If ever a fellow had enthusiastically embarked on a courtship, Lord Jeremy was that man. He’d driven out with Rachel, waltzed with her, and walked home from services with her. She beamed at him, played duets with him, and lingered on his arm after the one dance they shared at each gathering.
Having not only seen some of this billing and cooing, but also having heard about it at length from his mother and sisters, Rex was struck by how badly he’d bungled anything resembling a courtship with Eleanora.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the wine,” Rex said, “though we can add to the selection depending on your preferences.”
This meal had been at his lordship’s invitation, and Rex had come straight from the bank, after an afternoon spent poring over Howell’s books. Lord Jeremy was a convivial dinner companion, regaling Rex with family anecdotes and holiday stories.
This too was part of a well-planned courtship, familiarizing the head of the lady’s family with the suitor’s estates, connections by marriage, and other assets. Why hadn’t Rex bothered with these courtesies where Ellie was concerned? His sisters would love her, and she and his mother would be a wicked pair to oppose at whist.
Lord Jeremy ordered beefsteak, which Rex would have predicted, and he drank only sparingly, as did Rex.
“You seem a bit pre-occupied, Elsmore. Will the rest of your evening be spent in more interesting pursuits?”
“I am doubtless expected at the theater later this evening. You are more than welcome to join the party if you’d like.”
“Lady Rachel extended an invitation, but you might prefer not to catch sight of me for a bit after I air the next topic.”
Rex signaled the waiter to clear their plates.
“Will you gentlemen be having a sweet?” the waiter asked. “Our rum cream cake is not to be missed.”
“None for me,” Rex said. Of all things, he wanted to return to the bank. Howell’s books had been respectably accurate. Occasional errors had been crossed out and corrected rather than carried forward from week to week. Howell, at least, was minding his p’s and q’s.
A niggling splinter of unease told Rex that Howell might be the exception among the bank’s managers.
“Another time for the cream cake, then,” Lord Jeremy said.
The waiter cleared the table, leaving the wine and wineglasses, while Rex wondered what Eleanora was having for dinner. Was her cat growling in the corner over a nibble of fish? Had the lady indulged in any wine since returning from Surrey?
“Your Grace is welcome to call me out for the subject I’m about to raise,” Lord Jeremy said, “but I feel something must be said.”
“Calling suitors out is beneath my dignity, my lord. My sisters and my mother have all had occasion to assure me of this.”
His lordship’s brows rose, but he acquired the look of a man determined to soldier on. “I am in love with Lady Rachel. I admit this proudly, knowing she might yet decline me with the dreaded speech about we-would-not-suit.”
I’ve heard that speech, and it is to be dreaded. “Go on.”
“Her ladyship has recently favored me with her attentions, and my good fortune has been remarked by others.”
“If you make my sister the object of gossip, Bledsoe, no power on earth—”
His lordship held up a hand. “Not gossip, Your Grace. Angels defend me, never that. I ran into Lord Norcross at Tatts this week.”
Every idle gentleman in London milled around Tattersalls on sale days. Cold weather only meant they stood about nipping from flasks rather than miss a chance to enjoy a parade of good horseflesh and better gossip.
“I hope you found his lordship well.” Norcross was another eligible, and last year, Rachel had seemed to favor him.
“He asked me a very curious question, Your Grace. He asked if Lady Rachel had won free of her little attachment to the poppy. He seemed quite concerned for her, else I would have drawn his cork on the spot.”
Rex pulled his attention away from Eleanora’s cat, Howell’s ledgers, and the sheer stupidity of sitting in a theater box week after week when nobody could hear what was said on stage.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well you might, but I am telling you the truth. Norcross was most confident in his assertion that Lady Rachel is afflicted with a penchant for laudanum. I asked him who would propound such a falsehood and he grew defensive.”
“While I am growing furious. Lady Rachel enjoys one of the least excitable dispositions ever bestowed upon woman. She has no need of nerve tonics or laudanum.”
“Which is what I told Norcross, though of course, I have never raised the subject with her ladyship.”
A delicate and fair question lay in his lordship’s rejoinder.
“I have reviewed my family accounts in detail, Bledsoe. No unusual expenditures at the apothecary or herbalist’s blight my books.” What a pleasure to know that was true.
“Just so, Your Grace, but I thought you should be aware of the exchange.”
“I commend your loyalty to the lady. Did Norcross say where he’d heard this rumor?”
Lord Jeremy found it necessary to study the label on the wine bottle. “He wouldn’t say, but intimated that somebody of unimpeachable veracity had put a word in his ear last spring. Norcross hinted that it might have been you or a person equally close to her ladyship.”
What would Eleanora have made of this development? “Shall I interview Norcross myself?”
“You can’t. He caught last night’s packet for Calais. I gather he’ll spend the holidays there rather than endure Yuletide at his family seat. Do I conclude, Your Grace, that I might mention my aspirations to Lady Rachel in the near future?”
“You may.”
Lord Jeremy poured himself the rest of the wine. “A toast, then, to her ladyship’s continued good health.”
Rex obliged, but then rose. “The matter now lies between the two of you, at least until the solicitors wreak their havoc. Best of luck.”
Lord Jeremy stood as well. “Will I see you at the theater, Your Grace?”
The weight of duty pressed down on Rex, another evening spent greeting acquaintances, bantering, pretending he was enjoying himself. Not too much for family to ask, but tonight, that was more than he had to give.
“Not this week,” he said. “I am required elsewhere.”
Lord Jeremy bowed, then resumed his seat and commenced beaming fatuously at his glass of wine. Rex left him to it, and retrieved his hat and coat from the doorman.
“There you are.” The speaker, a young man, started forward from the porter’s nook. “I’ve been looking all over London for you, Your Grace.”
The fellow was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and vaguely familiar. “Do I know you?”
“My name is not important. I come bearing a note from Mr. Patrick Entwhistle.”
Patrick Entwhistle had been Rex’s first tutor…? Which was why he’d given that name to Eleanora to use if she needed to arrange an urgent meeting.
“Not here,” Rex said, taking the man by the arm. “Whatever you have to say, it can be said where we have more privacy.”
“I have nothing to say.” He shoved a note at Rex, folded and sealed. “You don’t put hands on Ned Wentworth no matter how many titles you have.”
The wording was general, as Rex had once told Eleanora it should be. The favor of an interview would be appreciated at Your Grace’s earliest convenience.
“Is Mr. Entwhistle well?” Rex asked, jamming his hat onto his head.
“Seems right enough to me, though I keep a safe distance from that personage. Lord Stephen said I wasn’t to cease looking until I found you though.”
“You’ve found me, and the requested meeting is convenient for me at this very moment.”
Chapter Thirteen
“If you’re besotted with Elsmore, you should tell him,” Lord Stephen said, leaning against Ellie’s doorjamb, cane in hand. “He’ll go mad thinking you don’t care for him, and while I am ig
norant of the particulars, I know a smitten man when I see one.”
“Please do come in,” Ellie snapped. “Or lounge there at your lordship’s leisure, letting out all the warm air while you expound on topics that are none of your concern.”
His lordship lurched into the room, closing the door behind himself by virtue of shoving it with his cane.
“You come to my apartment,” he said, “demanding that I find you a discreet messenger not in Wentworth livery. You confide the purpose of the errand only to Ned’s discretion—the most dubious variety of discretion known to the realm—and then you whirl off, clearly on the verge of strong hysterics. Have a nip.”
He held out a silver flask embossed with the Wentworth crest.
“No, thank you. Taking spirits will solve nothing.”
“Strong hysterics solve nothing, but I’ve been known to indulge on many an occasion.” He waggled the flask, and Ellie took it mostly to forestall further lecturing.
“What the hell is wrong, madam? If Ned can’t find your pet duke, I might be able to help.”
Ellie opened the flask and took a sniff. The brandy had an excellent nose, but it wasn’t the same as the spirits she’d taken with Elsmore. Even so, the scent brought back memories of snuggling before a wood fire, a country house gone quiet in evening darkness, and a contentment as precious as it was temporary.
“You cannot help, my lord. On second thought, you can, by taking yourself off and forgetting that I prevailed upon Ned to deliver a message. Forget that immediately and entirely.”
“Alas, dear lady, an excellent memory is among my greatest failings.” Lord Stephen propped himself against the arm of Ellie’s reading chair, his bad left leg on the side facing the fire. “I have made further inquiries of my sisters Althea and Constance in the north, for example, and what they had to say was most distressing.”
Ellie was desperate to see Elsmore, desperate to convey her suspicions to him. After that…France was looking better and better.
“You can talk to your sisters until the King stops overspending his funds, my lord. I’ve told you more of my situation than I should have, you are bluffing, and you are prying where—”
A hard rap on the door saved Ellie from hurling his lordship’s flask at his head.
“Mrs. Hatfield, it’s Ned.”
“And Elsmore.” This second voice was louder than the first.
“Come in.”
And there he was, Elsmore in the flesh, looking a bit tired, a bit worried, and perilously dear. He was still in morning attire, his boots were damp, and his greatcoat was only half-buttoned.
“Your Grace.” Ellie curtseyed, mindful of Lord Sticks-His-Nose-Everywhere Wentworth watching this exchange. “Thank you for coming.”
“What’s he doing here?” Elsmore asked, lifting his chin in Lord Stephen’s direction.
“I’m engaged in my usual occupation,” Lord Stephen said, shoving to his feet. “Trying to talk sense into a rock. You’d think she was a Wentworth, as stubborn as she is. Come along, Ned. Designing incendiary devices is more entertaining than waiting for Eleanora Hatfield to explain that her grandfather got caught on the wrong side of a few rumors, and decades later, she’s still afraid of the scandal.”
“I am not afraid of a few rumors,” Ellie retorted. She was terrified of hanging felonies, charges of accessory after the fact, and a broken heart, not in that order.
“That will be enough, my lord,” Elsmore said softly. “I’ll bid you and Wentworth good evening.”
Ned obligingly marched out the door, while Lord Stephen lingered, leaning on his cane. “Tell the poor man what he needs to know, Eleanora, because as a brilliant auditor has often declared, we cannot solve problems we refuse to face.” He offered a slight bow and left with the immense dignity of a man whose every step brought pain.
“I cannot plant him a facer,” Elsmore said, unbuttoning his coat, “though somebody dearly needs to.”
“Many somebodies already have,” Ellie said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been thinking about my final report to you, going over my notes.”
“What the hell is that?” Elsmore’s gaze was aimed at the hearth.
“That is Wodin, on loan from Her Grace of Walden.”
Voltaire was curled up next to the dog, who panted gently and regarded the humans as if surely every sensible canine had a soft, warm, furry little feline companion. Voltaire was purring audibly, nose covered by the tip of her tail.
“What sort of self-respecting pedigreed canine befriends an alley cat?” Elsmore finished undoing his coat, and Ellie let him slip it from his own shoulders and hang it on a peg near the door.
If she touched his coat, she’d want to touch him. If she hung up his coat for him, she’d sniff the wool and brush it against her cheek. If she started crying, she’d never stop.
“A dog raised with cats should be more tolerant of them. What I have to say won’t take long, Your Grace, but it strikes me as urgent.”
Elsmore ran his hands through his hair and looked around the apartment. “I don’t see any ledgers, Eleanora. You always surround yourself with ledgers.”
“Might we attend the topic at hand?”
He approached her, looking vexed and determined. “First, tell me what Lord Stephen was babbling about. What happened with your grandfather?”
Ellie whirled away from him, lest he touch her and destroy the last shred of her composure. “Grandfather’s circumstances are not relevant to the present inquiry.”
Elsmore remained where he was, near the fire. Why must he be so attractive, why must he look at her with such concern?
“When you turn up all duchess-y and impatient, you are nervous,” he said. “You have no ink stains on your fingers, Eleanora. Your watch is affixed nowhere on your person. You are upset. I hope we are friends enough to confide our upsets to each other, for I have a few matters to discuss with you as well.”
“I am moving to France.” The decision was made on the spot, having seen Elsmore again, having exercised the monumental effort not to lash her arms around him and never let go.
“Does this have to do with your grandfather, the victim of rumors?”
Ellie turned, finding herself face-to-face with the chill coming off her front window. Below her, the street was dark and deserted, the occasional porch light illuminating icy mud and dirty snow.
“He was rumored to be a forger of paintings. He was not a forger.”
“Then what was he?” Elsmore’s voice came from just behind Ellie.
She could feel him near, feel his curiosity, also his great patience. This man had spent years reconciling himself to obligations he did not enjoy; he’d wait an eternity for Ellie to share the truth with him.
“Grandfather was a fool, a trusting, talented fool, and that is by far a greater offense than copying a few paintings.” She sneaked a glance over her shoulder, expecting to see Elsmore’s expression go politely blank. Expecting him to step back, to fetch his coat.
“Go on.” His eyes held concern and maybe a little surprise. No judgment, no shock. No betrayal of Ellie’s trust in him.
In for the proverbial penny…She faced Elsmore squarely. “An earl hired my grandfather as a portraitist. Grandfather was—is—very good. He was so good that when the earl asked him to provide copies of a few famous paintings, purely for the earl’s private enjoyment, Grandfather easily obliged. He’d made a grand tour in his youth, he had sketchbooks upon sketchbooks filled with likenesses of the great works. Many wealthy families enjoy copies of famous paintings.”
“The earl sold the likenesses as the genuine articles.”
In one sentence, Elsmore summed up facts that had nearly seen Grandfather’s days ended on the gallows.
“Without Grandfather’s permission, without his knowledge. While Grandfather was delighted to have a supportive patron of such impressive rank, the earl was sending the paintings to the lesser capitals, claiming the artwork was for sale to discreet private
collectors to liquidate the true owners’ debts. This went on for two years before anybody realized what was afoot. Back then, marching armies made travel more difficult, and those private collectors had been carefully chosen for reclusive qualities and obscure addresses.”
Elsmore stood right before her at the window. A month ago, Ellie would have worried about being seen with a man in her quarters after dark, but the street was empty, not even the chop shop had any customers.
And she was—truly—moving to France.
“What happened when the paintings were discovered to be copies?” Elsmore asked.
“The earl feigned dismay, but he declined to press charges. He made the purchasers whole—I gather two years had seen improvement in his finances—and the duped customers also declined to press charges rather than admit they’d been taken for fools. Grandfather never had another legitimate commission.”
The ensuing silence was awkward, though Ellie honestly could not say if she was more sad to share Grandpapa’s fate or angry that all these years later, Lord Winston’s wrongdoing still hadn’t been punished.
“You look pale,” Elsmore said, which had nothing to do with anything. “Shall I get us something to eat? Something hot from across the street?”
What mattered food when a family’s ruin was under discussion? “No, thank you. I suspect you have a problem at your bank, Your Grace, and that is a more pressing matter than my next bowl of soup.”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
Ellie closed her eyes. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t care about you? Even you, Eleanora, cannot audit genuine regard away from my heart. Shall I fetch us soup, or would you rather have some roast and potatoes?”
“Soup will do.” Ellie wasn’t hungry, but she needed food. She’d eaten little in the past few days, and still had no appetite.
The duke went to the door, bellowed for “Mr. Wentworth,” held a short conversation with somebody in the corridor, and came back to Ellie’s side.
“You suspect the author of all my irregular books is employed at the bank, don’t you?” he asked, leading Ellie to the sofa.
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