by Cheryl Bolen
Before he shared this information with Georgiana, Alex had one last avenue of inquiry to consider. He would talk to Mr. Christie and find out if there was another eager bidder for the Rafael Freddie had recently purchased.
* * *
The stately white stone building on King Street looked like an establishment that would deal in fine works of art. Alex’s opinion was only reinforced when he entered the building. The first thing he saw on a stark white wall was a large full-length portrait of a beautiful woman with great mounds of powdered hair. An unmistakable Gainsborough. Alex found himself wondering if it might be the portrait of Lord Barnstaple’s Aunt Fanny.
An impeccably dressed aging gentleman approached him. “Your grace, allow me to say how honored I am to see you again.”
Alex was quite certain he’d never before seen this man, but then he realized the man must be mistaking him for Freddie. “I daresay you’ve confused me with my recently deceased brother, Frederick, the eighth Duke of Fordham. Allow me to present myself. I am Alexander, the ninth Duke of Fordham.”
The gentleman’s face went grave. “I had not heard about the late duke’s death. He was such a young man. A most grievous occurrence, to be sure. I am very sorry.”
“Thank you.” Alex waited a moment before broaching the matter at hand. “Would you be Mr. Christie?”
“I am. How can I be of assistance to you?”
“I understand my brother recently purchased a Rafael?”
“That is correct.”
“For a most significant sum.”
Mr. Christie’s head inclined. “It brought far more than any of us expected.”
“I daresay there were some disappointed bidders.”
“When the bidding got to such heights, all of them dropped out, save Lord Garth.”
“Poor fellow. Did he seem terribly disappointed?”
“He was. That evening. But next week a Rembrandt came on the market, and he was able to purchase it for significantly less. He told me it must have been Divine Providence that he was overbid on the Rafael because he always preferred Rembrandt over Rafael—and he saved rather a lot of money.”
“I am happy to learn that,” Alex said. “I had thought if the fellow was terribly upset, I’d offer to sell it to him, but as my brother really wanted the Rafael, I shall keep it.”
Settled in his coach, Alex’s thoughts turned to Georgiana. It had now been five days since he’d seen her. He would go to Hartworth House this morning for the twofold purpose of bringing her his copies of the Edinburgh Review and discussing suspects. He would share the knowledge conveyed to him by Gates, he’d tell her about the Rafael bidder, and he would inform her of Lord Barnstaple’s suspicious behavior.
* * *
Georgiana was having serious difficulty sleeping. Each time she had snuffed her candle and climbed upon her bed, she began thinking about Fordham. During the day she kept so busy with Freddie’s correspondence she had no time for idle thoughts. But once she was in bed, that rakish duke intruded on her thoughts likes weeds encroaching on a well-tended garden.
She did not want to think about him. She did not want to be another of his conquests. Most of all, she did not want to be attracted to him.
Lamentably, she was doing all those things.
Uncharacteristically, she was unable to control her own mind. Why did Fordham have to have such an effect upon her? No one else had ever disordered her thoughts as this man did. When she was with him, she felt as giddy as a school girl. When she was away from him, she longed to see him.
In the past five days she had not seen him, and she was going mad with want. Tonight was the fifth straight night she’d lain in her bed, her thoughts of him like tentacles filling every crevice in her brain.
Why was it that in so short a time, this man had come to know her as no one else ever had? There was between them an undeniably close connection.
It was impossible to steer her thoughts elsewhere. She could easily imagine him leading men into battle. He would have commanded their respect. She pictured him—his skin, his hair, the flecks in his mossy eyes—all tawny shades of gold. A smile inadvertently curled her lip as she recalled his strength. His powerful build united with his powerful personality to form this man who was her torment.
She was ashamed at how easily she had transferred her affections to the brother of her betrothed, and she was even more ashamed she had kissed said brother with more passion than she’d ever kissed her betrothed. All of this was so wrong. The laws of England forbade a woman from marrying the brother of her husband. Even though she was not wed to Freddie, she knew that Society would scorn her if she fell in love with his brother.
Then her thoughts turned dark. Would the soldiers who served under him still respect him if they thought him capable of killing his brother? Those suspicions bothered her significantly more than her own shame at being captivated by him. She did not want to think Fordham guilty of Freddie’s murder. Her every instinct told her to trust him. This man possessed so many noble characteristics it was impossible to consider him guilty of murder. Or was it?
She thought of his sister admitting that their mother had feared either Freddie or Alex would kill the other. She thought of his desperate need for money before Freddie was killed. But she could not reconcile those two things with the man with whom she’d spent so much time the past few weeks, the man she had come to know, the man adored by his sister.
Which brought her back to the fact she had not seen him in five days. That she missed seeing him made her angry with herself.
Hour after dark hour she lay there beneath her blankets, listening to the wind upon her casements and the crackle of the dying fire in her grate, and all the while longing for Alex Haversham, the Duke of Fordham, like she’d never thought it possible to long for a man.
Would he come the next day? What should she wear? How should she act? Arrogant? Kindly? Welcoming? Her heartbeat roared when she thought about the possibility of being alone with him, of melding her body to his, of opening her mouth to his kisses.
Then, like a pendulum, those same thoughts of him repeated until dawn edged into her bedchamber and brought sleep.
* * *
Alex gathered up Philip Lewis’s essays to take to Georgiana. It was a wonder he’d actually saved them. He normally did not allow piles of periodicals to accrue in his library. It didn’t suit his tidy nature. But there was so much good, solid sense packed into those succinct literary works that he’d had difficulty tossing them. More than once he’d gone to those gems of wisdom to borrow snippets with which to enrich his own Parliamentary comments, and once he’d even quoted from one—an action which had inordinately pleased Harry Wycliff. Harry was responsible for introducing Alex to Lewis’s writing.
As eagerly as Alex wanted to be with Georgiana he was aware that his long absence had earned the lady’s ravishing smile when last he’d visited. Keep her hungry. That was his intent where Georgiana was concerned. Then he could hope to be rewarded with an enthusiastic welcome.
When he went to Hartworth House on the sixth day, he was met with a calamitous scene. A hysterical Lady Hartworth was prostrate on the settee in her downstairs bedchamber, clasping a letter in her hand. Her daughter, whose iron determination was the only thing keeping a rein on her own emotions, stood over her mother, holding a small vial of vinaigrette beneath her parent’s nose.
His first thought was that the woman’s soldier son had been killed. Though Alex felt an intruder, he wanted to be useful in a time of overwhelming grief. “What’s happened? How may I be of assistance?”
Georgiana took a deep breath and spun toward him. “Mama’s been notified that her four-year-old grandson has sustained a serious injury.”
His brows lowered with concern. “I am at your service to convey you to Alsop.”
The dowager gave a great sniff. “That is exceedingly kind of your gr- gr- grace, though I don’t know how I could be civil to the child’s mother.”
�
��You see, Mama blames—and not without cause—my sister-in-law for her overindulgence of the children.”
“My little Huey was permitted to walk upon the roof of Alsop,” Lady Hartworth interjected, then launched into another crying fit.
“At four years of age?” Alex asked, incredulous.
Georgiana’s tear-brimmed eyes met his as she nodded. “It doesn’t bear contemplation, but there you have it.”
“Did . . . did the lad fall?” Alex finally asked.
“Yes,” Georgiana replied, “and it would certainly have killed him were it not that he landed upon the under gardener. Poor Huey wished to see if he could fly like a bird.”
Alex’s breath swished from where it had been trapped in his lungs. “How fortunate that the under gardener was there.”
Lady Hartworth drew another great sniff, daintily blew at her nose, then sat up to face Alex. “I cannot purge my mind of the terrifying thought of poor little Huey flying off that roof. I could happily strangle that half-wit mother of his.”
“Such a reaction is most understandable,” Alex said. “It does seem as though your grandson must have a guardian angel looking after him. What is the nature of his injuries?”
“My witless daughter-in-law did not say in her letter. She only assured me that he will be in a long recovery, but that his mental faculties—unlike his mother’s—have not been impaired. I do believe Hester must have been dropped on the head when she was a babe.”
“My sister-in-law did say that Huey has called for Mama.”
To which Lady Hartworth launched into a fresh torrent of tears. “I should die if I were to lose my little hellion.”
“I insist on looking after you ladies on the journey to Alsop.”
“The Duke of Fordham’s carriage is superior to ours . . .” Lady Hartworth said hopefully, eyeing her daughter.
The mother was obviously agreeable to his suggestion, but her unpredictable daughter could easily bristle at the notion. Holding his breath, he met Georgiana’s gaze.
Georgiana’s dark eyes met his, and she nodded.
“Would leaving in two hours be agreeable to you ladies, or should you prefer waiting until tomorrow morning?”
Georgiana looked at her mother.
“I can be ready in two hours, your majesty,” Lady Hartworth said.
* * *
Once the duke’s coach was weaving its way through the Capital’s snarls of conveyances as it headed north, Mama launched into a tirade against Hester. “Such a terrifying accident would wield a massive change in any other person, but mark my words, that daughter-in-law of mine will continue allowing those children to do whatever they wish.”
“Like jumping off roofs,” Alex said.
The elder woman shuddered. “I cannot bear to think on it.”
“Forgive me.”
A moment later he asked, “What of your son, my lady? Will he not exert influence over his wife?”
Mother and daughter both harrumphed. “I love my brother, but he has an invisible defect. He lacks a spine.”
Lady Hartworth nodded ruefully. “My late husband always said it was a pity Georgiana wasn’t a male. She would have made a splendid marquess.” The dowager lowered her lashes coyly and added, “Despite her great beauty and femininity, Georgiana can think for herself. My son has not a thought in his head that wasn’t put there by someone else—usually that fool wife of his.”
“Mama! Have I not previously told you not to praise me to the duke? If you continue to do so, I’ll demand we return to Hartworth House and take our own coach to Alsop.”
“See, your grace,” Lady Hartworth said, “my daughter has spunk.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of Lady Georgiana’s . . . spunk.” He grinned at the lady being discussed.
She tried to ignore the way she fluttered inside when he looked at her like that. “And,” Georgiana continued speaking to her mother, “I’m not sure Hart actually listens to Hester. Upon his marriage he was told that the best way to get along with one’s wife was to nod when she spoke, whether he listened or not.”
“You may be right. Nevertheless, that moronic woman rules over him and the house,” Lady Hartworth said.
Georgiana sighed. “She doesn’t rule. She allows chaos to reign. Since Hester became marchioness, Alsop appears to have been decimated by a cyclone, but I will say the servants are devoted to her.”
“Because she’s a most lenient task master,” Lady Hartworth said, despair in her tone.
Lady Hartworth harrumphed again. “One who requires nothing cannot be a master of anything.”
“Enough lambasting of Hester.” Georgiana directed her attention to the duke. “You will no doubt find Mama and me lacking in familial ties, but you will see for yourself when we reach Alsop. Now, your grace, tell me how far into the night you will allow your team to travel.”
“Since the roads out of London are good and there’s been no rain, I hope to travel for several hours.”
She pulled back the blue velvet curtains to peer from the carriage window. Dusk was settling in. It would be completely dark in half an hour. This journey could be hard on her mother. “Mama, I know how fatigued you’ll get. I’ll just move across and sit by the duke while you stretch your legs out on our seat.” Her mother was petite enough to be accommodated in such a manner.
“A very good plan. Thank you, my dearest.”
Once Georgiana vacated the seat, she made a great fuss spreading the rug over her mother’s lap and along her legs, tucking it under her mother’s dainty feet.
Established on the seat next to the duke, Georgiana opened up her small valise and withdrew a neatly folded edition of the Edinburgh Review. “I thought I’d use the last of daylight to read one of Mr. Lewis’s essays,” she told the duke. “It was most kind of you to remember to bring them to me.”
“You really are serious about educating yourself?”
“I don’t like feeling inferior, and that’s exactly how I feel when I attend the Tuesday gatherings at Wycliff House. Your sister, Lady Slade, and Lady Wycliff make me look like an imbecile.”
“You could never be an imbecile.”
She expected her mother to concur with the duke and possibly launch into another bout of praise, but a glance across the carriage confirmed that her mother had already gone to sleep.
Georgiana immediately closed the periodical.
“You’re not going to read it?” he asked.
“Later,” she said in a whisper. “I know you have news of the investigation, and you must share it while Mama’s asleep.”
He nodded, and like her, spoke in a whisper. “My man first confirmed that Mrs. Langston could not perform on the night she received the news about Freddie’s death. She sent word that it would have been impossible, given that she could not staunch the flow of her tears.”
Oddly, Georgiana felt sorry for the actress. “And was your man able to learn anything from her servants?”
“He was most successful in getting the servants to take him completely in their confidence.”
“And?”
“And they confirmed my convictions of her innocence. In the past year she’s only left her house to appear on the stage, and her only male caller has been Sir Arthur—and me.”
Her brows lowered. “So we know no more now than we did back at Gosingham.”
“Oh, but we do. I have a suspect.”
Her eyes widened. “One of the shooting party?”
He nodded.
“Oh, pray, do tell!”
He proceeded to tell her about Lord Barnstaple’s eagerness to acquire a section of Fordham property.
Relief flooded her. Surely this exonerated Freddie’s successor. Lord Barnstaple must be the murderer! “That most certainly sounds promising. Now, how do we prove it?”
“We?” he asked
“Do not forget, your grace, it is I who first suspected Freddie’s death was not from natural causes.”
“And for that I am grate
ful, but it occurs to me if a man has killed once, he could easily kill again if he felt he were being threatened. It could be dangerous for you. I’ll take over now.”
“It could be equally dangerous for you.” The fleeting thought that he, too, could be murdered was like an arrow to the heart. The memory of Freddie’s dead body was all too fresh. She couldn’t bear to see Alex’s life snatched away too. Alex. This was the first time she’d thought of him by his Christian name. Of course, she would never call him by so intimate a name.
Nor could she ever unite herself to the brother of the man she almost married. It wouldn’t be right.
“I’ve faced hundreds of soldiers intent on killing me, and I’m still here.”
“I wish I’d never suspected Freddie was murdered.”
“You’d want the real murder—someone we know—to be moving about without recrimination?”
She did not answer for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose I would.”
“Oh, I also went to Mr. Christie’s.”
“And?” Her brows elevated.
“No leads there. Freddie’s biggest competitor in bidding found a painting he liked better the following week, so I don’t believe he held a serious grudge against Freddie.”
She nodded. “It was a rather far-fetched notion, but we couldn’t ignore it.”
The coach slowed. He lifted the curtain. “I believe we’re stopping at the Lamb and Lion posting inn.”
After the coachman bespoke chambers for the duke’s party, they took a large, satisfying meal of roasted beef in Alex’s parlor before retiring to their sleeping chambers. Georgiana shared a big corner room and a high tester bed with her mother.
It felt odd not having Angelique to help her ready for bed, but they had all agreed that bringing their personal servants and wardrobes would be too cumbersome and would delay their departure—a decision Lady Hartworth heartily endorsed.
It was the first night in almost a week that Georgiana readily went to sleep.
Chapter 17
Were it not for her worries over Huey, Georgiana would have been deliriously happy the following day. She’d had the best night’s sleep in a week. Though the day was unquestionably cool, the sunny blue skies completed her sense of well-being.
