Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  The man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Indeed. If’s imperative that we attempt to think like he does, and suspect as he would suspect. We can’t know his motives, or his intentions, your grace, but we’re smart, too.” He smirked. “We’re smart, too.”

  “I want to be there when Mrs. Rael-Lamont hands over the document.”

  Hastings’s smile quickly faded. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know what his goals really are.” He tapped his fingertips on the padded leather armrest. “For all we know, he could expect that and be planning for it.”

  Will felt his shoulders tense. “For what purpose?”

  “That’s just the point, sir, we simply don’t know the details in his mind, or the mind of his accomplices. My experience tells me to continue playing the role he has assigned to us, using every caution, absorbing every detail, until he makes that one mistake—”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Without hesitation, Hastings articulated, “He will.”

  “In the meantime, we watch his every move and protect Mrs. Rael-Lamont. That is our prime objective.”

  He considered that for a moment, then shook his head and murmured, “I don’t like it.”

  “I’ll continue to keep my men on him, sir. I assure you if he changes one moment of his routine before his meeting with Mrs. Rael-Lamont, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He supposed it was the best that could be done. Nodding once, he replied, “Very good.” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you, Hastings.”

  As clear as that dismissal came through, the investigator hesitated in standing. For several seconds he rubbed his thick chin with the fingers and thumb of his left hand, then said, “One more thing, sir. About the Widow Rael-Lamont.”

  “Yes?” he replied gruffly.

  Hastings scooted forward in his seat a little. “I had mentioned earlier that there were two disturbing things I needed to convey.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Go on.”

  The investigator now made a great effort to scratch the back of his neck.

  He’s stalling…

  “What is it, Hastings?” he asked very formally, the urgency and power of his position more than obvious in his tone.

  The older man’s plump cheeks turned a reddish hue, most unbecoming when contrasted with his purple and tangerine attire. But very telling.

  “Forgive me, your grace, but—I do realize you’ve grown quite… fond of the Widow Rael-Lamont.”

  Will said nothing, feeling an instantaneous heat to his own face—and a bolt of foreboding slice through his body.

  Hastings rubbed his palms along his pants. “You see, sir, as I said before, I’ve had some of my men working in London, and as you requested, did a bit of checking on Mrs. Rael-Lamont’s family.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, trying to control the steady beating of his heart.

  “So far we haven’t been able to trace her past before her marriage to Leopold Rael-Lamont, a French aristocrat roughly the rank of a baronet, we believe.”

  Vivian married a French aristocrat.

  Hastings sighed. “Your grace, her husband was apparently a renowned opium addict, who lived off a substantial income he received from her dowry—”

  “Her dowry!” he repeated, now admittedly baffled, and thoroughly intrigued.

  The investigator pulled down on his waistcoat with both hands. “Yes, sir. Although her family is not from London, and still remains a mystery, or rather, we haven’t found them yet, we do believe that she comes from a home of considerable wealth.”

  Will began to stride forward, toward the tea table again, noting oddly enough that his legs felt weak. Something about this was not right.

  “Why is she living so… frugally here?” he asked, more to himself.

  “Your grace,” Hastings explained, his tone now quiet, sober, “in our investigation we’ve learned that not only is she living on her own income and not her husband’s, she in fact has claimed that her husband died some ten years ago.”

  Stopping short of the sofa. Will stared down at the man, small and round and appearing so very uncomfortable in his ridiculously tight suit jacket and tapered waistcoat. His forehead beaded with perspiration, his jowls hung over the neck of his shirt and pinching necktie, and as he squirmed in the winged chair, he looked utterly uneasy.

  “Her husband died more recently than that?”

  Hastings cleared his throat. “No sir, actually just the opposite.”

  His earlier sense of dread exploded, rocking him back on his heels.

  “Your point,” he demanded too sharply.

  Taken aback by that forceful charge, Hastings’s eyes opened wide. He licked his lips and clarified, “We have reason to believe her husband is still very much alive, sir, and living in France. There has been no recording of his death. Mrs. Rael-Lamont is still married.”

  It took hours, it seemed, for that revelation to sink in past a brick wall of stubbornness and disbelief. Then at last, in unequivocal shock, he reached out with both arms and clutched the sofa back with tightly flexed fingers.

  “Still married…” he repeated, his mouth going dry with incredulity.

  “Yes,” Hastings returned, never looking away.

  Jesus. “I don’t understand.”

  Hastings finally stood, rather awkwardly under the circumstances, so that they now more or less faced each other, the sofa and tea table between them.

  “To be quite blunt, your grace, after careful investigation, we’ve come to the conclusion that Mr. Rael-Lamont did not die, but that he and his wife came to a mutual arrangement regarding their separation. Under these conditions, they would have signed a legal separation agreement, which would entitle her to the money she brought into her marriage.” He paused to let the startling information sink in. Finally, he added, “I’ve no idea why the man would go to France, aside from the fact that he was raised there. But such a situation does explain why Mrs. Real-Larnont is presenting herself as a widow and living in Cornwall. I don’t know how much information you have regarding separation agreements, but they’re binding by law. She can live as a divorced person would, I imagine, in charge of her own funds and without complete social disgrace, but she can never remarry.”

  Never remarry.

  It had been years since Will had felt such a devastatingly personal blow at such an unsuspecting moment. Even now as he recalled it, learning of the death of his wife at her own hands had been less of a surprise. Still, with his suddenly paralyzed mind, he was nevertheless forced to admit that this situation was not about him. This had nothing to do with his power as a duke, his sensibility as a man, or his worth as Vivian’s lover. This was about a long-held secret, an enormous deception, by a woman he was growing to care for deeply.

  Never remarry.

  Will bit down hard, jaw tight as he continued to clutch the back of the sofa with both hands, staring blankly at the leather seat. His investigator remained standing across from him, waiting.

  He hadn’t really considered marrying her. Not in specific terms. But now that it didn’t appear to be an option at all, he felt a crushing bitterness within, a disappointment for an unrealized lifetime of peaceful dreams and loving companionship. And all along she had known they could never be together as husband and wife, with each kiss, each tender touch, each look from her beautiful eyes. In a roundabout way she had lied to him. That probably hurt the most.

  Suddenly, he stood erect, clasping his hands behind him once more in stately bearing. “Do you think this is the information Gilbert Herman is using to force her into blackmail?” he asked, his voice oddly subdued.

  Hastings frowned, nodding slightly. “I do, sir. Either he has very good sources, or he has somehow obtained a copy of the separation agreement. Difficult to get, but not impossible with the right persuasion and funds.”

  “I see.” Will forced himself to breath
e steadily, to allow his racing heart to still, to force his mind to think. At last, he said pointedly, “Thank you for your thorough work, Mr. Hastings. I’m sure I need not remind you that Mrs. Rael-Lamont deserves her privacy, and that the unusual information you’ve uncovered is nobody’s business but her own.”

  Hastings gave him a half-bow. “Absolutely, your grace. I am in your service, and it shall not leave this room.”

  “Good.”

  A rapping at the library door startled them both.

  “Come,” he fairly bellowed.

  Wilson entered, his features as prosaic as ever, reminding Will that nothing in the outside world had changed as he had in the last half hour.

  “Pardon me, your grace,” Wilson interrupted, “but his grace, the Duke of Newark is here.”

  Will almost smiled with relief to know Colin Ramsey, one of his most trusted friends, was here at last—and that his forger had arrived.

  Chapter 16

  “His grace, the Duke of Trent, is here to see you, madam.”

  Vivian stood up from the chair at her writing desk where she’d spent the better part of the afternoon working on lingering correspondence and sifting through personal financial accounts, thankful that he’d finally arrived. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything anyway, knowing he’d have the manuscript copy ready and that by this time tomorrow their shared nightmare would be over.

  “Thank you, Harriet. Send him in,” she acknowledged with a tip of her forehead, wishing she had a moment to freshen up before he entered. The best she could manage was to shake out her silk skirts and smooth down several strands of stray curls that had loosened from the plaits she had wrapped around her ears.

  Seconds later she heard his footsteps in the hallway, followed by his majestic presence filling the doorway. The sight of him never failed to take her breath away. This afternoon he wore a formal suit in dove gray, exquisitely tailored to fit his large frame, white silk waistcoat and black Byron tie. He’d combed his hair neatly away from his face in a manner that added distinction to his perfectly sculpted features and dark hazel eyes.

  Faintly, she smiled at him. “Your grace.”

  He nodded once, minutely, and stepped into her parlor. “Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”

  She cast a quick glance to her housekeeper who followed him in. “That will be all, Harriet.”

  The older woman curtsied once and replied, “Yes, ma’am.” Then she closed the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.

  For a few seconds neither spoke. Vivian’s first instinct was to throw herself into his arms, to kiss him, embrace him, love him. But something held her back. In an instant she became aware of a change in him, from the tight line of his mouth to the subtle look of formal distance in his eyes. Such an unexpected turn unnerved her.

  “I—would you like to sit?” she asked, palm outstretched as she motioned him toward a chair across from the pink settee.

  He drew in a long, deep breath. “Thank you.”

  She swallowed, unbearably anxious of a sudden, watching him closely as he turned and stepped around the settee. Lowering his body into the chair, he tossed a plain white folder of sorts onto the tea table in front of her.

  Vivian stared at it, realizing at once that it contained a copy of the signed Shakespearean manuscript. She desperately wanted to open it immediately, but restrained herself because of his unusual demeanor. What surprised her was that she cared more about him and what he was feeling at the moment than she did about the opportunity to clear her good name. That was dangerous.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” she remarked, studying every nuance of his face.

  He leaned casually against the armrest, his fist at his chin, scrutinizing her candidly. “I have something to confess, Vivian.”

  Her eyes widened a bit. “Confess?”

  “Why don’t you sit down.”

  She didn’t like this change in him at all. “What’s wrong, Will?” she asked very quietly.

  He thought about that for a moment, then said again, “Sit down, Vivian.”

  Her heart began to race. She couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done to make him angry with her, and yet he didn’t seem angry exactly. Just… distant. Formal.

  Shoulders erect, she stepped around the tea table and did as he bid her, arranging her skirts with precision then placing her hands in her lap.

  “I’m going to say some things to you that you may not like,” he maintained, his gaze locked with hers.

  “When I’m finished, I want you to explain some things to me.”

  Confusion lit her brow. “Explain what things? Did something happen?”

  He lowered his fist, rested his elbows on the armrests, and folded his hands across his stomach. “I’m sure you understand that from the first moment you stepped into my home weeks ago with your unusual… proposal, shall we say, I was under obligation to protect myself.”

  “Protect yourself?”

  “From any potential threats—to my good name, my finances, my property.”

  She began to shake her head, now completely stupefied. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He offered her a twisted grin. “I hired a private agent of inquiry.”

  It took seconds for her to grasp that disclosure, and when she did, her eyes opened wide in shock. “You had Gilbert Montague investigated?”

  His lids narrowed to slits as he held her gaze. “Yes. And you.”

  And you.

  Vivian felt her heart stop, the blood drain from her face. Dazed, she whispered, “Wha—what?”

  Shrewdly, he repeated. “I had you investigated, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Oh, my God…

  Blinking quickly, she looked around her, her fingers clinging to the cushioned seat of the settee, deathly afraid she was about to lose her stomach, or faint. The room reeled before her, the sudden heat oppressed her, and still he sat across from her calmly, watching her.

  He doesn’t understand.

  On shaking legs, she tried to stand, uncertain where to go, what to do or say. She couldn’t think.

  But he knows.

  Her palm flew to her mouth as a rush of tears filled her eyes. Tears shed mostly because she was starting to love him. And now he knew.

  It was over.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked in a husky whisper.

  Trembling, Vivian walked around the settee, one hand over her mouth, the other clutching the fine fabric of her gown at her belly. For a minute or so she tried to steady herself, to concentrate on what he said to her, to keep from looking at him until this moment of crazed weakness in her passed and she could think about these implications rationally.

  She kept her back to him, resting her bottom on the sloped arm of the settee, hugging herself now for her own sense of protection.

  “What did you learn?” she asked at last, her tone raspy and low as she stared at the tiny pink flowers in the wallpaper.

  She heard him adjust his body in the chair but she didn’t turn around. She wasn’t yet ready to face him.

  “I learned you’re still married.”

  She closed her eyes. “I suppose that’s true.”

  He grunted. “You suppose that’s true? Do you have any idea what that means?”

  How could he ask her that? “Of course I know what that means, Will. I am fully aware of all the implications. But there’s much about the circumstances you likely don’t understand.”

  “Explain it to me,” he gruffly demanded.

  Her eyes popped open as a fast irritation struck her. She whirled around to glare at him. “Don’t you dare think you can come into my home and present yourself as the mighty Duke of Trent, ordering me to explain things to you that, in fact, are none of your concern. I’ll tell you what I choose to tell you.”

  He pulled back just enough for her to realize she had jolted him with that bold and unladylike assertion.

  “That’s right, darling Vivi
an,” he remarked caustically, and very slowly, “I can’t order you to do anything, can I? I am not your husband.”

  The idea of Will Raleigh as her husband simply stunned her—and made her tingle all over with a heady need unfulfilled. Oh, if only it were so…

  She pressed a shaky palm to her forehead and closed her eyes again. “You of all people should understand that I was never married in the complete sense of the word—”

  “Goddarnnit, Vivian, that’s irrelevant.” He bolted from the chair, turned, and walked swiftly to the window, staring out to Mrs. Henry’s petunias next door.

  “It’s not irrelevant,” she countered furiously, “and you should understand that after I told you the cold and horrid facts about my husband and our relationship. Everything I told you was the truth.”

  He pivoted to face her once more, his arms crossed over his chest. “The fact is you are married, Mrs. Rael-Lamont, not widowed, and that you never told me,” he enunciated in whisper. “You knew it when you let me make love to you.”

  Her mouth dropped open as she fisted her hands at her side. “Let you make love to me? Were you not a willing participant?”

  His eyes flashed daggers. “I was not a willing participant in adultery.”

  “In my mind, your grace, and by law, it was never adultery,” she seethed, her tone low and daring him to counter. “I have a separation agreement signed by Leopold. You know it’s as good as a divorce.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “A divorce. Nobody gets divorced.”

  His blatant fury and lack of understanding brought tears to her eyes again, but she remained steadfast in her stance, her gaze locked with his. Softly, she murmured, “No they don’t. Not in our world, Will. But he used me for my money, married me for my name, then couldn’t provide me with companionship or children, and refused to grant me an annulment because of how it would reflect on him.” She inhaled a deep, trembling breath, then added in whisper, “The separation agreement was all I had. Without it, I would have had no life worth living, Will, and above all things I wanted a life.”

  Will just stared at her, caught in a turbulent storm of raw emotion. If there was nothing else he understood about life it was that it must be lived. He had nearly lost his through no fault of his own, and for the remainder of his years on earth he vowed to fight if his survival were ever again attacked. As he witnessed Vivian expressing her own desire for personal justice, he couldn’t help but be enamored of her passion, her elegant beauty and strength of will that allowed her to establish herself as a woman of independence and charm when the alternative for her would have been certain boredom, regret, anger, and eventually suicide, whether real or emotional. She had risen above it the best way she could. Will identified with every word she spoke, and even as livid as he was with her now, he knew at that moment that he was beginning to love her.