Athena's Ordeal

by Sue London

  “Sabre, these don’t sound like reasons to marry,” Jack cautioned.

  Her friend gave her a speaking look. “Says the woman who married for no reasons whatsoever.”

  “My reputation! You know what could have happened to Sam and my mother if it had turned into a true scandal.”

  “Of course I do. I’m just saying that other than that you had no reason to marry the earl. You didn’t admire him. Quite the opposite. And you had never shown any interest in marrying for a title.”

  “That’s true,” Jack said carefully.

  “At least I have reasons.”

  Jack recognized the look in her friend’s eyes. Sabre would have the duke at any cost. God save Quince.

  Sabre pinned Jack with a shrewd look. “I assume that I can count on your assistance with this?”

  “Well, what do you need?”

  Her dark haired friend looked out the window again. “This isn’t a war, it’s a hunt.” She smiled. “That’s your providence, Artemis.”

  Jack thought she had best tread carefully. “When Gideon and I met he suggested seeing seduction as a war. That’s your expertise, Athena.”

  Sabre returned her attention to Jack. “Really? Well, I suppose who would know more about seduction than Lord Lucifer?”

  Quince and the earl faced off in the middle of the field after the ladies left. The duke didn’t know the last time he had been so angry. Wait, yes he did. And Gideon Wolfe had been the cause of that, as well. He couldn’t decide if this was better or worse than the earl undermining the first bill Quince had tried to raise in Parliament. “Gideon, what on earth were you thinking, allowing this to happen?”

  Gideon, wiping down the duke’s sword as part of his duties as second, asked, “What do you mean allowing?”

  “I asked you to stand for me here because I trust you. I can see that is yet again a mistake.”

  “About that, I’ve been meaning to tell you that you were right.”

  “I…” Quince realized what Gideon had actually said and it pulled him up short. “What do you mean I was right? About what?”

  “If you calm down a bit perhaps I will tell you.”

  Quince stopped and focused on his breathing. He could feel the tension throughout his body, irritation prickling under his skin. But what was done couldn’t be undone. And short of wresting the sword from Giddy, who seemed intent on polishing it to death, in order to run his irritating friend through with it, there wasn’t much he could think of that would satisfy his unease.

  “Feeling better?” the earl ventured.

  “Just a moment,” Quince said, closing his eyes. He could hear the horses shifting in their gear as they and his coachman patiently waited. Birds were singing in the nearby trees, content with the early morning Spring sunshine. The scent of blooming flowers carried on the light breeze. Bluebells, if he wasn’t mistaken. That made Quince smile. He had sent Gideon’s wife a bouquet of bluebells once, as a sign of gratitude when she had made him laugh. Few people were capable of that anymore, it seemed. Feeling calmer he opened his eyes and saw that he had been correct. A blanket of bluebells bloomed under the trees that bordered the clearing.

  Gideon cleared his throat and Quince glanced over to see that the earl had finally finished polishing the sword, having sheathed it to hold loosely in his off hand.

  “Would you like to go?” Gideon asked.

  “I recall there being a mention of an early breakfast,” Quince looked up at the sky. “Perhaps not so early, but there is certain to be plenty at my sideboard if you care to join me.”

  Gideon grinned at him. “Angry as you were, I thought you would shake me loose at the earliest opportunity.”

  Quince grabbed the sword from Gideon and started toward the carriage. “Then you started telling me how right I am about everything.”

  “I didn’t say everything.”

  “Hmm. I definitely heard everything.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed you tend to hear what you want.”

  “Better than you and never hearing anything at all.”

  “I’m sorry, what was that, old boy? I didn’t hear you.”

  Quince grinned to himself as they boarded. Perhaps everything would turn out all right after all. But his grin faded as he thought about the blood on young Miss Bittlesworth’s sleeve.

  Chapter Seven

  Gideon looked across the breakfast table at the duke and could tell that although Quince was attempting to behave normally, something was still a bit off. His motions were stiff, his reactions delayed as though his mind were elsewhere. Although Gideon preferred to deal with things straight on, he knew Quince was quite different. The duke had been his friend for twenty years, since long before either of them had ascended to their titles. In all that time he had only seen Quince truly upset three times. The day they had met, again when Quince’s father died, and today. As much as Quince liked to tease that Gideon was dense and unobservant, and Gideon would admit that there were many vagaries of daily life that he considered beneath notice, no one knew Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, like Gideon did. And based on what he knew, Quince’s behavior had him worried.

  “So,” Gideon asked with a grin, “did you still think Sabrina Bittlesworth was mistress material after seeing her in breeches with a sword?”

  That sufficed to rouse Quince from his distraction. “Seeing her in that clothing was… intriguing. She filled it out in a most fascinating way.”

  Having Quince actually talk about a woman was intriguing. The duke was usually more pious than a vicar on the subject of women. This one he had propositioned to be his mistress and now thought she looked well in men’s clothing. “But,” Gideon said, “with a figure like that she’s like as not to run to fat.”

  Quince shrugged. “I can’t see any danger of that, considering her interest in fencing.”

  “Jack is very strict about what can and cannot be served with tea when Sabre is in attendance.”

  “I notice you speak of Miss Bittlesworth very familiarly.”

  “She stayed with us for almost a fortnight at Kellington. As she and my wife are always in each other’s pockets, if I wanted to spend any time with Jack it was a surety that Miss Bittlesworth would be there. Well, unless we were in the bedroom, of course.”

  Quince stopped buttering his toast. “You’re not going to use this as an opportunity to tell me about your bed sport, are you? This is the breakfast table.”

  “Worry not that I will spoil your digestion, Quince. I don’t want you thinking of my wife in that way.”

  The table lapsed into an awkward silence again and Gideon began to wonder if he should press his friend to find out what was wrong. Although Quince was obviously upset over hurting the girl, it seemed a bit much to be this put out over it. But if it was something else then Gideon didn’t know what it could be. There had been some rough times getting the duchy put to rights after the elder duke had died, but things seemed to be going well now. Gideon himself reviewed the books at least quarterly to make sure of that. Quince had no vices to speak of. If it wasn’t money then Gideon didn’t know what the issue might be.

  The one thing he did know was that Quince had to be handled very carefully or he would withdraw into himself, refusing to talk about what was bothering him. Gideon found himself wishing Jack were here. Jack, who had a finer sense of people, and who seemed to have a bit of a talent for drawing Quince out. They shared a quick wit, something he laid no claim to for himself. Quince stared vacantly at his plate, pushing food around with a fork and distracted by his own thoughts, as Gideon contemplated what to say. If Gideon couldn’t ask directly and couldn’t cajole an answer out of the duke, then he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

  Quince finally said, “I plan to go out to the country for a few weeks.”

  “Do you need company?”

  The duke looked up in surprise. “You would leave London while Parliament is in session? Surely you jest.”

  Gideon shrugged in what he hoped was
a casual manner. “We spent the better part of March at Kellington.”

  “The countess spent March at Kellington. I happen to remember you were in London a good bit of that time.”

  “How was I to know that coming into Town for the vote on the Corn Laws would trap me here? I certainly couldn’t anticipate Napoleon’s escape.”

  Quince looked as though he were going to say something and thought better of it. Gideon felt his worry edge into mild panic. Where was the sarcasm, where was the arrogance? Even at eight years old, Quincy Telford had always had a way of looking down his nose at everyone. It was, in a roundabout way, how they had met. But at the moment the duke was lacking his usual pomp. He seemed sad, hollow. Quince was probably right, he needed time out in the country to clear his head. Gideon would just wait until the duke mentioned something that could be done. The earl knew himself to be at his best when he could do something.

  Not knowing what else to say, Gideon ventured, “If you do want company, just send us an invitation, old boy.”

  “You would die of boredom within a day.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “When is the last time you spent a whole day doing absolutely nothing?”

  Gideon smiled and Quince held up his hand. “Spending all day in bed with a woman doesn’t count.”

  “True enough, probably not.”

  “The answer, which you are trying to avoid giving me, is never. You have never done so. But that is precisely what I’m going to be doing. Nothing. Most likely for an extended period. So no, you are not invited. I do not wish to interrupt my nothing in order to entertain you.”

  Not sarcasm or wit, but a harsh and direct set down. If anyone else had taken such a tone with him, Gideon would have laid him out on the floor, duke or no. But this was Quince. And more importantly, this was Quince not acting like Quince at all.

  The men finished their meal in silence.

  Chapter Eight

  Quince stared out the window as his carriage sped toward his estate closest to London, Belle Fleur. When he had gone into his bedroom at the townhouse there had been another letter. On his bed, as though perhaps he himself had tossed it aside earlier in the day. Innocent eggshell colored paper. Folded over and unsealed. But he had recognized it immediately because the first letter had been delivered in just such a way. It inferred that someone in his household was delivering them, which was both disheartening and vaguely threatening. Rather than read it he had tucked it into his coat pocket and set his staff to packing for the country. Now he could hear the paper crinkle in his pocket whenever he shifted in his seat. It didn’t really matter what the latest letter said, did it? He could still recall the first missive, word for word.

  My dearest duke,

  I hope that this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. If you surrender those papers to me then I will not find it necessary to share some interesting facts that I have discovered about your mother. I will give you a fortnight to gather them. Await instructions in my next letter.

  Sincerely,

  Your father’s friend

  That first letter had gone into the fire the night he had received it. No need for the information to get into the wrong hands. Now he had the second letter. Part of his reluctance to open it was that whatever instructions were contained, he could not follow them. He had no idea what papers from his father he supposedly had in his possession. He, of course, had many papers from his father. But nothing incriminating. Nothing that would inspire this veiled but menacing threat. Everything he did have was related to the running of the estates, so unless something was in code it was hard to believe that any of it was causing this reaction. It was beyond low to be threatening his mother, but he knew the former duke had run with an unsavory crowd, men who would not hesitate to threaten even the most innocent and unprotected. The stories that his father would tell over the supper table had made Quince cringe. Honestly, if his father had documented his group’s exploits half as well as the forty years of grain reports, then it was no wonder why someone would want to ensure that those papers never saw the light of day. But he had never seen evidence that such was the case. Not one note, one letter, one piece of paper hinted that his father had written down the salacious tales he had enjoyed telling. Even in the stories the elder duke had told names had never been used. Quince had very few clues about the identities of the men his father had run consorted with, save for one whose identity he had learned by accident. For the rest he only knew that they were of an age with his father, were lords, and seemed capable of almost anything.

  Perhaps he should send a note to his mother, warning her of the potential outcome of this threat. Not that he was entirely sure what the anonymous blackmailer thought they had to exploit. Certainly his mother had her eccentricities, but it was hard to see where any of them would be earthshaking if revealed. She was a bluestocking, a freethinker, but she was hardly shy about it. On the other hand, attacks to one’s reputation were rarely pleasant and often had long-reaching effects. Even Harrington had kept a relatively low profile since the scandal that had led to his marriage.

  But regardless of how many times he turned it over in his mind, Quince came to the same conclusion. At present there was nothing he could do. Nothing but wait to see what Robert Bittlesworth came up with. If he had any faith that there was some cache of documents as yet uncovered he would look for them, but he had little hope of that. Most of the non-entailed estates had been sold years ago, with all relevant papers reviewed by his stewards. It was possible, of course, that one of his staff had found the papers and was currently attempting to use them to their own benefit. But the letter had clearly indicated that the person talking about the papers had been Quince himself. Had he made some offhand comment that had been misinterpreted? That certainly bore looking into. But that would be more Robert’s talent than Quince’s.

  Quince sighed and moved, the paper in his pocket crinkling again. If there was a solution he wasn’t seeing it yet.

  Once he reached the estate he tossed the letter into a bedside drawer and prepared for bed. It was not yet four in the afternoon but he could think of no better alternative than to escape into sleep.

  Three nights passed in relative quiet while Quince stayed ensconced in his rooms. The ducal suite at Belle Fleur was one of the few that he had gone to the expense to update, and it was by far his favorite. Maple furnishings, swaths of dark gold fabric, and all of it offset by jewel-colored flowers, painted and embroidered, to echo the gardens outside. He had some of his favorite artwork displayed here and could spend hours staring at a particular piece and letting his mind wander. Works from Goya, Friedrich, and Turner were all visible from where he lay on the bed. Selling artwork had been among the hardest decisions when setting the estate to rights, but he had been determined not to accept Gideon’s insistent offers to bolster the duchy’s coffers until the books were balanced. His friend had done enough as it was. The only time he had considered countering that decision was when he had unwisely, and without thought, made an outrageous offer for a mistress.

  On the third morning, however, the door to his bedchamber was opened with a good deal more force than usual. Still half-asleep, he roused himself to look at the doorway, anticipating that Giddy had decided to insert himself into affairs. As usual. But instead of the overbearing earl, Miss Bittlesworth glided into the room as though entering a ball. Her smile was sweet and dimpled while her words slashed as quick and true as her sword.

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to be a slugabed, your grace. Yet I see your butler was correct. Have you really been in here for days?”

  Quince cleared his throat. “My former butler.”

  Miss Bittlesworth went to the window and wrenched back the curtains, allowing a stream of sunlight in. Although horribly bright, it also served to highlight her figure under the flowing muslin gown. “I’m sorry, your grace?” she asked. />
  “My former butler. If my man can’t stop one tiny woman from disturbing me then he shall have to find employment elsewhere.”

  She turned and sailed toward him with that pleasant smile firmly in place, stopping mere inches from the edge of the bed. “Don’t blame him for meeting a woman who always gets what she wants.”

  “Do you?” Quince asked. He could tell his voice was still husky from sleep. He had obstinately not pulled the coverings up since she had chosen to intrude, and remained bare to the waist. “Do you always get what you want?”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “You seem skeptical, but I can assure you that I do.”

  “What do you want right now?”

  That seemed to make her reflective and she sat down on the edge of the bed and worried the edges of her shawl where they fell across her lap. “To help you.”

  “To help me? What sort of help do you fancy I need?”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “I’m not sure. Robert wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Yet you assume that I do need help?”

  “Why else would you come to see my brother? Early in the morning, unannounced, with not so much as a footman or coach in sight? It doesn’t take a great deal of deductive reasoning to arrive at that conclusion. You need help with something.”

  “I’m sure your brother has whatever I need well in hand.”

  She frowned. “While I’m sure my brother has the best of intentions, his energies are spread across any number of issues. I, on the other hand,” she said, replacing the frown with a smile again, “can provide you with my undivided attentions.”

  Her emphasis on the word attentions gave Quince all manner of unreasonable ideas. He had never recovered from their first meeting and thought often of what it would be like to touch her. Would her skin be as soft, her hair as fine, as he thought? Sitting there in the sunshine from the window, with her cream colored gown, she was the brightest spot in the room. He realized he was staring at her as he often did at his paintings. Barely breathing, trying to absorb every detail. Her skin was a flawless cream and her eyes sparkled again with the amusement that had drawn him into that most unwise proposition in the first place. Ringlets of dark hair brushed over her shoulders and fell down her back. He wanted to feel those curls, tangle his fingers in them. If she didn’t leave the room soon he would do something untoward. Something that actually would deserve to have Robert fetch his pistols.