Lord Rockhaven nodded. “Did the young man say whom he met? Or why they’d met?”
Declan slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t his place to know those things, which is why I had hoped you would.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
But he didn’t sound particularly sorry.
“Did you have any other questions?” Rockhaven pulled out his timepiece and studied it. “I really should get back before the next race.”
“Just one more question.” Declan’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know if Albert had any Russian business associates?”
If he hadn’t been watching the older man so closely, he would have missed the muscle that suddenly ticked in Rockhaven’s jaw. Turning his head fully to meet Declan’s gaze, he frowned. “Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”
“The groom noted the men who killed Albert sounded Russian.”
“Huh,” the earl mumbled as he rubbed his jaw. “What an odd detail. Was the young man sure?”
“Very.” Thomas hadn’t been, but Declan refused to admit that.
Rockhaven pressed his lips together and looked off toward the crowds. “Well, good luck on your search.”
“Thank you,” Declan said, observing the earl as he walked away. An additional question came to him. “Rockhaven! Once more thing.” The man didn’t stop walking, so Declan yelled out. “When was the last time you saw the Vicomte de Viguerie? Do you know how I can reach him?”
Rockhaven stumbled to a stop as if he’d walked into a wall. He didn’t turn, so Declan hastened toward him. When he was close enough, he heard the earl say, “I haven’t seen the vicomte in many, many years. And you don’t reach him. He reaches you.” Glancing over his shoulder, his cold stare was piercing when it met Declan’s. “Have a care with Alethea’s reputation. I won’t see it tainted by the likes of you.”
He swept out of the barn, his retreating back the most cutting censure Declan had ever received.
Chapter Twelve
April 1816
I used to view the world with rosy optimism. How I wish I could go back and warn my younger, naive self of what was to come.
-The Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon
“Your Grace, a letter has arrived for you by messenger.”
Declan raised his head from the piles of paper stacked haphazardly on the narrow table before him to find Lockley standing in the doorway. Leaning back into the stiff leather seat back, he ran a hand through his already unruly hair. “Is a reply expected?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” His butler extended a salver toward him, the said letter on top.
“Is it from Keane?” His operations manager needed his signature on a contract for new metal rollers for the processing plant, and Declan had been waiting for its arrival.
Turning the square of paper over in his hand, his gaze lit on the crest of a factory West Indies Interest used to refine its raw sugar into the fine white granules British kitchens were accustomed to. Declan ripped the seal open, unfolded the parchment, and scanned the sparse lines.
Propping his elbow on the desk, he reached for a quill and hastily scribbled a reply. Folding it, he extended it to Lockley. “After delivering this to the waiting servant, please have Edwards prepare a bath and lay out my evening wear.” Smacking his hand on the desktop, he grinned. “It appears I’m to be wined and dined at Vauxhall this evening.”
Lockley nodded, shutting the door behind him.
He darted a glance to the clock on the mantle. An evening of entertainment mixed with business seemed the perfect way to occupy his thoughts. Since his confrontation with the Earl of Rockhaven, he’d replayed their conversation over and over on a loop, attempting to decipher every word. He needed a distraction.
He rose to his feet and paced the room, tucking books back into their proper positions, sweeping quill shavings into the rubbish bin, and taking a moment to determine if anything was out of place.
The oak-paneled study, with its massive fireplace and bookshelf-lined walls, looked as it always had. He remembered playing with tin soldiers in front of the hearth while his father worked. Occasionally the duke would join him, and together they’d lead a charge on the enemy forces.
With a hitch of his breath, the uncomfortable churning that settled in his gut every time he entered the room returned. By straightening the space, he’d erased the evidence of his time spent there. He may now be Darington, but this room would always belong to his father, and to Albert.
…
The wonder of Vauxhall Gardens could enthrall even the most jaded of London misses.
Alethea strolled on her father’s arm down the lantern-lit Grand South Walk to where they would meet Mr. Brown and the rest of his guests. Finlay followed close behind, his faint hum dancing in her ears. Apparently, she was not the only one excited for the evening.
Despite long entertaining London with its delights, and losing some of its luster along the way, Vauxhall Gardens still enchanted her. She’d been thrilled when she’d learned a factory owner desirous in acquiring her father as an investor invited them to the famed park. With its lush tree-lined walks, impressive rotunda with its massive chandelier, and the collection of Rococo-inspired statues and paintings lending a playful, whimsical feel, she always felt lighthearted when she stepped off the boat she insisted they take to reach the gardens. Crossing the Vauxhall Bridge, instead of traveling by boat, stole away some of the allure the gardens possessed.
A small party waited under a cluster of lanterns that hung near the piazza, which was crowded with diners loudly chatting over the orchestra music. Two gentlemen stood with a cluster of ladies, each of whom was richly dressed in colorful silks and luxurious wraps. An evening at Vauxhall was as much about being seen as it was about the delicious food and entertainment.
She clasped her deep-blue satin pelisse robe in front of her chest and resisted the urge to brush at the curls that hung over her ears. Seeing the other women in their evening finery made her more confident about her own choice of attire. She wore her new cerulean silk evening dress with its tier of flounces at the hem, which bounced and swayed against her ankles with her steps.
Alethea felt attractive, and the feeling afforded her confidence, which she was severely lacking. Normally she had no qualms accompanying her father on the occasional business or political dinner, and she had been well trained to be a hostess should he decide to entertain at Rockhaven House. Lately, though, she’d noticed the weight of her father’s disappointment in her, and she longed to regain his good opinion.
Her father drew her to a stop beside a portly gentleman. “Mr. Brown, I hope you have not been waiting long.”
“Not long at all, my lord,” Mr. Brown said after exchanging greetings with them.
“Are we ready to take our seats then?” her father asked.
The man glanced around the crowd mulling about them. “We’re waiting on one more guest.”
Her father pinched his lips. “Who’s the gentleman we’re waiting on? Quite rude to be late.”
Mr. Brown’s eyes went wide. “Oh, he’s only the man whose business has helped push the factory into the black for every quarter since we signed our contract. I’m sure he’ll be here at any moment.”
Alethea frowned, curious who it was, when a familiar, crisp scent wafted to her on the breeze. Her mouth instantly went dry and she scanned the garden guests to locate its source. To locate him.
“Indeed, I value promptness,” a familiar voice said, “and despise being late.”
Mr. Brown’s guests turned curious expressions his way, and despite her resolve, Alethea turned with them. All thoughts of proper behavior dissipated into the May night.
Chapter Thirteen
February 1810
I long to do something daring. Bold. Something that will make him notice me again. But I’m not sure he ever did.
-The Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon
He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
<
br /> Declan tried. While he exchanged nods with the Earl of Rockhaven, was welcomed cordially by Firthwell, and inquisitively by Brown’s other guests, his gaze kept returning to her.
Alethea outshone every woman in the vicinity. The celestial blue color of her evening dress made her vibrant locks, piled artfully on her head, almost glitter under the lantern glow. Her skin was rendered a warm golden hue, and he ached to run his finger down her cheek to see if it was as soft as it appeared.
Ripping his gaze away from her, he offered an apologetic smile to the group. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I confess I took a boat from Westminster. I had no idea the Vauxhall Bridge existed until I’d arrived.”
The ladies in the group tittered, and a gentleman, a Lord Rothsfield, if Declan remembered correctly, clapped him on the back. “It was built when you were gone, Your Grace. Makes getting here deuced easier.”
“Easier, perhaps, but much less romantic,” a pretty blonde returned, her blue eyes traveling over Declan with unabashed interest.
Mr. Brown led the group down the Grand South Walk toward the Handel Piazza, Rockhaven in stride next to him. Lord Rothsfield walked next to Declan, a tall brunette on his arm, and the blonde, who he’d learned was Lord Rothsfield’s sister, Lady Miranda Ramsgate, latched onto his arm, a bright smile alighting her face.
He glanced ahead to where Alethea walked with Firthwell, and he was relieved no one else had tried to claim her arm.
Oh, but they watched her. A quick scan of the men who comprised their party, and even those who walked past, revealed they were just as enchanted with her as he was. Declan found he could handle their admiration—for how could they not admire her?—but the sight of her on another man’s arm would gut him.
Which would happen. It was only a matter of time. A woman possessing her connections, dowry, and lovely face would not be permitted to remain on the shelf indefinitely. He refused to allow himself the luxury of reflecting on what life would be like with Alethea by his side, because with her came her father, and that connection was enough to set his teeth on edge.
Forcing himself to remember the myriad responsibilities he possessed for his company, he engaged Lady Miranda in friendly conversation. She needed little encouragement and chatted at length about all the things she saw that struck her fancy. When she laughed in delight at an observation he’d made, Alethea turned to look at them over her shoulder.
She seemed irritated. Or perhaps he was imagining what he wanted to see.
“Surely you’ve seen the whole world,” Lady Miranda remarked, leaning into his side.
The press of Lady Miranda against him turned Declan’s attention to the lady herself. She was easy to converse with, as she did most of the talking. She was pretty, lively, and the daughter of an earl. Furthermore, her family did not have a soiled history with his own. If he were searching for a bride, or more importantly a duchess, she’d be a perfect candidate. But it seemed unfair to select an English bride only to ferry her away from her family to live her life in the Caribbean. She also didn’t make his heart pound or his mouth run dry. So he endeavored to keep his words and actions as nothing but friendly, polite overtures. When they arrived at their supper box, he escorted her to a seat and chose a chair on the opposite side of the table from her.
Only as he accepted a glass of wine from a servant did he realize he’d sat next to Alethea.
He leaned forward slightly to see if the earl sat on her other side, and noted Lord Rothsfield instead. The man acknowledged him with a nod and addressed Alethea with inquiries about her preference for music.
And although she answered the gentleman’s questions, Declan knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. Her leg tapped up and down under the table, and she gripped her glass of ratafia so tightly her hand shook.
A lifetime later, or so it seemed to Declan, Lord Rothsfield engaged Lord Rockhaven in conversation. Raising his glass as if he intended to drink, Declan angled his head toward Alethea instead, and whispered, “Together again. Whatever will the scandal sheets say?”
She turned her chin slightly toward him, but kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. “They’re going to be in a tizzy.”
He raised his napkin to cover his smile. “I should have invested in a newspaper.”
She made a strange noise, and Declan suspected she’d choked on a laugh. She took a sip of her drink. “How clever that would have been.”
Her gaze traveled around the table, and Declan’s followed suit. Thankfully, the other guests were immersed in their own conversations or in watching the dancers who whirled around the dance floor. Lady Miranda caught his eye for a moment, curling her lips flirtatiously, before she returned her attention to the gentleman beside her.
Alethea snorted softly, and when Declan darted his gaze to her, he noticed her glowering at Lady Miranda before she dropped her eyes to her lap. Interesting.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” she said, her fingernail tapping rapidly against the side of her glass. “Many would say it’s unseemly for a duke to be socializing with those who make their fortune in trade.”
“But I made my fortune in trade.” He arched a brow. “And your father is here at the invitation of Mr. Brown. So are Lord Rothsfield and Lady Miranda. Mr. Brown may be in trade, but he is quite respectable…or so my valet told me when he learned who my host was. He’s quite the stickler for propriety and sees it as his responsibility I don’t run amok.”
As he’d hoped, she chuckled.
“Do you know Lord Rothsfield well? Is he a would-be suitor of yours?” The words were released before he had a chance to consider them. He breathed a quiet prayer of thanks that none of his resentment bled into the question.
Her full lips turned into a small smile. An impish smile. “We’ve known each other since my debut. I wouldn’t consider him a suitor, but he’s always been attentive and charming. But I suppose if he were to express interest in courting me, I’d be hard-pressed to say no. He’s the heir to an earldom. He’s well-connected. Well-liked. Obviously has a head for business if he’s here as a guest of Mr. Brown’s. And he’s handsome.” Her gaze locked with Declan’s. “I’d be a fool not to find the prospect tempting.”
“I’m surprised you’d be swayed by such superficial trappings.” Although he’d attempted only to tease, his tone was harsh.
“I’m sure it’s easy to regard such considerations as superficial when you have the freedom and wealth to make your own choices.” Her eyes sparked emerald fire. “My father may be an earl, but my choices are limited by my gender.”
Declan recognized the truth of her claim, but still he pushed. “Surely you’d rather marry a man you admire and respect, and one who admires and respects you in return.”
“Naturally. But again, that’s a freedom women of my station aren’t always afforded.” She looked away, her gaze troubled.
“You have been, from what I gather.”
She scowled and then her face relaxed.
“Now that I think about it, Lord Rothsfield appears to have a fire in him I believe would pair well with my own sensibilities,” she said, her eyes narrowed as she studied the young man who was still talking with Rockhaven.
Unclenching his jaw, he asked, “If you had to choose, would he have been your choice?”
She dropped her head and he noticed she twisted a napkin in her lap. “I don’t know.”
“Would you have considered me?”
Her hands stilled, and she slowly drew her head up. Declan was alarmed to see a haunting sadness in her eyes. “It doesn’t signify, though, does it?”
They stared at each other, and a hundred different words danced along his tongue. What if I found a way to stay? he longed to ask. Was there a chance they could start anew, without the specters of their combined pasts haunting their steps?
With Alethea, England was home. She gave him the sense he belonged. Like he could create a life here, with a family of his own. As if he truly was Darington and a businessman i
n a manner that honored and remembered the family he’d lost.
He was saved from his uncomfortable introspection by his dinner companions’ questions about his travels. They enjoyed his tales, and even Lord Rockhaven appeared interested in his accounts of business dealings in India and southern Africa.
While he talked, Alethea sat quietly next to him, the sound of her soft breathing a tuning fork that set his every nerve ending on alert.
“Your life sounds like it’s been one adventure after another,” Finlay said. “It makes me wonder if you would have returned if you’d not been compelled to do so.”
“I’ve always hoped to return. No matter how long I was away, I always thought of England as home.”
And yet I can’t stay.
Smiles greeted his announcement, but Alethea wouldn’t look at him. It was like she’d heard his unspoken words as clearly as if he’d said them aloud.
Rothsfield rose to his feet, his chair screeching as he pushed it away from the table.
“Lady Alethea,” he said, extending his hand down to her, “would you do me the honor of dancing this set with me?”
When her answer was immediate, Declan ground his teeth together. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”
Rothsfield led her out onto the crowded dance floor, and he swallowed back a bubble of rage when the man pulled her close, their fingers lacing together.
“He seems like a good sort of fellow,” a voice said from next to him. Declan caught Finlay’s mild look of sympathy.
“That he does.”
The viscount nodded, his gaze on his twin, where she skipped up a line of dancers, her movements graceful. “He also appears quite taken with her. My father would be thrilled to see her finally settled, and as a future countess at that.”
“Alethea didn’t seem to think he was a suitor.”
“Tell that to him.” Finlay snorted as he looked from Rothsfield to Declan. “That stupid expression on his face tells me otherwise.”
To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal) Page 10