Having heard the evidence of the Duke of Craythorne’s temper whilst in sessions of Parliament, Octavius knew he could believe the girl’s claim. “Go on,” he said quietly, suddenly wondering as to the timeline of the incident.
Yesterday. Four o’clock in the afternoon.
Why had it taken so long for her to report the murder?
“I suppose he must have heard me,” Isabella said in a quiet voice. “I must have made some sort of sound, for he suddenly looked up and saw me. The bedchamber door was open, you see, despite the fact that he was wearing his dressing gown.” She didn’t mention that her mother wore only her corset and stockings. “I was sure I would be next,” she claimed in a hoarse whisper. She lifted her eyes to find the duke staring at her. “I ran back downstairs. I grabbed my reticule off a peg where I had left it the day before. I knew I would need money, I suppose... my gloves…” The images were replaying themselves in her mind’s eye, now far more clearly than they had seemed the afternoon before, as if she knew she would need to tell of them to someone. “My horse was still saddled, of course. I didn’t even need the mounting block. I simply ran and jumped up onto him, and we were off before my father had made it out of the house.”
The duke regarded the young woman for a moment before allowing a nod. “And you rode to … to where?” he asked gently, his attention moving to her hands. Long fingers, ending in perfect oval fingernails, clutched her riding gloves and reticule as they rested in her lap. Both hands seemed to vibrate, though.
They shook as they rested on her thighs.
She was either freezing, or she was terrorized. Before he quite knew what he was doing, Octavius reached out and took the hand nearest him. Rather relieved she didn’t wince or otherwise pull her hand from his, he regarded her with an arched eyebrow.
Where had she been before she made it to The Elegant Courtesan?
Isabella blinked. “I rode to... to here,” she said with a wave of her other hand.
Octavius was about to ask why it had taken so long when it dawned on him that he didn’t know where the murder took place. “From where did you ride?” he wondered.
“Craythorne Castle, of course,” she replied simply.
The duke leaned forward, a look of disbelief settling on his features. Craythorne Castle was somewhere near Basingstoke! “That’s … that’s over forty... almost fifty miles away,” he countered with a shake of his head.
“I know,” Isabella replied with a nod. “My poor horse ...” Her tears began anew. “I think I may have ... he may have almost died. But he got me all the way here, and then he nearly collapsed when the stableboy came for him.”
Shaking his head, Octavius was about to ask what kind of horse could have survived such an ordeal when he remembered that Craythorne was rather proud of his stables. The duke raced horses. Bred for endurance, there were several Arabians and probably a Thoroughbred or two that could have made such a trip. Why, Poseidon could make the fifty-mile trip to his country estate, Huntinghurst, in five hours.
“Hancock was a race horse, you see, bred for the steeple chases,” Isabella offered, a sob interrupting her words. “But he’s well past his prime.”
Octavius continued to frown. Could the young woman read his mind?
He gave his head a quick shake. Could she really have made it nearly fifty miles? In ... he considered how much time had passed since she had left Craythorne Castle. Fifteen hours?
Yes, of course it was possible. But in the dark?
Octavius decided there were far more important things to consider, however.
Such as Craythorne.
“Did he follow you? Your father, I mean?”
Isabella gave a look of fright. “I … I don’t know. I couldn’t hear anything after I rode away.”
“Did you … hide?”
The young woman seemed surprised by the question. “Of course. Somewhat. We followed the path through the trees until it was too dark to see, and then we managed to …”
“We?” the duke repeated.
“The horse and I,” Isabella clarified. “Hancock is very good in rough terrain, but we had to get onto the main road at Hook so I could see by the light of the moon.”
Octavius blinked and shook his head. “It’s a wonder you weren’t set upon by a … a highwayman.” He could think of other hazards, like wild animals, or the weather, or holes in the road in which a horse might trip and end up lame, but no need to make it sound any worse than it already had to have been for the poor girl.
“We were quick to ride off to the side of the road if anyone was coming our way,” she countered defensively, as if she had realized he would grill her about every aspect of her story.
Rather impressed by the courage the young woman had shown in getting away from her father, Octavius realized there were still more questions that needed answering.
“Why come here?” he asked then. Christ! She had ridden straight to a brothel!
Isabella stared at the duke for a long time before tears again dripped from her cheeks. “Mother always said that should anything happen, I was to find David Fitzwilliam.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white pasteboard calling card. The printing faded and the edges quite dog-eared, the card clearly showed the words, “David Fitzwilliam,” in bold, black lettering along with some other information. She held it out in his direction. “She gave this to me several years ago.”
Octavius furrowed his brows before remembering Norwick—or was it his twin brother, Daniel?—was betrothed to Lady Craythorne’s relative, Clarinda Anne Brotherton. “Lord Norwick?” he repeated, just to be sure he understood.
“Yes, I suppose. When I reached the outskirts of London this morning, I asked at a coaching inn and was given instructions that got me here.” She paused a moment. “Just … what is this place?” she wondered. “Is this a hotel, perhaps?”
Rolling his eyes, the duke could only imagine the misplaced humor the person at the coaching inn must have felt at giving the young woman instructions on how to get to a high-end brothel. If he ever learned the identity of the party responsible, he had half a mind to have them arrested and thrown into Newgate for their poor decision. “My lady, you are at The Elegant Courtesan, a rather upscale brothel, but a brothel none-the-less,” Octavius explained with an arched brow.
Isabella blinked before allowing a nod. “Then, I am in the right place, at least.”
It was the duke’s turn to blink. “What did you say?”
The earl’s daughter allowed a shrug. “My mother said Lord Norwick owned an establishment for courtesans. What better place to hide a gently-bred woman than a brothel?” she asked rhetorically. “She said he could provide protection for a time. He would do so because he is betrothed to marry my cousin, Lady Clarinda, you see.”
Octavius wasn’t about to argue the merits of seeking out a brothel for protection, especially since Lady Craythorne’s instructions certainly proved their worth in this case. But what to do about the current situation suddenly had Octavius displaying a look of concern. “Well, now the question seems to be what we’re to do with you. You obviously cannot go home,” he murmured. Anyone else would have packed her into a carriage and taken her back to Craythorne Castle. Her father was her protector, after all. But if Craythorne had truly killed his wife and thought Isabella had paid witness to the murder, then she could not go back there.
“He’ll kill me,” Isabella whispered in agreement. “I was the only witness to my mother’s murder,” she added as one of her ungloved hands moved to her mouth. Her riding gloves remained squeezed in the grip of the other hand, their kid leather fingers arcing out at odd angles that gave the appearance of a broken hand. Her body once again began to rock in the chair as her quiet sobs filled the room.
Octavius regarded the earl’s daughter for a long time. Do I believe her?
He chided himself for even questioning the validity of her story. The girl was frightened. She looked as if she’d gone far too long without s
leep. Her riding habit was a mess. Indeed, she looked as if she had been to hell and back.
Yet, despite her disheveled appearance, Octavius found her rather fetching. He closed his eyes a moment and attempted to block the inappropriate image he had just then imagined of her in a satin dinner gown with her hair piled high atop her head. Of her in his bed, her hair loose and splayed out on the pillows. Of her beneath him, naked, her head thrown back...
Octavius blinked. Good God! He hadn’t given a single thought to bedding another woman since the death of his wife, and now he was imagining bedding a young lady! A frightened, bedraggled young lady.
She’s probably ten years younger than me, for God’s sake!
He gave his head a quick shake and returned his attention to the matter at hand, deciding two things.
Lady Isabella could not be returned to her father. Even if the man hadn’t killed her mother, Isabella believed he had and would forever be fearful of him.
If Craythorne had indeed killed the Countess of Craythorne, then he would have no doubt killed his daughter if he thought there was any chance she would share her story with anyone. That or sequester her in a faraway place so that no one would either hear her tale or believe it if they did.
And having come to a brothel meant she was probably ruined as far as the ton was concerned. Although, when he considered how few people were about the establishment this morning, Lady Isabella might escape notice if they could sneak her out of the place.
“Are you betrothed to anyone?” he asked then, thinking he should send word to the gentleman. Perhaps a quick wedding could be arranged so that she would have protection from her father, although he realized too late she might not be of legal age to marry.
If she wasn’t yet one-and-twenty, she required the permission of her parents. Permission that would not be provided given the circumstances. Octavius briefly wondered if Prinny might grant an exemption when he noticed the young woman’s look of surprise.
Isabella’s eyebrows arched up. “I haven’t even had my come-out,” she replied with a shake of her head.
This bit of news had the duke rather surprised. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be nineteen in a week, Your Grace,” she answered, her head lifting a bit with the claim.
Jesus! He had thought her at least two-and-twenty! A night spent riding and no sleep had aged her a good deal.
“What about any brothers... or sisters?”
Isabella’s eyes widened. “John is away at school. At Eton. I have no other siblings.”
Octavius gave the comment some thought, but realized the brother would be far too young to provide protection. Christ, he wouldn’t yet know what had happened to his mother. “I’ll see to it you can stay here for a day or two. You’ll need to stay hidden, though, or you’ll risk ruin. Or discovery,” he added, realizing they had to keep her identity and location a secret so her father wouldn’t discover her whereabouts.
On the other hand, they had to somehow determine if her claim was true.
Isabella nodded. “I sorted as much,” she murmured, her head angling to one side. “I have never felt so spent in my entire life, Your Grace.”
“You must be thirsty. You must be starving.”
Lifting her head, Isabella shook it. “I fed and watered my horse in Egham while I helped myself to water from a pump,” she whispered, remembering the stop because it had been the one refuge where she was completely hidden from the road, where she had felt safest despite the bright moon lighting the countryside with its ethereal glow. “But I do not think I could keep anything down right now,” she added in a whisper.
Octavius nodded his understanding. “Did anyone see you? Besides whomever gave you directions at the coaching inn?”
Isabella regarded the duke for a moment, quite sure she had never met the man before. Blond hair, high cheekbones, a slight cleft in his chin—he looked every bit the aristocrat he was. His blue eyes appeared almost haunted, though, as if they belonged to a man far older than the one who sat gazing at her. Seeing her. Paying witness to her very real fright and exhaustion with a great deal of patience. A great deal of sympathy. “I don’t think so. It was the middle of the night, and I was very quiet.”
Well, she is resourceful, Octavius had to admit. He had never before heard of a single young lady who had done anything like she had done and been able to speak of it the following morning. But then, how many young ladies claimed to pay witness to their mothers being killed by their fathers and then riding fifty miles as if their lives depended on it? “You’re exhausted, though,” he countered with an arched brow. At her nod of acknowledgement, the duke stood up but indicated with a hand that she was to remain seated. “I’ll make the arrangements for you stay with Norwick. And …” He paused, not sure what else he could do just then.
If a missive was sent to Craythorne Castle asking about the well-being of the Countess of Craythorne, the earl would know his daughter was in London. Octavius decided he couldn’t risk the man discovering Lady Isabella’s whereabouts. Someone else would have to make the query, or pretend to pay a call on the countess.
Or perhaps confirmation of the countess’ death would reach others and make its way to London. Gossip usually traveled faster than race horses.
“I’ll have a modiste sent here with some clothes, and …” He glanced down at her half-boots. “Slippers,” he added.
“I have some money,” she said suddenly, lifting her reticule from her lap. “I apologize, Your Grace. I must look a sight,” she added, her brows furrowing.
Indeed, you do, he thought with a sigh, his body reacting in a way it hadn’t done for a very long time.
What the hell?
The poor girl had been to hell and back, and here his cock was responding as if she were one of the harlots in the employ of The Elegant Courtesan! He would no doubt end up in hell, but he expected he was already halfway there. Life without his wife had hardly seemed worth living, and here he was having lustful thoughts of what he might do with Craythorne’s daughter. Lustful and yet respectful, as well. He couldn’t imagine any of the daughters of the ton in London surviving such an ordeal, nor would any have the courage to do what she had done.
“I think I can afford whatever the modiste charges,” Octavius said gently, knowing full well it was entirely inappropriate for him to be buying clothes for the earl’s daughter. Hell, it was entirely inappropriate for her to be in a brothel! “I’ll stop by tonight to check on you,” he added before giving her a bow and taking his leave of the room.
He didn’t get far, though, as he used the door to the bedchamber for support once it was closed. Leaning against the solid wood, Octavius took several breaths to clear his head. Decisions had to be made. An investigation had to be ordered. Arrangements for accommodation. A modiste.
Questions had to be answered as well. Isabella said she sought out David Fitzwilliam because she was instructed to do so by her mother. She had the man’s calling card in her possession. True, her older cousin was due to marry the earl, but something else bothered him just then.
He hurried off to find Norwick to make his questions known.
Chapter 6
Post-Proposal Euphoria
Meanwhile, in Mayfair
Daniel Fitzwilliam dismounted his gelding and regarded the front of Norwick House with a bit of jealousy. The fashionable mansion in Park Lane featured the de rigueur Palladian style architecture that had become so popular at the turn of the century. Grecian columns acted as sentries on either side of a large door and held up a portico above the landing at the top of the deep, shallow steps. A pair of topiary trees flanked the columns. Rows of arched windows were lined out on either side of the front of the house, various plantings at their base trimmed so as not to hinder the view from inside.
The effect was stately and elegant, a London-based home suitable for an earl and his wife in which to live and entertain. A home suitable for Daniel’s older brother, the tenth Earl of Norwick. A man
sion paid for from the funds the man had made from owning a high-end brothel. And a gaming hell, even if most knew it simply as a men’s club.
Daniel was about to lift the odd knocker, a brass mermaid, but a butler opened the door and gave a start. “My lord, I didn’t expect you back so soon,” the butler said as he stepped aside.
“Porter,” Daniel acknowledged with a nod. “It’s me, Daniel, in search of my rake of a brother.” He suddenly frowned, realizing what the butler had said. “Do you know where he went off to?” he asked, rather disappointed. He had rehearsed what he was going to say to David during the entire trip from Kensington Gardens. He was going to announce he was engaged to be married, and he was going to gloat about it. He still intended to, of course, but now he wouldn’t be able to do it until his brother returned.
“A footman arrived rather early this morning. Something at The Elegant Courtesan required his immediate attention. He said he thought he would be gone the entire morning,” the servant explained.
Frowning, Daniel wondered if something had happened to one of the employees. Despite the nature of the business, the brothel only admitted patrons who were rich, had been vetted, and who didn’t cause trouble for the courtesans. “No hint as to what might have happened?” he pressed. He kept the books for the brothel and knew all the young women who worked there, if for no other reason than he was the one who gave them their pay every month.
His eyes darting to the side, the butler appeared rather sheepish when he said, “Apparently, an unexpected visitor arrived on the doorstep insisting she be allowed to see Lord Norwick. I only heard the words, ‘bedraggled’ and ‘terrified’ and something about a half-dead horse.”
Knitting his brows, Daniel had half a mind to head to the brothel and discover the identity of the visitor for himself. But he thought better of it when he remembered this was a day he should be celebrating. He was betrothed to marry the love of his life. He would simply find his brother later and gloat about his engagement then. “I’ll take my leave. Let him know I stopped in. I have happy news to share,” he said as he made his way back through the vestibule.
The Dream of a Duchess Page 4