Charlie blinked. “Really? So long? Well. I suppose it would have gone off, then . . .” With visible reluctance, he closed the drawers.
“What are you doing here?” Charlie hadn’t called once since Edward came to London, and now he was prowling around the room looking cross and restless.
“How are we getting on with the solicitor?” Charlie asked instead.
“We are stuck in a morass of parliamentary law,” Edward replied with a mild spark of surprise. It was the first sign of interest he’d seen from his brother. “Wittiers has prepared a very solid case laying out our claims to legitimacy, and thus your right to the title. Your petition has been prepared and filed with the Home Office. He sent word all was completed yesterday.”
“That’s excellent.” Charlie seemed genuinely relieved. He grinned and clapped Edward on the shoulder. “Good work. I knew there was nothing to worry about with you on the case.”
“And it may all go for naught if Dorothy Cope turns up alive and well, or even dead and gone, if she’s only been thirty years in her grave,” Edward went on as if his brother hadn’t spoken. “Wittiers cannot change anything in that event, although I did instruct him to fight tooth and nail to disprove it. He also cannot prevent Augustus from filing a petition for the title, and God alone knows what might happen then, even though I’ve already set Wittiers to undermining Augustus in any way possible.”
Charlie’s face darkened. “Then what the bloody hell are we to do? What have you been doing?”
“A damned sight more than you’ve been doing,” Edward said. “And now I’m done.”
“Done?” Charlie frowned in suspicion. “What do you mean, done?”
He was quiet for a moment. “This is your fight. Your title. Your estate. Your claim to stake. Not mine.”
“Not yours,” his brother repeated blankly. “You’ve lost your bloody mind. You’ve almost as much to lose as I have!”
“You don’t care for something unless you fight for it,” Edward said. “I’m not the duke, Charlie—you are, or should be. If you want Durham, fight for it yourself.”
“We’ll all be penniless nobodies,” exclaimed Charlie. “You’ve gone mad—is it that woman?”
He grinned wryly. “Not for the reason you think. But yes, it’s because of her that I’m done. And for you,” he added as his brother opened his mouth again. “You don’t need me to wage this battle for you. I’ll help you in any way I can, but now I have something else that needs my attention.”
Charlie still frowned peevishly. “Well, I suppose I’m the last person who ought to complain if you’ve decided to lose yourself in a woman’s skirts for a few months. But it’s not like you, Ned, not at all.”
“I know.” He couldn’t stop grinning, which was also unlike him. “I’ll send you copies of my correspondence with Wittiers in the morning, so you can proceed.”
“What? Oh, bloody hell, no, you won’t!” His brother looked thunderstruck. “Edward, be reasonable! I don’t have the first idea what to do with correspondence and documents! At least say you’ll keep on with that part!”
Edward made a show of looking around the room. “Then I suppose we’d better begin packing.” Charlie began cursing, but Edward held up his hand. “Do you know Father thought you’d react this way? He was desperate to beg your pardon with his last breath because he expected you to crumble under the strain.” His brother glared at him, but Edward just shrugged. “I, however, know better. You’ve spent most of your life trying to prove him wrong, or at least confound his expectations. Why should you stop now? I think you’ll discover what to do once you make up your mind to solve this problem instead of hiding from it.”
The murderous but thwarted expression on his brother’s face was priceless. Edward smiled, rather pleased with himself, and turned to go. When he reached the door, Charlie called out, “You’re a heartless manipulator.”
“I thought that was one of my finer qualities.”
“It is,” grumbled Charlie, stalking across the room and then out the door Edward held open. “I hope she’s worth it.”
“More than I could ever tell you,” Edward replied.
Chapter 25
Edward went back upstairs, his pulse quickening in anticipation. He should ask on one knee, so she would know he was serious. Out of instinct he began listing arguments in favor of their marriage, just in case she made any protest. He wasn’t used to being refused, and in this particular circumstance would do anything to persuade her. He had never been more certain of his actions. Shedding the responsibility for the Durham title onto Charlie felt surprisingly right, and soon he would have Francesca.
He opened the door to see her standing at his desk, head bent. Firelight gleamed on her hair. She still wore his dressing gown, but Edward knew there was nothing beneath it. He closed the door and was halfway across the room when she turned.
He stopped in his tracks. Good God. Her expression was not what he had expected. A prickle of alarm ran up his spine as she just stared accusingly at him.
“What is this?” she asked when the silence had grown taut and sharp. She held up something . . . the report Jackson had first given him, the one about her.
Damn it all to bloody hell. He knew he should have burned that.
“This isn’t about Georgina, or Ellen Haywood, or Percival Watts,” she went on, her voice beginning to shake. “This is about me. You led me to believe the man you hired couldn’t even write, and here are pages and pages about my parents, my marriage, my friends. Why do you have this?”
Edward was frozen. God, another lie he had forgotten, when he’d been trying to stifle his interest in her.
“Why?” she asked again. “I would have told you everything in here, if you’d only asked.”
His throat seemed paralyzed. How could he say he had wanted to know long before she would have told him, when he had no excuse for asking her directly? How could he explain that he was captivated by her almost from the first moment he saw her, and that it had overridden his sense and judgment too many times to count? How could he admit he had been a damned fool, but was sorry now because he realized what an insult it was to her open, honest nature? How could he tell her now that he loved her, that he’d been about to fall to his knees and propose marriage?
When he said nothing, she flung the papers at him. Edward flinched. The pages uncurled as they hit him in the chest and then fluttered to the ground, like discarded feathers from a bird soaring away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” She folded her arms and put up her chin, like the undaunted Francesca he knew so well. It only allowed him to see the tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes this time, though, and it made him feel filthy and craven.
He opened his mouth to explain, and the words scattered. “I cannot defend it,” he said helplessly.
“I would believe almost anything you wanted to say in explanation,” she whispered.
“I wanted to know.” Each word was bitter, and difficult to form. “I should not have done it. I should have waited until you were willing to tell me what you wished me to know of you. I should have resisted the urge to control things . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes closed for a moment, and Edward felt a surge of fear and hope. Hope that she would accept his apology, that she cared for him enough that this wouldn’t divide them. Fear . . . that she did not. Fear that he had given his heart again to a woman who didn’t love him back. Fear that he had made not the same mistake he’d made with Louisa, but a far worse one. Marrying Louisa had been the intelligent, rational thing to do. Pursuing Francesca had been against every sound reason he could think of—and yet he’d lost himself so completely to her, he didn’t know how he could survive without her. When Louisa jilted him, he’d been angry. If Francesca left him, he would be broken.
“When?” she asked. “When did you ask Mr. Jackson for that?”
He couldn’t make
things worse by lying. “The day we interviewed solicitors here.” Her eyes were shadowed as she stared stonily at him, no doubt reviewing the calendar in her mind. “I asked him primarily to find Mrs. Haywood and Georgina,” he went on, feverishly hoping it would sway her. “I realized it would be difficult to find a solicitor to take your case—I had already begun thinking a private investigator was your best chance to recover Georgina. I acted without telling you, I admit, but I wanted a quick solution. And you did agree, when I laid out my reasoning to you.”
Her brows drew together. “You wanted rid of me sooner?”
“Because I was so tempted,” he admitted. “So desperately drawn to you, I thought it best. Yes.”
She had started shaking her head as he spoke, a tiny movement at first that grew more emphatic. “You disliked me. I was a nuisance to you. I maneuvered you into helping me when you hadn’t really done anything wrong, when you owed me nothing.”
Edward cursed and ran his hands through his hair. “Yes! And still I couldn’t stay away, even when you told me I had done enough and was welcome to go away. I couldn’t go away, even when I told myself it was the wise thing to do.”
“Then this was just an irresistible urge to you.” Her gaze dropped to the hateful papers scattered on the floor. “And you made sure I was safe enough to have an affair with, before things even got that far.”
Edward swallowed hard. Unconsciously he drew himself up straighter, taller, colder, bracing himself for the coming blow. “No. That wasn’t it.”
She raised her eyes to his. “That’s what it looks like.”
He said nothing. She was correct; that’s what it did look like, now. He had known when he did it that he ought not to have instructed Jackson to report on her. He just hadn’t expected it to haunt him so cruelly.
Francesca seemed to slump. Without another word she turned and crossed the room, snatching up her clothing as she went. She left and closed the door behind her.
Edward felt the air leave the room with her. He made it to a chair before his knees gave out. His head fell into his hands and he squeezed his temples, frantically trying to think, and coming up with nothing but blank misery. He was not accustomed to having no idea what to do; the fact that his mind was utterly devoid of any plan at all, even a bad one, was debilitating.
He waited an hour, then sent her a note. Just a simple one, asking if he might call on her the next day. He told his servant to wait for an answer, even if he must stand outside her house all night, but the reply the man brought was almost worse than none at all. She asked him not to come. There was nothing more; no final farewell, no recriminations, not even another invitation to defend himself and have a blazing row about it, just . . . nothing.
Edward spent a sleepless night staring at the fire, drinking his father’s best brandy, and wondering what he should do now. He finally came up with three choices, none of which were clear good ones.
First, he could wait until she agreed to see him again, hoping she would agree to see him again. He did not like this idea. Every day she refused him would be like pouring salt in a wound. He had prided himself his entire life on his patience and fortitude, but the prospect of waiting for a summons that might never come was enough to break his soul. Waiting was not an attractive option.
Second, he could force his way into her house and pour out his heart, explaining everything he’d done and his reasons, standing outside her windows and shouting it for all to hear if she tossed him out, and pray she could listen enough to forgive him. But this left open the real chance she would be even more appalled by such an out of character action, and never speak to him again. Edward had no experience in forcing his presence on a lady, and he wasn’t sure he could do it. If she burst into tears and asked him to leave, he would probably go throw himself in the Thames.
That left the third option, which he didn’t like any better than the others. He drank a lot more brandy trying to think of a fourth or fifth option, but in the end the dreaded third option was the only one that his conscience would allow.
He knocked several times before the door opened. The bleary-eyed servant staring at him was probably not reassured by his appearance, but Edward pushed past him. “Tell Lord Alconbury I wish to see him at once.”
“His lordship is still abed,” protested the servant. “Come back at a decent hour.”
Edward fixed his iciest stare on the man. “Tell him,” he said. “Immediately.”
The footman scowled, but before he could argue further, a voice called from the top of the stairs, “This house had bloody well be on fire, for all the racket down there.”
Edward looked up. “I’d like a word, Alconbury. About Lady Gordon.”
The baron came slowly down the stairs. He had obviously come from his bed, a dressing gown pulled around him and his hair ruffled and unkempt. He waved his footman off, muttering to the man to go back to bed. The servant closed the front door and obediently slipped away. “I don’t think I care to hear what you have to say about her.”
“No,” Edward said. “It isn’t what you think.”
Alconbury raised an eyebrow. “Are you journeying to China by some odd chance, never to return?”
Perhaps. “I’ve come to ask a service of you.”
“Indeed,” said Alconbury in a dry tone.
His hands ached to curl into fists. He had to clench his jaw to keep his composure. “For her, not for me. I fear . . .” He hesitated in spite of himself. “I fear she will need someone. I understand you were indispensible to her when her husband died.”
The other man’s suspicion melted away. However much Edward disliked him, he had to admit Alconbury’s affection for Francesca was real—which only made this harder, to be honest. “What’s happened to her?” he exclaimed. “By God, de Lacey, what’s wrong?”
“She’s neither wounded nor ill.” Not even the cold, hard reserve he had cultivated for so long was making this more bearable. Edward had to look away from Alconbury’s concerned face, knowing it would be the one to comfort the woman he loved—and had possibly lost, through his own stupidity. “She’s merely learned some displeasing truths about me. I’m sure she would be glad of a friend.”
Alconbury looked suspicious. “I warned her you would hurt her.”
Edward inclined his head. “You were correct.”
“I was.” Alconbury studied him with a slight frown.
“She said you were a true friend to her when her husband died,” Edward went on, hating every word. “I trust you can be again.”
“I will try to be,” said Alconbury slowly. Edward jerked his head in a nod of thanks. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud, not when he had just handed the baron another chance at Francesca’s heart. Sooner or later she would decide it was better to fall in love with the man who was always there to support her when another man broke her heart. “I thank you for the visit,” Alconbury added, puncturing his thoughts. “I’ll go to her this morning.”
Edward pictured Francesca smiling across her breakfast table at Alconbury, sharing champagne with him in a darkened theater, letting him run his hands through her bright, silky hair, and a dark curtain seemed to pass over his vision. He had done what he came to do. There was nothing to be gained by lingering another moment. “Good day,” he muttered, and left, brushing past the baron, letting the door bang closed behind him.
Francesca spent a wretched night tossing and turning, until finally she gave up and rose in the first light of dawn. She still felt numbed with shock that Edward had done such a thing: having her investigated! What did he hope to gain by that? He said it was because he was so drawn to her that he couldn’t restrain himself even when he knew he should. Well, perhaps that sounded a little like her own actions, when she kissed him . . . and again when she invited him in for the night, planning to seduce him . . . but she at least had acted openly and honestly!
And what would he have done differently, she wondered in renewed despair, if he’d learned so
mething unpleasant about her from Mr. Jackson? Would he have turned her away, or gone on and bedded her anyway, knowing he could discard her at any time? If he had ever made any declaration of his feelings, she would have been able to cling to it and convince herself that was the truth between them, and whatever had motivated him to have Jackson look into her history and habits was an old impulse, fallen by the wayside and no longer valid.
But he had never said anything. Not even when she all but begged him to say it, even if it was a lie, he hadn’t said it.
Desperate for something to take her mind off Edward, she decided to go see Georgina. Ellen had promised she could visit at any time, and Francesca wanted to take some of the gifts and clothing she had bought for her niece. She was upstairs choosing which items to take when Mrs. Hotchkiss came up the stairs to say Lord Alconbury was waiting in the drawing room.
She went down to meet him, glad he had come to her again. A corner of her heart was irrationally disappointed it wasn’t Edward come to see her, determined to win her back by scooping her into his arms and making love to her until she forgot her own name, let alone that he had investigated her before bedding her . . . but she reminded herself she’d told him not to come. She could hardly blame him for acceding to her wishes. Just because it was what she would do, if their circumstances were reversed, was no reason to expect Edward to do it. She hoped Alconbury would take her mind off it, because she didn’t know what else to do.
“Alconbury, how nice of you to come see me,” she said, holding out her hands to him. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.” He kissed her cheek, then stepped back to inspect her. “You look haggard this morning.”
Her laugh was despondent. “A charmer, through and through! You’ll steal my heart, talking that way.”
He reached out and brushed a wisp of hair back from her temple. “Is it still free for me to steal?”
No. She smiled again, a bit forced this time. “Shall you stay for breakfast? I haven’t eaten yet, but I smelled coffee earlier. Mrs. Hotchkiss would be delighted to serve you a cup.”
One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke Page 28