Jilting the Duke
Page 19
She had no face paints, only a sweet-smelling soap in a dish next to the basin and ajar of lavender water. Her jewelry box held a few trinkets, none of any value. He wondered where she kept her jewels, then wondered if she had any jewels at all. He’d thought she had not worn jewels as a nod to Tom’s death. Now he wondered if Tom had ever bothered to give her such gifts. He felt a mixture of jealousy and disdain. He had never left a mistress so unadorned.
At the bottom of the jewelry box was a long ribbon and a key at its end. What did the key open? He’d find the lock, then retrieve the key.
She had a small shelf of books in her bedroom. None likely Tom’s, but he searched and found nothing. No love letters. No remembrances of Tom; all of those were in the library in the manuscript books. No treasured notes in Tom’s hand, not even, Aidan realized, the letter that she had received from Tom invoking the guardianship. Proof she had a hiding place, and he’d already found the key.
He next made short work of the study. Everything was neatly arranged: old bills, all marked paid, in one pile, new bills waiting on the beginning of the quarter in another. The ledgers he’d already examined in the library.
Though he’d already spent time in the nursery, he searched there as well. The only papers were the illustrations from Tom’s books Sophia had given to Ian for decorations. Aidan looked once more at the rose and the hummingbird, recalling Ian’s glee when Aidan hadn’t known why the image was wrong. Something niggled at the back of his memory, but wouldn’t come clear, so he set it aside and continued searching.
Many of the books had inscriptions from Tom to Ian, “his dearest son,” and snippets of advice for him as he grew. What sorrow it must have caused Tom to know his son would grow up without him, having only flyleaves of books and letters and portraits to keep Tom’s memory alive to a boy not even ten? Aidan paused over one particularly loving passage. Whatever happened, he would not abandon Tom’s son or let Tom’s memory fade.
Aidan returned to Sophia’s bedroom, picked up her dress—hopelessly wrinkled—and laid it over an ottoman. He returned to the key on the ribbon, pressed it into his finger to remember its length and shape. It was a simple key; he might not even need it if he could find the lock.
From the balcony, he retrieved the cat and brought her into the house, then pulled the door to the balcony closed and locked it. From now on, Aidan would be spending his nights guarding the house. A man who would accost Sophia in an opera box with Aidan only footsteps away would think nothing of entering a darkened house with few servants. He took a quilt from the foot of Sophia’s bed and carried it back to the library.
It was still dark outside; he had several hours to sleep before the house awoke. He made himself as comfortable as he could be on the chaise longue.
Tomorrow—he had already begun to think ahead—he would speak with Dodsley and Cook; he would send for men to guard Sophia’s house; he would meet with Malcolm and Walgrave. He would find the lock that fit the key.
They would still leave town. Only the timing had changed.
* * *
Aidan awoke to the sound of the library door opening. Dodsley was placing mail on Sophia’s side of the partner desk. Aidan realized he had never seen Sophia sit on what had been Tom’s side. He would consider that later. For now he needed Dodsley as an ally in protecting Sophia. He sat up.
“Sir, I had not realized you were here.” Dodsley’s voice was impassive.
“I was hoping to speak with you privately. I need your help.” Aidan rose.
“My loyalties, your grace, are with her ladyship.” Dodsley assessed Aidan closely, noting his clothes, his tailcoat on the back of the chair, his boots in front of the couch near the fireplace.
“I was hoping that was the case.” Aidan stepped to the hearth to retrieve his boots. “When did you begin service with the Wilmots?”
“I came in a sense with the house. Mr. Aldine purchased the property for her ladyship while she was still living in Italy.”
“For her ladyship?” Aidan returned to the chaise and sat, boots in hand.
“Yes, your grace. As Mr. Aldine can tell you, the house is not part of his lordship’s estates. It belongs to her ladyship outright. Her late husband and I corresponded to determine if our ideas of service would be complementary, and I chose to remain when my former employers removed to the country.”
“You did not know her ladyship’s late husband?” Aidan pulled on the right boot, then the left.
“No, his late lordship died abroad shortly after purchasing the house. I have always been in her ladyship’s employ.”
“Then, I’ll be frank: her ladyship was threatened last night at the opera. We’ll remove to my estate at the end of the week, but I’d like to keep a close eye on her until then.”
“She will not like that. Her ladyship may appear compliant, but she follows her own mind.”
Aidan wondered how many people knew Sophia as well as her butler. “That’s why I need your help. I need to stay in the house without anyone—particularly her ladyship—finding out.”
“Her ladyship sleeps too near the guest rooms for you to use one of them. But Luca’s room was in the family quarters, close enough to hear if she calls out. It abuts the rear stairs, so it would be easy to come and go unobserved. I can have it prepared for you.”
“Luca?”
“His lordship’s secretary. He accompanied the Wilmots from Naples and remained here some months before returning to Italy.”
Ah, the other handwriting in the accounts and on the guardianship papers.
“It’s essential that the staff not reveal I’m staying here.”
“The staff is fond of her ladyship and his lordship. No one will tell tales if they are in danger.”
“I’d like to have more men about the house. They will be in my employ. Are there places to be filled?”
“Certainly, your grace. I can place one in the garden with Perkins; that would cover the yard. Another footman would serve for the front of the house. You have a groom already in the mews, but Cook would welcome an errand boy. That would cover the servants’ entrance. Of course I will be watchful, as will Perkins and Cook.”
“I’ll send three to fit those jobs. They will arrive this afternoon.”
“But her ladyship, sir, will she not notice the extra servants?”
“She will, but she won’t object.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Aidan spent the next several nights watching over Sophia and Ian, slipping into her house after dark, slipping out before dawn, changing clothes, and returning as if he had spent the night in his own bed. Sophia had accepted the additional servants on the argument that they were present to protect Ian. But, in the pit of Aidan’s stomach, he knew she and Ian weren’t safe.
At the same time, remembering their kisses in his garden and their caresses in the carriage, he wondered if she was safer with him in or out of the house. Those newer encounters merged with other memories, older ones, of limbs entwined, of hands and faces touching, of kisses down the line of her spine as she lay spent on the pallet he’d made for them in a forest clearing.
He imagined the ways her body would be different, after a child and a decade. He imagined the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the planes of her stomach. It wouldn’t matter: his body would still fit into hers. Having seen her again, he realized he’d been waiting, wanting at least one more chance to wrap his body around hers.
Over the years, he’d reduced his desire for her to sheer sensation, devoid of emotion. He’d wanted to possess her body once more, to reassert his youthful claim to her passion. He’d wished to feel her move beneath him, given over completely to him and to the pleasure he would bring her.
But at least until this danger was past, he reminded himself, he was obliged to guard her, to think only of her welfare. Protecting her from the threat of an unknown enemy seemed to only heighten his desire. He wanted her to be safe, even from himself.
* * *
She wondered about Aidan’s political views, but she couldn’t discuss politics with him, not with the question of Tom’s patriotism unanswered. Since the threats at the opera, she’d been reconsidering their years in Italy. Tom’s visitors at odd hours, his insistence that the country was on the brink of revolution. At the time, she’d discounted it as a well-connected exile’s interest in the political winds of his adopted country. She wished she’d known more. Had Tom really traded in secrets? And for whom? Tom wouldn’t betray England.... She knew he wouldn’t.
At the bottom of the pile was a small envelope, the address in Luca Bruni’s hand. Luca had been inseparable from Tom, had accompanied him everywhere.
She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read. Luca had arrived two weeks after the funeral of his sister Francesca. Though his niece Liliana had expressed a stoic acceptance of her mother’s death, Luca was unwilling to leave the six-year-old in a convent school, not with the political climate so unstable. He wished to return to London and bring his Liliana with him, to be educated there sotto la sua tutela.
Sophia read his commentary on the political situation in Naples differently than she would have done even a day ago. No, if Tom’s actions had compromised Luca’s position in Naples, she could not refuse his request to return. With Francesca dead, it was only right to give Liliana a home; Sophia would not consign the child to another’s care.
Sotto la sua tutela . . . under your tutelage. Rearing a girl posed different problems than rearing a boy. With Ian, she had never had to make the choices her own parents—Oliver, an Oxford-trained clergyman, and Constance, daughter of an Oxford tutor—had faced in educating her. In their parishes her parents had seen the virtual enslavement of married women, unable to own property, without rights to their own income or even their children. The Elliots determined not to sacrifice their daughter on the altar of accomplishments. No, their Sophia—her name meaning wisdom—would be educated as if she were a boy.
In the village school where Sophia grew up, area boys and girls learned to do sums, to read, to write in a neat hand, and to understand geography, but only boys learned more. By the time she was nine, Sophia knew Latin and Greek grammar, geography and arithmetic, some algebra and geometry, and classical and English history. Proficient in botany, she could identify the plants in their village by their genus and species, and she could draw a plant in its habitat, matching its colors with remarkable skill. But it was a path that had isolated her, even from children of her own station.
If she were to rear Liliana, she would have to decide whose values she would pass along.
There would be difficulties. The Brunis’ presence would be hard to explain to Phineas, perhaps even harder to Aidan. But if there were controversy or danger, she would face it. She was a widow of means; Tom had made sure of that.
Certainly, Tom had kept things from her—he would have claimed out of love. But she had let him. From the moment she had discovered she was increasing, she had deferred to Tom’s judgment and allowed him to manage their lives. She had done so because she had believed she knew him, his character, his values, his ideals. And even when she disagreed with him—as with the guardianship—that faith in his good sense and affection had eased her mind. She had believed she knew all his secrets, but in the end, she hadn’t. And now those secrets endangered them all.
No, she would not let another person determine what information she needed to know again. She would not trust her causes to another’s good will. She would choose what battles she would fight and which she would set aside. She could make her own choices and live with their consequences.
She took out her notepaper and wrote two words: “come home.” Enclosing a bank draft with more than adequate funds for passage for two, she folded the letter. But she hesitated before sealing it. Given Tom’s activities, corresponding directly with Luca might not be wise.
She placed Luca’s original communication and her unsealed response in another cover. Addressing it to Aldine, she asked him to review the correspondence, then send her response by the fastest, most secure route to Naples.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Is he alone?” Aidan walked past Walgrave’s butler.
“I can announce you, your grace.”
Aidan watched a maid carry a silver tray from the servants’ stairwell toward the back of the house. “No need; I can announce myself.”
The butler made no attempt to stop him. He knew when to interfere and when to step aside.
As foul as Aidan’s own mood was, he could tell that Walgrave’s was fouler.
Walgrave sat at the table in his morning room, a coffee service beside him. A pile of government reports covered the table.
Walgrave growled when Aidan entered. “Did you know that half of the bank notes in the North are forged? That last year alone there were no less than 140 capital convictions for forgery? That last year more women were hung for forging and passing forged bank notes than were hung for murder?”
“You’re on the secret committee, I take it.” Aidan turned a chair backwards to face Walgrave.
“I wish someone would take it; it’s a nightmare. More than a decade ago the Bank of England stopped paying its obligations in cash. Now every bank in the land issues its own notes. The number of forgeries has risen . . . let me see . . . 281 convictions since the suspension of cash payments. Before the suspension, only 3. This report here”—Walgrave lifted a manuscript in front of him—“tallies the number of individuals imprisoned simply for having forged notes in their possession. Holding the notes, even if you never spend them, is as much of a crime as forging them, and the penalty just as deadly. And this one”—he pointed to another manuscript—“recounts the newest fraud: a pair of swindlers pretending to be bank examiners who steal true notes by pretending they are forgeries. They duped our managers at half a dozen banks before we realized their game. The committee has to alleviate this evil, without, without I say, simply reinstating cash payments.”
“Then my news won’t improve your morning.” Aidan leaned forward. “Apparently the Home Office is not alone in believing Lady Wilmot possesses the missing documents.”
Walgrave raised an eyebrow in question.
“A man threatened her at the opera.”
“When?” Walgrave leaned back in his chair.
“Three nights ago.”
“And you are just telling me?”
“I’ve been ensuring that she and her son are safe,” Aidan countered.
“Did you see the man?”
“Had I seen him, I would not be asking for your help.”
“Of course. How has the search for the documents gone?”
“I’ve searched the house, including the servants’ quarters. Sophia mentioned she sent some trunks to Wilmot’s estate, so I’m thinking of traveling there on the way to my own estate. I haven’t found any list of names or any other sort of document that might be state secrets, except . . .”
“Except?” Walgrave lifted his pencil to write a note.
“Someone should examine the fair copy to Wilmot’s last book. It’s filled with odd nonsense phrases in Latin. They may be nothing but the product of Wilmot’s decline. But Lady Wilmot says his mind wasn’t affected. There’s also an engraved plate of some sort of cactus plant. If Wilmot converted the document he received into code, then the plant might be the cipher key, and the Latin phrases . . .”
“The code itself. Brilliant. Do you have a suggestion for how we should acquire the documents?”
“I have a print from the engraved plate here.” He withdrew the picture of the agave from his pocket. “You might want to also retrieve Lady Wilmot’s corrected proofs from John Murray’s. In that copy
she’s marked all the phrases that aren’t supposed to be in the book, making it easy to see which bits might be code.”
“We’ll have that done by morning.”
“I think it best—given the threats—to take the Wilmots with me when I leave the city. I can protect them more easily at Greenwood Hall.”
“Ah yes. You have gathered a small militia there.”
“Just old soldiers with no other place to go.”
“And completely loyal to you.”
“As I am to them.”
“It sounds like a reasonable plan. One we will support with whatever resources you need.”
“I need a diversion, something to allow her to travel from Wilmot’s country seat on to my estate, but leave everyone thinking she’s still at her country home.”
“We can do that—let us know when and where. Easier than stopping the flow of forged notes, at least.” Walgrave turned back to his papers.
Aidan didn’t mention the key on the ribbon or the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to look for the hiding place it opened. Walgrave didn’t need to know that, not yet at least.
* * *
Malcolm Hucknall watched from a comfortable chair as Aidan worked his way across the saloon in their club. A handshake here, a shared laugh there. Had he not been a duke, one would have thought Forster was canvasing for election to parliament. But Malcolm knew better: Aidan was on the hunt for information. Aidan took almost an hour to make his way to the shadows where Malcolm was most often to be found. Old habits die hard, and Bonaparte back in exile still had not ended the threats to England.
“Looking for something?” Malcolm held up his hand to order a drink for Aidan.
“You.” Aidan pulled out the chair and seated himself.
“You could have found me over an hour ago.” Malcolm nodded to the barmaid. “Or sent a note and met me at home.”
“I needed to see who was in town.”
“And?”
“Everyone I expected, and some I didn’t.”
Malcolm nodded. “Who is most interesting?”