“You know I am always here when you wish to see me,” Louisa told him now. “As any good wife ought to be.” Then a shadow fell over her face. “We must put off the wedding again, mustn’t we?”
Edward sighed. On his honor, he had to do just that—not only to observe some mourning for his father, but to clear away this messy problem before it could become a real scandal. “We must, unfortunately.”
Louisa’s expression fell, but then she rallied a smile for him, although less brightly than before. “I understand. Next fall will be a fine time to marry. Mama will have no more concerns about my trousseau not being ready in time.”
“I knew you would understand.” Edward laid his hand over hers. Their engagement had lasted over a year already, and never once had she pressed him on the matter. A model of peace and tranquility, his Louisa.
They walked along the path in companionable silence. “Do you have a great deal to do?” she asked. “His Grace was always so thorough in his planning.”
“Indeed. I suppose most of it is rather routine.” Edward paused, debating. He hardly wanted his father’s shameful secret to become common knowledge, and it made him angry all over again to speak of it at all. But Louisa was his fiancée, his future wife and mother of his future children. If he couldn’t confide in her, in whom could he confide? He brushed aside the echo of Gerard’s warning. Her brother had never warmed to Louisa, although he readily conceded all her advantages. He thought her too meek and mild; Gerard admired a woman with high spirits and a ready wit, and had no appreciation for Louisa’s quiet dignity. Fortunately, she was marrying him, not his brother, and she suited him perfectly. They were two of a kind, he and Louisa.
And in all fairness, he owed her the truth. On the slim chance he and his brothers were unable to tidy away his father’s mess, it was only fair that Louisa know his new circumstances.
“There is only one issue that concerns me,” he said, making up his mind. Louisa would stand by him, at least until he discovered the truth. “It seems my father kept one rather large secret from us all, and it will cause us some trouble to sort out.”
“Oh dear.” Her face filled with concern. “How dreadful.”
It certainly was. “I cannot believe Durham could do such a thing,” he said, suddenly finding he wanted to tell her. She would understand, as Gerard and Charlie couldn’t possibly understand, how it felt to be kept in the dark. “Not the act itself, perhaps, but that he could keep it secret for so long—from me. I never failed to do my duty as his son, and then to learn—”
Louisa stopped walking and took his hand in hers as Edward closed his mouth, aware that his voice was rising in temper. “What is it?” she asked. “Surely it cannot be so bad that you and His Grace cannot work it out.” She smiled at him. “I have tremendous confidence in you, Edward.”
He stared at her hands, so small and soft on his clenched fist. “It is disgraceful,” he said in a low tone. “My father was married before my mother—decades ago, to a woman whom no one has seen in almost sixty years. But they were never divorced, and Durham didn’t know what happened to her when they parted. He assumed she was dead when he married again, but he was never certain—or never had solid proof. He may have been certain in his own mind; he never spoke a word about this to me or to either of my brothers, and yet now we must find this woman and learn if her marriage to him might invalidate Durham’s marriage to my mother.”
Saying the words caused the familiar surge of fury, and he paused to brutally press it away. Being angry wasn’t going to help anything. “I’ve already engaged a solicitor to examine the legalities. After so many years, it’s unlikely she is still alive, or would come forward to press a claim now, but it is something we must prepare for. If a single stone is left unturned . . .” He sighed. “ . . . it would be a disaster.”
She didn’t say anything. Edward looked closely at her; she had gone alabaster pale and hardly seemed to breathe, her gaze glassy and fixed on his face.
“Good God,” he exclaimed, catching her in his arms. “Are you about to faint?”
“No,” she said, her voice a thin gasp. “I—I don’t think so. Oh, Edward, that cannot be true!”
“No matter how hard I wished and prayed, it has not evaporated like a bad dream,” he replied. “I hated to burden you, but it was only fair to tell you. But you must promise me to keep it in confidence. It will be unpleasant enough to wade through my father’s distant past without gossip spreading like a plague through the town.”
Again she didn’t reply. Louisa turned out of his arm and stumbled away to a bench, fanning one hand in front of her face. Edward felt suddenly awful for telling her; he could see how hard it hit her. He sat beside her on the bench and waited for her to recover.
“And—And you are certain nothing will come of it?” she asked at last, her chest still heaving as if she’d run a mile.
“Absolutely,” he answered immediately. “The solicitor agrees.”
Louisa dipped her head in a shallow nod. “That is good,” she murmured. “Oh, Edward—how terrible for you if it did not!”
He sighed. “Terrible indeed. The title was never to be mine, but the rest . . . My brothers and I wouldn’t be destitute, as Durham left us modestly provided for, but losing Durham would be a mighty blow.” And they would still be bastards. Edward knew it wasn’t nearly enough recompense.
“That—That was very thoughtful of him . . .”
“Yes.” There was nothing else to say about it. It was only a small amount. Much of Durham’s income was tied to the estates that produced it, and most of them were entailed. They couldn’t be left to anyone but the next duke, and if that person should wind up being someone other than Charlie . . . he and Gerard would lose their share of the income as well. And worst of all, the entail on some of the properties ended with Charlie—or whomever assumed the dukedom next—and it had been their father’s explicit wish that Charlie give each of his brothers an estate of his own: the Sussex property to Edward, and a similar one in Cornwall to Gerard. His expectations had been very grand indeed, until a few days ago.
After a few moments Edward stirred. He still had things to do, and couldn’t linger in the garden with Louisa. His terrible news had thrown a pall over their time together in any case. “I must go, Louisa. I’m sorry to have brought such unhappy news, but I couldn’t keep it from you.”
“No,” she said thinly. “No. I—I am glad you told me. What a dreadful secret to keep!”
He glanced at her sideways, unsure if she meant it would be dreadful to keep it a secret herself, or that his father had been dreadful to keep it from him. “But you will keep it in close confidence?”
“Oh!” She looked up at him with wide blue eyes. “Of course I will—not a breath of it shall pass my lips.”
Edward smiled at her. “Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“But Edward,” she said anxiously, “how much longer must we put off the wedding, do you think?”
He turned her hand over, tracing one fingertip gently over the delicate veins in her wrist. “A few months, at least—six, perhaps, for proper mourning.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “I see.” She got to her feet, tugging her hand free of his grasp. “I had better go in,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the house. “Mama will be getting curious, and I will have to tell her . . . about the postponement, that is . . .”
“Of course.” He rose and reached for her. Normally Louisa accepted his kiss with a blush and a smile, but this time she lifted her face with an almost tragic expression. He brushed his lips against hers, dismayed to feel them tremble. “I’ll speak to your father to explain about the postponement,” he told her. “You don’t have to say a word if you don’t wish to.”
“If you like,” she whispered, looking at him with glistening eyes. “He isn’t home at present. Oh—Oh, Edward!” She shivered and took a step forward into his arms.
“There, now,” he said, holding her lightl
y and patting her on the back. “I’ll call on him tomorrow. It will come out all right.”
She stood rather stiff and still in his loose embrace, then stepped back. “I hope so. I—” She bit her lip. Her face was still very pale. “Good day, Edward.”
“Good day, dearest.”
She closed her eyes at the last word, but then rallied a smile for him. Edward bowed and left, appreciating all over again that he had chosen the ideal bride. Her father, Earl Halston, would understand he must observe some mourning for his father, but they could still be married by Christmas. As for the rest . . . he devoutly hoped no one need ever hear about that.
Francesca woke with a mood as gloomy as the day. After returning home yesterday she’d reviewed her lists of solicitors again, and remembered what each man had said to her. Alconbury had come by and tried to persuade her to come to the theater with him that night, saying she was in dreadful need of raising her spirits, but she couldn’t bear even that. She’d sent him on his way, and consoled herself with a few glasses of wine. It had struck her very hard that Ellen had taken Georgina, even harder than the loss of Wittiers. At least before, she’d known where Georgina was, even if she hadn’t been allowed to see her. Now she didn’t even have the hope of seeing her. What if Ellen had run off to America? Or to the Continent? It would take forever to track her down, particularly if old Mr. Kendall remained blithely indifferent to her concerns about Georgina’s care.
Her housekeeper brought the morning post and newspapers with her breakfast. Francesca sat at the table and flipped through them, barely looking at each one. She didn’t feel like accepting invitations now, and she couldn’t bear to answer her aunt’s letter. Aunt Evelyn had been more mother to her than her real mother, raising her from the time she was five. She put Evelyn’s letter aside with a twinge of guilt and drank her tea. Her head hurt. She hadn’t slept very well, and no doubt there were dark circles under her eyes from it. She thought about going back to bed, just for a little while.
“Lord Alconbury’s sent a posy of violets,” said Mrs. Hotchkiss, setting the flowers in the center of the table. “Quite pretty, I think.”
Francesca sighed. “Very pretty. And so thoughtful of him.”
“Such a gentleman,” murmured Mrs. Hotchkiss as she bustled out of the room with the empty teapot.
Francesca smiled wryly. Her housekeeper thought she should marry again, and had decided Alconbury was the right man. He was certainly pleasant enough: handsome, charming, and intelligent. She simply couldn’t imagine going to bed with him, though, and right now thoughts of men and marriage were the farthest thing from her mind. Everything except Georgina was far from her mind, it seemed. She turned over the newspapers, barely seeing the page. Unless Ellen had published her new location in the papers, there wasn’t much that could catch her interest . . .
Except for what was printed.
Francesca read the opening lines in shock, then snatched it up for a closer examination. It was Gregory Sloan’s gossip sheet, which was so often wrong it was only suitable for kindling. He paid outrageous money for the most salacious rumors, and then rushed them into print, often without any effort to substantiate them. She wasn’t even sure why she subscribed to it. But there, in bold black print, was the heartless and aristocratic Edward de Lacey’s name.
THE DURHAM DILEMMA, it read across the top of the page. “Rumors are swirling about town that the late Duke of Durham may have left his sons an unexpected, and much unwanted, inheritance,” the story began.
The duke, who died only a week ago, contracted a secret marriage several decades ago. One can only wonder why it was kept so secret until now, when the dukedom and all its wealth are poised in the balance. Perhaps because that marriage was still lawfully binding when the duke married his duchess? Perhaps because all three Durham sons would be totally disinherited if it were discovered? But it seems the Durham sons are not unaware of this dark secret. Lord Gresham, the eldest—and perhaps future duke—has taken to his bed and not been seen in over a week. Lord Edward de Lacey is suddenly and unexpectedly in town, consulting solicitors. Surely the appearance of Augustus de Lacey, the cousin who would be heir presumptive, cannot be far off. And one can only wonder what society will make of this dreadful dilemma . . .
The piece went on, wandering into ever more incendiary suppositions, but Francesca’s mouth had fallen open by the third sentence. Her mind whirled. Well, that certainly explained why Lord Edward summoned Wittiers. She had expected it was some ordinary matter of money or property. This was far more serious, involving not only money and property but his standing in society and the life he had been born to expect, to say nothing of his very name. Of course, she was doubtful even James Wittiers could argue a dukedom from someone else’s grasp if there were evidence it rightfully belonged to that person, but in Lord Edward’s place, she would have used every leverage at her disposal to secure Wittiers’s services, too.
And perhaps . . . She eyed the size of the letters screaming across the front page. She thought of Sloan, tall, big, loud, and hawk-eyed. If this edition sold well, he’d print more about this Durham dilemma tomorrow, and the day after. If Lord Edward had ever looked crossly at his scullery maid, Sloan would probably have her sad story in his paper by the end of the week.
Perhaps that handed her a bit of leverage as well.
She jumped up from the table and gave a hard pull on the bell rope. “Mrs. Hotchkiss, I must go out,” she said when the housekeeper hurried in. “Immediately.”
“I’ll send Mr. Hotchkiss for the horses at once,” replied the woman, startled. “Will you be changing?”
Francesca looked down at her comfortable morning dress. “Oh, goodness, yes. I want to look breathtaking. I’ve just gotten a second chance with Edward de Lacey!”
It was barely an hour later that her carriage turned once more into Berkeley Square. The facade of the Durham residence looked even more imposing under the roiling black clouds above, but today she walked sedately up the steps and rapped the knocker, firmly but not nearly as hard as her heart was pounding behind her ribs.
This time she told the butler it was imperative that she speak to Lord Edward on a matter related to their conversation the previous day. She held her breath, hoping that Lord Edward hadn’t told his servants not to admit her again, and when they did so, she switched to hoping he would agree to see her. By the time she was shown into the same blue room to wait, her stays felt way too tight and she had to clasp her hands together to keep from wringing them.
Today she only waited a few minutes before he strode through the door, as severe as she remembered. She noticed the black band around his sleeve. Perhaps mourning accounted for his dark, plain clothing. His expression was as imperturbable as it had been yesterday, but she smiled as he closed the door behind him.
“Lady Gordon.” He bowed, his gray eyes steady on her.
“My lord.” She curtsied. “I have come to apologize.”
“Indeed.” His gaze flickered over her. Francesca knew she looked her best today, in a rich green walking dress with golden ribbons. There was no overt admiration in his gaze, only examination, but it made her feel more confident all the same to know there was no fault with her appearance. “I assure you, that is not necessary.”
“But it is,” she said with feeling. He meant that she needn’t have come again; she meant that she had made a mistake in approaching him so intemperately to begin with. There very much was a need for her to apologize. “I was very out of temper yesterday, and spoke imprudently and impolitely.”
“Not at all,” he replied, proving himself a better liar than she had anticipated. “I am delighted you have found other aid. Now—”
“No,” she said gently. “I still have need of your aid—but now, I believe, you may be in need of mine as well.” She drew out the page of newsprint from her reticule. “Perhaps you have not seen.”
For a moment he just looked at her with those cool gray eyes, measuring her. Francesca wa
ited patiently, holding out the paper. She knew his type, this straight and proper gentleman. He’d see his name in the newspaper, and the shocking rumors attached to it, and be furious. Men dueled over such things. Lord Edward would rage about a bit, and when he calmed down she would make her offer. Unless he was a very great fool, he would see the sense of it at once. And then she would have the chance she so desperately needed.
He took the newspaper, smoothing the curled edges and pulling it flat. His eyes never left her, as if he waited for some flicker of temper as an excuse to dismiss her again. Today, though, she was on her very best behavior. Yesterday she had been half mad with frustration and outrage and even fear, but today she was given a reprieve, and she meant to make the very most of it. Today, nothing he said or did would make her lose her temper, even if she had to bite off her own tongue to keep silent. Francesca met his gaze evenly, keeping her face arranged in a modest, serene expression, and waited.
Finally he looked at the newspaper, his gaze dipping away from hers. His eyelashes looked absurdly long from this angle, she thought in surprise, thick and dark against his cheeks. Her Aunt Evelyn used to say every woman had some feature to be proud of, be it a lovely neck or good skin or fine eyes; she wondered if Lord Edward de Lacey was proud of his long, beautiful eyelashes, and had to press her lips together to avoid smiling at the thought.
He didn’t look up for some time, more than enough to have read the offending piece several times over. She had unconsciously tensed in anticipation of an outburst, but his face didn’t change, and he didn’t move. He could have been carved of marble for all the reaction and emotion he showed, even though the paper had all but called him and his brothers bastards and imposters. She was just beginning to wonder if she had grossly misunderstood things when he spoke.
One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke Page 6
