Love With an Improper Stranger

by Barbara Devlin

  “Yes.” Jasper rolled his eyes. “Miss Lenore Teversham needs her knight.”

  “Thank you.” Now the tears beckoned, and heartbreak rode in its wake. “I will never forget you.”

  #

  “At some point during this impromptu meeting, are you going to tell me why I am here?” Sir Ross fanned through Lenore’s gowns, which hung in the armoire in the chamber she occupied at Elliott House. “Or am I to guess, Your Grace? And if such is the case, I must warn you I am a spy, by trade, not a fortune teller.”

  For a few minutes, Blake just stood there, wondering how to propose the question he dreaded most. In the fortnight since Lenore and Lucilla disappeared, the Brethren, along with a selection of skilled Bow Street Runners and agents from the Counterintelligence Corps, initiated a citywide search for the Tevershams with no success, thus far. And as the days progressed, he struggled with a single nagging notion, relentless in its torment, so it was past due to deal with the issue that plagued both his sleeping and waking hours.

  “Before Lenore was taken, I proposed marriage.” The customary pain flared in the pit of his belly, as he mulled the annoying query. “And it would make things easier if you called me Blake.”

  “All right.” Logan dipped his chin. “Yes, I am aware Miss Teversham is your fiancée.”

  “What you do not know is that when I made my offer, Lenore did not accept me, at first.” Some small part of Blake died to admit it. “Rather, she hesitated, but I pursued her until she yielded.” And then words failed him.

  Excruciating silence hung over the elegant apartment, yet the quiet calm struck him as a strident scream of alarm, piercing his ears.

  “You wonder if she intended to leave you.” It was a statement. How strange it seemed that Sir Ross could sum up Blake’s torment in the pedestrian utterance. “You fret she may have planned to renege on her promise.”

  “Common sense suggests it is a possibility, though I hate myself for supporting even the mere implication.” Blake strolled to the vanity and toyed with a silver-backed brush. “But I cannot deny that she left behind so many personal effects, which I purchased expressly for her. Thus I wonder if, in fact, she is not missing. Perhaps she decided, however late, that this life was not for her, and this is her way of declaring she wants nothing more to do with me.”

  “Is that what you see, standing amid her things?” Sir Ross cast a half smile. “Blake, take a deep breath, survey the vicinity, and give me your impression.”

  “What does it matter?” Frustrated, he speared his fingers through his hair. “We have no time for games.”

  “Do you value my professional opinion?” Sir Ross canted his head and narrowed his stare. “Do you wish to know my impression?”

  The tension investing his shoulders found a convenient outlet in a feral growl. “Why do you think you are here?”

  “Then look about you.” The secret agent splayed his arms. “Lenore’s dresses remain in the closet. Her shoes, reticules, intimate garments, perfumes, toiletries, and various feminine appurtenances proclaim a bold and undeniable affirmation.”

  “And that would be—what?” Blake inquired, with a sigh of impatience.

  “These are not the actions of a woman on the run, as she would have packed her brushes, mirror, and other small necessities.” Logan pointed for emphasis. “Oh, no. Quite the contrary, I argue Lenore fully expected to return, and that is why I have committed so many resources to her recovery, as the clock is ticking, and we have little time.”

  “I do not follow.” A new worry supplanted the previous one, and Blake braced himself. “What is your concern?”

  “Can you not fathom it? The instant Lenore put on your ring; she surrendered her former existence as the conventional Miss Teversham and donned the estimable cloak of the aristocracy.” Sir Ross furrowed his brow. “She is to be the duchess of Rylan, and that is no ordinary attribute. If the villain discovers what he holds in his grasp, he could very well act in desperation and kill her, as he would know we would never cease the search.”

  “I beg your pardon, You Grace.” Jennings paused in the entry. “But there is a gentleman insisting on an audience.”

  “Did you tell him I am not available?” Annoyed, Blake did not wait for an answer. Instead, he stormed from the room and into the hall, pushing past the butler. Given his temperament, at the moment, he pitied the poor soul who made demands of a duke. As he strode through the gallery, he spared not a glance at his ancestors and charged down the grand staircase. In the foyer, a tall stranger tarried.

  “Your Grace, I presume?” The newcomer, clothed in the polished garb of a well-heeled gentleman, dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “But I am Samuel Teversham, and I have come to collect my nieces.”

  It was as if the floor opened up and swallowed him whole, because Blake halted and could not move. When his knees buckled, Jennings offered assistance.

  “You are Samuel Teversham from America?” Sir Ross inquired.

  “I am just arrived, sir.” Teversham blinked. “Have I come at an inopportune moment, because I can make an appointment and come back?”

  “How did you know the ladies were staying here?” The head of the Corps studied the stranger. “Lenore and Lucilla are no relation to His Grace.”

  “I had a letter from Lenore, apprising me of General Cotton’s assistance in obtaining transport to London.” He peered at Blake, after they removed to the drawing room. “When I disembarked, I traveled to Stapleton’s residence, whereupon he explained His Grace offered safe passage, and I came right away. May I see the girls?”

  As a stunned spectator, Blake remained on the sidelines, as Sir Ross recounted the serious events surrounding the Teversham sisters’ disappearance. And although his mother and Damian, who appeared on Samuel Teversham’s heels, flanked Blake, never had he felt more alone and isolated in his anguish.

  Although he had known for the past two weeks that some horrible crime had been committed against Lenore and Lucilla, it was not until the real Samuel Teversham, so similar in profile and stature to his late elder brother as to defy the most entrenched skeptic, surfaced that Blake had come face to face with cold, stark reality. No longer could he vacillate in his conclusions, and a cruel weight settled on his chest.

  “Do you have the message your niece sent?” asked Sir Ross.

  “I have it right here.” Teversham withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket. “For your inspection, Sir Ross. Also, should you have doubts regarding my identity, which I understand in light of the circumstances, I have the last letter Horace dispatched, just prior to his return to Brussels, more than three years ago, which included a signed copy of his will. My brother was always prepared, and he made provisions for the girls, so I do not comprehend how they came to be in such dire straits after his death.” To Blake, Samuel said, “My apologies, Your Grace, if I startled you, as that was not my intent. But I take issue with the slander of my family’s good name, as never have the Tevershams incurred debt.”

  When Blake made no response, Sir Ross explained, “We are aware of the falsehood, as your brother’s solicitor made a thorough audit of General Teversham’s finances and found no arrears.”

  “So who took them?” As a broken man, Teversham pulled a kerchief from his pocket and sniffed. “And why?”

  Their voices echoed in his brain, as if coming to Blake from afar. While on the outside he projected a demeanor of calm, in truth he foundered in a pit of despair that threatened to swallow him whole.

  “Why else?” Sir Ross shrugged. “Money. Now all we need is to figure out who held a propitious position to enact such a deed.”

  “And we must find Lenore and Lucy, with all expedience.” A tear coursed Samuel’s cheek. “Alice and I were never able to have children, so Horace’s daughters are special to us. While we never met Lucilla, we did know Lenore, and hers is a loving, sympathetic soul. In these past years, we have looked forward to the correspondence we received, without fail, from our thoughtful nie
ces, and it would destroy my wife if something happened to the girls. As it stands, I do not know how I can tell her.”

  “Excuse me.” Blake turned and exited the drawing room. As his world caved in, he stumbled across the foyer, and slumped against the wall, which seemed to collapse on him from all angles. Gasping for breath, he shook himself from his imaginary hell and continued to his study.

  The comforting scent of cigar smoke, redolent of so many happy occasions in his private sanctuary, should have soothed him, but it did not. Rather, the polished surroundings seemed to mock him. At the side table, he lifted the crystal decanter and started to pour a brandy. Instead, he flung the stopper to the floor, gulped a healthy portion of the amber intoxicant, and strolled to the hearth.

  Staring into the flames, he revisited treasured memories with Lenore. A series of precious vignettes played in his mind, as a haunting dance of their combined history. Lenore’s high dudgeon in the middle of the muddy road, her shock when she discovered he was her benefactor, her charming confession during her drunken stupor aboard ship, and her expression of joy when he gifted her betrothal ring.

  Something inside him snapped.

  Fueled by rage, white hot and pure, he threw the decanter into the wall, and it shattered with an unholy crash. In search of relief from his inner agony, Blake grasped the fireplace poker and laid waste to the pair of jade vases that sat at either end of the mantel. Then he gave his attention to the collection of porcelain figurines resting behind cabinet doors with glass inserts, which he reduced to shards and rubble in seconds. The bookcase offered a tempting target, and he resorted to ripping the volumes from their shelves, before he assaulted his hand-tooled mahogany desk.

  In the blink of an eye, he swept the inkwell, the blotter, and the large paperweight into a heap, and when all else failed to alleviate his suffering, he resorted to pounding the desktop. Again and again, as he attacked inanimate objects, he prayed for some sign, anything to sustain him, until he found Lenore. At long last, the throbbing in his fist cut through the vicious grip of disappointment. Gritting his teeth, he inhaled, filled his lungs, and gave vent to an inhuman roar. Interminable pain tore at his gut, and he tripped over the mess he had made and fell to his knees.

  “Blake, what have you done?” Damian squatted beside him. “Do not do this. Do not lose hope, brother, as Lenore and Lucy need you.”

  “What can we do?” As he had on so many occasions, Blake leaned on his friend. “She is out there, somewhere, but I know not where to look.” He sank his teeth into his knuckles. “London is a haystack, and the Tevershams are the proverbial needle.”

  “Your Grace, I am loathe to disturb you, but you have another visitor.” Jennings peered at the demolished surroundings and compressed his lips. “It is a young man, and he is at the service entrance, below stairs. He says he was commissioned by Miss Teversham.”

  That garnered Blake’s full attention.

  In seconds, he sprinted through his home, with Damian, Sir Ross, and Samuel, in tow. After navigating the kitchens, Blake ran into the servants’ dining area and crossed to the small foyer at the opposite end, where Mrs. Parker guarded a sooty chimney sweep.

  “Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtseyed and then poked the tradesman. “Remove your hat, guttersnipe.”

  “Oh, I say.” The lad pulled off his dirty cap. “Would you be Blake Elliott, a duke of some sort?”

  “I am.” Blake dismissed Mrs. Parker with a wave of his hand. “Who are you, and have you knowledge pertaining to the whereabouts of Lenore Teversham?”

  “Aye, sir. My name is Jasper.” He shuffled his feet and gazed at the ceiling. “And Miss Lenore Teversham asked me to tell you she has dire need of her knight. And I am to give you this, to prove I am in earnest.” He held out a balled handkerchief tied with a familiar ribbon.

  “Is it hers?” Sir Ross asked.

  “It is.” Blake accepted the tiny parcel, pulled on the strip of blue silk, unraveled the square of cotton, revealed the diamond betrothal ring, and for the second time in as many minutes, his knees buckled. “I gifted this to her for Christmas.”

  “How are you acquainted with Miss Teversham?” Sir Ross stepped to the fore. “Where is she, and can you take us to her?”

  “The lady surprised me, as I cleaned a chimney stack.” Jasper scratched his chin. “She is staying in a top floor room at The Black Garter Inn, in Marylebone. And she is ill, which is why she asked me to find you.”

  “Marylebone?” Samuel swore under his breath. “Their father is rolling over in his grave.”

  “Was anyone else with her?” Sir Ross summoned Jennings and said, “Send word to my office, and have my agents meet me there.”

  “At once, sir.” Then Jennings paused. “Should I have the coach brought to the front door?”

  “Yes,” Blake responded. “We journey, posthaste.”

  “Miss Teversham was alone, sir.” Jasper dusted off his black vest. “May I come with you, as the lady promised you would give me a ride home? My mum will not be happy if I am late for dinner.”

  “Young man, we have reason to suspect Miss Teversham is a victim of a crime, so I will need to interview you.” Sir Ross jotted notes with a pencil. “And was anyone with you when you spoke with her?”

  “No, sir. My apprentice cleaned the flue.” Then Jasper hesitated and bowed his head. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not at all.” Blake found his voice and assumed command of the exchange. “You have done me a great service, and I am forever in your debt, for which you shall be handsomely rewarded. For now, however, we shall begin with transportation to Marylebone. Let us away.”

  Almost an hour later, after an anxious, white-knuckle ride to the seedier part of London, Blake languished in the squalid room in the sordid inn, holding a kerchief to his nose to check the stench. At the window from which his fiancée made her desperate plea, he gazed at the chimney and uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the sign, however belated, that she persisted.

  “Your Grace, we found something.” With a pair of tweezers, an agent from the Corps held up a calfskin glove. “It was under the bed. Do you recognize it?”

  “Aye.” In a flash, Blake recalled the afternoon he bared her hand and suckled her fingers for the first time. “It is Lenore’s.”

  “Then she was here.” The agent placed the item in a canvas bag. “And our search of the trash yielded several empty bottles, which reek of laudanum, so it is an educated guess that our suspect is drugging the women, which would explain Jasper’s comment regarding Miss Teversham’s health.”

  Stunned by the revelation, and the stark contrast between the crude accommodations and his lady’s elegance, Blake could form no coherent response. Instead, he sat at the table, shoved aside the plate holding a crust of bread and a cluster of weevils, and imagined his lady, safe and sound, that it might be so.

  “Your Grace, I have news of the possible destination.” Sir Ross scanned his notes. “The proprietor, Mr. Palmer, overheard our pretend Teversham and an accomplice talking, and they mentioned Twickenham. From what Palmer recounted, I gather our villain is aware someone searches for the ladies, which is why he moved them this afternoon, almost a full three hours prior to our arrival.”

  “Then we journey, at once.” Blake considered the conditions of the room and the bottles of laudanum. “Do whatever you can, Ross, as we must find them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A throbbing pain in her jaw brought Lenore awake. Resting on a mattress, she attempted to massage her injury, discovered her hands bound at the wrists, and came alert. In seconds, she recalled the violent confrontation with her captor, as she tried to thwart their departure from the inn, his vicious blow to her face, and a slow descent into unconsciousness, with his taunting laughter echoing in her ears. Panicked, she twisted against the rope but could not break loose. Then she noticed she was not alone.

  Four women, strangers all, stared at Lenore.

  “Hello.” She licked her dr
y lips, wiped her runny nose on her sleeve, ordered her faculties as best she could, and surveyed her new surroundings, which manifested a minor improvement on the last accommodations. “Can you tell me where I am, how long I have been here, and why I am confined?”

  “Poor dear,” a woman replied. “I am Bess, and this is Charlotte. Near the window sits Martha, and to your right is Esther.” Bess smiled. “You arrived last night, and we are here for the same reason; to be auctioned.”

  “It appears your husband sold you to settle a debt.” Esther chuckled. “But fear not, as he may come back for you. My Donald has a nasty gambling habit, exceeded only by his penchant for losing. This will be the third time he has bartered me to pay his accounts, but he always returns for me.”

  Had Lenore thought the situation could not get any worse?

  “But that man was a liar, as we were not married, and I have no spouse. And I am promised to another.” Bordering on the edge of hysteria, Lenore struggled to untie herself. “Are we prisoners? Will you not free me, as I must summon help?”

  “We were told you would resist but we were not to listen to your babble.” Martha shook her head and frowned. “There is no use fighting, as you will not escape, because Mr. Hildebrand bragged he paid good money for you, and he expects you to fetch a decent sum. Besides, your new master could treat you much better than your last.”

  “Please, you must heed my request, as I was taken against my will.” It was in that moment Lenore realized Lucy was not present. “Where is my sister? What have they done with her?”

  Someone pounded on the door, and the hinges creaked, as a man opened the oak panel. “Ladies, are you ready, as we will soon begin the festivities, and we have attracted quite a crowd.”

  “Are you Mr. Hildebrand?” Despite her bonds, Lenore scrambled from the bed. “My name is Lenore Teversham, and an unscrupulous villain took me and my sibling from our home. If you will contact—”