by Gayle Callen
“Ellen?” she interrupted, her eyes wide.
“She wasn’t exactly happy to be your maid, was she? Anyone else would have removed her from the position due to her attitude and poor skills.”
“Yes, but she was merely insecure.”
“How was I to know that? You told me how excited she was to be your permanent lady’s maid, and then another note came.”
“So we can rule her out,” Faith said.
“I hope so. I even had your past employer, as well as Miss Ogden and Miss Atherstone investigated.”
“Jane and Charlotte? They would never—”
“But you’ve only known them a few months, haven’t you? What if one of them became jealous of my attachment to you?”
He saw her considering. “Charlotte was quite disapproving at the beginning, but I believe it was because she thought you had devious intentions.”
“Maybe you agree with her.”
She didn’t look at him. “Not those intentions. I don’t like what you did, but never once did you hint that my past only entitled me to be a man’s mistress.”
“Then I did something right,” he murmured, and touched her shoulder.
She stepped away. “And then there’s Timothy. After the way he behaved for a while there, he would seem the likeliest suspect. But . . . we were friends for so long, Adam. I know he’s changed, but . . .”
“He was at our wedding,” Adam said coldly.
Her wide-eyed gaze collided with his. “I didn’t see him. But then I was only focused on you.”
“I will take that as promising, rather than implying that I wasn’t focused on you.”
“Of course I didn’t mean that,” she said quietly. “So what did he say when you confronted him?”
“I haven’t yet. That was on today’s calendar.”
She bit her lip, and for just a moment her eyes almost twinkled. “Today’s calendar? Did you write in ‘confront suspect’?”
He smiled at her, but she turned away again, as if she didn’t want to smile back.
And then the words he hadn’t meant to say tumbled out in a hoarse voice. “It’s taking everything in me not to draw you back against me, to put my arms around you and promise everything will be all right.”
Her arms crept about to hold herself, but she said nothing.
“I want to inhale the scent of your hair, taste your fresh, sweet-smelling skin. I’m lost without you, sweetheart. But you don’t want to hear that.”
“Not now, Adam. I need time. I don’t know . . . what I want.”
He nodded although she couldn’t see.
She cleared her throat and stepped away from him toward the door, saying over her shoulder. “I shall leave a card at the Gilpins today in hopes they’ll visit us tomorrow. I think I need to look into my old friend’s eyes.”
Chapter 24
After a night in the ducal apartments—but in her own room—Faith came down to breakfast, determined to find out once and for all if her oldest friend hated her so much that he’d try to ruin her life.
But when she reached the breakfast parlor, all the family was assembled, and they looked at her with sad, angry, or wary expressions—depending on the person.
“What happened?” she asked, her stomach clenching.
Adam held up the ironed newspaper, now folded back to the Society pages. He pointed to a paragraph.
What scandal brews? One hears that the D— of R— had to marry. Are there more secrets to be revealed?
Faith felt light-headed. Did that mean the blackguard had begun to follow through on his threats, and now meant to reveal the rest? She stared into Adam’s grim eyes, but there were no answers there.
Sophia was the first to speak, her voice shrill. “Who would say such a thing, let alone write it?”
“I always feared the circumstances of your marriage would come out, son,” the dowager duchess said. “You can keep nothing from the servants.”
“None of it matters,” Adam said dismissively. “They can say anything they’d like—you’re my duchess, Faith, and those in Society who wish to remain in my good graces will never mention this.”
Lady Tunbridge smothered what might have been a snort, but Adam didn’t call her on it.
Faith was no longer hungry, couldn’t seem to move. Except for Aunt Theodosia, no one here knew there were any more secrets to be uncovered. They all thought this was the only ugly rumor to matter.
But she had to think logically—would Timothy know the worst of her sins? No one in her village knew; her mother had seen to that. Timothy had never shown any interest in her when she was barely getting by. And when she had agreed not to ask his father for a letter of reference, he’d been relieved and seemed to think nothing more. It wasn’t until he’d come to London, his marriage ailing, and seen her again did she sense a problem. But would he have paid investigators like Adam had to research her past? What would have been the point?
Though she wasn’t hungry, she ate a small breakfast alongside Sophia, doing her best to appear not overly concerned. She certainly didn’t want anyone to suspect there was more going on. After a morning of working with Aunt Theodosia writing letters—which the old lady insisted a duchess shouldn’t do, and Faith overruled her—Faith had lunch sent up to her room on a tray, and awaited the arrival of the Gilpins. Precisely at three, Seabrook alerted them both to their callers, whom he’d shown to the family drawing room, since the dowager duchess and the other ladies would be receiving callers in the public room.
Faith wore one of Sophia’s gowns, white with tiny green stripes, a touch of elegance, but nothing of the newest fashion that might make Timothy feel she was out to impress them.
Adam met her in the corridor outside their apartments, then held out an arm. “Ready?”
She nodded, placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her downstairs. She was surprised that rather than nervous, she felt—bold, alive, ready to face the challenge.
Was this how Adam had felt in India, when he’d left his terrible brothers behind and could face challenges on his own?
In the drawing room, Timothy and his wife stood together near the hearth. In the moment before introduction, Faith thought Timothy looked nervous and didn’t meet Adam’s forthright gaze, but she knew well what he could be fearing—that Adam might know he’d been the one to have her innocence.
“Mr. Gilpin,” Faith said pleasantly. “I’m so glad that you and your wife could attend us at Rothford Court. Have you met my husband? Allow me to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Rothford. Rothford, this is Mr. Gilpin, the man from my village I told you about.”
She saw Timothy give an uneasy start and shoot a nervous glance at his wife. Mrs. Gilpin didn’t notice, tense and alert and smiling too much. Her hair and eyes were both brown, and with her little upturned nose, Faith was put in mind of an eager kitten.
“Gilpin,” Adam said impassively, nodding his head.
Timothy swallowed. “Your Graces, may I present Mrs. Gilpin.”
Adam bowed over her hand. “I believe you’ll someday be Lady Gilpin?”
Blushing, she nodded eagerly. “My husband is the heir to his father’s barony, Your Grace. Are you not, Mr. Gilpin?”
“You are right, of course, my dear,” he murmured.
Faith was surprised at how . . . subdued Timothy was, not at all a man in control of his life. As they all sat down, it was Mrs. Gilpin who did most of the talking, commenting on the opera and the latest musicale and someone’s upcoming ball. Timothy nodded and made the appropriate affirmations in monosyllables. Faith got the sense that he wasn’t doing this because of Adam’s presence, but simply out of habit. She was surprised by how little interest he seemed to have in their socializing. It was rather sad—no wonder he was unhappy with his life, if he didn�
�t speak up, or get a word in edgewise.
“Mr. Gilpin has told me such fine things about you and your late brother, Your Grace,” Mrs. Gilpin said chattily to Faith, then her smile faded. “Oh, dear, do you mind if I mention him?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Gilpin. I wish I had more people who remembered him that I could talk to.”
She glanced at Timothy, who opened his mouth, but was interrupted again by his wife.
“He talks fondly of the games you all played as children, how you used to love to read. Do you still feel the same?”
Adam smiled. “She does. I do believe she might have fallen in love with my library first.”
Mrs. Gilpin laughed loud and merrily, and her husband started as if he was overly sensitive to her voice.
“Oh, this is delightful,” she said. “I’ve been insufferable I’m sure, asking Mr. Gilpin when we might call upon his old friend, the duchess.”
Adam settled his steady gaze on Timothy. “Did you send me several notes recently?”
Faith held her breath, trying to look interested but not too curious. She hadn’t known Adam was going to be so direct.
Timothy frowned. “I did not, Your Grace. Are you certain you do not have me confused with someone else?”
Adam shrugged. “I guess I do.”
Through it all, Faith watched Timothy carefully. She’d known him her whole life, had been able to read his expressions as a child, and these last few months, had had no problem understanding how unhappy he was.
But he seemed totally clueless about the anonymous notes. And she believed him. The relief she felt that it wasn’t her childhood friend was soon replaced by a renewed worry—if it wasn’t Timothy, then who was it?
Precisely a quarter hour after they arrived, the Gilpins took their leave. Timothy didn’t meet her eyes as he bowed to them both and followed his wife out the door.
Adam closed the drawing-room door and leaned against it. “He’s a milksop.”
“He doesn’t know a thing, Adam.”
“You would know him better than I, but I have to agree. Dammit, Faith, if it’s not him, then who could it be?”
“I hate to suggest it, but could it be someone even closer than we’ve ever imagined?”
His blue eyes were wintry. “You mean family?”
She said nothing, only bit her lip. “My mother took great pains to hide my sins from the world.”
“I cannot imagine my mother or Sophia or my aunt wanting to harm us, but . . .”
His voice faded away, even as she stiffened.
“Lady Tunbridge?” she whispered.
He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “My brother hated me. He tried to poison the whole family against me—maybe he succeeded with her.”
“Oh, Adam, she’s a good mother to Frances. Why would she do this?”
“I don’t know, unless it’s just to hurt us, since I’m now the duke and her husband is dead.”
“She’s thought I was beneath you from the beginning. But to have me investigated in depth?”
He started pacing, head bent, brows furrowed. “She was too . . . calm after you left, no gloating, no arrogance. At the time, I was just thankful for the peace, but now . . . I don’t know. Let’s ask Aunt Theodosia if she’s seen anything suspicious.”
He took her hand and pulled her from the room, and she could barely keep up to his pace. At the public drawing room, he slowed just before reaching the door. They could hear many voices.
“If we go in there, it’ll be at least an hour before we can escape,” Adam said. He turned to Hales, who waited dutifully. “Wait until we’re gone five minutes, and then please ask my aunt to attend us in our apartments.”
He continued to hold her hand all the way up the stairs, and at the top, she said, “I do know my way—you don’t need to lead me.”
He looked startled, then lifted up their joined hands. “It simply felt right.”
She extricated hers and walked ahead of him. She wasn’t thinking about the two of them, not now. In their sitting room, she was the one who paced, and Adam lounged back in a chair and just watched her.
Finally she rounded on him. “Must you stare so?”
He smiled. “Yes, I am newly married, and the sight of my wife quite arouses me.”
She felt herself blushing, though she struggled to will those dark, sensual memories away. “Can you not concentrate on what we must do? The reputation of your family is at stake.”
“My family?” he said, slowly rising to his feet and then coming toward her.
She wanted to back away, and she wanted to strain toward him. It didn’t matter how disappointed and hurt she was—her body remembered the pleasure and the struggle and the release.
“It’s your family, too,” he said huskily.
And then Aunt Theodosia swept in before he could touch her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“And what do we have here?” she asked, limping forward and positively beaming at them.
Faith stepped away. “We have a suspect.”
Her happy expression faded into determination. “That Gilpin fellow?”
“No,” Adam said, “we’ve both concluded that it just didn’t feel right. And then we began to wonder if there was anyone closer to us both, whom we’d overlooked.”
“Closer?” his aunt echoed, looking both puzzled and worried.
“Marian,” Adam said coldly.
Aunt Theodosia’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s the only person that makes sense,” he continued, “the one who wants to punish me for having lived when her husband died. She couldn’t stand Faith from the beginning, and since my return from India, she’s veered often into disrespect.”
The elderly lady slowly sank into a chair, looking older than she had but a moment ago. “Oh, Adam, I can’t believe it . . . I don’t want to believe it.”
“We need proof,” Faith said. “I would never humiliate someone by simply accusing.”
“She has no problem humiliating us,” Adam countered. “If it is her, she put that notice in the paper, and maybe plans another.”
Faith shivered, and when he put an arm around her waist, she didn’t pull away. She felt shocked and hurt and so sad. Frances’s mother—could she really have done this?
Faith struggled to put her emotion aside. “She would have had to contact the man who paid the little boys to bring the letters,” she mused. “Does she go out alone?”
“Not often,” Aunt Theodosia said. “But I have seen her do so recently, without calling for the carriage—which is very unusual, as she takes pride in the ducal insignia on the door.”
“She could be walking to a friend’s,” Faith pointed out.
“She never walks anywhere,” Adam said. “I’ve heard her say walking is for common people.”
“Well, I like to walk,” Faith said dryly. “I imagine she believes her theory quite proven by me.”
“I hate to suggest it, but I’d like us to talk to Frances,” Adam said somberly. “With gentle restraint, of course. She might have seen something than can help us.”
“If it’s true,” Aunt Theodosia said with a quavering voice, “the poor girl.” Then she straightened. “Marian has gone out. I can’t wait much longer to know the truth. Now that you’ve returned, Faith, she might become desperate. I do not know what other secrets she hints at—and I do not wish to know your private business, because we all have secrets—but I imagine it will only harm you both to have them revealed. I suggest we send for Frances now.”
Faith lifted both hands. “Wait. If she sees us all here, she’ll be quite upset, do you not think? What if I bring her to the conservatory for a walk? She loves it there.”
Adam nodded. “Excellent idea. We’ll meet you there.”
For the next hour, Adam found himself watching his wife, the gentle way she had with Frances, never speaking down to her, always treating her as the smart, funny girl she was. He felt both angry and sad that Marian might have risked everything and hurt her child in the process, all for an old grudge that hadn’t even begun with her.
They looked at flowers and examined the fish in the fountain, until Adam thought he’d explode with impatience. But Faith never once betrayed any concerns, until at last she began to talk about writing to her mother.
“It is a duty to write to one’s mother, of course, but sometimes it’s sad.”
“Why are you sad?” Frances asked, still trailing her fingers in the fountain.
Adam was seated on a nearby bench, pretending to look at the flower book with Aunt Theodosia, but his ears were straining. He’d thought he would have a difficult time restraining his own questions, but Faith had everything under control.
Now she was saying, “My mother and I aren’t as close as your mother and you are. It’s hard to know what to say to her. Does your mother write to her mother?”
Frances nodded. “She writes letters every day.”
“Ladies often do,” Faith said, nodding. “I must admit, since coming to live here, the ducal stationery makes it a pleasure to write. Such pretty paper. Your mother must like it.”
Adam tensed, never having thought to connect her to the paper the notes were on.
Frances wrinkled her little nose. “She has this ugly paper she uses sometimes. When I tried to read it once, she took it away.”
Faith nodded, then splashed a few drops on Frances, who laughed. But Faith met Adam’s eyes with a determined, triumphant expression.
“I’ll be right back,” Adam said to his aunt.
Anger seethed inside him like a hot summer storm. He took the stairs two at a time to Marian’s apartments, and then searched every drawer and beneath and within every piece of furniture. He found a yellowed calling card she’d once kept safe and waiting for the day she’d be duchess, the day that never came. At last he found the paper hidden behind her giant wardrobe—and there was a new letter ready to post to the newspaper. Faith appeared in the doorway, and her eyes went wide when she saw what he held.
