If Dru had learned anything from her family, it was to stand her ground. Never retreat. “Of course not,” she snapped. “And leave the battle to the victor?”
“Oh, I do like you,” his mother said from behind them. “Smile. Act as if there is nothing wrong. We will deal with this later.”
The play dragged on, each mention of the names from the book achieving cheer after cheer. If she were really unlucky, they’d carry on doing it. She would ask her father to suppress it. This could not happen. Tears pricked her eyes until she bit the inside of her cheek so hard that the salty taste of blood flooded her mouth.
They made it to the end of the play. Then they could leave. They were, after all, expected at a ball. Could she attend it? If she had to. This affair felt like a fight for her life. She couldn’t remember anything about the action on stage, only the references to her book. Each time an actor shouted the name, she braced herself, clamped her teeth together in an effort to retain the smile she’d fixed on her face. The names became everything, until she couldn’t hear anything else except the raucous laughter that followed it.
By the end of the play, she was trembling inside but holding herself rigidly enough that her reaction did not show. Oliver got to his feet and offered his arm. His nostrils were white and pinched, his eyes sparkling with fury. She’d not seen him so angry since the incident at the ball, when she’d spun a fantasy and he’d left her to it.
He must never know she was the cause of his anger. Keeping a secret from her husband for all of their married life did not appeal, but not marrying him was even worse.
Silently they left the theater and got in the waiting carriage. Oliver rapped on the front harder than necessary and tersely directed the driver to take them to Grosvenor Square.
“We will see if your parents have the news,” he said, and growled low in his throat. But he had handed Dru and his mother into the vehicle with punctilious care. As the driver gave the office to the horses, Oliver thumped the side of the carriage with his closed fist. “This is intolerable. I will not allow this to go on. Does anyone know the reason for the debacle back there?”
Dru said nothing. If she denied it, she’d be lying. If she said yes, she’d have to expand on it, and she couldn’t bear to do that. Not now, not ever.
“I believe it is the new book,” Lady Bixby said. “I have a copy at home. I was told by a friend that it would be the latest literary sensation. I have not read it yet, and I will not now, but when I opened it I saw some of those names that the crowd was chanting tonight.”
“A book?” Oliver gave a hollow laugh. “Why would it cause such a sensation?”
“It may have nothing to do with our situation,” the duchess continued, her tone so calm that Dru recognized the same level of iron control she was exercising. “It may be a coincidence, or the writer decided to have some mischief with the names. If you plan to go to the Strenshalls, we will return to our home.”
Her husband put his hand over hers in a quiet gesture of affection. She smiled at him. “Yes, my dear, although we will stand ready to support you if we are needed.”
“Very well, Mama. A good idea, I think.”
An ominous silence descended on the carriage, and they traveled the rest of the way without speaking.
Inside Dru’s London home, lights blazed, and a pair of torchères flared either side of the front door. To the passerby, the house would look normal. They alighted and let the carriage continue on its way. Oliver plied the knocker with not a little enthusiasm.
A liveried footman opened the door. Dru nodded to James, and he spared her a polite bow. It would have to be the footman who accompanied Dru and Livia to the bookshop. Dru lowered her head, using the removal of her hat as an excuse not to meet anyone’s eyes. “The marquess and marchioness are within,” James said in reply to her murmured question. “They are alone.”
“I see.” Tight-lipped, Oliver offered his arm to her in the formal manner. They made their stately way upstairs to the drawing room, which was full of Strenshalls. As luck would have it, the clock struck the hour as they entered. The chime drowned out any effort at polite conversation. Since it went on for ten strokes, Dru had time to curtsy to her mother, who was in her ballroom finery, her wide skirts covered with elaborately embroidered and ruffled red silk. The color suited her mood. Everyone in the room was angry, Dru not the least of them.
How dare Wilkins take her necklace and her money and do this terrible thing? If she had a sword, she’d strike him down. She should have let Livia shoot him.
Livia stood when she entered and opened her mouth, but whatever she said was drowned by the clock.
The clock ended its racket as Oliver took his seat next to Dru on a sofa. There was not much room, but he draped her skirts over his lap, forcing her to press close to him. Dru regained the iron control she’d learned in her childhood, necessary for someone in the public eye so much.
The marchioness’s chilly words broke the sudden silence. “We decided not to attend the ball. No doubt we would receive an interesting reception. You heard, I presume?”
“The theater was alive with it,” Oliver said. “Does anyone know what this book contains?”
“Yes,” Livia said eagerly. “I read it. It’s a frivolous story.” She bit her lip and glanced at her mother, who was sitting quietly, hands in her lap. “I know I am supposed to keep to improving books, but this was too much. Everyone was talking about it, and there were queues at the bookseller’s. I only went in because of the crowds. But when I opened it, I could not put it down. It’s very cleverly told. I’ll wager Dru wishes she could write anything half so fine.”
Her triumphant gaze met Dru’s fulminating one, and she looked away hastily. Finally her sister had the opportunity to read the result of Dru’s scribblings, something the twins had been demanding for years. “The book is a fantasy, set in a country that does not exist. Tirolly, the author called it. The Prince of Tirolly is the villain of the piece, and very well drawn.” She shot a glance at Oliver. “That is, it is taken from life. The hero is clearly a depiction of the duke.” Clasping her hands together, she continued, but did not meet anyone’s eye. “I’m sorry, but it is, right down to the scars on his chin and brow.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Just the scars?”
“No, the way you can glaze over, and your preference for dressing plainly. Truly, it’s impossible to mistake it.” Livia stared at him, daring him to say something about her personal remarks.
Invisible cold fingers gripped Dru’s throat.
She had eliminated that caricature, destroyed Oliver’s resemblance and restored an earlier version. What had happened here? The question of who had got their hands on the manuscript became more urgent. Someone malicious, that was for sure. Someone who had constant access to the kitchen.
“The heroine, Drusetta, is Dru,” Livia continued. “She’s quiet, adoring, and a member of a large family. But they cast her out, and she lives simply in Tirolly. The prince sees her and falls in love with her. He abducts her and locks her in a dungeon, where she learns a terrible secret. The prince is a usurper. He has locked up his brother, the real Prince of Tirolly, who has gone mad. But he sees Drusetta, falls madly in love with her, and comes to his senses. The prince’s court is full of characters who are easily recognizable as people in society. In fact, someone who knows society very well must have written it.”
Oliver groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. “Could it be any worse?”
“Have you made any enemies recently?” the marquess asked. “Someone who wanted to get revenge on you in some way?”
Oliver shook his head. Dropping his hand, he met Dru’s father’s direct gaze. “Not above the ordinary. I have a particularly annoying land dispute going on, but the man I am dealing with doesn’t have the wit to do this. Or the devilry.”
“The plot with the brother is unfortunat
e,” Dru’s mother said. She was at her most stately, the great lady, but outrage was written on every part of her body. She sat completely still, her pose queenly, but under her light coating of face paint, her features were white and her eyes narrowed. “I presume it is exaggerated.”
“Probably,” said Oliver.
“Are there any similarities?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to Livia. “What happens to the brother?” He sounded perfectly calm, but he was anything but.
Livia shifted uncomfortably. “The prince usurps the throne. He says his brother is cared for, although he is kept in a dungeon and fed on bread and water. Before he locks him up, he tries to kill him by staging a number of accidents. He drops a boulder from the castle battlements, for instance, and puts a burr under his brother’s horse’s saddle. And at the end of the book there’s a carriage accident, where both the brothers are involved.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened even more. “I see.”
Dru met her sister’s gaze. Livia was close to tears, her blue eyes glossy and reddened.
Downstairs the door slammed, and male voices drifted up to them. The troops had arrived. Val and Marcus and their wives and Darius and his partner. They’d be here in a minute. Dru couldn’t stand it.
Their mother had not missed the brief exchange between her daughters. “Girls? What do you know about this?”
“What could we possibly know?” Livia shrugged. “Just what everyone else knows, that’s all.”
“Drusilla?” Her mother swung her head and met Dru’s eyes.
Too late, Dru glanced down and composed herself.
“I’m waiting,” her mother said softly.
Beside her, Oliver’s body stiffened.
What could she say? If she lied, she would have to bear the burden for the rest of her life. What if somehow she was found out? She couldn’t think it, mustn’t think it. Who would know? She racked her brain to recall something that might identify her as the author.
The coldness froze her bones. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t confess what she’d done before her husband-to-be. “Nothing more.”
Warmth flowed through her when Oliver moved back. “I’ll send the carriage for you in the morning. Then we’ll work out what to do together.” Bending, he kissed her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.”
His care for her nearly killed Drusilla.
Chapter 10
Dru didn’t sleep much that night. She wore a trench in her bed, rolling from side to side and dragging her sheets with her until her carefully made bed became a bird’s nest. Her brothers had sworn retribution. They would find everything out if she wasn’t careful. But what could she do to stop it? Nothing.
When Forde saw it, she gazed at it a moment too long before turning to the business of the day and dressing her mistress. Dru chose a blue gown with white snowdrops embroidered all around the hem. The petticoat was pure white. Innocence and purity prevailed. She even considered having her hair powdered, but she couldn’t bear the fuss and the mess. Her heart would have been in her boots were she wearing any, but it had to make do with her pretty blue satin shoes.
“Your pearls would work to advantage with this gown, my lady.” Forde moved to the jewelry box on top of the low dresser.
“No, I think not,” she said hastily. “I will have a lace ruffle.”
Forde turned back, her brows arched in surprise. “Very well, my lady.” Without further argument, she tied a ruffle around Dru’s neck.
A small spark of warmth hit Dru’s chilled body. Talking straightly to her maid had reaped its reward. In the past Forde would have insisted, but she was definitely more amenable these days, if not outright downcast.
Now she had to talk straightly to her betrothed. After a night’s exhausted sleep, she had come to a decision. She could not spend the rest of her life with him holding this dreadful secret inside her. The seed would fester and rot what they had. He insisted on honesty in all things, and if he found out from someone other than her, he would never forgive her for it. Whatever the consequences, she must tell him the truth.
Half an hour later she was handing her hat, cloak and gloves to the butler at the house of the Duke of Mountsorrel—the house she’d expected to spend the rest of the season in. Now, who knew? Livia had come with her, although she protested at the necessity.
Lady Bixby received them both and then asked Dru to fetch her something from the music room. “But take your time, my dear. I want to get to know your charming sister.”
As she’d expected, Oliver met her alone, took her in his arms, and kissed her warmly. “Every day,” he murmured, his mouth moving against hers, “every day is one closer to our wedding day. You drive me beyond reason, Drusilla.”
Flushing, she pulled away slightly. “Oliver, I have something to tell you.” Then she froze. Looking at him, the stern face so openly fond, her loss struck her like a blow to the stomach. She would never see that expression again, or she would see it turned on to someone else. He could do nothing but reject her. Her future loomed before her—a dark, featureless void.
But still, she would tell the truth. She would.
“Let me talk to you first.” He led her toward a comfortable-looking sofa, deeply upholstered. He took her hand. “I need to tell you what to expect when you meet my brother. You must, sweetheart. I want you to love him as I do, but I do not want what you find to come as a shock.”
“I—”
He put his hand over hers. “You have nothing to fear.”
“Yes, I do, Oliver, I really do.” Desperate now, Dru abandoned her little speech and just came out with it. “It was me. I wrote that book.”
Winter descended on the room despite the blue skies outside. “Explain.” That was all he said. It was enough.
She shivered. “I…I’m sorry. There’s no excuse, I know, but it was for my amusement only. I did not send it to the publisher. I swear.”
“I trust it amused you.” He had retreated several miles. His frosty tone echoed his status, and as she watched, the man inside retreated into the formidable figure of the Duke of Mountsorrel.
“Come with me. See what you have done.” The man returned, fiercely furious. His eyes flashed fire and narrowed as he stared at her, as if she were less than the earth between his feet.
She dared not refuse. If she did, she would probably never see him again. Their broken engagement would happen at arms’ length. She saw it in his eyes, in every line on his flushed face.
When she blindly reached for him, he grabbed her hand before she could regain her senses and snatch it back. He tugged her to his side and put his arm around her waist, as he had before. But not in this manner. Not with his hand spread over the small of her back urging her forward.
They left the drawing room and went up two flights of stairs to the floor below the attics. Here, the corridor was a little wider than she expected and the decoration as elegant as elsewhere in the house. But an air of hush prevailed here, stillness, as if time had stopped the clocks.
Apprehension gripped Dru’s stomach, adding to the sense of doom she’d had since that morning and the distress pouring through her. She forced herself to breathe deeply, sucking air back into her lungs. A faint scent of lavender and something else she couldn’t identify filled the air here. Something faintly metallic.
After tapping softly on the second door along, Oliver paused. “Upset him and I will see you in hell. Understand?”
Dru swallowed, nodded. Oliver flung open the door.
A man sat in a chair by the window. He was gazing at a newssheet, but as they entered he turned his head, a welcoming smile touching his mobile lips.
Dru caught her breath. This man was handsome. Where Oliver had a pleasant appearance, Charles had the kind of face that caused women to hold their breath. Despite his seclusion, he wore a perfectly curled white wig
. His eyes were the blue of sapphires, his lips full, and his cheekbones high.
“And this is Drusilla.” He did not get to his feet. His sapphire-satin breeches covered legs she thought might be more spindly than normal, but they were presented immaculately, as were his coat and waistcoat. The waistcoat was in the latest style, embroidered with gold thread in a charming design of flowers and bees. He could go out into society now. Except that he never did. Nobody had seen Charles since his accident. And Dru had no idea why.
Dru made her curtsy. Deeply aware of Oliver watching her every move, she kept her gaze on the man before her.
“My brother, Lord Charles Fitzhugh,” Oliver said softly. “Charles, you already know who this is.”
Charles kept his eyes on her as she rose. In any other man she’d have called his stare insolent, too personal for her to enjoy. “You are lovely, my dear. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”
He could not stand. Pity shaded her senses, but she knew better than to allow it to show. She guessed he would not welcome it. “Yes, sir. I would like that,” she said, but she was not entirely sure she did. Or that she would be allowed to.
“Please take a seat.” Graciously, he gestured to the sofa opposite his chair.
Dru obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.
This was the man she had wronged by writing her book? Why could he not have been twisted and ugly? Why did he have to be as handsome as sin? The similarities between Charles and her hero grew more glaringly apparent as she stared at him. The soulful eyes, the dark lashes, the air of total elegance—they were all there. Oliver was more brutish in build, powerful, his face rugged, his eyes gray rather than blue.
Why did they keep him locked away? She could hardly question Oliver now. Charles appeared perfectly normal. Except for one thing.
“I apologize for not getting up,” he said. He gestured to a couple of instruments propped up close to his chair. Crutches, they were crutches. Fashioned from gleaming mahogany, well polished, with silk pads at the top to support his armpits, they were nevertheless sinister and ugly. “I can get up and sit down, shift myself from bed to chair and vice versa, but that is all.”
Dauntless (The Shaws) Page 15
