The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  Next he pulled out a packet of letters, bound with string, which proved to be from Mr. Pierce, Durham’s country solicitor. These went back over a year and included letters from Durham in reply to Pierce’s. Charlie stared at his father’s handwriting, no longer as sharp and bold as it had once been but shaky, almost scrawling, at times. He knew Edward had handled the vast majority of Durham business for eight years or more. Mr. Pierce must have written to Edward at least every week during the span of these letters, and yet the solicitor had never breathed a word about them. Durham had commanded him not to. Charlie read one letter from Pierce, reporting almost miserably on the lack of progress by the hired investigators; they had exhausted all clues of Dorothy, and begged for any scintilla of information that might guide them to more fruitful inquiries. But Durham could remember none. He had told them all he knew, and their inability to find any trace of the woman left him displeased and skeptical of their competence. His writing had deteriorated, but Charlie could hear the duke’s impatience as if his father were reading the reply aloud.

  He sighed and put the packet aside. There was another stack of letters, from the London solicitor recently engaged by Edward to try again where Durham’s earlier investigators had failed. Charlie could see no substantial difference between them, nor did he have any wish to try. Those investigators had been looking for Dorothy Cope, the long-lost Fleet wife. Charlie was looking for Hiram Scott, who had tried to blackmail them. Find Scott, he reasoned, and he would find a link to Dorothy. Dorothy was the key to the whole puzzle, and it wouldn’t be solved until he found her, but Scott was apparently the only one who knew anything about her.

  He took out the blackmail letters themselves, obligingly handed over by Gerard, and the stack of thin, battered notebooks Gerard had unearthed from a country farmer’s stable in Somerset. They were the records of one William Ogilvie, who had allegedly performed the marriage ceremony between Durham and Dorothy in the shadow of Fleet Prison. Charlie’s first attempt at reading them, in Bath, hadn’t gone well, but then he’d chanced to meet Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Neville. With any luck, he wouldn’t need to read these registers after all. He set them aside with a great deal of relief.

  And then there was Durham’s letter, his last confession. It was the last letter in his own hand, recounting his ill-fated amour and begging forgiveness. It was dated only five days before he died, when he must have known he wouldn’t live to see the matter resolved—when he knew he had failed. Charlie had read it when Edward and Gerard brought it to London weeks ago, and the sight of it still filled him with fury. It was the coward’s way, to confess in a letter that wouldn’t be read until after his death, when he would be forever removed from any condemnation or questions.

  For a few minutes Charlie thought about the woman who had so bewitched his father sixty years ago. Durham’s letter had said surprisingly little about her, only that she was a spirited beauty who shared his taste in revels. What sort of revels had his father enjoyed? What sort of passion had he conceived for the alluring Dorothy, and how had she managed to resist him at all? The duke was in his forties when Charlie was born, a matured man with a will of iron who brooked no refusals. But if he’d ever been frivolous and devoted to revelry, Charlie never saw a sign of it.

  He sighed and put all the papers back into the satchel. Clearly he hadn’t known his father well at all. As much as he feared coming up short in this quest to root out the truth about the duke, he couldn’t deny a certain amount of morbid curiosity. What had his father been like as a young man? Had his heart broken over his first love, as his own had? Perhaps it had been this misadventure that shaped Durham into the demanding man he became. Had he viewed that early humiliation as a lesson—and if so, what lesson? As far as Charlie could see, the main thing his father seemed to have learned was to keep it secret at all costs, and that hadn’t turned out terribly well in the end. And the one time Durham might have put the lesson to good use and admitted his youthful indiscretion, when he opposed Charlie’s long-ago desire to marry Maria Gronow, the duke had instead acted with all the compassion and sympathy of a boulder.

  Despite the late start, he reached the village of Frome in good time. The afternoon sun was sinking over the crooked silhouette of the roofs, and the carriage creaked as the roads sloped upward into town. A glance out the window put him in mind of the wooden blocks he and his brothers had played with as boys. Frome had the same appearance as their imagined towns, built for the sole purpose of being destroyed, a haphazard arrangement of wooden buildings on the side of the hill. The idea of knocking the whole town down with a cricket bat, as Gerard had once done with their blocks, was mildly amusing.

  When the carriage stopped at an inn, Charlie stepped down and cast a more critical eye about him. He had no qualms admitting he liked comfort—even luxury—and the inn before him appeared to offer little of either. It was neat enough, but on the shabby side, and fairly small. He reminded himself he could endure some rough living for a few days, and went inside to take rooms.

  After seeing the alleged best room, though, he promptly decided he couldn’t bear it after all. The bed was thin and uninviting, the window wouldn’t close all the way, and through the wall he could hear the sounds of a couple arguing. He told Barnes to go out the next morning in search of something better, preferably a cottage or house where he would have some privacy.

  “Somewhere quiet,” he told his valet, as the argument next door grew more heated. “As near Frome as possible, though.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” murmured his man.

  “And none of that title in Frome,” Charlie added. Barnes and his other servants had begun addressing him as the duke from the day he learned that his father died, but he was not formally the Duke of Durham, and had only used the title among family. It occurred to him now that it might be best to keep all mention of the dukedom quiet, especially until he learned more about Scott. “I’m still Gresham while we’re here.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Barnes bowed.

  He crossed the room and pushed open the warped window. A brisk breeze blew in from the direction of the river. Somewhere nearby, Hiram Scott was waiting for him, knowingly or not. Charlie wanted to get the maximum benefit from their first meeting. The only question was . . . how?

  After thinking about it overnight, he got up early the next morning to strike the first blow. It was surprisingly easy; a few desultory inquiries in the inn’s taproom were enough to discover Hiram Scott owned an ironworks in Mells, a small village nearby. It appeared to be a prosperous enterprise, from the respect in people’s voices when they spoke of Scott. Charlie murmured something about canals, and again received an easy acknowledgment. There was a canal branch being dug to Frome, intended to run westward through the coal fields and, of course, Mells. Mr. Scott was an enthusiastic promoter of the canal and was well-known in Frome for trying to drum up investments. One gentleman said Scott must hardly know where his own bed was anymore, he traveled so far and so often in search of new investors for his project.

  Charlie thanked them and went out for a walk. A canal promoter. That explained the travels, although this near Bath, one would think it might make Scott well-known there. Gerard said he’d made extensive inquiries, although perhaps his brother had gone about it from the wrong angle. Gerard would have been looking for someone who hated Durham, someone thwarted or affronted by the duke in some way. He told Charlie all he’d heard was polite condolences concerning their father’s death, and barely veiled curiosity about the scandal. They hadn’t learned Scott’s name until very recently, however, so perhaps Gerard had been asking the wrong questions, or asking the wrong people. It was unlikely Gerard, an army man who took little interest in business, would have sought out the businessmen and tradesmen who might have known Scott as an iron manufactory owner.

  Of course, Charlie felt even less qualified to do that.

  He turned into a wider street, considering his options, an
d beheld his very best one. Eugenie Bates stood a hundred yards in front of him, fanning herself weakly. Her short, plump figure was unmistakable, from the fluffy lavender shawl she clutched with one hand at her neck to the woebegone expression on her flushed face. He headed right for her.

  “Mrs. Bates!” he exclaimed. “How astonishing to meet you here!”

  She looked up at him with the same startled look as the first time he’d accosted her, in the York, but this time it brightened at once into joy. “Why, Lord Gresham! What a lovely surprise!”

  “And it appears I have come across you in distress, yet again.” He frowned in concern. Unlike last time, when he’d wholly invented her illness, the older lady did look unwell today. “May I fetch a doctor?”

  “Oh, no, no, I was merely a bit overheated.” She fluttered her fan more vigorously. “I feel much better now. And very happy to have met you again. I shall never forget your kindness in Bath, never.”

  He waved one hand. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and one of the few I enjoyed in Bath.” He glanced around. “Have you come alone? I thought you were traveling with Mrs. Neville.”

  “Oh, my, yes! She’s just in the apothecary’s shop, I’m sure she’ll be right out. I grew a bit faint—the odors, you know . . .” She stopped and blushed. “But now I count it quite fortunate, for it drove me outside at a most opportune moment!”

  Charlie smiled at her, not mentioning that he would have walked every street in town in search of the two of them. “Fortunate indeed.”

  “And there is Mrs. Neville now,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming. “Tessa dear, see whom I met!”

  The lady emerging from the apothecary’s shop turned at Mrs. Bates’s call. With the advantage of surprise on his side this time, Charlie could take in her full reaction. She stopped dead in her tracks, her lovely mouth open and her startling pale green eyes wide with surprise. In that moment, without a trace of frost or disdain in her face, Mrs. Neville was rather beautiful, Charlie realized. He was not accustomed to beautiful women disliking him, and for some reason her antipathy struck him as especially unfair—and gave him the sudden urge to charm her mercilessly. How dare she think him indolent, when he had just chased her across Somersetshire?

  “Mrs. Neville.” He removed his hat and bowed very properly. “How delightful to see you again.”

  “And how surprising, my lord.” Her curtsy was a bit stiff. “Mrs. Bates didn’t mention you were also traveling to Frome.”

  He smiled. “We hardly had time to become acquainted in Bath—though I am thoroughly pleased to rectify that failing. But I’ve come to Frome on rather dull business, and wouldn’t wish to bore either of you with it.”

  Her mouth flattened and she looked positively grim for a moment. “Of course not,” she muttered. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your important business, sir.”

  He barely kept back his grin at her faint stress on the word “important.” Mrs. Neville felt slighted. “On the contrary,” he replied easily. “It is my most fervent hope you and Mrs. Bates will grace me with your company a time or two. I assure you it would brighten my visit immeasurably.”

  “Oh, Tessa dear,” gasped Mrs. Bates. She turned and looked up at Charlie with shining eyes. “How very, very kind of you, my lord!”

  He inclined his head graciously without taking his eyes from Mrs. Neville. She watched him back, a faint line between her brows. Her gaze was sharp and a little bit puzzled, as if she couldn’t make him out. He had the feeling he was being measured against some invisible standard, and for a moment he wondered how he’d be found, worthy or lacking. But she didn’t look nervous or guarded anymore, which strongly indicated she knew nothing about Scott’s blackmail.

  Quite by surprise Charlie found that he strongly hoped that was the case. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him that she be innocent of any particular sin. Mrs. Neville obviously found him indolent, vexing, and tiresome. He told himself it was for Mrs. Bates’s sake he cared; the elderly lady would be very hurt if her young friend turned out to be complicit in blackmail, and Charlie liked Mrs. Bates enough to wish her no harm. But he couldn’t deny there was something about Mrs. Neville herself that caught at him. Even though he hoped his doubts about her would prove baseless, he wasn’t at all sorry he had to examine her more closely. To tell the truth, he was looking forward to unraveling her, far more than he should be.

  “May I offer you my arm?” He did so as he asked the question, and this time Mrs. Bates didn’t waste a moment. She gave him her hand and beamed at him as he folded it around his arm. “Mrs. Neville?” He turned to the other woman, who still hadn’t moved, and offered his other arm.

  “Thank you, no,” she said. “I am perfectly capable of walking down the street unaided.”

  Charlie just bowed his head. “Indeed. It was merely to gratify my own desires I inquired.”

  She gave him a sideways look of suspicion, but fell in step beside him and Mrs. Bates as they set off.

  “Do you plan to stay long in Frome, my lord?” asked Mrs. Bates.

  “A little while,” he said vaguely. He could see Mrs. Neville’s reticule swing forward on her arm with every step she took, a bright blotch of red against her dark blue skirt. Her gown was stylish but simple, and a bit on the sturdy side. She dressed practically, it seemed. “I’ve come to see a gentleman about some business matters.”

  “Just as we’ve done,” exclaimed Mrs. Bates. “Or rather, just as Mrs. Neville has done; she’s quite the cleverest young lady I’ve ever met, my lord.”

  “Eugenie,” said Mrs. Neville.

  “Lord Marchmont relies upon her for investment guidance,” Mrs. Bates chattered on, ignoring the look from the younger woman. “Although I do hope we shan’t have to visit the coal mines. I’ve heard they’re very dirty, dangerous, disagreeable places, and I fear so much for dear Tessa when she ventures off.”

  “Eugenie,” said Mrs. Neville again, the note of warning clearer this time.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Neville is sensible enough not to venture too dangerously,” said Charlie. “Although I quite agree about coal mines.” He made a face. “I’ve come to see a fellow about the canals, though, not the mines.”

  “But so has Mrs. Neville!” Mrs. Bates seemed immune to the increasingly aggravated glances Mrs. Neville was giving her. Charlie could feel each of them; they practically singed his chest as the lovely widow glared around him at her companion. “She’s considering Mr. Scott’s canal, is that the same one you’re looking at?”

  “Mr. Hiram Scott?” repeated Charlie as if in amazed disbelief. “That’s just the fellow I’ve come to see! My, what a remarkable coincidence.”

  Mrs. Bates almost crowed in delight, her cheeks pink. “Why, Tessa dear, isn’t that amazing? Who would have guessed, when we met in Bath, we were both on the same errand?”

  Mrs. Neville cast an aggrieved glance at him. Charlie didn’t say anything, just met her gaze with an expression of pleased discovery. Here at last was the connection he wished to explore. To his relief, she didn’t appear excessively upset that her companion had betrayed her connection to Scott. If she really feared what Mrs. Bates would say, she wasn’t very firm in forestalling the older lady. “Yes, Eugenie, it is amazing,” she said at last, in the same tone she might have agreed that smallpox was just as bad as consumption. “But I hope you won’t prattle Lord Gresham’s ear off about coal mines and canals and other dull things.”

  “On the contrary,” said Charlie quickly, staring hard at Mrs. Neville. How did he manage to irritate her so completely? It was very nearly a gauntlet thrown in his face. “I should like to hear all about the canals. No doubt your view would be most helpful to me, since”—he smiled at her—“it appears we are interested in the same thing.”

  Tessa’s hands were in fists and she longed to hit him, just to wipe that smile off his face. It was a sly little quirk to his
lips, coaxing and secretive all at once. The way he said “we are interested in the same thing” sounded more like a seduction than any sort of intelligent discussion between equals. Not that he viewed her as an equal, of course. Until Eugenie had mentioned the canals, he hadn’t wished to bore her with dull details about business. Temper warmed her face. She’d wager a guinea she could keep—and read—an account ledger better than His Pampered Lordship could, but like most men, he assumed she had the brains of a pigeon and would feel light-headed at the mention of debentures or bonds. She longed to ask his opinion of the engineer’s plotted route, or if he had any doubts about the projected dividends. If he agreed with the demands of the landowners who were insisting the canal weave from mine to mine to lessen their own costs, or with the investors who wanted the most efficient route and the most economical construction.

  “I wouldn’t wish to bore you,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’m sure my opinions would be quite inconsequential to you, my lord.”

  His steps slowed and his expression turned keen and thoughtful. Tessa jerked her eyes away from him and refused to look back, even though she could feel his scrutiny like the heat of a fire. She had overdone it again, no doubt. Oh, why had he decided to take an interest in Eugenie? She honestly couldn’t fathom what possessed him. Surely her single rude remark, well over a week ago, wasn’t enough to inspire this much attention, and if his purpose was to make her squirm in regret, he had already achieved that. Eugenie was still clinging to his arm like a happy barnacle, so Tessa didn’t walk away as she wanted to, but she wished mightily that Lord Gresham would go away at the end of the street.

  But Eugenie seemed to have cast off any care or awareness of what she wished, because at the end of the street, Lord Gresham asked if he might escort them on their errands and then back to their lodging, and Eugenie accepted before Tessa could demur. She couldn’t keep back a sigh, and then gritted her teeth at the inquiring—though highly satisfied—look Lord Gresham gave her.