A Scandalous Deception

by Lynn Messina

  There were so many surprising things about his statement, Bea didn’t know where to rest her thoughts, for it all seemed strange and improbable. Only a few hours before, she had resigned herself to the fact that there no longer was an investigation, and yet here was the Duke of Kesgrave in her drawing room late at night assuring her that there was. Even more remarkable was his determination to probe the death of the earl with her help. His ego seemed to make many odd twists and starts. Additionally, he had left the opera during intermission to come to her house to provide her with the update. Surely, when he had had his valet tie the Mail Coach earlier in the evening, he hadn’t thought to himself that he would leave the performance in the middle to pay a call on Miss Hyde-Clare. It simply did not make sense.

  And yet he was there.

  Extraordinary.

  Rather than reveal these thoughts, Bea said, “And what updates do you have for me?”

  “I had my steward visit every book publisher in the city, and he reported back that not a single one has a publishing contract with Lord Fazeley,” he explained.

  Bea nodded as she considered the information for several seconds. Then she said matter-of-factly, “So your update is that you have no update.”

  Kesgrave stiffened at her incomplete understanding of the situation and explained with exquisite condescension, “With your limited experience with worldly affairs, you’re clearly incapable of appreciating the complexities involved in the gathering of information. The acquisition of knowledge is not merely the discovery of a positive, my dear Miss Hyde-Clare. It’s also the confirmation of a negative.”

  Watching him stand on his consequence, Bea conceded to herself that she was a perverse creature, for the thing that had annoyed her to distraction when they first met delighted her now. Hoping to increase his stiffness with additional offense, she said, “You missed the second half of Artaxerxes to tell me you have nothing to tell me?”

  He inhaled sharply, feeling the prick to his ego keenly. “It appears I did,” he said, his tone cold. “And now I will bid you good night.”

  “No, please,” Bea said quickly, reaching out a hand to still his movements, for she had not intended to drive him away. “I’m sorry. I was only teasing. Truly, you have no idea how pleased I am to see you.”

  This declaration, made without a hint of self-consciousness, seemed to surprise the duke, and Bea felt almost certain she discerned a spark of pleasure light up his eyes. “You are?”

  The truth was, she could not recall ever being so happy to see anyone step into her drawing room, but obviously she could not admit that to the duke. Indeed, she could barely admit it to herself. “Yes, for I most particularly wanted to ask if beetroot may be used as a clothing dye,” she said irreverently, “and if so what ratio of beetroot juice to water would you suggest?”

  As she had only her aunt’s report to go on, Bea wasn’t sure the duke would understand the reference she was making or perceive himself the subject of further mockery. If he did comprehend either, there was a very good chance he would storm out the door in a huff, as this provocation, coming so closely on the heels of the other, might be more than his dignity could withstand.

  She was pleasantly surprised, then, to see him settle into the settee and explain how his dissertation on the usages of beetroot was meant to torment her aunt with its dull specificity. “As a reprisal of sorts for treating you so harshly the night before at the ball. You have made me aware that my comprehensive knowledge, although an enviable thing in almost all circumstances, might not be entirely welcome in the social setting. Your aunt, however, appeared to enjoy it immensely. Indeed, her interest in the topic, chosen, of course, for its extreme banality, which even I can realize, was so strong, she asked a series of follow-up questions that I did not know the answer to. I resorted to pure fiction to maintain the appearance of expertise. I believe I did a reasonable job of coming up with an explanation for why taking beetroot with garlic will sweeten sour breath.”

  Bea laughed at his bewildered tone and his willingness to invent facts to suit his needs. It was not something she’d imagined him doing comfortably, unbending enough to play fast and loose with the truth, and discovering he could raised him in her estimation. “She was toadying, your grace. You are an esteemed personage, and she was not only grateful for the attention but leveraging it for maximum effect. While you were running through a recipe for beetroot powder, she was picturing how she must appear to her friends, deep in conversation with a duke for ten minutes. No doubt, it was the height of her social career. We may call it enlightened self-interest, and I can only assume it happens to you all the time, which is why you did not realize your displays of comprehensive knowledge are off-putting.”

  Kesgrave considered her thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “You are merciless, Miss Hyde-Clare.”

  It was impossible not to giggle at such a charge, for she did not have enough power to give or withhold mercy. As an orphan, she had been buffeted by other people’s whims for twenty years. “I?” she asked with interest. “In what way?”

  “You would leave me nothing—no social interaction unexamined, no kindness unscrutinized, no compliment unrifled for hidden motive,” he said. “Must I go back to my babyhood to find one person who did not have a secret agenda in our dealings?”

  “I sincerely hope not, as the nursemaid who swaddled you probably wanted a great many things,” she replied with a gentle smile. “That said, Nuneaton seems genuine in his regard for you, and you are almost equals. Certainly, there are one or two others.”

  Kesgrave leaned forward as if to add to the list, and Bea, delighting in the absurdity of a duke cataloging his popularity, felt a stab of disappointment when he merely picked up his tea and took a sip.

  “I did not come here solely to give you an update,” Kesgrave announced, firmly changing the subject.

  Bea swallowed her disappointment and said with irrepressible amusement, “You mean, you did not leave Covent Garden in the middle of a performance solely to give me an update.”

  He responded with one of his withering looks, but the effect was ruined by the smile that immediately replaced it. “Yes, I did, you brat, but only because it was so deadly dull, not because I found the prospect of your company impossible to resist. You hold yourself in high esteem.”

  In fact, she did not. Although there were several explanations for his presence that did not include a tedious theatrical production, there was no version of events in which Beatrice Hyde-Clare’s company was impossible to resist. Rather, she assumed his visit could be attributed to a combination of factors such as guilt over deserting her on the balcony, concern for her welfare after Flora’s comment, eagerness to share his knowledge and a desire for conversation with someone who was familiar with the particulars of the project.

  He couldn’t very well discuss Lord Duncan’s childish decision to blackmail a former paramour rather than curtail his gambling or ask his parents for more blunt with Viscount Nuneaton.

  “I’m surprised to hear that, as I was given to understand from several reviews that the production is excellent, with many fine performances. Mrs. Beatty’s portrayal of Mandane, in particular, is meant to be entrancing.”

  “If you are entranced by the sound of a horse gargling salty water, then, yes, that is an entirely accurate description,” he said with little sympathy for the poor soprano who sang the role. “But I did not come to give my assessment of the opera. We must discuss our investigation into Fazeley’s murder and establish what our next steps will be.”

  Although she was hardly inclined to be sentimental, Bea thought our next steps might very well be the three loveliest words in the English language. How startling and inexplicable that the Duke of Kesgrave was the one to say them.

  “What do you make of your steward’s inability to discover the name of the earl’s publisher?” she asked. “Does that mean he lied to his godson about signing a contract or is the firm simply unwilling to come forward?”

>   She made no mention of Lord Duncan’s staggering hypocrisy, though the fact of it still burned hot in her throat, because she could not be certain that Kesgrave did not share his point of view to some extent. The young lord’s low opinion of women—his apparent belief that blackmailing one of Lady Abercrombie’s sex did not rise to the insult of blackmail—was not novel among the men of the ton. Indeed, she imagined it was a universal that cut across the social order regardless of wealth, class or education.

  If Kesgrave agreed with him, she truly didn’t want to know.

  “I suspect it’s the latter,” he said. “If the manuscript is the revealing document Fazeley promised it would be, then more than a few members of society with secrets to keep might be moved to halt its publication by way of a legal action. That being the case, the publishing firm would be wise to deny all knowledge of it, especially to the steward of a duke, until the book was available for purchase, at which point the damage would be done and any attempt to stop distribution would only increase interest and sales.”

  Conceding the validity of his argument, Bea suggested sending around a less impressive personage to make the inquiries. “Perhaps an orphan whose family is not illustrious enough to merit mention in Lord Fazeley’s book.”

  Kesgrave shook his head. “No, I believe the damage has been done and anyone else asking questions would be met with the same suspicion. We need to devise another approach.”

  At this statement, Bea nodded pensively, as if giving the matter serious thought, but it was only a pose. She knew what they had to do, for it was as plain as the nose on her face. Every contract had at least two signatories, and if the first party would not divulge its participation, then it was necessary to consult the second one. Given that the second party in this situation was departed meant they had no choice but to break into his town house and look through his things. It was the ideal solution in more ways than one, for it gave them access to not only the earl’s private documents but also his manuscript. Lord Duncan’s outrage at the notion of his godfather using his memoir to exhort money from his peers was all well and good, but Bea was hardly inclined to take a sniveling hypocrite’s word for it. If they could find the work, they could confirm for themselves if blackmail was a possibility and, if so, who was vulnerable to it.

  As obvious as the solution was, Bea knew the duke would not easily fall in line with it. He would consider it too dangerous or too undignified or too much of a violation of the unwritten code of conduct that governed the way gentlemen treated each other.

  Very well. He would have to be maneuvered.

  Sitting up straight with a sudden start, she said with feigned excitement, “I’ve got it! You can buy all the publishing companies.”

  Rather than reject the outlandish proposal out of hand, he quirked an eyebrow as he examined her. “All the publishing companies?”

  “Yes, all, that way we may gain access to all their contracts,” she said.

  “In the entire country or just the city?” he asked in a tone so neutral she could not tell whether he was considering the idea or mocking it.

  “We can start with the ones in the city, and if they don’t yield results, move on to the rest of the country,” she said reasonably. “There’s no need to make rash purchases.”

  “So I may buy them one by one,” he said as he weighed the value of the plan. “Buy the publishing firm, examine its contracts and if it doesn’t have Fazeley’s, buy the publishing firm down the road or a few streets over. It’s not the most efficient method for acquiring information but it has its merits, namely that it’s safe and reliable, which, ultimately, makes it an excellent scheme. Very well, Miss Hyde-Clare, you’ve persuaded me. I shall buy all the publishing companies.”

  Although Bea didn’t doubt for a moment that the Duke of Kesgrave could afford to purchase every publishing firm in the kingdom—and that, in itself, struck her as a travesty—she knew he was far too meticulous and fond of regulation and order to actually do it. The acquisition of just a single firm alone would require weeks, if not months, of inspection, examining the accounts for irregularities and confirming the soundness of the business model. Even if he wanted to act recklessly to move the investigation along, he would not be able to bring himself to sink money into an enterprise he knew little or nothing about. He simply did not have the constitution for irresponsibility.

  Bea could not say why she found that so charming.

  Clearly, he agreed to her implausible plan only to tease her and she wondered if she should propose another unlikely scheme or simply suggest they break into Fazeley’s residence posthaste.

  Noting the humor gleaming in his eyes, she decided to let him have an opportunity to recommend a solution. “All right, then, what’s your plan?”

  “Am I not acquiring a monopoly on books?” he asked.

  “We both know you could never bring yourself to buy anything without first establishing its soundness as a business concern,” she said.

  The duke’s lips quivered as he looked at her with faint amusement. “I don’t know how you can make the responsible stewardship of the Matlock family legacy sound like a bad thing. And yet…” He trailed off as he shook his head. “I think we should establish a more direct course to discovering the information. I will gain entry to Fazeley’s residence and search through his private documents for the contract. His father is away in Scotland and has probably only just gotten word of his demise. He will not have had a chance to get the house in order yet.”

  His readiness to violate the law in the pursuit of the truth delighted her, for she had not expected his morals to yield to practicality so easily, but she took exception to his intention to go alone. Naturally, he would resist the idea of her accompanying him even though she had successfully snuck into the private rooms of several men during their stay at Lakeview Hall.

  She decided not to argue with him about it—at least not yet. The more she knew about his plan, the more easily she could figure out the best way to infiltrate it. “By what method will you use? Will you pick the lock open using a special tool like a burglar or shatter a glass pane to open a window at the back of the house?”

  Although he was sitting next to her on the settee, Kesgrave peered down at her as if towering above her, his handsome features—his light eyes, his firm mouth—arranged in a pose of arrogant amusement. “My dear Miss Hyde-Clare, I will use the front door.”

  She peered at him with suspicion, knowing it could not be as simple as he made it sound. “How?”

  And yet, from his perspective, it was indeed. “I am a duke,” he said.

  Kesgrave had given this answer to her before to other questions, as it seemed to be his response to most problems. All complicated issues or unexpected obstructions could be resolved or cleared with the assertion of his importance. He once told the Skeffington heir that matters were decided by order of precedence, and it appeared he believed it wholeheartedly. No doubt history and the world had contrived over and over to affirm this belief.

  She found his self-regard maddening.

  “Even the Duke of Kesgrave cannot march up to the door of a dead man’s residence and demand access to the property,” Bea insisted with impatience.

  Kesgrave raised an eyebrow. “Who said demand? I shall have my steward express interest in the location with the agent in charge of it. It is a rental, and the owner will be worried about next month’s expenses. The Duke of Kesgrave is a desirable tenant, so I’m confident Stephens will be able to arrange for an inspection tomorrow afternoon.”

  As much as it pained Bea to admit it, his plan was sound. Why sneak around a house crouching in shadows when you could brazenly walk its floors? In determining its suitability for his needs, he could open any door and look through any drawer and enter any room without raising suspicions. Truly, it was the ideal way to rifle though a dead gentleman’s private things in search of a contract that may or not exist.

  If Bea wished she had thought of it herself, she was practical
enough to acknowledge the limitations of her outlook, for she was neither a duke nor a man. She felt the unfairness deeply but knew there was nothing to be gained in railing against it. Instead, she focused her attention firmly on the future and tried to discern how she might take advantage of Kesgrave’s many advantages. His methods were aboveboard and overt, which meant he could not argue that the undertaking was dangerous in any way or that her participation would put her at risk. He would try to, of course, because he was a man and a duke, but the claim would ring hollow and have no sway. Whether he liked it or not, she would accompany him on that inspection tomorrow.

  As determined as she was, she knew there was no harm in beginning the discussion with a display of admiration. Flattery was, to be sure, a low technique, but she had not met many people who could withstand its lure. “I hope you will not think ill of me when I admit that my instinct was to impugn your scheme and outline all the ways in which it wouldn’t work. But I find I cannot do that because it’s a very good ruse and much better than anything I was privately devising. Well done, your grace.”

  He titled his head at a curious angle as he smiled. “I believe that’s the first compliment you’ve ever intentionally paid me.”

  Acceding this point silently would have furthered her agenda, but she couldn’t refrain from pointing out that intentional compliments were not necessary, as he frequently pulled thoughtlessly spoken words out of the air and used them to praise himself.

  Kesgrave knew at once exactly which assortment of thoughtless words she was referring to. “You needn’t feel embarrassed by your admission of being in awe of me. I assure you, most people are.”

  Bea had to clench her teeth at the satisfaction in his tone, for the alternative was to pour a cup of tepid tea over his head. Then she forced a smile so stiff it was almost ferocious and said, “How clever of you to rely on that for your plan. That shrewdness is what I’m in awe of.”

  “Thank you,” he said, noting nothing amiss in her tone. “Your admiration means the world to me.”