by Olivia Drake
Horrified, Alicia understood so much now. “That’s why you despise my husband. You believe he’s like the duke.”
“All men are the same,” Sarah said derisively. “I’ve yet to meet one who can resist temptation. And we women are blind to their faults … until it is too late.”
Alicia wasn’t blind to Drake’s faults. She knew he’d had many paramours before their marriage, and she didn’t harbor any illusions about his fidelity. Yet Sarah’s pessimism disturbed her in some elemental way. “So let the men do as they will. You shall do as you will, too. You can’t allow one rotted apple to spoil the rest of your life.”
“I haven’t done that.…” But she looked dubious, thoughtful.
“Listen to me,” Alicia said, wanting fervently to help. “You mustn’t let Timothy defeat you even from the grave. You must forget about him and go out into society again.”
Sarah’s expression slowly lightened. “How right you are. You always did have such good sense.”
Trying for humor, Alicia said, “A number of my former suitors would disagree with that.”
“We did have a lot of admirers, didn’t we? Remember how we would divide the gentlemen?” A smile spread over the duchess’s face, transforming her beauty with a wistful humor. “You would have first choice of the fair-haired ones—”
“And you would have the dark-headed men.”
“The ginger-tops and graybeards and bald pates—”
“We’d leave for the other ladies.”
“How generous of us not to charm them all.” Sarah gave a laugh reminiscent of the girl she’d once been. “Oh, I do wish I could go back to those days. I miss the parties, the amusements, the light-hearted fun.”
“You can go back,” Alicia said, the tug of nostalgia as strong as her vow to a dark-haired knave. She was married now. But oh, how carefree they’d been, before Papa’s death and Mama’s illness. If only she could forget the need to use Sarah for her own purpose.
No, for Drake’s purpose.
“Once your mourning period is over,” Alicia added, “you can dance and flirt to your heart’s content.”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps it’s past time I shed my widow’s weeds.” A calculating excitement in her violet eyes, Sarah squeezed Alicia’s hands. “And if I am to set society on its ear, then you shall be at my side.”
* * *
Returning to Swansdowne Crescent, Alicia went in search of Drake on the chance that she might find him still at home. Though their paths seldom crossed—she made sure of that—she had learned his schedule from hearing his footsteps in the corridor or the rumble of his voice in the foyer. For a short while in the afternoon, he often worked at his desk in the library. Then he would leave for his club, spending the evenings there and not returning until near dawn. She would awaken at first light to hear him moving about the suite of rooms adjacent to hers. He seemed to require very little sleep.
She handed her wraps to the butler, who waited at the front door. “Thank you, Chalkers. You’re a dear.”
The stoop-shouldered old man blinked his rheumy eyes at her. “Mishish Wilder? Good evenin’ … er, good day, that ish.”
The odor of spirits drifted from him. He was drunk again, Alicia realized. Though annoyed that Drake hadn’t dealt with the problem, she wondered briefly what would happen to the elderly servant if he were let go. For that reason alone, she wouldn’t pursue the issue with her husband. Drake would undoubtedly throw him out on the streets.
Deciding that she couldn’t bear for that to happen, she hastened through the foyer to the library, where one of the double doors stood ajar. She tapped on the oak panel and without waiting, stepped inside and paused.
The rich perfume of leather and paper greeted her. She breathed deeply, savoring the quiet joy of being surrounded by books. The walls held floor-to-ceiling shelves, stained a deep brown and filled with row upon row of bound volumes. There was an amazing variety of literature and scientific studies, plays and mathematical texts. She already had made a habit in the evenings, after Mama was abed and the house was silent, of curling in one of the comfortable chairs here, warmed by the fire and reading to her heart’s content. It was the single most glorious advantage to being Mrs. Drake Wilder.
And the most baffling. Did he own these books for the sake of appearances, because he believed all gentlemen possessed a fine library? Or because he truly had a keen interest in many divergent topics? He professed to know Latin. That meant he must have pursued academic studies at some point in his life.…
She ventured farther into the long chamber. “Drake?”
Beyond the door stood his desk, broad and shining with polish. The empty chair was pushed back as if he’d only just left. A tidy pile of papers lay on the blotter. Beside an inkpot, a silver cup held a collection of quills.
Disappointment needled her. She had so wanted to tell him of her success. That she had procured the sponsorship of the esteemed Duchess of Featherstone.
“What a pity you missed the master,” someone said behind her.
Startled, she pivoted to see Mrs. Yates standing in the back corner, half hidden by the spreading green fronds of a fern. A white servant’s cap was perched jauntily on her red curls. She held a closed book in one hand and a feather duster in the other.
The smirk on those cosmetic-enhanced features raised a prickle over Alicia’s skin. “What are you doing in here?”
The housekeeper gave the volume two swipes, then returned it to the shelf. “Tending to my duties, of course.”
“Housemaids should do the dusting. You must have more important tasks to see to.”
“By the master’s order, I am the only servant allowed in here, and I must do my cleaning in his absence.” With the wrong end of the feather duster, Yates flicked a speck off her low-cut bosom as if to draw attention to its generous proportions. “He trusts me, you see.”
Her implication of intimacy left Alicia cold with shock. Was Drake carrying on an affair with this hussy? Was that why Yates felt free to show such insolence? Alicia wanted to believe that even a scoundrel like him would show more discretion. Yet she could not be certain.…
“Finish your work, then. Henceforth, you will also have to answer to me.”
Ignoring the housekeeper’s scowl, Alicia turned to go. How she did miss Mrs. Molesworth, who had remained at Pemberton House. They had been like a close-knit family, she and the cook and Mama and Gerald. Mrs. Molesworth had shown them respect, and so would this impertinent housekeeper, if Alicia had her way. But she hadn’t walked three steps when she heard Yates mutter something under her breath.
“Too high and mighty to share the master’s bed.”
Alicia spun back around. Although she’d heard the brazen words clearly enough, she snapped, “What did you say?”
Yates widened her long-lashed brown eyes, then lowered them. “Nothing, m’lady.”
“Really?” Alicia said in her haughtiest tone. “Do bear in mind, it would be no trouble to run an advertisement for a new housekeeper.”
To her surprise, the boldness vanished and the housekeeper appeared genuinely alarmed. She dipped a curtsy, the feather duster hiding her bosom like a penitential scourge. “Please don’t tell the master. He’s been so good to me.”
It was on the tip of Alicia’s tongue to ask precisely how he’d been good. But she wouldn’t reveal her secret uncertainties to this upstart. “Because I am feeling charitable, I will give you a second chance—this time.”
Yates fixed her gaze on the red and blue pattern of the Turkish carpet. “Bless you, m’lady.”
Walking to the door, Alicia looked back to see her diligently dusting the shelves again. She couldn’t dismiss a lingering suspicion about the housekeeper, that her sudden meekness was merely an act.
Too high and mighty to share the master’s bed.
Alicia’s cheeks burned. How did Yates know that she and Drake had a chaste marriage? Had he gone tale-telling to his doxy? The thought seared her with
renewed fury.
Her first impulse was to go storming to his club. But she forced herself to stop outside the library and take several deep breaths. There would be gentlemen congregated there, gambling and drinking. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in public. She would behave like the lady she was, not lower herself to his level.
The papered wall felt cool to her fevered cheek, as chilly as her resolve. She would bide her time. And when Drake returned home, she would confront him.
Chapter Ten
Drake stood for a moment in the darkness, staring up at his father’s house. The grand facade built of Portland stone featured Palladian columns and tall, corniced windows. The ground floor was dark, but lamplight glowed in a chamber above. He wondered what his life would have been like if he’d grown up here. If he had been raised as the son of a powerful lord.…
To hell with it. He’d done better for himself without a father at all.
Reaching into his pocket, Drake fingered the slender gold band encrusted with sapphires and diamonds. The reminder of Hailstock’s audacity filled him with rage.
Though the hour was late, he knew the marquess had just returned home from a dinner engagement. Drake had instructed his coachman to wait around the corner. He didn’t intend for anyone to see him here. The time was not yet right for him to reveal his paternity.
He strode up the broad steps and rapped on the front door. A footman clad in black and silver livery admitted him. As Drake stepped into the entrance hall with its marble archways and soaring staircase, an eerie sense of familiarity came over him. He remembered standing here as a boy of ten, his neck craned in awe at the magnificence of the place. And his chest aching with hope that he would at last know his father.
Addressing the footman, he said coolly, “Tell his lordship that Drake Wilder is here to see him.”
“Yes, sir.” After casting him a curious glance, the servant mounted the grand staircase.
As soon as he vanished out of sight, Drake followed. He didn’t intend for Hailstock to refuse to see him.
At the top of the stairs, Drake glanced around at the fine statuary in niches and the passageways leading off in several directions. He strode past the shadowed gallery and toward a short corridor that led to the front of the house. Sure enough, he saw the footman conferring with a silver-haired man out in the corridor.
Hailstock.
Controlling a surge of loathing, Drake walked toward them, and the marquess pivoted on his heel to stare. The footman scuttled off in the opposite direction. Swiftly, Hailstock marched away from a large salon, where lamplight glowed and a fire glimmered on the hearth.
“How dare you invade my house,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice low. “I’ll have you tossed out like the rabble you are.”
Ignoring him, Drake frowned into the salon. On a chaise by the fireplace, a young man reclined, his crippled legs covered by a blanket. The firelight glinted off his tawny hair and petulant profile. His eyes closed, he appeared to be dozing.
Drake felt a sharp twist inside himself that could only be anger. James, Lord Scarborough by his courtesy title. His half-brother.
He swung to Hailstock. “What’s the matter?” he jeered. “Are you afraid your other son might hear?”
Alarm flashed into those frosty gray eyes. His face ashen, Hailstock glanced into the salon. “Damn you,” he muttered. “Keep your voice down. Now go on downstairs. We can talk there.”
Drake held his ground. “There’s no need to talk. I merely wish to return this.” Reaching inside his coat, he drew out the ring and tossed it to Hailstock.
The older man caught it reflexively, gripping the small circle in his hand. “This ring belongs to Alicia.”
“My wife doesn’t accept gifts from you.” Savoring a cold triumph, Drake took a step toward the man he had abhored for so many years. “And if you dare to come near her again, I’ll kill you.”
* * *
In the salon, James lay with his eyes closed.
It amused him at times to pretend slumber while his father entertained guests. James knew how to concentrate his attention, blotting out distractions. He had garnered juicy tidbits of gossip that way, and a few times he’d had difficulty restraining laughter while an old dowager flirted with his widowed father. No one realized the keenness of his hearing. They seemed to think that being crippled had somehow impaired his other senses, too.
When he’d heard the footman out in the corridor announce Drake Wilder, James’s ears had perked with interest. Wilder was the baseborn gambler who had married Alicia. James had known his father was furious about the wedding, but had attributed it to the fact that he liked to control those around him, a trait James had noticed more since he’d been crippled and had so much time on his hands to watch people. But never had James imagined anything like this.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
A chilly dampness prickled his palms. He felt as if a knife had been thrust into his gut. He had a brother. His father—his priggish, principled father—had sired a bastard.
His father stepped into the salon. Forcing himself not to tense, James detected the faint rasp of his breathing and imagined him standing over the chaise. If he hadn’t been irked with Father for going out after promising him a game of chess, if he hadn’t pretended to be asleep when his father had returned home, he would never have learned the staggering truth.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
“James,” his father said very quietly.
James didn’t respond. But he let himself stir a little against the pillows as if the sound had disturbed his slumber.
After a moment, he heard his father walk away. James burned to confront him, but knew bitterly that he would only deny it. The almighty Marquess of Hailstock could never admit to siring a bastard. And so he had denied his legitimate son the knowledge that he had a brother.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
James felt betrayed, furious, shaken. He needed time to think, to absorb the shock, to find out more about Drake Wilder.
And he needed time to decide what to do.
Chapter Eleven
A sound lured Alicia to the surface of sleep. Lingering in a limbo of warmth, she snuggled deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets. She longed to drift back to her dream, back to that splendid ballroom, back to the arms of a most fascinating man with midnight-blue eyes.…
The noise came again. A faint scraping. Metal.
She opened her eyes to the pearly shimmer of dawn and the high arch of a canopy overhead. A gilt bird perched atop each bedpost, wings spread, beak trailing a ribbon that twined downward to the cream and gold bedcurtains. Groggy, she wondered where she was, why Mama wasn’t sleeping beside her.
Mama.
Even as Alicia raised herself on one elbow, she remembered. This was Drake Wilder’s house. Mama was safe. She now shared a chamber with Mrs. Philpot across the corridor.
So what had caused that sound?
Though the chilly morning air made her shiver, Alicia sat up and glanced around her richly appointed bedchamber with its gold watered silk on the walls and the magnificent gilt moldings. Night still lurked in the corners. The first fingers of daylight crept over the dainty writing desk with its pens and stationery, caressed the lush Aubusson carpet, touched the blue and cream chaise by the ivory marble mantelpiece … and pointed to a maidservant quietly cleaning the hearth.
The scrape of her shovel had awakened Alicia.
This was the first time she had caught the maid at her work. Always before she would awaken to the cheery whisper of the fire, though once she’d glimpsed the girl as she’d darted out of the chamber, ignoring Alicia’s call to wait. Most of the servants acted just as wary.
As if they’d been instructed to avoid her.
“Good morning,” Alicia said.
The servant made no response. Crouched on her knees, she tilted the last
scoop of ashes into her pail, then silently placed the brush in her box and reached for the kindling.
“Good morning,” Alicia called louder.
The maid paid no heed, laying the sticks of wood on the grate. Her every move was noiseless, efficient, almost furtive.
Had Yates told the staff to pretend the mistress of the house didn’t exist? The very thought angered Alicia.
“It’s quite all right to speak,” she said, pushing off the counterpane and sliding out of bed. She shivered as her warm bare feet met the cold rug. She reached for her dressing gown, lying on a chair. “I merely wish to know your name.”
Still the housemaid ignored her.
Gritting her teeth, Alicia donned the robe and knotted the sash. This impertinence could not continue. She stepped quickly to the hearth.
The maidservant was a stout young woman with a mobcap perched on her dark hair. And she looked vaguely familiar. Wasn’t she the one who had lingered in the foyer on the morning of the wedding, staring at her new mistress until a footman had pulled her away?
It was her. And Alicia would tolerate no more disrespect. Leaning down, she placed her hand on that rounded shoulder just as the maid reached for the bucket of coal.
The girl yelped. The bucket tipped over with a loud clatter. Black chunks tumbled over the hearth rug, rolling onto the fine carpet and disappearing under chairs and footstools. She cringed, wide-eyed, her grimy hands pressed to her apple cheeks.
To her chagrin, Alicia realized the servant had heard neither her approach nor her words. Had she been deep in thought? Or was she stone deaf?
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Alicia said, sinking to her knees. “Truly, I didn’t.”
As she spoke, the girl watched her lips. Deaf, then. The knot of anger inside Alicia unraveled into amazement. A rich household like this one could afford to hire the most able-bodied servants. Yet Drake employed a deaf housemaid, a misfit who would be denied a post by the nobility.
It couldn’t be out of kindness. He was a ruthless, selfish man. So that left only one explanation. He must not be aware of her impairment.
