The Infamous Duchess

by Sophie Barnes

  “Marrying me did not have the added benefit I had hoped for, Viola. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “No. I have no regrets about that. Marrying you is the only good thing to come from all this.”

  The edge of his mouth lifted. “I’m glad you think so.” He pulled her against him and pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head. “You are certainly the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “Will you help me forget this day, Henry?” She tipped her chin up and met his gaze.

  Dark brown eyes heated with understanding. “When we get home, we’ll lock ourselves away for the rest of the day,” he promised while sliding his hand over her thigh. “I’ll tend to you in ways that will rid your mind completely of this morning’s events.” He kissed the side of her neck and whispered against her skin, “All you will know is pleasure.”

  She arched against him with a throaty moan of approval. He had the skill to do as he promised and she could not wait for him to proceed.

  Chapter 26

  The first thing Henry did when they returned home was help Mr. Andrews prepare a bath for Viola. He’d sensed the tension tightening her muscles since she’d woken up that morning, and it had gotten visibly worse during the hearing. She needed to relax, so he helped her bathe and then asked his cook to prepare some food.

  They ate both lunch and dinner in their bedchamber. In between meals, Henry helped distract Viola from her troubled thoughts in the best way possible. He hated seeing her hurt and upset and despised Robert for being the cause.

  “I love you,” Viola murmured as she sank back against the pillows with a sigh. Henry lifted his head from between her thighs and pressed a kiss to her hip. “The way you make me feel . . .” She watched from beneath lowered lashes as he moved up the length of her body. “Perhaps I ought to return the favor.”

  Henry froze. “Do you mean—”

  “Yes.” She gave him the coyest smile he’d ever seen. “I daresay you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” She gave him a nudge and he rolled over onto his back, allowing her to have her wicked way with him for a change. He’d fantasized about this for weeks, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a gentleman broached with a lady.

  To Henry’s immense satisfaction, Viola approached the task with the same determination and diligence she applied to everything else in her life. Her focus was entirely on him and he, in turn, was in heaven.

  He made love to her one more time before they both collapsed with unsteady limbs and the kind of languor that would not permit them to rise from the bed. Viola’s breaths gentled and Henry realized she finally slept. She did not wake when he rose at seven, so he left her to sleep when he quit the room half an hour later, fully dressed and intent on checking up on The Red Rose.

  “I told Mr. Faulkner I’d let myself in,” a familiar voice said a short while later.

  Henry looked up from the wine orders he’d been going over and instantly grinned upon seeing his brother. “Good God, it’s great to see you again, Florian.” He stood and rounded the desk to give his brother a rough embrace. “So much has happened while you’ve been away. I scarcely know where to begin.”

  “How about the part that involves you marrying Viola?” Florian’s head tilted and a lopsided smile teased his lips while he studied Henry. “I stopped by Armswell House to announce my return and was rendered entirely speechless when Mama told me. Congratulations, by the way. I wish you every happiness in the world.”

  “Thank you, Florian. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind romance, to be honest, but I know she and I are right for each other. I can feel it right here.” He pressed his hand to his heart.

  “Shall we drink to your wife?”

  “Definitely.” Henry turned to the sideboard and prepared two glasses of brandy. He handed one to Florian and then proceeded to give his brother a detailed account of everything that had happened while he’d been away.

  “And here I was, certain my experiences this past month would have outdone yours,” Florian said. He sipped his drink with a solemn expression. “In all seriousness though, I’m sorry to hear of the difficulty Tremaine has put Viola through. It must have put a terrible strain on her, so thank you for helping her deal with it, Henry. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Not at all,” Henry said. “If anything, I owe you one.” When Florian frowned, he added, “If you’d remained here, then you would most likely have helped her instead and she and I wouldn’t be where we are today.”

  “So there’s a positive outcome in spite of a loathsome duke’s interference.”

  “A very happy one,” Henry said. He drank from his glass and studied his brother. “Now that Robert will be taking charge of the hospital, he may not want to keep you on.”

  “I may not choose to stay,” Florian said. “It all depends on whether he sells it as you suggested he might. At least my shares in the rejuvenation center outnumbered Viola’s,” Florian said. “He’ll never be able to trump my vote or make decisions without my authority.”

  “We must appreciate the small victories, Florian.” Henry raised his glass to his brother and took a long sip of his brandy.

  Henry spent the next few days either at home or at The Red Rose, though he kept his business to a minimum in favor of spending time with Viola. She’d taken to helping his gardener plant lavender next to the terrace. In spite of the old man’s protestations, Viola claimed she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and since Henry understood her, he refused to deny her the pleasure.

  “I’m thinking of buying a jasmine and a trellis for it to climb on,” she said to Henry when they arrived home a few days later after a lovely evening out with Florian and Juliette.

  Henry escorted her up the steps to their home and started unlocking the door. “Don’t you think that will look too busy?” He’d started the whole garden project because he wanted it to be simple.

  “Not at all. I’ll have it placed right against the house wall by the terrace. The scent will be divine during the summer.”

  Henry chuckled and pushed the door open. How could he deny her when the work gave her such joy? He helped her remove her bonnet and gloves before removing his own. A sharp noise coming from the library drew his attention. He glanced around. Where were Rex and Newton?

  “Stay here,” he cautioned Viola. “I just want to check something.”

  “You heard the noise too?”

  Henry nodded. He went to his study first, collected the pistol he kept in his desk drawer and continued toward the hallway. His hand settled upon the door handle, fingers curling tightly around it. He paused to listen, his body poised for action while blood pumped rapidly through his veins. Intent on catching a potential intruder off guard, he shoved the door open and aimed his pistol at the first living thing he saw. And stilled.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Guthrie raised both hands, one of which held a tumbler, in surrender. “Good evenin’ to ye as well.”

  “Who’s he?” Viola asked from behind Henry’s shoulder. She’d come up behind him and was now considering their uninvited guest with interest.

  Henry drew a sharp breath and lowered his pistol. “Carlton Guthrie.”

  Viola stared at the man before her. He’d risen when she’d appeared in the doorway, which meant he was not completely lacking in manners, even if he had broken into their home. His emerald green eyes sparkled in the golden glare of an oil lamp that stood on the table beside the chair in which he’d been sitting. They were intelligent eyes—the sort of eyes that saw everything and quickly analyzed the facts. If he’d been honest in his account of Olivia Jones’s murder, Viola believed he provided Henry with very precise information.

  She dropped her gaze to where Rex and Newton were napping. Both animals had obviously been pacified by something. The bowl next to where Newton slept had been licked completely clean. Traitors.

  “How did you get in?” Henry asked.

  Guthrie pursed h
is lips, drawing attention to the mustache right above them. It was ugly, Viola decided; too bristly and wide to be considered remotely flattering. It seemed to divide his face into two unequal parts and hid his upper lip completely from view.

  “It goes without saying that I picked the lock,” Guthrie said. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Lowell.”

  “I ought to fetch the authorities and have you arrested,” Henry said, while Viola decided that upon closer inspection, Guthrie couldn’t be over forty. Indeed, she suspected he might only be in his mid-thirties, which was quite a bit younger than he appeared at first sight.

  It was all because of that horrid mustache. “You really ought to shave that off,” she said without thinking.

  “What?” Both men asked as they turned their eyes on her.

  “The mustache,” she explained. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Per’aps that’s me intention,” Guthrie drawled.

  “I wonder if the chief magistrate is still awake,” Henry said.

  “Forget the magistrate, man, and ask yerself why I went to the trouble of waitin’ fer ye to return home? If I’d come to rob ye I would ’ave been in an’ out faster than a randy lad ’avin’ ’is first tup.”

  “Guthrie.” Henry’s voice sliced the air in warning.

  “Beg yer pardon, Mrs. Lowell. Me tongue’s been tarnished by the gutter over the years. I ’ope ye’ll forgive me.” When she nodded, he glanced at Henry. “I’ve information that ought to be of some interest to ye.”

  “About Olivia Jones?” Henry entered the room, approached Guthrie and plucked his glass from his hand. Intrigued by the odd turn the evening had taken, Viola went to sit on a nearby sofa.

  Guthrie sank back into his armchair and watched Henry refill his tumbler. “No.” Henry poured another measure for himself. “This is about St. Agatha’s Hospital.”

  “What about it?” Viola asked before Henry could manage to do so.

  “Ye care about it a great deal, do ye not?” Guthrie’s head was slightly tilted. He was studying her, assessing her, taking her measure with his emerald green eyes.

  “Of course. I acquired the building, saw to the renovations, hired the staff . . . I ran the place methodically for two years, always ensuring that patients were given the best possible care even though they received it for free.”

  “Ye provided an incredible service fer the City of London. Before ye came along, many of those ye’ve helped would ’ave kept on sufferin’, or worse. So I thank ye, Mrs. Lowell, fer takin’ care o’ the less fortunate.”

  Viola bowed her head to hide the emotion stirring her heart. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie. It is kind of you to say so.”

  He was quiet for a moment and when Viola looked back up, she saw that Henry had returned Guthrie’s tumbler to him and that he was having a drink. Henry took the vacant seat beside her on the sofa. “When I saw you last, you mentioned Tremaine’s intention to sell the hospital if he acquired it. Is that why you’re here?”

  Guthrie narrowed his gaze. “In a manner o’ speaking.”

  His eyes warmed and his lips drew into the sort of smile that convinced Viola he wasn’t accustomed to looking happy. It was strained and looked rather awkward. “I’ve purchased St. Agatha’s meself with the intention of ’avin’ it returned to the rightful owner, which incidentally ’appens to be ye, Mrs. Lowell.”

  Viola’s mouth fell open, and for a second all she could do was stare at the man sitting before her. “But why?” It was the first question that came to mind—a product of her complete and utter shock. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I must confess I’m as stunned as my wife,” Henry said. “One doesn’t spend thousands of pounds on a building only to give it away to a stranger.”

  “’Ere’s the thing of it though . . . Mrs. Lowell is not a stranger. She is yer wife, Mr. Lowell, and Florian’s employer too.” Guthrie took another sip of his drink and smacked his lips together. “I despise injustice. Ye’ve proven yer worth since ye opened St. Agatha’s two years ago, Mrs. Lowell. London needs ye. There’s no doubt in me mind about that.”

  Viola could scarcely believe it. Her luck had turned in the most unexpected way possible. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.” Her eyes misted with emotion and she struggled to stop her tears of joy from falling.

  “Me pleasure.” Guthrie’s voice had softened to a gentler tone. He sat forward in his chair and reached inside his jacket to retrieve a folded bundle of papers. “I ’ad me solicitor prepare these. All ye need to do is sign an’ St. Agatha’s is yers once again.”

  Viola accepted his offering and studied the legal text with Henry. They both agreed that it looked highly professional, which was yet another surprise. She would not have expected it, but apparently Carlton Guthrie was more than what the rumors suggested, and if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that rumors could be entirely wrong.

  When Viola returned to St. Agatha’s the following day, she was pleased to discover that nothing had changed during her absence. And with Florian back at work, things were once again running smoothly. In fact, it was as if the awful events of the past six and a half weeks had not taken place at all.

  Arriving home after a busy day, she waited for Henry to return from his club. They’d gotten into the habit of having tea together in the parlor while discussing their day. After dinner they would retire to the library for a glass of port and a game of either cards, chess, or something else entirely. Tonight they were playing The New Game of Human Life and so far, Viola was winning.

  She spun the teetotum and whooped when it landed on two before moving her mark to The Triflet at number nineteen. “I will pay one counter and advance to The Songster at number thirty-eight.”

  Henry studied the board. “If I can manage to get a five, I’ll land on the Assiduous Youth, receive two counters from the pool and overtake you.” He picked up the teetotum and spun the exact number required. Henry moved his counter and then looked at Viola. His eyes darkened and the edge of his mouth drew up in a roguish smile. “I do believe this deserves a reward,” he murmured in that intoxicating voice that made heat flare up inside her.

  “What about the game?”

  “We’ll continue it later.” Rising from his chair, he rounded the table and held out his hand. Viola placed hers in his and allowed him to help her stand. “These last few weeks have been trying on you.” He kissed her softly, gently, with all the tenderness in the world.

  “For both of us,” she said as soon as she was able to catch her breath.

  “Perhaps we ought to consider getting away for a while.” He planted a row of light kisses along her jaw. “Florian’s account of Paris makes me want to see the city for myself.”

  It was tempting. “What about the hospital?” Viola breathlessly asked while he kissed a path down her neck and along her shoulder.

  “Let my brother manage it for a while as you did while he was away.” He pushed at her sleeve, revealing more skin, and placed a series of kisses against it.

  A shudder went through her, straight to her belly, where it heated before sinking lower. “Perhaps we ought to venture upstairs?” His mouth was at her décolletage now, his intention to best her at The New Game of Life apparently forgotten for the moment.

  “Too far,” he murmured while going to work on the buttons at her back. “And besides, having you here on the sofa is a dream I’d like to realize sooner rather than later.”

  He tugged at her gown and it slipped from her shoulders. His hands swept over her curves, willing her to submit to his plan.

  “The dining room is another place in which I hope to explore my craving for you,” Henry told her later when they were both thoroughly sated. “The table there is exceptionally sturdy.”

  “You really are awful sometimes.”

  “Because I cannot resist my wife?”

  She chuckled. “No. Because I fear I won’t be able to think of anything else next time we have guests over for dinner.”

&nbs
p; Chapter 27

  Paris exceeded Henry’s expectations.

  During their month-long stay, they lodged at the Pavillon de la Reine, a charming seventeenth-century building located in the Marais, within walking distance of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Twice they visited the Louvre in order to fully appreciate the vast collection of art it housed. They enjoyed a balloon ride over the Ranelagh Gardens and dined at a restaurant that floated on the Seine.

  “Is it wrong of me not to want to go back to England?” Viola asked when their last day in Paris drew to a close.

  “Not at all, my darling. We have had a wonderful time here together, but you know, there’s no reason we can’t come back here one day.” His heart swelled as he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist. “I suspect our children will love it as much as we do.”

  Viola leaned into his embrace, cocooning him in her sweet perfume. Her courses had ceased while they’d been away and they now looked forward to a new chapter in their lives.

  “You will make a superb father,” she said. Turning in his arms, she rose up to meet his lips.

  He kissed her back with overwhelming love and affection. “And you shall be the mother every child dreams of, Viola.”

  When they arrived in London after two long days of travel, Mr. Andrews was there to greet them. “Welcome back,” he said as he helped them with their luggage. “I trust you had an enjoyable trip?”

  Henry pulled off his gloves, dropped them into his hat and handed it over to Mr. Andrews, who nodded and smiled in response to what Viola told him.

  Leaving them to their discussion, Henry went to his study to check on his correspondence. A pile of letters awaited, some of them invitations to various events and others notifications from Mr. Faulkner intended to keep Henry up to date. But one stood out from the rest because it was dated The Valley, June 10, 1820. Henry picked it up slowly. The London arrival mark had been stamped on the front three days earlier.

  Breaking the seal, Henry unfolded the papers and read. His pulse quickened with every word his eyes absorbed until he reached the end. He drew a sharp breath. “Viola?” Crossing the floor he strode out into the hallway. “It’s here,” he told her, catching her on her way up the stairs. “Confirmation that Robert killed his wife.”