“I understand,” the constable said. “And if you can provide some proof of that, I’ll be happy to investigate.”
“The note is the obvious place to start,” Grey put in.
“True.” The constable glanced at the people gathered there. “Do any of you have an idea of who might have forged the note summoning the previous Duke of Armitage to the dower house?”
No one offered any suggestions.
“Very well,” said the constable. “If any of you discover anything, let me know. In the meantime, I shall be looking further into the matter.”
Sheridan frowned. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate your efforts.”
Even as the constable left, Gwyn strolled in. “The Times has arrived. There’s a curious announcement in it.” She flashed Beatrice a smile. “Apparently, the paper made a mistake in naming Vanessa Pryde as Grey’s fiancée. It seems you are actually Grey’s fiancée.”
Beatrice brightened. “Let me see!”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Gwyn said, holding the newspaper away from her. “First, tell me if you actually knew of this when we were going on and on about Grey’s awful behavior to you.”
“Leave her alone, Sis.” Grey snatched the paper from her and handed it to Beatrice. “She wasn’t sure of me yet, so she behaved cautiously. And I don’t blame her for that.” Especially since he was partly responsible for her caution in the first place.
Beatrice read the announcement eagerly, then handed it to Wolfe. “You see? I told you he really wanted to marry me.”
Wolfe glanced at the paper, then at Grey. “So you weren’t lying.”
“Did you think I was?” he drawled. “That doesn’t bode well for our future as brothers-in-law.”
“Oh, hush, Grey,” Gwyn said, tapping his arm with her fan. “You have a reputation. What did you expect?”
“An undeserved reputation,” Beatrice said stoutly. “Do not think otherwise.”
As Gwyn shot Beatrice a bemused glance, Sheridan laughed. “Oh, you have certainly got her wrapped around your finger, Brother.”
“Trust me, no one wraps Beatrice around his finger,” Grey said. “Which is precisely why I fell in love with her.”
At the word “love,” Gwyn looked shocked and Sheridan uncomfortable, but their mother beamed at Grey. “And that is certainly something to celebrate. Come, let’s go to the drawing room. I’ll send for champagne, and we’ll toast the lovebirds.”
When Beatrice blushed and smiled, looking already the part of a bride-to-be, Grey felt his heart beat faster. “We’ll be right behind you,” he said. “Just give us a moment.”
Fortunately, his family had the good sense to go on without them. Then he pulled Beatrice into the cloakroom, where they could be more private.
“Thank you for seeing me for what I really am,” he murmured. “You’ll never convince the others of it, but as long as you believe it, it’s enough for me.”
She shook her head at him. “Give them some credit for recognizing the truth. Yes, they probably listen to the gossip about you a bit too much, but in time they’ll realize how false it is. And they’ll be right there to champion you when the gossips treat you unfairly. Because they love you. They may not understand you or even know how to treat you, but they love you deeply. You’re as much a part of the family as anyone can be.”
With his heart in his throat, he stared down at her. “You’re marvelous, do you know that?”
“I do,” she said lightly. Then she sobered. “But you, Your Grace, are more than marvelous. Because you saw the goodness in me and ignored the rest. For that, I will always love you, too.”
Feeling his heart beat wildly in his chest, he kissed her. At last he’d found a woman who could not only know him thoroughly, but could accept him for what he was—a man with flaws and fears, but a man still capable of loving.
After a long moment of relishing the softness of her mouth and the tenderness of her heart, he drew back to smirk at her. “Does this mean you’re not having a debut and hunting for a better husband after all?”
“Don’t be silly,” she teased. “My days as your mother’s project may be over, but that only means I now have to show off how well I’ve learned my lessons. So I still need a debut, which means we can’t marry for, oh, at least seven months, when the Season begins.”
“The hell we can’t. I am not waiting seven months to marry you, sweetheart.”
“Six, then?” she said, clearly fighting a smile.
“Three, when your period of mourning is up.”
She cast him a mock frown. “So you mean to deny me my debut, do you?”
“Not in the least.” He grinned. “You’ll just have to be presented at court as my new duchess.” He leaned close to whisper, “And the great thing about being a duchess, my love, is you get to say whatever you want—just as your husband does. We’ll be the outrageous Greycourts together.”
She broke into a smile. “Ooh, I do like that idea. Does that mean I don’t have to follow all those rules, either?”
He turned serious. “Except for one: You must keep on loving me.”
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “That one’s easy. Because I always will.”
Epilogue
Of course, Grey got his way concerning their wedding. Three months to the day from the death of Beatrice’s uncle Maurice, they got married.
Not that Beatrice minded. With so many relations around, she and Grey had never had the chance to be alone, so three months had seemed like three years. Especially since he’d been forced to spend time at his properties without her, arranging matters so they could go on an extended wedding trip in the Lake Country. Now all she had to do was endure this interminable wedding breakfast. Then she could have Grey to herself at last.
He and his family had honored her wishes—to be married at Armitage Hall. It was the only way to have her aunt and Gwyn and her cousins attend, since they were all still in mourning. Fortunately, no one considered it odd if a man like Grey married while in mourning, especially since the person who died had been his stepfather, not his father.
Grey came up behind her. “When can we respectably leave?” he murmured.
She laughed. “You’re asking me? I have no idea what rule that is. Your mother was too busy planning this to give me lessons in wedding behavior.”
Sheridan approached them accompanied by a stranger. “Heywood didn’t get here in time for the ceremony, but at least he made it in time for the breakfast.”
“Heywood? I would never have recognized you!” Grey said. “My God, I had no idea you were coming.” He enveloped the fellow in a bear hug as Beatrice stood back enjoying the sight of familial camaraderie.
Heywood looked a bit like Sheridan, but more like his father, with Maurice’s hazel eyes and high brow. And judging from the one portrait they had of a young Maurice, Heywood also had his father’s light brown hair, except that Heywood’s was streaked blond from his time on the Peninsula. He was as tall as Grey, though, which she could tell when the two men broke apart.
This was one important legacy of Grey’s putting his resentment of his parents to rest. His relationship with his family had become easier. Even Sheridan had said only the other night that Grey was more like the adult version of his ten-year-old self than like the scary chap who’d first come to see them at Armitage Hall.
Her reply was that no one had bothered to dig beneath the surface. If they had, they would have found the same little boy cowering in the corner as she had, though it had taken her time to unearth him.
Grey drew back and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Beatrice, may I introduce Colonel Lord Heywood Wolfe of the Tenth Hussars, who is also your cousin and my half brother?”
“And my baby brother,” Sheridan chimed in.
Heywood shook his head. “Sheridan always insists on saying that because he thinks it irks me. What he doesn’t realize is it merely illustrates I’m younger than he is.” He grinned at Sheridan. “Right, old man?
”
“By one year,” Sheridan grumbled. “That hardly counts.”
“If you say so.” Heywood bowed to her. “And it’s a pleasure to meet the woman brave enough to marry Grey.”
“I don’t know where you got the impression that I’m some great terror to women,” Grey drawled.
“From Sheridan,” Heywood retorted, sparing a wink for her.
“I said no such thing, you damned troublemaker,” Sheridan shot back. “Now I remember why I was so happy to have you gone.”
Heywood clutched at his heart. “That’s a hard blow, considering that I took a leave of absence to come help you with this old pile.”
“That’s not why you came home, and you know it. You’re only here because—”
“Boys, boys,” Beatrice said, biting back a smile. “Could you at least wait until the breakfast is over before coming to blows? Gwyn and your mother will hang you up by your . . . um . . . earlobes if you destroy the decorations they so carefully picked out.”
“It’s possible Gwyn would hang them by something decidedly lower,” Grey said.
Beatrice gazed up at him. “I was going to say that, but I wasn’t sure how serious you were about your duchess being able to speak her mind.”
“Around this lot?” Grey snagged a glass of punch from a passing footman. “You have to speak your mind if you’re going to compete with the likes of Heywood.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Heywood said. “I’m an officer and a gentleman.”
She patted his hand. “I’m sure you are. Grey is also a gentleman two days a week.”
“What?” Grey cried in mock outrage. “It must be at least three. I’m certain of it.”
Sheridan had been watching their bantering with an impatient look, and now took the chance to jump in. “I know you’re itching to get out of here, Grey, but I have to talk to you privately about something urgent.”
Grey raised an eyebrow. “Not a chance. The last time you wished to talk to me privately in the midst of a social situation, you were accusing Beatrice’s brother of murder. So I think I’ll pass. It’s my wedding day, after all.”
“Still, I need to speak to you.”
“Anything you wish to say to me can be said in front of Beatrice. And surely you trust Heywood, too.”
Sheridan glanced at Beatrice and sighed. “Very well. It’s about that note summoning Father to the dower house. I’m not entirely certain, but I think it might have been given to Father by a footman who used to work here. He left the day after Father’s death. I’d initially assumed he left because he saw the writing on the wall—that the staff was going to be reduced yet again.”
“But leaving would have been unwise since he wouldn’t have wanted to depart without a reference if he could get one,” Beatrice said.
Sheridan turned to her. “Right. Clever of you to recognize that.”
“My wife is generally clever,” Grey said.
Oh, she liked the sound of that—“wife.” And the “clever” part wasn’t bad, either.
“But now I wonder at the footman’s suspicious timing,” Sheridan went on.
“So do I,” Heywood said. When Grey looked at him oddly, he shrugged. “When I first arrived, Sheridan gave me a summary of his suspicions and what came of them.”
“I didn’t want to get into this today of all days,” Grey said dryly, “but Wolfe said something the day the constable came that started me thinking. He pointed out that if anyone had motive, it was Mother, since she’d had three husbands die, leaving her property, et cetera.”
When his brothers bristled, he said hastily, “Don’t worry, I set him straight on that score, but he had a point. Three husbands dead, two of them so close together that there were barely three years between their deaths? Two relatively young and all in good health? Perhaps this is about someone trying to kill Mother’s husbands. It’s odd, don’t you think?”
He’d talked about this at length with her, but every time he did, a chill swept over her anew at the idea.
Heywood snorted. “That’s absurd. Our father didn’t die until he was a ripe old age, and he and Mother had been married for nearly thirty years.”
“In Prussia,” Grey said. “But only a few months here.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sheridan asked.
“The first two deaths took place here in England,” Grey said. “But after Mother married Father, they went to Prussia. The few Englishmen there stick out, so murdering Father would have been more difficult to hide. And perhaps the killer couldn’t afford to follow them there. Or he had a family he couldn’t leave or something. But Father came back only after your uncle Armie suffered an accident on horseback. Then Father drowned a few months later in what we’ve already determined was not an accident.”
“Yes, but your father died of an ague,” Sheridan pointed out.
Grey sipped some punch. “That he supposedly caught from his infant son. Me. Yet I didn’t die of it. Don’t you find that strange?”
“What are you saying?” Heywood asked. “That your father was poisoned?”
“I don’t know. I just think it’s worth looking into.” Grey shot Beatrice a veiled look. “We did suspect at one point that your uncle Armie might have been murdered, too, though we have no evidence to support that theory.”
“Good God,” Sheridan said. “This is . . . I am astonished. A span of thirty years in which someone systematically murdered all of Mother’s husbands and Uncle Armie—that seems incredible. You’ve really thought this out, I see. Though perhaps you’re drawing correspondences where there are none.”
“That may be.” Grey drained his glass. “Anyway, since you brought up Father’s murder, I thought I’d mention it. But we won’t solve the matter this afternoon, and I’m eager to take my wife off somewhere private, as you might guess.”
“Then you’d better run fast,” Sheridan said. “Here comes Joshua. And given that he still resents me, I think I’ll go talk to Vanessa.”
“She’s the pretty one with the black curls, right?” Heywood asked. “I do believe I’ll join you.”
“Holy hell,” Grey muttered, “it’s beginning. Now that Vanessa is free to marry whomever she wishes, the suitors are lining up to court her, especially since she’s an even bigger heiress than before, thanks to me.”
“An heiress?” Heywood said. “Even better.”
He and Sheridan walked off arguing in hushed tones. Beatrice took Grey’s glass and set it on a tray nearby, hoping they could sneak away.
But Joshua didn’t give them the chance, walking up to them just then. “I . . . um . . . wanted to congratulate you both. And Greycourt, I wanted to thank you again for not letting them send me off to hang.”
“Joshua!” she said. “Surely you could put it a bit less bluntly.”
Her brother exchanged a glance with Grey. “See what you’ve done? She’s all hoity-toity now, with her come-out lessons and such.”
Grey held up his hands. “Don’t blame me for that. Blame Mother.”
“And Lady Gwyn,” Joshua said with a scowl.
Beatrice bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that he’d had quite the hungry look on his face while he’d been watching Gwyn dance earlier. He would just deny it.
Joshua tugged at his cravat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I also wanted you to know that I appreciate what you did by buying the dower house from Sheridan. At least I don’t have to worry you’ll turn me out anytime soon.”
“He’s not going to turn you out at all,” Beatrice put in. “Not unless he wants me plaguing him for it.”
“And I don’t, trust me,” Grey drawled.
“Well,” Joshua said, “it may take me a while, but I’ll pay you back. Somehow.”
“You don’t have to pay me back,” Grey said. “You’re my brother now. In fact, if you’d like a better position at one of my estates, I’m sure we could find one that would suit a man of your many talents.”
Beatric
e could have kissed him for that, but Joshua drew himself up proudly. “I don’t need charity, Your Grace. I’m content in my position here.”
“But Joshua—” Beatrice began.
Grey squeezed her hand to quiet her. “I understand, sir. If you change your mind, let me know.” As her brother nodded, then limped off, headed for the door, Grey murmured, “Leave him with his pride. He thinks it’s all he has.”
“I still say he should take you up on your offer.”
Grey smirked at her. “Ah, but then he’d have to move away from Gwyn.”
That lightened her mood. “True. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Oh, and look over there.” He nodded across the room. “Sheridan seems fit to be tied. Thorn just asked Vanessa to dance, and she accepted.”
Beatrice eyed him askance. “It’s not as if she could turn him down. Remember? That was one of my lessons—no refusing the dukes when they wish to dance with you at balls. As I recall, you drummed that lesson in very well.”
“How else was I to ensure you never refused me when I asked you to dance?”
She tapped her fan against her chin. “That was quite devious of you. I ought to give you a severe tongue-lashing for it.”
He cast her quite the lascivious look. “I tell you what. You give me a tongue-lashing, and I’ll give you one.” He dropped his gaze meaningfully to a particular part of her body, which instantly reacted to his offer. Then his voice turned husky. “What do you think of that, Duchess?”
She leaned up to kiss his cheek, then whispered, “I think we have finally figured out the appropriate time for the bride and groom to leave their wedding breakfast.”
His eyes shone with both love and desire, sweetly intertwined. “And when is that?”
“Now, my love. Now.”
Then as slyly as a pair of children sneaking off to the fair, they slipped out the door.
If you enjoyed Project Duchess, you’ll love
THE ART OF
SINNING
It’s the first book in Sabrina Jeffries’
witty and sexy historical romance series, Sinful Suitors.
Project Duchess Page 26
