Perhaps she already knows too much.
Deborah forced a smile she hoped looked reassuring. “I shall do what I can, Your Grace.”
* * *
The Dowager Duchess was jittery as she rode the carriage back to the Tarsington manor. Opposite her on the bench, Florentina had launched into a breathless story about the comic songs of a street performer that Lydia herself had been there for.
She rubbed her eyes, forcing a smile. “Yes, my dear,” she said stiffly. “I was there, remember?” She loved her daughter more than life itself, but she’d be damned if she knew anyone who could talk quite as much. “Why don’t we play a game? Let’s pretend to be statues all the way home.”
Florentina grinned and nodded emphatically, immediately falling silent. Lydia allowed herself a faint smile. She had been playing the same game with her daughter since she was two years old. She was surprised it still worked now Florentina was seven.
She had not been expecting to see Miss Wilds and her mother today. It had been a shock to see how unkind time had been to the Viscountess. She had last seen Lady Chilson at her daughter’s burial. Three years later, the grief was still startling evident in her eyes, her face lined and weary, her shoulders hunched. Her once-blonde hair was almost entirely gray.
Lydia couldn’t pretend to be surprised, of course. Not after all the poor Viscountess had been through. There were so many questions she wanted to ask Lady Chilson. Questions that, of course, would be impossible to ever broach.
At the sight of Miss Wilds, Lydia had recognized opportunity. Leonard was clearly besotted with his pretty wife-to-be. Convince Miss Wilds to speak on her behalf and surely he would stop his foolish quest for the truth.
But Lydia could tell Miss Wilds had been unconvinced. Perhaps Leonard had shared his suspicions with her.
“I’ll do what I can, Your Grace,” Miss Wilds had said. But Lydia could tell she had no intention of doing a thing.
She was glad when the coach rolled through the manor gates. She needed a few hours of solitude in her sitting room. And a sizeable glass of wine.
“Was I a fine statue, Mama?” asked Florentina, as the carriage slowed to a stop.
Lydia forced a smile. “Very fine.” She accepted the coachman’s hand and climbed out of the carriage. “You played very well.”
Florentina skipped up the front steps ahead of her mother. “What’s this?” She pointed to a white page sticking out from beneath the door. She bent down to collect it.
The front door opened with a creak as the butler greeted them. Florentina shook the letter in front of him. “Look what I found! Someone put it under the door! It might be a secret message!”
“Who did this?” Lydia pressed, her eyes darting from the letter, then to their butler.
He frowned. “I don’t know, Your Grace. I’m sorry, I hadn’t noticed it until just now.”
“There’s no name on it,” said Florentina curiously. She made to open the page, but Lydia snatched it quickly from her hand.
Florentina murmured in surprise. “Mama, I—”
“There’s no name on it,” Lydia told her sharply. “That means it’s not addressed to you. And it’s rude to open someone else’s letter.”
The butler held out his hand for the page. “Shall I take it to the Duke, Your Grace?”
“No,” Lydia said hurriedly. “No, you shan’t.” She was aware of the desperation in her voice. But she didn’t care. There could be any manner of secrets in that letter. There was no way she could let it reach her son.
Chapter 27
Lydia Fletcher stared down at the letter. Her hand was shaking violently.
It is of utmost importance that the Duke of Tarsington does not marry Miss Deborah Wilds. If the wedding proceeds as planned, the Duke and his family will be in great danger.
The letter had been left unsigned.
And now here she sat with the letter in her hand, staring down at the words, trying to find some hidden meaning.
Perhaps whoever had written this was right. Perhaps this whole charade had gone far enough. Though Lydia longed to keep her secrets intact, there was no way she would risk her son’s safety in order to do it.
She heard the front door click open and footsteps sound down the hall. Leonard’s footsteps. She could tell by the rhythm of them.
He needs to see this.
The thought made her stomach turn. Leonard was no fool. Read this letter and he would have question after question for her. Where would his suspicions lead him? He was already far too curious about the letters between herself and the Viscount.
And beyond what he would discover about his own mother, Lydia knew cancelling the wedding would break Leonard’s heart. He had fallen hard for Miss Deborah Wilds. They had a chance to find that most elusive of treasures—love.
But this had to be done. What kind of mother would she be if she risked her own child’s safety in order to keep her shameful past hidden?
She rang the handbell sitting beside her on the table. When her lady’s maid appeared, Lydia lifted her chin and said, “Please bring my son to me.”
* * *
“Mother? Is something wrong?” Leonard frowned as he made his way into the sitting room. The Dowager Duchess looked pale, her forehead creased with anxiety. She had a faraway look about her.
Leonard felt something shift inside him. He was afraid, he realized. Afraid of what might come out of his mother’s mouth. Afraid he might learn why her handkerchief had been in Lord Averton’s blood-splattered manor. Afraid he might discover things about his mother that could never be unlearned.
He had spent most of the morning churning through the paperwork he had brought back from Lord Averton’s study. He was yet to find anything of value. But perhaps his mother was about to tell him all he needed to know.
All I am afraid to know.
But the Dowager Duchess did not speak. She held out a piece of paper in her trembling hand.
“What’s this?”
His mother shook it at him. “Just read it.” Her voice cracked.
Frowning, Leonard took the page. It was crumpled, after being clutched so tightly in his mother’s hand.
It is of utmost importance that the Duke of Tarsington does not marry Miss Deborah Wilds…
Leonard’s stomach rolled.
“Do you have any idea who this came from?” he asked, his voice coming out thin and broken.
The Dowager Duchess shook her head. “Someone slipped it under the door. It was here when Florentina and I arrived home this afternoon.”
“And have you any idea of what this might be referring to?” Leonard tried to meet his mother’s eyes. Tried to see behind them.
She shook her head, avoiding his glance.
He sat beside her on the chaise. “Mother,” he said firmly, “I need you to be honest with me.”
After a moment, the Dowager Duchess nodded. “Yes. Of course.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
“A gentleman named Charlie Ellis,” said Leonard. “The Baron of Averton. Did you know him?”
“The Baron of Averton?” The Dowager Duchess shook her head. “No.”
A frown creased the bridge of her nose.
Is she lying?
He did not think so. The confusion in her eyes was genuine, Leonard was sure of it.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Of course I’m certain,” she said, more sharply. She stood up and began to pace, her heels clicking sharply on the polished floorboards. “What’s all this about, Leonard? What does this have to do with this letter?”
He let out a sigh. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps nothing.” He rubbed his eyes, glancing down at the page again. The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I need to ask her about the handkerchief. I’ve put it off long enough.
He drew in his breath. “The Baron of Averton disappeared around the time of Miss Edith Wilds’s death. He and Miss Wilds—” he hesitated, “—were acquain
tances.”
His mother frowned. “I see.”
“I recently went to Averton’s old manor to try and find out what had happened to him. And I found this.” He reached into his pocket and held out the embroidered handkerchief.
He heard an audible gasp from his mother, a gasp she did her best to stifle. She reached out and took the handkerchief from his hand. Something passed across her eyes, and this time, it was most certainly not confusion.
“This is yours,” said Leonard.
“No.” She looked away.
“Then you have one exactly the same. This motif of the anchor, it’s embroidered on several of your things. I remember you showing me when I was a boy. An anchor for my great-grandfather the midshipman. A reminder that we ought to be proud of our seafaring family.”
“Don’t be foolish, Leonard,” his mother said sharply. “This is nothing like the motif my grandmother used to stitch.”
“Mother,” Leonard’s voice rose involuntarily, “I know you’re lying.”
The Dowager Duchess leapt to her feet and glared at him. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing! After everything I have done for you over the years! When have I ever given you cause to doubt me?”
Leonard tightened his jaw.
You gave me cause to doubt you when I found your handkerchief in the blood-splattered house of a murdered gentleman.
But he said nothing. A cold silence hung between them.
“What are you going to do about this letter?” the Dowager Duchess said finally.
Leonard tightened his fist around the page. For a fleeting moment, he had forgotten about the cursed thing. How could he do anything but go ahead with this marriage? He knew Deborah had grown to love him. Knew that ending their betrothal would break her heart. And it would also break his own. He couldn’t imagine a life without Deborah in it. Losing her would be unbearable.
But was this letter truly to be believed? Would marrying Deborah put he and his family in danger?
In danger from who? The men who had stormed Lord Averton’s manor?
Nothing made sense.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he told his mother honestly. Right now, he could not even begin to fathom who might have sent such a missive. Or what he ought to do about it. All he could think of was that look of horror in the Dowager Duchess’s eyes when her gaze had fallen on the handkerchief. He strode toward the door, desperate to get away from his mother before he said something he regretted. “I need a little time to think.”
* * *
Lydia waited until Leonard’s footsteps had disappeared upstairs. Then she opened her fist and stared down at the fine embroidery on the edge of the handkerchief.
Charlie Ellis. The Baron of Averton.
She had not been lying when she had said she had never heard his name. But the moment she had seen this handkerchief, she had understood exactly how it had come to be in the Averton manor. Once, this handkerchief had been among her most precious belongings. A family heirloom. She had never expected to see it again.
Lord Averton had disappeared, Leonard had said. Had not been heard from since Miss Edith Wilds’s death. The thought made sickness rise in her throat.
What could possibly have happened to him?
She knew there were things Leonard was keeping from her.
And now, on top of it all, she had lost the last flicker of her son’s trust.
Lydia squeezed her fingers tightly around the handkerchief and let her tears fall.
* * *
Leonard took himself to the smoking room on the second floor. Being in this place made him think of his father. It was the room in the house that reminded him of the former Duke the most.
It was at times like this that Leonard felt his father’s absence most acutely. Missed his support, his guidance. Leonard knew, at three-and-twenty, he was far old enough to manage his household’s affairs. But that didn’t stop him from missing his father dearly.
He pulled open the drawer of the sideboard. Inside he found his father’s favorite pipe and tobacco box, along with a dog-eared set of playing cards.
Leonard took out the tobacco box, running his finger over the fine engravings on the lid. There was something calming about the feel of it beneath his fingers.
His father had been one of the wisest and most rational people Leonard had ever known. He had always looked up to him, always sought to exhibit the same level-headedness, the same calmness, the same clarity of mind. But he felt as though he was failing. Felt as though he had not managed a coherent thought in weeks. His mind had been a tangle of emotions since his first meeting with Deborah. Emotions of desire, of lust, anxiety, fear.
How I wish my father were here to talk these things over with.
That, of course, would never be again. But Leonard needed to talk through this business over the letter. Need to speak with someone more removed from the whole affair than his mother or fiancée.
Without bothering to send a message ahead of him, Leonard climbed into the coach and set out across the village for his uncle’s manor.
Phineas’s butler led him into the smoking room where the Earl was digging into a drawer for his pipe.
“I’m sorry to turn up unannounced, Uncle,” said Leonard.
Phineas looked over his shoulder at his nephew and smiled. “Not at all. You’re always welcome here, my boy.” He produced the pipe with a flourish, then turned to face Leonard. Without saying another word, he went to the cupboard in the corner of the room and poured two large glasses of brandy. He handed one to Leonard.
He accepted it gratefully. “How did you know?”
Phineas chuckled. “Could see it in your eyes.”
Leonard took a large gulp of liquor and lowered himself into an armchair. For a fleeting, blissful moment, he let the alcohol calm his thoughts, steal a little of the tension that was gathering in his shoulders.
Bless Uncle Phineas and his collection of fine French brandy…
“What’s bothering you?” his uncle asked, settling back in his armchair and bringing his own glass to his lips.
Leonard dug into his pocket and held the letter out wordlessly.
Phineas frowned as his eyes moved over the page, a frown darkening his face. He tossed the letter onto the side table. Unable to bear looking at it, Leonard picked it up and shoved it into his pocket.
He took another mouthful of brandy. “Neither Mother nor I have any thoughts of who might have sent it,” he told his uncle. It was brought to the house in secret this afternoon.”
Phineas rubbed his chin, which was sporting the scruffy gray beginnings of a beard. “Very mysterious.”
“Do you think it something I ought to be concerned about? Ought I take these threats seriously?”
He was hoping, of course, that Phineas would wave away the letter, play down its importance. Claim it little more than a sick joke.
How can I dare hope for such a thing after all we have discovered?
Somewhere deep inside, Leonard knew this letter was somehow connected to what had happened to the Baron. It was far too much of a coincidence that it might show up so soon after he and Deborah had visited the Averton manor.
“Well,” Phineas said after a moment of silence, “I think it would be unwise not to be vigilant. But I also think it would be far too rash to go ahead and cancel your wedding on the basis of this alone. You’ve no proof that this is anything more than some kind of sick joke.” He smiled crookedly. “Perhaps Miss Wilds has a broken-hearted suitor out there somewhere.”
Leonard nodded, glad for his uncle’s reassuring words. Perhaps he was beginning to lose perspective. Perhaps the things he had discovered over the past few days were beginning to affect his judgement.
And Phineas was right—how could he cancel his wedding to the lady he loved based on two scrawled lines of an unsigned letter?
Phineas leaned back in his chair. “You don’t seem all that convinced.”
Leonard said nothing. He si
pped his brandy, in the vain hope it might bring him a little clarity.
“What does your instinct tell you?” his uncle asked.
Leonard sighed. In truth, his instinct told him this letter was trouble. But Leonard had little faith in his instinct. It was why he had come to Phineas in the first place.
“You don’t think I ought to break my engagement to Miss Wilds?”
Guilty Pleasures 0f A Bluestocking (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 17