by Kate Pearce
He finally managed to leave and went down the stairs to the entrance of the hotel. As usual, his stepmother had given him a lot to think about, none of it good. Her revelation about Bottomly was worrying and, worse, she was astute enough to realize it might cause him a problem and pursue it.
He decided to go to his club and see if he could ascertain where Bottomly was likely to be found. Margaret was safely at his great aunt’s, Clarkson was guarding the house, and Nash was taking care of Phoebe, which meant he could focus on tracking down his prey.
He’d known Bottomly at school. He had always struck Alistair as a follower rather than a leader, the sort of man who admired fools like his cousin Farrell and enjoyed associating with them. He’d never thought Bottomly would be the kind of man to write to Frederica in an attempt to gain information without someone else pulling the strings.
Had Frederica been the one to contact Bottomly? He paused on the corner of the street. Had she heard rumors of what had happened the night Farrell had died and reached out to a gullible man in an attempt to get information to damage Alistair still further? He reminded himself not to get too carried away. Maybe she had a point that he always thought she was out to get him. Francis had been with him that night and so had Dr. Nettles. He had witnesses as to what had happened and, therefore, nothing to worry about.
If he’d been a betting man, he would’ve wagered that Pritchard would be the one causing problems. He’d always disliked Alistair and had been Farrell’s closest friend for years.
Even as Alistair hailed a hackney cab, the tenseness in his stomach refused to relax. He trusted his gut. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. Something wasn’t right, and, until he cleared it up, he would not rest easily. What with dealing with Frederica, making sure that Margaret and Phoebe were protected, and saving the dukedom, he predicted his days were going to be remarkably busy.
Francis was due to join him in London to help further smooth the complicated reconstruction of the ducal finances and repair the all-important personal relationships that Farrell had so carelessly destroyed. Despite his reputation, Francis was begrudgingly recognized as a tough negotiator and was well known in the financial community, whereas Alistair had kept far away from anything involving finance after his stepmother’s coup. He therefore had a lot to learn, and he was very grateful both for Francis’s help and Margaret’s keen-eyed financial acumen.
He leaned back against the worn seat and briefly closed his eyes. London was exhausting at the best of times, and he’d barely settled in. He pictured Margaret sleeping in their bed and found himself smiling. She might have married him under unusual circumstances, but it was rapidly becoming clear to him that she was the perfect wife. She held him accountable, she didn’t allow him to divert her attention away from the matter in hand—a skill he thought he’d perfected—and she met him as an equal in bed.
Of course, the vast differences in their upbringings were bound to cause the occasional misunderstanding, but he relished her opinions, liked being challenged, and enjoyed arguing her into bed. She also didn’t demand that he love her above all else, something Frederica had insisted on. Frederica’s emotional demands had exhausted him and made him realize that love never came without a price and was therefore to be avoided
His smile widened. In all the turmoil surrounding him, it was good to know his wife was firmly on his side, and, as his friend, would always be honest with him, even as he sought to conceal certain things from her… She wouldn’t like that at all, but, as soon as he had solved the problems, he would confess everything, and accept her wrath with due humility.
“Whites!” the hackney cab driver bellowed as the carriage came to a halt.
“Thank you.” Alistair gave him some coins and went up to the door of his club. It was raining hard now, and the streets were almost empty. He would spend some time greeting old friends, getting the latest gossip, and find a way to bring Bottomly into the conversation as unobtrusively as possible.
Once he had discovered the man’s whereabouts, he would pay him a visit, and hopefully find out exactly what was going on.
“I don’t like it,” Margaret repeated as the dressmaker looked inquiringly back at the dowager. “I’m too old for frothy lace and pastel colors, and I will not wear them.”
“With all due respect, my lady, I tend to agree with the duchess.” Madame Violet, the dressmaker, straightened up. “With her strong coloring and height, she will look magnificent in darker colors and jewel tones.”
Lady Thule sighed. “Make her look matronly and stern if you must. Such plainness in dress brings to mind a governess, not a duchess.”
“We will compensate for the lack of additional trimmings with expensive and unique fabrics, my lady.” The dressmaker winked at Margaret. “I can assure you that her grace will look just as she ought.”
“Hmmph.” Lady Thule glared at Margaret. “If I allow you your way on this, you must accept my decision as to your court gown, which I will pay for. It is imperative that it follows the correct protocols.”
“I will certainly cede to your superior knowledge on that matter, my lady,” Margaret agreed. “One would not wish to offend.”
“I will also teach you how to curtsey properly to your monarch and how to back out of the receiving room without tripping over your feet, standing on your train or, even worse, falling to the floor.”
“It sounds quite intimidating,” Margaret confessed as she put on her gown and came to sit beside her hostess.
“It is, and it is meant to be.” Lady Thule fixed her with an terrifying stare. “And I intend for you to represent our family properly.”
“I’ll certainly do my best.”
Margaret had never seen a member of the royal family, let alone met one in person. The idea of being dressed up like a doll in wide panniers, ostrich feathers, and a train, and paraded in front of the queen and her family was, quite frankly, ridiculous. She knew Adam might tease her but would secretly be delighted that she had risen so high, and that Lottie would pout and laughingly wish that it had been her.
Lady Thule pointed her closed fan at Margaret. “You will not fail. It is not allowed.”
“Will Phoebe need to be introduced as well?” Margaret asked, anxious to leave the subject of her shortcomings behind.
“Not immediately. A lot of young girls wait until they are married, these days.”
“Then, at least I will not have to worry about her.” Margaret turned to the dressmaker, who had finished packing up her things, and jumped to her feet. “Thank you for coming. Do you need any help down to the carriage?”
“No, thank you, your grace.” Madame Violet smiled at her. “I will visit you at Thorsway House as soon as I have something ready to show you.”
She left, and Margaret returned to her seat to find the dowager scowling at her.
“You do not offer to help the staff!”
“Why not?” Margaret rang for some refreshments. “She was carrying rather a lot.
“Because it is not done! Being familiar with those of the serving class leads to a lack of respect and a blurring of the lines.”
“So?” Margaret frowned in return. “Surely, respect is earned?”
“Good Lord! Has Alistair married a radical?” Lady Thule pressed a hand to her bosom. “I’ll wager you’ll be telling me next that every man should have the vote!”
“Oh, I’d go further than that.” Margaret smiled sweetly. “I don’t see why women shouldn’t vote, too.”
Luckily, the maid arrived with the tea because Margaret feared her hostess might explode into a thousand pieces. She had to admit to a certain amount of enjoyment in battling with the dowager. She also knew that society would judge her far more harshly, and that she had better decide how she was going to deal with it. Should she remain quiet, hide her “common” accent, and attempt to pass unnoticed through the ranks of the peerage, or should she try her hardest to be herself and ignore those who had already decided she was
beneath them?
Apparently, because she and Alistair were still officially in mourning for the duke and his son, she could avoid balls and parties until the following season, but private dinners and the occasional musical evening were deemed acceptable. Lady Thule was determined to introduce her into society, and Margaret was more than willing to accept the help. She didn’t want to let Alistair down, and although he might laugh and say it was all nonsense, she knew in her heart that it was still his world, and that he expected to be part of it.
As Lady Thule started lecturing her on the correct way to deal with morning callers, Margaret settled down to listen. She’d married not only a man, but also a duke, and she would just have to live with it.
Chapter 15
Three days later, Alistair walked into the breakfast room and found his wife already at the table. The pleasing smell of sausages and bacon rose to greet him from the silver-covered dishes on the side table.
“I assume we now have a cook?”
“Yes, her name is Mrs. White.” Margaret smiled up at him. “She seems very pleasant.”
Alistair filled his plate and took the seat opposite her. He’d marveled at his wife’s quiet confidence in the kitchen and had enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table eating with his loyal staff. “I will reserve judgment until I have tasted her offerings. I suspect she will not be as proficient as you. It’s good to know that if Ruby Delisle gets her way and the aristocracy are brought down, we’d still be able to survive.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow and returned to her correspondence.
“What are all those?” Alistair pointed at the growing pile of cards by her elbow.
“Invitations. I was going to ask you what you want to do about them. Lady Thule says it is acceptable for us to attend private dinners and musical soirees held in people’s homes, but not to go to balls, public parties, or the theater.” She glanced down at the stack of cards. “The thing is, I don’t know any of these people.”
“Then hand them over, and I’ll go through them,” he offered obligingly.
“Finish your breakfast first. I doubt any of them are emergencies, and I haven’t finished going through everything yet.”
He added more food to his plate and she poured him another cup of coffee, and proceeded to open the next letter, and then the next.
“You have something from Grillons.” She passed it over, her nose wrinkling. “Doused in perfume.”
He took the folded billet. “Ah, that would be from my mistress, it’s quite admirable that she has taught herself to read and write.”
Margaret’s head came up, and she stared at him.
“Your mistress?”
“Do you really think I would tell you if it was?” he asked. “And why would I need one when I have you?”
She glanced down at her plate. “I have no illusions about our marriage, sir. You are quite free to seek out… others.”
He sat back in his chair, the note lying unopened beside his now tapping fingers.
“Do you really value yourself so little?” His question came out more sharply than he had intended, perhaps because her words had hurt him more than he had anticipated. “You must know I was merely jesting.”
She finally looked up at him. “Yes, I’ve noticed that you do that quite often when you are trying to avoid having a real discussion about something.” She nodded at the note. “Who is it really from?”
He considered her for a long, fuming moment. “Lady Hellion.”
“She’s in London?” Margaret asked, and then her eyes narrowed. “You went to Grillons four days ago. Has she been there for all this time and you haven’t bothered to mention it to me?”
He shrugged. “I’m mentioning it now, aren’t I?”
“Only because I have forced the discussion on you.” She shook her head. “In truth, I’d rather it had been your mistress.”
“Why’s that?” he asked with a lightness he was far from feeling.
“Because Lady Hellion is—” She abruptly stopped speaking.
“Is what?” Alistair knew he should stop, but he’d never learned to be careful.
“Too important to you.” Margaret rose from the table and shoved in her chair with unnecessary force. “If you will excuse me, I have a dressmaking appointment in half an hour, and then I will be going out. Please let me know which invitations you wish me to accept and which to decline.”
“Margaret.”
She paused at the door to look back at him.
“Maybe this is why I use humor, to avoid upsetting you unnecessarily?” Alistair inquired. “Now we are at odds for no reason at all.”
“No reason? When you deliberately concealed the arrival of the woman who you believe poisoned your sister? How am I supposed to keep Phoebe safe with Lady Hellion around?”
“That’s why you are angry with me?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I—” She raised her chin. “Your decision not to inform me of her arrival was unfair and shows how little you trust me.”
“You were the one who assumed I had a mistress!” he countered. “Where’s your trust in me?”
“I did not—” She drew herself up and glared at him for several seconds before letting out a frustrated breath. “It is obviously pointless trying to argue with you.”
“Which is what I originally suggested.” Alistair smiled sweetly. “I don’t like arguing.”
“You are infuriating!”
She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him alone at the table. A minute later he heard a door slam shut upstairs and winced. Didn’t she understand that he’d been trying to protect her? Even as he justified his behavior, a small voice in his head insisted that his wife had a point.
Why hadn’t he told her that Frederica was in town? He glanced up at the ceiling, but everything had gone quiet again. Why did she care if he spoke to his stepmother?
“You know why,” Alistair muttered out loud to himself. “That’s why you didn’t mention it in the first place.”
He considered following Margaret upstairs and begging for forgiveness while persuading her into bed and realized that would simply prove her point. But if his wife didn’t care if he took a mistress, why did she care if he spent time with his stepmother?
He feared he knew the answer to that question, too. Margaret might insist that their marriage was merely a financial bargain, but he was fairly certain she cared for him…
“Devil take it!” Alistair flung down his napkin and got to his feet. And there it was—another subject that he carefully avoided because he didn’t want to admit that he’d started to care for her, too. So much for there being honesty between them.
Margaret was brushing the mud off the hem of her coat with some force and muttering under her breath when the door opened, and the last person she wanted to see appeared. Her husband sauntered in, one hand in his pocket, and halted beside the four-poster bed, the epitome of fashionable elegance.
“I probably owe you an apology,” he ventured.
“Probably?” Margaret refused to look at him.
“I was… hurt when you assumed I would take a mistress.”
She stopped what she was doing and slowly raised her head. “Hurt?”
He shrugged. “Yes. I would not have married you if I intended to break my vows.”
“Then perhaps it is I who should be apologizing to you,” Margaret replied, aware that as gratifying as this was, he was still not prepared to talk about his obsession with his stepmother.
He offered her an enticing smile. “Perhaps we should apologize to each other? It never occurred to me that you would expect me to take a mistress.”
She shrugged. “You are a peer of the realm, and, from what I have observed, such behavior is commonplace amongst your set.”
“Not for me.”
“Then, as I said, I was wrong.” She offered him a direct look.
“And I was wrong to tease you about such a matter.”
She waited for him to ex
pound on his words to include why he had deceived her about his stepmother, but he had apparently finished speaking.
“Well, then, as it appears that we have agreed to keep our marriage vows, the matter is settled, and we can both proceed with our days. As I mentioned, I am expecting Madame Violet any minute now.” She looked expectantly at him.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “l know that because we were virtual strangers when we married, that there are bound to be difficulties between us, but I hope that we can continue to be honest with each other.”
“Indeed.” Her fingers curled into her palm. He was a fine one to talk about honesty when he still hadn’t told her what his stepmother was doing in London. “I will certainly bear that in mind in our future interactions.”
She turned back to her coat, horribly aware that he was still standing there. She hoped he would have the sense to leave before she threw the brush at his stupid blond head. After being part of a plain-speaking family who settled their disagreements in a straightforward manner, dealing with her chameleon-like husband was sometimes exhausting.
“I will see you later, then, duchess.”
He finally left, and Margaret’s shoulders sagged. His refusal to discuss his stepmother made her feel better about concealing her communications with Mr. Pritchard. She had agreed to meet him at two in the afternoon beside the Serpentine, where he had promised to reveal all to her. If Alistair believed he could deal with Frederica without her assistance, she could certainly deal with Mr. Pritchard.
Margaret sighed. There was no point in denying it. After six months of marriage, she had come to care very deeply for her husband. She sensed that admitting it would not endear her to him, and that he might even turn it into a joke, which would hurt her very deeply. It was a lowering thought, which was why she truly wished to solve the issue with Mr. Pritchard. If she couldn’t tell Alistair that she cared for him, perhaps she could show it in another more practical way?
“Duchess.” Mr. Pritchard bowed low and offered her his arm.
