasslands, but the sea beyond—cold, gray and ominous today, as it dropped to the horizon behind the building proper.
Drawing a full, deep breath, Vivian pushed the heavy gate open to enter the small, beautifully landscaped yard and centered her thoughts on the business ahead. And it would be business, she’d decided before she’d stepped foot from her cottage this morning. She would offer the duke a business proposition. She was, after all, a businesswoman.
Vivian didn’t see any footmen upon her stroll up the walkway. She climbed the stone steps with a swift lift of her skirts, and after straightening her bonnet and smoothing her stays, she rapped twice with the heavy brass knocker.
A level of anxiety coursed through her as she waited a good three or four minutes for an answer. One would think a duke of immense means could afford efficient help. But then the Duke of Trent was known for being as mysterious as he was wealthy, in every measure.
At last she heard the bolt slide back from the other side of the door, and after a few seconds of patient waiting, it slowly opened to reveal an older gray-haired man she assumed to be the butler given his impeccable dress and flat, formal demeanor.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he said with a curt nod.
Vivian’s mouth dropped open a fraction at his presumptuousness. Of course he knew who she was because she’d brought flowers to the servants’ entrance before, but this day it seemed as if he expected her as a guest. She hadn’t even had a chance to hand him her card.
“I would request a moment with his grace,” she said, recovering herself. “If he is at home.”
The butler nodded once. “Do come in, madam.”
He pulled the door open fully and moved to the right to al
low her entrance. She stepped into the foyer, withholding a gasp of surprise. Far from the look outside, the inside stood out brightly, cheerful and inviting, revealing white marble floors, a fringed chair or two in white satin, a large crystal chandelier hanging from a rounded, pale ceiling, all pointing attention toward the gold-leafed table at the center, on top of which sat an enormous crystal vase filled to overflowing with daisies, pink roses, and wild buttercups. For a second—only a second—Vivian felt offended that the duke obviously purchased flowers elsewhere from time to time.
“This way, if you please,” the butler coaxed, gesturing to his left. “His grace will receive you in his library.”
Vivian held her tongue from asking where these particular flowers had come from, when it suddenly occurred to her that rarely anyone but the duke and his staff ever saw them. True, even a socially shunned duke occasionally would need to entertain business associates, but Vivian had serious doubts that much business would be conducted in so remote a place as south Cornwall. How unfortunate to own such a grand and beautiful home, adorned so tastefully, with the knowledge that no one could appreciate it but oneself.
She followed the butler down a long hallway, her shoes making a rather noisy clacking sound on the hard marble floor, her eyes drifting to the long bay windows on her left, thick cream-colored curtains pulled back with gold tassels allowing an unhindered view of the cresting ocean beyond.
Seconds later they stopped at the double doors that led to the library. The butler opened them without knocking then stepped aside for her to enter. Of course at first glance it looked just as a library should, although the Duke of Trent appeared to have exquisite taste of the most expensive kind.
The room was quite large, taking up perhaps a third of the entire southeast wing, smelling faintly of tobacco and leather. Both the walls and high ceiling were papered with dark brown and navy stripes in a style that matched fringed floral lamps and the brown leather furniture that surrounded an ornately carved tea table sitting directly on an oblong, inlaid Oriental carpet at the center of the dark wooden floor. A small conservatory of sorts extending out from the far wall displayed a variety of greenery before huge arched windows that no doubt featured a spectacular view of the sandy beach coastline and ocean beyond.
The glass-enclosed bookcases were only six feet in height or so, lined across the westernmost wall to her right, and stuffed top to bottom with reading material. Above them hung portraits and painted landscapes in gilded frames. An enormous, dark oak secretary stood against the northern wall, likely where the duke worked when handling estate matters, as it neatly seated two, side by side, in black leather rockers. On the easternmost wall, and displayed as the focal point of the room, was the over-large fireplace, trimmed in brown marble and ornately carved wood, now cold and swept perfectly clean of ashes.
Despite the fact that the library had been decorated in a purely masculine flavor, as befit a library, this one was simply gorgeous.
“Please make yourself comfortable, madam,” the butler chimed in at her side. “His grace will be here shortly. My name is Wilson, and Bitsy will serve you while you wait.”
She turned her attention to him once more. “Thank you, Wilson.”
Giving her a slight bow, he took his leave, closing the doors behind him. Only seconds later, as Vivian began to remove her gloves, in walked a parlor maid carrying a large silver tray. Pretty and tidy and all of about sixteen, she curtsied once, then strode toward the center tea table.
“Would you care for coffee or tea, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” the girl asked in a soft, flat tone.
“Tea would be fine,” she replied with a formal smile, though inwardly intrigued by the manner in which she’d been treated in this home thus far—not as a woman from the village who sells flowers for a living, but as an honored guest, whom everybody seemed to know by name. Very odd, indeed.
While the parlor maid poured tea into a white china cup from a silver pot, Vivian sat unobtrusively in a leather chair across from the large, high-backed sofa of the same quality material. As soon as she’d arranged her skirts, the girl placed her full cup and saucer on a short round table to her right.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
The fragrant, steaming tea smelled heavenly. “No, this is quite… lovely.”
The maid curtsied once more, then quickly took her leave, closing the large doors behind her, her footsteps echoing down the hallway as she departed in relative haste.
Vivian swiftly untied her bonnet and removed it, smoothing the hair at her forehead back into place. She’d plaited the length of it, winding the braid and pinning it at her nape, but loose strands had detached themselves as they always did. Funny how she rather cared about her appearance this morning, wanting to make an impression on the Duke of Trent. How she managed to be here now, alone in this exquisite room, served immediately her choice of fine tea or coffee, left her suddenly amused and squelching a laugh of pure absurdity. For just a second, she had to wonder if perhaps the duke had inherited his obviously substantial income from the death of his wife. Such wealth represented in this room alone could be motive for murder, she supposed.
Vivian lifted her cup with surprisingly calm hands and sampled the tea, a wonderfully strong Lapsang Souchong. Somewhat unconventional for standard fare, especially when serving to a guest of the lower class. But it certainly brought back memories.
For nearly ten minutes she heard nothing aside from waves crashing against the shoreline through the open conservatory windows. It irked her a bit that he’d kept her waiting for so long, but then she wasn’t altogether ignorant of the well-bred and their plays of command, if that’s what this would prove to be. And of course the time alone allowed her to grow more nervous with each passing minute, though he couldn’t possibly know that.
The sudden click of the latch on the double wooden doors made her start. She immediately turned her face to the entrance of the library, then shifted her bottom on the chair uncomfortably when she found him looking at her, his dark, probing eyes piercing hers with cold intensity.
Vivian nearly dropped her tea. If she’d thought Gilbert Montague seemed tall and intimidating, it did nothing to prepare her for the magnificently… sturdy physique of the noble Duke of Trent. Flustered, she placed her cup and saucer back on the small table and slowly rose to face the man for the first time.
He stood just inside the doorway with an air of grand, even forceful, sophistication. Though dressed somewhat unobtrusively for an individual of his prestige, he nevertheless wore an expensive silk morning suit of deep brown, tailored to fit his large form to perfection as it detailed the strength he exuded from his broad shoulders to his long, muscular legs. His cream-colored shirt, certainly made of silk as well, pressed against his chest, subtly revealing brawn he didn’t attempt to hide. He wore no waistcoat, and his necktie, light brown and knotted loosely, only worked to focus more attention on his marvelous facial features—his clear, dark complexion, strong jaw, wide mouth, straight, sharply defined nose, and even his forehead, where attractive lines of middle age were only beginning to appear.
But it was his rich, hazel eyes that arrested her, increasing her nervousness by the second. Serious of expression as he was now, he pierced her with a gaze that left her feeling quite enveloped by his power. What kind of power that was, she couldn’t be sure, though she was somehow instinctively aware that he knew exactly what she was thinking. It made her waver on her feet. One thing was certain: Being this close to him for the first time, Vivian was quite sure she’d never been made so speechless by the mere appearance of a man.
Moments passed in silence as they more or less just stared at each other. Her mouth went dry and she licked her lips.
Slowly, he began to walk toward her. “Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he drawled with the slightest tip of his forehead, his deep voice both smooth and coaxing. “A pleasure.”
“Your grace,” she replied with a gentle curtsy, sounding—thank God—less anxious than s
he felt.
“Please, sit down,” he fairly ordered, moving closer to her.
She paused, unsure whether to remain standing and extend her hand due to the serious tone of the meeting about to take place, or sit and chat as if they were good friends. Awkwardness made her mumble simply, “As you wish.”
His dark brows lifted minutely. “Indeed.”
Vivian felt her cheeks grow hot as he continued to assess her. With graceful distinction, she seated herself once more in her chair, arranging her skirts while trying to avoid watching him as best she could, relieved now that she hadn’t applied rouge to her skin before leaving her home this morning. She certainly didn’t need any.
At last he stopped, his impressive form only two feet or so from her, hands behind his back, candidly eyeing her, or at least she felt his gaze on her face. She could smell his subtle cologne—woodsy, with a touch of spice—
“It’s lovely to finally meet you, madam.”
She jerked her head up, to find no flattery in his expression, not even a trace of humor. It wasn’t as if he seemed at all suspicious, but she knew he had to be. Nobody ever came to call on the duke who’d killed his wife. Or so it had been rumored.
“Please join me, your grace.”
That inappropriate insistence surprised him as thoroughly as it did her after the words were out of her mouth. He pulled back, and for just a small, significant second, Vivian noticed a flash of amusement cross his features. She wanted to shrink into the fine leather chair.
“As you wish,” he answered very slowly, his voice lowered.
Vivian knew he’d purposely repeated what she’d said to him only moments ago. She just wished she knew if he were teasing, or mocking her in his arrogance.
“Indeed,” she returned, lifting her chin—and brows—a fraction, knowing he could toss her out of his house for such audacity. Instinctively, though, she knew, just knew, he wouldn’t.
He stared down at her, assessing, making her hot all over from his probing stare. Then moments later one side of his mouth began to curl up. Suddenly their word play seemed rather like a game, and much of her nervousness vanished. Odd that it didn’t at all feel to her like they’d only just met.
Duke of Sin Page 2
