Back home, Lucien discarded his hat and gloves in the entrance hall, automatically handing them over to Holford. Rubbing gritty, sleep-deprived eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he headed for the stairs, mentally counting the number of steps to his bed.
“Excuse me, my lord,” Holford called. “A gentleman awaits you in your study. He arrived with an urgent summons an hour ago and asked to wait for your return.”
“An urgent message?” He frowned. “From whom?”
“I believe the gentleman identified himself as the Duke of Warrington’s solicitor, my lord.”
Warrington’s solicitor? Here? What the hell for? Lucien searched the possibilities for that answer and only one seemed plausible: The duke meant to initiate a divorce.
Foreboding ate at his gut. The last thing he wanted was public scandal all over again. But clearly, Warrington had somehow learned of the night he had made love to the duchess. His Grace must have decided to sue him for Criminal Conversation, which Lucien knew well was the first step in obtaining a divorce through England’s lofty Parliament. He swore again.
From firsthand experience, Lucien was well aware how down-in-the-mire such proceedings could become. Lord Wayland had not chosen to appear at his own hearing to defend himself. The man hadn’t any defense. Lucien had dug up too many witnesses. It was at that proceeding he heard in minute detail of his wife’s encounters with Wayland, his one-time friend.
Gripping the ivory-handled cane in his left palm, Lucien wondered just who Warrington’s witnesses would be, and how much of the night he had spent in Serena’s arms would soon become public knowledge, and therefore, the ton’s major scandalbroth.
Inhaling a deep breath, Lucien made his way to the study.
He spotted a wiry, silver-haired man perched uncomfortably on an azure-blue elbow chair. Gray superfine stretched crisply across the solicitor’s tautly held shoulders and back.
“You wished to see me?” Lucien asked into the silence.
The small man turned and rose in a single, startled motion. Once recovered, he bowed his head respectfully.
Lucien cocked a cynical brow, wondering at the man’s deferential manner in light of an ugly, impending divorce.
“My Lord Daneridge?”
“Yes, and you are . . .?”
“Higgins. Mr. Meyer Higgins. I am . . . was the Duke of Warrington’s solicitor.”
Lucien was curious about the man’s sudden change in wording, but said nothing. “What can I do for you, Mr. Higgins? My butler indicated you have a message of an urgent nature.”
“Indeed.” The solicitor fished through his coat pockets, his thin fingers curled with age, until he produced a letter bearing the Warrington seal. Mr. Higgins held it out. Almost reluctantly, Lucien took it, fearing the missive would open a whole Pandora’s box of scandal.
When he made no move to read its contents, an alarmed Mr. Higgins said, “As I indicated earlier, this communication is of the utmost urgency. In fact, His Grace asked me to deliver this to you immediately before dealing with any of the other instructions he left regarding his estate.”
“His estate?” Lucien quizzed, a chill of dread darting through him. Certainly, the Duke’s estate had nothing to do with his divorce. “What do you mean?”
“I’m terribly sorry. I assumed you already knew . . . I mean, since he instructed me to come to you first, I assumed that you and His Grace were well acquainted.” When Lucien didn’t respond to the implied question, Mr. Higgins continued. “His Grace was killed by highwaymen last evening on Hampstead Heath.”
Killed? There had to be some mistake. Lucien’s mind whirled as shock numbed his body. “Dear God.”
Mr. Higgins cleared his throat. “Yes. The coachman brought the body back to Her Grace early this morning.”
Serena. Yes, what about Her Grace? Would she mourn her husband’s passing? Or feel a sense of emancipation? Would those sultry blue eyes be shining with tears of sorrow or joy?
Those unanswered questions and others rolled through the confusion in his mind as he broke the duke’s wax seal and read.
Lord Daneridge,
If you receive this missive, it is because I have died by means most foul. Nor am I the only target of this evil; my wife will be in terrible danger after I am gone. I tell you this because I hope, in light of your intimate acquaintance with Serena, you will consent to protect her from the violence that has ended my life and threatens to end hers also. I beg you to consider this plea. I trust no other with her welfare. Watch over her. Keep her from harm’s way by any means necessary so I may rest in peace.
Cyrus, Duke of Warrington
What “evil” had Warrington written about? He could not discern how a duchess, unless traveling on a near-deserted road, could be in danger from highwaymen. And how on earth had Warrington learned of his own “intimate acquaintance” with Serena? Had she told Warrington in the hopes of provoking a response from her busy, politically involved husband? Maybe that had been her game all along.
Slowly, Lucien lifted his gaze from the letter, trying to smooth out his scowl of confusion. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Mr. Higgins. What exactly did Warrington want?”
The small solicitor cleared his throat in obvious discomfort. “I fear I cannot shed any light on the letter, my lord. His Grace did not share its contents with me, which I must admit I found highly irregular. In fact, if I may say so, I found the entire . . . situation highly irregular.”
“Situation?”
“Yes, well, His Grace usually consulted with me in all legal matters . . . and occasionally a personal one or two,” he boasted. “But in this, he was most secretive, and most insistent I reach you immediately upon being notified of his death.”
Lucien wondered how much Mr. Higgins did or did not know about himself and the duchess. “And he left nothing else? No other clue?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord, except the wish that you attend the reading of his will.”
“Why?” Lucien demanded. “I can’t see a reason for my presence. I cannot possibly be mentioned.”
“But you are, my lord.” When Lucien opened his mouth to question the solicitor further, Mr. Higgins cut in. “I’m not at liberty to say more now. The reading will be a week hence in my offices. I shall leave the address and time with your butler.”
Lucien nodded and turned to show the man out when, unexpectedly, Mr. Higgins spoke again. “You know, my lord . . . it’s as if His Grace knew his time had come. He composed that missive and rewrote his entire will this Tuesday past.”
Less than a week ago. Lucien swallowed nervously, confusion infusing every thought. What the hell was all this about?
The diminutive solicitor took his leave. Lucien nodded absently to the man, his mind in turmoil. He read Warrington’s missive once more, slowly this time, hoping to discern a message he had missed the first time. Nothing. Only a jumble of unanswered questions.
A moment later came the realization that if Mr. Higgins couldn’t explain the meaning of this mysterious missive, a certain duchess might well be able to.
CHAPTER TEN
Despite the fact Lucien knew Warrington was dead, the sight of straw dusting the street before the town house brought the secondhand news into the realm of stark reality.
At the door, a conspicuously red-eyed butler greeted Lucien. “I’m sorry, my lord. Her Grace is now mourning and not receiving callers.”
“I am aware of Warrington’s death.” Lucien paused to withdraw Warrington’s letter from his coat pocket. “His solicitor delivered this missive this morning from the duke. I must consult the duchess about its contents.”
Discreetly, the butler’s eyes drifted down to examine the broken seal. It must have satisfied him, because he opened the door further, allowing Lucien to step into the entrance hall.
“May I say who is calling?”
“Daneridge,” Lucien answered impatiently.
“Right this way, Lord Daneridge. Her Grace is in the duke’s
study.”
Gripping the handle of his cane for support, Lucien followed. They stopped before a pair of massive dark wood doors, embellished in Baroque-style carvings. The butler announced his presence with a discreet knock.
“Yes, Mannings?”
Lucien knew that soft voice. It was just a hint shy of husky. It rang with femininity. Her voice brought recollections of a soft gardenia scent, her honey skin, hair of golden fire . . . and the powerful combustion of her awakened passion. He swore beneath his breath, willing the surfacing memories back into the recesses of his memory, where he could again call them forth at a more appropriate time.
“Lord Daneridge to see you, Your Grace.”
She paused. “Show him in, Mannings.”
The butler opened one imposing door, and Lucien entered. Immediately, his eyes fixed upon the petite width of her back as she stood stiffly before the white marble fireplace. He noted she had dressed, from the cap covering her glorious golden hair to her no-nonsense slippers, in unrelieved black. Because she meant it or because it was socially expected?
Slowly, she turned. She crossed her arms over her chest. He wondered if the gesture was designed to ward off the cold or keep him away.
“My lord,” she acknowledged, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lucien nodded in return. He took three steps toward her; on the fourth, she backed away.
Her skin did not appear a healthy peach tone, as it had the night he had held her. Today, she looked pale and gaunt. The change had as much to do with her grief-stricken state as with the mourning black she wore. Her blue-gray eyes, rimmed in sleepless, tear-induced red, stood out in her oval face. For an adulteress, she looked genuinely anguished.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, and discovered he felt the sentiment.
She bit her lower lip mercilessly. Lucien saw her wrestling against the urge to cry.
“I heard less than an hour ago,” he continued.
Still, she said nothing.
She looked out of place here. Delicate amidst the towering mahogany bookcases lined with political and historical titles, incongruently sorrowful beside the ivory and warm green of the library’s decor, utterly feminine within her late husband’s masculine high-ceilinged domain.
Behind her, above the fireplace, hung her gilt-framed portrait, one she obviously sat for in happier times. Her painted expression was placid, her smoky blue eyes open and friendly—so different than the guarded look she wore now. The artist had captured the curve of her mouth perfectly. Her lips whispered that she knew a secret, a pleasurable one. Lucien found himself wanting to persuade her to share it with him.
“Why did you come?” she finally asked, interrupting his runaway thoughts.
Clearing his throat, he answered, “Mr. Higgins came to see me this morning. He delivered this missive your husband wrote me last week.”
Serena took the letter from his extended hand with trembling fingers. Slowly, apprehension flashing across her pale face, she unfolded it. Lucien held his breath while she read. He wondered how much of this, if any, would be a surprise to her.
As her eyes moved across the paper, she gasped. Her cheeks suffused with a becoming pink that relieved the severity of her mourning black.
She finished and refolded the missive, careful to keep her gaze directed down.
“Well?” he prompted. “What does this mean?”
She blinked rapidly, unsuccessfully fighting off a barrage of tears. The crystal drops fell down her face as she clutched the letter in her hand. “I’m so sorry. Terribly sorry. Cyrus should never . . .” She trailed off in obvious mortification.
“Never what?” he asked, determined to keep his voice gentle.
She paused and turned away. Lucien watched as sobs shook her shoulders. “H-he should never have contacted you this way, never tried to force responsibility for my welfare upon you.”
“But he did because he knew I seduced you, is that not right?”
Gaze averted down, Serena nodded.
Lucien stared at the nape of her neck, watched tendrils of her fair hair caress her soft skin. Her shoulders shook in grief again. His self-control snapped. Certainly she deserved a bit of sympathy on her loss. Even if she had cuckolded the man, she had clearly cared for him on some level.
He moved toward her and set aside his cane, leaning it against a gleaming mahogany desk. He remembered the searing blade of grief well, still experienced its gut-ripping pain every day. And she looked like a woman seized by that pain. He paused, puzzled by an urge to lend her comfort, despite her deception. How would she react to the physical contact? How would he?
He reached for her, lightly placing his hands on her shoulders. Beneath his palms, her shoulders lifted and stiffened, but she did not protest. Slowly, praying he would not scare her, he turned her into his arms.
He needed only half a step to close the distance between them and cautiously took it, hearing the rustle of her black crepe as he moved closer to her body. His heart thudding against the wall of his chest, feeling an awareness of her almost tangible grief, he eased his arms around her. Without a word, she accepted the embrace, the fabric of her widow’s weeds swaying against his legs as she cried.
No coyness, no ploy to use the situation to instill pity; she was much different than Ravenna in that respect. Instead, she welcomed his comfort by moving further into his embrace, sliding her arms around his middle.
God, it felt good to hold her, so good he hated to admit how much. The embrace made him all too cognizant of the fact he had yearned for the perfect fit of her body against his, made him aware that one night with her hadn’t been nearly enough. With her softness, her pliancy, he could almost push aside the harsh fact that she was an adulteress.
Almost, but not quite.
He shoved the thought away and soothed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “How did he find out about us?”
She swallowed and wiped her eyes with a soft, white handkerchief, exactly like the one he kept in his pocket.
“He—he overheard us talking in the library at the Raddingtons’ ball.”
Lucien swore softly. “How angry was he?”
Against his chest, she shook her head. “He wasn’t.”
He frowned, trying to digest her answer. “What did he say?”
“Very little. In fact, he didn’t tell me he knew about that night until last week.”
The same time Warrington had rewritten his will. A coincidence? Probably not. From everything he had heard, the Duke of Warrington had not been the kind of man who allowed anything to happen by coincidence. “Do you know why he waited so long to tell you?
At that, she swallowed and backed out of his embrace. “He had you investigated.”
“He what?” Lucien exploded. “What the hell for? Why didn’t he just call me out?”
“Cyrus never believed in violence and did not want to duel.” She shrugged. “As I said, he wasn’t angry.”
“Why did he send me this letter?”
She paused and turned. She began pacing, and Lucien watched the black toes of her slippers peek out from beneath a black flounce trimming the bottom of her dress. “I think you should sit down, Lord Daneridge.”
Was she planning to impart bad news?
She turned her gaze upon him, clearly refusing to say anything more until he had done as she bid. Reluctantly, a mixture of suspicion and apprehension moving through his blood, he sat on an emerald brocade sofa.
Serena took a deep breath, the air lifting her shoulders before she said, “You were right earlier. Cyrus believed, though incorrectly, our liaison should make my safety your responsibility, and he had you investigated because he wanted to ascertain your suitability as a protector.”
“And what was his verdict?” Lucien asked tightly.
She lowered her gaze. “He was quite satisfied, but you needn’t heed it. I hardly hold you accountable. I shall see to myself.”
Lucien cocked a brow in question. “Exactly what is
this danger he wrote of so nebulously? I fail to see how this same highwayman could endanger your safety.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, her hands moving together. “Cyrus was quite protective of me, perhaps too much so. He often imagined all manner of perils that could befall me.”
Lucien didn’t believe her for an instant. He knew Warrington’s reputation. The man would never have written that note, would never have involved him in Serena’s life, because of an imagined danger. The man, quite simply, had been too shrewd for such nonsense.
And Warrington had been murdered.
The question was, what was Serena hiding?
“How about the truth this time?” He laced his tone with hard-edged command.
She hesitated, and he continued, “Either you tell me, or I shall find out for myself. Don’t think I won’t.”
She clenched frustrated fists. “Cyrus erred in sending you that missive. It means nothing.”
Lucien bolted from the sofa, ignoring the protesting jolt from his knee. “Damn it, he sent me the note for a reason. I want to know why.”
“Do not use that language with me! Whatever you think, I’m still a lady.”
“I’ll use any kind of language I damn well need to get you to tell me the truth.” He grabbed her arm, fingers gripping tightly. “If you’re truly in danger, I want to know.”
“You have no right!”
“I’m making it my right.”
Yanking her arm from his grasp, she held her palms forward to ward him off. “All right. The danger Cyrus wrote of is not from the highwaymen. It’s from the man who hired them.”
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