Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke

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Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke Page 18

by Tessa Candle

“Bartholmer.” Tilly could see the gears turning in DeGroen's mind.

  “The crazy old childless hermit of a duke who sought retirement in the countryside? I am surprised you were admitted.”

  “It helped that I was presented as a friend to his heir.”

  “Rutherford is to be a duke then?” DeGroen pursed his lips. “Well, well. How can a mere rich man compete with a duke?”

  “I think you, of all people, know that a title means nothing to me. Though I fear I have passed myself off as so mercenary and unromantic about marriage that Rutherford probably believes it gives him an advantage. But,” Tilly heaved a sigh, “this is all by the bye. What did Grandfather Fowler have to say about Screwe's assertions?”

  “We may, quite literally, thank God that my grandfather is somewhat sceptical of Lord Screwe's character. I assured him that your chastity was not to be impugned.” DeGroen's lips only twitched very slightly in forming these words.

  “Quite. I should expect nothing less. And so he has summoned me to hear the indictment denied from my own lips?”

  “No indeed. He would pale at the suggestion of giving such an offence. He was apologetic to me for raising the point, but he felt he should put me on my guard against Screwe.”

  “Oh really?” Tilly was impressed to find that the old man was wily enough to sort out Screwe's character for himself. And she was surprised to hear that, far from believing every dark aspersion he heard about another, which is what Tilly had come to expect from overly pious people, Grandfather Fowler had opposed the rumour-monger.

  “Apparently he has been making some inquiries about town and has satisfied himself that Lord Screwe is not only not to be trusted but is actively to be mistrusted. For this reason Grandfather, who assures me that he is not to be taken in by such an immoral rakehell, has come to the conclusion that Screwe means to interfere in his testamentary arrangements. He does not understand precisely why Screwe should do so, but Grandfather has a mad tendency to see conspiracies where his fortune is concerned.”

  “I should not call it mad, entirely.” Certainly DeGroen's family had given the old man enough reason for suspicion. And even she and DeGroen had plans which were not all they appeared to be.

  DeGroen waggled his head equivocally, then continued. “But the long and the short is that he wishes to make over the settlement to me now. In fact he has done so this afternoon, and he wishes us to be wed most expeditiously.”

  “Well,” Tilly gasped and sank into a chair. Was their wedding within the week not expeditious enough? “So you are an independently wealthy man then.” And together they would be titans of wealth, though not of passion.

  “I am sad to say it,” DeGroen conceded and his face looked troubled, “but I believe this latest shock has put the fear—or let us say apprehension of death into him. Indeed, he was consulting with his solicitor this morning. I imagine that means he has finalized his will.”

  Tilly grasped at this truth like a drowning man grasps at straws. If Grandfather Fowler should die before they were forced to wed she might be free to marry Rutherford. She shook her head to dispel such an evil thought. When had she become the kind of ravening ghoul that could actually wish the death of an old man? Grandfather Fowler, though irritatingly religious, had never done anything wrong to her or anyone that she knew of, and had been the member of Mr. DeGroen's family most inclined to value DeGroen and treat him decently.

  A servant brought word that the old man was summoning them to his chamber. Tilly stood and straightened her skirts. Her feelings of shame would have to wait until she was finished her work of deceit and concealment.

  Chapter 46

  Rutherford had gone to the magistrate to give his statement, then immediate returned to London. There was no reason to stay when Tilly had gone. Why had she declined the Aldleys’ dinner invitation? Was she trying to avoid him? Was she slipping away?

  He wondered if he should risk sending Tilly a note, as he sat in his study and drank down a very weak draught of laudanum and brandy. The symptoms of his dependency had become quite mild now, and this dose was to be his last. No doubt tomorrow he would have a headache and feel out of sorts. And he would think about it. But the next day would be better, and the next.

  He wished that he could celebrate this moment with Tilly. He had her to thank for rescuing him from his self-created peril. He burned inside when he recalled that he had once blamed her for his condition. What had he said? The torment of seeing you slip away from me and knowing you will soon join with another man has driven me to this. He cursed himself for a weak coward. How could he have laid that burden upon her? And yet, he had been unwell. He hoped that Tilly had considered that, and not taken the words too much to heart.

  It had been his own decision to dose himself with poison rather than feel the pain of losing her. And she had never misled him about her plans and feelings. The fact that it now seemed she had misled herself did not change anything.

  She had told him repeatedly that she would marry another, and he ignored her words, persisted in trying to charm her out of her engagement. He had been so certain that a little seductive persuasion and the certain knowledge of his love was all that it would take.

  But she had held firm in her resolve. Why? What hold had this DeGroen fellow over Tilly? It could not be mere money. He had once believed her when she spoke of her mercenary motives, but now he did not.

  All the good she tried to accomplish had endangered her reputation and cost her time, care and money. Rutherford could see this now, and he knew that Tilly, though perhaps a little licentious, was not motivated by money or social standing.

  If only she were, then his title and his future prospects might induce her to accept him. In fact, he had once entertained that hope. But he had not been thinking clearly. The Tilly he knew and loved was, in addition to being delightfully irreverent, also strangely noble. He had to talk to her and make her tell him the truth, so he could find a way to persuade her to join her life with his.

  Just at the moment that he was hobbling about and preparing to take the risk of calling on her, Frobisher turned up.

  “Well, Lord Drake, you did not have your title long before you took up gallantry to lend it distinction.” Frobisher was smirking.

  “Bish! Good to see you, but I shall have to disobey the doctor's directions and duel you if you insult me by calling me Lord Drake. Do I call you the Marquess of Fenimore? I am always Rutherford to you.”

  “Very well. And how is the leg?”

  “I have had worse. I dare say it will heal up in a trice.”

  “You know the whole situation is the talk of London. Every available heart is swooning with your heroics. And every available tongue is wagging about you and Lady Aldley.”

  “Good Lord. What nonsense. Does Aldley know about this?”

  “If not, I imagine he shall, as soon as he next visits with his mother. But do not frown so, Rutherford. Their suspicions will blow over as soon as the next little thing happens. Gossipers have bird brains that peck at whatever seed falls in front of them.”

  “Yes.” Rutherford was thoughtful. He supposed it might also prevent them from pecking at whatever stories Screwe might be spreading about him and Tilly. He still wondered what could possibly cause that dirty dish to so persecute Tilly. Had she taken something from him, as Screwe kept insisting? Rutherford needed to ask her, if they ever managed to find some time alone together.

  Just then a servant delivered an urgent message. It was from Bartholmer. “You will have to excuse me, Bish, I must read this.”

  As he perused it, he realized it was not from his uncle's hand, but had been dictated. He had only just returned to town, and he was once again being summoned to Blackwood Manor. This was a very bad sign. Rutherford's face darkened.

  “What is it?” Frobisher looked concerned. “Is something wrong?”

  “I am afraid my uncle has taken a turn for the worse.” Rutherford lost his breath just pronouncing the words. No, no, no. Bart
holmer could not die and leave him alone again.

  He tried to keep the pain and fear out of his voice. “Do you still fancy a trip to Blackwood?”

  Frobisher tilted his head and shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Good.” Rutherford strode to the bell-pull. “I shall brood less if I have your company.”

  “Are we to leave right this instant, then?”

  “As soon as I get Molly and the puppies gathered up. I hope you do not mind sharing your seat.”

  Chapter 47

  As Tilly descended the steps of DeGroen's house, leaning on his arm, Mrs. Carlton in tow, she was thankful for the nightfall that concealed her struggle against a flood of tears. They were to marry in two days. Grandfather DeGroen felt his death coming and he wished to see them wed before he went. They could still have their planned reception in a week's time, but, after this absurdly long engagement, the old dictator would have them wed immediately.

  Rutherford would be lost to her. She had to go tell him in person. She would not let him discover it from anyone else. She knew not why it should shock her so, the difference of several days was not such a big one, after all. But the ache in her heart and the feeling of panic in the pit of her stomach felt like they would kill her. For the first time in her life, she thought she might actually faint.

  “Ah dearest Tilly.” DeGroen held up her suddenly slumping weight on his arm. “You are not happy, I can see that. True,” he stopped and tilted her head up to look in her face, whispering, “those are tears. I can scarce believe my eyes.”

  He pressed her into an embrace, and it was all she could do not to dissolve into sobbing. Mrs. Carlton stepped into the shadows and pretended to minutely examine the leaves of a tree.

  When he released her again, the glib, mocking humour of his face was entirely gone. “My lovely little Tiddly-wink, you know I will never oppress you. Never make you give up… anything that makes you happy. Indeed, I shall always do my best to… accommodate your access to everything that can possibly amuse or charm you.”

  “Amuse me? Charm me?” She could not keep the disdain out of her voice. Did he think her heart so shallow as that?

  “Ah, I see. Am I only now to realize...” He sighed sadly and shook his head in disbelief. “Can it be possible that you are,” he hushed his voice yet lower, “in love with him?”

  “I—” This was hard. She had never before said it out loud. “Yes.” She croaked, and tears poured down her cheeks.

  “My treasure, my dear one, I love you now more than I ever have. Save for your brother, I have no closer friend. But you are such a ruddy little fool.” The mocking look was back on his face, but his eyes glistened.

  She laughed and snorted as her nose began to run. “Do you think so?”

  DeGroen looked askance at her. “Oh yes. Yes, indeed. I am afraid we may have to redraft the marriage settlements, now that I know you are feeble-minded and do not even know enough to blow your own nose. You should have told me this before.” He handed her his pocket handkerchief in a quick, squeamish gesture. “Keep it.”

  Chapter 48

  Rutherford drank a dose of Ole Maeb's concoction as he rolled along in the carriage beside Frobisher. He returned the sterling silver flask to his pocket with a sigh. He had picked a rather bad time to stop taking laudanum. To further console himself he stroked the soft ears of Molly and tucked one of her puppies into his jacket, positioning it over his scar.

  "Rutherford, it does my heart good to see a man who loves his dogs so much." Frobisher's lip twitched. "However, have a care who sees you in such throes of tenderness. It could hurt your reputation at the sport club, you know."

  Rutherford tried to rouse himself and play along with the jovial banter. "And you know I care such a great deal for my reputation there."

  "If you do not, this must certainly be a recent change. For I can see no other justification for the degree to which you put on airs and swagger about the place, as though you were the very king of the Corinthians."

  "I do not put on airs, and I certainly should never wish to be known as the sort of brute who could not appreciate an exquisite little pup. And anyway, kings do not need reputations. If any man should question my title in that kingdom, I should be happy to put him to rights with the foils or at boxing." Rutherford tried unsuccessfully to make his voice sound less peevish.

  Frobisher decided to change the subject. "But this is not the most expeditious way out of London, surely? Where are we going?"

  "It is only a little out of the way." Rutherford did not know how to confess his penchant for slinking by Tilly's home in the hopes of getting a glimpse of her. He tried to sound nonchalant. "I like the view in this neighbourhood, so I always make this little detour when I am leaving town." He did not add, and at every other opportunity.

  “Quite. The view at night must be well worth a half hour's detour.”

  In making their way to Tilly's neighbourhood, they passed the house of Mr. DeGroen. The moon had come out, and Rutherford gazed upon the front step with some curiosity, seeing that there were people gathered there. The internal yearnings of his mind detected by instinct, before his eye could do so, the figure of Tilly.

  His heart soared at the sight of her, before he could check himself. For of course she was there to see Mr. DeGroen. But then he gasped as he saw DeGroen crush her into a fond embrace, which she returned.

  He was stricken. His heart throbbed, and he stifled a cry. He had never before contemplated that Tilly might love Mr. DeGroen, might be marrying Mr. DeGroen because she loved him, and not because of the fortune to which she made constant reference. Had Rutherford been such a fool is that? Had he dismissed DeGroen as a mere banker, when he was, in fact, a rival for Tilly's heart?

  Frobisher seemed to perceive what Rutherford was staring at through the window, for his heart did not sound entirely in it when he gibed, "I suppose the view in this neighbourhood is not quite so enchanting."

  They passed by the scene of the two lovers, and Rutherford roused himself. "Do not be a philistine, Frobisher. The prospect from this street may not enchant, but it certainly enlightens."

  He used the speaking tube to tell the driver to make directly for Blackwood. Then he hugged the sleeping puppy closer to the scar that twitched above his heart. This would be a miserable drive if he did not distract himself.

  “Fancy a drink and some cards, Bish?”

  “Aye, aye. Thank God. Anything if it lifts you from this devilish mood.”

  Rutherford lit a candle and produced two tumblers and a bottle of brandy. He tried to make himself smile despite the relentless feeling that he was losing everyone he most wanted to hold on to.

  Chapter 49

  Tilly sipped a cup of creamy coffee in her carriage, savouring the charming interplay of its bracing, bitter flavours against its smooth, teasingly faint sweetness, which she had never properly appreciated before she stopped drinking it with enough sugar to choke a horse.

  She glanced at the tired eyes of Mrs. Carlton. The woman was a saint, and Tilly was an utter savage to bring her out in the early gloom of the morning. But she heard that Rutherford had not stayed at the Aldley estate. He must be back in London, and she needed to see him as soon as possible.

  She knew that it was foolish to so openly call on him, with Screwe circulating rumours about them around town. But she did not care. She would be wed the next day, and she could not let Rutherford find it out by reading the paper, or hearing it from the gossips.

  At least, that is what she told herself was the reason for her call. She would not permit her heart the satisfaction of telling itself that she called because she secretly hoped that somehow, if she saw him, something might happen to rescue her from the mess she had gotten herself into.

  No, that she would leave in the periphery of her mind. It was a mercurial little willow-the-wisp of a thought that, once acknowledged, would disappear in a puff of rationality. And Tilly did not want it to disappear.

  As her servant han
ded her out of the carriage, Tilly wondered at the fact that Rutherford had not come out to greet her immediately. It was usual for her to visit in secret, dressed as a widow, and to enter through the servants’ entrance. But on those rare occasions where she came without concealment, he generally met her enthusiastically on the front stoop, to the visible irritation of Smythe, who was always jealous for the credit of his master.

  She supposed it was because she was calling so early, and Rutherford was probably still abed. In any case, he would not yet be dressed. With such appealing images to tease her imagination, she ascended the steps eagerly.

  She was surprised to see that the man who opened the door was not Smythe.

  "The master is not in, I am afraid. Shall I take your card, Miss?"

  "No. Do you know when he will return? Is he still at the Aldley estate?"

  With this, the servant apprehended that she knew something of his master's business, so he did not scruple to reply without concealment. "No, Miss. He has taken himself to Blackwood Manor again. I do not know when he will return."

  Blackwood Manor? But he had only just returned from that place. And his leg could not have healed so quickly as that. Surely he must have received some news of the duke that took him back there, wounded leg and all.

  She thanked the servant and turned back to the carriage. "Mrs. Carlton, I do not suppose that you would object to a little voyage to the countryside again, would you?"

  As always, Mrs. Carlton agreed to whatever Tilly wished. Tilly supposed that was the lot of a companion, but appreciated Mrs. Carlton's long suffering compliance with all of Tilly's flying about and strange arrangements. She would have to increase the woman's stipend.

  She did not relish the idea of going to the duke's manor again, only to give Rutherford news that would make him miserable, and at a moment when his anxieties must already be excited by the state of his uncle's health.

 

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