by Regina Darcy
“They do not play chess at debutante balls,” Miss Wright reminded.
James wondered what the devil Miss Wright meant by that. Most debutantes were as frivolous as soap bubbles. He could not envision himself playing chess with any of them.
“I should hope that her father will take more care, this time, if he introduces her to a prospective husband, to ensure that he does not waste his daughter’s intellect upon a fop or a fool.”
“It does arouse concern, does it not?” Miss Wright asked in her quiet voice. “Fathers are not, perhaps, the best at choosing a mate for their daughters. Her father may not realise that her years spent nursing her mother, while they may have made her ill-equipped for conversations at Almack’s, have perhaps matured her to a level where she is by nature designed to be a better wife because she will be an equal.”
James began to protest this, then cut himself short.
“A man is better at having such a wife,” he said. “Foolish wenches are readily available anywhere for a man who gives consideration to nothing but his trousers─”
It was Updike’s gasp which brought James up short.
“My pardon, Miss Wright,” James apologised. “I forgot myself and my words were unsuitable for a woman’s hearing.”
Miss Wright assured him, in her courteous way, not to be troubled. But he thought he saw a glimmer of mirth in her eyes as if she found his apology reason for amusement.
The episode remained in his thoughts well after Miss Wright and Updike had left his company. James realised that his bachelor haven had been turned upside down since the day he brought Lady Georgette to his home.
The discreetly amorous pursuits of a gentleman of means did not lure him as they had once done. He had never been one to waste his income on gambling except for an occasional wager here and there. Cards did not entice him to loosen his purse-strings. He drank discriminately and had eschewed drunkenness after becoming an officer in His Majesty’s Army.
“You are quite the dullard,” he told himself. “You would rather be playing chess with a woman than engaging in any of the pursuits which are acceptable to a gentleman.”
Not just playing chess with any woman, he thought. Playing chess with Lady Georgette.
How was she managing in her solitude, he wondered. The footmen who served her meals and brought in the hot water for her baths had been told not to be distracted by conversation, lest she escapes again. But that meant that they had nothing to tell James about his captive. She was in his house, under his control ostensibly, but she was as elusive as a pixie.
EIGHT
After a week when nothing at all seemed to happen, May erupted with activity in the search for evidence as thoroughly as the summer burst into bloom all over England.
James was out riding when he spotted a man coming toward him. It was the former Private Edwards, looking quite pleased with himself.
“’Er name’s Valerie Duncan, sir,” he said when he saw James. “I was just coming to see you. You’ve saved me a walk.”
James dismounted. “Whose name is Valerie Duncan?”
“The Viscount of Lathan’s bit of muslin. It wasn’t, after all, so hard to find out ‘oo she was. ‘e sees her quite often. On the sly, mind you. Her parents are respectable, so they meet quiet-like. Her parents think she’s doing good works when she’s actually across the city, warming the Viscount’s bed. But she doesn’t use the front entrance, you see. So ‘e’s keeping ‘er a secret. She don’t ‘alf like it, neither.”
“And how do you come by that nugget of information?”
Private Edwards grinned.
“I’ve me ways. And a bit of charm with the maids. They know she’s there. They don’t like ‘er a bit, not liking the thought of her being their mistress, neither, even though she’s ‘is mistress, you know,” he cackled.
His eyes widened at the money which James produced.
“I say, that’s generous, sir.”
“You’ve earned it. I may have more work for you in the future.” It was quite likely, James guessed, that they would need to know more about Miss Duncan in order to make the charges against her and the viscount credible.
“You know where to find me, sir.”
“See that I don’t find you in a gaol,” James ordered sternly, well aware that the man’s talents brought him closer to the gallows than was good for him. James had steered Edwards out of trouble more than once when they were in the army but he could not look out for him in that manner now.
“Never me, sir. I’m aiming to start me own business. A pub,” Edwards said dreamily. “That’s the life, ain’t it?”
It occurred to James that pubs were very good places for finding people and information. While he did not expect to make a career out of tracking down viscounts of bad reputation, who was to say that, in the future, he might not need to know something about someone else?
“In London?”
“Where else, sir?” Edwards asked derisively, dismissing the thought that a man would even think of opening a pub anywhere else.
“Where else, indeed. I might be interested in backing this venture of yours, Edwards.”
“You, sir? What use would you have for a pub? Ain’t like you’ve got a wife you need to escape from.”
James grinned. “I might have, someday, one never knows.”
Edwards grinned back. “You know where to find me, sir.”
***
Miss Wright was glad that, now that the identity of the mistress had been revealed, the next phase of the investigation could proceed. Once the letters were stolen, assuming that Miss Wright was correct in her assumption that there were letters, there would be irrefutable evidence to prove that the Viscount and his mistress did not have Lady Georgette’s best interests in mind.
She was not surprised, despite the Duke’s impatience, that they had not yet learned anything of substance regarding the Viscount’s debts or illicit habits. In order to obtain that information, the man assigned to that mission would have to gain the trust of the underworld’s leaders and prove that he was not a threat to their business or their means of extracting profits. But once it began to come forth, she suspected that it would be a flood.
Georgette, oblivious to the web of activity in which the Duke, Miss Wright, and others had engaged themselves on her behalf, was finding her life very dull indeed. She could not read all day long.
She could not write letters as they would not be posted.
She had no wish to keep a journal of her captivity; she was confident that when she was freed at last, she would remember every detail so that she would be able to guarantee that her captor was brought before the magistrate for his crime.
She did not know where she was, and she did not know his identity, but thoughts of revenge through the law occupied much of her time as she sat on the balcony, watching the garden below as it bloomed.
Revenge mixed with…something. An emotion that she was not yet comfortable to admit to herself.
“If I were ill,” she said to the footman when he brought her tea, “would you tell your master or would you just let me die.”
The footman looked alarmed. “I’ll ask, milady,” he said.
James, when alerted to the question that his captive had posed to the footman, scoffed. “She’s not ill,” he said to Mrs Thomas, who delivered the message. “She’s just looking for another chance to escape.”
“I wanted to be sure you knew, sir, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case she were to take ill.”
Mrs Thomas’ words alarmed him. Lady Georgette seemed to be healthy enough, but people did fall ill.
He sent word to his agents that they needed to move quickly.
Whether it was his demand or the evolution of the investigation, he did not know, but by the end of the week, he had the letters. Before the next week was half over, he had a list of the debts that the Viscount had incurred and the names of the people to whom the money was ow
ed.
Even the unflappable Miss Wright was astonished at the latter. “That’s quite a sum of money,” she said.
“It makes his debt to me seem almost paltry,” James agreed. “How the devil could a man let himself get so far into debt?”
Miss Wright was examining the list. “Jewellery for his mistress,” she read. “The engagement ball itself—musicians, food, wine—was not inexpensive. A carriage. Horses. That’s without taking into account the actual amounts that he owes to the moneylenders for the gambling losses. I shall prepare this into a single document, Your Grace, so that you may have it to show to Lady Georgette.”
“And the letters, of course.”
“Yes. The letters.”
Miss Wright had read them. They were conclusive proof that the Viscount and Miss Duncan were lovers. The references to their future after the ‘inconvenience’ had been disposed of were plentiful. Miss Duncan had grand plans for the use of the money which Lady Georgette would bring to the marriage. The letters after the disappearance of the bride were more acrimonious, less loving, as the two conspirators raged against the changes of fate which had robbed them of riches.
“We had best move quickly,” Miss Wright went on. “Before Miss Duncan detects the absence of her letters and comes to suspect something.”
James agreed. “First, Lady Georgette must see the evidence,” he said.
***
The next morning, Georgette was puzzled that her breakfast tray, in addition to food and hot chocolate, included a neat pile of papers.
Mystified, she looked at the one which was loose. It was entitled ‘A list of the debts owed by the Viscount of Lathan, Hudson Gibbs.’
Georgette read the first few items and then tossed the list aside.
Absurd.
No one could owe that much money. It was merely another attempt by the madman who had kidnapped her to make her think ill of the man to whom she was engaged. Frowning, she opened the first letter in the pile.
It was addressed to ‘Darling Valerie” and signed, ‘Passionately yours, Hudson’.
Her cheeks grew hot as she read the letter. The letter referred to incidents of such amorous detail that Georgette felt as if she were invading someone’s private thoughts. She read a second and then a third and then put the letters away, her appetite minimal as it had been was now entirely gone. She could neither eat nor read any more.
Valerie Duncan was not the Viscount’s lover. She would never have committed such an act of betrayal. She was a good person, virtuous and upstanding. She was not the sort of young woman who would become the plaything of an aristocrat. Nor, she thought quickly, was the Viscount the sort of man who would dally with one woman while becoming engaged to her close acquaintance and confidante. It simply would not happen. The letters were counterfeit and she would tell her captor so herself.
When the footman came to take her tray, Georgette was waiting behind the door as he opened it. The footman entered, reached for the tray and then, realising that the occupant of the room was not in sight, called out, “Lady Georgette? Are you . . .”
“I am right here,” Georgette said and stepped in the doorway blocking the footman from closing it.
“My lady . . . I beg you, let me leave the room with your tray. I must take it to the kitchen,” the poor chap stuttered.
“Bring your master to me. Bring him, or I shall fetch him myself and I shall run from the room to do so.”
She knew that the footman was too well behaved to prevent her from doing exactly what she threatened and therefore, she could make her threat with impunity. The young man begged her to move from the door; she refused and began to yell.
Fearful that she would be overheard and blame foisted upon himself for doing something forbidden, the footman put down the tray grabbed Georgette and set her down inside the room and then quickly, grabbed the doorknob pulling the door closed behind him as he left. Georgette continued to yell as she heard his footsteps fade down the corridor.
She was still yelling at the top of her lungs when the key turned in the lock and James, her captor, stood there.
“You are clearly not ill, although my footman is convinced that you have gone mad,” he told her. “I take it, from his account of your actions, that you have read the letters and the documents.”
“I have read them and I am amazed at the lengths to which you would go to malign a man who has done you no harm. You have even sought to impugn the character of my dearest and most loyal friend. You, sir, have no morals or ethics whatsoever.” She was so infused with outrage that she gesticulated with her hands as she spoke.
James, watchful of the intent of her hand, stepped back. “You believe that those letters are forged?” he said. “Despite the obvious, incontrovertible evidence that your friend and your fiancé were conspiring behind your back to fool you so that, once you were married to the Viscount, your money would be his and they could dispose of you and enjoy their ill-gotten wealth, you defend them?”
“I have no reason to believe the words of a kidnapper over the falsified documents produced anonymously.”
“What of the debts? Do you not find it troubling that the Viscount owes so much money to others?”
“I have only sums on a piece of paper to judge by,” she said. “I am confident that the Viscount is able to afford his living expenses.”
“And how, pray, do you muster such confidence? Are you in the confidence of his banker? Do you know the terms of his income?”
“Valerie informed me as much,” she said in defiance. “When I told her that my father was going to marry me to the Viscount, she offered to find out what she could about him. She did so and told me that he is a man of unimpeachable honour.”
“Of course she said so! Are you a fool that you would believe their lies rather than trust to facts which demonstrate that they intended to dupe you and then to kill you so that─”
“You are vile!” Georgette accused him. “With no cause, no reason whatsoever, you force me here against my will and then you embark upon a campaign of the lowest, basest character assassination that could be imagined, against two people who have shown me nothing but affection and have earned my trust. While you have earned my disdain, sir! You are a villain! You are a heathen, godless—”
“You do not believe what you have read?” he interrupted her, stunned that his efforts to provide proof had failed.
“Do you think me so fragile that I would trust you and these pieces of paper over two people I know in my heart to have my wellbeing in mind? I have never, in all my life, been witness to such dreadful arrogance and duplicity!”
“Yes!” James bellowed. “Arrogance and duplicity—on the part of Lathan and Miss Duncan!”
“You mistake my meaning, sir!” she said. “You are the arrogant, duplicitous one at fault here.”
“Is the handwriting not familiar?” he demanded.
“I congratulate you, sir, on procuring an excellent forger. The facsimile is flawless, I grant you. Did I not know their character so thoroughly, I would have been fooled.”
“You are a fool if you believe them to be innocent!”
“How dare you call me a fool?!” Georgette exclaimed, stamping her foot in frustration.
“I call you a fool for not facing the truth. You are alive because I have brought you here. You may rail against me as much as you want but the truth is that, if not for me, you would likely be lying in the ground by now and Lathan, your dowry in hand, with Miss Duncan at his side and in his bed, would be─”
She raised her hand.
James grabbed it.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said. “You’ll not have a second chance to strike.”
She struggled in his grasp.
James bent lower to contain her in her rage. He did not know quite how it happened, but when she raised her head in protest, his lips met hers.
The unintended kiss which brought their lips together was a shattering declaration of emotion which neither h
ad predicted.
James enfolded her in his arms and her lips, warm and not at all unwilling, met his ardour with her own. Nonetheless, they met as adversaries; she did not surrender and he did not give way. Their kiss was as much a duel as it was a physical response to an emotion which neither could have predicted and would not acknowledge. Had lips been daggers or swords, there would have been blood. But their searching, exploring lips were worthy opponents. The battle was not over, no indeed it had just begun.
NINE
Shaken by her response to the man she was sure she hated, Georgette broke away from his arms.
James stood silent. He had not adhered to the code of a gentleman, that simple tenant that a man does not force his attentions upon a woman.
He owed her an apology. He clenched his fists.
He owed her a proposal of marriage. He let out a long audible breath. Irritated he shook his head to chase away the stray thoughts. What he owed Georgette was the truth.
“What you have read,” he said in a voice which was almost without intonation, so stirred was he by the kiss that they had shared, “is the complete truth of what I have taken pains to learn regarding the conduct of Viscount Lathan and his mistress.”
Georgette had turned away. He was too close, his proximity too volcanic for her to retain her composure. Still overcome by what had just happened, she walked out of the room and went to the balcony.
James followed.
They stood there on the balcony, before them the magnificent grounds unfolded in the lush, passionate beauty of the season.
“Just as the Viscount and Miss Duncan are not who you think they are,” he said in that same, still voice, “I am not what you believe me to be.”
She did not look at him. She did not dare. Those green eyes were an inferno and she would burn if she met his gaze.
“My name is James Carlington. I am the Duke of Summersby. Lathan owes my family money, a significant sum. You have seen the amount, it is included in the list of his debts. He prevailed upon my mother to lend it to him while I was away. My family is by no means impoverished, but his impudence in obtaining a loan from my mother was an affront; he hadn’t the courage to approach me for it. I was determined to get it back. He ignored my letter. That was when I decided that you would serve as an asset until he repaid me. He has not done so.”
