by Burke, Darcy
Well, that was rather too obvious, wasn’t it? Arabella studied the duke for his reaction and again had the vague sense that Mother’s questioning was putting him off.
“I’m not sure I’ve thought about that.” Halstead reached for another biscuit. “So far, I think I like these biscuits best.” He smiled before popping it into his mouth.
It was a nonsensical answer, as if their biscuits had anything to do with being a duke, but she supposed one could argue that if he hadn’t become the duke, he would have had no occasion to be there in this sitting room with Mrs. Woodcock’s delectable confections.
Arabella grabbed one for herself.
“About Brixton Park,” Mama said, making Arabella tense. He’d already ignored Mama when she’d said she’d love to see his estate. “Dare we hope you’ll host an event there? It would be a wonderful place to host a picnic, being so close to town. I’ve heard the parkland and gardens are extraordinary.”
Arabella noted that the muscles in his jaw flexed. She glanced down at his hands, which appeared rigid. Instead of lying flat against his thighs or at least at ease, they were slightly curled. His entire body seemed to thrum with energy. She feared her mother was pushing him to the brink of his endurance, and he’d leave, never to return. Then where would they be?
He gave her mother a placid smile that seemed at odds with the small observations Arabella was making. “I don’t think I’ll have the time to organize such an event, not with all I must learn.”
“You need a duchess,” Mama declared brightly, her gaze moving to Arabella in the least subtle silent communication ever.
“Why don’t we take a walk in the garden?” Arabella suggested abruptly, already rising from the settee. “It’s small, but the day is too pleasant to ignore. You can watch us through the window, all right, Mama?”
The duke quickly got to his feet and offered his arm before her mother responded.
As if she would say no…
“Go ahead! Take your time,” Mama encouraged, directing an urgent stare at Arabella that was likely meant to convey a variety of things: Ask him about Tibbord! Find out how much he’s worth! Obtain an offer of marriage!
While she liked the duke, Arabella couldn’t help but feel awkward. Because whatever transaction might arise between them, it would be because of need, not want, and she hated that.
As soon as they were outside, she started to relax. “It’s a very small garden.” She pointed toward the back of Phoebe’s house. “You can see Miss Lennox’s house there.”
He looked in the direction of her hand. “Ah, yes. I may pay a call when I’m finished here.”
It was as good as saying, “You are not the only young lady I am considering.” Which made sense. Why would he focus on her when there were far better options? Daughters of dukes or at least earls. Beautiful young debutantes like Miss Dahlia Wemple. Wealthy heiresses like Phoebe.
Or perhaps he was saying, “This call has gone horribly. Your mother is ridiculous. It’s been nice knowing you.”
Arabella sought to undo some of the damage her mother may have done. “I’m sorry about my mother’s questions. She gets overexcited sometimes, particularly when dukes call.”
He arched a dark brow at her. “Does that happen often?”
“Never, in fact.”
He visibly relaxed, his frame losing its tension as they circuited the garden. “Ah, well, I didn’t mean to cause a stir.”
“It’s quite all right. I hope she didn’t offend.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “Of course not.” He glanced around. “It seems we are nearly finished with our walk around the garden.”
She laughed softly. “I told you it was small. We can go round again.” At the very least, she had to ask him about Tibbord. She didn’t think an offer of marriage was forthcoming. “I wanted to ask you about Mr. Tibbord.”
The tension returned to his body. He stiffened briefly, and she wondered if he had to work at hiding it. Was there something about Tibbord? Or was she reading into his reaction because she knew what Tibbord was?
“What did you want to ask?” His voice sounded a bit thin, and she began to doubt his behavior was a figment of her mind.
She stopped and turned toward him, keeping her hand on his arm. It was a gamble, but she decided to plunge forward so she could study his reaction for the truth… “Tibbord is a swindler. I am curious as to how you know him.”
And there it was. A slight widening of his gaze and nostrils followed by a tightening in his jaw. “How do you know that? I can’t imagine you’d be associated with someone like that.” He regarded her intently, his gaze piercing hers.
It seemed, maybe, that he knew Tibbord was a thief. If he knew what she knew, had he—? She cut off the thought and blurted, “Did he cheat you too?”
Too late, she realized what she’d done. Before she could find a way to retract what she’d said, he moved closer. “He cheated you? How?”
“I don’t know precisely,” she answered softly, her chest churning in anguish. “Please, you can’t tell anyone. My mother will be devastated, and my father…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.
His gaze softened, and he put his hand over hers on his arm. “I won’t. The questions your mother was asking… You’re looking to marry a wealthy gentleman, aren’t you?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak. No, she couldn’t speak. Mortification and despair surged inside her. She nodded.
He pressed his mouth into a grim line. “I’m sorry to tell you that I can’t be that gentleman. You’re correct that Tibbord swindled me—not me, the former duke—and I haven’t a farthing to my name that isn’t owed to someone else.”
And just like that, Arabella’s fantasy died. Her future had never seemed more bleak.
* * *
Graham watched the play of emotions across Miss Stoke’s face. From horror when she’d mistakenly revealed they’d been cheated to sadness to humiliation and lastly to utter devastation. He wanted to do more than touch her hand, but now more than ever, he couldn’t.
He’d felt a similar array of sensations, culminating in abject disappointment that she wasn’t the heiress he needed. However, perhaps they could help each other in a different way…
Miss Stoke blinked at him. “You’re bankrupt?”
He bristled at her phrasing—he wasn’t bankrupt. He had a small but tidy savings, which he’d had to access to support his new station for appearances’ sake and to keep from having to sell Brixton Park immediately. It wasn’t going to last much longer, however. It was expensive being a duke, particularly one who was trying to attract an heiress. “The dukedom is, yes. However, I’m trying to rectify that.”
“By marrying an heiress.” Realization swept over her features. “That’s why you called on Phoebe.”
Dammit. Since it wasn’t a question, he didn’t address the comment. “I’d appreciate if you would keep my situation secret, just as I will yours.”
She nodded quickly. “Of course. I completely understand.”
He continued with the idea that was dancing in his head. “As I said, I’m trying to rectify the matter and not just by marriage. I’d prefer to avoid that, if I can.”
“You don’t want to wed?” She asked this with genuine curiosity, and he saw no reason not to answer her plainly.
“Not right now, and not for money.” The desire he felt for Miss Stoke wove its way through him. He’d rather marry for much different reasons. He wouldn’t speak plainly about that.
“We are in agreement on that,” she said.
He hated the resignation in her voice. It was tinged with sadness, and he wished he could tell her she didn’t have to marry for money. He could perhaps do the next best thing. “I’m hopeful that I can find this Tibbord thief and recover my fortune. And yours. He can’t get away with fleecing people.”
She inhaled sharply. “You think you can do that?”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m determined to do it. If we
work together—combine our knowledge—perhaps we can find him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know who he is. I didn’t even remember his name when you mentioned it the other night. I asked my mother about it, and she nearly had a fit. I don’t think she knows much either. My father made the investment with Tibbord and has refused to tell us anything about it.” Anguish crept into her gaze, and Graham wanted to banish it forever.
“When did this investment occur?” he asked.
Small pleats lined her brow. “I’m not sure exactly. Maybe a year ago?”
“I believe the duke made his late last spring or summer. There is frustratingly little information. Just the record of the investment and the amount recorded in a ledger. I found Tibbord’s name scrawled in the margin of an entirely different ledger.”
“But you seemed to know he was a swindler,” she said. “Am I wrong?”
Again, he saw no reason to lie to her, especially if they could help each other. “No. I asked a couple of friends about him, just as I did you at the Thursby ball, and one of them informed me he was a known thief. He also told me no one knows him directly, that he always acts through another party, though he didn’t say who.” Graham would follow up with Colton on that. “Was that the case with your father?”
She shook her head, grimacing. “I don’t know.”
“Can we ask him?”
Her grip tightened briefly on his arm. “He’s very ill. I fear asking him about Tibbord may only worsen his condition. I’m sorry.”
Well, that was bloody disappointing. “There has to be a way to track the scoundrel down.”
“Couldn’t the duke’s secretary help?”
Graham frowned. “Unfortunately, he moved to Bath when the duke died and hasn’t answered my correspondence. I may need to pay him a visit.” Again, he didn’t particularly have the time, but he was running out of options. How else would they find Tibbord? He kept returning to her father. “I’m sorry your father is so ill.” Graham stroked his thumb along the top of her hand.
“As our financial situation worsened, he became more and more unwell. He scarcely leaves his bedchamber anymore.” Her eyes filled with worry. “I fear he isn’t long for this world.”
Graham’s gut twisted. What would happen to her and her mother if her father died? Presumably, they had no money in trust or any means of support. “Miss Stoke, I would very much like to help you, if you’ll let me. However, we desperately need to know everything your father can tell us about Tibbord and their transaction if we have any hope of recovering your money.”
“Do you really think that’s possible?” she asked, a bare thread of hope detectable in her voice. “Investments go bad all the time—this is not the first time my father has lost money.”
“While that’s true, there’s something wrong here. I can feel it. I’ve handled investments and financial transactions for the Earl of St. Ives in my position as secretary, as did my father before me. The amount of money the duke invested with Tibbord was far too great. Either the duke was an utter fool, or Tibbord cheated him somehow.”
“Unfortunately, my father is a fool,” she said quietly. “Though it pains me to say so.”
Graham was all too aware of her touch and her nearness. And his desire to take her in his arms and hold her, soothe her, kiss her…
Kiss her?
Yes, he wanted to kiss her and probably even more than that. However, he couldn’t. In fact, he shouldn’t even be standing with her like this. What must her mother think?
“We’ve been out here for quite some time. I’d wager your mother is already planning your wedding trousseau.”
“Paid for by money neither of us has.” She smiled up at him sadly. “I am very sorry you’re poor.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if she meant it purely for the purpose of financial rescue. There was a hint that, like him, she’d hoped for something more. “No sorrier than I.” He removed his hand from hers. “We should go in so I may take my leave.”
“Yes.” She sounded as reluctant as he felt. “I will learn all I can from my father. How shall I let you know when I have something to share?”
“Perhaps we should set our next meeting time and place.”
“I could walk Biscuit in the park again,” she suggested. “Or I could meet you at Phoebe’s.”
Miss Lennox’s would probably be better, for propriety’s sake. However, Graham didn’t want Miss Lennox thinking he was interested in Miss Stoke. Even though Miss Lennox had said she didn’t wish to marry, Graham nurtured a small hope that he could change her mind. “The park, I think. Early, as we did before, and in the same place. Will Wednesday morning give you enough time to speak with your father?”
She glanced up toward a window on the house, perhaps her father’s chamber. “I’m not sure. It depends on how he’s feeling, and I honestly have no idea how I’m going to do this without upsetting him.”
While it pained him to see her fret over this and he had no wish to cause her father distress, he couldn’t see an alternative. “I wouldn’t have asked if there was any other way.”
“I understand. And I agree—this is too important.” She paused, flicking a look toward the house again. “Perhaps I’ll tell my father that an investigator contacted us.”
“Won’t you have to include your mother in such a ruse?”
“I can’t, not without revealing what we’re doing, and she can’t know that you are aware of the truth. If my father asks her about the investigator, she’ll think he’s rambling nonsense. He does that, unfortunately.” There was no mistaking the doubt stealing over her features. “It’s possible he may not be able to help. His mind is not always there.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Stoke.” And he truly was. “Losing my father last year was incredibly difficult. I miss him every day.”
Her gaze softened, and she lifted her free hand but dropped it to her side before touching him. “I am sorry for your loss. It sounds as though you loved him very much.”
“I did.” He wanted to cheer her—and himself. “But listen to us being the sorriest people in London. We don’t have time for that.” He offered her a bolstering smile. “I’m going to do everything I can to hunt down Tibbord and recover our money.”
Light and hope warmed her features as she smiled in return. “That would be wonderful. We should go in. I’m not at all sure what I’m going to tell my mother. She’s bound to think an offer has occurred or is forthcoming given how long we’ve been out here. Instead, I must tell her we don’t suit.”
“Don’t do that,” he said quickly, looking toward the house. “Not yet. I may need to call on you again or dance with you. Or promenade—we need to be able to share information.”
“You make a good argument.” The flirtatiousness he’d come to anticipate crept into her eyes and voice. “If we must.”
Graham chuckled softly as he led her back to the house.
After a brief conversation with Mrs. Stoke, during which she gave him a hastily copied recipe for the butter biscuits, Graham took his leave. As he took the reins of his horse from their young stable lad, he marveled at how the Stokes had managed to shield their financial situation. So had he, but they’d been at it much longer. He wondered if anyone had begun to notice. He had to help Miss Stoke—it was vital.
Maybe, if he was able to return them both to financial security, he could actually court her. He paused before mounting his horse. Did he want to court her?
No. He wanted to grow accustomed to his new position. He didn’t have time for a wife, no matter how lovely and tempting Miss Stoke might be. The timing was wrong, unfortunately, and he’d do well to remember that. The relationship between him and Miss Stoke must remain purely professional.
Graham climbed atop his horse and set off toward Brixton Park. The back and forth would likely become tedious, and he supposed he could stay at David’s town house now that he and Fanny had returned to Huntwell. It could at least serve as a base so that Graham didn’t h
ave to return to Brixton Park before going out each evening when he had engagements. Something to consider.
For now, he needed to return to Brixton Park and then come back to town tonight so he could speak with Anthony. On second thought, if he could run Anthony down right now, he could avoid another trip tonight since he didn’t have any commitments.
A weariness swept over him. He’d never asked for any of this. And yet when he thought of his father, Graham knew he had to fight. When the duke’s son had died, Graham’s father had been thrilled to be named heir presumptive. At last, their branch of the family would reclaim its birthright.
Graham heard his father’s voice: “It isn’t about the dukedom. It’s about our right, as Kinsleys to be a part of the family. More importantly, we can finally claim our place at Brixton Park, which my great-grandfather built.”
Yes, Graham had to fight. For his father, the person who’d meant most to him in the world. Now that Graham was alone, that was all he had left.
You don’t have to be alone.
The voice at the back of his mind buzzed at him like an annoying gnat.
No, he didn’t have to be alone, and if he couldn’t recover the money from Tibbord, he couldn’t afford to be. He needed to find the bloody man. And then Graham would make him pay for stealing from an old man and ruining a young woman’s future.
Chapter 6
After lunch the following day, Arabella’s mother took Biscuit for a walk around Cavendish Square. She’d only be gone a short time, so Arabella had to move quickly.
Making her way to her father’s room, she armed herself with a plate of butter biscuits, which had quickly become his favorite treat. It was the one thing he could be relied upon to eat.
“Papa, I’m here with biscuits,” she said, walking into his dim chamber. The curtains were only half drawn from the windows.
He was sitting up in bed, having recently returned after managing a half bowl of duck soup for lunch. The newspaper sat beside him, folded.