A Secret Desire

by Lane, Charlie

  “It’s all a bit convoluted, but Tobias’s plan hinges on everyone thinking you’re dead, which is much more believable if you’re not here, quite clearly alive.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Me too. But it sounds a good enough way to get out of this mess without killing anyone. We need information from Stubly more than we need his lifeless corpse, much as it pains me to admit it.” They had to find out who had put him up to the attack. He pressed his forehead against Henrietta’s and smiled a grim smile. “But now you know as much as I do. Are you pleased?”

  “I’m not sure. Yes?”

  “Good. Now stay put.” He lifted her and deposited her inside the carriage, then shut the door.

  “Hey!”

  Tobias clapped him on the back. “Good call with the manhandling, Gray. Only way we could get this done, I’m afraid. But she’s going to be mighty pi—”

  Henrietta’s head appeared in the window. “I am mighty pi—”

  Grayson and Tobias marched onto the field.

  “Do you think anyone saw her? Heard her?” Tobias asked.

  Grayson eyed the gentlemen in the distance. They were far enough away and at an awkward angle to the coach. “It’s possible they did not. If they did, we can say it was a besotted lady of your acquaintance. Ready?”

  “Born so, I believe.” Tobias studied Grayson, head tilted. “Wait.” He yanked at Grayson’s cravat. “Undo it completely. And rip your sleeve.” He reached up and tussled Grayson’s hair. “There. Now, that’s the bereaved suitor look.”

  Grayson eyed Tobias’s immaculate coat and trousers. “What about your own? Don’t you need the bereaved brother look?”

  “No. I’d look immaculate in bereavement.” He waved his hand in the air. “Everyone knows it.”

  Grayson cast a final look at the coach where Henrietta hid, then turned. Everything hinged on the next couple of minutes—honor, information, their future together. But if anyone had seen Henrietta, all of it would be lost.

  Chapter 28

  Energy bounced Henrietta up and down on her seat. If she didn’t sit still, Stubly and his second would wonder why Blake’s carriage bounced so on a windless morning. She sat on her hands and bit her lips together.

  She tried to think of calming things—her father’s factory before the workers arrived, when the usually whirring machines were still and silent around her. A ride on Lemon through the fields of her grandfather’s estate. An afternoon spent chatting with Ada. A shadowy, moonlit garden. Stolen kisses.

  As her thoughts turned to Grayson, her wild restlessness returned. She craned her neck to see better out the window, but the angle of the coach to the dueling ground was inconveniently awkward. And there were trees between the coach and the open space where Tobias and Grayson had so recently joined Stubly and his second. Blast those trees! If Tobias and Grayson were going to reenact a Shakespearean scene, she wanted to see it!

  But perhaps the trees were the key and not the problem.

  Henrietta creaked the coach door open and slipped out. She arranged her hood over her head and pulled the cloak tight about her, maneuvering around the coach. Surely, engrossed in the business of the duel, no one would see her creeping closer, using the trees to block the men’s view of her approach. They were grouped together in the center of a copse. Tobias stood higher than them all, but everyone’s interest focused on Grayson, whose hair collected the growing morning light.

  Henrietta shot from one tree to the next until she heard voices carrying on the wind.

  Stubly paced back and forth at a frantic pace. “I didn’t mean to! I swear. I’m more talk than anything,” he whimpered, rubbing his palms down his face. “It was only a bit of fun. If I scared her enough, she’d leave, and the lady would be appeased.”

  Grayson stood still as a statue, but she heard his voice rise above Stubly’s moaning. “She’s dead, Stubly. And it’s your fault.”

  Stubly’s shoulders sank and shook, then his head popped up. “No, it’s not! It’s her fault!”

  “Henrietta is blameless, you blackguard,” Grayson growled.

  Oh, this was good. She’d have missed it all, too, had she stayed in the coach.

  Stubly stopped, stuck his chest out. “Not the whore—”

  Grayson charged into the space between them, his hand fisted in Stubly’s cravat, before Henrietta could register Stubly’s words.

  “She. Was. My Wife.” Grayson ground out. “She. Is. Dead.”

  Wife? What an unexpected, yet admittedly brilliant, addition to the farce. He was very good at this, wasn’t he? Lust pooled in her belly, surged through her. Inappropriate timing, perhaps, but she couldn’t help it, not with such magnificence standing before her.

  Grayson released the gasping Stubly, shoving him away.

  Tobias dropped to his knees. Beating his chest with his fists, he yelled, “I’ll eat your heart in the marketplace!”

  Henrietta groaned. Did that line come directly from the play? It must have. It sounded entirely Shakespearean.

  Stubly rose to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said between gasps. “But it wasn’t my fault. It was hers.”

  “Who is ‘her’?” Grayson growled.

  Stubly spit out two words, spittle flying. “The Duchess of Valingford.”

  “I knew it!” Tobias exclaimed. “Do it, Gray.” He motioned toward the pistol Grayson held steady in his hand. “We have another call to make this morning.”

  Henrietta shook her head. They’d gotten what they wanted—information! Surely Grayson wouldn’t shoot Stubly now. But he raised the pistol, his jaw set in murderous determination. He’d forgotten the plan. He meant to put a bullet between Stubly’s eyes.

  No! This farce, this entire plan, may have accomplished its goal, but it could go no further. Besides, it was entirely impractical. Henrietta couldn’t very well pretend to be dead for the rest of her life. What had Shakespeare been thinking?

  Henrietta marched into the clearing, thrusting her hood back.

  All heads whipped toward her as she approached.

  Stubly’s eyes bulged. “Wh—wh—what is that?!” He dropped to his knees, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

  Did he think her a ghost? Interesting. Perhaps she could bring this little drama to a close.

  “I am the ghost of Miss Henrietta Blake.” Hm. Perhaps too formal for a ghost. If only she had chains to rattle. That would be the thing. But lacking chains, she moaned a bit. “My soul is reeeeessstlesssssss. I cannot sleep until my tormenter, my killeeeerrrrr, is brought to justiiiiiiiicccce.” Mercy, she sounded ridiculous. No more moaning. She placed her fists on her hips and arched an eyebrow at Grayson. “Shoot him if you must. Let’s not stretch this out any longer.”

  Her words seemed to startle him. The gun lowered a bit. “Perhaps I will. Just his leg.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Tobias popped to his feet. “Do as the woman, er, ghost says, Gray. Shoot the scoundrel.”

  Gray cocked the gun, aimed. “If you say so.”

  Henrietta had never loved him more. It didn’t make sense. She’d been doing nothing but begging him not to shoot Stubly. There must be a primitive secret slice of her that craved violence. Or craved a man who would shoot someone for her sake. He didn’t have to shoot Stubly, merely the idea he would was enough to melt her heart.

  “Wait!” Stubly held out a hand, wild eyed.

  “I have to. The ghost of my dead wife says I must.”

  “No!” Stubly raked his hands through his hair, then looked up. “I’ll leave. Go to France.”

  “Farther.” Henrietta looked him in the eye for the first time. “Much farther.”

  “Canada.”

  “Perfect.” She strode toward Grayson. “You don’t have to shoot him, but make sure he gets on a boat.”

  “Yes, my love,” Grayson, pistol still trained on Stubly, took three paces to Henrietta and dropped a kiss on the top of her he
ad. “You were supposed to stay in the coach, Hen,” he mumbled into her hair.

  “Did you have an endgame to this little drama?”

  He scratched behind his ear.

  “I thought not. And now we know who put him up to it. Go get him on a boat. I’m going home.”

  “To Manchester?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He strode toward Stubly, then stopped, handed the pistol to Tobias, exchanged low words, and trotted back to her. “Your brother will take care of Stubly. I’ll take you home.”

  Henrietta turned her steps toward Hyde Park. “My carriage may still be waiting in Hyde Park, beyond the hill.” Or maybe not. The driver could have taken off back home to alert her grandparents of her escape.

  Grayson fell in step beside her, tangling his hand with hers. The ground beneath them rose upward, and they leaned forward to tackle the climb together. When they reached the top of the hill, Grayson dropped Henrietta’s hand. “It’s an odd sensation to be one person one minute and another person the next. Grayson Maxwell turns into Viscount Rigsby on the arrival of a single letter. No. With the slice of a single sabre, the entire world viewed me differently. Even you.”

  She drummed her fingers on her shoulder. He was right. He’d gained a title and she’d viewed him, his desires, differently than she had before. She felt her cheeks heat while the rest of her body chilled. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

  “No. I cannot fully comprehend your experience, losing your brother and becoming someone else to the rest of the world. But I do know what it’s like to …” How to say it? “To be two people at once. I’m an earl’s granddaughter. And I’m a factory owner’s daughter. Not everyone can make sense of it. Or me.”

  He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on top of her head. She sighed into him, delighting in the hard warmth of his arms and chest. “I’m so sorry, Gray. I should never have treated you differently after your brother died.”

  His arms tightened.

  “I’ll never treat you like a future duke again,” she promised.

  He snorted a laugh. “Glad to hear it.”

  They stood together, looking out over Hyde Park. As the sun rose, the fog rolling over the park’s grassy carpet dispersed. The fog between them lifted as well.

  Grayson cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, too. None of this would have happened if we had not … if I had not …”

  She turned in his arms and buried her nose in his chest.

  His palms rubbed up and down her spine, soothing.

  She spoke into his chest. “Grayson, will you care if gossip about us ever does get out?”

  “Will you still be accepted by the Earl and Countess of Bennington?”

  She laughed. “My grandparents? Of course.”

  “And Lord and Lady Stonefield?”

  “Of course. Ada will likely marry their son soon, and she’d never let them cut me. Lady Stonefield would never even think of it. She’s a dear heart.”

  “And don’t forget the Duke of Devonmere.”

  Her face fell. “Your father. He’ll be disappointed.”

  Grayson chuckled. “I think not. You’ll find a warmer welcome from my father than you expect.” He stroked her hair. “So, three prominent families who won’t cut you. And the others will come around. Love matches are forgiven many sins, I hear.”

  “The Duke and Duchess of Valingford won’t forgive a thing. In fact, they want me dead.”

  “Hen, we’ll take care of this.”

  “How can we fight the duke and duchess? All we have to prove their guilt is the word of a man with a pistol to his heart.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  Dear man. She pushed away from him to reach up and stroke his chin. When was the last time he’d shaved? The bristles pricked her fingers. “Together.”

  He pulled away, bathing her in a look of pure joy. “Finally, you see sense!” He stroked his fingers along her collarbone, up her neck, and down her jaw until they rested on her chin. He gently tilted her head and placed a chaste kiss where her pulse beat.

  “Mm,” Henrietta sighed, leaning into the kiss. “Oh!” She jolted away and threw her head back to see him clearly. “I forgot!”

  His brows drew together over unfocused eyes. “Mm? What?”

  She rummaged in her cloak pockets, then her dress pockets. Where was it? Her fingers brushed against a warm, slim metal chain. “Ah-ha!” She pulled the necklace out and held it up before him.

  “Is that …?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He reached out tentatively, then took it from her. “Where’d you find it? When?”

  “The last day at Hill House, right before the duchess intruded and you went into the hallway to speak with her. And to beat Tobias to a pulp.”

  “Where was it? We searched every inch of the room.”

  “It was hanging from a nail on the back side of the bed. It must have been lodged up higher and come loose while we were …” She finished her explanation with a laugh.

  “It was quite the energetic bed play.”

  “Grayson!”

  “I look forward to doing it again.”

  Henrietta huffed and started down the hill without him.

  He caught up with her and wrapped his arm around her waist, matching his steps to hers. “Very soon, in fact.”

  She leaned into him. “Will the coachman notice, do you think, if we …?”

  “Not if we’re quiet.”

  She could be quiet. It was nice being quiet now, his arm wrapped round her, knowing he was back to being not only her Grayson, but simply Grayson, the confident, energetic man she’d met and fell in love with. If he was two people at once, so was she. If they had to straddle two worlds, they’d do it together.

  Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief when the coach came into sight. “Thank goodness. It’s still here. Grandmama and Grandpapa still think I’m on my way to Manchester.”

  He bent over her, clasping the necklace around her neck and placing a gentle kiss next to where the bird rested in the hollow of her throat. “Perfect. But I’m afraid there’s no time to ask the coachman to drive an extra lap or two around the park. I’m late for a conversation with a duke. Tell me, Hen, do you think you can play dead a little bit longer?”

  Chapter 29

  Valingford had expected to hear gossip about the Blake chit’s untimely departure from this mortal coil whispered in the halls of White’s. He certainly expected the Duchess of Valingford to tell him plainly over their weekly chat, It’s all taken care of, my dear. There would be a notice in the papers and a funeral, but none of it would have bothered or inconvenienced him in any way. He’d expected to go on as usual, even though the Blake chit wouldn’t go on at all.

  He had not expected to be personally invited to a mourning service at the Earl of Bennington’s townhome. He looked out the carriage window and cursed his recent luck. Despite the fact such a thing was patently ridiculous in and of itself, the inclusion of the Duke and Duchess of Valingford in such an event multiplied the absurdity of it all infinitely. The dead girl had stolen the bridegroom right out of his own daughter’s incapable hands. To think he’d care a whit about her death—ludicrous!

  “But we really must attend.” The Duchess fidgeted with her reticule on the other side of the carriage.

  Yes, they must.

  “Think of your daughter.”

  “I am, madame. She’s the only reason I’m here.” The Earl of Bennington and the Duke of Devonmere knew too much about his disastrous finances, and they surely suspected more. He’d have to dance to whatever tune they played until he’d secured a new fortune through new marriage arrangements for Willow. “The deal with Lord Cordell cannot fall through.” The only other appropriate candidate for marriage to a duke’s daughter, Lord Cordell, was titled and rich, if a bit flighty. It mattered not. He could forget he had a wife as long as that wife was Willow.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and Valingford jumpe
d out and stalked to the door, rapping it twice with the head of his cane. The duchess huffed up beside him as the door swung open wide, and a footman ushered them inside.

  “This way,” the footman said. He led them to a medium-sized room. Heavy curtains shut out all light from the windows and candles filled the room, their glow absorbed by the heavy black velvet draped over the walls. A coffin took pride of place at the front of the room. It was open, and inside Valingford made out the slight outline of a figure covered in cloth.

  Living bodies gathered around the dead one and grouped together about the room in quiet conversation.

  Valingford waited to be noticed. He waited too long. Preposterous.

  Finally, the old earl, Bennington, looked his way and left his coffin-side vigil. He shook Valingford’s hand warmly. Vulgar. Valingford snatched his hand back as soon as politely possible.

  “Thank you for coming, Your Grace,” the old earl said. “Especially after the whole”—he gestured toward Valingford’s still-swollen, bruised nose—“misunderstanding.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “To pay your respects, of course!” Bennington looked like he wanted to put his fist in Valingford’s nose again.

  Valingford took a careful step back.

  The duchess offered the earl a conciliatory smile. “Of course. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

  The earl nodded, then wagged his finger at Valingford. “You’re a tough nut, but you kept your word. I want you to know—no bad blood remains between us.”

  From that fool’s point of view, but not from where Valingford stood. “You accused me last night of hiring thugs to attack your granddaughter.”

  “A misunderstanding.”

  “You accused my wife of gossiping when she gave her word, when I gave my word, she would not.”

  Bennington shrugged. “I’m a man of hot-blooded passions. Less so now than in my youth, but they still boil to the surface now and again.”

  “Try to control them, Lord Bennington. It’s unbecoming for a peer of the realm.”

  Bennington shrugged again. “Never was very good at all that—being a peer and all.” He stepped aside and gestured to the coffin at the front of the room. “I assume you would like to pay your respects.”