Minutes later, Mrs. Bowman made an entrance worthy of a Drury Lane actress, sweeping aside the drapery and rushing forward to greet Victoria.
“Ah, Lady Atherbourne. An unexpected pleasure. Lovely to see you again.” The modiste’s dark eyes fell and rose along Victoria’s frame, one brow lifted in critical contemplation. She waved casually at the simple, embroidered white gown beneath the fitted spencer Victoria wore. “You are here to, eh, enhance your selection of walking gowns, yes?” A long, elegant finger lifted the curved collar of lilac velvet, letting it flop back into place. “A new spencer, perhaps?”
“A new …?” Victoria frowned slightly, then shook her head at the dressmaker’s implication. She rather liked the design of the spencer, but Mrs. Bowman had never cared for the color, and had sewn the garment only under protest. “No, actually, I am not here to purchase anything.” She reached for the woman’s hands, clasping them pleadingly. “Mrs. Bowman, I must ask you for a favor.”
Typically rather unflappable, the Italian modiste seemed genuinely surprised by Victoria’s overture, lapsing into her native language. “Qual è il problema, signora?”
“Do you have another entrance I might use?” Victoria stood on her tiptoes to peer over the modiste’s shoulder toward the rear of the shop. “Perhaps in the back,” she whispered.
Mrs. Bowman squinted at Victoria and tilted her head as though seeking the answer to a confounding question. The woman blinked, her frown cleared, and she nodded. Tugging Victoria’s hands, she muttered, “Come.”
She led her through the curtain, past the dressing area where two of her assistants knelt, pinning the hem of a wide-eyed matron, and finally, into a tiny room cluttered with bolts of fabric, books of fashion plates, and a desk piled high with papers. Mrs. Bowman picked up a large ledger from a wooden chair and slid it onto a shelf, waving to indicate Victoria should sit, then seating herself in a red-cushioned chair before the desk.
The modiste brushed her hand absently along the side of her neat coiffure, folded her hands together, and leaned across the desk to stare shrewdly at Victoria. “You are good customer, Lady Atherbourne. But this request, it is … unusual, yes?”
“Oh, well, yes, I suppose it is. Normally, I would never ask such a thing. But I am afraid extraordinary circumstances demand an unusual response.”
“Hmm. And what are these extraordinary circumstances?”
Victoria blinked, pausing to decide how much to tell the woman. And what, precisely, to say. “I need to visit my brother’s residence.”
“The duke, yes? Berkeley Square.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you not simply drive there in your carriage?” Mrs. Bowman waved a hand in the direction of the street, where the Atherbourne carriage was parked, awaiting her return.
“That is a bit complicated.”
The woman nodded knowingly, uttering another “Hmm,” and waving to signal Victoria should elaborate.
Victoria sighed. “The coachman will not drive me there.”
“But he will drive you here.”
“Yes.”
“You could hire a hack.”
“I suppose I could,” she replied reluctantly, “if reaching my destination were the sole purpose of today’s outing.”
Mrs. Bowman again nodded, then sat quietly staring at Victoria for a full minute. It made her want to squirm in her seat. But if she could not persuade the modiste to allow her use of an alternate entrance, she would be forced to abandon her plan. And that was intolerable.
Finally, the woman’s fingertips tapped firmly on the desk, and she nodded. “Your husband, he is … kind to you?”
She thought for a moment, then answered honestly. “Yes.”
“You love him?”
Victoria glanced down at her hands. The gray kid gloves had been a gift from Harrison. And her husband had arranged to separate her from him. Her family. Her brother.
“That is not the question,” she said softly, meeting the modiste’s dark, understanding gaze. “The question is, does he love me?” She swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat, her chest squeezing around an aching heart.
Mrs. Bowman smiled in the mysterious way she often did before saying something cryptic. “Men can be … how do you say? Goat-headed, no?”
Victoria frowned. “I believe you mean pigheaded.”
She waved dismissively. “Bah. Pig, goat. It is all the same. Do not mistake stupidity for coldness, cara mia. All men are stupid sometimes. This does not mean they do not love.” The dark-haired woman stood and took Victoria’s elbow. “Come. There is a door you may use.” With that, she guided her through a short series of corridors, then opened a green painted door to reveal a rainwashed, narrow alley running along one side of the building. “Do not tarry, eh? And when you come next time, perhaps you will buy a new spencer.”
Victoria grinned at the modiste. “Thank you, Mrs. Bowman. Perhaps I will.” She descended four wooden stairs, then stepped carefully around the deeper puddles, trying hard not to breathe the putrid air. The alley was strewn with refuse of all sorts, clearly serving more as a dumping ground than a pathway between buildings. At last, she approached the opening to Bond Street, flattening herself against the edge of the building and peering around the corner. Connell stood with the footman who had accompanied them next to the Atherbourne carriage, about thirty feet away. She timed her exit carefully, waiting for a thick group of young misses and their chaperones to approach before exiting the narrow space onto the thoroughfare, weaving amongst the other pedestrians so as not to be noticed. With every step, she was sure Connell would spot her, would demand she return to the coach, would run off and alert Lucien. The thought made her heart pound and quickened her feet. She wanted Lucien to know he had been thwarted, but not just yet. Not while he could still stop her.
Fortunately, she turned onto Bruton Street without raising any alarms. She twisted her head around to be certain no one followed—and ran directly into a bony wall housed in a greatcoat much too heavy for the mild summer weather.
“Ooph!” It took her a moment to reel back and get a look at what she had collided with, which turned out to be a rather scruffy man wearing a brimmed hat that shadowed his face.
“Beg pardon, my lady. Didn’t see you there,” he said without meeting her eyes. Of course, he was a good deal taller than she, but it seemed he was in a hurry, as he quickly steadied her with a hand beneath her elbow, backed up, and nervously tried to sidestep her.
She spun as he passed, grabbing his sleeve. “Wait! I know you, don’t I? You look familiar.”
He shook his head and tugged out of her grip. “Never met you, ma’am. Must be off, now.” Moving away with a shuffling gait, the rangy man appeared eager to escape. But now she knew with a certainty only a portraitist could muster—he was the one she had seen that day outside of Jane’s house. The one she suspected had been following her for some time.
“I know you’ve been hired to watch me,” she shouted. It stopped him dead, giving her a chance to catch up. “All I wish to know is who retained your services. Was it Lord Atherbourne?”
Reluctantly, he met her eyes. His were tired and red in a creased, unhandsome face. He looked as though he had not slept in weeks. “Nay, my lady.”
Her chin tilted. “What is your name?”
He looked around the street in discomfort. “Drayton, ma’am.”
“Who hired you, Drayton?”
He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Don’t suppose it matters if I tell you, so long as it don’t get back to Atherbourne.”
She folded her arms and shot him an expectant look.
“Blackmore hired me to keep an eye on you, my lady. Make certain you’d come to no harm.”
“My brother hired you?” She’d thought surely Lucien had done so to ensure that she complied with his wishes. The idea that it was Harrison instead had not occurred to her. “Why would he not simply come for a visit and see for himself?”
/> She murmured the question to herself, but Drayton answered, “It’s my understanding he tried, my lady. A few times, in fact. Was turned away at the door.”
Shock flaring through her, she watched the disheveled Mr. Drayton shift from one foot to the other as though he desperately needed to visit the privy. He glanced furtively around Bruton Street. “Are you in a rush, Mr. Drayton?”
“Be honest, ma’am, yes I am. Must be off, now.” He tipped his hat to her distractedly as he backpedaled away. She watched in bewilderment as he tossed a warning over his shoulder. “Best hurry on to the square, my lady. Never know who you might encounter on the street.” He turned at the corner and was gone.
Heeding his advice, and eager to find answers, she wasted no time in traversing Bruton Street into Berkeley Square. Within minutes, she was ascending the steps to Clyde-Lacey House, the familiar brick edifice and tall, symmetrical rows of windows sending a wave of comfort and longing over her in a shiver. Distracted, she nearly entered without knocking, but paused with her hand hovering over the knob. This was not her home any longer. The thought was both sad and strange. She knocked and waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at her dress to ensure she hadn’t muddied the hem on her ignominious journey through the alley.
The door opened. “Lady Victoria! Rather, Lady Atherbourne. What a delight it is to see you.”
Victoria gave Digby, the duke’s sandy-haired, starchy butler, a beaming smile. As always, the man was impeccable, without a hair out of place. Typically stiff as a north wind, he had always had a soft spot for her, his brown eyes currently sparkling with genuine pleasure. “Won’t you come in, my lady?”
“Thank you, Digby.” Once inside, she shocked the man with a quick hug. “I have missed you.” She tugged at his lapel playfully, the way she had at ten years old. “I see you have not yet taken the Earl of Dunston up on his offer to change employers. That is good for the duke, but perhaps less than wise.”
Digby gave her a rare wink and replied, “Someone must prevent the kingdom from descending into chaos. I fear that duty falls to me.”
She laughed. “Is the duke here? I must speak with him.”
The butler’s smile softened into an apologetic expression. “I’m afraid his grace is out at the moment, my lady, and is not expected back for hours. He will be most distressed to have missed you.”
Her spirits slumped at this news, disappointment deflating her like cold rain on a loaf of bread. She’d been so certain if only she could reach Clyde-Lacey House and speak to Harrison, all would be well. Her brother had a way of making everything all right again. She shook her head against the tide of welling emotion, willing her tears to back down. It would not do to weep in front of Digby.
The butler cleared his throat.
“Well, I suppose there is no point in waiting, then.” She sighed, glancing around the entrance hall, absently noting the familiar green walls and black-and-white marble floor. Harrison was fond of green. So was Colin, for that matter. It was one of the few things they had in common.
She paused, a thought occurring to her. “Digby, is Colin in?”
Digby hesitated before answering, “Yes, I believe so, my lady. Perhaps you would like to wait in the parlor. Mrs. Jones will bring you some tea, while I inform his lordship of your arrival.”
And, just like that, her spirits came in out of the rain. “That would be lovely, Digby. Simply lovely.”
~~*
Mud splashed onto his boots as Lucien dismounted, but he barely noticed. He ran his hand over Hugo’s flank and patted the horse’s shoulder affectionately. The gelding nodded his head and snorted softly. Lucien smiled for no particular reason and handed the reins to the stable boy.
His knuckles and ribs were a trifle sore, but all in all, his lot was far better than he would have predicted a year ago. Victoria was his. The duke had been punished. Chatham had been dealt with. Soon, they would return to Thornbridge, and he would dedicate himself to getting Victoria with child.
Anticipation ran down his spine at the thought. Yes, he would relish seeing her blossom with his babe. She would make a wonderful mother, loving and gentle. And once she had little ones to dote on, a family of her own, her determination to reunite with her brothers would fade. He was certain of it.
His step light and brisk, he entered the house, calling for Billings. The stooped butler shuffled in from the dining room. “Welcome home, my lord. How was Gentleman Jackson’s?”
Lucien grinned and handed the man his hat and gloves. “Quite bracing. I met up with an old friend.” Indeed, teaching Chatham a well-deserved lesson about the dangers of spreading lies had been worth the damage the other man had inflicted. Flexing his fingers to test the soreness, he glanced toward the curved staircase, wondering if Victoria was still painting as she had been when he left. “Is Lady Atherbourne in her studio?”
Billings paused, long seconds ticking by before he answered. “No, my lord.”
Lucien frowned, turning slowly to face his butler. “Then where is she?” he asked softly.
Swallowing visibly, the old man straightened and answered, “I believe she is visiting her modiste.”
Something in Billings’s demeanor—the slight tremor in his voice, the carefully blank expression—caused dread to spread inside Lucien’s chest like frost over a windowpane. “She took the carriage, then?”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“And she asked only to visit her modiste? Nowhere else?”
Billings hesitated. “Connell is quite aware of your wishes, my lord. I made certain of that before they departed. He would not drive her to Berkeley Square, even were she to order it directly.”
Lucien ground his teeth, his gut tightening against a tide of anger and alarm. “So she did ask to visit Clyde-Lacey house,” he said grimly.
The butler cleared his throat, but did not answer.
“Billings!” Lucien barked.
The man sighed, defeat entering his eyes. “Yes, my lord.”
Bloody hell.
One week, damn it. That was all that remained of the season. One more week, and he would have whisked her off to Thornbridge. But he should have known she would not give up easily, would not simply let it go.
Well, my darling, he thought grimly, all but running to retrieve his horse. That is something we have in common.
Because now that she was his, letting go was the last thing he would ever do.
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Drunkards are useful only as opponents for whist. Otherwise, they are no better than vermin which have infested one’s residence. And they should be dealt with in much the same manner.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew upon discovering his association with Viscount Chatham.
Colin groaned and writhed in the green velvet chair, the heels of his hands pressed into his temples, his hair clutched between his fingers as he attempted to escape Victoria’s interrogation. Eyes squeezed shut against the gray light from the windows, he whined, “Must you shout, Tori? My head is killing me.”
Victoria loomed over her brother, hands on hips. “Drink is killing you. And if you do not answer my question, I will gladly hasten the process.”
One blue eye popped open and peered up at her. “What was the question?”
Exasperation burst from her lungs in a loud hiss. “How many times has Harrison tried to see me at Wyatt House?”
He sighed, slumping even further into the chair, his thumb and finger pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Not sure. Five or six.”
Five or six times. It was worse than she had thought. More than letters. More than avoiding him at the theater.
He had been turned away from Wyatt House—her house, by God—five or six times.
Victoria stood up straight, turned on her heel, and paced to the other end of the room. Picturing Harrison’s proud face, imagining how he must have felt, thinking she was deliberately cutting him from her life, she wante
d to cry. To scream. It swelled around her heart like a roiling cloud.
Striding back to stand before Colin, she shoved hard at one of his shoulders. “Did you?” she demanded fiercely.
He winced. “For Christ’s sake, Tori. Did I what?”
“Did you try to see me?”
He shook his head. “I asked after you, though.”
She gripped each side of his face, forcing his squinting gaze up to her own. “When?”
He grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away, unsteadily rising to his feet and pushing her gently to one side. The action freed him from her grip, but agony must have followed, for he moaned pitifully and dropped his head into his hands.
“Perhaps we could discuss this another time,” he muttered.
She crossed her arms and glared at the wretched drunkard who had once been her charming brother. “Colin, the moments when you are sober are few and far between. There is no other time. Now, answer me.”
He shot her a resentful look, but she was far beyond caring. Stumbling toward a settee on the opposite side of the room, he said, “Chatham and I saw Atherbourne at White’s a few weeks ago.” He sat with an inelegant thump, his trembling hands reaching for a cup of tea from a tray Digby had earlier placed on the low table. “I asked after you.”
“What did he say?”
Colin took a careful sip then glanced at her over the rim. “He didn’t. Just tossed some insults at Chatham and me.” His grin looked more like a grimace, but it was edged with satisfaction. “Chatham repaid him, though. Always does. Bloody clever like that.”
Her hands twisted at her waist, and she swallowed a lump of hurt. “You’ve asked after me once in all the weeks since the wedding. He didn’t answer, and so you just … gave up?”
China clinked as he set his cup on the table and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. His expression was as serious as she had ever seen it. “He is your husband, Tori. He was not about to let me or Harrison see you. Ever.”
“You could not have known—”
“He said as much.”
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