Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke

by Tessa Candle

  Tilly shot him a look of disgust and turned away. Before he could disentangle himself, he saw the features of Mrs. Colling, bloodless with fear. “Whatever is the matter?” he whispered to her.

  She only struggled to free herself, hissing, “For God's sake let me pass. I must go. I am indisposed.” And she was gone.

  He stood looking stupid for a moment, puzzling over what could possibly have transpired in his absence.

  Then he started at a cold, creaking voice behind him. “Mr. Rutherford. Out to visit your uncle, are you? How good to run into you here.” This pro forma address was devoid of any warmth, and had rather the effect of an icicle dripping down his back.

  He suppressed a shudder and turned with furrowed brows to meet the gaze of Lord Screwe.

  Chapter 35

  Tilly cursed herself for not getting out of the parlour before Mrs. Colling, who had veritably bolted after Rutherford had left, when the butler presented Lord Screwe's card. Then she would have been the one caught up in Rutherford's arms, not the pretty little black widow. She wanted to claw her sapphire eyes out and have them made into a pair of earrings.

  And she would have been away, not trapped, as she was now about to be, in a parlour with the person she least wished to see. There was no way of excusing herself without looking as though she were trying to avoid Screwe, which would make him certain of her guilt.

  She swallowed, rapidly retrieved her sewing from Mrs. Carlton's workbag and threw herself into the tedious task just as Lord Screwe entered the room.

  When the greetings were all made, Screwe slithered his scaly gaze over Tilly. “Miss Ravelsham. What a pleasant surprise to find you here. I did not know you were acquainted with the duke.”

  “We are recently acquainted,” Bartholmer smoothly intervened. “But I am most surprised to see you here, Screwe. I recall your saying, many years back, when I spoke of my intention to retire to Blackwood, that I should do what I liked, but that for your part you should as soon be sealed into a vat of pickled cabbage as confined to the tedium of the countryside.”

  “Ah.” Lord Screwe eyed the duke with a look that, though apparently expressionless, seemed to nonetheless emit rays of hateful ill-intention. “Well, we cannot all claim such constancy as you, Duke. That must have been about twenty years ago. I should not let a youthful fancy prevent me from visiting relatives. And then, as I was passing by, I could not deny myself the pleasure of calling upon an old acquaintance.”

  “Quite.”

  Screwe turned again to Tilly. “True, it is very odd to see you out here, Miss Ravelsham, and with your nuptials so close at hand.”

  Tilly looked up from the stitch she had just pulled through and smiled as blandly as she could. “Oh well, my lord, you know that it has been such a long engagement, everything has been planned to the last iota. There was nothing to be lost in a little trip to the countryside. I, too, have acquaintance in the area, you see.”

  Screwe pressed his lips together. “Indeed. Well, your betrothed is more forbearing than I should be under the circumstances, allowing his fiancée to chase after the company of an unmarried young buck like Rutherford.”

  Tilly saw the sinews in Rutherford's neck tense. She assumed a dull little frown. “I do not know what you mean, my lord.”

  As she had hoped he would not, Rutherford intervened. “I can do without your insinuations, Screwe, even if Miss Ravelsham is too much of a lady to understand them.”

  Screwe's laugh became a dusty, cracking cough as he said, “Oh, I can imagine you could do without them, Rutherford. But not to worry, I have no interest in interrupting your dalliance. It gives me such an advantage. But I am hardly your enemy. Just imagine how well things might go for you if I told Mr. DeGroen of your tryst. If he threw her off, she would be yours at last. Unless, of course,” he cackled again, “you would prefer not to have her in any official way.”

  “I will thank you to keep your coarse insults to yourself,” spat Rutherford. “This is not one of the low-rate clubs you crawl about in, now that White’s will not admit your cheating hide.” Screwe's face stiffened, but he forced a smile and ignored the insult. “Yes, I see. I can imagine you might prefer muslin of a higher quality, now that you are on the eve of becoming a duke.”

  Rutherford stood abruptly and looked ready to stride over and forcibly eject Screwe for his insolence to Bartholmer and his grave insult to Tilly.

  But the duke raised a pacifying palm. “Rutherford, you should not dirty your hands with the task of seeing unwanted company out. I should wince even to put one of the stable hands to the work of scraping up and ejecting such as this. However, perhaps, Screwe, you would like to see yourself out. As you have remarked, I am not long for this mortal coil, and I have no desire to waste my remaining time entertaining filthy-mouthed bounders.”

  Screwe did not look at all disturbed by this rebuking dismissal. He fixed his evil gaze upon Tilly again. “Only know this, Miss Ravelsham. I will not remain silent for long. If the widow who robbed my home does not return what she stole from me, I will expose her, and she will be disgraced. And even if DeGroen does not cast you off, his grandfather will surely withdraw his approbation.”

  Bartholmer stood up from his wheelchair and raised his cane menacingly. “You have now added threat to insult under my roof. Do not expect this affront to go unpunished, Screwe. Out! And do not darken my door again!”

  Screwe sneered at the Duke, but made to leave, only pausing at the door to drawl, “There, Rutherford, if the old man should throw a fit and die, that will be two good turns I have done you.” Then he left them with a malicious laugh.

  Tilly sighed in relief and consternation. She was glad to be out of such odious company, but he clearly suspected far too much about her involvement in rescuing Clara. His reference to the widow must mean he had found the torn piece of her black veil. Had he followed her out to Bartholmer's, thinking his former slave was hidden there? She shuddered at the thought and cursed herself for being so incautious.

  On the other hand, it was clear that he had no idea where Clara and Sweep were. For that much intelligence she was grateful.

  Just then the duke collapsed, shaking, back into his chair. Rutherford and Mrs. Colling rushed to see to him. She could see the affection they shared for the duke. Tilly hated the fact that it was in defence of her that Bartholmer had exerted himself to such a state of agitation. There was just no end to the ill-fortune she brought into Rutherford's life.

  Chapter 36

  Rutherford turned things over in his mind as he paced the marble-flagged hallway outside of his uncle's chambers. The visit from Screwe was so completely unexpected. He had never liked the man, and now he detested him. If his uncle should die because of Screwe's malice, Rutherford would duel the ruddy bastard and kill him, even if it meant a life on the continent, evading a murder charge.

  No. Death was too good for him. Rutherford had a better idea. He would run him into ruin—buy up all the man's debt and foreclose on him. And Rutherford was sure the man had financial problems, for otherwise why should he refuse to pay his debts of honour?

  But he hoped his uncle's turn for the worse was just a temporary spell. He stopped pacing and listened at the door. The doctor was still examining Bartholmer, and Rutherford could hear the vague murmur of voices.

  He began to pace again. And what was all that about a widow and returning what had been stolen from Screwe? Could he be referring to Mrs. Colling? Was that why she flew out of the room in such a state of fear? Was he seeking her out, or had he come all this way to menace Tilly? Tilly did dress as a widow when she came for a night-time rendezvous.

  The thought of those occasions made him warm all over. God how he needed her. It had been too long. Only now he had to be careful. He could not just give in to his desire. If he wanted all of her, and he did, he had to play the long game. He suspected that she really did love him, and her reaction to Mrs. Colling only confirmed this.

  So he had to be strategic. F
irst, he had to best this dependency on laudanum and prove he was the man she needed in her life. What woman wanted a lame duck? And then she would have to be made to see that if she loved him and wanted him in her life, she would have to marry him. The threat of losing him to another woman had to appear real, even if it was not.

  He did not like to play such games, but he was not going to lose her for want of trying everything at his disposal.

  He looked at his watch. The dinner hour was approaching, and Tilly had gone to change half an hour prior. In his experience, she was adept at dressing rapidly, even without a maid. The memory made him smile, but he wondered what could be taking her so long.

  Chapter 37

  Tilly finally found Mrs. Colling in the library, where the widow was perusing the books. This displeased Tilly only for the peevish reason that a love of books was something the beauty would have in common with Rutherford. No doubt the two had spent several idle hours, haunting these stacks with their heads together over favourite passages… She shook her head to dispel black thoughts of sneaking up on the woman and clubbing her with a multi-volume binding of Clarissa, or, the History of a Young Lady.

  “Well,” said Tilly, “We are alone at last.”

  The woman started and nearly dropped the book she had been reaching for in the stacks. “Miss Ravelsham. I did not know you were looking for me.”

  “Oh, indeed? You could imagine a scenario where I would simply leave Blackwood without looking into the matter of a woman of my acquaintance passing herself off as a widow, under an assumed name?”

  “You misunderstand the situation, entirely.”

  “Did you really believe I would just let you alone to continue imposing upon Mr. Rutherford and his uncle?”

  “I am not imposing upon his grace.”

  “That remains to be seen. But you admit to imposing upon Rutherford, then?”

  The woman's chin lifted. “You take quite an interest in Mr. Rutherford's affairs. Is he some relative of yours?”

  “He is a friend.”

  “Oh, indeed. Have matters changed while I have been living in seclusion? Is it quite the thing these days for engaged women to be friends with single young men who are not their future husbands?”

  “I will not grace that insinuation with a reply. We are speaking of you. You are the one who is passing herself off as someone she is not. And perhaps you have told the duke your proper name, but I doubt very much that his grace knows anything of your former profession.”

  The woman pressed her lips together. “You know even less of it. Like most meddling busybodies, you have not an inkling how great an injustice your officiousness might wreak.”

  “Ah!” Tilly's laugh had a razor edge. “You are the victim of injustice. Circumstance has forced your hand to defraud others, then take up residence hiding under the protection of a sick old man whose kind heart is easily exploited.”

  “I had thought you might be different, Miss Ravelsham. But it seems you are just like all the rest of them. Go. Tell what you know. I care not. I have to leave now anyway, as you or Mr. Rutherford have led that evil wraith of a man under this roof.”

  “Who, Lord Screwe?” This gave Tilly pause. She had thought the pretty widow's dramatic exit from the parlour had been an excuse to go off and throw herself in Rutherford's way. And in fact, when she accidentally dashed into his arms, they had exchanged some intimate whispers, which had confirmed Tilly's suspicions.

  But what if her motivation had been much different? What if the imminent arrival of Screwe had driven her away? If she was, indeed, running from Lord Screwe, perhaps Tilly had judged too quickly.

  “Shall you run to Screwe now and tell him what you know?” The widow's voice was bitter. “I cannot fathom how anyone could call both that fiend and Mr. Rutherford a friend.”

  This betrayal of the woman's admiration of Rutherford nearly drove Tilly to immediately march off to Rutherford and the duke and out the woman, just to spite her. But Tilly recalled herself and spoke through only slightly clenched teeth. “I believe you were present when I told the duke that I had recently made the man's acquaintance, but Lord Screwe is no friend of mine. Mentioning him in the same breath as Rutherford is an insult to Rutherford. Indeed, calling him a fiend is an insult to fiends.”

  Mrs. Colling laughed nervously. “Well, that is something, at least. You will not tell him I am here, then?”

  Tilly considered the situation for a moment. The tart might be after Rutherford, but if Screwe was their common enemy, Tilly should proceed with caution. “No. I shall not do anything to help that slithering viper of a man.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “You do, as long as I have your word that you do not have designs upon Rutherford.”

  The woman's beautiful face was animated into the very embodiment of mirth as she gave into laughter. “I do not have designs on your Mr. Rutherford, Miss Ravelsham. You have my word. But I think you need to be honest with yourself about your own designs.”

  “That is none of your affair. Now suppose we have a chat about how you came to be a widow, Miss Dervish.”

  Chapter 38

  Rutherford's heart clenched as Tilly's carriage drove away. He had begged her to stay, but she was determined to go immediately after dinner, to attend matters in London.

  He smiled. It was nice that she was taking the task of getting out of the drug trade, or at least sanitizing her involvement, so seriously. It felt like she was doing it all for him. His heart filled, and he longed to pour out his love upon her, hold her close, give her everything she could desire, protect her, make her a duchess.

  But he did not want to be a duke, not if it meant losing the uncle he had only just found. What an idiot he had been, waiting to get to know Bartholmer until it was almost too late. This brought him fresh pain and the now-familiar longing for oblivion.

  But he would not take another dose of laudanum. He was almost out, and he wanted to cut back his dosing even more tomorrow. Some of the herbal decoction might help.

  He went to his chamber and drank a few sips from the flask Tilly had given him.

  Needing an outlet for his flood of feeling, he walked to the nursery. Molly and the puppies had been set up there in proper style, and Rutherford took to stroking ears and scratching bellies.

  He would take them down to Bartholmer later, if his uncle was up to it. For the moment the old duke was resting. The doctor had chastised them all, saying that even the trip to the parlour to socialize had been a rash disregard for Bartholmer's health. He gave strict instructions against all future social calls by any but family or close friends.

  Screwe. The man acted upon Rutherford like the appearance of a cockroach, at once invoking revulsion and a strong desire to crush the loathsome creature under his heel.

  A sudden thought gripped Rutherford. What if he had followed Tilly to Blackwood? He had seemed to be watching her house on the day Rutherford left London. Yes, he certainly seemed to be watching her, for some reason, and Screwe's reasons could never be good ones.

  He started suddenly, upsetting the puppy he was cuddling. Good Lord, she could be in danger right now. What if he had waited and followed her away from the estate? She had only Mrs. Carson and a couple of man servants along. Did they have guns?

  He wiped his face. He was over-reacting. Screwe had no idea how long Tilly intended to stay. Surely a self-indulgent cur like him would not wait around indefinitely. But that was no guarantee that he would not continue to stalk her like a deer when they were back in London.

  Rutherford was decided. As soon as his uncle had recovered from this most recent spell, he would return to London. He had to keep her safe.

  Chapter 39

  London had become dull without Rutherford. Tilly, having no resort to sugar, had occupied her time making lists of places to hunt for Clara and Sweep, and finding ways to discreetly investigate them. The degree of precaution she now had to engage in made the process maddeningly slow. She could not
do any of the searching herself, and those she sent in her stead had to be made to take the most circuitous ways to get anywhere. It was ludicrous, really.

  She was just returning home from a decoy hunt, having conspicuously left her house early that morning and gone to search out places and make enquiries which she knew would not get anywhere near to the two fugitives. In this way, she had hoped to mislead anyone who was watching the house. A good idea, but tedious and a dreadful waste of time.

  She looked about her as she disembarked and walked to the front entrance. She spied, through the corner of her eye, a grubby lad in grubbier clothing skulking at the corner. He was one of Screwe's, not one of hers. She felt sorry for the child. Probably an orphan. If only she did not live in a world where poverty made you invisible, exploitable. Was England not a land of plenty? Only for a few.

  She sighed and pretended not to see him. There was no point in drawing attention to the fact that she knew she was being watched.

  There was an hour and a half until she was to depart for the Aldley estate, where she would stay to attend the christening the next day. She went to her chambers to let her lady's maid freshen her toilette.

  Chapter 40

  Rutherford did not love a ritual, but the christening of Beatrix Ruth Aldley, and the prospect of the gathering at the Aldley estate afterwards was rendered tolerable by the presence of Tilly. He had only just returned to town, and there had not yet been time to see her.

  She looked beautiful, radiant even, in the stained glass light of the chapel sanctuary. He met her gaze as they each took their roles as godparents to the newest little Aldley. He could see the truth in her eyes, the same deep ache he felt. The yearning cries of her heart were the echo of his own, which pounded faster at the sight of her. He longed to run to her, sweep her up in his arms and carry her away.