Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  Gerard leaned back in the chair and thought. Properly, the blackmailer would assume his demands should be directed to Charlie, unless the fellow knew anything at all about their family. Charlie might be the heir, but anyone familiar with the de Laceys would know that appealing to Edward would yield swifter and surer results. Naturally in public Edward deferred to Charlie, but in private, Edward was the unquestioned authority behind the Durham name. Perhaps the next letter would ask for money again. Perhaps it would demand something completely new, given the changed circumstances. Gerard pulled off his boots and slouched deeper into the armchair, letting all the mysteries run laps around his brain in search of an answer.

  He had just begun to doze off when someone tapped at the door. It was a light, quick knock-knock-knock, almost as if the person were testing the wood rather than requesting admittance. Gerard stayed slumped in his chair, his eyes unwilling to open just yet. Perhaps the intruder would go away, and he could drift back into the pleasant, half-asleep state he’d been in. But the knock sounded again, faster and a little harder. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the surprisingly comfortable armchair. The blackmail letters he tucked back into his saddlebag. He’d read them enough to know every word by heart even when he wasn’t too tired to see straight. He stretched his arms and rolled his head, feeling the muscles in his back tighten and twinge. Sleeping in the chair was probably a bad idea. Sleeping in the bed sounded pretty damned good, though.

  Snapping his braces back over his shoulders, he padded across the room in stocking feet and pulled open the door. To his surprise, it wasn’t the innkeeper nor even a chambermaid, but a woman of moderately advanced age, thin and short, a pinched expression on her weathered face. She wore all black except for the ivory lace cap on her gray head. Someone’s hired companion, or the mistress of the local girls’ school. Either that, or Newgate had begun hiring female warders. Gerard couldn’t think of a single reason for a woman like her to be at his door, particularly since he hadn’t told anyone except his brothers where he was going. It put him on guard. “Good evening,” he said, keeping a firm grip on the door.

  “Good evening, Captain.” Her faded green eyes flickered up and down him, clearly unimpressed. “You are Captain Lord Gerard de Lacey, are you not?”

  Gerard’s gaze darted left, then right, but she was alone in the corridor. “Yes.”

  She gave a small nod. “My mistress will see you.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Will she, indeed? And who, pray, is your mistress?”

  “A lady.”

  “What is her name?”

  Her lips pursed up as if she were trying to swallow them. “Will you come, or will you not?”

  Gerard met her glower with a shrug. “Not. Good night, madam.”

  “I cannot say her name,” hissed the strange woman as he moved to close the door. “But she must see you. I beg of you, sir, please.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?” He crossed his arms. “If she wishes to see me, she won’t be able to conceal herself for long.”

  “She does not wish to conceal herself from you,” muttered the woman with a ferocious scowl. “She is a lady in need. Will you come, as a gentleman, or will you not?”

  Gerard smiled faintly at the stress she laid on the word “gentleman.” “What’s she in need of? Should I bring my pistol?”

  Her lips twitched, and her head came up. She gave him another examination. “Not this time,” she said, a little more civilly. “She awaits you in the private parlor below.”

  “Very well,” he said, but she had already turned on her heel and walked away. He leaned into the corridor to watch her go, the lace lappets on her cap bobbing sharply with each step. She didn’t look back.

  He closed the door. How odd. Who was the mystery lady? And how the devil had she fastened on him as her savior? Gerard knew his abiding weakness was curiosity; it had gotten him into more scrapes than he could count, and this time would probably be no different. His visitor had said not to bring a pistol this time, as if there would be other times when he should bring one. He sat down and wondered what sort of lady would need him to bring a pistol, then he pulled on his boots again. He slid his knife down inside the left one, no matter what the old woman said.

  He went down the stairs, his imagination running in ten different directions at once. This person knew who he was, so it wasn’t just some woman in distress appealing to the most capable-looking man she saw or because of his army coat. Whoever she was, she must have followed him across the river from London. He supposed it was possible he was walking into some sort of trap, but it seemed unlikely. He didn’t have anything worth stealing except his horse, and that could have been done without her speaking to him. Besides, this was a reputable inn, well kept and close to the main road. He was perfectly able to defend himself, and looked it. It could be tied to that wretched Durham Dilemma, but that could be as much to his advantage as anyone else’s.

  At the private parlor he knocked twice, then pushed the door open peremptorily. The old woman who had sought him out earlier gave him another dark look as she hurried forward. She grabbed his sleeve and almost pulled him into the room, whisking the door closed as soon as he was through it. He gave her a piqued glance, but this time she looked less impatient and more tense. Frightened, even. She motioned him on. Gerard said nothing and stepped farther into the room.

  It was empty save for the figure standing in the far corner, concealed in a cloak with the hood pulled over her head. The hem of a skirt peeped out beneath the cloak; otherwise there was no clue to the person’s sex or identity. He folded his arms and waited.

  After a moment the cloaked figure stepped forward. “Good evening, Captain. Thank you for seeing me.” Her voice was low, soft and pretty. Definitely a woman.

  Gerard made a very slight bow. “How could I refuse such a summons?”

  He couldn’t see her face but sensed the exchange of a glance between her and the older woman. “I apologize for approaching you this way.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I haven’t been so intrigued in days.”

  She didn’t move. “Before I explain, I must beg your promise not to speak of my visit.”

  “Who might be asking?”

  She hesitated again. “I will understand if you refuse my request for any reason. I will go away and leave you in peace forever if you wish. I only ask that you not tell anyone I came to see you. Please, sir.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Her face was still lost in the deep cowl of her hood, but he heard the thread of worry in her voice. “Very well. I won’t speak of it.”

  Her shoulders fell in relief. “Thank you.” She raised one gloved hand and pushed back the hood of her cloak.

  His first thought was that he’d been right about the old woman’s being a schoolmistress; this must be her prize student, the one who would someday take her place. She wasn’t pretty at all, with too-prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth. Her hair was dark blond and scraped back from her face as severely as the schoolmistress’s. She had fine eyes, dark in the firelight and thickly lashed, but the expression in them was opaque and utterly without warmth. Her lips were pressed into a grim line that gave no hint of their shape. She stared at him, unsmiling, for a moment, as open in her appraisal as he was in his. Gerard couldn’t recall the last time a woman had looked him over so frankly. “Shall we sit down?”

  He must have passed inspection. More amused than anything else, he decided to stay and see what she had to ask of him. He took the seat she gestured to, in front of the fire, and she finally came forward to take the opposite chair. The old woman fluttered around the back of the room before bringing two glasses of wine. Gerard waved her off, and she shot him a disapproving look but set the glass on the table beside him. His companion took a small sip of her wine and handed it back to her servant—he couldn’t believe the old woman was anything else from the way she hovered so solicitously at the younger lady’s elbow—who retired to the
back of the room.

  “Your maid wouldn’t tell me your name, yet she made certain of who I was,” Gerard said. “I don’t like being toyed with, so let’s dispense with the mystery, shall we?”

  “My name is Katherine Howe,” she said. “I don’t expect you to know it.”

  “Or remember it after tonight, apparently.”

  She looked at him oddly, almost as if she didn’t understand what he said. “I know of your family—I was raised near Lastings in Sussex. Then I was Katherine Hollenbrook. My father was Mr. Edgar Hollenbrook of Henfield. He was a wool merchant.”

  He tilted his head and studied her more minutely. She had the air of a judge contemplating sentencing him to hard labor, grave and reserved and so very stiff in her chair. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name. I’ve not been in Henfield these last five years or more.”

  “I don’t expect you to recognize it. I tell you merely to assure you that I’m familiar with your situation and am not acting capriciously. My family knew of yours—your father in particular. I decided to approach you when I heard the recent rumors in London.”

  Gerard’s temper stirred. “Well, if you’ve come to stir up trouble in that regard, you’ll have to join the queue,” he drawled. “And I think that ends our conversation.” He started to get to his feet.

  “Wait.” She held up her hand. “I haven’t finished.”

  “Yes, I think you have.” He started walking toward the door.

  “I came to make you a proposition,” she said in a rush as his hand closed on the doorknob. “One that will suit both our needs.”

  He turned and flashed a disdainful smirk at her. How dare she come try to take advantage of his family’s troubles? “Unless you want to come upstairs and warm my bed for the night, I can’t think of anything you could offer me to suit my needs.”

  Her jaw firmed. Her glare was withering. If she’d had a switch, she probably would have blistered his palm with it. “I came to propose a marriage, Captain,” she said coldly. “If the rumors are true, you will be disinherited and declared a bastard. You will need money. I have money, but need a protector.”

  “I don’t need money badly enough to marry the first woman who offers herself,” he growled.

  She raised her chin. “You will.”

  “I’ll let you know when it happens.”

  “Don’t you dare leave, Captain!”

  Gerard was so astonished by the order, he turned around. She was pale and rigid with fury, on her feet now with hands in fists at her sides. The old woman stood behind her, clutching the wine bottle as if to hurl it at his head if he set foot outside the room. He put his hands on his hips, annoyed with himself as much as with her. Damn his curiosity. He should have ignored the knock on his door and stayed peaceably in his room. “Why not?”

  “Please let me explain,” she said stiffly. Her throat worked. “I apologize for the abruptness of my manner. I haven’t much time before I must be home.”

  “You came to propose marriage to a man you’d never met, and you can’t spare more than a few minutes for it?”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “I’ll be missed if I don’t return soon, and if that occurs, this will all have been for naught, whatever you decide.” She took a deep breath. “I am in a desperate moment, Captain. Please listen to what I have to say. If you decline, I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again, you have my word.”

  Gerard sighed. Damned, damned curiosity. “Very well.” He stalked back to the chair and dropped into it.

  Slowly Katherine Howe sank to her seat as well, watching him as if afraid he would bolt from the room. “I need a husband,” she said baldly. “You are—or very soon may be—in want of a wife with money if the rumors about your father are true. I have heard you will be left virtually penniless if your brother cannot inherit the dukedom of Durham.”

  “Not quite,” Gerard said in clipped tones, “but go on.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together. Her thumbs dug into the backs of her hands so hard, the leather of her gloves creased. “My father left me a large fortune. He made it in trade, but money is money. When I was younger, he arranged an advantageous marriage for me, to Viscount Howe of West Sussex. Lord Howe was older than I, but desperately in need of funds. My parents were pleased with the connection, Howe was pleased with my marriage portion, and it was done. Howe died last year, and his nephew Lucien inherited the viscountcy.”

  “And you cannot wait to cast off the widow’s weeds?” Gerard asked when she fell silent.

  “Very much the contrary.” Her expression turned stony. “I would gladly wear them for the rest of my life. Instead I’m now being pressured to marry Lucien, whom I cannot abide.”

  “I presume he wants your money as well.”

  Again she gave him that queer look. “No. It is worse. Not only did Howe spend my marriage portion, he borrowed a large sum from my father. The expectation, of course, was that my father’s wealth would descend to me at his death, then to my children, and there would be no need for repayment. Unfortunately for Lucien, Howe died before my father, without a child. By the terms of my father’s will and the loan agreement, I now hold the note against the Howe estate. Not only must Lucien return half my dowry since I had no children, but he owes me the sum of the loan as well.”

  “Which, naturally, he does not have.” Gerard guessed.

  She nodded once. “My husband did not spend wisely. Even if Lucien wished to, it’s unlikely he could borrow enough to repay me, given the state of the Howe finances. He could pursue an heiress, but most would be unhappy to hear that the bulk of their fortune must be paid out immediately to me.”

  Gerard studied her. In the firelight she looked almost bloodless, cold and hard like alabaster. “You needn’t call in the loan—ever, let alone at once.”

  “But I could,” was her answer. “And Lucien will never forget it.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his feet toward the fire. “So the new Lord Howe finds it easier to wed you than bestir himself to honor his uncle’s debts in some other way. Sounds a bit lazy to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would rather marry a complete stranger than simply take your own house and hire a solicitor.”

  She sighed and spoke with slow deliberation. “Lucien has all my property still under his control. He will not let me leave at will. Mrs. Dennis is the only person in the whole household I can trust.” The old lady sharpened her minatory eye on Gerard. “And I would rather die than marry Lucien. I am sure my death would suit him just as well as a wedding—perhaps even more so—which is why I will take any other option open to me. And at the moment, those options are limited to you.”

  Gerard picked up the glass of wine the older woman had poured for him earlier. He held it up as if studying the hue of the burgundy, then took a long sip. He hated being treated like an idiot, particularly by a woman who claimed to be in desperate need of his help. She was going to have to work for it if she truly wanted him to marry her. Because, curse it all, she was absolutely right about his needing money, from her or some other heiress. “And why have I been so fortunate to be preferred over both Lucien and death?”

  “My father respected your father. He called him an honorable man.”

  He raised one eyebrow skeptically. “You chose me because of my father?”

  “You’re a military man of some acclaim. I’ve read about you in the papers.”

  “You must have an extraordinary memory to remember a passing mention here and there. And I don’t think war heroes make the best husbands in any event.”

  She gave him a quelling look, as if he were a naughty schoolboy for contradicting her. “If you wish to hear my explanation, perhaps you could keep silent long enough for me to give it.”

  Gerard grinned, perversely amused at her prissy manner. “Of course. Go on, my dear.”

  A flicker of discomfort crossed
her face at the endearment. Interesting, he thought, but she didn’t say anything about it. “As I was saying,” she continued acidly, “I believe you to be an honorable man. I did not choose you at random but based on your family and your personal merit. Whatever else you might think of my request, please don’t think it hasty or ill considered.”

  “As you wish.” He sipped some more wine. “You’ve set forth a persuasive case for you to marry me, illustrious, dashing fellow that I am. Now tell me why I should marry you.”

  Mrs. Dennis stirred, her face pinched up in disapproval. “No!” Katherine Howe turned her head sharply toward her servant. “It is a fair question.” She faced Gerard again, and took a deep breath. “Rumor holds that you are about to lose your entire inheritance. If you are stripped of your birthright and pronounced a bastard, as whispers in London indicate, you won’t be an eligible husband for any young lady, let alone one of good family and fortune. You hold a captaincy, but you’re ambitious; it will be expensive to rise to higher rank. In addition, I imagine it would be quite difficult to adjust to life without a fortune when you’ve been raised as a son of immense wealth and privilege. In your place, any clever man would look around at once for an heiress to marry, while the scandalous rumors are still just rumor and not known fact. If the rumors are disproved, you would still be a third son, who no doubt would have wanted an heiress anyway. If the rumors stand . . .” She shrugged, a very slight movement. “Your chances of finding a wealthy wife are at their best right now.”

  “Hmm.” Right in every particular, to Gerard’s disgust. She might look as plain as boiled pudding, but there was nothing lacking in her brain. “But why you in particular?”