One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  “I’m looking for them all,” Jackson said. “Commissions are hardest to discover, being between the two parties. I’ll put the word out to the art dealers I know—”

  “No,” Edward said, holding up one hand. “I’ll do it.” He suspected any art dealer who knew where Watts was might also have been persuaded to keep the information to himself, especially should anyone like Jackson come sniffing around for him. If Watts and his sister were hiding from Francesca, they would be on guard against someone asking questions about their whereabouts. A wealthy lord looking to purchase paintings, on the other hand, would be hard for a penniless artist to refuse, no matter his wariness.

  Jackson must have followed the logic. “Aye, that might be more effective,” he agreed. “As you like, m’lord.”

  “Keep looking for Mrs. Haywood; it’s possible she and Watts have gone separate ways and she’s taken the child with her. I care nothing for finding Percival Watts if the girl isn’t with him.”

  Jackson nodded. “And the other woman? Shall I still keep an ear out for Lady Gordon?”

  The sound of her name caught him unawares, like a sharp jab to the stomach. He clamped his lips together to hide any unwitting reaction to it. “No, I have quite enough information about her.” Anything else he wanted to know, he would have to learn himself. Or rather, he would have to restrict his untoward interest in her, and not allow himself to dig further, no matter how insatiable his curiosity felt. He was already perplexed and displeased with himself for having set Jackson on it in the first place, and was not going to add to his sins in that way.

  Jackson gave him a long look, but only said once more, “As you like.”

  Edward nodded and dismissed him, but then he remained in the study. If he were brutally honest with himself, it was possible he had been able to keep from thinking about Francesca Gordon only because he knew Jackson would return sooner or later, when he would have both reason and need to think of her again. It was the only way to explain why he hadn’t told the man to go see Lady Gordon herself with news of Mr. Watts, Mrs. Haywood, or Georgina, but to return to him. Of course he didn’t want Jackson to let slip that he had wanted to know about her as well, but Edward acknowledged, reluctantly, that his motives were even murkier than that. Now he would have to call on her and tell her this news, including the part where he volunteered to contact art sellers himself in hopes of drawing out Percival Watts. And if he knew the woman at all, she was quite likely to want to accompany him. Edward found himself wondering how many dozens of art sellers there might be in London, and knew he was in trouble.

  With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the desk. At least he was able to admit his failings. Perhaps the awareness of them would help him keep his head when he came face-to-face with his own personal Circe.

  It was an endless week for Francesca. At first she anxiously awaited word from Lord Edward, but after a message that he had hired an investigator, there was nothing. No note indicating progress, no note indicating failure.

  It was difficult to adjust to waiting after she had spent so many weeks actively hunting for a solicitor and then engineering Lord Edward’s assistance. Every morning she woke thinking of ways she might locate Georgina, and how much she might have to pay Ellen to relinquish the girl, only to remember that she must have patience. She must wait until the investigator had done his job. The more she pursued Ellen, the farther Ellen might flee. The best move was to lie in wait, then spring in and catch her and Percival unawares. She had to remind herself of this every day, though, because every day that passed with no word seemed longer than the one before.

  But . . . Oh, if only Lord Edward would call on her. Surely he could spare an hour to come by and reassure her that all was proceeding well. She had taken his advice—against her own inclination—and then he had gone off and left her to sit and wait. Did he not realize she couldn’t carry off his cool, calm restraint on her own? What seemed so logical when he was explaining it came to appear more and more intolerable when he was absent, with no word. She began to spend as much time thinking about him as she did about Georgina. She even caught herself looking for Lord Edward’s face on the street, listening for the jangle of his harness at her door, and considered inventing an excuse to call on him just so he would have to tell her something.

  Making it even more trying, Gregory Sloan called upon her, his ruddy face sharp with determination. Francesca gave a mental groan at his appearance, but this was hardly unexpected. She rallied a bright smile and welcomed him into her drawing room. It wasn’t long before he got to the point.

  “I know you put one over on me,” he said with a significant glance. “About the Durham affair.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She sipped her tea, secretly relieved he wasn’t the dissembling type; she’d rather get it over with.

  Sloan snorted with amusement. “You don’t know! My dear Francesca, you’re far cleverer than that. You knew all along Edward de Lacey wanted that rumor extinguished not because it was false, but because it was true.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea if it’s true or not,” she said blithely. “He assured me it was false, and I took his word as a gentleman and a friend.”

  “A friend,” he repeated with a piercing look. “How dear a friend?”

  She just lowered her eyes and smiled demurely. Sometimes it was best to say nothing.

  “Right,” grumbled Sloan. “I hope your friend told you all about his engagement.”

  “The one that no longer exists?” She waved one hand. “Yes, I knew of it.”

  Gregory Sloan leaned toward her, and something like compassion softened his face. “Did he tell you he was in love with her? It was arranged by her family because the Halstons are in financial trouble; the earl’s concealed it for years, but now he stands on the brink of ruin. He told his daughter to do everything in her power to entice de Lacey, and that’s what’s held his creditors at bay these last two years. But Lord Edward was in love with her, and won’t get over her soon.”

  Francesca made a face. “Who told you that—Lord Halston himself?”

  Sloan grinned. “Not quite—a footman in the house, who’s owed six months’ wages. He had it from the butler, who’s also owed wages but hasn’t decided whether he wants to publish his story or not yet.”

  “A servant who’s owed wages: the most objective, reliable source of all.”

  “If I trotted every Halston servant through your drawing room and they all told the same story, you still wouldn’t believe it,” he said in amusement. “Nor, I think, do you really care what the truth is.”

  “About the Halston finances?” She gave a little shrug. “I confess I do not.”

  “No, about de Lacey’s engagement to Louisa Halston.”

  This was becoming tiring. “Perhaps I find it charming he was in love with his fiancée—and if so, the more fool she was, for discarding him. There aren’t enough marriages of love. I think it’s very romantic.”

  “Hmph. Even the fact that she must not have loved him as well as he loved her?”

  “Oh, what difference does it make?” she cried impatiently. “It’s broken off now, and I suspect irrevocably.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “That sounds determined of you. Tell the truth: are you setting out lures for him yourself?”

  Francesca’s mouth fell open. “Of all the— Mr. Sloan, I’m appalled you would say such a thing. Of course not.”

  “You were quite anxious to put down that rumor about him—except of course the part about the broken engagement.”

  She set down her teacup and regarded Sloan with reproach. “As I recall, Edward himself told you the engagement was broken. I certainly wasn’t aware of it until you printed it in your paper, and it wouldn’t have made a shred of difference to me whether it was broken or not when I asked you to reconsider. I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing.”

  “Hmm.” He had a quizzical expression. “Of course, once he was free of this young la
dy, using your influence with me would be one way to secure his gratitude and regard.”

  Of course it was; that was why she had acted as she had. It hadn’t been for the reason Sloan thought—the very thought of it, setting out to seduce Edward de Lacey! He was undeniably handsome, and would certainly turn many women’s heads, even without a title and fortune. He was intelligent and practical, which couldn’t be said of every man. Francesca had no patience for useless people, and Edward de Lacey was far from an incompetent wastrel. He had a ruthless streak as well, although she had to admire that, since he had deigned to use it on her behalf. And when he held her hand in his, she seemed to feel it with every nerve in her body.

  But he was too restrained for her: too cold and far too superior socially, at least for the moment. She might have wondered what it would take to arouse him to a passion, or what it might be like to kiss him—he did have a lovely mouth—and she might have even succumbed, once or twice, to wild curiosity about why his fiancée jilted him so rudely, but that didn’t mean anything. That was just her energetic imagination, galloping away from her at times, not an actual plan to seduce.

  And no one could be allowed to think so. The last thing she needed was Sloan poking around in her affairs, stirring up rumors about her intentions toward Lord Edward. She leaned forward in her seat and crooked her finger. Sloan lurched toward her, his eyes lighting up in incipient triumph. “You’re right,” she whispered. “It suits me much better that he’s not engaged to Louisa Halston.” Francesca knew a fiancée might have objected to her presence, and thus scuttled her hope of Lord Edward’s aid. “I don’t know why or how it happened, but I had nothing to do with it. And as for ‘setting out lures’ for him . . .” She shrugged. “I never really thought of it, even though I shall always think fondly of him.” If Edward de Lacey found Georgina for her, she would bless his name every day for the rest of her life. “But really—you think I arranged for him to speak to you solely to win his regard?” She pursed her lips and tried to look hurt. “That doesn’t speak very highly of me, or my personal charms, does it? As if a man wouldn’t spare a second look at me unless I extorted it from him!”

  Sloan’s face eased as he grinned in repentance. “Ah, Franny, you know I didn’t mean it that way! I just can’t resist this little puzzle; some stuffy, top-lofty aristocrat, who doesn’t spend much time in London at all, sees his life fall apart, and in the blink of an eye you’re his dearest friend, ready to do battle to protect his reputation. Caring for the wounded—or in this case, the penniless disinherited? Seizing your chance to gain a new husband, taking your chance he’d still be a titled wealthy one? Or something else?”

  “Something else,” she said gently. “And that’s all I intend to tell you, after you all but said I must be blackmailing him into visiting me.”

  “Well.” Sloan’s eyes dipped briefly to her bosom. “I don’t miss what’s in it for him, to call on you. I wonder what’s in it for you to receive him. The man’s about to lose everything, my dear.”

  She laughed lightly. “And wonder you shall, impertinent man.” She rose and put out her hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Gregory,” she added in pointed dismissal.

  He looked disappointed. “Very well.” He bowed over her hand. “I hope to repeat the pleasure soon.”

  Not very soon, she thought. “Good day,” she said aloud, walking him to the door and smiling until the door closed at his heels. Then she rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated oath. First Alconbury, now Sloan. “Heaven spare me suspicious men!”

  “There’s nothing that scoundrel can do to you,” sniffed Mrs. Hotchkiss. “More tea, madam?”

  “Yes, please.” Francesca went back into the drawing room and collapsed on the sofa, draping one arm over her eyes. “It’s enough to make one become a hermit.”

  Her housekeeper just chuckled and went out to get a fresh tea tray. When she came back a short time later, Francesca reluctantly sat up. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss. I would be driven to drink if not for your tea.”

  “Shall I bar the door, then?” the housekeeper asked with a sympathetic expression. “For I do believe we’re to have another caller soon.”

  She groaned. “Lord Alconbury?”

  Mrs. Hotchkiss cocked her head. “No, I don’t believe so. It was a carriage I heard, not Lord Alconbury’s horse . . .”

  Francesca paused, wary but filled with hope. “Who, then?”

  The knocker sounded. Mrs. Hotchkiss raised her eyebrows in question, and Francesca nodded quickly. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be a message from Lord Edward. She heard the door open, and then—her heart jumped into her throat—it was his own voice in her hall. She rushed to the doorway, a wide, expectant smile on her face.

  “Lady Gordon.” He handed his hat to Mrs. Hotchkiss and bowed. “I hope I’ve not called at a bad time.”

  “Not at all, sir,” she said with fervor. “You are always most welcome!”

  His head went up a bit, and a flicker of surprise brightened his eyes. Francesca flushed, belatedly realizing how enthusiastic she sounded, but she just smiled and held out her hand, welcoming him into her drawing room. He walked past her, very tall and smelling of some subtle, rich cologne in his superbly cut coat, and she hurried to perch on the edge of her chair.

  “I’ve spoken to the investigator,” he said at once. “He’s discovered—”

  “Georgina?” she said, clasping her hands tightly together as if in prayer.

  His expression became a shade graver. “Unfortunately no, not yet. But he has located traces of Percival Watts, the girl’s uncle.”

  “He’s no relation to her at all,” said Francesca over the anxious thumping of her heart. “But go on.”

  Lord Edward’s mouth quirked. “Of course. I misspoke. But you told me Mr. Watts was an artist, and my investigator traced him to the Royal Academy, where he submitted some paintings.”

  “He’s a member?” Francesca was astonished. She had only ever heard Percival was a struggling artist, not elected to the Royal Academy.

  “No, but he was acquainted with people there. He studied there. By the accounts of those who know him, he’s still trying to work as an artist, but having a difficult time of it.” He paused. “The investigator believes he may be trying to sell his paintings through art sellers in London or private exhibitions. However, an investigator poking about, asking questions, may cause the man alarm. The last thing we wish to do is provoke him into deeper hiding. I suggest it would be better if I made discreet inquiries with the art sellers, intimating I might like to purchase one of Mr. Watts’s paintings. The prospect of a patron may entice him out of hiding.”

  “Oh, yes,” Francesca breathed in excitement. “That may well!” Then she colored. “But of course you didn’t bargain for such involvement! I’m very grateful for your assistance, but surely I can make those inquiries myself—”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And what will Mr. Watts think when he hears a copper-haired lady is looking for him?”

  Francesca stopped, deflated. “Of course. He would suspect it was I.”

  “There’s no link, however, between our names,” Lord Edward went on more kindly. “And, at the risk of sounding quite pompous and important, my name is the sort any artist would be glad to attract. That is why you pursued me, is it not? My . . . consequence?”

  She straightened self-consciously in her seat. “Yes, among other things. But I don’t wish to impose overmuch . . .”

  Now he was definitely amused. “No, of course not. But I make the offer freely. You may decline, of course.”

  She rubbed one thumb over the other, watching him watch her. Curse Gregory Sloan; now all she could think about was what it would be like if she did decide to seduce Edward de Lacey, and what heartbreak he might be suffering over his lost fiancée. Part of her was trying to forget every last word of that conversation. The other part of her was distracted by the way Edward’s gray eyes seemed almost luminous today as he studied her. He was
much more handsome than she’d first thought, Francesca realized. As if it weren’t enough for him to be a duke’s son and immensely wealthy. Why had Lady Louisa broken off with him? Had it only been the fear he would lose his fortune? Silly girl; there were so many other ways a man could be attractive . . . and desirable . . .

  She took a deep breath and forced her mind away from the suddenly impure direction her thoughts had wandered. The last thing she should do was allow herself even to think about seducing Edward de Lacey. She needed his help too badly to ruin things by affronting him. From now on she would behave with perfect poise and restraint, and remember that it was only a business arrangement between them, no matter how conscious she might feel of him as a man.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very generous of you. I am more grateful than you can know.”

  His smile was brief. “Not at all. It is what we agreed.”

  It was far more than that, and for the first time she wondered why he was offering. “Yes, but I did not ask this. And you must really send the investigator to me. I intend to pay his bill, and there’s no reason for him to trouble you about this search anymore.”

  Lord Edward tilted his head back almost warily, as if he were considering what to say next. “It’s no trouble,” he said after a moment. “I feel some sympathy for the little girl.”

  “That’s very good of you, sir,” she replied, “but I must insist.”

  “He is . . .” He paused. “ . . . a rather rough character. I’m not sure it would be safe for him to visit a lady.”

  “Surely he can send written reports instead. I shall have Mr. Hotchkiss in the house any time he’s expected.”

  “I’m not certain he can write notes and reports.” Lord Edward cleared his throat. “Really, it’s no trouble.”

  She gave an awkward laugh. “I see. I begin to feel like such a pest to you! I never meant to exact this much effort . . .”

  “I do not take my debts lightly, Lady Gordon,” he said firmly. “And I have already assured you I don’t feel aggrieved.”