by Burke, Darcy
Hennings pulled Lionel’s stockings away with a wince. “How awful for her.”
“She blames herself.”
“I can see why, but that way lies madness.” He peered over at Lionel, who stood from the chair and pulled his shirt over his head. “I know you tire of hearing it, but you mustn’t blame yourself for Addison or for Townsend.”
Lionel was tired of hearing it, but only because he disagreed. Seeing Emmaline’s guilt and knowing it was misguided, he wondered if maybe he was wrong about his own. “It is hard not to,” he said quietly.
“Yes, but the fact that you aren’t telling me to go to the devil gives me hope.” Hennings’s eyes twinkled as he fetched a new shirt and gave it to Lionel.
Lionel drew the white lawn over his head, then shucked his riding breeches. He exchanged them with Hennings for a new pair.
“It was a distressing breakfast for another reason,” Lionel said. “She read a piece in the newspaper suggesting we’d perhaps plotted Townsend’s death so that we could marry.”
Hennings sucked in a breath. “Despicable.”
“Quite. I intend to pay a visit to the newspaper editor right now.” He tucked his shirt into his waistband and sat down to pull on his stockings and boots.
“It wasn’t the Post, was it?” Hennings asked.
“Indeed it was. Why?” Lionel finished with his stocking and took a boot from Hennings.
Hennings grimaced. “The editor is rather unscrupulous. He pays for information—some of it true and some of it not. I believe he also engages in extortion from time to time if the information is particularly salacious and about someone who may have funds.”
Lionel immediately thought of Marianne and Townsend. Had Townsend become involved with this editor? It seemed unlikely. It was more plausible that was he simply employing similar tactics. Still, Lionel found the similarity unsettling.
“How do you know this?” Lionel asked while donning the second boot.
“Servants talk, my lord,” he said wryly. “You know this.”
Lionel stood. “Yes, but mine don’t. Is that still the case?”
Hennings straightened, his eyes widening in offense.
“Not you, Hennings,” Lionel said. “Nor Tulk. I trust you both implicitly.”
Hennings’s shoulders relaxed. “I don’t believe anyone in your household would do that.”
No, of course they wouldn’t. Most of them had been on retainer even before his father had died. They were staunchly loyal.
Lionel went to grab his cravat, then drew it around his neck. Hennings offered him his waistcoat next, which Lionel pulled over his shoulders and began to button. “So I should be wary of this editor because he’s crooked.”
“I should say so. I also doubt he’ll reveal his sources. Others have tried, from what I’ve heard. However, you are the Duke of Danger. Perhaps you will have better luck.” At Lionel’s wince, Hennings apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you. However, you do possess a certain reputation, and if it will garner the results you wish, why not use it?”
Lionel adjusted the cravat around his collar. Hennings came forward and tied it, creating an artful knot that Lionel could never accomplish.
“I’ll consider your advice,” Lionel said.
Hennings inclined his head and stepped back to fetch his coat. He held it open as Lionel turned, then brought it up over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric.
Lionel walked to the glass and made a few adjustments. “It’s difficult to use my notoriety when I’d just as soon bury it. This morning, I—mistakenly—thought that Emmaline assumed I would threaten the editor. It seemed natural she would think that, given what she knows.”
“And what does she know?” Hennings asked softly. “Does she know you’re a man of honor? That you’ve fought duels to defend your father’s name, a friend’s secret, and a child? Is she aware of the depth of your generosity and kindness? She must be. You found her horse and gave it back to her. You settled her husband’s debts and gave her your name. You’ve been supportive and patient. Your father would be exceedingly proud.”
Lionel turned from the glass. “How can you be so sure?”
“I knew him very well, as well as I know you. You are a man of distinct honor and profound benevolence. You have a deep-seated notion of morality and can’t stand to the side while others suffer, especially those you care about. And I can see you care about Lady Axbridge a great deal.”
He did. “Thank you, Hennings.” He turned and left, making his way downstairs where the coach was waiting to convey him to the offices of the Post in the Strand.
A short while later, he stalked through the doorway. It took him a few minutes to find the editor, who sat in an office behind a large desk with papers spread before him. He looked up as Lionel entered.
“Good afternoon,” Lionel said smoothly. “Are you the editor?”
The man stood. “I am. My name is Hodge.”
“I am Axbridge.” The man’s nostrils flared. “You would know who I am, of course, since you printed that disgusting piece of nonsense in your newspaper this morning.”
“I don’t think I know what you’re referring to, my lord.”
Now the similarities between him and Townsend were too close. The viscount had responded with a nearly identical statement. “I’m sure you do, and I’m not here to quibble over that. I’m here to ask why you would print something so nasty. My wife is most upset. I don’t like to see her upset.”
Hodge’s gaze turned wary. “I should think not. We publish things of interest. I apologize if you took offense.”
“I could perhaps accuse you of libel.”
Hodge’s eyes popped wide with fright. “I didn’t print your name.”
Lionel wrinkled his nose. “Nasty all the same. Did you come up with this nonsense on your own, or did you obtain it from one of your informants?”
The editor blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Exhaling, Lionel walked slowly around the desk to where the man stood. Hodge barely reached Lionel’s shoulder.
“I think we’ve established when you say that, you’re lying,” said Lionel. “At least, I’ve come to that conclusion, and I do believe I’m right. I know you pay people, such as servants, for scandals and secrets.” He leaned forward slightly, towering over the smaller man. “Who did you pay for this one?”
“There’s a woman who brings me tidbits somewhat regularly,” he squeaked.
“What is her name?”
“I don’t know.” Perspiration dotted his brow, and he wiped his hand over his face. “She’s a governess, I think. She’s a bit thick through the middle, with dark hair. Oh! And a nose like a raven’s beak.”
Lionel’s heart skipped a beat. He turned from the man and walked back around the desk. “If you print anything else about me or my wife—even without our names—I will charge you with libel.”
“You can’t if it’s true. She told me this bit—about you and your wife—was true.”
Allowing his lip to curl in an icy sneer, Lionel pivoted. “It is unequivocally false. Should I reconsider my charges of libel in this instance?”
Hodge’s eyes widened once more, and he shook his head. “No, my lord.”
“I shall look forward to what you print tomorrow—something saying how fortunate Lady Axbridge and I are to have found each other amidst extraordinary circumstances.” He walked to the doorway, but paused before leaving. “You said this woman visits you regularly. What other information has she given you?”
Hodge’s color went a bit gray. “That you were having an affair with Lady Richland.”
“And yet I was so in love with my wife that I’d plotted murder. Which is it? Good God, man, if you’re going to print lies, at least ensure they make sense.” Lionel gave him a good, long glower before taking his leave.
He stalked from the building and instructed his groom to drive to Marianne’s. He climbed into the coach and stared out the window
, brooding. By the time he reached his destination, he was teeming with questions.
Marianne’s butler, Arnold, showed him to the drawing room. He paced while he waited, which was thankfully not too long.
Marianne swept into the room, lavender skirts brushing her ankles. “Lionel, how lovely to see you.”
He frowned. “I wish I were here under happier circumstances.”
She flinched. “Oh no, whatever’s the matter?”
“Let us sit.” He gestured to the settee and waited for her to drop onto the cushion before he joined her. “I’ve learned that Freddy’s nurse has been selling information to the Post. I wondered, if she would do that, perhaps she also gave—or sold—information to Townsend for an extortion plot.”
Marianne gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “This is… I can scarcely imagine her doing that. She’s so wonderful with Freddy.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “I don’t know how she would’ve known about him. She only joined the household late last spring, and I never confided it to her. My maid is the only person here who knows, and that’s because she was with me then.”
“Is it possible she told the nurse?” Lionel asked.
“I would be shocked, but I think I have to ask her. I’ll have Arnold fetch her.” She stood and left the drawing room for a moment. When she returned, she came back to the settee. “This is a disaster.”
He briefly touched her arm. “We’ll get to the heart of things.”
She nodded and smiled. A moment later, she regarded him with concern. “I read the Post this morning.”
“I assume you’re referring to that dreadful piece about Emmaline and me?”
“No one will believe it. She eloped with her husband—they were quite in love.”
Her words cut deep. But he couldn’t erase the facts, no matter how much they ate at him. “I spoke to the editor—that’s how I learned about your nurse. She sold him that information and told him it was true.”
Anger flashed in Marianne’s eyes. “Why would she do that?”
“I would guess money. Sometimes the simplest motive is the truest.”
Marianne’s maid entered then. She dipped into a curtsey. “My lord.” She was maybe in her mid-twenties and quite attractive.
“Clarkson, did you share the secret of Freddy’s parentage with anyone?”
The maid’s color faded to a dull gray. “No, my lady.” Her answer was so soft, Lionel had to strain to hear it.
“Forgive me, Clarkson.” Lionel tried to inject warmth into his tone lest he frighten her. “It looks as though you may not be telling the entire truth. Please, we need to know.”
She burst into tears, and Marianne jumped up, rushing to her side. She put her arm around the young retainer and squeezed her tight. “It’s all right, Clarkson. I am not upset with you.”
It took a minute for the maid to rein in her emotions. She wiped her cheeks, but her lip still trembled. “Sometimes I drink with Deborah—the nurse. She likes to imbibe, and then she asks me things. I think I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“Such as the question of Freddy’s parentage and the nature of my marriage,” Lionel said.
Clarkson’s tears started again in earnest. Her cheeks flushed bright red as her shoulders shook. She tried to speak, but Lionel had no idea what she was saying.
After taking several deep breaths, she composed herself once more. “She asked about you, my lord, and whether there was anything between you and her ladyship.” She inclined her head toward Marianne. “I said there used to be.” She turned apologetic eyes overflowing with tears toward her mistress. “Please forgive me.”
“It’s all right,” Marianne soothed. “Why don’t you go down to the kitchens and have Cook give you some warm milk? That will settle you down.”
“Am I—” Clarkson hiccupped. “Will I be dismissed from my post?”
“No.” Marianne gave her a kind smile and urged her toward the door.
Clarkson’s whimpers faded as she trailed from the room.
“You’re overly kind to keep her in your employ.”
“Do you know how hard it is to find a good maid? She made a mistake. I daresay she won’t be doing that again, and I’ll make sure of it.” Marianne’s brows pitched to a V over her narrowed eyes. “She’s not the real villain here. I’ll send for the nurse.” She left again, and Lionel got up from the settee to ease the agitation tensing his frame.
He walked to the window and stared out. Marianne returned and offered him whiskey, but he declined. She said she planned to have a glass as soon as they were finished.
A few minutes later, the nurse came in. Lionel studied her features to see if she was perhaps related to Mullens, the tailor. They shared the same nose, but then so did that woman at the musicale the other night.
The nurse bobbed a curtsey to Lionel as the maid had done. She was a bit older than the maid and more plain. She possessed kind eyes and a softness to her expression that Lionel supposed made her appealing as a nurse. She certainly didn’t look like the sort of woman who would sell secrets for money. Not that Lionel had any idea what that sort of woman should look like.
Marianne faced the nurse. “It has come to my attention that you have sold information about me and my friend”—she glanced toward Lionel—“to the Post for publication. I’m not asking if it’s true, because I know that it is. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
The nurse began to tremble, but she didn’t dissolve into a fit of hysterics as the maid had done. “It seems you’ve already come to your own conclusion. I can only say that I wouldn’t betray you, my lady.”
“And yet you did,” Lionel said, walking toward her but stopping a few feet away. “Don’t bother denying it. You sold information about my marriage—false information that qualifies as libel—to Mr. Hodge. The only way to save yourself here is to tell us what else you’ve disclosed and to whom.”
Her lip quivered, but her eyes were dry. She turned her attention to Marianne. “I am so sorry, my lady. I knew Mr. Hodge bought information, and I needed money to help my mother. She’s quite ill.”
“I didn’t realize you had a mother,” Marianne said. “I wish you would have come to me.”
Lionel wasn’t convinced. “So you made this up?”
She nodded. “I’d read the day before that you and the marchioness seemed very affectionate at the Clare musicale.” Her gaze fell to the carpet. “I’d also read about the speculation regarding your marriage and how odd it was that she married you, the man who killed her husband.” She looked at him then, and he swore there was ice in the depths of her stare.
“You are quite a storyteller,” Marianne said, sounding disgusted. “Did you also sell information about my son?”
“I did not, my lady. I swear it.” She looked Marianne square in the eye, and Lionel almost believed her.
“I will have to let you go from your post, and I’m afraid I can’t provide a reference.”
The nurse’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t do that.”
Marianne pressed her lips together. “Unfortunately, I must.”
“But, my mother—”
“I’m sad to hear of her troubles, but you should have spoken to me. I can’t recommend you to someone else in these circumstances.” She moved to the door and beckoned Arnold to come into the drawing room. “Please see that the nurse packs her things and is gone within the hour. And make sure she doesn’t speak to Freddy again.”
The nurse turned, her shoulders slumping.
“One more thing,” Lionel said.
She turned, but only partway, and she said nothing. Her vacant stare bore into Lionel, making him slightly uncomfortable.
“I saw you walking into a tailor’s shop in Savile Row recently. What business did you have there?”
She blinked. “You’re mistaken, my lord.” She pivoted and left the room with Arnold trailing just behind her.
Lionel frowned as he watched her go. He didn’t belie
ve her, and it seemed she wouldn’t tell him the truth. But if that had been her and she had a connection to Mullens, who in turn had a connection to Townsend… It was simply too coincidental to ignore.
And yet, he didn’t know how to investigate the matter further. What’s more, why should he?
Because it would be good to put the entire matter surrounding the duel to rest. Why? So he could happily move on with Emmaline as if he hadn’t killed her husband?
Marianne came toward him and surprised him with an embrace. She slid her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. “Thank you. To think that woman was so close to my son…” She shuddered, and he skimmed his hand along her back.
“I hope you’ll have a lengthy discussion with your maid, or consider replacing her.”
“I will.” She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “You are the kindest of men.” She reached up and stroked his jaw. Her hand curled around the side of his neck and she stood on her toes…
He stepped back from her until they no longer touched. “Marianne.”
“What’s wrong?” She moved toward him, her lips parted.
“I am a married man.”
“I was a married woman when we had our affair.”
The truth sliced through his gut, and he felt a staggering regret. Now that he was married, infidelity seemed a horrible transgression. What a hypocrite he’d become. “Nonetheless, I take my vows quite seriously, and I will remain faithful to my wife.”
Marianne’s eyes darkened with confusion. “But it’s a sham.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t. Not to me. Emmaline deserves my utter devotion.”
“That’s your guilt talking.”
Maybe, but it was also his emotion. He was falling in love with his wife. “She may never love me, but I will spend my life trying to deserve it. Perhaps that is my penance.” Loving a woman who would never love him in return.
She shook her head. “You have changed.”
Killing two men would do that.
He realized then that his friendship with Marianne had come to an end. “I will always help you if you need it, but I must say good-bye.”
