A Secret Desire

by Lane, Charlie

  Not particularly. “Yes.” He soon mastered the distance between the door and the coffin, the view inside of which proved unenlightening. The deep purple velvet cloth draped over the body obscured it entirely.

  “How did she die?” his wife asked.

  A figure on the other side of the coffin answered. “Stubly shot her. Not sure if he meant to, a stray bullet possibly, but a bloody well-placed one.”

  Valingford cringed inwardly. The bullet must have hit her in the head, then, or some other place with disturbing results to a once-pretty girl. Thus, the velvet. An ugly death. Many were. No matter. “Come along,” he instructed his wife. “We’ve paid our respects.”

  “Yes.” Her voice hitched. Emotion? Appalling.

  “Wait a moment.” The figure on the other side of the coffin walked around, revealing his identity.

  “Lord Rigsby, I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It’s a loss on more than one level. I’ve lost the woman I love, but also my future duchess and heir. You understand, as a duke.”

  “I do.”

  Lord Rigsby put an arm around Valingford’s shoulders and guided him away from the coffin to the side of the room. “Much has changed,” he said in a low voice after looking across the room for eavesdroppers. “The events of the last twenty-four hours have shown me,” he hesitated, “I was wrong. I should have proposed to your daughter.” He shook his head, ran fingers through disarrayed hair, straightening it. “Love has no place in marriage, and …” He dropped his voice even lower. “I cannot help now but wonder if Miss Blake’s undesirable origins in trade directly caused her undesirable fate.”

  Valingford nodded in agreement. Vulgar beginnings led to vulgar ends.

  “Perhaps it would have been wiser,” Lord Rigsby continued, “for me to stay within my own class for marriage, as originally planned.”

  The boy finally saw sense, then. It had taken a death, yes, but sense come late was still sense. Valingford nodded. “You’re correct.”

  “Tell me, is it too late?”

  “Do not speak in riddles, boy. Too late for what?”

  “To ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  Hm. Was it? The Cordell lad expressed interest in marriage now, too, and had agreed to a marriage without a proposal even, on the small stipulation he meet Willow and find her unobjectionable. But who wouldn’t? She was a duke’s daughter. Even the man who’d jilted her now ran back to her. In the end, the traditional importance of titles and family would always win out over this newfangled folly called love.

  Valingford weighed the two men against one another. It felt like power. Moments ago, his choices had been culled to one. Now, another door opened. Lord Rigsby or Lord Cordell?

  Having the Blake chit murdered had been an excellent plan indeed, with unforeseen benefits.

  And the fact she’d been killed by a stray bullet at a duel—it absolved him of all guilt. Not that he felt any.

  “An interesting proposition, Lord Rigsby,” Valingford said. “But another man shows interest now. Lord Cordell. What can you offer that he cannot?” Yes, Valingford’s financial woes could be solved with this one question, this one checkmate move of killing the queen and pitting two knights against one another.

  “I can’t believe it,” a voice sneered through the darkness. “My sister lies dead not ten feet away and you’re plotting to marry the duke’s daughter? I was right, Gray, you are not fit to be food for worms.”

  “Mr. Blake,” Lord Rigsby said calmly, “life goes on, even after tragic death.”

  Mr. Blake swung a fist at Lord Rigsby, who ducked quickly enough.

  The other mourners—Valingford’s duchess, the Duke of Devonmere, Lord and Lady Bennington—trotted across the room.

  Lord Bennington’s hands fisted as he approached. “What’s going on here? This is a place of mourning!”

  “What’s going on here is a farce,” Valingford announced. Best to take control of the absurd situation before it deteriorated further. He gestured to Mr. Blake. “This young man has accosted Lord Rigsby for doing nothing more than securing his future and the future of his descendants, the future of, in fact, this great nation.”

  “What the hell are you going on about, Valingford?” the old earl demanded.

  “You will not address me so informally.”

  “I’ll call you what I like.”

  The absurdity, the disrespect, stopped now. “You think because you have money, you have power—”

  “Duke.” His wife’s timid voice slid through the gloomy darkness.

  He ignored it. “You do not. Power comes from knowing what you can do and doing it, not being afraid to take what is yours. Who my daughter marries—that choice—is mine and mine alone. Whom he marries”—he pointed at Lord Rigsby—“that choice is his. It’s a power he takes for himself. It is his birthright.”

  “Duke, dear.”

  He ignored his wife. “Only a truly strong man can put aside the frail emotions of others to do what is best for himself.”

  “Christopher.” His wife’s voice rose at the use of his Christian name. High pitched. Scared?

  “What?” He’d raised his voice, spittle collecting in one corner of his mouth. He’d not be undignified and wipe it away.

  His wife pointed at the coffin, at what was moving within it, rising from it, shirking the velvet shroud and climbing out of it.

  The duchess screamed.

  A shiver ran down his spine. Of annoyance, not fear. They’d lied, all of them. This was a ruse. The girl was not dead. But why?

  She was a pretty chit, but the smirk in her eyes and on her lips ruined whatever beauty she possessed. A girl with a brain. He hated those.

  “You are everything I’ve ever been scared of,” she said, sliding through the darkness toward him.

  Another shiver raced through him. No wonder. The way she glided like a ghost, the vengeance in her voice. A worthy adversary.

  She stopped right in front of him and raised a pointed chin, meeting his gaze directly. “You are certain of your superiority, aren’t you? But your position in society is nothing but a chance of birth. You don’t deserve it. You would ground those you think beneath you with the heel of your boot without a moment’s hesitation. You tried to ground me down, but only when your secrets were at risk. Your only hesitation, likely, my grandfather’s status as a peer.”

  “You’re dead!” the duchess cried, trembling. “You’re dead!”

  The Blake chit nodded. “Yes, the old me is dead. The scared, timid me. I used to pretend to be bold. But now I truly am bold.”

  The duchess shook her head in disbelief, backing away from Miss Blake. “I had you killed,” she snarled, diving forward.

  Valingford caught his wife’s wrist and snapped her back against his side. “Shut up, you fool!” He enjoyed the sting of his backhanded slap across her cheek.

  His duchess shrunk even further into herself.

  “Well done, sis.” Mr. Blake slid closer to his sister. “I’d hoped for a confession from the duke, but one from his wife is lovely as well.”

  Lady Bennington crept up beside his wife, offering her a helping, comforting hand.

  The duchess jerked away from the touch, leaning closer into him. She was a fool, but a well-trained one.

  “I assume this elaborate charade was created to elicit exactly this sort of outcome,” Valingford sneered.

  “Naturally,” the old earl admitted.

  “Europe or the Americas for your exile, Valingford?” Lord Rigsby asked. “Do you find power in those choices?”

  “If I were a dramatic man, I’d damn you all to hell. But you have nothing to hurt me with.”

  Lord Rigsby arched an eyebrow. “Oh? There is Stubly’s confession. Your wife’s own words as well.”

  Valingford clenched the rising emotions threatening to reveal his discomposure. “No one will believe you. I’m the most respected man in the country. I have power you can’t imagine. Do y
ou truly expect the words of a drunken sot like Stubly to outweigh my own? I’ve heard he’s left the country, already illustrating his guilt over mine. And my wife will never speak against me. She’ll deny everything. I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he sneered. “But I’ve the upper hand. Come along, duchess. We have a wedding to arrange.”

  “A wedding?” Lady Bennington asked, her voice as soft as the shadows flickering on the walls. “There will be no wedding once we tell everyone what we’ve heard here today.”

  “Need I repeat myself?” Valingford asked, allowing a weary sigh to escape. “No one will believe you.”

  Lady Bennington had steel in her eyes. Unexpected from such a quiet wallflower. She had the posture of a queen. Remarkable. Infuriating. “I don’t gossip,” she said. “The entire ton knows I only speak truth. My word is quite credible.” She tilted her head to the side. “I wonder who this new potential bridegroom is. Will he wish to align himself, his family, with a murderer?”

  Valingford snapped, surging forward. “I’m no murderer.” He checked his steps as Lady Bennington stood her ground and waved toward Miss Blake. “The girl stands alive before you, madam.”

  “But you would not have it so. And I’ll alert everyone I know. And I must admit, Your Grace, though I be quiet, I be fierce.”

  That undeniable truth, more than anything this afternoon, gave him pause. How could this feeble old woman hold such power?

  “Besides,” Devonmere said, “if murder is too unbelievable, there’s always news of your financial situation to share. I’m sure the potential bridegroom you’ve cultivated for your daughter would love to know how your coffers sit empty.” He straightened his waistcoat. “I, too, have exceptional credibility among the ton.”

  “And need I mention,” the young Mr. Blake—infuriating coxcomb!—drawled, “the ton has never needed evidence or truth to believe a juicy tale.”

  Valingford’s duchess trembled. “We’ll be ruined. Willow will never be married.”

  Mr. Blake inspected his fingernails, as if he’d grown tired of the scene that played. “Unless,” he said, “it’s to an aging adventurer stupid enough to think marrying a title means marrying money.”

  Valingford was damned tired of it all as well, exhausted, really. “We’re leaving.” He grasped his wife’s wrist and dragged her forward. “Where to?” the Earl of Bennington inquired lazily. “Europe or the Americas?”

  “No!” the duchess wailed.

  “Wait.” The not-dead girl’s voice rose clear and strong as a church bell over his wife’s wailing. The girl shook her head, the candlelight melting her mussed curls into liquid gold. “This isn’t right. We want to punish the duke and duchess, but it seems we’re only punishing their daughter.”

  The darkness of the room deepened in silence, and Valingford’s mind whirred on possibilities. Did the Blake girl offer him an out of this debacle? These fools seemed to pity his daughter. For what, he had no clue. She was doing as she was bred to do, or rather, failing to do as she’d been bred to do—marry well. But perhaps the fools’ sympathy for his daughter could be his refuge, his escape. They might very well abandon their plan to ruin him in order to save her. Interesting. Weaknesses always showed through.

  “I like Lady Willow,” the not-dead girl said.

  A soft heart, Valingford mused, a weakness that made her easy to manipulate.

  The Blake girl continued. “I’m certain she had nothing to do with her parents’ scheme. And I don’t want her to be hurt. She deserves a chance at happiness.”

  “Happiness might be out of reach, sis,” said Mr. Blake, “with parents such as hers.”

  The Blake girl shook her skirts in frustration. “That’s why she should have the chance at a good marriage! It’s her only real opportunity to escape them.” She flicked her eyed contemptuously Valingford’s way.

  The impertinent slut. Any marriage he allowed his daughter would not put her outside of his reach. He’d make sure of it.

  “Let them stay in London,” the Blake girl said, “and let Lady Willow choose her own husband. That is the punishment for her parents. The thing the duke most fears is a loss of control. Well, he shall have no control over Lady Willow.”

  Like hell he wouldn’t. But he simply shrugged, as if beaten. “What do I care who my daughter marries?” As long as she married for money, of course. As long as he got the bulk of the prize, of course. It was her duty as his daughter to provide for the family through matrimony.

  Miss Blake shuffled nearer him, as if forcing herself to be the bold girl she’d claimed to be. Ha! Bold? More like uppity. “You must swear,” she said, “to let Lady Willow choose for herself.”

  He wanted to allow himself an eyeroll, an indulgence, but one he well deserved this day. He did not. “I swear,” he ground out.

  Lord Rigsby strode forward, taking the Blake chit’s hands in his own and looking down at her with a serious gaze. “We can’t trust him. He’s already lied to us once.”

  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t lie,” Valingford interrupted.

  The room broke out in a cacophony of dissent, every person assembled arguing he had in fact lied through his teeth when he’d said he and his wife would not gossip about Miss Blake.

  His voice rose above it all, as surely as he rose above all them. “I made my wife promise not to gossip, and she did not. Have any of you heard rumors surrounding Miss Blake’s virtue gathering among the ton?”

  Silence ensued because of course they had heard no rumors. There had been none. He’d kept his word.

  “Well then, Your Grace,” replied Miss Blake, “We will have to bind you with a stricter set of words this time. Do you promise to let Lady Willow choose her own husband and to not impede the wedding in any way whatsoever? And do you promise to let her live happily and healthily from this point on?” She coughed. “And of course, promise not to kill her.”

  “Or have her killed by anyone else!” Mr. Blake interjected.

  Were these fools real? His daughter was his last real asset. He wouldn’t harm something so valuable. But he’d play their game. “I promise.” Hopefully, the words were a death knell of this tedious conversation. “Come along, duchess.” He pulled her toward the exit with one hand while he straightened his waistcoat with the other. “We’ve much to do not arranging our daughter’s wedding,” he lied, disappearing behind the door. He’d leave the Blake chit alone. She was more trouble than she was worth.

  But he’d be dashed if he let an aged earl soiled by trade and a weak duke and his vapid offspring tell him what to do with his own property. His daughter would marry whomever he told her to or know the consequences.

  Epilogue

  For the fifth time in so many minutes, Henrietta scanned the rush of fashionable lords and ladies strolling Bond Street. But the familiar, beloved face didn’t appear, and she tapped her foot even faster on the sidewalk, slanting her gaze upward at the covered sign above her shop.

  A warm hand engulfed her shoulder and a genial voice said, “He’ll be here, Henrietta. He wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Her father-in-law granted her a reassuring smile.

  Henrietta bounced on her toes. It was almost time. Where was he?

  “Mama, quit being bouncy.”

  Henrietta turned to the three-year-old jolting up and down on her hip. The little girl eyed her mother with serious green eyes behind bobbing blond curls.

  “Sorry, love,” Henrietta said, placing the girl on her feet and taking the small hand in her own.

  “Do you have a toy for me, Grandfather?” the girl asked, turning to the Duke of Devonmere.

  He chuckled. “No, but …” He pulled a sweet from his pocket and bent down.

  “Ooh!”

  Devonmere straightened with a pleased smile. “Don’t get your gown sticky, Adaline.”

  “’Course not, Grandfather.”

  Henrietta grunted. The gown would be ruined in less than a minute.

  “Is Papa coming?” Adaline asked, sugar-gl
istening slobber already dribbling down her chin.

  “Of course, he is,” Henrietta and Devonmere said together.

  But when? He’d been gone for weeks, and though Henrietta knew the Scottish estate needed his explicit attention after the flood, she couldn’t help but wish the weather had cooperated a bit more. Grayson had helped her get to this moment, and she wanted him by her side to see the unveiling of her new shop. Her second store.

  To see the unveiling of all her accomplishments to the ton. There would be no more hiding after today, and while it was mostly pride that bounced her about, causing her to jostle her daughter, a stitch of fear wiggled its way into her heart as well. Yes, everyone who knew Mr. Blake’s shop was actually Miss Blake’s shop generally pretended not to, but no one would be able to pretend in—she unclasped the pocket watch pinned to her pelisse—five minutes!

  Grayson was undeniably late. He’d not make it. Her heart sank, but she pulled herself up tall. She’d known it was a possibility even though she’d received daily letters from Grayson promising he’d return home on time.

  “What has you in the doldrums, sis?” Tobias tugged a curl beneath Henrietta’s bonnet and hefted a giggling Adaline into the air.

  “Grayson’s still in Scotland.”

  “Unfortunate. But I’m here. Rejoice!”

  “And me!” Huffing, Ada pushed to the front of the crowd and threw her arms around Henrietta. “How exciting! Are you excited? Of course, you’re excited.”

  “I am,” Henrietta laughed. “But I wish Grayson were here. He’s helped me arrive at this pinnacle, and I’d like nothing better than to share it with him.” Stupid Scottish flood. That was ungenerous of her. Two men and a cow had perished, and Grayson had been helping rebuild roads, bridges, homes, everything.

  Devonmere snorted. “If he’d taken my advice and sent a team of men to help, he’d be here right now. He didn’t have to run off up North himself. He could have advised from the comfort of his own home.”

  Henrietta grinned up at her often grumpy father-in-law. “Yes, but Grayson must do things his own way, not yours.”