When they reached Firthley’s study, the butler, Corbel, poured two brandies while the two men sat, Firthley behind his immaculate desk, Nick in front. Simply the placement of the chair implied his status as visitor and would have made him feel like a schoolboy, had Firthley’s expression not held so much compassion. Nick eyed the more comfortable armchairs and tea table across the room, nearer the hearth, but Firthley was obviously more comfortable in the erstwhile position of power. Combined with the censure over Nick’s “womanish” emotional display, this did not bode particularly well.
Nick had been allowing Firthley to manage everything outside Bella’s sickroom, and faced with whatever he might hear in the next quarter-hour, there seemed more reason than ever to leave it all in the marquess’s capable hands. With crystal tumblers in each man’s hand, and a goodly swallow down each throat, both were more prepared for the conversation to come. Nick could hardly be more dazed, but with enough drink, he thought he might try.
Once they were served, Firthley dismissed the butler and requested he ensure perfect privacy around the study, including barring entry to the marchioness. Everyone knew he might lose his position for complying, or at least his place in his Mistress’ good books, but Corbel agreed, “Very good, Sir.” The butler bowed and left the room, closing the doors silently behind him.
As soon as they were alone, Nick asked, his face motionless, “Have you found Michelle?”
“No, not yet, but we have further information.” Presumably intending to avoid the details, Firthley added, “Bow Street has a contingent dedicated to her capture.”
A beam of light through the window caught on the cut crystal glass in his hand, so Nick followed the bouncing colors rather than focusing on Firthley’s words. Finally, when the silence grew too heavy to support itself, and with no certainty about whether he cared to hear another word about Michelle Delacroix, Nick looked up.
“What have you learned?”
Though he was the person most anxious for her to be found and brought to justice, Nick dreaded the answer more than he had considered. Stomach twisting, throat choking on the endless possibilities, he simply didn’t know if he could bear to hear what awful plans Malbourne’s whore had made for the woman Nick loved.
Firthley poured Nick another drink, as he had somehow emptied his glass without noticing. While Nick settled into the brandy and struggled out of his confusion, Firthley crossed to place the decanter back on the sideboard and continued, seemingly unaware of Nick’s now-precarious state of mind.
“Michelle Delacroix is actually Michelle Lemaître. Mrs. Claude Lemaître. Her husband was one of the leaders of the Revolution in Alsace, but dead the past twenty years.”
Nick sat forward with the first semblance of interest in anything but Bella in a sennight. At Firthley’s lengthy silence, his foot began to tap and he sat on his free hand to keep from continual drumming against the arm of the chair or the top of the desk, “What are you not saying?”
“I wish to make it clear, I’ve already taken Charlotte to task, so there is no need to lay blame…”
“Blame?” Nick was sure his eyebrows might fly off his forehead at the thought Charlotte might have a hand in this. “What is it she’s done?”
“Well… it is unfortunate… and most unusual for my wife… strictly speaking, she is quite diligent…”
“Speak up, man! What is it?”
“Well… we now know the Baronesse de Montoire, to whom Mrs. Lemaître alluded in her employment letter, does not exist, nor the Viscomtesse de Gourgue, who purportedly wrote her character. The Comtesse de Châtillon died by guillotine in Toulouse in 1790, so it is unlikely Mrs. Lemaître was ever in her employ. It seems Malbourne and his mistress assumed no one would confirm the particulars of a reference on the Continent. And they were entirely correct.”
Firthley took a sip of his drink while Nick digested how simple it had been for Malbourne to effect his wicked plan. As a wide range of emotions crossed his mind too quickly to pinpoint, Firthley watched him closely, Nick supposed to determine where the roulette wheel might stop. While waiting for Nick to manage his response, Firthley couldn’t seem to keep himself from continued explanation, though clearly uncertain whether it would help of hinder his cause.
“I have initiated investigations into the rest of the Huntleigh’s servants and ours, so you needn’t concern yourself about any continued threat. I hope you understand Lady Firthley—”
“Of course not.” Nick waved off Firthley’s concern, unprepared to cause discord or find fault with the best allies he and Bella had. “Charlotte is the last person who would mean harm to Bella, and she will castigate herself far more than I ever could.”
“Indeed.”
Nick sat back, the twists and turns of the case now beginning to fall, if not into place, at least into a recognizable shape for a puzzle. “I would like to know how Malbourne ended up with a revolutionary as co-conspirator.”
Firthley held up a hand, palm facing Nick. “Before you begin asking questions for which I have no answers, there will be a man here from one of His Majesty’s regiments in half an hour to update us both on the latest developments. Until then, there are concerns I prefer not be addressed by official channels.”
An even greater sense of inevitable foreboding fell onto Nick’s shoulders with the weight of ten wool sacks, shattering the puzzle into smaller pieces, destroying even the vague outline. Shaking off the feeling, he went to the sideboard, allowing the drinks he had already imbibed to numb his body as well as his mind. Choosing the decanter of brandy, he poured himself another tumbler. With any luck, he would be sotted before long.
As Firthley’s silence lengthened, Nick said, “You may as well begin. It cannot possibly be worse than Bella half-dead upstairs.”
“It is not… well…” He cleared his throat and wound the orrery on his desk, setting the planets spinning in their small, contained orbit, his eyes tracking the movement as if he might sail to Ceres to avoid what had to be said. “There are… verses.”
With the barest minimum of movement, Nick set the glass down with a heavy sigh.
“I suppose caricatures, too?”
“Yes, well… you cannot expect the ton to allow the scandal of the year—nay, the century—to go unremarked. Not when the newspapers have shown so much interest.”
Before he turned back to face Firthley, Nick took several sips of his brandy, welcoming the warmth in the back of his throat, keeping at bay the emotions he had been choking on for days.
“How bad are the newspapers?” he asked, returning to his chair, decanter in hand.
Firthley turned his glass in his hands, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “It is beyond the gossip columns now. No more Countess of H and Duke of W. The story has reached the front page. You both stand accused in the court of public opinion,” he paused, “and you are being crucified.”
It was no less than he should have expected, but until now, Nick hadn’t been forced to consider the implications. If it were only his reputation, he would shake off the tittle-tattle and go about his business. No matter how tarnished, his title and wealth were in no jeopardy at all.
Bella, on the other hand, could lose everything—the Huntleigh business enterprises, her houses and servants, her welcome in any household of the ton, even her title, should the king take up against her. If, of course, she managed to survive her injuries.
“I want to see the verses. I assume you have copies?”
“When you have finished your drink. And perhaps one more.”
Nick threw back the brandy, and Firthley poured him another. Once Nick had sipped it, Firthley sifted through a stack of documents in his desk drawer. He hesitated before handing Nick the pile of leaflets featuring awful caricatures of Nick and Bella, making her look ugly, grasping, and wanton and Nick lecherous, brawny, and mean.
“New ones each day, making the rounds of the coffeehouses and clubs. You understand. You’ve seen it before.”
&
nbsp; Countess H took two dukes to her bed
While the earl’s life hung by just a thread
One duke killed the other
Which has left her no lover
Once her last offer loses his head.
Isabella played two-faced bed games
With two dukes, wanton and unashamed
By the skin of his duchy
Wellbridge might just be lucky
And stay out of the sheriff’s picture frame.
The cit’s widow had planned to elope
But her nuptials were just forlorn hope
She couldn’t choose which to marry
Now has two more to bury
Once Wellbridge is hung by a rope.
Nick waved it at the marquess. “This is how they are talking about her?”
“And you. Keep reading.”
The most dangerous duke in the land
Took a mistress by royal command
A Frenchman made her an offer
To get his hand in the coffer
The duke is loosed by the noose from her hand.
The most dangerous duke on the dock
Whose lady led him ‘round by the cock
Had no need for henchmen
When dispatching a Frenchman
So the duke finds his head on the block
The most dangerous duke undeterred
Went after the king’s ladybird
Tho’ she ran ‘cross the channel
To dismantle her scandal
The duke’s fisticuffs had the last word.
“They are saying she is Prinny’s mistress?!”
This was a terrible turn, placing her in the ranks of fallen women lined up against the more popular queen. Not to mention the king would have to publicly disavow her, should gossip about the incident threaten his precarious accord with Parliament.
“She has been the most notorious woman in England for six long months,” Firthley reminded Nick, “enjoyed the protection of His Majesty, and has taken two dukes out of the marriage mart. The ton has been dying for a way to push her out of favor, and the earl is no longer here to defend her. The response was predictable.”
The sound of papers rattling drew Nick’s attention to his shaking hand, so he placed the stack of leaflets on the desk next to the drink he might spill if he weren’t careful.
“She has done nothing wrong.”
“I agree, of course—there is no woman in England less likely to cuckold her husband—but I think it unlikely you can carry the argument.”
Nick cleared his throat, sat back and crossed his ankle over his knee, and began worrying the carved wood on the arm of his chair, eyes shifting. Firthley gave him a sharp look, but chose to maintain the well-built pretense under which they had all been operating.
“While her husband lay dying, she was closeted with you in your townhouse, then Malbourne in his carriage and at the Blue Bear Inn. Once there, with the king’s personal guard standing by, one of her erstwhile paramours was killed by the other. A man who is, by the by, a known adulterer and libertine.”
Nick had never been more repentant of his many excesses, an unfamiliar sense of shame engulfing him, though, in the back of his mind, he knew they were the smallest part of the scandal that had ensued. Trying to sort through all the possible rumors would surely be his death, so he stopped contemplating them altogether.
Having been forced to discuss it, however, Firthley would not now free him from the consequence.
“Witnesses saw her leave your house and arrive first at the livery, then the Blue Bear with Malbourne, they are saying insensible from drink. Or worse, an opium addiction that purportedly began while she was in the Orient.”
“That never—”
Firthley held out his finger to stop Nick from continuing.
“There are conflicting accounts of whether she secretly married you or Malbourne by special license before her flight from London, which one it might have been, and whose side-slip she may be carrying—or is no longer carrying, as she has taken to bed—including a persistent rumor it must be Prinny’s.”
“What?!” This was far, far worse than he’d thought. Nick stood and began pacing the floor in front of the desk.
Ignoring Nick, Firthley continued the recital. “It is commonly agreed she was cuckolding her husband with all three of you the past few months, while Huntleigh made her a countess and gave her free rein of his money. It is being said she bankrupt the earl, just to set herself up to catch a duke as soon as he died. Never mind the conflicting reports of the extraordinary wealth she inherited, a prize for which every fortune hunter in England is preparing to compete.”
Nick stopped his pointless striding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, accomplishing nothing. He reached for the glass, but stopped. With thinking to do, Blakeley was correct; drinking was most often the beginning, rather than end, of Nick’s problems. As much as it might pain him—and assuredly, it would—remaining clear-headed was the best course.
“This is unbelievable.”
“How long have you been a member of the aristocracy? This is entirely believable. It should not even be a shock. Before they are finished, the ton will have you and Malbourne sharing her favors, then selling her into white slavery for ten pence. It does not matter what happened, or why it happened, only that it happened. I cannot begin to explain the breadth of the scandal.”
“So, no vouchers to Almack’s this week.”
“Quite. Even for a duke, this will be no easy thing.”
Nick had been tarred with scandal’s brush more times than he could count, and had long since stopped worrying about his name in the papers, but this was entirely beyond the pale. This was no longer the type of scandal forgotten after a sojourn in the country or a Season on the Continent, but rather, the kind that ended with titles rescinded and peers’ heads in nooses.
“I am not in Newgate. Does that mean I am not yet a common murderer?”
Firthley picked up a quill and tapped it against the leather top of his desk. “That remains to be seen, though you have the entire history of the British nobility in your favor, including the King’s Guards who report Malbourne’s death by the butt of a rifle when he tried to escape.”
Ah, yes, the convenient lie offered at the Blue Bear, which he would now be more than happy to accept, honor be damned. At least someone had considered the consequences of his actions.
“The problem is no one believes them.” Would nothing go Nick’s way in this debacle? “Too many bruises on the cadaver, too many people watching you darken his daylights, and too much public money spent by the king on behalf of personal friends. ‘Nobles getting away with murder’ and all that, I’m afraid.”
“Of course.” He didn’t want to ask, but could no longer avoid it: “Will I be executed?”
Firthley unbuttoned his coat. “I think it unlikely. However, there will be an inquiry and His Majesty will be drawn in, which means a reckoning at some point, even if you don’t swing for it now. I am sure you are aware involving your sovereign in a sordid criminal matter bandied about Town is not ideal for sovereign or criminal?”
Nick moaned, dropping his head into his hand, “I hadn’t thought of that. I haven’t thought of anything but Bella.”
“For which no one faults you, including His Majesty. He has not passed judgment on either of you—yet.”
It would not take long. Prinny’s mood could turn with no warning whatsoever. The king might invite Nick to play cards and have him carted away before he bet a shilling. He could send Bella roses and have her in irons before the flowers were in water. Or he might bestow new peerages and ten thousand acres of arable land for their trouble. The last thing Nick should do is remind the Crown of his existence.
“You may be sure, Wellbridge, my barristers and yours have things well in hand.” Firthley tapped his fingers against the desk and sat back in his chair. “It was great good luck I could give an account, and I have already repaid the public fund
s. For all intents and purposes, I am Bella’s closest male relative, and it is what Huntleigh would expect until such time as you have married.”
“You need not—”
Cutting him off, Firthley topped up his own glass of brandy, but Nick placed a hand over his when offered. Once Firthley had replaced the crystal stopper, he set the decanter aside, out of Nick’s reach.
“Whether or not you appreciate it, His Majesty and Parliament will know you did not act alone, Malbourne posed a more-than-sufficient threat to warrant lethal force, and your heroic actions have earned the deep gratitude of the countess’ family. If the ghost of Myron Huntleigh has done his part into the bargain, the matter will be adjudicated with no need for barristers at all.”
A tentative knock was followed by the clearing of a throat in the hall.
“Yes, Corbel?”
Without opening the door, the butler said, in a tone low enough for discretion, while still loud enough for the two men to hear, “My lord, the General has arrived.”
Nick caught his breath and eyed the decanter. More bad news. He could feel it in his marrow. More information he didn’t want to hear, more questions he didn’t want to answer, more reminders that his beautiful Bella might soon be gone. If she were to die, Nick wasn’t sure he could—
“Send him in, please.” Firthley stood and crossed the room to welcome the General, on the way replacing the brandy on the sideboard, presumably to keep Nick from becoming any drunker or more mawkish.
The Major-General of the Royal Horse Guards bowed when he came into the room, his deep blue jacket—for which the regiment had earned the sobriquet ‘the Blues’—unusually dusty, his face showing deep lines of apprehension, almost fear. Prinny must have rung a peal over the man’s head for taking so long to carry out his orders.
Royal Regard Page 32
