by Regina Scott
A chill ran through him, but the duke humphed as she hurried away. “I don’t like being pushed.”
All at once, Nathan was angry, heat licking through him like the flare of tinder to a match. He grabbed his cousin’s arm and spun him face the angel. “For the last time, she pushed you to keep that from falling on your thick skull. If you ask me, she should have let it hit you. Maybe it would have knocked some sense into you.”
His cousin frowned. “I say, Natty, I don’t think you should take that tone with me.”
“Fire me,” Nathan said, dropping his hold. “Or better yet, I quit.” He turned from the duke, intent only on finding Priscilla.
She hadn’t gone far, just around the next largest headstone, where a marble bench rested under a shade tree. The last rays of the setting sun silhouetted her graceful form, lengthening her shadow. She was turned away from Nathan, head bowed, and her shoulders were shaking.
Nathan sat beside her, slipped an arm about her. “There, now. It’s over. You’re safe.”
She shook her head, sniffing back a sob. “No, I’m not. I ruined everything! I laid hands on him, I snapped at him. He’ll never forgive me.”
Why did she persist? “Listen to me,” Nathan said. “You saved his life. If he cannot or will not see that, then you are better off without him.”
Again she shook her head, the feathers on her bonnet, now crushed, brushing against his cheek. “No! He was the one I was supposed to marry. I worked so hard to gain his trust, his admiration. Now, I’ve thrown it all away just because I was startled by a stupid stone angel!” She thumped her slipper down on the ground, then grimaced as if it had hurt.
“He’s an idiot,” Nathan said. When she started to protest, he held up his free hand. “That’s a statement of fact, not an insult. His Grace the Duke of Rottenford is dim, feeble-minded, a ninnyhammer. We’ve worked hard to conceal his deficiencies, but if you intend to marry him, you deserve to know the truth.”
She raised her head and stared at him. Her tears tumbled down her cheeks like pearls. Her lips were soft and rosy, and he caught himself wondering how they would feel against his.
Oh, but he was in trouble.
Those lovely lips trembled just like the rest of her. “You think he might still choose me for his bride?”
The hope in her voice cut through him. Even dim, childish, spoiled, and thoughtless, his cousin was a better catch on the marriage mart than many others, including himself. The problem was, he now knew she deserved better.
“I cannot advise you to try to mend the rift between you,” he said. “I would add a stubborn spirit to the list of His Grace’s less-than-sterling qualities. Surely there is another man who is more worthy of your time, Miss Tate.”
Some part of him hoped to hear her say his own name. He longed to speak as well. I could court you, Priscilla. Would she laugh at him, this woman before whom princes and dukes bowed?
Her smile was small. “Thank you, Mr. Kent, but my heart is set on the duke.”
At the mention of her heart, his own heart constricted. He had heard of women throwing their lives away on profligates, drunks, and bruisers. He’d always assumed it was because they saw no other way. Surely she knew how many men pursued her. One had to be better than His Grace.
But if, against all odds, she had fallen in love with his lackluster cousin, how could he in good conscience encourage her to look elsewhere?
Just then, Daphne Courdebas came dashing up between the headstones. She skidded to a stop when she saw them, her skirts swirling about her.
“Oh, Priscilla!” she cried, eyes wide and bonnet askew. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea poking about that statue would loosen it!” She threw herself down at her friend’s side. “Please tell me you are unhurt.”
“I’m fine, Daphne,” Priscilla said calmly. As if to prove it, she took a needle and thread from her reticule, popped off the cork that sheathed the tip, and pulled up on her hem to begin stitching the remaining lace back in place. “Just a little shaken. But you must be more careful. What if it had come down when you were beside it?”
Nathan could not seem to take his eyes from her elegant fingers toiling away. It seemed Miss Dalrymple had been right; Priscilla knew what she was doing with a needle and thread.
Beside her, Daphne shuddered. “I will think before acting in future. I promise!”
“A wise precaution,” Lady Emily said, coming around from behind them with Mr. Cropper. “Though in this case, perhaps unnecessary.”
Cropper nodded to Nathan. Nathan had learned the fellow was a Bow Street Runner, and a well-respected one at that. Still, he could only wonder why Lady Emily seemed so possessive of him, her arm anchored to his as they drew up next to Priscilla.
“Mr. Cropper and I have examined the angel’s plinth,” Lady Emily announced. “It had been weakened by weather over the years, but it was clear the monument had help falling.”
Priscilla’s needle froze, but Daphne hung her head. “Because of my foolishness.”
“No,” Mr. Cropper put in, face hard. “Because someone shoved against it. We found the marks where the person’s feet dug into the grass.”
The very idea pushed Nathan up. “Are you saying someone tried to kill His Grace?”
Mr. Cropper nodded. “Or Miss Tate.”
*
Priscilla clutched her needle even as her gaze met Emily’s. Always the blackmailer had implied something bad would happen if Priscilla didn’t heed the warnings. Was this attack the first salvo? Was her nemesis watching her even now? She glanced around at the stones, noting the number of statues, the faces carved in the marble. They all seemed turned in her direction, accusatory. She edged closer to where Nathan was standing.
He lay a hand on her shoulder as if to protect her, and she fancied she felt the warmth even through her pelisse.
“Why would anyone wish to harm either of them?” he demanded, glancing between Emily and Jamie.
Jamie shrugged, breeze ruffling his russet hair. “You’d have to ask them, but I’d wonder who stands to gain if the duke loses his position.”
Surely that had not been meant for His Grace. Yet she’d heard of worse things done in the name of an inheritance. Look at how her aunt had schemed to take the riches of Brentfield Manor.
“No one gains if the duke dies,” Nathan answered. “The College of Heralds made a thorough search. There is no male left in direct line.”
Priscilla stared at him. “Except you.”
He colored, but he did not meet her gaze. “No. I’m not eligible to be duke. I’m related to the duchy through my mother. If His Grace dies, the title goes into abeyance. It’s even possible our family properties could be forfeited to the Crown.”
She corked her needle before it started shaking again. No wonder there was so much pressure on the duke to wed. Without a male heir, the family’s hold on their lands was tenuous. Lives and livelihoods truly did stand in the balance, which was why everyone was looking for the perfect duchess.
“Then this accident was set to harm Miss Tate,” Jamie said, shifting his gray-eyed gaze to her. “I imagine any number of people might like to see her out of the way.”
Well! Priscilla drew herself up in protest, but Emily nodded. “Too true, Pris. We have men and women on our list of suspects.”
Now Nathan stiffened, and his hand fell away from her. “Your list? Then you’ve had more than one of these attacks.”
Priscilla glanced at Emily in warning before softening her look and smiling at Nathan. “Certainly not, Mr. Kent. Why, I am stunned by these revelations.”
Daphne glanced between her and Emily as if unsure of her role. Jamie crossed his arms over his chest.
Emily shook her head. “We can’t hide it any longer, Priscilla. When the matter begins to affect innocents, we must confront it head on.”
Priscilla drew in a breath. She knew Emily was right. But her friend made it sound as if Priscilla was far from innocent. And she certainly didn’t w
ish to reveal her secrets to Nathan. Her aunt’s role in the deeds at Brentfield were bad enough, but as for her own? He’d just begun to look at her with favor. She couldn’t jeopardize that.
Yet if the blackmailer made another attempt to harm her and struck Nathan or the duke or one of her friends instead, she’d never forgive herself.
She turned to face him. He stood perfectly still, as if bracing for a blow. She swallowed, then raised her head. “Mr. Kent, I am being blackmailed.”
He frowned. “By whom? For what?”
Emily rushed to help her. “We haven’t been able to uncover the culprit. He leaves her threatening notes, claiming to know some secret.”
Nathan took a step back from her, as if to distance himself, and her heart sank. But his look was more intent than insulted. “His Grace received a similar note, warning him of dire consequences should he continue to pursue Miss Tate.”
Priscilla leapt to her feet. “What! Is that why you keep telling me to desist?”
He stood his ground. “No. I didn’t know whether to give it any credence, until now. There was only one note.”
“Priscilla has received two,” Emily informed him. “So has Acantha Dalrymple. The second was placed under their plates at the duke’s Venetian breakfast.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes. “Then it has to be someone who was there and at this outing.”
“You’re wrong,” Jamie put in. “I imagine this outing has been discussed among the ton. Anyone could have arrived before us, waited for the right moment to strike. I warrant that angel isn’t the only loose stone in the area.”
“And there’s no easy line of sight among these stones,” Emily added, gaze on Jamie. “Someone who knew what he was doing could have slipped away unnoticed.”
“He?” Priscilla latched onto the word. “So now we’re certain it’s a man?”
Jamie rubbed his chin. “I suppose it could have been a woman. The marks left by the base were too smudged to tell if they were made by boots or a lady’s walking shoes. With the right leverage, it wouldn’t have been hard for even a small person to knock over that angel.”
Priscilla sagged. “So, we’re no closer to learning the truth. The villain remains at large, able to terrorize us at will.”
Nathan took a step closer to her, and she wanted to latch onto him and never let go. “No, we are at the advantage now, Miss Tate, I promise you.”
Priscilla frowned at him. “Why?”
His look determined, he took her hand and held it tight. “Because now I know, and I won’t rest until we uncover the truth.”
Chapter Nineteen
Nathan left Priscilla commiserating with her friends and edged back through the graveyard to where the statue had fallen. He wanted a look at those marks Cropper had mentioned. Once he would have thought Priscilla had fabricated the entire story about threatening notes, but Lady Emily’s corroboration and her and her friends’ shock that the duke had received a similar note assured him she was telling the truth.
That and the protective feelings she seemed so good at rousing in him.
He rounded the statue and crouched beside the base. Now that the darkness gathered, he had to trace his fingers along the ground, feeling his way. Sure enough, the grass was smashed, even uprooted in places, as someone had strained against the stone, feet slipping. But the distance seemed rather short. With the angle to the statue, wouldn’t a taller man have slipped farther?
“What do you have against Priscilla Tate?”
Nathan looked up to find Cropper standing beside the base, arms once more crossed over his chest. His eyes were narrowed, his head cocked as if studying Nathan.
“Nothing,” he said, rising. “I find Miss Tate delightful.”
“So does half of London,” Cropper assured him, straightening and dropping his arms. “The male half, that is. But you seem to be immune.”
Nathan raised a brow. “And you aren’t?”
He chuckled. “She’s a bit much for my tastes. But I’ve no doubt most gentlemen would disagree.”
Nathan included, but he had no intention of confiding that to the Runner. He motioned to the grass. “I was reviewing the site where our would-be murderer stood. You were right. I can’t tell whether the scuffs were made by boots or slippers.”
“But they aren’t deep,” Cropper mused. “So perhaps a lighter fellow.”
“Or a woman, as you said.” Nathan glanced around the area. A copse of trees marked the boundary of the abbey grounds; anyone might have hidden in it and darted out to make the attack. He spotted Glynnis and His Grace ambling along the side of the abbey, a groom with them carrying a torch. Glynnis looked particularly pale in its light, her face tight, as if the accident had frightened her even more than it had Priscilla. Most likely she didn’t notice Lady Minerva peering around a larger statue as if keeping an eye on them. Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Galloway appeared to be making for the carriages. The call of the horn beckoned the others to follow.
And where did that leave Miss Ariadne Courdebas? She was certainly short enough and light enough to fit the picture of their villain, but surely she wouldn’t hurt her friend. Or was she angry His Grace had not come up to snuff?
“Is it that she isn’t noble?” Cropper murmured.
Nathan frowned at him. Cropper’s gaze remained on the grass, but Nathan thought he was seeing something else entirely.
“Miss Tate is a fine lady of good family,” he said. “I’m certain she will make some man an exceptional wife.”
“And if she wasn’t? If, say, her lineage wasn’t so pure? Would you still consider her an appropriate consort for someone related to a duke?”
Did he know something about Priscilla that Nathan had failed to discover? But how could he? Nathan had cancelled his commission with Bow Street.
“Has Lady Emily confided something His Grace should know about Miss Tate?” he asked.
Cropper shook his head. “No. Lady Emily isn’t a telltale. And as far as I know, Miss Tate is everything a man could want. I suppose I was speaking hypothetically.”
Did he mean Nathan than? Were his feelings that transparent?
“I may be related to a duke,” Nathan told him, “but I’m not on the market for a wife at this time.”
“Lucky for you,” he replied, gaze rising to the distance. “I might have said the same until recently.”
The picture fell into place. Indeed, Nathan was amazed he hadn’t seen it sooner: the way Lady Emily hung on the Runner’s arm, the way they nearly finished each other’s sentences.
Nathan smiled at him. “Courting is not for the faint of heart, to be sure. But I believe a father who cares for his daughter would be pleased to have such an upstanding gentleman like yourself come calling.”
His smile was much smaller. “In some circles. My mother assures me I’m quite the catch in Wapping: honest profession, reliable income, opportunity for promotion.” His smile faded with the light. “But I look at the fellows who call on Lady Emily, fine gentlemen, young lordlings, and I know I wouldn’t be welcome. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself laughed out of the house.”
“Have you spoken to her?” Nathan murmured, not even sure why he had lowered his voice.
Cropper shook his head. “Why put her in the position of having to refuse me?”
“She might accept,” Nathan reminded him.
“And I cannot convince myself that would be the best for her. As it is, I feel as if she must make her choice.” He took off his cap and slapped it against his thigh, then drew in a breath as he returned it to his head. “Sorry, Kent. This is none of your affair. But it’s hard thing, wanting and knowing you cannot have.”
“It is indeed,” Nathan agreed. And he could not help thinking of Priscilla, wanting wealth and position, and him standing in the way. It was a miracle she hadn’t pushed over a statue, on him.
*
Priscilla wasn’t sure why she found Nathan’s determination so encouraging. If neither Bow St
reet nor Emily could discover her tormenter, what hope did he have? Yet she could not deny that her spirits rose as he and Jamie returned to her side and assured her they were both on the case.
They all agreed that the less His Grace knew about the matter, the better. Given his personality, he would either blurt out the danger to a common stranger or give away any plan they might put into effect to catch the criminal.
She knew Aunt Sylvia would have insisted that she use her new understanding of the duke’s limitations for her benefit. What better than a wealthy man in need of guidance on how to live his life and spend his money? But she had to own she was a bit disappointed. Given the choice, she’d have much rather spent her life sparring with her husband than coddling him.
Then again, she had lost significant ground with His Grace. Nothing said she would be spending any part of her life with him.
Truly, she should be devastated.
Instead, she felt surprisingly buoyant as she sat in the duke’s carriage beside Glynnis on the return trip to Mayfair. The duke had recovered sufficiently from his brush with danger to prattle on about it, the weight of the statue (“enormously heavy”), its construction (“solid stone, you know”), and its purpose (“who would have built such a thing?”). Only Glynnis was willing to debate the matter with him.
“I believe it dated from the medieval period, Your Grace,” she said. “Although I have heard there is evidence of activity in the area going back to Roman times.”
He wiggled his fingers at her. “Ah, what did I tell you about those Romans?”
She giggled and covered the sweet sound with her hand. “I believe you called them a bunch of dead foreign fellows, Your Grace.”
Priscilla fought to keep from rolling her eyes. Her gaze collided with Nathan’s. The quirk of his mouth told her he was trying hard not to laugh. For some reason, that made her smile.
“And that is precisely what they are!” the duke declared. “Shoddy builders too. Why, if Miss Tate hadn’t pushed me out of the way, I would have been crushed.”
Glynnis sobered as she turned to Priscilla. “We owe you a great debt of gratitude, Miss Tate. I don’t know what we’d do if something happened to His Grace.”
