One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  She laughed. “Yes, ever in need of something! It was just a trifle, but it put him in my debt, which shall suit me very well indeed.” Of course she had maneuvered to create that debt, but that was beside the point. Another thing she didn’t feel moved to reveal.

  “Indeed,” he said. His jovial manner had dimmed noticeably. “Who is it?”

  “Lord Edward de Lacey.” She poured herself more tea, more for the occupation than because she wanted more to drink. Alconbury, for all his good looks and general charm, had become a bit too proprietary toward her of late. It would do him good to realize she was still her own person, and capable of solving her own problems.

  Alconbury’s forehead creased as he tried to place the name. “De Lacey?” he murmured, then repeated it incredulously as comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Edward de Lacey? Of the Durham de Laceys? Of the Durham Dilemma?”

  “Tsk, Alconbury. You know better than to believe Gregory Sloan’s rubbish.”

  “I don’t care if it’s rubbish, you should be careful about getting tangled up with that sort!”

  “Why?” she asked just as sharply. “What sort do you mean—wealthy, aristocratic, and with such consequence everyone rushes to do his bidding at once? Because that sort of help appeals to me very much right now.” He scowled. She relented, a little. “Then what do you know about him, not his family? For it’s only Lord Edward I’ve dealt with, and he’s been utterly unremarkable—very civil and completely proper.”

  Alconbury was not persuaded. “I don’t know much—yet—but to be in the gossip papers—”

  “As if one can control that!” she exclaimed. “I’d have no friends and no amusement if I shunned everyone in the gossip papers, and that includes you, my dear sir.”

  He waved one hand. “That’s different.”

  “Yes, I daresay it is,” she agreed wryly. “You land in the gossip papers because of your outrageous behavior, while people like Lord Edward arrive there due to the actions of others.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He sighed. “What I should have said was, men of that sort are accustomed to getting what they want, no matter whom they harm in the process. They would think nothing of taking your assistance and then never finding a convenient time to render you theirs.”

  Francesca pursed her lips. It hadn’t occurred to her that Lord Edward might break his word—not that she would allow him to do so. She had faced him down once before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if necessary. “I shall keep your warning in mind.”

  Alconbury closed his eyes for a moment. “Very well. I see your mind is made up, and that I cannot change it. Dare I ask what you did to obligate him to you?”

  She smiled and held out Sloan’s scandal sheet. “The ‘Durham Dilemma’ was sadly exaggerated, it appears.”

  He read the paper. “You—you persuaded Sloan to print this?” he asked in astonishment. “Francesca, what did you have to promise Sloan?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I asked him very sweetly, and he indulged me.”

  Alconbury looked as if she’d clubbed him in the head. “Gregory Sloan doesn’t do favors without getting something in return. You know that.”

  “And yet I promised him nothing.” She paused, shooting him a look of mild warning. “Lord Edward struck that bargain, and it was solely between the two of them.”

  He passed his hand over his face. “So now Sloan will be keeping his eyes on you, and you’ll be hounding de Lacey to fulfill his promise to you. How did you manage all this in the space of a day?”

  “You make it sound so nefarious.”

  “Don’t you see that it could be?” He jumped to his feet instead of laughing. “I don’t know much about Edward de Lacey, but his brother is the Earl of Gresham—or now Duke of Durham, I suppose—and he’s a regular hell-raiser. A rake of the highest order, a daredevil, a spendthrift who’s done his best to run through the Durham fortune . . . They’re not a good family to tangle with.”

  “I shall be fine,” she said firmly, trying to curb her growing impatience. Alconbury had been so sympathetic all the previous times she’d confided in him about her troubles; what had gotten into him today? “Lord Edward promised to help me secure a solicitor. I asked nothing more, and he certainly offered nothing more. Once he does so, I expect we’ll never have cause to see or speak to each other again.”

  He paced to the window and stood in silence for a moment, staring out at her garden with his hands clasped behind him. “Don’t you think,” he said quietly, “that perhaps your quest to raise Georgina is becoming impractical?”

  Francesca felt as if she turned to stone for a passing second. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean . . .” He made a frustrated gesture with both hands. “John Haywood didn’t name you as her custodian. You’ve had trouble finding a solicitor willing to plead your cause. Now Ellen’s taken the child, and you might spend a fortune on investigators before finding her, without any assurance you would be able to take her in even when you do. Isn’t it time to consider leaving this search to Mr. Kendall?”

  “John didn’t name Ellen as custodian, either.” She had to say the words very precisely to avoid losing her temper entirely. As it was, her fingers clenched into a fist around the butter knife, and her chest hurt from the sharp, angry beating of her heart. “I found one solicitor who believed my case had merit, and I shall find another soon, one who will take the case and win it. Georgina is my sister’s child, left without a father or mother, and I will not abandon her because of the expense, certainly not to the derelict oversight of Mr. Kendall!”

  He must have heard the rage in her voice, for in a moment he was beside her on his knee, covering her fist with his own hand. “I never meant you should abandon her. I know how you care for her. But Francesca . . .” His fingers stroked along the taut lines of hers. “Georgina needn’t be your only family. You deserve to have your own children—and a husband—to love.”

  She supposed, dimly, that could be construed as a marriage proposal. Unfortunately, she was still shaking with fury over his suggestion that she give up on something, someone, so dear to her. Alconbury had plenty of family—his mother, three sisters and a younger brother, a growing pack of nieces and nephews. She could laugh at his bemoaning their demands and the headaches they caused him because she knew he loved them all, to some degree. But it meant he couldn’t know what it was like to lose everyone; her father died when she was a child, and her mother left her behind for Italy. Her husband died after only a few years of marriage. She had loved her sister Giuliana even if they only became well acquainted later in life, but Georgina absorbed all the love she would have given her own children, if she’d had any. And the thought of quitting her search now, when she didn’t even know if Georgina was well or where she was, was harsher than a slap in the face. Alconbury didn’t understand her at all if he thought she would do that for him, even if she had been madly in love with him. Which she most assuredly was not.

  At her silence, he squeezed her hand. “You know I adore you. I don’t want to see you hurt, or worn down by a long legal battle that may well be impossible to win. You’ll drive yourself mad over this.”

  Losing Georgina would carve away part of her heart and soul. It was impossible to think of quitting the fight. She slid her hand out from under his. “Then I shall have to win quickly.”

  His shoulders fell. Alconbury looked at her gravely. “And I suppose this de Lacey fellow is part of your plan to do that.”

  As if on cue, someone rapped the knocker on the front door. Again, irrationally, Francesca’s heart shot into her throat at the thought that it might be Lord Edward, appearing as if summoned by Alconbury’s talk of him. She heard Mrs. Hotchkiss answer the door, then a murmur of voices before the door closed. She realized she was gripping the edge of the table, and got to her feet just as her housekeeper opened the door.

  She was alone, with a letter in her hand. “A message for you, my lady.”

 
Francesca recognized the crest on the seal as she took it from Mrs. Hotchkiss and tore it open. Her eyes flew over the brief message, and she exhaled in relief. “Yes, Lord Edward is part of my plan,” she said in belated answer to Alconbury’s skeptical question. “And he appears to be working out splendidly.”

  Chapter 10

  Edward expected it to take a couple of days to find a solicitor for Lady Gordon, which meant there was no time to be lost. He sent notes to two of the names on her list he recognized the next morning right after breakfast, requesting their presence in Berkeley Square. Both replied with alacrity that they would wait upon him in the afternoon, and Edward dashed off another note to Lady Gordon. With any luck, either of these solicitors would agree to take the case, and the fascinating, alluring, unpredictable Francesca Gordon would be out of his life before he slipped and did something stupid.

  He had to send a footman out specifically to hunt down a copy of Sloan’s gossip rag. Edward hated funding anything of that sort, but he had to know if Sloan had kept his word and printed the retraction. And yes, there it was. On the bottom of the page, naturally, rather than blazoned across the top as it had been yesterday, but at least it wasn’t small type that no one would ever read. “It has come to the Editor’s attention that the Durham Dilemma might be quite easily solved,” Sloan had written. “We have learned that the broken engagement, of some several month’s standing, between Lady Louisa Halston and Lord Edward de Lacey may have helped ignite the rumor of that gentleman’s imminent fall from Good Society . . .”

  It was hardly the groveling confession of error Edward privately wanted, but it would have to do. He gritted his teeth and wrote the bank draft to Sloan, then touched the corner of the scandal sheet to the candle flame and flung it in the grate, watching until the paper curled in on itself and blackened to a pile of cinders. If only the words could be so easily burned from the consciousness of everyone in London.

  His brother was quick to remind him they couldn’t be. Gerard arrived home from his morning ride in a towering bad temper, not mollified by the retraction in the least. Unlike Edward, he’d gone out the night before and gotten an earful of the gossip, which was, predictably, centered on their troubles.

  “The Durham Dilemma!” Gerard scowled. “That’s what they’re calling it; it’s not just some smoky business from Durham’s youth, it’s a scandal of national concern!”

  “Not really,” Edward replied. “It merely has all the elements of a novel—clandestine marriage, a long-lost wife, a deathbed confession after decades of secrecy, the ruination of us three . . . It would be nearly irresistible to most people, I daresay, if it were a melodrama on the stage, let alone real. Fortunately, it has been retracted.”

  His brother grunted. “What did that cost you?”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Yesterday you said it would cost you a favor, not two hundred pounds. Were you able to pay it off instead?”

  “What does it matter to you?” Edward asked, a little sharply. “I said I would tend to it, and I did.” He resisted the urge to look at the clock. He’d told Lady Gordon to arrive only half an hour from now, and already his nerves were drawing up in anticipation. He’d find her a solicitor today if he had to drag Pierce to London and put him on the case. It was wrong—unnatural, even—to look forward to seeing a woman so much.

  Gerard raised his head at Edward’s tone. “What does it matter to me?” he repeated. “It’s my name being dragged through the mud as well! I’d like to know what you had to promise in exchange for this pathetic, half-hearted retraction—which, by the by, is hardly kind to you, as it implies you abandoned poor Louisa.” He waved one hand at the gossip sheet he’d brought home with him. Edward wished he would stop bringing additional copies into the house.

  “I’ve promised to help secure a solicitor’s services,” he said tersely, ignoring Gerard’s last shot. “On a completely unrelated matter. Two of them are supposed to call in less than an hour, so you’d best be off.”

  “At least tell me who our mysterious accomplice is.” Gerard stayed in his chair and looked stubborn. “I’m rather grateful to the fellow, even if his help cost two hundred quid as well as this favor.”

  “Actually, it was a woman,” said Edward as levelly as he could. “And we should be quite grateful to her.” It was time to change the subject. “I don’t suppose you learned anything at the churchyard.”

  His brother flipped one hand. “Of course not. Unless it’s the rector blackmailing Father, there’s been no one unusual at the church these six months, and the grave in question is ancient and overgrown. No one’s left anything or asked for anything left there. Tell me about this woman.”

  “She’s calling today to meet with the solicitors—”

  “She’s coming here?” Gerard’s interest was well and truly roused now, and thoroughly diverted from the blackmailer and his letters. “Soon?”

  Edward stretched his fingers to keep from curling them into a fist. He had no reason to be proprietary about Lady Gordon. “Yes.”

  “Splendid!” Gerard lounged in his chair with an expression of pleased speculation. “I should thank her myself.”

  “I thought you were setting off for Somerset at any moment in pursuit of that blackmailer.”

  “I have a few things to tidy up in London first. Writing to my commanding officer, of course, to get permission for a longer leave. Had to get my horse reshod. I might need a new pair of boots as well, now that I’m in town . . .”

  Edward raised his eyebrows. “Excellent. I’d no idea you were staying in town for so long. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to query these solicitors for me, so I can attend to other things.” Just because he was in London with a cloud hanging over the Durham estates didn’t mean there was no work to be done. It had simply followed him from Sussex, and was stacked on his father’s wide mahogany desk right now awaiting attention. The fact that he hadn’t been able to attend to it because he was awaiting Lady Gordon’s arrival only made the work seem more pressing.

  “We all know you’ll do it much better than I could.” Gerard gave him a wicked look. “But I should so like to meet our benefactress.”

  “Hmm.” Edward shook his head. “Dodging the dull part, as ever.”

  “I’ve spent the last day chatting with a rector and skulking about a graveyard,” his brother replied. “I think I’ve earned a look at this woman you obviously want to keep hidden away for yourself.”

  Edward inhaled, but caught himself in time. Snapping back at Gerard that he was not trying to keep her hidden would only make it appear that he cared whether Gerard met her. Which was certainly not his concern. Much. “Very well. She’ll be here soon.”

  Lady Gordon arrived a short while later. Edward got a strange feeling as he introduced his brother to her. She wore some dress of blue that seemed to float around her like a cloud. Her hair had been tamed into a modest knot, although a few wisps still teased her neck. She looked utterly respectable, but Edward could tell from Gerard’s face that he wasn’t nearly as impressed by her matronly propriety as he was by her siren’s voice and her lush mouth and her direct manner. He watched his brother’s expression change from curious to surprised to enthralled in a matter of seconds, and almost expected Gerard to offer to interview the solicitors after all. But when Blackbridge came to announce Mr. Fowler, Gerard merely bowed and excused himself, sparing only a darkly amused glance at Edward on his way out.

  For a moment he and Lady Gordon were alone. It was both a blessing and a curse, he thought, as she turned on the sofa to face him and a stray beam of weak sunlight caught her glorious hair again. Even primly pinned down as it was, it still glowed like something Titian would have painted.

  “Thank you for acting so promptly, Lord Edward,” she said. “I had to wait four days to see Mr. Fowler the first time.”

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of delay.” What would her hair look like down? He pictured a waterfall of coppery waves spilling over her bare
shoulders, down her bare back . . . God Almighty, he had to stop doing this.

  She smiled rather wryly. “Of course,” she murmured. “I’m sure not.”

  Edward supposed there was more than one way to interpret that, but he hoped she had chosen an innocuous reason rather than the truth: that he was looking forward to the end of their association because he was far too attracted to her for his own good. He was disgusted with himself for being so intrigued by her, and he was horrified at the flicker of possessiveness that burned his chest when Gerard bowed over her hand, holding onto it for a moment too long. Theirs was a temporary acquaintance, born of unfortunate circumstances and desperation on both sides. In a matter of days—even hours—it would be over, and she would never walk through his door again. And he would never admit to thinking about her again. Ever.

  Fortunately the butler showed in Mr. Fowler then, and Edward turned his attention to the solicitor. He intended to sit back and let Lady Gordon present her case, look appropriately approving of her hopes, and then shake Mr. Fowler’s hand after he agreed to represent her. After a few introductory words, he did just that, explaining that it was Lady Gordon’s case they had summoned him about. This was reasonable, he told himself. She knew the particulars, and he did not. She would be employing the man, and he would not. But after a while it became clear that Mr. Fowler’s interest had been caught by the prospect of working for him, and not for her.

  He watched, narrow-eyed, as the solicitor gently but inexorably beat down Lady Gordon’s every point. The man was good at making an argument; he was just choosing the wrong side to argue, for Edward’s purposes. When at last Lady Gordon nodded and said she understood if Mr. Fowler was still unable to take her case, Edward had enough. He got to his feet when the solicitor did so.