A Secret Desire

by Lane, Charlie

  Prompt as usual—one of his wife’s finer qualities.

  “Sit,” he commanded her.

  She sat. She, at least, had sense. He’d trained her well.

  “You know the Duke of Devonmere.”

  She nodded. “He’s brought his son round to sense, then?”

  “It would appear not. May I introduce the Earl of Bennington?”

  She nodded at the old man. “I’d curtsy, but as you see, I’m already sitting. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” A sign of disrespect he’d usually reprimand, but not today.

  The old earl nodded, a curt, jerky movement, his eyes wary. The other duke, too, seemed suspicious. Good. Let them wonder.

  Valingford folded his hands together behind his back. Blood had continued to pour from his nose, but holding a handkerchief to it lacked dignity. “These two men are concerned you’re planning to spread rumors about Lord Rigsby and Miss Blake.”

  His duchess opened her mouth and snapped it shut. She studied a bookshelf across the room. His wife had no interest in reading. She was keeping her own counsel.

  “You are not to go gabbing to any of your friends about either of those personages.”

  His duchess shot from her chair. “But—”

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  She sat.

  “Must I repeat myself?”

  “No.”

  He turned to the other duke and the earl. “Are you satisfied?”

  The other duke narrowed his eyes. “My son can marry as he pleases, and we’ll not hear a bad word spoken of him or his bride?”

  “Precisely.”

  The other duke turned to the old earl. “I’m satisfied. Are you?”

  The old earl grunted, shaking his hand out. “Imminently.” He bowed low to his wife before leaving the room. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  Neither men wasted a parting word on him. A grievous insult. Valingford raised his handkerchief to his nose. He’d have to call the doctor. A morning of grievous insults. They wouldn’t get away with it. He turned to his wife. “There are to be no rumors and harsh words, madame, but by all means, do your worst.”

  She fluttered her eyelids in confusion for a good thirty seconds. She’d never been particularly quick-witted, but then again, a more intelligent woman wouldn’t be as pliable. He’d take dumb and pliable over smart and independent any day. Finally, her eyes widened into saucers and her mouth dropped into an O. “Oh. I see.” A smile slide across her face. “I know exactly the thing. Lord Rigsby can’t marry a dead woman, after all.”

  “Damnit, woman!” He exploded toward her, gripping the arms of the chair she sat in, hissing in her face. “Don’t say such things out loud.” He straightened and turned back to his desk, saying in the same voice he’d inquire about the weather, “But by all means, carry on.”

  Devonmere and Bennington weren’t the only ones who didn’t need rumors, and dead women told no tales.

  Chapter 23

  Grayson didn’t know what kind of welcome to expect from Tobias Blake when he knocked on the door of his bachelor’s abode, but it wasn’t Tobias answering his own door in ungartered stockings and an untucked shirt.

  “Oh,” Tobias said, blinking at the sun while holding a tumbler-toting hand up to block the light. “What time is it?”

  Grayson shoved a foot into the doorframe in case Tobias decided to slam the door in his face. “Time for you to make up for your misdeeds.”

  Tobias turned and roamed away from the front door. “It’s you. Interesting. I suppose.” He hiccupped. “But tedious. Come to knock me over the head again?”

  Grayson followed him down a short hall and into a library with a roaring fire. “I need your help.”

  “And why should I help you?” Tobias drawled.

  “Because you are responsible for this whole mess.” Grayson bit off each word, swallowing his anger each time. He needed Tobias, and Tobias did have sins to make up for. Grayson looked at the books scattered across a nearby table. “Why are you reading Shakespeare? Is this where you get your ideas for interfering with others’ lives?”

  Tobias sighed, dropped into an armchair, and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been in a singular mood for gloom and doom. I didn’t invite you in, by the way. Do you think you could show yourself out?”

  “No. Now sober up. I suppose I’ll say again, I need your help.”

  “With Henrietta, I suppose. You have a love-crazed look about you.” He pretended to gag.

  “You’ll help me, or I will crack you over the skull again, though it’s so thick you’ll barely notice.”

  Tobias reached a hand to his left eye, swollen and purple from Grayson’s fist. “I wish you’d hit me below the cravat. This black eye actually matches my coat.”

  “You’re not wearing a coat.”

  “I can’t until the bloody eye heals. Now go away, cretin.”

  Grayson sat, trying not to be distracted by the question of what color Tobias’s coat would have to be to match his purple, blue eye.

  Tobias groaned, poking the sensitive swollen flesh.

  What right had the coward to groan? What right had he to his fire and brandy and Shakespeare and comfort when he’d thrown their lives into turmoil? “Why, Tobias? Why did you tell the Duchess of Valingford?”

  “Because I’m a miserable ass, my friend.”

  “At least you know truth when you see it! What are you going to do about it?”

  “One can’t change one’s nature. The villain is always the villain, the fool the fool, and the lover’s always in love.”

  “You’re not in love, so which are you—the villain or the fool?”

  “The fool, of course.”

  Grayson snorted. No need to deny it.

  Tobias shifted in his chair, as if the seat cushion had turned into a pile of rocks. “I lied last year because I hated you then. You’d become a viscount, would be a duke one day. And I’d thought you’d thrown over my sister for better, titled prospects. I hated you.” He spit the words through contorted lips. Then his face smoothed, the fire in his eyes died, and he brushed an invisible speck of lint off his shoulder. “So, I lied. Then yesterday, I wanted to protect Henrietta. I thought you delusional. I thought you only meant to play with her and leave her. I had no idea Henrietta would come storming out of the room. And,” his voice softened, “I had no idea her grace suspected Hen in the first place. Had I known I never would have …” he swallowed. “I never would have.”

  “Make up for it, then.”

  Tobias tilted a hopeful gaze Grayson’s way.

  “The duchess has threatened not only your sister but your family. Will you sit by and let her?”

  Tobias shrugged. “As long as you wed Lady Willow, nothing untoward will occur.”

  “Bloody hell, Tobias! I love your sister, and she loves me. I refuse to marry Lady Willow, but I also refuse to let Henrietta or her family suffer for our happiness.”

  “She could never be truly happy if we suffered because of her actions.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She could find another man to make her happy.”

  “Would you like your right eye to match your left?”

  “Down, boy.”

  “Help me. Help Henrietta.”

  Tobias sighed. “Fine. But only because I do love a good intrigue, and even more, if you can believe it, I love my sister. Come on, then.” He left the room, pulling loose stockings off his feet as he hopped down the hall and up the stairs. “I must be properly dressed for plotting. We’ll talk while Crofton works his magic. Do you have anything in mind?”

  “The Duke of Valingford is not a man to be easily intimidated.”

  “So, no, then.” He shook his head sadly and opened a door.

  “I was hoping you’d know what to do next.” Grayson followed Tobias into his bedroom and eased into a seat by fireplace. “You were always the brain behind our intrigues.”

  “And it was always good to have your brawn on board with our schemes. I
wouldn’t have been able to get a sheep into Lady Ewings’s ballroom on my own.”

  “I would have never thought of it on my own.”

  “You’re a straightforward type of man, lacking in creativity and finesse. You would have simply challenged Stubly to a duel.”

  “Stubly? The man you dueled the night I met Henrietta? You did challenge him to a duel. I was your second. I think I—”

  “I didn’t challenge him.”

  “Excuse me?” Grayson leaned forward.

  “Couldn’t. Didn’t want to show him too much respect.”

  Grayson frowned. “How’d we end up in a field in Green Park before dawn, then?”

  Tobias smiled, wide and real, the first true point of joy he’d shown all day. “I taunted him, insulted his father, grandfather, widowed uncle. You name it. I threw words at it. Didn’t insult the ladies though. Of course. In the end, he challenged me.” His smile stretched wider. “Yes. Do you know how some fellows use a glove to issue a challenge?”

  “Did he slap you with one?”

  “No. But I was ready to respond likewise. Just in case.”

  “You didn’t slap him with a glove, did you?”

  “Yes, I did. It was the first time I’d been challenged to a duel, instead of doing the challenging, and I wanted to do it right.”

  “How very romantic.”

  “I put rocks in it first. Plotting is all in the details, dear viscount.”

  It felt foreign to laugh, but good. Cleansing.

  “Ah, there you are Crofton. The pink satin, I think.” Tobias looked at Grayson in the mirror, holding a pale-blue cravat up to his neck. “We’ll fight gossip with gossip.”

  “Do you know any gossip about the duke?”

  “No. His reputation is stainless. But that’s all the more reason there must be gossip, scandal, a hint of impropriety, we can dig up. And all the more reason gathering gossip on them will gain us what we want—a release from matrimonial obligations. They won’t want to muddy their spotless reputation, after all.”

  Grayson leaned back into the armchair and allowed himself to relax for the first time in days. How natural it was to fall back into the easy rhythm of friendship with Tobias. Terrifyingly easy, actually. But why stay mad at the man? He was Henrietta’s brother; they’d likely have to spend Christmas together. And christenings.

  Christenings. Those meant babies. And babies meant other delightful activities.

  “Wake up, Rigsby. Off we go a-gossip hunting.”

  Grayson opened his eyes and rose. Then closed them again. He tried opening them once more but the staid vision of Tobias Blake before him was exactly the same as before. “Are you wearing black? All black?”

  He shrugged. “The only thing that matched my eye. And don’t ask why I wish to match when I’ve persistently refused to do so since coming of age. I’m not talking about it. Now, focus.”

  Grayson followed Tobias down the stairs and out the door. “Where are we going?”

  “The Earl of Bennington’s residence.”

  “Your grandfather?” Grayson’s pulse raced. Henrietta would be there. But he wouldn’t seek her out. Not yet. He wanted to be able to hold her without fear or misunderstanding or any other bloody walls between them.

  “The man’s a veritable fount of information. He’s been around longer than the rest of them. Should’ve kicked the bucket ages ago, but what fun would that be? If there’s even a whiff of scandal surrounding Valingford, or ever has been, he’ll know.”

  * * *

  The Earl of Bennington stared at Grayson and Blake with wide eyes over round glasses. “Valingford?” His face fell into a satisfied smirk as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Don’t you young pups worry about it. I’ve taken care of him.”

  “Taken care of him? Grandpapa, what, precisely, do you mean? Do I need to worry about you hanging from the end of a rope anytime soon?”

  “No.” Bennington grumbled, “I spoke with him earlier today.” He nodded at Grayson. “Your father was there, too. Together, we put the duke’s thumbs to the screws. There will be no gossip.” He stood and wagged a finger at Grayson. “I expect a proper proposal from you, Lord Rigsby. A proper courtship, too. There’s to be no eight-month baby. Do you understand?”

  Grayson stared down the man’s wagging finger and into very serious eyes. They contained steel. “Yes, my lord. I understand. Henrietta deserves no less.”

  Bennington clapped. “Grand!”

  “I hate to interrupt this interlude,” Tobias drawled, “but how, exactly, did you get the duke to stop his wife from gossiping? Curiosity overwhelms me. I must know.”

  Bennington waved them both close, and they leaned in. He waved them closer, and they leaned in further still. “He’s money poor!” Bennington guffawed. “No ready blunt. Not even a dowry for his daughter.” His gaze flicked toward Grayson. “Your arrangement with the young lady was, I assume, how your father knew such a juicy little detail.”

  Blake leaned back with a whistle. “And you knew, Grandpapa, because you know everything.”

  “Don’t forget it, boy.”

  “You’ve deprived us of our fun,” Tobias sighed. “Now what do we do?”

  Bennington looked at the clock across the room. “Unless I miss my mark, Hen is currently braving what she thinks is a scornful ton full of gossip about her virtue. She will wish to know the gossip has been stopped before it began.”

  The old man made an excellent point. Grayson slapped his hat back on his head. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Bennington. We’ll talk details then.”

  “Hold on, Grayson, I’m coming along. Nothing better to do.”

  Bennington followed them to the door and waved them down the street. “Have fun! I’m going to take a nap.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand absently. “Exhausting day, you know.”

  Tobias kept stride with Grayson as they headed toward Hyde Park. “That was anticlimactic. Here we are planning for a brawl when the brawl has already been won for us. By a couple of aged roosters.”

  “I don’t care how it was done, Tobias. It’s done.” And his father had helped. His father! Would this day cease to produce miracles? Grayson’s entire world seemed flipped upside down from grim despair and determination to hope and happiness, and all before dinner. Remarkable.

  “Next stop, happily ever after, I suppose.”

  Grayson pulled his hat down low. “Yes, something exactly like that.”

  Chapter 24

  Lemon danced nervously on the outskirts of Hyde Park, and Henrietta leaned low to soothe the beast. “You do this all the time, darling. You’ll prance to make my skirts shake just so, and tomorrow the shop will be full of women ordering new habits. Nothing has changed.” Her words were false vibrato. Henrietta had changed. Her own nerves left her rigid in the saddle, and Lemon felt it, dancing to run them away from harm.

  “We are not cowards,” she lectured the mare, pulling herself tall. Go away, nerves. No need for you here! “Mercy!” She spied the Duchess of Valingford’s open carriage. Lady Willow sat across from her, glassy eyed and disinterested in her surroundings, and her mother—the dragon herself—leaned close to a man on a horse, sharing a confidence. “Oh, no.”

  The tableau before her was the origin of her demise, then; the first whisper of gossip that would bring her down. Henrietta peered more closely. To whom did the duchess speak? “Not Stubly!” Henrietta groaned. “Anyone but Stubly.” The gossip would not change his perspective of her. His low opinion of Henrietta’s morals was the very reason he’d ended up in a duel with Tobias the night she’d met Grayson. He would spread the gossip with ravenous glee. Everyone would know, and soon.

  No invitations to balls or teas or musicals.

  No friends visiting her at home.

  No friends. Except for Ada of course, but she was so far away in the country.

  No customers ordering riding habits tomorrow.

  No ton snapping up her father’s
wares, which meant no shop, no factory, no dream.

  And yet, she couldn’t sink fully into gloom. The duchess’s gossip would stem from only one truth: Grayson was, unequivocally, not marrying Lady Willow.

  Elation shot through her, and Lemon stilled beneath her as Henrietta’s nervousness fled. She could weather much loss, could help her family survive it, with Grayson beside her. She’d go to Grayson, tell him she was no longer afraid.

  But first, she urged Lemon into a canter and rode through the park with her head held high. She looked neither left nor right and nodded a greeting only to those who accidentally caught her eye. She barely breathed, and by the time she reached Rotten Row, she waved to the groom who followed sedately behind her. “Take Lemon for a moment please, Thomas?” A copse of trees near the serpentine called to her, a refuge from the narrowed eyes and sharp tongues she’d imagined during her ride. There was surely nothing cowardly about taking a bit of a break before turning around and facing critics once more. “I’m merely going to step over there for a moment.”

  The footman frowned. “It’s not wise, miss.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not going far, and I’m coming right back. I need to stretch my legs, and the flowers look lovely.”

  His head dipped in a curt nod.

  The ground beneath her feet felt solid and cool. The buzz of gossiping aristocrats faded behind her. This corner of the park was quiet, peaceful, and she reveled in the cool afternoon shadows between the trees. She breathed the shadows in and out, losing count, and pushed back tears. She didn’t deserve to cry. She was the seamstress of her own misery, after all.

  She heard the voices first, snickering in the afternoon air, bouncing through the trees. “There she is, lads.” Stubly sauntered toward her, rumpled as if he’d not yet returned home after a night of carousing and leering. He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a sip of something before passing it to a Corinthian nearby. “The whore.”

  They surrounded her, six in all, and she swung in a circle, trying and failing to keep them all in her vision at once.