The Bachelor's Bargain

by Catherine Palmer

  “I should think Her Grace, the Duchess of Marston, would recognize what bad form she displays,” Anne stated. “The duke should wear a black armband in mourning his son’s death. And the duchess should wear nothing but the darkest colors.”

  Though she and Prudence had been told the rumors about Ruel and Mr. Walker, Anne could give them no credence. Miss Pickworth reported each tidbit of information that reached her anonymous ears, and she had no compunction about presenting them as truth. Of course people wanted to believe the Marquess of Blackthorne was still alive, but Anne knew it could not be so. Though he might have left an unwanted wife on the battlefield, he would not have abandoned his lace machine. He had too many plans. Too many dreams. He had risked his life to take that machine into France, and if alive, he would have returned for it and taken it to Calais. Monsieur Robidoux had heard nothing from Ruel.

  No, Anne’s hopes—and fears—about Ruel were unfounded. The man was gone, and with him any thought of their future together.

  “In my opinion,” Prudence said, setting her teacup in its saucer, “the duchess is vain and shallow. She has not one drop of the character Anne’s husband displayed, and nothing of his wit and charm.”

  “Character?” Mary retorted. “The marquess was a rake. Frankly, I am a bit surprised at our dear Anne’s sorrow.”

  “Mary!” Sarah chastised her. “He was her husband!”

  “But everyone knew the sort of man he was. Women, strong drink, cards—”

  “He had changed,” Prudence cut in. “You did not see him after he truly began to love Anne.”

  “Love her?”

  Mary’s question hung in the air as a footman gave a polite cough while entering the room with a silver tray. The sealed letter upon it was for Anne.

  “It is from the Duke of Marston,” she told the others. Suddenly out of breath, she broke the seal and scanned the contents. Then she looked up at her friends. “My presence is required at Marston House immediately.”

  “Required?” Mary sat up straight. “Not requested?”

  “The Duke of Marston requires my presence,” Anne repeated. “At once.”

  Without hesitating a moment longer, Anne stood and made for the foyer. Prudence and her sisters followed, handing Anne a pair of gloves, tossing a shawl around her shoulders, and urging her to be brave as she followed the footman toward the door.

  “Prudence, please pray for me,” she said, turning and taking her friend’s hands. “You know my mission. You know my dread. When I see the duke, I shall think of . . . of him . . . and I shall . . .”

  “You are the dowager Marchioness of Blackthorne, and he owes you money,” Prudence said firmly. “Think of nothing else!”

  Anne nodded as she pulled away and hurried down the steps.

  A liveried footman announced Anne’s presence to the Duke of Marston and his wife, and she stepped into a large drawing room. At once, she could see that something profound had taken place. The duke hardly looked up at her. The duchess reclined on a settee as her lady’s maid fanned her ashen face. Sir Alexander was nowhere to be seen.

  When Anne had been seated, the duke stood, balanced himself on his cane, and fitted his monocle to his eye. “An event of great import has occurred,” he intoned. “I have had a letter from my elder son.”

  “Ruel!” Anne gulped down a cry of shock.

  The duchess closed her eyes and emitted a loud moan.

  Trembling, hardly able to breathe, Anne watched as the duke shook out the folds of a sheet of white paper and began to read. “‘My dear father, as I pen this letter, I am fast at sea on a ship bound for England. My traveling companion and friend, Mr. Walker, previously employed as a blacksmith in Tiverton, accompanies me. After making port in Brighton, I shall make my way to Slocombe House.’”

  “He is in Devon?” Anne cried out. “Alive?”

  “We are as astonished as you,” the duke told her. “This letter was written more than a month ago, and we had given up all hope of him.”

  “Read on!” the duchess urged. “Why did he not come to us? Why has he left us in this state of dire confusion?”

  The duke held the letter to his monocled eye and began reading aloud again. “‘On leaving Brussels, the Marchioness of Blackthorne and I were held siege in a barn during the battle at Waterloo between the forces of Wellington and Napoleon. During the conflict, we attempted to escape. My wife was killed.’”

  “Killed?” Anne jumped to her feet. “But I was not killed! There was a cannonball, you see.” She sucked in a sob. “Oh, sir, is my husband truly alive?”

  “Sit down, Lady Blackthorne, if you please,” the duke ordered her. “I have endured histrionics enough for one day. I shall continue the epistle.”

  Shaking with disbelief, Anne sank into her chair.

  “‘My wife was killed,’” the duke repeated. “‘Of that event, I am able to write nothing further, nor can I bring myself to speak of it even to Mr. Walker. On our escaping to safety, I made the immediate decision to return to England without delay and to take up residence at Slocombe House. I trust you will respect my desire to spend a time of mourning in a place of quiet and solitude.’”

  “Why did he not write to us from Slocombe?” the duchess wailed. “Why was his letter so long delayed? Poor Alexander!”

  “Poor Alexander, indeed,” the duke scoffed. “That boy has merely lost a title he did not merit in the first place. I believed I had lost a son! I hardly know whether to rejoice that Ruel is alive or to reprimand him for keeping us in suspense all these weeks.”

  The duke allowed his monocle to drop from his eye. He turned to Anne. “My elder son is alive and believes you dead. But I am told you have been living in France. Making machine lace, spending money that rightfully belongs to the duchy of Marston, and consorting with a certain Monsieur Robidoux. Madam, what do you have to say about that?”

  Eighteen

  “I know nothing, Your Grace,” Anne informed the duke. “As I wrote to you, an explosion rendered me unconscious on the battlefield at Waterloo. When I became sensible again, night had fallen, and I discovered myself to be alone with my friend, Miss Prudence Watson. I could see little in the moonlight save the countless thousands of dead around me. I had no doubt my husband was among them.”

  “Did you search for my son’s body?” the duke asked.

  “Your Grace, the battle continued all around us. Miss Watson and I were in great jeopardy. We unharnessed the dead horses, captured two others we found wandering loose on the field, and fled into the forest. We both firmly believed that if my husband and Mr. Walker had still been alive, they would have taken us to safety themselves.”

  “The last you saw of my son he was living?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Lord Blackthorne was attempting to restrain the runaway horses. We were separated, and I never saw him again. I was certain he had died. I had no doubt of it. Even though I have heard you read his letter, I cannot believe that if Ruel were uninjured he would have left me alone and unconscious on that battlefield.”

  “Why not? He believed you dead.”

  “But I was alive!”

  “You were dead enough for him,” the duchess said suddenly, rising from her couch like a sounding whale. “Clearly he saw little point in rescuing you, dead or alive. He left you there to die, young lady, and he counted on you to do so. But once again you failed us, did you not? You wrote to us that he was dead, and then you made your merry way to France, where you spent the marquess’s money investing in the manufacture of lace. Then you, the Marchioness of Blackthorne and illegitimate bearer of our family’s proud name, proceeded to find yourself a Frenchman to wed. And a merchant at that!”

  “I believed my husband dead, madam.”

  “You wished him dead and yourself the richer for it,” the duchess snapped. “But now he is alive, and Alexander has gone to Slocombe to fetch him back.”

  “But the wedding . . .”

  “Postponed.” The duchess shook her handk
erchief at Anne. “Ruel is alive, Alex is gone, the wedding is delayed, and it is all your fault! Your fault, you shameless creature! You have spoiled everything.”

  “Spoiled everything?” Anne slowly rose. “Your son is alive. Alive. My husband lives! And Mr. Walker, too! Oh, I must tell Prudence. I must beg your leave at once. I cannot see why anyone could be anything but happy.”

  “Can you not?” the duchess barked. “Tell her, then, Laurent. Inform this common upstart of her position in our family.”

  “Enough, Beatrice! I shall do the talking here!” The duke hammered his cane into the floor. “Lady Blackthorne, today I have received two letters. Not only have I heard from my son, but also from a Pierre Robidoux. He wrote to inquire about you, and he informed me of your agreement to marry him. I now wish to settle on you the sum of ten thousand pounds in exchange for your promise to wed this Frenchman and never trouble us again.”

  The duchess eyed Anne. “We consider your relationship with our family at an end.”

  Anne stared back. “Then you err, madam.”

  “What did I tell you, Laurent?” the duchess burst out. “Now that she sees she can sink her claws into us again, humiliating us before everyone, she leaps at the opportunity.”

  Anne turned on the older woman. “I shall say again as I have said before. Everything I did—from my journey to France to my association with the man who has asked for my hand—stemmed from the belief that I was a widow. No, madam, despite the fact that I am despised and rejected by you, I shall not walk out of this family. I care nothing for titles or wealth, but I view my marriage as a blessing not to be forsaken so lightly. Perhaps I undertook it for the wrong reasons, but God used it for good. He may still have some purpose in such a mismatched union. Madam, in the months I knew your son, I grew to love him. I love him still.”

  “Love, love, love,” the duchess spat. “Run to your beloved husband, then. See how happy he is to take you back after Alexander informs him you promised your hand to another man within three months of his supposed death.”

  “No!” Anne gasped. “Sir Alexander has gone to tell Ruel that?”

  “And to bring him back to London,” the duke cut in. “Before they arrive, let us settle this matter once and for all. Lady Blackthorne, I propose you leave for France at once and carry out your plan to wed the Frenchman. You will remarry under the mistaken assumption that Ruel is dead. By the time news of his welcome return reaches you in Calais, everything will be cleanly resolved.”

  “Resolved?” Anne cried. “Upon my honor, I shall do no such thing. I know now he is alive, and I mean to welcome him home as a dearly loved husband!”

  “He is not your husband!” the duchess shouted. “He is not, you vile creature! You are nothing but a housemaid like . . . like—”

  “Be quiet, Beatrice.” The duke pounded his cane. “Be quiet and sit down!”

  “I wish him dead,” the duchess shrieked. “His birth obliterated all my happiness, and now he has besmirched our name with his shameless marriage. He ought to have perished in France and taken away all the misery he has caused me through the years. Now he has ruined Alexander’s hope of inheriting the duchy. Oh, that wicked boy has destroyed my life!”

  “As you destroyed his.” Anne glared at the woman. “Ruel has perceived your rejection, madam. Your senseless hatred of him. You planted every seed of bitterness in his life. You nurtured every root of unhappiness. You watered what animosity you could create between your sons by adoring the younger and despising the elder. You never taught Ruel the blessing of home and hearth. What he has been for too many years is thanks to you. What he can become rests only in the hands of God.”

  Unable to face them any longer, Anne turned and ran from the drawing room. Ruel was alive. It was all she knew. Ruel was alive, and Sir Alexander was going to him to tell him she did not love him.

  As she lifted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time, she at last understood exactly what God willed for her life. She must go to Devon and be a wife to her husband.

  “You were at the marquess’s side the night of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball,” Charles Locke said to Anne as they bumped along in the carriage on the road to Slocombe House. Sarah’s husband had kindly agreed to accompany Anne and Prudence on the long journey south. “Did you see Droughtmoor fire the pistol?”

  Anne tried to sort through her memories of that event. So much had whirled past her in the evening hours following the revelation of Ruel’s letter to his father. On hearing that Mr. Walker was alive, Prudence immediately had decided that she, too, would travel to Slocombe House. Sarah had volunteered her husband’s assistance and protection.

  As Sarah sent for Charles to return from his offices at Locke & Son Tea Company, Anne and Prudence had hurried to pack their trunks. Mary Heathhill had begged the two women to delay their journey until the next morning, for everyone knew the danger of traveling England’s roadways at night.

  They had reluctantly agreed, but with daylight came the dreadful news that Mr. Heathhill’s health had worsened. While Sarah rushed to her sister’s side, Prudence made the difficult decision to leave them. She would go with Charles Locke and Anne to Devon, assure herself of Mr. Walker’s safety, and then return immediately to London.

  Anne could hardly endure the endless carriage ride. She longed to see Ruel, yet she dreaded his reaction to the news Sir Alexander must be telling him even now—that his wife was alive, but she intended to marry someone else. Unable to sleep the night before, Anne had written to Monsieur Robidoux to inform him of the situation and to sever any personal connection between them.

  “I can hardly remember how Ruel was shot that night in Brussels,” she told Mr. Locke. “At the news of Napoleon taking Charleroi, everyone began rushing through the corridors of Richmond’s house, out the doors, and into the streets. I recall Mr. Walker shouting something—a warning, I suppose. I smelled black powder. And then Ruel fell to the floor.”

  “Did you actually see Droughtmoor?” Charles asked.

  “Not in the crowd, but I have no doubt he was the assassin. Earlier that evening, I heard him challenge Ruel to a duel. When news of the war broke out, Ruel told him their assignation the following morning would be impossible, and Droughtmoor vowed to have his revenge. The next thing I knew, Ruel lay bleeding in my arms.”

  Charles clenched his teeth for a moment. “Lady Black- thorne, I must inform you that the assassin was not Drought-moor.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “The newspaper accounts were clear. More than one witness vouched for his innocence. Barkham, Wimberley—”

  “Droughtmoor’s accomplices. Of course they defended him! You must have had your information from Miss Pickworth, sir, for it is clearly prejudicial.”

  “Miss Pickworth’s version of the event is reliable. The Duke of Richmond bore witness on behalf of Lord Drought-moor, as well. The duke was given intelligence of a hostile exchange between the men. He followed Droughtmoor outside to have a word with him, meaning to forestall any duel of honor on foreign soil. The duke was speaking with Drought-moor in the roadway when word of Blackthorne’s shooting came.”

  “Then it must have been Barkham or Wimberley.”

  “Both were with the duke.” Charles shook his head as he regarded her. “Someone else shot your husband, Lady Blackthorne. He has been fired at more than once, as you well know. Have you any idea who might want him dead?”

  A sickening chill surged through Anne as she remembered the earlier incident involving Ruel. Everyone had assumed the spurned gamekeeper wanted to kill Anne. But that man, too, had an alibi. Then she thought of the family meeting when the Duchess of Marston had reviled Ruel and voiced her wish that he had perished at Waterloo.

  “The duchess?” she whispered. “Could his own mother have hired an assassin?”

  Charles lifted his eyebrows. “She minces no words concerning her dislike for her older son.”

  “No,” Prudence spoke up. “It was no
t the duchess.”

  “How can you be certain?” Anne asked.

  “I shall speak plainly,” Prudence said. “I never wanted to tell you this information, for it is only rumor. I know you revile gossip, but now I must be frank. It is said that the Duchess of Marston is not the mother of the marquess. When the duke’s wife failed to bear him an heir, he took a mistress. Ruel is reportedly the son of a housemaid who died at his birth.”

  “A housemaid?” Anne murmured, recalling the duchess’s angry denouncement of her. “No wonder she despised me.”

  “When Sir Alexander was born to the duchess,” Prudence went on, “his mother doted upon him.”

  “But this rumor only enhances my suspicion that she may have paid someone to shoot Ruel!”

  “No, she would never harm the marquess. The duchess disdains her husband’s older son, but she has tolerated him as heir apparent for too many years. If she had wanted him dead, she would have seen to it long ago.”

  Anne nodded. “The man who shot Ruel is someone else. Someone who stands to gain by my husband’s death.”

  Prudence stared at her. “Can you be thinking—”

  “Sir Alexander,” Anne said.

  “Surely not,” Charles protested. “I have heard Sir Alexander express nothing but the deepest affection for his brother. He rushed to Devon the moment he heard Ruel was alive.”

  “Sir Alexander is a cruel man and not to be trusted,” Anne declared as dread drained the blood from her face. “His mother’s favoritism poisoned him. The news that Ruel was alive infuriated the duchess. I saw her—heard her words of rage. She was livid that her younger son had lost the title and fortune she wished for him.”

  “Angry enough to urge Alex to murder Ruel?”

  “I believe Sir Alexander is capable of such evil even without a push from his mother. Mr. Locke, you and your Society witnessed only his public facade. In private, I saw his true character too many times to believe him incapable of such action. He had the motive and the opportunity.”

  “Lady Blackthorne,” Charles said in a low voice. “Sir Alexander will arrive at Slocombe House long before us. If Ruel believes his brother loves him . . .”