The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  Before he could begin to let those words sink in, she turned her back on him and walked away, her head held high, brushing him off with dignity and grace as a princess might dismiss a disgusting cad who tried to steal a kiss.

  Her words haunted him now, only hours after she’d said them. In fact, just the slightest image of Viola in bed with Miles Whitman, or truthfully, any man, distressed him so thoroughly that he could only conclude the damn woman had put him under some kind of female, sexual spell. Or something of the kind. But he couldn’t deny any longer that thinking about her in the arms of another man made him crazy, and she apparently knew it, which made him irritable. But in the end it didn’t matter. He refused to see her wed to Miles Whitman—unless Miles Whitman would prove to be an excellent husband and father to her son. At least that’s what he told himself. And so in the interest of learning the man’s intentions, he forced himself to stay at the party much longer than he’d intended and discover what he could from the man himself.

  The crowd in the ballroom had thinned as midnight had approached. Most of the ladies had retired, including Viola more than two hours ago, and most of the gentlemen were in the smoking room or near the sidebar and buffet, stoking their inebriation and filling their stomachs. He’d watched Miles fairly cling to Lord Tenby, their host, for the last forty-five minutes, and had considered interrupting to call the man out to the patio for discussion, but he didn’t want to seem obvious for Viola’s sake. Or, perhaps more honestly, for his own sake, should he fail in his endeavor to learn the level of intimacy between the two of them. But at last Tenby managed to make his own escape, and Whitman, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, strolled toward the balcony entrance, giving Ian his first opportunity to corner the man alone.

  A misty rain had starting falling, both chilling and freshening the air, and Ian drew a deep breath to clear his head for the conversation to come. He followed Whitman toward the same railing where he and Viola had conversed just hours before, strolling up to stand beside the man as he peered down to the garden below.

  “Good evening, Whitman,” he said casually.

  The older gentleman whirled around, a look of genuine surprise sweeping across his portly face. “Good evening, your grace,” he said with a nod, patting down on his waistcoat. “Fancy meeting you on the balcony at midnight.”

  Ian couldn’t read the man’s disposition after he recovered his bearing, or whether he meant to be derisive by his statement. Frankly, he’d never thought Miles Whitman clever enough for sarcasm and underlying meaning, humorous or otherwise.

  “Thought I might have a private word, and so I followed you out, actually,” Ian replied, deciding to get directly to the point. Wasting time chatting about the rain or other nonsense with a museum curator seemed most unappealing at the moment.

  Whitman smiled flatly—a smile Ian assumed he used officially when dealing with pesky business transactions and those who annoyed him. “Of course, Lord Chatwin, I am at your service,” he said with another slight nod.

  Ian rubbed his chin with his palm, thinking. Or at least wanting to give that impression. “Of course, as gentlemen I don’t have to mention that anything said confidently between us will be kept as such.”

  Whitman frowned so deeply that his eyebrows became one thick line across his forehead. “Oh, absolutely, your grace. I’m sure you know my prominence in the art world wouldn’t be what it is today without my solid reputation for discretion.”

  “Of course,” Ian agreed, again wondering if Whitman meant to be intentionally snide or if he was just a man who had expertly learned how to pacify the aristocracy. In any case it didn’t matter. He needed to get to the point, remembering that he had the advantage in knowing things about Viola this man did not and never would.

  “Mr. Whitman,” he began, looking at the man frankly, “I learned this evening that you might be considering asking Lady Cheshire for her hand in marriage. Is this true?”

  Whitman’s mouth dropped open slightly and then closed again as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m sorry, your grace, but that’s . . . I really don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

  Ian hadn’t expected such an arrogant response, but he didn’t let it faze him. Leaning an elbow on the balcony rail, he gazed out across the lawn below. “And yet, the fact that I raise the issue should mean that it is a concern.”

  Whitman chuckled. “Why is that, your grace?”

  Again, Ian found himself stumped by the man’s shrewd attitude, especially considering their difference in station. Shrugging nonchalantly, he replied, “I guess the only reason I mention it is because Lady Cheshire’s friends were discussing it earlier this evening and it surprised me. I thought perhaps I’d ask you myself.”

  “Her friends? Lady Tenby’s daughter?” Whitman asked stiffly.

  Ian brushed over clarification as he looked back at the man. “Is it true?”

  Whitman drew in a long breath and attempted to puff out his chest. “I am considering it, your grace, if you must know. But only because Lady Cheshire seems . . . quite willing to accept an offer should I decide to propose.”

  “I see.” Ian tapped his fingertips on the railing. “I never realized you had just an affection for Lady Cheshire. At least not deeply enough to propose marriage.”

  Whitman laughed. “I have a deep and abiding affection for Lady Cheshire and her . . . assets, shall we say.”

  Ian didn’t know whether to be intrigued or appalled. “Assets? You mean financial?”

  Whitman patted down the top of his oiled head, eyeing him speculatively as his laughter gradually faded. “Come now, your grace, you and I both know there is more to marriage than doting companionship as one ages. Where Lady Cheshire is concerned, I will no doubt enjoy her good devotion in the marriage bed, just as I will expect her undivided attention at the museum.” He smiled. “And as an educated and . . . worldly gentleman, I’m certain you’re aware of how her late husband’s good name can help us acquire pieces we might not have been able to before. And then there is his private collection, which will no doubt be a fabulous asset to the museum, or the auction house should we decide to sell.”

  He frowned in the darkness. “Private collection?”

  Whitman paused as if unsure how much to reveal, then said, “Lady Cheshire’s private artwork. I’m sure you’re aware her late husband left her with a substantial income from the priceless pieces he collected through the years.”

  Ian nodded, attempting to appear unruffled while a cascade of alarming thoughts began to flood his mind. He had no idea if the late Baron Cheshire had collected any art beyond Viola’s prized and secret erotic work, or if Whitman knew something about Viola’s finances he didn’t. But trying to imagine Viola giving Miles Whitman access to her fortune as she willingly gave him access to her beautiful body made Ian’s skin crawl. He just wasn’t sure now what to do about it when he really had no right to do anything. If Viola truly wanted the man for a husband, he couldn’t very well stop her from accepting a proposal from him. And he could think of no reason on earth how he might talk Miles Whitman out of a marriage to Viola when Viola had nearly everything an untitled man could want in a wife. Nor was it Ian’s place to do so, unless all Whitman really wanted was her fortune. In such a case, Ian could probably talk himself into believing he was honor bound to save her from just such a union because he’d learned of it. He wouldn’t want to see an innocent widow robbed blind.

  “So, I assume you’ve discussed this arrangement with Lady Cheshire,” he stated rather than asked, keeping his gaze on the lawn below.

  Whitman sighed. “A bit, I suppose, especially during the last fortnight or so since I’ve seen her fairly frequently. It’s an excellent match between us, really, and she couldn’t agree more.”

  The last fortnight. She’d been purposely allowing him to court her for a fortnight. Why? Why, why, why?<
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  Because you left me, Ian. . . .

  “Did you expect to hang the baron’s private collection in the museum?” he asked, thinking furiously.

  Whitman cleared his throat. “Some of it, especially the respectable artwork. But I’m sure there will be pieces, including any other Bartlett-James works, that will need to be sold.”

  That explained it all. Ian couldn’t be certain whether Whitman knew Viola was the famed erotic artist—in fact, he probably did not, as there wasn’t any way for him to discover her secret short of her telling him. But he either knew or suspected she had other items, sketches and paintings to sell at auction, which would be the key to his financial gain through marriage. Or so he thought.

  “What makes you think she has others?” Ian asked cautiously.

  The older man smirked. “Lady Cheshire has acknowledged that her late husband had long been a fan of Bartlett-James and his work, and being a collector of fine artwork in general, one can only assume she has several excellent pieces.”

  “But, Mr. Whitman,” Ian said, his voice lowered with feigned concern, “if that be the case, aren’t you a bit worried that the . . . unconventional artwork Lady Cheshire mentioned might be forged? You were there at the small gathering in my home where the sketch she sold me was . . . exposed.”

  Whitman stared at him starkly, his jaw set rigidly as he pulled a pipe from the breast pocket of his evening jacket and tapped it lightly on the railing.

  “Your grace, I may not be of your class, but I am an educated man, especially where good art is concerned,” he replied with thick enunciation. He chuckled again knowingly, then remarked, “We both know the sketch you presented at your party was, in fact, an original Victor Bartlett-James.”

  Ian tensed, feeling his stomach tighten into a knot of repulsion. Miles Whitman was indeed clever, and knew exactly how every word he spoke would be taken. He might not be an unsatisfactory husband for a lady, but he would never prove to be a trustworthy one. And he would never be deserving of Viola.

  “Did you realize the sketch was original at the time?” Ian asked as an idea began to quickly formulate.

  Whitman shrugged. “I suspected as much. I know there seemed to be a good deal of tension between you and Lady Cheshire. And the fact that you purchased it, then had it authenticated by an Englishman whom even I, in my profession of twenty years, had never heard of, in front of your peers, seemed a bit . . . odd, shall we say?”

  Odd, indeed. And as Ian thought about it in retrospect, terribly unfair to her, when she had done nothing at the time to deserve such sudden, unflattering exposure. He understood now why he’d never truly enjoyed that evening, and how revenge ultimately disgraces the honorable.

  After exhaling a full breath, he said, “You are correct, Whitman. You are an educated man and I congratulate you on discovering something I’d hoped would remain confidential. For Lady Cheshire’s sake, of course. And since we both care about her continued excellent reputation, I expect you to keep this matter between us this evening.”

  That outright compliment followed by more mystery stumped the man. He blinked; his brows twitched.

  Ian shoved his hands in his pockets again and looked at his feet, crushing beneath the sole of his shoe a nighttime insect that had once dared to crawl across a darkened patio.

  “Yes, the sketch is original,” he explained, his voice filled with deep concern, “and I purchased it, in good faith. And that’s when I learned the truth about Lady Cheshire and her husband’s assets. Before the party, I had my solicitor contact hers, a Mr. Leopold Duncan, to discover if Lady Cheshire actually owned the piece or if, as I wondered, it belonged to her husband’s estate.” He smiled bleakly. “A buyer of such an extravagant and expensive piece of art cannot be too careful.”

  Whitman shifted his large stature on the patio, clearly agitated and suddenly uncertain. He tapped his pipe on the railing again, though he never reached for tobacco to fill it, just let it hang at his side.

  “We’re both gentlemen,” Ian continued, “so you’ll understand why I, as a gentleman, chose to arrange for someone to declare the sketch a forgery, deciding it would be better to expose Lady Cheshire with a light rebuke than have someone learn she sold property she does not own. She could have been jailed for fraud.”

  Ian watched Whitman closely. Although the torches remained lit in the garden below, and the lights still blazed from the ballroom to their right, the darkness surrounding them still made it difficult for him to gauge the man’s expression. But he did notice him squeezing the pipe in his hand repeatedly.

  Whitman didn’t understand. And he was too arrogant to admit it.

  Seconds later Whitman forced another chuckle and shook his head, apparently recovering his pomposity.

  “I’m sorry, your grace,” he said as he reached up to rub his neck with his palm, “but I don’t see what your dinner party and one lone Bartlett-James sketch has to do with my marriage to Viola.”

  The fact that he used the lady’s given name while touting an upcoming marriage as if it was a given event implied an intimacy meant to challenge Ian’s claim of knowing Viola and her intentions more. It was a calculated statement, evoking jealousy and possessiveness, and they both knew it.

  Keeping his raw anger in check, Ian merely stared at the man as if he’d been an idiot.

  “Mr. Whitman,” he disclosed gravely, “Lady Cheshire has no artwork to sell. Her late husband left his entire estate and all of his wealth to his son. She receives a stipend each month, an excellent amount according to her solicitor who oversees it, to pay her dressmaker and purchase other small female sundries she might need.” He paused, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Naturally I wouldn’t know such . . . personal information had I not investigated the Bartlett-James sketch, and naturally up until this moment, I’ve told no one. It’s not a gentleman’s business to pry into the financial status of a widow who is not a relation. But in this unusual case her solicitor, who would normally be silent on such a matter, agreed that Lady Cheshire could be putting her good name and reputation in danger. I only exposed her the night of her party to protect her. She may have been embarrassed and looked foolish, but looking foolish is a far cry from being socially disgraced, or worse, arrested.”

  “This is preposterous,” Whitman said, swallowing hard. “Why would Lady Cheshire take such a risk? I cannot believe it.”

  Ian shook his head, frowning. “Why do ladies do anything? They’re all quite frivolous, I’m sure you know. And maybe up until that time she wasn’t aware of her limitations. Perhaps after my party, when she learned she couldn’t sell the sketch, she decided a marriage to you would help her in her ability to sell her still-life paintings and family portraits, or perhaps hang them in your modern history museum? In that regard, it makes perfect sense why she’s suddenly thought of you as a good match and is considering marriage to you now. Aside from her monthly stipend, Lady Cheshire is practically penniless.”

  The air seemed to crackle between them, and for a second or two, Ian thought Whitman might strike him. Or attempt to. The man’s entire body had gone as rigid as stone. Even his pipe looked as if it might be crushed inside his suddenly tight fist.

  But Ian’s calculation worked. Whitman looked furious, confused, and had no idea what to say, or do. He also knew he had no manner at his disposal to prove the truth behind Ian’s claims. Her solicitor wouldn’t speak, Viola would be livid, but even if she denied it, the man could never be sure of the situation until after they’d spoken their vows. Her title meant nothing to him aside from having a titled wife, and if she had no fortune, he could ultimately be saddled with not only her brat to raise but also her debt—and a London town house full of glorious artwork he would be forced to admire every day but from which he could never profit.

  Suddenly, marriage to Lady Cheshire seemed unpalatable to Miles Whitman.
Ian could read it in his hardened expression, see it in his piercing gaze. And because he felt no real love for Viola, realized he might only have her own trivial artwork to sell, this new revelation that she might be using him for gain settled the deal for him. Her paintings of still life and sketches of puppies wouldn’t pay for his shoes.

  “Well,” Whitman said, his tone raspy, “I appreciate such candid information, your grace, and naturally it will remain between us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I remember telling Lord Tenby I’d meet him for cards at half past twelve, and I wouldn’t want to keep him.”

  Then, without waiting for a reply, Whitman nodded stiffly, brushed by Ian, and walked once more toward the ballroom.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The party is tomorrow night. Somehow I will see him rescued, even if I have to defy my family and destroy my future. I cannot let him die. He means too much to me now. . . .

  Viola waited as patiently as she thought humanly possible for the Duke of Chatwin to greet her in his stunning green salon. She was trying not to fidget or cry, tears not of sadness but of anger and frustration, and even a bit of fear for what she was about to do. She’d come to his home unexpectedly today, hoping to catch him by surprise, but instead he’d kept her waiting for nearly twenty minutes, no doubt purposely, as it was his nature to torture her with agitation at every step.

  She stared out the long windows to the green garden beyond. Although it was still early afternoon, pouring rain obscured the view, as it had all day, the miserable weather matching her mood and what she feared might now be a dismal future.