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

by Violet Hamers

  The letter went on at length, but Charles set it down before he read the rest. He had known that she would realize that something was up. She’d gotten more done than her own father had. As Charles perused the list of names, he wondered—why had the Duke himself not brought these names to his attention?

  What is the Duke trying to keep hidden?

  His eyes went through the list, finding Rapson’s name near the end. He had a hunch that the list was chronological. He knew without a doubt that it was from Annette, Lady Arabella’s lady’s maid.

  Now, the thing he needed to decide was—to investigate the names on the list, or to keep it to himself entirely. Until there was need to. He opened the drawer of his desk. He pressed the hinge which opened up the secret bottom and slipped it inside.

  There was nothing to suggest that it was anything other than a simple act of vandalism. Except for the letters. It nagged him. He had the foreboding feeling that they wouldn’t know until all of the ton was in London for the Season.

  By then, it might even be too late. He looked down at her letter. Her handwriting was no stand-in for the actual lady. Charles wished that he could conjure her. They would then be able to discuss the whole thing at length.

  He took out a sheet of paper. He then endeavored to tell her as much as he could, without breaking the secrecy that her father had requested. The letter was on its way to her within the hour.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Six Months Later

  There’s a chill in the air, at last. The Murderer knows that the gentlemen on the list are getting ready to return to London. The Murderer is pleased. The boy did everything on the list, leaving messages in all of the gentlemen’s country estates. Both the boy and his sister were gone. Nemesis knew better than to leave loose ends, no matter how much they had begged.

  The Murderer is ready. Passing by the Millgate Club, the Murderer noted that it was starting to have the beginnings of a crowd. During the summer months, when all of the gentlemen were away, there was the select few in town on business and out for a drink.

  The Murderer scanned the gentlemen who were entering the club. The Murderer’s eyes landed on Lord Danbury, feeling the rush of anticipation. It was nearly time to put the plan into action. It was all about slowly tightening the noose. Waiting for the gentlemen to get so caught up in looking for the Murderer that they didn’t realize who it was until it was too late.

  Another carriage pulled up in front of Millgate, and Lord Diggar climbed out. The Murderer was pleased. Now that Diggar was there in London, it could all begin.

  The Murderer placed a hand into a pocket, feeling for the handle of the knife—the one which would taste blood. Its handle was warm, from sitting there in the Murderer’s pocket. Retribution was imminent.

  Charles’s search for the writer of the letters had stalled, several months back. Since there had been no further communication, he figured that the individual responsible had likely gotten what they’d wanted—for the party at Tiverwell Manor to be frightened enough to leave. Perhaps, it had been someone living in the surrounding countryside.

  Charles sat down at his dining room table. Mrs. Osbourne came bustling in a few moments later. She was a jolly woman, with curly gray hair. She was dressed in a simple gray frock, with a white apron over the top.

  “Eggs and toast for you, sir,” she said, setting the tray down in front of him. On it, there was a rack, with two slices of golden-brown toast, a plate with three eggs and several slices of bacon.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne,” he replied, taking in his breakfast with pleasure.

  “I almost forgot,” she said, pulling a handful of letters out of her apron pocket. “Here’s the morning post.”

  “Excellent,” he said, his eyes scanning the letters. He spotted one with the Duke of Tiverwell’s handwriting, his crest pressed into a blob of red sealing wax on the reverse side.

  “I’m going to pick up a nice roast for your supper,” she went on. “You should ask Mr. Hinkley over.”

  “I will,” he replied, smiling. Arthur ate supper over there often. He was living in some rooms over a pub at the moment. As a bachelor, Arthur wasn’t particular on his living situation.

  “Very good, sir.” Mrs. Osbourne beamed at him, bustling off.

  She was his only servant, but she kept his house run like a well-maintained clock. It was neat, orderly. Charles found that he only rarely had to worry about a thing. Mrs. Osbourne was on top of it.

  As he dug in to his breakfast, he realized that with the addition of a wife, particularly one who was used to nice things, like Lady Arabella was, he would need to hire…more staff.

  He glanced around the dining room. It was spare. The whole house was spare. As he considered it, he decided to let Lady Arabella do as she chose. He could start putting aside some money for her use.

  She would, no doubt, want to keep Annette on.

  Mrs. Osbourne would stay, of course. He wasn’t quite sure who else would be necessary. He didn’t have a horse or a carriage—he hired hansom carriages on the few times that he needed them. Arabella had a horse of her own, so he might have to hire a groom. There was an old stable out in the back of his townhouse. At the moment, it was sitting empty.

  He set down his fork, breaking the wax seal on the Duke’s letter and unfolding it. He read it.

  Dear Mr. Conolly,

  My family and I are leaving the North in the next few days. By the end of the week, we will be residing in London for the Season. I plan to be settled in town by Thursday. Can you make sure that there is time set aside for me to come in? I have urgent need of your services. Say ten of the clock? Send me word at your convenience if this is amenable.

  The Duchess sends her regards, as well as an invitation to our daughter, Lady Arabella’s birthday party. It will be held on Friday, at our townhome in Kensington…

  The rest of the letter were particulars of the event. Charles folded the letter. Of course, he was going. Though Lady Arabella had assured him that she hadn’t changed her mind, he wanted to speak with her before he asked her father for his permission.

  After his talk with Arthur, he was nervous. Usually, Charles wasn’t the type to have doubts. He didn’t doubt Lady Arabella, but he did doubt her father. He wanted to see her. The way that her eyes sparkled when she looked at him. He wanted to walk in to speak with her father with all of the confidence of a man who was in love—and loved in return.

  As their carriage made its way through the familiar London streets, Arabella and her mother were making last-minute plans for her birthday party.

  “We’ll need to make sure that there are extra chairs brought upstairs,” the Duchess said. “Have you decided what you’re wearing?”

  “I think I’ll wear my lemon silk,” Arabella replied. It had recently been trimmed in cream-colored lace, to make it look newer. Arabella was rarely denied new things, but a few updates to a well-loved dress seemed a good exercise of economy, something that she would gladly learn on Mr. Conolly’s behalf.

  “Yes,” her mother agreed. “You look well in yellow.” Her mother seemed to be doing an inventory in her head. “Will you need to borrow my diamond and pearl necklace?”

  “It’s too heavy,” Arabella replied. It was like wearing an ox’s yoke.

  “Yes, but it will look exquisite with the yellow silk…” Her mother trailed off, her eyes wide.

  “I’ll wear my single drop pearl,” Arabella told her, looking over at her father. He wasn’t paying either of them any attention. His gaze was out the window, his eyes looking very distant. He looked as though he’d aged about a decade. His forehead was lined, and his hair had taken on a snowier appearance.

  She remembered, then—the message on the wall. You’ll be dead by winter’s end. It had been for him, hadn’t it? And he knew it.

  “Arabella?” her mother said, jolting her from her thoughts. She turned her gaze to her mother. “Will you need my ostrich-feather?”

  She shook her head.
“No, Mamma,” she said. “That’s not for me.”

  “It’s fashionable,” her mother said. She was urgently attempting to get Arabella to make herself into a fashionable lady.

  “With a feather, waving over my head to catch the eye of a young gentleman?” she asked. “I might as well wear a white flag on my head, warning them that I’ve surrendered.”

  “He doesn’t have to be young,” her mother replied.

  “So, any gentleman will do?” Arabella asked with a laugh.

  “We’ve discussed this,” her mother pointed out. They had—as the Season had neared, her mother had been a flurry of preparations. Arabella now had five new dresses, along with a number of different accoutrements that her mother had deemed necessary. Her father had merely paid the bill, no questions asked.

  Neither of them knew the best part—that Arabella was in love. And that Mr. Conolly had promised her that he would arrange things with her father. He would keep his word, too. The day after her birthday, he would ask the Duke for his formal permission to court and marry her. Arabella had no doubt in her mind that her father would say yes.

  Charles himself was filled with happy anticipation. He’d received word from the Duke that he and his family were safely arrived in London. He had gone over his finances, setting aside a good amount for Arabella’s use, so that she could redecorate the house to suit her needs and sensibilities.

  He made plans to hire a groom to care for her horse, as well as to keep Annette on. He was trying to decide whether to hire a butler, or to just keep Mrs. Osbourne on in her usual capacity as cook, maid, and butler. She was so efficient that he was inclined to give her a raise.

  The day of the Duke’s appointment, Charles showed up at the offices early. He filled a cut-glass decanter with some of the good brandy, setting two clean glasses beside it on his desk. He set a roaring fire on in the fireplace, and then he waited. The Duke was on time.

  “Welcome, Your Grace,” he said, bowing.

  “Mr. Conolly,” the Duke replied. “It’s good to see you.” They shook hands, the Duke, patting Charles on the shoulder. The Duke looked strained. The lines on his face were deeper, and there were dark circles, pressed beneath his eyes. His hair had lightened considerably.

  “Come in to my office,” Charles said. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” the Duke said, taking a seat in one of the leather armchairs. Charles poured them both a glass.

  He then sat down across from the Duke. “How was your journey?” As he studied the Duke, he noticed that he seemed aged since he’d last seen him.

  “It was slow,” the Duke replied. “But, thankfully, uneventful.”

  “Good to hear,” Charles said, realizing that this would soon be his father-in-law, if things went according to plan. “What can I assist you with?”

  “I was wondering where you stood on the case with those letters?” the Duke asked.

  “Well, I spoke with Rapson,” he replied. “I feel very confident that it wasn’t him. He did suggest a few leads that I could follow up on, if you’d like.”

  “Yes,” the Duke replied, taking a sip of his brandy. “I’d very much like for you to do so.”

  “Are you…concerned that someone means to harm you or your family, Your Grace?”

  His Grace scowled darkly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because if you are, then the Constabulary might be a good option…They’re well-equipped for criminal investigations.”

  “For the moment, Mr. Conolly, I’d like to see if we can handle this quietly,” the Duke replied. “Your specific talent is to do so.”

  “It is,” Charles agreed. Although he was an estate lawyer. His duties were supposed to remain in terms of property. Regardless, the gentlemen of the ton seemed to forget this.

  “I’d like to keep this in the shadows…where it belongs,” the Duke stated.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Charles said. What else was he supposed to say? The Duke was going to pay his hourly wages. He would likely double it, too, as he had paid for the time that Charles had sat in the carriage, on the way to and from Tiverwell Manor, during the summer.

  The Duke smiled for the first time since his arrival—it was like the sun peering out from behind the clouds. “Then we are on the same page.”

  Charles nodded, then sipped his drink. He was good at handling things on the quiet. It was his particular talent.

  “You’ve done very well at making yourself absolutely indispensable,” the Duke said. “I don’t know what I’m to do without your services.”

  “You won’t have to find out, Your Grace,” Charles replied.

  In more ways than one.

  The Duke raised his glass. “Cheers, Mr. Conolly. To a magnificent partnership.”

  “Agreed, Your Grace.” Charles clinked his glass against the Duke’s. He had a dark, foreboding feeling that his services were beginning to take a much darker turn than they had thus far.

  However, this was to be his father-in-law. He needed him to require him. It would make his marriage to Lady Arabella that much easier to negotiate. After that, their discussion turned away from secretive matters, to ones of news of the gentlemen of the ton.

  After the Duke had left, Charles felt far more confident in presenting the Duke of Tiverwell with his suit. As long as the gentlemen of the ton required him, he would have the money to support her as close to what she was used as a London barrister could.

  Arthur peered out of his door. “That sounded like it went well,” he said. “Did you broach the subject of his daughter’s hand?”

  “Not quite,” Charles replied.

  “Ah,” Arthur said, woefully.

  “You really think that it’s not going to go well?” Charles asked. “I mean, the Duke just said that he doesn’t know what he’d do without me.”

  “What you can do for him,” Arthur pointed out. “Not for his daughter.”

  “You’re being a spoilsport,” he replied. They had been friends for nearly a decade. Why couldn’t Arthur be happy for him?

  “Your funeral, I suppose.” Arthur disappeared back into the depths of his office. Charles sat down at his desk, staring into the fire, which crackled in the grate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Arabella walked down the staircase, dressed in her lemon-yellow silk gown, the silk falling luxuriously around her legs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate chignon. Annette had gone out of her way, to make sure that Arabella looked elegant, for her big night.

  Her gloved hands shook a little. Not because all of the attention would be on her. Not because the gentlemen and ladies of the ton would be gossiping about her habit of wearing breeches.

  Mr. Conolly would be there. She was so looking forward to seeing him, after months of exchanging letters, and wishing for his presence, she was looking forward to basking in the light from his eyes.

  “Arabella,” her father said. He and the Duchess were standing by the door, ready to greet their guests. He smiled at her—what felt like the first genuine smile in an age. “You look like a dream,” he said.

  “Thank you, Pappa,” she replied.

  “Your mother and I are…so proud of you,” he said.

  “That we are,” the Duchess agreed.

  “I love you, both of you,” she replied. “Thank you for throwing me this party.”

  “Perhaps, tonight, you will dance with your husband to be,” her mother said excitedly.

  “Perhaps I will,” she agreed.

  The three of them were soon busy with their large influx of guests. Arabella made sure to smile at all, even the ones who looked at her sternly.

  Finally, she saw him. His eyes were on her, the moment he stepped through the door.

  “Mr. Conolly,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it in his, pressing it. She beamed at him.

  “Lady Arabella,” he replied. “Happy Birthday.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Mr. Conolly! Welc
ome!” her father said.

  Mr. Conolly glanced at her once more. Something passed between them, that secret look that passes between two lovers, which says everything that they cannot say in front of others.

  Arabella was ecstatic that he was there. She was impatient to speak with him. Unfortunately, there was still a long line of guests, trickling in through the door.

  Charles made his way through the crowd inside of the Duke of Tiverwell’s townhome. It was a large space, with gleaming marble floors, and an elegant white silk wallpaper on the walls. Charles drifted past a large painting, depicting the Duke, riding on a large white horse. It was in a gilt frame. Beside it, in a smaller, less ostentatious frame, there was one of Lady Arabella, along with the Duchess.