He nodded. “And you’ve kept a close eye on her?”
“Yes, My Lord, just as you asked. I’ve seen she’s had no more laudanum.”
Ernest nodded his thanks. He waited until the maid had disappeared, then opened the bedroom door quietly and slipped inside.
His mother was breathing rhythmically. He could tell her sleep was deep and untroubled, unlike it had been after he’d heard her singing the lullaby.
He stopped as the floor creaked noisily beneath him.
I feel an intruder.
He was doing what was best for his mother, he reminded himself. He needed to get rid of those embroidered squares.
He glanced around the room, squinting in the darkness. He could make out the pile of fabric sitting folded on the nightstand. He grabbed it hurriedly. Then he knelt to peer beneath the bed. There was the chest. He pulled it out silently and carried it from the room.
Ernest took the chest to his own rooms and sat at his desk with the box in front of him. He opened the lid. The clothes had been placed back inside haphazardly, no doubt by the Duchess’ lady’s maid. Ernest scooped them out. The least he could do for his mother and sister was see the clothes folded neatly.
As he placed the clothing back in the box, he stopped. He could feel the bottom of the chest shifting beneath his fingers. He took out Unity’s gowns and ran his forefinger along the bottom of the chest.
Definitely loose.
He ran his finger around the edge until he felt a tiny groove in the wood. He grabbed a nib pen from his desk, dug the tip into the indentation and pried up the false bottom of the trunk.
Ernest let out his breath.
Beneath it sat a pile of yellowing envelopes. He lifted them out curiously.
There were five letters in total, four of them addressed to his mother. The fifth envelope bore no seal or postmark, the name of the addressee written in the Duchess’ hand.
George Bishop, Viscount of Annerley.
Ernest felt something tighten in his chest. The Viscount of Annerley? Ernest had met the man on several occasions throughout his life. Had he and his mother been exchanging letters?
He paused, the envelopes in his hand.
I ought to put these back where I found them. I ought not pry into my mother’s business.
He ought not pry, yes, but Ernest knew there was not a chance in hell of him putting the letters back where he had found them. There were things he needed to know about his sister. Things he needed to know about his mother. And perhaps there might be something in the letters to point him in the right direction.
He opened the first of the envelopes and unfolded the letter carefully. The paper was soft and old, the ink faded to a pale blue. The date at the top of the page told him the letter had been written more than thirty years earlier.
‘My dear Sarah,
These days without you have felt interminable. I am counting down the hours until we see each other again.’
Ernest let out his breath.
This is a love letter.
The Viscount of Annerley had been in love with his mother.
Had my mother loved the Viscount of Annerley?
He opened the rest of the letters the Viscount had written to his mother. Each, an outpouring of love and devotion. Each telling Sarah how much he longed to see her.
Then, Ernest pulled out the letter his mother had written. The hand was flowery and elaborate; very different to the neat, careful writing he was used to seeing from the Duchess.
‘My dearest…
I miss you more deeply than I can express…’
Ernest could barely imagine his mother writing such things. These were passionate words that seemed out of place with his mother’s cold and stony demeanor.
What had changed her? He knew the answer, of course, the moment the thought crossed his mind.
Unity. Unity had changed her.
Unity and whatever sorry fate had befallen her. The sick feeling that had lodged in Ernest’s stomach began to intensify.
He kept reading.
‘I have done a terrible thing. A thing of which I can barely manage to write…’
The letter stopped abruptly, punctuated by a large blotch of black ink. And so it seemed the Duchess had not managed to write about whatever cursed thing had plagued her conscience.
Ernest heard himself breathing heavily. He looked at the date of his mother’s letter. It was written almost two years after the love letters from the Viscount. Written, in fact, after his mother had married his father.
Written after Unity had been born.
He stood and began to pace across the room, his boots clicking rhythmically on the polished floorboards.
This letter to the Viscount had never been sent. The Duchess had never managed to finish the letter confessing this darkest of deeds. Perhaps the Viscount had never learned of whatever sins the Duchess had been able to confess.
But perhaps he had.
Either way, Ernest needed to find out more about this man. Needed to find out more about his relationship with his mother.
Ernest knew the Viscount of Annerley had been abroad for some time, building an import and export business on the continent. But he had many acquaintances among the men of London’s nobility, Ernest’s father among them.
Does my father know about these letters? Does he know the Viscount had loved my mother?
And then, the more pressing thought:
Does he know my mother loved the Viscount?
But of course, Ernest knew he could not ask the Duke about such things. The secrecy of the issue aside, his father was still wild with rage at his snubbing of Lady Katherine.
Ernest began to pace faster. His thoughts were beginning to knock together. He needed to discuss this with someone. Needed to order his thoughts.
He reached into his wardrobe and grabbed that filthy greatcoat of Phillips’ that he’d been strangely reluctant to return.
I need to see Rachel.
Chapter 19
Ernest hurried through the crooked streets of Bethnal Green, Phillips’ greatcoat buttoned to his neck. He pushed his way inside the White Lion.
Would he find her in the bar? Or had she taken another man upstairs to that little room? The thought of it made his shoulders tense.
But the moment he slipped through the door, he caught sight of her in the corner of the tavern. She stood with her back to the wall, her eyes darting edgily around the room. As her gaze fell to him, a sudden smile lit her face, and she hurried toward him.
“Mr. Jackson. I didn’t imagine I’d see you again.” Her eyes darted to the door again.
He frowned. “Are you all right? You look concerned.”
She shook her head. “No. Everything is all right.” She flashed him a smile. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I hoped I might speak with you,” said Ernest, “about my sister.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Your sister? I thought you believed you were wrong about her being alive. I thought you said there was no mystery.”
“Perhaps I was wrong. I’ve…recently learned some things. And I hoped I might discuss them with you.” He paused. “It’s like you said. The simplest explanation is usually the right one—but it’s not always the case.”
Rachel hummed to herself. No doubt she was wondering why on earth he couldn’t speak to someone else about such things. Ernest was glad she didn’t ask. He was not entirely sure of the answer.
He only knew he felt things around Rachel Bell that no one else made him feel.
Her gaze shifted again. “Perhaps we might speak upstairs,” she said. There’s…” She shook her head, as though trying to toss bad thoughts away.
Ernest took her arm impulsively. “Miss Bell? Is something wrong?”
“I had the feeling I was being followed,” she admitted. “Last night and again today. But I’m sure it was just my imagination. Every time I look, there’s never anyone there.” She gave him a smile that looked a lit
tle forced. “Still, if you don’t mind, I’d rather speak in private.”
“Of course.” Feeling suddenly protective, Ernest followed her up the staircase to the room with the iron bed. She locked the door behind them and gestured for him to sit at the table.
He sat, sliding off his greatcoat and letting it fall in a heap on the floor.
At the sight of the bed, his thoughts darted back to the rose water and brandy scent of her. He thought of her hot breath on his skin, thought of the desperate longing he’d had to kiss her, to touch her.
Focus, dammit. Don’t lose sight of why you’re here.
Rachel sat opposite him and met his eyes.
Ernest felt suddenly hesitant. If word got out about his mother’s love letters, it would be the greatest of scandals.
I ought to keep this to myself.
He was unable to silence that voice in his head, reminding him that the nobility kept their dark secrets tucked away. Tucked away where no one could find them.
Tucked away in wardrobes and chests with false bottoms.
He had grown up in a world obsessed with appearance and social standing. A world where scandal was to be avoided at all costs. And, he was beginning to believe, he had also grown up in a world where lies became truths and truths were buried away.
The strain of it all was stifling. Oppressive. He couldn’t keep the things he had discovered inside.
He had traipsed his way across London to seek Rachel out. Felt a burning need within him to tell someone all he had discovered. And he wanted that someone to be her.
I can trust her, he thought, looking into her expectant blue eyes. I’m sure of it.
“I found some letters,” he blurted before he could change his mind. “In my mother’s things. Love letters. Between her and the Viscount of Annerley.” When Rachel didn’t respond, he added: “The Viscount of Annerley is not my father.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“I had no idea my mother had ever met the man. But it seems they carried on quite the dalliance in the years before she married.” He folded his hands in front of him and spoke slowly, trying to make sense of the things he had uncovered. “And then there was a letter written by my mother to the Viscount after my sister was born. She was married to my father by then, of course. But she was trying to tell the Viscount about something she had done. Something dreadful.”
Rachel’s sharp blue eyes were fixed on him. She nodded for him to continue.
“I don’t know what it was. The letter finished abruptly. As though she couldn’t bear to write the words.” Ernest drew in his breath. “I fear…I fear my mother did something to harm my sister.”
There. I’ve said it.
He felt a terrible person.
For a long time, Rachel didn’t speak. What was she thinking? Was she wondering how a man might make such dreadful accusations against his own mother?
But she said: “The Viscount. Do you know how to find him?”
“He’s been abroad for many years,” Ernest told her. “I thought to perhaps ask one of his acquaintances about him. Find out whatever I could about him and my mother.” He rubbed his chin. “I know he was good friends with the Baron of Clement.” He sighed heavily. “But I know if I were to ask the Baron about such things, he would go straight to my father and tell him everything.”
“You don’t want your father finding out for your mother’s sake?” asked Rachel.
Ernest gave her a crooked smile. “And my own.” He gave a short chuckle. “My father can be quite the tyrant when he wishes to be. If he had any thought that I was prying like this, he would put an end to it at once.” He looked Rachel in the eye. “I need to find out what happened to my sister, Miss Bell. There are things that have been kept hidden from me, I’m sure of it. And I need to know what they are.”
Rachel nodded her understanding. She tapped a long finger against the edge of the table. “I could speak to the Baron,” she said finally. She gave Ernest a playful, coquettish smile. “I can be most persuasive when I wish to be.”
Ernest shook his head. “Miss Bell,” he said, “that’s most kind of you to offer. But I don’t want you to get involved. Especially not if it means you have to…”
“Bed the man?” Rachel finished.
“Yes,” Ernest coughed. “Indeed.” He felt his cheeks flush.
“I’m no stranger to bedding a man, Mr. Jackson,” Rachel said matter-of-factly. “And I’m more than willing to do so if it will help you learn what you need to know.”
Ernest shook his head. “No. I couldn’t ask such a thing of you. I—”
She leaned close to him, and he caught that faint waft of rose water. He swallowed heavily.
“I will do it happily,” said Rachel. “I want to make things up to you for bringing you that dreadful George Owen.” She hesitated, fixing Ernest with a sly smile that made something move in his chest. “But in exchange, you will answer me one question.”
His heart began to knock against his ribs. He nodded.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked. “Why did you wish to speak to me about all this? Was it because you were hoping I might visit the Baron on your behalf?”
“No!” Ernest said hurriedly. “No, of course not. I would never—” He stopped, drawing in his breath. He looked across the table and met her eyes. “Honestly,” he began, “I don’t know why I came. I just needed to speak to someone about this. And I wanted that someone to be you.”
Rachel’s lips parted. She held the silence for a moment, then mumbled, “I see.”
“If I’ve burdened you,” said Ernest, “you must tell me. And I will leave.” He shifted in his chair.
Rachel’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Ernest felt a sudden pulse of energy shoot up his arm at the unexpected contact.
“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to leave.” Her hand slid down his wrist until her fingers lay on top of his. “I would hate for you to have to go back out and face your dreadful world of balls and jelly.” There was light in her voice. A teasing smile turned her lips.
Ernest shifted his fingers, so they were intertwined with hers. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest. He felt afraid to move, afraid to speak, in case any word from him might bring the rest of the world crashing back in.
And then there were footsteps thundering up the staircase. A drunken man’s laughter echoed through the passage, followed by the sharp click of an escort’s footsteps behind him.
Rachel pulled her hand from Ernest’s, as though suddenly aware of it.
“So,” she said, her voice caught in her throat, “tell me how to find this Baron.”
Chapter 20
Tracking the whereabouts of the Baron of Clement was proving more difficult than Ernest had anticipated.
He had tried the coffee houses and whist halls. No Baron.
Worked his way across the gentlemen’s clubs of London. No Baron.
Ernest was growing edgy. Ask around too much, and word would get back to his father.
There was only one thing for it. He would have to attend the Marquess of Embry’s garden party.
“A garden party?” said Rachel. They were upstairs in her room at the White Lion. Downstairs, someone had produced a fiddle and was scratching out broken tunes to howls of laughter.
Ernest nodded. “It’s possible the Baron will be there. And, if not, there will at least be people who know the man. People, I’m sure can point me in his direction.” He glanced downwards into his folded hands. “There’s just one problem.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “You can’t be seen asking.”
Ernest nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Rachel tapped a finger against her chin. “It sounds as though you need someone to infiltrate this garden party and seek information.” She gave him a playful wink.
Ernest grinned. “That I do.”
She slid her stool toward him, her knee pressing against his. “I’ll do it. There are few things I find more a
musing than watching people of your class swan around each other. It’s like watching wild animals disguised in silks and laces.”
Ernest laughed.
Wild animals indeed.
He eyed her curiously. “How do you plan to get in? You can’t just stroll on through the gates. A woman cannot simply attend a garden party without a chaperone and I…well…” He looked at her apologetically. “If you and I were to be seen together, it would cause all manner of a stir. Word would get back to my father far more quickly than if I were asking after the Baron myself.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 10
