The Duke Redemption

by Grace Callaway

  How could she deny him…or the longing in her heart? He was offering her the impossible: her old dreams rebuilt into a new reality. One based on passion, possibility, and choice. Besides, agreeing to be courted wasn’t the same thing as agreeing to marriage. If she and Wick discovered that they were not compatible, or if circumstances changed, then they could call things off.

  The promise of Wick—of what he was offering—was too tempting to resist.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Then invite me to stay with you.”

  She blinked. “You want to stay here, at the manor?”

  “There’s no way in hell Knight is staying under your roof when I’m not,” he said flatly. “You have a chaperone. One who literally drinks herself under the table, but a chaperone nonetheless.”

  So that’s where Tottie went, she mused.

  “More importantly, there’s danger afoot, and I want to stay close to you.”

  The reminder of the barn fire made her swallow. “You really believe it was arson?”

  His nod was stark. “I didn’t get to show this to you earlier, but in addition to the broken lamp and linseed oil, I found this.”

  He withdrew something from his jacket pocket, handing it to her.

  “A pocket watch?” she said, her brows knitting.

  The timepiece was made of gold and heavy in her palm. The cover had beaded edges and an ornate pattern featuring swirls that looked like flames. At the center of the cover was a crest, inscribed with the letters H. C.

  “Those could be initials. Anyone you know?” Wick asked.

  “Good heavens.” Her eyes widened. “The squire who owns the neighboring land—his name is Horace Crombie.”

  She continued examining the instrument. Opening the cover, she examined the dial face, the hands arrested at a quarter to twelve. The time the watch had been dropped? The face didn’t bear the usual inscription with the watchmaker’s name and address; it said only “London, England.” To the left of “London” was a tiny symbol that resembled two U’s, one nestled inside the other. Turning the piece over, she found the back cover contained the same design as the front, with no stamps or maker’s marks to indicate the object’s origin.

  “Does this Crombie have an axe to grind with you?” Wick said bluntly.

  “Aye, the old bastard does,” Mr. Sheridan’s voice cut in. “And ’e’s not the only one.”

  The tinker ventured into the garden, accompanied by Fancy.

  “I ’ope we’re not, um, interrupting,” Fancy said tentatively. “Mr. Knight left, and we wanted to check on things.”

  “Everything is fine,” Bea assured her. “Mr. Murray and I are discussing the barn fire. He found a clue that might lead us to the arsonist.”

  Frowning, Wick turned to Mr. Sheridan. “Who else would want to wish Lady Beatrice harm?”

  “As to that, sir,”—the tinker lifted his brows—“where be you wantin’ to start?”

  13

  The next afternoon, Wick escorted Beatrice to Squire Crombie’s estate.

  “Let me take the lead today, angel,” he said.

  “Horace Crombie is my problem,” she replied from the other side of the carriage. “I have my ways of dealing with men like him.”

  “That’s precisely my concern.”

  He was sure she intended to look business-like in her navy carriage dress, the belted pelisse and flaring skirts trimmed with military-style gold braiding. Her bonnet had strings of blue ribbon, its dark veil currently pinned up. Her pale blonde hair was parted in the middle, ringlets dangling over her cheeks, and her accessories were simple pearls at her ears and gloves of cream kid.

  Knowing Bea, she had no idea that the severity of her ensemble highlighted her svelte femininity, the delicacy of her strength. When a man looked at her, he wouldn’t be thinking about sitting across a desk from her; he’d be fantasizing about bending her over said desk and discovering the fire beneath that tantalizingly cool composure…

  Her eyebrows winged. “You don’t think I can manage the squire?”

  “Manage? Yes. With diplomacy…?” He gave her a significant look.

  Over dessert last evening, Beatrice had shown him the anonymous threatening note she’d received and, with the help of the Sheridans, she’d compiled a list of suspects for the arson. As the list had grown, so had the knot in Wick’s gut.

  Christ Almighty, the lady was a magnet for trouble.

  She’d had a series of squabbles with Crombie, who apparently held a grudge against her for outbidding him on Camden Manor, which he’d wanted to annex to his own estate. Their most recent skirmish had occurred last month. According to Bea, a fence had come down between their properties, and when she’d gone to fix it, she’d found that the squire had gotten there first. His workers, she’d claimed indignantly, had been planting the poles an extra six feet past her property line. When the workers had refused to desist, she’d waited until nighttime to send her own men out.

  In the morning, Squire Crombie had found a pile of fencing on his doorstep. She’d had her own fence put in; nailed upon it was a map of her property lines. Her butler, Gentleman Henderson, had been posted there as well, shotgun in hand, to dissuade the squire from retaliation.

  Crombie was not Bea’s only enemy. The Reverend Mr. Henry Wright, the village rector, held a prejudice against the tenants to whom Bea offered safe harbor and preached fire and brimstone about her at his weekly sermons, which she’d ceased to attend. Randall Perkins, the former tenant who’d been caught assaulting her maid Lisette, was also a possible culprit. Perkins had been laying low since then, although there’d been sightings of him in the nearby villages. Apparently, he had a birthmark, the port-wine stain on the left side of his face making him rather conspicuous.

  Then there were the factory owners up north.

  When Wick had heard that the Potteries Coalition had harassed Beatrice, he’d felt a surge of fury. The leader, Thomas McGillivray, and the other bastards were key investors in GLNR’s current scheme…and a large part of the reason Wick had come to Staffordshire incognito. The Coalition had grown impatient with the delay in laying track, and Wick hadn’t wanted them breathing down his neck while he did his job.

  He would not, however, tolerate the damned bastards ganging up against Beatrice. Despite her protest, he’d told her that he would take care of the factory owners since he had a business relationship with them. This morning, he’d sent a note off to McGillivray, whose offices were in Stoke-Upon-Trent, to set up a meeting.

  As if on cue, Beatrice reminded him, “I’m letting you take the lead with the factory owners.”

  He wondered if she’d read his mind. Then again, she’d probably been saving that argument to use as leverage. In her shoes, he would have done the same thing.

  Devil and damn, if he didn’t enjoy the way she kept him on his toes. He admired her tenacity: the strength of her will, her desire to do the right thing. Discovering that she’d received her scar while rescuing a boy from abuse made her all the more beautiful in his eyes. The fact that she’d trusted him with the painful memory felt like a gift. It was a sign that they were making progress.

  That didn’t mean he’d back down, however. Nor did he think that she wished him to. Their verbal sparring was their own special way of flirting.

  “As I caused that particular problem,” he said mildly, “it’s only fair that I deal with it.”

  “Since Crombie despises me for buying the estate he wanted, this is my problem to contend with,” she countered. “Give and take, Murray. This is how this relationship is going to work.”

  She looked so adorably pleased with herself that he couldn’t resist. Twitching the curtains together, he snatched her from her seat and onto his lap, quelling her squeal of protest with his kiss. He couldn’t afford to let things get too heated—the journey to Crombie’s wasn’t long—but this being Beatrice and him, tongues got involved. Before he knew
it, he had his hand up her skirts, and she was moaning against his lips.

  “Damn, lass,” he said hoarsely. “You’re wet for me already.”

  “I can’t help it.” Her cheeks flushed, she squirmed as he fingered her dewy petals. “Especially when you do that. And even more so if you were to go a bit higher…”

  Her brazen demand made him grin. And his cock strain against his trousers.

  “I’d like nothing more than to diddle your pearl until you come for me,” he murmured. “But we’re nearly there.”

  “Why did you start this if we couldn’t finish?”

  It was the closest to a pout that he’d seen from her, and he loved it.

  He chucked her beneath her chin before settling her back on her side. “Because I couldn’t resist you, Madam Practical. And also because I wanted you to have a preview of what I’ll be giving you tonight.”

  “Tonight?” In one of her quicksilver changes, she transformed from the confident lady of the manor to an endearingly novice lover. Her eyes soft and voice even softer, she asked, “Are you planning to visit me in…my bedchamber?”

  He knew a rendezvous wasn’t proper. Yet she was going to be his wife sooner or later, he rationalized. Making love to her might actually speed up the courtship, and he wasn’t above using pleasure to seal this particular deal.

  The choice, however, would be up to her.

  “If you’d rather observe proprieties,” he began.

  “There’s a servants’ passageway that connects our chambers. Use that instead of the main hallway so you won’t be seen.”

  Well, that’s that. His lips twitched.

  “An excellent plan.” Being granted entrée into his lady’s most intimate realm wasn’t helping matters down south, however; he had to get himself under control or he’d bust a seam before they reached the squire’s house. To distract himself, he said, “Speaking of plans, what are yours for Crombie?”

  “My approach will be simple.” The softness left her eyes, her features honed with determination. “I’m going to make him admit that he’s a sniveling, vindictive snake-in-the grass.”

  “Ah,” Wick said. “This is going to go well.”

  Deciding to use surprise to their advantage, Beatrice hadn’t sent word ahead of their visit. She’d timed their arrival to coincide with the end of luncheon. The squire’s belly would be full, his mind soft and drifting toward midday sleepiness…the perfect time to corner him.

  Her and Wick’s plan was to visit the suspects one by one—with the exception of Randall Perkins, whom they would have to find first—and interrogate them. She’d conceded the Potteries Coalition to Wick since she suspected he would, indeed, have more leverage with them. The fact that he was willing to help her against his own interests amazed her. Yet it wasn’t in her nature to depend upon others, and she was determined to do her part with the remaining suspects.

  She hadn’t expected to find the squire with company. Or to kill two birds with one stone. For as she and Wick were led into Crombie’s study, the pale-haired man who rose along with the squire was none other than Reverend Henry Wright.

  The thought leapt like a flame. What nefariousness are the two cooking up together?

  The two men were opposites in appearance, the squire being corpulent and balding whereas the rector was tall, with long, thin limbs that reminded Bea of a spider. The latter had a full head of snowy hair that, in combination with his sharp features and icy blue eyes, gave him a chilling air. His gaze skimmed over Bea’s scarred cheek, his lips curling with disdain. She kept her composure, even as embers of anger and humiliation burned beneath her breastbone.

  He hates me, but would that be enough for him to set fire to my property?

  Suddenly, Wright’s expression smoothed, and she realized that Wick had come to stand at her back. The charming Adonis was gone; in his place was a fierce Scotsman whose lethal stare and bunching muscles signaled that the enemy had better beware.

  As much as she valued her independence, she couldn’t deny that she liked Wick’s protective streak. She’d never had a man who’d stood by her before. Never known how special that could make a woman feel, even if she was fully capable of taking care of herself.

  Crombie waddled forward, his lips spreading in an unctuous smile that didn’t hide the calculating look in his eyes. “What a surprise to see you, Miss Brown. And your guest…Mr. Murray, was it?”

  Earlier, she and Wick had decided that there was no longer any point in hiding his true identity. Once he met with the factory owners, gossip was bound to spread like wildfire about the railway. It was better to try to control the information that was disseminated: Bea planned to tell her tenants that Wick was a representative of GLNR who was here to explore the possibility of coexistence between a railway and the farms. She would reassure them of her intent to prioritize the farms over all other concerns.

  For now, she introduced the squire and the reverend to Wick.

  “Your reputation precedes you, sir,” Crombie said. “Partner in that railway company, aren’t you? The one in all the papers, wot, that has the public rioting to get shares?”

  “Great London National Railway has enjoyed some success,” Wick said easily.

  “What brings you to Staffordshire?” the squire demanded. “Business?”

  “In part.” Wick did not elaborate.

  Crombie grunted, waving them toward his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what brings you here.”

  They all went toward the chairs, with the exception of Reverend Wright.

  “As my expertise is in spiritual matters and not the material,” he said with frigid hauteur, “my presence will add nothing to the discussion. I shall see myself out. Good day.”

  He left, blanketing the study in awkward silence.

  “I didn’t realize you and the rector were friends,” Beatrice said as she and Wick seated themselves across from the squire.

  “Wouldn’t say we’re friends. The reverend had some business he wanted to consult me on. Given my magisterial role.”

  Crombie mopped his face with a handkerchief. If she didn’t know the man, she might have taken his sweatiness as a sign of nerves, but the truth was he was usually red-faced and perspiring, looking on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

  “What sort of business?” she asked.

  “It was, ahem, confidential. None of your business, wot.”

  The squire wetted his thick lips, his gaze shifting between her and Wick. Wick was being good to his word and letting her take the lead. Leaning back in his chair, a boot propped over one knee, he was observing the unfolding events with a faint curve to his lips.

  Crombie started up again. “Now what was it you wanted to see me about, Miss Brown? If it’s about that fence—”

  “Actually, it’s about my barn.” She didn’t have time for shilly-shallying. “It caught fire the night before last.”

  “Ah, yes. I did hear about that.” Was she imagining the smugness in Crombie’s tone? “Unfortunate business, I’m sure, but accidents do happen. I fail to see why you’ve come to me about it.”

  “Because it wasn’t an accident.”

  His veiny jowls reddened. “If you’re accusing me, sirrah—”

  “I make no accusations, merely observations.” Opening her reticule, she withdrew the pocket watch and placed it on his blotter.

  Crombie’s brow furrowed. “Why are you showing me a pocket watch?”

  His bafflement seemed genuine. Dash it.

  “It isn’t yours?” she prodded. “It bears your initials on the cover.”

  He squinted at the front cover, then picked up the watch. “Demme, if it don’t. But it isn’t mine. Although if you know where to find a fine timepiece like this, I wouldn’t mind commissioning one of my own. The one the old squire gave me has seen better days.”

  Fishing around in his waistcoat, he retrieved a pocket watch. Scratched and dented, it was indeed a poor relation to the one Wick had found.

/>   “I’m afraid I do not know the watchmaker,” Bea said tightly.

  “Too bad. The workmanship is top-notch, wot.” Crombie was still examining the watch, a covetous gleam in his eyes.

  Bea held out her hand. “I’ll have it back, if you please.”

  “Still don’t see what the watch has to do with anything.” Reaching across the desk, he slapped it into her palm. “Now back to your slanderous remark—”

  “Pardon, Crombie. Did you injure your arm recently?”

  The query came from Wick. He was looking at Crombie’s wrist. When the squire had reached forward, his jacket sleeve had caught, revealing the cuff of his shirt…and the bandage poking out beneath.

  An injury. Suspicion bled through Bea. From setting the fire?

  Hastily, the squire tugged the sleeve of his jacket back in place.

  “It’s a scratch. Cut myself in the kennels when I was checking up on the hounds.” He rose, wheezing at the sudden movement. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’m a busy man.”

  Since Bea had no proof of his wrongdoing and no further questions, she got to her feet as well.

  She inclined her head. “I appreciate your time, squire.”

  “Then next time,” Crombie said with a harrumph, “don’t waste it.”

  14

  “Shall I style your hair as usual, my lady?” Lisette asked.

  It was later that evening. After returning from Crombie’s, Bea had wanted to strategize the next steps for finding the arsonist, but Wick had insisted that she go up for a nap first. When she’d protested that she wasn’t tired, he’d chucked her on the chin and said that he was.

  They’d gone to their separate chambers and, apparently, the events of the past two days had affected Bea more than she realized. She’d slept so soundly that Lisette had had to rouse her to dress for the supper that she was hosting for her two guests and the Sheridans, who would be arriving shortly.

  Now she was seated at her rosewood dressing table. Typically, she would have told her lady’s maid to do the usual topknot with side ringlets partially covering her cheeks. Yet tonight she had the urge to see if she might try something…different. For obvious reasons, she did not have mirrors mounted on her walls; why torment herself, after all?