A Duke She Can't Refuse

by Gemma Blackwood

  Daisy returned to her seat on the sofa and cautiously extended a hand to pat his shoulder. “There, there. Lord Peyton is not a cruel man. If you are only honest with him, I am sure it will all be well.” A thought struck her. She leaped up again and went to the music stand, where she had stashed the threatening note among her sheets of music. “But, Mr Turner, if the fire was an accident, why did you send me this?”

  He frowned. “I have never sent you anything, Miss Morton.”

  Daisy wondered whether it was wise to believe him. He had admitted to setting the fire, after all, in a roundabout way. He had entered two houses with the intent to burgle them, and had lied to gain an audience with Daisy now.

  But his grief at the consequences of his actions seemed real enough. And Daisy was a firm believer in second chances.

  She handed him the note.

  Mr Turner’s mouth fell open as he read the threat that was written on it. “This is monstrous!”

  “It certainly gave me a shock.”

  “Please believe that I had nothing to do with it!”

  “I think I do believe you,” said Daisy slowly. “At least, it seems very irregular that you would threaten my life on the one hand and mourn Lord Peyton’s lack of compensation on the other.”

  Mr Turner was reading the note over and over with increasing agitation. “Miss Morton, I fear I have made a terrible mistake.”

  “That much is clear.” Daisy gave the bell pull a sharp tug. “I will have some tea sent up, Mr Turner. You look as though you have had a nasty shock. And in the meantime, you will tell me exactly what is so important about that vase.”

  12

  Alexander stared at the panelled wall beside his bed, willing it to give up its secrets.

  He had examined every corner of his bedroom. He had lifted up the rug, felt behind the curtains, climbed on a chair to examine the top of the wardrobe, and, in short, made an utter fool of himself. The only thing remotely mysterious was a locked drawer in the writing desk for which the duchess had forgotten to leave the key.

  The only thing that remained was to delve deeper into insanity and begin tapping the walls in search of a secret passageway.

  Alexander checked over his shoulder, just in case someone had appeared in the room to witness his embarrassment. He cleared his throat. He climbed up onto the bed.

  A knock at the door surprised him so greatly he nearly tumbled off again.

  “Come in!” he called, before he was completely ready. “I’m not doing anything! In you come!”

  Edith entered while he was still brushing off the dust that had landed on his shoulder a few minutes earlier as he crawled beneath the writing desk.

  “Are you rearranging the furniture, Alex?” she asked, looking around at the dishevelled room in confusion.

  “Yes,” he said gratefully. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing.” Certainly not looking for secret passageways like a character in a gothic novel.

  Edith frowned and touched the chair which was lying beside the door with its legs in the air. Alexander had turned it over to see if a secret message was scrawled on the bottom of the seat. “I would leave it to the servants in future if I were you. I’m afraid you don’t have much of a talent for it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He seized the chair, turned it the right way up, and sat down on it with the most casual demeanour possible. “What can I do for you?”

  Edith picked her way across the room and settled on the chaise longue. Fortunately, Alexander had thought better of tearing out the stuffing to see if anything was hidden inside it.

  “I have a confession to make.” Edith wrung her hands together and fixed her gaze firmly on the floor. It was a familiar pose. Sometimes it seemed that Edith was forced to confess to a new blunder as often as the hours rang on the clock.

  “Go on,” said Alexander. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

  She raised her eyes fearfully. “This one is bad, I’m afraid. I have done something very wrong.”

  “As wrong as the time you left the gate open in Mrs Pratt’s garden and her chickens all ran into the road?”

  Edith shut her eyes. “Worse.”

  “As wrong as the time you sent the note you intended for Daisy, calling her your most beloved friend, to poor Mr Templeton, who then appeared at the door ready to propose to you?”

  Edith swallowed visibly. “It does concern Daisy, in fact, but it is much worse than that.”

  “Well, I am all agog to hear it.”

  She cracked open an eye. “Do you recall the vase that used to stand on your bedside table?”

  Alexander felt suddenly unsteady, as though someone had seized the legs of his chair and tilted it sideways. “The vase that Daisy broke?”

  “That’s exactly it,” Edith wailed. “I broke it. I was so ashamed that I asked her to help me hide it. I didn’t mean to let it go on for so long! I was going to tell you what happened the moment our guests had left. But then I heard that it meant so much to the duchess, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you being so disappointed in me, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought perhaps I could find a similar vase in a shop somewhere. I have been out searching every day! But this morning, Anthea told me that Isobel heard from Aunt Ursula that Lady Shrewsbury…” She gulped. “I can’t! I just can’t!”

  “I think you can,” said Alexander grimly. Edith wrung her hands together.

  “Aunt Ursula says that Lady Shrewsbury has been telling everyone you only proposed to Daisy because she was caught hiding in your bedroom! Oh, Alex, tell me it isn’t true! You and Daisy love each other, don’t you? That wonderful letter she wrote you –”

  “Don’t tell me about the letter!” Alexander leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair so violently that he could feel it sticking up all over his head. “My word, what a mess. What a dreadful mess.”

  “I’m sorry!” Edith wrapped her arms around herself and rocked from side to side.

  Alexander knew he should pull her into a hug. None of her many mishaps had ever left her so contrite. It was his role to comfort her, embrace her, tell her that things were not as bad as they seemed. He was moving to put his arms around her when Edith jabbed up a warning finger.

  “You must not marry Daisy if you do not love her,” she said. “She is one of my dearest friends. I refuse to let you trap her in a loveless marriage. I don’t care that you are a duke now! Daisy deserves true love.”

  “I know,” said Alexander softly. “Believe me, I know.”

  Edith was about to say more when another knock interrupted them. Selina put her head around the door. “Ah, there you both are,” she said. “There is a visitor for you, Alex. Mr Nicholas Turner. He says he’s here on urgent business.”

  Nothing seemed more urgent at that moment than the way Alexander felt about Daisy, but Selina’s face was serious enough that he could not delay.

  “We are not finished,” he said to Edith. “And don’t think I am overlooking the fact that you lied. There will be consequences.”

  Edith nodded penitently. Alexander wondered what conceivable punishment there could be for forcing her best friend into an ersatz engagement. Scrubbing dishes in the kitchen for a week didn’t seem quite the thing.

  And as for Daisy…

  She had lied to him. Lied for Edith’s sake, yes, but lied nonetheless. She had made such pronouncements of her honesty, and yet had been hiding things from the start.

  “What has Edith told you?” asked Selina, pausing outside the receiving room where Mr Turner was waiting. “I have never seen you look so unhappy.” She tilted her head to one side, studying him closely. “No, don’t tell me. I think I know what is troubling you.” To his surprise, she drew him into a swift embrace. “We will talk about it soon. I promise that it will all work out in the end.”

  At times like this, she reminded him so much of their mother that his breath caught in his throat.

  Selina kissed his cheek
and left him to meet the mysterious Mr Turner.

  Who turned out not to be mysterious at all, but rather a very ordinary man in a good suit that bore signs of years of careful wear.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace!” Turner made a deep bow. “I have come directly from Miss Daisy Morton. She thought you would be interested to hear what I have to say.”

  Alexander made no sign of his surprise at hearing Daisy’s name. He invited Mr Turner to take a seat, offered him a drink which was politely refused, and listened to his story with increasing amazement.

  “If you will forgive my forwardness, Your Grace, there is a connection between your family and mine.” As Turner spoke, his hands wrangled with each other in his lap as though they wanted to tear themselves from his arms and escape. “My father was also named Nicholas Turner, and served under your predecessor, the seventh Duke of Loxwell, in the war. He had the distinction of saving the duke’s life one night when he was struck by an enemy bullet.”

  “I knew my uncle was once wounded,” said Alexander. “But he never spoke of his experiences on the battlefield, and I regret to say that we were not close enough for me to ask him about them. I am glad to know the son of the man who saved him.”

  Turner swallowed. “My father never dreamed that the duke would remember him. He died a poor man. Not penniless, but not well off by any means. I took over his shop in Cheapside, and have turned things around to make a good living from it. I never sought to capitalise on my father’s relationship with the duke. I was sorry when I heard old Loxwell had died, but I never dreamed I would receive a visit from his lawyer the very next day.”

  “From Mr Kettleburn?” Alexander’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “I seem to find that foul beast everywhere I turn!”

  Turner nodded miserably. “He seemed such a kind fellow. He assured me he only had my best interests at heart. Believe me, Your Grace, I regret that I ever listened to him!”

  “You are not the only one who was taken in by his act,” said Alexander. “But the old man is slippery, and we have not been able to pin him down for anything yet. What did he want with you?”

  “He told me that the old duke had remembered my father in his dying days. Apparently he set some trusted servants to searching for him, only to find that he had passed years before. Mr Kettleburn said that the duke was distressed to find that his old friend had ended his days in poverty. He claims…” Turner tugged at the collar of his shirt, eyes wide and anxious. “He claims that the duke left me ten thousand pounds in memory of my father.”

  “That is quite the sum! Your father must have meant very much to him.” Alexander frowned. “But the will was read some time ago. There was no mention of a Nicholas Turner. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it seems Kettleburn was mistaken – or lying for his own ends.”

  “He said you would say that.” Turner gulped. “He told me things about you that I am ashamed to say I believed. That you were a dishonourable man, greedy and cruel, and would do all you could to keep hold of the duke’s money for yourself. He told me the only way to secure my inheritance was to find the addendum to the will that the duke wrote on his deathbed and left somewhere in the house. Kettleburn agreed to help me locate it on the understanding that I shared half of the money with him.”

  “My word!” Alexander did not know whether he ought to land his fist on Mr Turner’s face. It seemed only appropriate to suitably chastise the man admitting to breaking into his house, but Turner’s obvious contrition was so at odds with his actions that Alexander could not bring himself to punish him as he deserved. “So it was you who crept into my bedroom with Kettleburn!”

  “It was.” Turner bowed his head. “We were searching for a particular vase – something which apparently holds the key to finding the will. Kettleburn would not tell me the details. I think he was afraid I would find it without his help.” He gulped. “I will accept any punishment you choose, Your Grace. I admit that I knew from the start how wrong my actions were. But I believed you to be an outright villain, and my only thought was of how the money would ease my mother’s old age.”

  A cold hand tightened around Alexander’s heart. “Breaking and entering under such circumstances might be forgiven, but mine is not the only house you have entered. It was you, was it not, who set the fire in Miss Morton’s room?”

  “An accident!” Turner’s eyes were wild. “An accident, I swear it! I was horrified when I heard that my clumsiness had caused the fire.”

  “You should have been horrified long before that. What were you thinking, entering a lady’s bedroom?”

  “I thought I might recover the vase,” said Turner. “That night, Mr Kettleburn arrived at my house in a terrible rush and told me that Miss Morton had stolen it. I naturally assumed that she, like you, was conniving to keep me from my ten thousand pounds. Perhaps to take them for herself! I went to Morton House that same evening, but discovered from a servant there that Miss Morton’s things had been taken to Lord Peyton’s home in Highbridge Street. I gained entrance to the house there by assisting the footmen with the boxes and slipped upstairs to search the bedrooms. I was shaking with nerves the entire time. It is no wonder that I knocked over a candle. I found nothing, of course, and was beside myself the following day when I heard there had been a fire.

  “I called on Miss Morton the moment I could gather the courage. I had to see for myself that she was unharmed. She seemed such a gentle creature that I at first believed she must have been entirely in your thrall. I attempted to warn her of your villainy, and she defended you so staunchly that I began to doubt myself. Then I saw the note she received after the fire.” He passed a hand across his brow. “It was then that I knew I had been horrendously deceived. Only Kettleburn could have sent that threatening message. All this time, it was he who was greedy, cruel, criminal! And I had broken into the home of two innocent people at his insistence. I wish I had never heard of that awful sum of money! It has brought me nothing but shame.”

  “I cannot deny that you are right to be ashamed.” Alex folded his arms, grateful that his title lent his words the weight of authority. “You have behaved like a common thief, while if you had only come to me from the beginning, matters might have been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. I would never dream of disobeying my uncle’s dying wishes. If we can find this addendum to the will, I will gladly see that you receive the ten thousand pounds. Though you will owe part of that sum to Lord Peyton in respect of the damage your carelessness did to his house.”

  “You are too generous!” gasped Turner.

  “On the contrary. I am simply doing what is right. Now, there is the strange matter of the vase to consider. Miss Morton did not steal it. It was accidentally smashed. I had it inspected by an expert potter, and he discovered nothing special about it at all.” Alexander scratched his chin. “What could Kettleburn want with it?”

  “He did not tell me.” Turner hung his head. “If my punishment for my own foolishness is that I never receive the money, I will be glad of it. It is much less than I deserve.”

  “Nonsense. We must honour my uncle’s memory by seeing that his wishes are carried out.” Alexander slapped his hand down onto his thigh. “There is only one thing to do. We will not find out the truth by making guesses. We must confront Mr Kettleburn without delay.”

  “Certainly,” said Mr Turner, “though I cannot see how we will get the truth from him. He lies more effectively than anyone I have ever encountered.”

  “We will see how his lies hold up under questioning by a special constable.” Alexander got to his feet. “I will arrange for a party of Bow Street Runners to meet us at Kettleburn’s offices tomorrow at noon. If you wish to make good the wrongs you have done, you will meet me there and be ready to tell them all that you know.” He extended his hand. Turner flinched away for a second before understanding that Alexander wanted him to shake it.

  His handshake was firm despite the guilt in his eyes. Alexander gripped his hand ba
ck tightly.

  Perhaps there was a way to salvage some good from the spiral of destruction Edith had set in motion when she knocked over the unremarkable vase.

  13

  Daisy tipped back her head and let the sunlight beam down onto her face. The third day since the fire, and her mother had finally permitted her to leave the house for a ride through Hyde Park with Ralph. The painful rasp in her throat no longer troubled her. Freedom tasted good.

  And it meant a lot that she could find happiness in small blessings when her relationship with Alexander was in such a state of turmoil.

  Daisy was nearly certain – nearly – that Alexander was at least halfway to falling in love with her. Her own feelings were becoming clearer with every passing moment. When he was not there, she thought of him. When he was with her, she thought of kissing him. And when he told her he was incapable of love, she knew he was mistaken.

  Whether he would work it out for himself before the Season ended and they dissolved their engagement was another question entirely.

  All Daisy could do was trust in what she had always believed about love. The connection she and Alexander had was special. Fate would intervene on their behalf, even if he could not make the leap himself.

  “You are quiet today,” said Ralph, moving gently from side to side with the rhythm of his horse’s walk. “I think I can guess what you are thinking.”

  “I doubt it.” Daisy pulled her bonnet lower over her forehead, all too aware of the consternation she would cause her mother if she came home with a tanned nose.

  Ralph was eyeing her with an expression so shrewd that it was worrying. “Do you recall the first days after my wedding to Jemima?”

  Daisy wrinkled her nose. “That was certainly an… exciting time.”

  “You were the first to guess that I was in love with her.”