by Lucy Ashford
He remembered with a tug of amusement how furious she’d been over the low necklines he’d ordered the modiste to create—but those very décolletages were the finishing touch to her appeal; a breathtaking reminder of the sheer femininity of her curvaceous figure beneath the mourning clothes. Yes, she resembled Paulette. But surely, Deb O’Hara had a hundred times that woman’s spirit, character, honesty—
Honesty? Now, he almost laughed aloud at that. How could she be honest, when he’d caught her with a pocketful of books that even some whores would blush to carry?
Yet this afternoon when he’d kissed her in the pavilion, even he, with all his experience of stunningly attractive women, had been overwhelmed by her. He would never forget the sight of her in that wet, clinging chemise, and he’d been completely unable to resist the enticement offered by her small, high breasts and tiny waist and long, slender legs.
He’d wanted to bed her there and then, and was only stopped by the fact that she’d appeared so shocked. In fact, she had been trembling after his advances, he noted; her eyes had been wide and dark, her cheeks white, and she had seemed appalled by what had happened.
Beau grimly urged his willing horse onwards, hoping that a final gallop might drive the last scrap of treacherous lust from his body. She was an actress, he reminded himself. She was a rogue, without a doubt, but at least he knew what she was up to. Whereas Paulette Palfreyman had been far more subtle about leading his brother down the path to ruin.
Arriving back at the house, he left his horse with the head groom and strode up the steps through the main door, his mind still furiously working. But he was swiftly dragged back to the present by the appearance of his butler, who held out a letter for him on a silver salver.
‘This was delivered from London while you were out, your Grace,’ said Delaney. ‘The courier said it was urgent.’
Beau went to his study to open it and found that it came from one of his investigators in London; the one appointed by Armitage to keep an eye on the activities of the jewel dealer in London, Newman.
Beau scanned it and folded the letter up again abruptly, realising that Armitage’s news in St Alban’s today was already out of date. Contrary to the rather leisurely procedure he’d discussed with Armitage earlier, he was going to have to press ahead with his plans rather more quickly than he’d thought.
* * *
An hour later Beau was knocking at the door of the girl’s room, but when there was no reply, he walked straight in. She was there, of course, but although it was obvious that she must have heard his knock, she made no acknowledgement of his presence. She was just standing in front of the mirror, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.
She was wearing another of the black gowns that had been made for her—he could see her image clearly—and she looked breathtakingly beautiful in it. Beautiful and different—because her long chestnut curls had been cut. The coiffeuse had completed her work all too well. The girl’s hair was much shorter now, and was tamed into tight little ringlets that cunningly framed her utterly lovely heart-shaped face. Of the vagabond he’d first met in the Ashendale Forest, who’d strode around the clearing with her hands in her breeches pockets, and who’d teased him so boldly with her wicked books, there was no remnant whatsoever, and he found himself profoundly regretting it.
He continued to gaze at her with his face betraying no expression and said, ‘If you’re having second thoughts, say so, now. After today it will be too late.’
He saw her delicate fingers trembling slightly as she smoothed down the rich fabric of the black satin gown. Again, doubts assailed him. What a complete bastard he could be, Beau reflected.
‘I want my theatre,’ she said. She took a deep breath and repeated more firmly, ‘I want my theatre—for myself and my friends. I gave you my word that I’d keep to our bargain—and I keep my promises.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because my plans have changed. We need to set off for London—tomorrow.’
She sat down—rather shakily, he thought—and he explained about the letter. How he’d now learned that Newman—to whom he suspected Paulette might have temporarily entrusted the jewels—was trying to quietly sell his business, and might already be making plans to leave London in the near future.
‘Did you get this information from your spies?’ she asked him calmly.
‘From my investigators, yes. If Newman is moving out of London, I need to speed up my own plans. Does it matter very much to you that we go to London tomorrow, rather than next week, say, or the week after?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, hardly at all.’
Beau had remained standing—not because he wished to be aloof, but because he felt safer like this. Yes, safer. He knew that if he sat close—if he was too near to her—then possibly the scent of her skin, or the memory of her soft hair against his fingers, might tempt him again. Emotion is weakness. Emotion is weakness.
He produced the other items he’d been carrying. ‘I have some of Paulette’s diaries here. I think that perhaps you ought to read them.’
He saw her react almost with revulsion. ‘Read her private diaries? No!’
Beau’s fingers tightened around the little volumes. ‘Were you perhaps jealous of her lifestyle and her money?’
‘No!’ Suddenly her eyes flashed fire. ‘Oh, my God, no! I have never forgotten the day my mother took me to Hardgate Hall.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I had nightmares for weeks afterwards, dreaming that she had left me there for good.’
Beau found himself picturing her, a small, vulnerable child... Don’t, he told himself fiercely. Don’t start feeling anything like pity for this girl, you fool. What he was doing simply had to be done, for his family’s honour, and she was his instrument. He had to use her, pay her and get her out of his life as quickly as possible. Out of his life, where she had no place.
He picked up one of the small, leather-bound diaries and held it out to her in a manner that allowed no refusal. ‘We’ll be setting off for London tomorrow afternoon,’ he said steadily. ‘And I think it would be a good idea if you managed to read at least one of these by then. Paulette left them at my brother’s house, and I had a glance at them, but they’re full of trivialities—appointments with modistes, the shops where she liked to meet her friends and so on. I don’t think you can afford to pretend that you have any honourable feelings about your cousin, but I do consider it absolutely essential that you know as much as possible about her, since you’re going to have to pretend to be her.’
Wordlessly she took the book from him. Beau found it hard to detect what her mood was, but he sensed a hint of scorn in her voice when she said, at last, ‘You’ve clearly thought it all out, your Grace. But has it occurred to you that the chief problem is that there will be many, many people in London—acquaintances of Paulette and your brother—who will expect me to recognise them when they come to call?’
‘I’ve thought of all that.’
She said softly, ‘I rather thought you might.’
He found it easiest to ignore her sarcasm. ‘This is how we’ll cope, Miss O’Hara. You will offer certain hours for visiting, in the accustomed fashion. I will be with you, so you never receive visitors alone. Any callers will be announced, of course, and that will give me the opportunity to—acquaint you with them.’
‘So I’ll be living with you?’
‘In my house in Albemarle Street, yes. You’re my sister-in-law, so it’s perfectly respectable for you to stay there under my protection. And as you’ve been very ill, a certain fragility of memory caused by extreme grief would not be unusual—in fact, might almost be expected. Have you any more questions, Miss O’Hara?’
She was silent awhile. Then she said, slowly, ‘It appears to me, your Grace, that Newgate almost seems preferable all of a sudden.’
She’d recovered her spirit, Beau realised. Something burned i
n her eyes as she gazed up at him. Rebellion. Contempt, even.
‘Newgate’s no longer an option,’ he smoothly replied. ‘You’ve come too far for that. You are Paulette. Spoiled, vain and selfish as ever, but—temporarily at any rate—quite stricken with grief.’ He straightened his coat. ‘You’d better start reading those diaries. Oh, and we’ll need to find a lady’s maid for you.’
‘A lady’s maid? No!’ Deb had found it difficult enough being waited on hand and foot here at Brandon Abbey. But a maid of her own? Just for her? She wouldn’t know what to do with her!
‘Of course you must have one,’ Beau emphasised. ‘You need a girl who’s new to London, and who never knew your cousin or any of her friends. Mrs Martin may have some ideas.’
‘Bethany,’ Deb said after a moment. ‘Bethany is one of your maids here. May I take her? If she’s willing, that is?’
‘I’ll ask Mrs Martin.’ He nodded his approval and turned to go, but as he reached the door he stopped again. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he said. ‘What happened earlier today, in the pavilion, will never happen again. You have my word on that.’
* * *
When he’d gone, Deb settled herself carefully on the little sofa by the window and fought for calmness. She tried to remember the breathing exercises Gerald had taught her. She thought she’d sunk about as low as she could—but now she had to read Paulette’s diaries?
She felt like an intruder, an interloper as she picked up the first volume and tried to read her cousin’s scattered writing. Each entry confirmed what she already guessed about Paulette—that she was shallow, silly and vain. All she wrote about were clothes, parties and invariably vicious female gossip. But they were still her private diaries, and Deb knew she had absolutely no right to be reading them. She slammed the little book shut.
He told you to read them. He ordered you to read them.
She forced herself to open the diary again, and realised she was at a page in the midst of June last year—almost exactly a year ago. And Paulette’s writing had changed. The words were crammed together and looked as if they were written with speed, with excitement. Deb moved the diary closer to the light.
Two days ago, at the Fairleys’ summer ball, I met Lord Simon Beaumaris and he paid me great attention. Lord Simon called on me at home the day afterwards, and yesterday as well. Mama and Father are thrilled, and the other girls are so jealous of me that I think I could die of happiness...
Deb turned the pages one by one.
The wedding is only three weeks away. Three weeks. How will I endure it? I live for the moments when I see him. I love him so much that it hurts...
Deb sat back suddenly, her mind reeling.
So despite what the Duke had claimed, Paulette did love Simon! She loved her husband truly and passionately—so why, then, did the Duke claim that she’d trapped him into marriage to satisfy her own ambitions?
And above all—why had Paulette run away?
Chapter Thirteen
London
The morning sun poured through the windows of the big first-floor drawing room of the house in Albemarle Street where Beau was pacing to and fro. He’d travelled here two days ago with Miss O’Hara—Lady Simon, he corrected himself—and her lady’s maid. The girl Bethany had appeared over-awed—frightened, almost—on reaching their new destination, but Deborah had been calm and composed, dignified, even, in her black attire.
He expected no less from her. He’d given her one night and one day only to settle in, and the morning after that he’d told her that her duties must commence.
‘My investigators...’ he began.
‘Your minions,’ he heard her whisper under her breath.
He carried on. ‘My investigators have found further proof that Newman might be on the verge of selling up, quite possibly on account of financial difficulties. So he may leave London at any time, taking with him any assets he can lay his hands on.’
‘Including the jewels?’ she asked quietly.
‘Including the Brandon jewels, if he indeed has them. This is going to be a crucial test of your ability to play the part of your cousin, Miss O’Hara. If my investigators are correct, you left the jewels with him, and so you alone can ask him about them without risk of scandal.’
‘Ah, yes. We must avoid scandal at all costs.’ Her eyes flashed suddenly. ‘What if your investigators are wrong, and Paulette didn’t leave them with him? Or—what if she did, but this Newman denies it and says he never had them?’
‘Use your judgement, Miss O’Hara. Say that you’ve been ill, and are a little confused. Try to guess, if you can, if he’s lying. Armitage will take you there this morning, in a hired carriage. Although it will soon be general knowledge, of course, that you’re here in London with me, your visit to Newman must be kept as anonymous as possible.’
He could see that she was listening to him carefully, but when he’d finished she remained very quiet. ‘You are expecting a great deal of me,’ she said at last.
‘I don’t think that any of it is beyond your capabilities,’ he answered.
After she’d left, all he could do was wait, and remember how he’d discovered that the Brandon jewels had gone only two days after his brother died.
The jewels were kept inside a silk-lined, blue velvet box in a big safe in the study of the Duke’s London house. Beau had been searching the safe for some documents needed for Simon’s funeral, and he’d had to lift the velvet jewel box out of the way. He’d become very still when he realised how light it was.
It was light because it was empty. And only Simon had known where Beau kept the key. That was when Beau had begun to guess what had happened to the jewels. That was when he’d set Armitage and his men to track down Paulette’s movements, during the weeks before she’d fled the country.
And now, it was up to Deborah O’Hara to get them back, as a vital part of his campaign to safeguard his family’s honour. Beau had watched the girl leave with Armitage an hour or so ago in the hired carriage, and for the past twenty minutes he’d been listening for their return. He resisted the urge to hurry to the window when he heard the sound of the vehicle pulling up in the street outside, and instead forced himself to wait calmly until Armitage brought her in to him.
She still wore her black cape and veiled bonnet, so he could not read her face.
‘You have them?’ asked Beau.
She looked almost defiant. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.
Armitage stepped forward. ‘Your Grace, there is an explanation—’
Beau cut in. ‘And I’d prefer Miss O’Hara to give it to me. Leave us, Armitage.’
* * *
Deb had hated arriving in this palatial London house two days ago. After the fresh air of the countryside, she found the heat of the city oppressive. She’d hated the deception of being introduced to all the staff as Lady Simon; and only the necessity of comforting Bethany, who was terrified by London’s tall houses and crowded streets, kept her calm.
She’d been introduced to Nathaniel Armitage this morning, for he was to escort her on her visit to Mr Newman. He at least was polite and kind, and altogether he could not have been less like his master. ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Simon,’ he’d said earnestly, ‘to thrust this task on you in such haste. I know that you’ve only just arrived in London, and I realise that all this must be a considerable ordeal for you.’
Then he’d gone to tell the driver that they wished to be taken to Gresham Street, and Deb, dressed in a black cloak and veiled bonnet, had turned instantly to the Duke. ‘Does Mr Armitage know who I am?’
‘He knows,’ the Duke said. ‘But he’s been instructed not to give that knowledge away by the smallest of words or gestures, and I trust his loyalty implicitly. You would be well advised not to try any tricks with him.’
Tricks? Deb had gazed up at the
Duke with an odd little smile on her face. ‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘were you thinking perhaps that I might try to seduce poor Mr Armitage? It’s highly unlikely—for really, you see, he’s not rich enough for me.’
The Duke, she recollected, had looked at her pretty much as he was looking at her now, as he waited for her to tell him about her visit to the jeweller’s shop. Armitage had left the room, and the Duke’s face was oddly blank.
‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough,’ he was saying, ‘to tell me exactly what’s happened. Did you get to see Newman? Did he accept that you were Paulette?’
‘He never doubted it.’ She took off her cloak and put it down carefully. ‘Mr Newman expressed his sincerest and deepest condolences for my recent bereavement —your Grace.’
‘And what did he say, when you questioned him about the jewels?’
‘He reminded me,’ she said, meeting his eyes steadily, ‘that on the occasion of our last meeting, I told him that I didn’t care if I never saw them again.’
A muscle suddenly flickered in Beau’s jaw. ‘Are you quite sure?’
‘That’s exactly what he told me, your Grace.’
Beau held himself very still. ‘Has he sold them?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Suddenly she sounded weary. ‘He said to me, “I’ll get them if you really want them, Lady Simon.” But he added that it might take a week, possibly more.’
She pushed her veil aside and pressed one hand briefly to her cheek. ‘I think Newman thought I was ill. Confused. I explained to him I was still in an acute state of grief over Simon’s death, and he promised that he would let me know—he said he would write to me here, at your house—as soon as they were available.’
‘Did he make any mention of a fee for looking after them for you? Some kind of redemption charge?’
‘No, he didn’t. But everything about his manner was very strange somehow.’
Beau walked to the window, frowning. Thinking. ‘This could, of course, be some kind of delaying tactic. If Newman’s planning to move out of town, then it’s possible he was hoping to disappear with them, in which case your appearance will have shaken him. I’ll set my investigators—’
