by Laura Landon
WE have been given to understand that Lady Aglaia Trevor, the eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Somerset, is betrothed to the Duke of Bolton. Lady Aglaia will be the current duke’s fifth wife. All of the formalities have been completed and an end of July wedding is anticipated.
How could they possibly know anything about her betrothal? She could not imagine her father sending such information to a newspaper he loathed. Nor could she think that the Duke of Bolton had sent a letter imparting such private news. Yet who could it be?
“Laia, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Her mother strolled into the breakfast room accompanied by Hawksworth and Meg. Where was Mr. Paulet? He usually came with them.
“Look at this.” She handed her mother the newssheet. “Who would have sent that to them?”
“I have no idea, but I do not see anything remarkable in it,” Mama said, handing the paper back to Laia. “Betrothals are frequently mentioned and announced. What is there in it to upset you?”
She glanced at the newssheet again, and the words, Lady Aglaia will be the current duke’s fifth wife, almost screamed at her. She had been quite pleased with her betrothal, but the idea of being someone’s fifth wife began not to sit well.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t Bolton,” Hawksworth said, leaning over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t want anyone to be reminded that I’d already gone through four wives.”
“Must you put it like that?” Laia muttered, wanting to hit him.
“Damon.” Meg’s tone held a soft rebuke. “Think of your sister’s feelings.”
“I am. Or, rather, of her health.” He took two plates from the table and began to fill them from the offerings on the sideboard. “Paulet said none of them were breeding when they died.”
Once again, a cold shiver ran down Laia’s spine. Had the duke murdered his wives? Mr. Paulet had suggested there was something not right with their deaths. “But what does it matter?” She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “I am bound by Father’s decision.”
Hawksworth shrugged. “Not under the law, you’re not.”
She shook her head. “I do not understand. He is my father. He may do with me what he will.”
“Yes, my dear. He is your father.” Meg took the seat next to Laia’s and smiled at her brother when he handed his wife a cup of tea. “However, under the law, no woman can be forced to enter into a marriage she does not want. That is not to say that family will not influence one or attempt to do so. They are exceeding good at applying pressure, as it were.” Meg busied herself spreading freshly made strawberry jam on her toast. “Do you not attain your majority on the sixth of July?”
Laia nodded.
“In that event, you must validate the marriage contracts before your wedding.”
She scanned the room for her mother, who had . . . disappeared. Strange. Every time a discussion of her marriage came up, Mama was never there. “We all know what would happen if I married against Father’s wishes.” Of course they did. Still, Meg’s and Hawksworth’s steady gazes never wavered. “What do you suggest I do?”
“You?” her brother said. “Nothing. I, on the other hand, shall make some discreet inquiries into the shortened lives of the wives of your betrothed.”
Laia started to speak, but Damon held up his hand. “It will most likely take some time. There is no need to worry now about anything I might discover.”
Next to her, her sister-in-law breathed a sigh of relief. “I think that is an excellent idea, my love. Laia?”
“I agree. After all, we might be maligning the duke just because his wives have not been in good health.” On the other hand, if the worst was true, surely Father would agree that she could not marry a man who murdered his wives.
Her brother raised a dubious brow, but said, “We might indeed.” Leaning down, he kissed Meg’s cheek. “I’ll return in an hour or so. Will you be here, or do you have plans to go out?”
“I’m not sure yet. I must speak with Catherine.” Meg placed her hand on his cheek. “If we go out, I’ll leave word for you.”
Laia bit down on her bottom lip. More and more she wanted the type of marriage her brother and Meg had. But Laia had little hope she would have a love match.
. . .
Guy poured his tea and settled down to read the Morning Post, chuckling at one of the arrivals to Town. Only a few people would understand how titillating that piece of information was or who might have divulged it. Suddenly, the sounds of someone pounding on his front door rang through the house. Blast it all. Where the devil was Pulleyn? No, that was the house in Yorkshire. Catchpole? No. He was in Suffolk.
“What the hell is the butler’s name?”
“Gibbs, my lord.” His butler bowed. “The under-butler is attending to the door.”
Under-butler? Why in Heaven’s name did his aunt have an under-butler? Guy drained his teacup. “Thank you, Gibbs.”
“No, sir. Thank you for keeping the full staff. We are cognizant of the honor you have bestowed upon us.” The servant placed a fresh pot of tea on the table.
Keeping a full staff was exactly the reason Guy couldn’t remember all their damn names. He’d never been able to let go any of the staff in any of the houses he had received. Many would say he was being wasteful, but to him, keeping only a skeleton staff was false economy. All his properties were well run and maintained because he had them fully staffed. The only problem was it was deuced hard to keep track of them all. He’d have to have his secretary make a list of the senior staff for each house.
The pounding had stopped and a second later Hawksworth was ushered into the breakfast room.
“The Marquis of Hawksworth to see you, sir,” the under-butler, whatever his name was, said as Hawksworth brushed past the servant.
Guy lifted a weary brow at his butler. “Perhaps some instruction as to whether or not I am home might be in order.”
“Indeed, sir.” The butler bowed.
“I’m that sorry, sir,” the under-butler bowed.
“It would have taken more than you to keep his lordship waiting,” Guy acknowledged. “You may return to your duties.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man bowed again before leaving the breakfast room.
“Do you mean to say you’d have refused to see me?” Hawksworth sat down and lifted the tea pot, as if offering Guy some as well.
“Yes, please.” He put two lumps and milk into his tea before saying, “No. But the under-butler doesn’t know that.”
“Point taken.” His friend glanced at the newssheet. “Have you gotten to page four yet?”
Sitting up, Guy looked at Hawksworth. “Exactly what on page four do you think will interest me?”
Shrugging, he replied, “Look for yourself.”
Guy turned the page and read, “Lady Aglaia Trevor, the eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Somerset, is betrothed to the Duke of Bolton. Lady Aglaia will be the current duke’s fifth wife. Who the devil gave them that piece of information?”
His friend grinned before taking a sip of tea. “I did.”
What the devil had Hawksworth been thinking? “I presume you will tell me the reason, in your own good time.”
“I had an idea.” Hawksworth took a piece of toast. “If it turns out the way I wish it to, I’ll tell you.”
A footman brought two plates of eggs and roasted beef, still bloody from the carving, setting one before Hawksworth. “Thank you.”
Guy looked on as his friend tucked into the food. Hawksworth never turned down a meal. “Did your wife not feed you this morning?”
“No, I ate at my step-mother’s house before coming here.”
He would tell Guy in his own good time what he wanted and not before. Torn between irritation and humor, Guy applied himself to his own breakfast.
Finally, after another cup of tea and two more pieces of toast in addition to the eggs and beef, Hawksworth wiped his mouth and said, “How well did you know Bolton’s last three wives?”
&nb
sp; “Not well at all. I spoke a few words to them at the wedding breakfasts, but never saw them again.” Guy set down his serviette. “Why do you want to know?”
“I promised my sister that I would look into their deaths.” The corner of one lip quirked up. “Just in the event there is something smoky about them.”
The light was beginning to dawn. “And may I assume that this conversation and the subsequent vow came after she read the Morning Post?”
Hawksworth grinned. “As a matter of fact, you may.”
Apparently, seeing the number of wives in writing had an effect that merely being told about them could not. Guy had purposefully kept away from the whole situation, but now he had two excuses to become involved. Helping his friend and Laia.
And with the former Colonel Lord Hawksworth leading the charge, Guy could not be seen as making trouble for his uncle. He couldn’t have planned it better himself. “His second wife’s family was from someplace on the coast near Hull. He met her during her first Season. Rumor has it that she caught pneumonia and died from it.”
“Her parents never questioned the coroner’s report?”
“No. The doctor had been called and had verified that the girl had an irritation of the lungs, but was not called back before she died.”
Hawksworth’s aquiline nose almost twitched, reminding Guy of a hound on the scent. “Who nursed her?”
“His grace.” Guy fidgeted with his serviette on the table. “It was thought to be quite poignant. Cook and the housekeeper, Mrs. Dillingham, were distraught that none of their medications and remedies had worked. Cook even made her own restorative pork jelly.”
“But they were not in charge of the sickroom,” Hawksworth mused, staring off in the direction of a particularly bad landscape.
“They were only allowed in to help bathe her and tidy the bedchamber.” Guy would have to get rid of that painting.
His friend’s gaze never left the landscape. He’d seen this behavior before when Hawksworth was working out a strategy. “What about his third wife. How did he meet her and how did she die?”
“She was from a family in Leicestershire. Landed gentry. Never hoped to have a Season, or so I’ve been told. Naturally, her family, and I assume she as well, was thrilled beyond belief when Bolton wished to marry her.” Guy picked up his empty cup of tea, debating whether to call for a new pot but decided not to. If this conversation continued much longer something decidedly stronger was called for. “Her heart stopped. Quite suddenly.” He sighed. “The doctor opined that she must have had a—”
“A weak heart,” Hawksworth said abruptly. “Does your uncle have an interest in plants?”
“Not of which I am aware.” Guy shrugged. “That said, we are not on the friendliest of terms.”
“Naturally, neither family questioned their daughters’ deaths.”
“Again, not that I am aware. That was something neither Cook nor Mrs. Dillingham would have known.”
“And the fourth?” Hawksworth’s sharp gaze was on Guy.
“Ah, the beauteous Sophia.” Guy leaned back in his chair. “That is another story altogether.”
Leaning slightly forward, his friend asked, “How so?”
“She had been sent to England for her come out from some place in Canada where her father is posted. Her father is a younger son of the previous Lord Engle. Her grandmother is the current Dowager Lady Engle. Not only was her ladyship not pleased that Bolton had turned his attention to her granddaughter, she actively opposed the wedding. Sophia, however, was one and twenty, quite beautiful, and very spoiled. In spite of her grandmother’s disapproval, she decided she wanted to be a duchess.” Guy’s butler, obviously anticipating they might be in need of one despite his orders, brought another pot of tea. He poured two cups. “When she sickened with some stomach ailment, Lady Engle demanded to see her granddaughter and was refused. Finally, the duke relented, but by that time it was too late. Sophia was almost dead.” He took a sip of tea wishing it was brandy. “No one knows what her grace told her grandmother, if anything, but Lady Engle was a hair’s breath away from slandering my uncle.”
“Or telling the world the truth.” Hawksworth’s lips flattened. “Where can I find her ladyship?”
“Well, there you are in luck.” Guy drained his cup, placed it on the table, and rose. “She resides in Bath and can frequently be found in the Pump Room.”
Hawksworth’s jaw dropped. “Here? Why did I not know about that before?”
“For the very good reason that you did not ask.” Guy raised one brow. “How was I supposed to know you would decide to investigate the deaths?”
“I must meet her.” Hawksworth began pacing then stopped, spearing Guy with a look. “I cannot be seen in the Pump Room.”
Still, there must be someone who could manage to meet Lady Engle and provide his friend an introduction. If only his aunt had not hied off. She was sure to have known her ladyship. Not the duchess. Meg. She would be perfect. “What about your wife. She is extremely well connected and must know someone who knows someone who knows Lady Engle. She may have even met the lady by now.”
“You’re right.” Hawksworth started for the door. “Let me know if you think of anything else.”
Before Guy could assure his friend he would, the man was out the door. Nothing had been planned for today, so he decided to go around to Laia’s house and discover for himself how she was taking the announcement, if one could call it that.
Guy would be more than happy to offer any comfort he was able.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bolton had long been in the habit of reading everything he possibly could. One never knew where he’d find an interesting piece of information. Sitting in the library of his town house in Saint James Square he was not, however, prepared to read about his own betrothal. “What the devil is this rubbish?”
“Your grace?” His butler came running into the library. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing with which you can help. Leave me alone.” The butler bowed and closed the door.
He went back to the short announcement to make sure he had read it properly. After all, who would write something like that?
No, he’d been correct the first time. Perhaps the question was who would give them something so outrageous to print. The paper had been very careful not to comment, as they usually did, on the reason for all his wives’ deaths. Not that he could have hidden their passing. It was common knowledge. But to put the information in such a fashion that was bound to catch any young lady’s eye. Especially the one to whom he was betrothed. That was unacceptable. Someone did not want him to marry again. And there was only one person who stood to gain if he did not have an heir.
Guy Paulet.
Just like his father, he always claimed not to be interested in the dukedom, but Bolton had never believed him. Either of them. All men must wish for the power that came with title and wealth. Still, Paulet had never done anything to stick a spoke in Bolton’s wheel before. He didn’t even know if his nephew knew about his latest betrothal. Chances are he was still in Town attending to his seat in the House.
And that was another thing. Try to do a family member a good turn and they betray you. Guy could never be counted on to vote the way Bolton wanted his nephew to. Not only that, but he had no influence over the man at all. It was quite irritating the way Guy had managed to acquire his own wealth. It was even more irksome that he didn’t owe anyone anything and voted the way he damn well pleased.
Bolton glanced at the paper again. No. As much as he wanted to believe it was his nephew, he couldn’t. Someone else had involved themselves in his affairs, and in doing so made him look incompetent.
And he was damn well going to find out who it was.
“Kentwell.” Bolton shoved the paper at his secretary when the man entered the room. “Read that. I want the editor to attend me immediately.”
“Yes, your grace. I shall see to it.”
The door closed. It wouldn’t
be long before he’d know who to blame for this travesty. Someone was going to be extremely sorry.
. . .
Damon reached Catherine’s town house as the ladies were leaving the breakfast room. Focusing on his beautiful and brilliant wife, he appropriated Meg’s elbow. Under the guise of giving her a kiss on the cheek, said, “I need to speak with you.”
She turned her attention to his step-mother and sisters. “I shall be with you presently. I have something I wish to say to Hawksworth.” Not simply brilliant, extraordinary. She had managed to make it sound as if she was about to give him a scold. Meg led him into the front parlor and closed the door. “What did you discover?”
“I had a long discussion with Guy Paulet. He did not know the exact whereabouts of the families of Bolton’s second and third wives, but the fourth has a grandmother living here in Bath.”
Meg gave him a broad smile. “That is wonderful. I shall endeavor to make her acquaintance as soon as possible. Who is she?”
“Wait, that’s not the best part.” Damon drew her into his arms. “She all but accused Bolton of murdering her granddaughter.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “That was bold of her. What is her name?”
“Oh, Lady Engle. Did you not tell me you know the lady? From what Paulet told me she was against the marriage from the start, but her granddaughter was of age and headstrong.”
“Yes, I have known of her ladyship for years.” Meg’s fine dark brows drew together as she considered what he’d told her. After a few moments she said, “I believe I met her granddaughter, the last Duchess of Bolton. It was two or three Seasons ago. She flashed him a smile. “Yes, that must be it. She was the most sought after lady of the Season until Serena Beaumont appeared. It does not astonish me at all that she accepted Bolton. What was her name?” Meg began tapping her lower lip, making Damon want to kiss her. “Sophia Whitmore. That was it. Dark hair and startling blue eyes. Quite beautiful, but spoiled.”
“That sounds like her.” He gave up wanting and claimed his wife’s mouth. It was a long time before they spoke again. “Will you be able to find time to speak with Lady Engle alone?”
