His Secret Heroine

by Delle Jacobs

  Reggie took a deep breath as he surveyed the room, his father's favorite place for privacy within an entire mansion designed to protect his solitude. Enormous cases for books rose between each of four tall windows, and covered the facing wall entirely. Every book was one his father had read. Arranged in careful symmetry were groupings of formal chairs with small tables, each different from the others, yet somehow in harmony. At the far end of the room, the desk where the man would sit for hours, engaged in his mysterious doings, records of which were kept tucked away someplace that Reggie had never seen.

  Now, he was going to see them. The Duke of Marmount had forfeited his right to privacy.

  Reggie pulled on each drawer of the desk. A few of the smaller ones opened, but they contained nothing of any significance. The others were locked.

  It was a beautiful old desk. Reggie hated to damage it, but he would if he must. Its secrets were too important. He lay down on his back and peered beneath the desk, fingering all the little crannies in the carvings and turnings. He stood and stepped back, folding his arms. There had to be a key, but it was altogether too likely that the duke kept it on his person. Perhaps he would have to break the desk after all.

  Behind the tambour were more tiny drawers. He removed each one, turning it over, but found nothing. Well then, the lower drawers. He removed each one, dumping its contents on the floor. There it was. A tiny key, tucked into a tiny housing on the underside of the bottom left drawer. It was a perfect fit.

  It was like treading on a grave. Reggie bit his lip and slid the middle drawer open. He pulled out a black leather-bound journal, nearly filled with entries in his father's neat, spare script.

  He flipped through the pages, noting the names of several people he knew, each accompanied with at least a page of information. Reggie surmised a lot of it was information the subjects would rather not have anyone know.

  It was also a daily journal, combined in an unusual way, a journal of activities, but also musings. Flipping back, he spotted an entry in April. Lined verse.

  His father had written poetry? When he had so many times maligned Reggie for that very thing?

  Reggie took the journal to the nearest window and sat down. Dated 22 April, 1813, and untitled. What the devil?

  A tender and loving description of a child sleeping, clothed in white, with tiny curls like a golden halo, a rosebud mouth and lashes tipped with gold fringing closed lids. A deep ache formed in Reggie's chest as he read on.

  She wakes, and blue-eyed sunshine fills my world,

  This child of mine. She laughs at me, a sound that's curled

  About my heart, and holds out her chubby hands.

  She is the greatest treasure of all lands,

  This child of mine.

  Elizabeth Martens Beauhampton, born 22 April, 1792. She would have been one and twenty years today.

  His throat constricted as the sudden memory of his baby sister flooded into him. Reggie shut the journal and leaned back in the tall, wing-backed chair. The scene became so real, it was as if he were there again in the tomblike darkness of the nursery.

  "What's the matter with my baby sister, Nanna? What's the matter with my baby sister?"

  "Hush, child. Come with me, quietly."

  Nanna dragged him by the hand but Reggie fought, trying to get back to his father, who sat in the nursery chair, tears running down his cheeks, cradling little Elizabeth.

  The baby who did not move. Who never moved again.

  Even now he couldn't think of it without feeling the tears forming. Even as a little boy of six, he had known something was terribly wrong. Somehow, Elizabeth had just died. And nobody was allowed to talk about it, for the duke would immediately leave the room.

  What had happened? Reggie had known his father had adored his little daughter, the only one of three girls to survive birth. But had she been ill? Reggie didn't remember that, or anything else, really, only that everyone had behaved as if there had never been a sweet little cherub of a baby girl who had captured everyone's hearts. Her place in the nursery had stayed exactly as it had been since then. There had been no more children.

  Reggie leaned back again into the cold leather of the chair. That was when the family had begun to fall apart. It was strange that Reggie had never realized that before. But how could he have known his very closed-off and distant father still grieved for his lost daughter?

  Still, that had nothing to do with what he needed to know now. Reggie took several more breaths to restore himself, and opened the journal again and thumbed backward.

  He startled as his eyes spotted a page with Chloe's name at the top. Well, he should not have been surprised. A list of facts. Her parentage, her portion, her guardian, the man's death. Ah, so the duke knew her guardian had gambled away the entire portion.

  This impertinent little adventuress believes she will snag for herself a duke's son. We shall see.

  That was dated 25 June. So, he had known about Chloe a mere two weeks after Reggie had first met her.

  Reggie thumbed through the pages to the last entry.

  EMB b. 22 April, 1792 d. 15 August, 1792.

  CME b. 22 April, 1792.

  How can it be that one man's child dies, yet another man's lives?

  Good God! What was going on here?

  Reggie slammed the journal shut just as Nash bustled into the chamber.

  "Here, now, My Lord, you must know His Grace would not allow you to rifle through his papers. You must desist this minute. Give me the journal so that—"

  "Don't try it, Nash. It's worth your life. Tell me where he is." Reggie grabbed the man by the frothy stock at his neck and gave a shake, dislodging a cloud of powder from the man's periwig.

  "Here, My Lord, I am sure I don't know."

  "And I am just as sure you do. No man on earth knows my father better than you. Even he may not be immune from the consequences of his actions this time, and you had best not be his accomplice. What has he done with Miss Englefield?"

  "Miss Englefield?" Nash stuttered, his eyes suddenly widening. "I truly do not know, sir. He left yesterday, and told me nothing."

  "How did he travel?"

  "His traveling coach, sir. His best one."

  For some reason, Reggie believed him. It seemed to fit that the duke would not tell him all this. Reggie released the crumpled lace stock and dusted the powder off his sleeve. Perhaps he would learn more from what was missing than from what could be found. He strode out to the mews.

  The pristine old coach which his father insisted on retaining was indeed gone. His favorite team had been taken, yet had just been returned and were being rubbed down by the grooms. That meant the duke had changed horses at least once.

  With a little more effort, Reggie learned that the duke had taken no personal servants, yet had two hastily packed portmanteaux. And strangely, he had taken three grooms with him. Why would the fastidious duke have taken grooms but no valet?

  Three grooms. Three stops to change teams.

  In short order, Reggie called together his closest friends.

  "Anything you want, Reggie," said Castlebury. "You have only to ask."

  "St. James, I want you to sniff about town to see what you can learn," Reggie said. "The rest of us are going to check every post in every direction from Reading. Someone would have noticed the duke's unusual equipage."

  For himself, he had a spunging house to find.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She heard voices in the staircase outside the little chamber. She must have slept.

  "The devil you did. This is not what I paid you for, Pauncefoot. She is a lady, and you are not to forget that."

  It was the duke's voice. As bad as things were, she would really have preferred to put off seeing him for awhile.

  "Yes, Your Grace, only you said I was to keep an eye on her as she was such a sly one, and the only way I—"

  "Stubble it, you fool. Open the door."

  She was rather glad she had not had a change
of clothes for the night, but had curled up in all her garments, pelisse and all. She sat up on the straw pallet, pulling the sheets around her, for the room was chilled.

  The door creaked open, and a candle backlit the tall duke as he dodged the low frame.

  Pauncefoot set the candlestick down on the table. "There, I told you, Your Grace, she ain't harmed none, just because she didn't want to eat her supper."

  The duke's steel-cold eyes turned hot with fury. "You were paid to house her in reasonable comfort. I see you are not up to the task. Miss Englefield, get your belongings."

  Chloe smirked. "Whatever would be my 'belongings', Your Grace? My empty reticule, I suppose."

  He tossed a glare at her. "Follow me."

  Chloe shrugged, not being able to think of a reason she should not, although perhaps the duke thought a dungeon was more suitable to her needs. She stood and followed the duke, with Pauncefoot lighting the way ahead of them, down the two flights of the narrow staircase, back to the parlor she had passed on her way up. A chamber sat opposite. The duke opened the door and shone the candle into it. A mobcapped woman squealed and sat up in the bed.

  "This one will do," the duke said. "Make it ready for Miss Englefield immediately."

  "But Your Grace, my wife—"

  "—May sleep in that cesspool abovestairs. See to it."

  Pauncefoot rushed into the chamber beyond the parlor and pulled the door shut behind him. Somehow, Chloe had the feeling she would be the one paying for the duke's sudden largesse.

  With the grace of an eagle dipping in flight as it surveys its prey, the duke turned and set his cold glare on her. Chloe squared her shoulders and glared back.

  "My apologies for the circumstances, Miss Englefield. I had every right to expect you would be housed in comfort."

  Chloe repressed a sneer. "The Bear would have sufficed, Your Grace. And I might have had my aunt's company, as well."

  "That, however, would not have suited my plans."

  "And what would your plans be, Your Grace?"

  "I should not think it necessary to say, Miss Englefield. Once more, you have interfered with my plans for my son, and this time you have gone too far."

  One wry corner of her mouth seemed to quirk in spite of her attempts to control it, but she said nothing.

  "It appears I have come in time, and you have not yet succeeded in your attempt to spring the mousetrap. Therefore, I am prepared to make you one last offer."

  "And if I do not accept?"

  "You have not yet heard the offer. You will accept."

  "I suspect I may prefer Pauncefoot's slophouse."

  "I think not. I have what you want, you see."

  Cold dread filled her, like water pouring over a dam. Chloe tucked her hands beneath her arms, balling her fists.

  "I am right, am I not?" His eyes shone bright above his grim countenance. "The thing you want most is the care and custody of your young sisters, Misses Madeline and Allison Cottingham, to remove them from the care of that malicious man who is their guardian?"

  She couldn't breathe. "You stay away from them!"

  Nothing in his expression changed. "I see I am correct. Your protective nature is laudable, Miss Englefield. But you need not fear. They are, in fact, safer now than they have been for a very long time."

  A fierce urge rose to her throat to leap at him and claw his face. "Where are they? What have you done with them?"

  Finally a muscle in his face moved, twitching once beside his mouth. "Interesting, is it not, Miss Englefield? What was impossible for you, I have accomplished with little more than a wave of my hand. Cottingham has handed them over to me, and I have left them in the care of a fine governess of impeccable character."

  "Why?" Chloe cried. "What are they to you?"

  His mouth drew up at the corners, but it was not by any means even a semblance of a smile, for his gleaming eyes bore the signs of angry triumph. "It is what they are to you that is the point. I must give you credit for that. You are not quite the adventuress I thought you to be, since your interest was not in your own aggrandizement. But that is what you want from me, is it not? And you sought to achieve it through marriage to my son. You would not have gained it, pursuing from that direction. But I can give it to you now, in exchange for what I want."

  Chloe thought her blood ran cold. Her skin felt clammy and chilled. She bit her lip, waiting, as if an executioner held an axe poised above her neck.

  "There is a cottage which I will give over to you for their care. And you shall have the five thousand pounds, in addition to the fixed sums distributed quarterly from your sisters' trusts. Both Madeline and Allison will remain in your care. You will make the majority of decisions on their behalf, but I shall retain their guardianship. In exchange, you will have no further contact with my son. You will not write to him, nor in any way let him know your direction, through any person you know, or in any other manner. You will prevent your prickly aunt from doing the same. If you fail me in this regard, I will remove your sisters from your care, and you will find yourself in Marshalsea until the very last debt is paid. On the day my son marries his cousin, I will return your vowels to you, along with the title to the cottage."

  But Reggie had sworn he would never marry his cousin. Chloe swallowed down rising bile. "And my sisters?"

  "If you choose to marry, providing the man is acceptable to me, I will transfer their guardianships to him. Otherwise I shall retain them."

  Chloe gripped her hands tightly together, trying to still their shaking. He was lying. He was not Chancery Court. He could not have obtained guardianship so quickly, nor would he be the final arbiter of that. But he was everything Reggie had said. Determined to control everyone. Obsessed with controlling. She could see why his heir hated him, and chose to fight a war rather than remain under his father's poisonous domination.

  He had her completely trapped. Any move she could make could endanger her sisters. But she was abandoning Reggie and the promise she had made to him. How could she do that? He would hate her, believing she was deceitful.

  No. Reggie didn't hate anyone, not even the father who so maliciously exploited him and manipulated his life. Reggie had asked her to trust him to find a way through their dilemma, and if anyone could do it, it would be Reggie.

  But she would have no choice but to do as the duke demanded. "What will make a husband acceptable to you?"

  "I speak only in terms of acceptability as a guardian. Beyond that, Miss Englefield, I care not. But you will find that I take the matter of guardianship as a trust to be fulfilled, unlike the guardians both you and your sisters have endured."

  Oh, certainly. She believed that as much as she believed the Prince Regent would soon become her beau. Yes, no doubt any day now the Prince would be bringing his beloved father, the mad King, along to sit at her very sumptuous table, right here in Pauncefoot's elegant facility. But what did it matter if she believed this malicious scoundrel? She was in no position to do anything about it.

  Except negotiate. Interestingly, the duke himself had taught her that. Cut your losses.

  "What is this cottage?"

  The change in his face was no more than a flicker, but it was one of a fisherman sensing a nibble on the line. "The smallest of my properties, Miss Englefield, but adequate for a modest living, furnished, and self-sufficient. Considering that you prize your independence, you may find it will keep you satisfactorily, even after your sisters are grown."

  Her mind formed a picture, a cottage with crumbling walls and thatch black with decay. He no doubt delighted in exiling her to a ruin. But while her ability to eke out a living would undoubtedly disgust him, her survival was something of a matter of secret pride for her.

  "You will have four household servants at your disposal, their salaries paid," he said. "The land is in corn and pasture, with coppiced wood and orchard. Many a squire would be content with such a property."

  She pictured bent servants in rags, a beetle-infested field, and
pasture for one ancient cow. "It had best be as described."

  "You will find it acceptable."

  "I cannot help but wonder why you go to such expense to accomplish so little, particularly as both Reggie and Miss Nightengale hold each other in such dislike."

  The duke's nostrils flared. "My son has lacks that place him at risk in society. Reginald needs a proper lady to help contain his wayward impulses, else he shall find himself alienated from his kind."

  "And you consider Miss Nightengale the answer?"

  "Miss Nightengale is a perfectly proper lady."

  Chloe laughed. "Good heavens! How long has it been since you have seen Miss Nightengale? If she is a perfect lady, then I have been misled entirely as to a lady's proper deportment."

  Shock flickered over his face but was instantly disguised. "You are mistaken, Miss Englefield, and I’ll not allow you to impugn my niece."

  Chloe shrugged, remembering how she had watched with amusement as Miss Portia Nightengale would suddenly simper so prettily every time Lord Castlebury appeared on the scene. Perhaps she had donned the same facade for the duke. "As you wish. My humble advice to you is that you pay her a visit and determine it for yourself. Be that as it may, I shall not make any promises regarding Reggie's behavior. He will make his own choices, and I have nothing to say about them. Nor shall I make promises for Miss Nightengale."

  And she was pretty certain both Reggie and Miss Nightengale had a few hidden surprises for the Duke of Marmount.

  "You will, however, make no contact with either of them until they are wed."

  "Maneuver as you will, Your Grace. It is your son and yourself who are most injured. I am sorry for both of you. But I also have faith in him, and it is he who will triumph."

  "I am doing what is best for my son, Miss Englefield. I do not expect that you will appreciate it, nor am I concerned, as long as we have reached agreement."

  "Ten thousand," she said. "In trust for my sisters."

  "Unnecessary. I have fixed portions upon both of them, beyond what is already in trust."

  "Ten thousand, feme sole."