Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Violet Hamers

  “What can I get you, My Lord?” the man behind the counter asked. He was a coarse-looking individual, dressed in plain clothes and a leather apron. He had mistaken Charles for one of the ton. Something which Charles meant to use to his advantage.

  “I’m looking for a Matthew Rapson,” he replied, letting the man think him a lord, if only for the moment.

  “What do you want to see Matt for?” the tanner asked, tilting his head to the side curiously.

  “I’m a barrister,” he replied. “I need to ask him some questions in regards to a case.”

  “One moment,” the man said, disappearing through a curtained doorway. Charles waited patiently, his hands still in his pockets.

  The man returned with another coarse-looking young man, who looked no more than one-and-twenty at most.

  “I imagine you’re here on behalf of His Grace?” Matthew Rapson asked. There was the slightest hint of anger in his tone.

  “Yes,” Charles replied.

  “He still mad? I told him I didn’t mean to do it,” he explained. “It was an accident.”

  “Is there somewhere private that we could talk?” Charles asked, smiling at Rapson.

  “Ain’t nothing I got to say that Mr. Gagney can’t hear,” Rapson replied, folding his brawny arms.

  “You trust him?” Charles asked.

  Rapson nodded. “I do. He’s been looking out for me in the time I’ve been here.”

  Charles wanted Rapson to feel comfortable sharing information with him. He knew better than to intimidate him. It would get neither of them anywhere.

  “There was a recent break in at the Duke’s estate in the country,” Charles said. “The Duke mentioned that you might have been upset at your firing.”

  “I can tell you, now,” Mr. Gagney said. “He’s been here, working. He’s not left a single day since he’s started with me.”

  “Have you sent the Duke any letters, of a threatening nature to his life?” Charles asked. The two eyed him in surprise. “I just need a simple yes or no. As soon as I’ve got it, I’ve done my job, and I can leave you be, Mr. Rapson.”

  “I don’t wish him well, but I don’t wish him dead,” Rapson replied, shaking his head. When he said it, he looked Charles in the eye. Charles held his gaze, which was unflinching. Rapson wasn’t lying.

  Charles nodded. “I believe you. Please understand that I needed merely to check. Since you have an alibi, I can assure His Grace that you are not at fault.”

  “Anything else, then?” Rapson asked, visibly relaxing.

  “Is there anyone whom you believe to have had reason to do something of the sort?” Charles asked. Now that they had rapport, perhaps Rapson could provide him with a clue.

  “You said there was a break in?” Rapson replied. He was squinting as he thought.

  “Yes. They painted a threat on the wall of the dining room.”

  “What’d it say?”

  “You’ll be dead by winter’s end,” Charles replied.

  “Not much of a clue,” Rapson mused. “As you likely know from working for him, the Duke has wronged many. He believes that even God himself can’t touch him. He’s got enough money to make it seem so.”

  “Anyone specific?”

  “I’d start with the butler. He knows everything. He’s the one that arranges things for His Grace, if you know what I mean.”

  “I will. Thank you for your help. The both of you.” Charles touched the brim of his hat. He pulled a business card from his pocket. “If anyone comes to mind, I would sincerely appreciate it if you could let me know.”

  Rapson took the card, briefly glancing at it. He shrugged. “I can’t read,” he admitted, fully cementing Charles’s belief in his innocence.

  Charles stepped back out into the street, which was crowded at that hour. As he walked, he considered what he’d heard. Matthew Rapson had been rather forthcoming. He had also been very honest. However, his claims were at odds with the Duke of Tiverwell that Charles was acquainted with.

  Charles walked faster, pulling out his pocket watch to glance at the time. He was going to meet up with his friend, Arthur, at the Black Dog. He had just enough time to get over there, if he took a hansom cab.

  The next morning, when the butler set the morning post down in front of her father, Arabella noticed that there was a letter in Mr. Conolly’s hand, on the very top of the pile. Her father did, too—he opened it immediately, his eyes taking in the contents.

  She waited, expecting him to fill her in. He didn’t, however. He set it inside of his own jacket pocket. She frowned. “Pappa?” she asked, curiously.

  “Yes, Arabella?” he asked, spearing a bite of eggs with his fork.

  “What’s Mr. Conolly have to say?” she asked.

  “He’s filed the Will,” he replied. “Lord Norton has been kind enough to agree to allowing your mother’s inheritance separate from the estate.” Arabella had suspected that that was the primary reason why they had come to Norton Manor, of all places. Her father was very talented at convincing people. He merely needed time and a good supply of brandy.

  “Is there anything about the writing on the wall?” she asked, hazarding a guess.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he told her. “It was probably a prank.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” she said, studying him closely. What she saw in his face surprised her. His eyes widened in anger and annoyance.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he stated. “I’ve spent all of your life making it be so. Please, do not think of it.”

  She looked away from him, as though he’d slapped her. When she glanced over at her mother, who had been silent the whole time, they both shared a look of surprise.

  Arabella became suspicious. She pretended that she was focused on eating, although she barely brought the fork to her lips. Her father never kept things from her. Particularly things like the writing on the wall. He would keep that letter close. It would be best if she wrote to Mr. Conolly herself.

  However, it would be quicker to sneak into her father’s rooms later, and find the letter for herself. With that decided, she focused on her breakfast, clearing her plate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Black Dog was busy. It was after-hours for most professions, and thus, it was filled with working men, playing cards and drinking ale. Sometimes, those of noble lineage would “slum” there, but for the most part, it was merely a place for a good time.

  “So,” Arthur said, his hands wrapped around a tankard of ale. “How are things going with your lady love?” Arthur was a tall, lanky fellow with pale golden hair and watery blue eyes. He had the air of intelligence. He and Charles had been close ever since their first year at Cambridge University. Arthur, too, was a barrister, and he shared offices with Charles.

  “All is well,” Charles replied. “I mean, as well as they can be when you have to have your housekeeper transcribe letters so that they are in a feminine hand.”

  “How, pray tell, are you going to break it to the Duke?” Arthur asked, taking a sip of his ale. It left a bit of foam on his upper lip, which was covered in a thin golden mustache.

  “Your Grace, I am asking you for permission to court and marry your daughter?” Charles said, making an attempt. Perhaps Arthur could help him.

  Arthur made a face. “You should probably bring your finances as proof that you have money with which to support her.”

  Charles wrinkled his nose. “That seems a bit—”

  Arthur waved his hand in the air impatiently. “I know, but he likely thinks that you live in Cheapside.”

  “He does not,” Charles replied. The Duke had sent him letters to his residence, a townhouse in a very nice middle-class neighborhood. He was located less than a street away from where many members of the ton lived, for Christ’s sake.

  “That’s what they all think,” Arthur replied. He, too, worked for the gentlemen of the ton. He specialized in commercial law.

  “You don’t think—” Cha
rles broke off, a little horrified at what Arthur was suggesting.

  “He’ll presume it,” he stated flatly. “You remember that time I looked at an Earl’s daughter the wrong way once. He caught me looking and told me that his daughter could never live in Cheapside.”

  “Was that the Earl of Standish?” he asked, recalling the incident. Arthur nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “So, you think that I don’t have a chance?”

  “Not in the slightest, my good friend,” Arthur replied. “Thinking logically, and I’m saying this because I do not want you to make a fool of yourself, that I think you’ve lost your mind.” He counted on his fingers as he listed. “Meeting in secret, writing letters in secret, declaring your love for each other in secret and without permission—”

  “But I will get permission,” Charles pointed out. He wanted Arthur to be happy for him. Instead, he was arguing that he was being…of all things, silly. “The Duke allows Lady Arabella to do as she chooses. He’s told her that he wants her to marry for love.”

  “Oh, no—you’re mistaken, my friend,” Arthur said. “Just like the rest of his kind, he will want his daughter to marry a gentleman. And, unfortunately, as well-off as you are, your blood does not run blue.” Arthur finished his drink. “Another?”

  Charles nodded. Arthur raised his hand, gesturing for the barkeep to bring them two more ales. Charles finished the one that he was drinking.

  “That being said, you could, perhaps marry the daughter of a lesser noble—a viscount, maybe—but a Duke’s daughter?” He grimaced and shrugged at the same time, looking for all the world like a gremlin. “You have a better chance at marrying one of God’s angels.”

  “She’s better than an angel,” Charles replied. “She’s stubborn and outspoken, and she beat me at fencing, Arthur.”

  “Then she is too good for you, by far,” Arthur mused. “I can see that you’ve lost far more than a fencing bout to her, though.”

  Charles smiled. He had, in fact. The barkeep set down their drinks. Charles paid for the round. As he sipped his drink, he considered what Arthur had said. He might just be right.

  He could only hope that Arabella knew her father as well as she claimed. She had been certain that he would see it her way. The unconventional means of her upbringing had given him cause for hope. But what if they were mistaken? Suddenly, he had an awful, creeping doubt.

  Arabella waited for her father to go out. She posted herself in the drawing room that was near to the stairs. She left the door ajar. From there, she could hear anyone going out via the front door.

  She heard the sounds of heavy boots, going down the stairs. She peered out, to see her father. He turned, catching her peeking out of the door.

  “Where are you going, Pappa?” she asked. He smiled, their earlier, heated conversation forgotten.

  “I’m headed out for a ride. Care to join me?” he asked.

  “I’m going to take a rest,” she replied. “I want to have my energy for Lady Downton’s party.”

  “Quite right, my sweet,” he said. She stood on the landing, listening as he spoke to the butler. When the door closed after him, she walked as quickly as she dared, up to the third floor.

  If she ran into anyone, she would need to point them away from her father’s room. She had never encountered him being angry or secretive before. His annoyance at the breakfast table had frightened her a little.

  She saw no one. She slipped into his room, to find his valet, putting her father’s frock coats away.

  “My father was looking for you,” she said. He nodded, bowing to her.

  “Thank you, My Lady.” He walked out, leaving her alone by the door. She waited until he was out of sight. She had never spied on her father before. To do so felt like it was completely out of line. Her heart was racing, her pulse loud in her ears.

  She entered her father’s room, going over to his bedside table. She opened the drawer. Inside, there was a leather bible. She opened the front flap. There, she found a letter, but it was not in Mr. Conolly’s hand. She put it back, exactly where she’d found it.

  She then noticed that the valet had left the jacket that her father had worn to breakfast, out to be cleaned. She placed her hand into the pocket on the inside, just over her father’s heart. She pulled out Mr. Conolly’s letter.

  She unfolded it, her hands shaking a little in anticipation of answered questions. But what she read only left her with even more.

  Your Grace,

  I have spoken with Matthew Rapson, as well as his current employer. Rapson was in London at the time of the vandalism. His employer has given him a solid alibi. Not to mention, Rapson is illiterate. I do not believe him capable of the act in its entirety.

  Rapson? She knew the former stable hand. Not well, however, he had always seemed very kind. That her father had suspected him was odd—she had been told that he’d left their employ of his own accord.

  If you have any further leads for me to follow up on, I would be happy to do so. Rapson hinted that he was not the only employee to be upset with you. Do you know anything of this?

  Enclosed is a bill for the time this week.

  She unfolded the bill. Mr. Conolly had, apparently, spent three hours that week in following up leads for her father. Quickly, she folded both up and slipped them back into the pocket.

  Arabella peered out of the room. The hallway was deserted, so she stepped out, making her way back to her own room, a few doors down. Annette looked up from where she was setting out Arabella’s dress for dinner later.

  “My Lady,” she said, curtsying.

  “Can I ask you a question, Annette,” she asked, sinking down into the armchair by the window. It was, like most of the furniture, upholstered in a dark crimson velvet.

  “Of course, My Lady,” Annette replied. As she said it, her eyes widened. Arabella studied Annette closely. She was surprised to find her look so…nervous.

  “Do you know of any servants who have been wronged by my father?” she asked, daring to ask.

  “Do you mean who might have been inclined to write a message on the wall?” Annette asked, knowingly.

  “Yes,” Arabella replied.

  “Can it remain between us, My Lady?” Annette asked. “I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t utter a word,” she stated sincerely. “I merely want to get to the bottom of this. My father’s hiding something. I want to know what it is.”

  Annette looked away from her. Arabella waited while her lady’s maid gathered her thoughts.

  “To tell you the God’s honest truth, My Lady,” Annette said. “That list is far longer than I can account for.”

  Arabella tugged on one of her curls. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said.

  “Of course, My Lady,” she replied. “If you need, I can make a list.”

  “Would you? It may help,” Arabella said. Annette nodded. “I can give it to Mr. Conolly, who seems to be looking into it.”

  “Give me a few days,” she said. “So I can make sure I haven’t missed anyone.” She turned back to her work.

  Arabella lost herself in thought, turning so that she was looking out the window, which overlooked the grounds of Norton. Far off, she could see her father, dressed in his dark riding coat. He was on one of Lord Norton’s hunters.

  She was surprised at Annette’s response. Her father had always treated everyone with respect and courtesy. Annette hinted that there was a side to him that Arabella didn’t know.

  As she watched her father’s figure, riding off into the distance, she wondered who he really was. She knew who she had thought he was—an upstanding gentleman, a father who kept no secrets from his beloved daughter…There was more than met the eye. She had doubts, and it was more than a little unsettling.

  Charles opened up Lady Arabella’s next letter to find that she had been doing some digging of her own. Accompanying her usual full page of musings, there was a list, written in an unfamiliar feminine script. It
was a list of names. Frowning, he read her message.

  Dear Mr. Conolly,

  I’ve recently found out that my father has requested that you look into the act of vandalism during your stay at Tiverwell Manor. He does not know that I know. However, I have asked someone in whom I place the utmost trust in her veracity. She has provided me with this list of servants who might fit the description of “wronged and potentially vengeful servants.” You will find it enclosed. If you could keep the source a secret, it would be profoundly appreciated.

  Do tell me—how is the investigation going? The Duke is keeping his counsel to himself…