Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  Young Sarah appeared in the doorway and bobbed a very proper, if nervous and wobbly, curtsy. “Yes, your grace?”

  “Do bring me a fresh pot of tea, if you please. I cannot stand coffee.”

  Sarah nodded at once. “Yes, your grace,” she said, before turning back to the kitchen.

  “If we’d known you were scheduled to arrive, we would have had some tea readily available,” said Paul.

  “My business concluded early and I decided I wanted to come home.”

  “How lovely.” Paul lathed raspberry jam onto a bun. Business, indeed. All four of them knew that Lady Hareden had been up to something unscrupulous. She knew, of course—but so did Paul, the dowager duchess, and Charlotte.

  Charlotte could find nothing at all to say. This was enormously awkward and felt about as tense as being locked in an enclosure with a sleeping tiger. She did not know whether Lady Hareden would purr, be content to jibe at each of them in turns, or just lash out and rip them all to bloody shreds.

  Having hardly taken three bites of her toast, she was already scheming an escape. She could always send down to Mrs. Snow for some scraps of food later. She was sure that the woman would understand her need to not be around Lady Hareden.

  “It is lovely, having such a home.”

  “And did your business go well, Lady Hareden? If that is what you’re terming it, these days. Go for a nice, refreshing ride?” Paul said.

  Charlotte’s current bite of toast nearly fell out of her mouth.

  Lady Hareden countered, “You must get lonely in the Albany. That’s not a proper home at all. Is that why you seek out such companionship while you are in London?” Paul did not rise to her bait. He simply raised an eyebrow, then took a bite of his roll and jam. “And where is my husband? I would expect that if Miss Masbeck is here, he would be, too…” She gave a nasty pause. “But then again, if she is here with you, my lord… perhaps not.”

  “Really, Isabel,” said the dowager duchess. “That is quite enough. Miss Masbeck is above reproach, her conduct far better than some ladies of my acquaintance.”

  “Pardon me. I do not mean to offend. It’s just that everyone knows that Lord Paul Hareden has a reputation. Miss Masbeck, I just do not want your own compromised by association,” said Lady Hareden.

  “Not everyone succumbs to temptation wherever it is to be found,” interjected her mother-in-law, tartly. “And as I keep reiterating to you, Miss Masbeck has done nothing objectionable. Please desist in your odious heckling.”

  Lady Hareden spared Paul a venomous glance. “I am only jesting. Surely you, my lord, are aware of the gossip that follows you.”

  “As everyone also knows you have your own reputation!” exclaimed the dowager duchess.

  While Paul was just a little slack-jawed, his hand stopped midway between his plate and his mouth, Charlotte felt that she needed to keep her own composure.

  Inwardly, she was cheering on the dowager duchess.

  Lady Hareden gaped soundlessly.

  “Oh, come. I am only jesting,” murmured the dowager duchess. “Do not look so wounded.”

  She was not speaking out of lighthearted jest, but that wasn’t the point. If the Empire could be run on ire alone, thought Charlotte, the dowager duchess’ toward her daughter-in-law would keep it well-tended for weeks.

  When Sarah brought Lady Hareden’s tea, the duchess was still trying to formulate a response that would give her what she perceived to be the upper hand. Charlotte could tell as she gleefully watched the woman’s mouth continue to open and close without any noise.

  So distracted was Lady Hareden that she did not even voice any annoyance when Sarah remained mute before scampering away.

  Any pity that Charlotte might have felt toward Lady Hareden was almost impossible to maintain in the face of her behavior. The duchess most likely did not feel any empathy or sympathy for her. It vexed Charlotte that she was able to cultivate some in the first place, but it was there even if it was buried under heaps of less charitable emotions.

  Uncertain, Charlotte looked to Paul for some guidance.

  Did one just leave a duchess in consternation if one wanted to depart from the table? She did not mind spending extra time with Paul, whom she was fast considering a friend, or the dowager duchess, but she did have things she wanted to look after and she couldn’t—

  “Where has my husband gone, my lord? Specifically, I mean,” said Lady Hareden, switching her attention from the dowager duchess to Paul.

  The dowager duchess smugly went back to eating her breakfast.

  “I would imagine he is in the townhouse,” said Paul.

  It was not much of a leap to assume that Lady Hareden knew the duke would not stray from his usual paths, but instead had hatched some game only known to herself. A veteran of such things, Paul adeptly kept a level tone and a pleasantly bland face.

  “Do we not worry that perhaps he has returned to his little friend the bottle? He has never stayed in London without first informing us of his exact plans.”

  The dowager duchess went from smug to uncertain. It was the first time Charlotte had ever seen her look such a way. Lest she betray the duke and give away the discussion she and Paul had had in the library, she had best make her way upstairs.

  Charlotte said, “I should get to—”

  “No, Miss Masbeck, do stay,” said Lady Hareden, her voice as smooth as ice. “I am sure you are more aware of my husband’s secrets than I.”

  Here we are, back to “my husband”.

  “I wouldn’t presume to say,” said Charlotte.

  “Nonetheless. What do you think of my theory, my lord?”

  “I think little of it. I think you are needlessly sewing doubt in our minds because you are an incredibly petty creature.”

  “Well. I’m only a concerned wife. Has anyone checked his bureau? The walnut one that is usually locked.” She looked first at Paul, then the dowager duchess. “Which of you has a key? Or do I need to ask Snow or Higgins?”

  Without wanting to, Charlotte shifted minutely in her seat.

  “I am sure he has taken it with him,” said Paul. “I don’t have a key, at any rate.” He shot Charlotte a bland expression of mild confusion.

  “What would be the object of opening up his locked bureau?” said the dowager duchess. But Charlotte conjectured that she was nervous. The lady was fidgeting slightly and her face had gone a little pale.

  “We can make a more educated guess about whether or not he is using,” said Lady Hareden. Her eyes were wide and her voice was a little too honeyed.

  “Goodness knows we are all used to your outlandish demands and ways, your grace,” said Paul, “but would it hurt to perhaps trust my brother? If he says he is not, then we must leave it at that.”

  As far as Charlotte knew, she and Lord Hareden had the only available keys. Mr. Snow had given one to her. Endeavoring to see how far Lady Hareden was willing to push, or shove, she said, “Your grace, might I make a suggestion?”

  “I have a feeling you are about to, Miss Masbeck, and little I will say will stop you. So, do go ahead.”

  “Why not just wait for his grace to return and have a conversation with him?”

  Lady Hareden wrinkled her perfect, little nose as though encountered with the stench of horse excrement. “This would be more expedient.”

  “A little less respectful,” mumbled Charlotte.

  The duchess brightened considerably, like she’d just considered something new and promising. “But Miss Masbeck, perhaps you have a key? You are his secretary and he is away.”

  A creak sliced through the silence when Paul resettled on his chair. Did he know or guess she had the key?

  I have never been very good at lying, thought Charlotte. Then she remembered withholding information about Lord Rowling’s nighttime visit to her home. Unless it’s by omission. She had been good enough at that.

  She prayed her face remained neutral enough, but it probably was not abiding by her fervent w
ishes. It did not really matter in the end, because Lady Hareden was the mistress of the manor. She could tell Charlotte to open the bureau if she ascertained Charlotte had a key in her possession. Drat, it was such a small thing, yet a fear of betraying the duke pricked her all the same. Doubtless, he had used laudanum far more often than either his brother or his mother knew. What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. He shouldn’t have kept the truth from his wife, in Charlotte’s opinion.

  But that was a very lofty standard to apply to this particular wife. And there was nothing Lady Hareden could do with the knowledge, really. No recourse. Certainly no moral high ground. Did she think she could blackmail or pressure Lord Hareden into something? If so, then why, and what?

  Besides, Charlotte would wager that the ton had its fair share of laudanum aficionados. Given the tenor of the rumors around the Haredens, suggesting that the duke was a little too fond of the stuff would be the least salacious whisper about them. She braced herself, mentally squaring her shoulders.

  “I haven’t, your grace.” It was time to see how far Lady Hareden was willing to climb this hill. “I suppose it is because I’m just a woman, but he didn’t see fit to leave me with one. I am sorry.”

  Lady Hareden narrowed her eyes.

  Charlotte swallowed out of nerves, but did not break with her searching, assessing gaze.

  “Then perhaps I overestimated you,” Lady Hareden said. “You aren’t so special, after all.” It wasn’t clear whether Lady Hareden believed her or was just moving on to some other way to inconvenience all of them.

  The duchess’ head tilted slightly from side to side like a hawk’s, and Charlotte decided that her fib was not believed.

  When did I ever say I was special? When did Lord Hareden say it?

  Charlotte was close to absolutely screeching in the most uncivilized way. She’d never thought she was special in her life because she was too busy living it, mistakes and all. While her parents had never withheld praise from her, she had not been raised with an inflated sense of self-importance. Even falling into her secretarial tendencies had been out of necessity. Her brother had had no head for it, but she did. She’d also survived when he had not. To be called special for that would be, to her mind, absurd.

  She had always been herself. That was something. It did not bother her that she held no immense accomplishments and could not boast of any specialness in comparison to other women.

  “It’s not so abnormal for a secretary not to be given a key to an item meant to provide security or privacy,” said Paul. “There’s no call to be cutting.” He finished his coffee, then continued speaking in a disinterested way. “I must go back to London the day after tomorrow. It’s unlikely, because I think he’ll be here within the day—but if he does not return by then, I’ll look for him. Go to the townhouse. White’s. What if he got foxed last night?

  “He could be in no fit state to travel this morning. I hardly think it is fair to make assumptions about my brother’s old habits making a return without seeing him under the influence.” Paul looked about the table at each of them and shrugged. “Even if we were to find a used bottle or the lack of a bottle, there would probably be an innocent explanation. He was injured, after all—we cannot presume to know his levels of pain or when the pain might return.”

  Paul had put his silver tongue to good use. Not for the first time, Charlotte admired the ease with which clear speech came to him. The duke had that skill, too.

  His words appeared to mollify the dowager duchess, who exhibited no signs of outright fear but was visibly vexed. “That is… all very sensible.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t have any more shocking haunts,” sneered Lady Hareden, pouncing on Paul’s assertion that the duke would be exactly where they expected him to be. She had all but forgotten her tea, it seemed. The gold-edged pot decorated with intricate blooms and birds remained untouched.

  “Why in God’s good name would that be an insult, Isabel?” said the dowager duchess.

  “Some men have needs. I feel as though my husband has none.”

  Flatly, Paul said, “So in order for him to demonstrate his manliness, you expect him to be in places that we cannot discuss at the table? Preposterous.”

  What an instigator, thought Charlotte. It was obvious that Lady Hareden wanted Lord Hareden to meet her at her low level. Because he had not, she was clearly bitter. It was the only sensible explanation for her outrageous words and deeds. Restless, Charlotte tapped her toe against the rug under the table.

  “Why should he?”

  Paul smiled in the direction of the voice that was coming from somewhere over Charlotte’s shoulder. Her bones knew that low, assertive voice and her nerves hummed pleasantly as she heard it.

  Lord Hareden had come home.

  *

  Jeremy was not best pleased. What a wonderful sign that I am wed to the wrong woman. Isabel was gobsmacked, gazing at him almost like she’d never seen him before and he’d offered to take her home in his carriage without any prior introductions. He had not been in the manor for very long at all and he had not heard the majority of conversation in the breakfast room. But it was not outlandish to assume that Isabel was in the process of doing what she loved best.

  Ruffling feathers and raising hackles.

  Well, one of the things she loved best. It was the domestic thing that she most enjoyed. If she could not go after the servants, she went after Mrs. Snow, and if she could not go after Mrs. Snow, she went after her mother-in-law. Simply because she could.

  For the longest time, Jeremy tried to understand her motivations and failed. It was because her motivations were simple and he had been looking for something more complex: a deep-seated aspect of Isabel’s self that he could help fix. In essence, the jest was on him.

  There was nothing to repair—she had been treated like a burden by Lord and Lady Edmonton upon reaching a certain age and committing the sin of remaining unmarried. That was unfortunate and unfair. But it was now clear that this was not as much of a motivating factor as the rush she seemed to get from causing discord.

  It was a pity, because given the speed at which her mind could come up with cutting insults, it should also be remarkably adept at running a household and being a mother.

  Then again, it was hard to gauge someone’s abilities at a task when they’d never really demonstrated an interest in it.

  At length, Isabel said, “I do suppose you buck the expectations.”

  He glanced at Miss Masbeck, who was rather pointedly trying not to look too relieved. Surreptitiously, he studied her.

  Lord, she was a vision. Fine-boned with a curvaceous figure that he longed to feel with his own fingertips. And he could have told her that if he was in the room, Isabel would pay attention to him more than anyone else. It was so perverse. She couldn’t be bothered with monogamy, as such, but she always seemed to take a proprietary—and perverse—pleasure in Jeremy being hers.

  He did realize now that he’d read her wrong and that, in truth, her perverse pleasure was in pointing out his so-called weaknesses rather than in possessing him. He tried to keep in mind that her father had most likely shaped that tendency and attempted to remain empathetic. Isabel could not help who her parents were as people, and they were odious people. Jeremy did not envy her or her sisters.

  Still, Jeremy was done. He’d fallen into deep introspection last night while speaking with Wenwood, then again in the carriage this morning. He could not live like this. He had no idea how he would accomplish being done, but he decided that the risk had to be worth the potential relief.

  He needed to stop deluding himself that continuing in the manner he was would do his future self any favors. It was only an insane man who repeated the same actions and expected there to be any change in those around him. Or his circumstances.

  “As do you, Lady Hareden,” said Jeremy.

  “Oh, my, Lady Hareden,” Isabel said. “Whatever is next—calling me your grace, again?”

 
Grace, my arse.

  “Being polite never killed anyone.”

  “That we know of,” said Paul. He smirked at Jeremy, but Jeremy was not tricked. His brother was relieved to see him. “It is entirely possible that someone has been killed through politeness. People love to take advantage, don’t they?”

  Isabel stared at Paul, nonplussed. She’d always been driven to perplexity by his odd sense of humor. She grew even more confused by him overall after he declined her offer to warm his bed. Jeremy gathered that men did not often decline his wife, the poor woman. The way Paul had told it, she’d been stunned.

  As he regarded Paul and Paul regarded him, he knew he looked to be in a sorrier state than usual. But that could easily be explained away. He did not think he had the courage to admit to his overindulgence in laudanum—not yet. He could, if Paul or his mother asked, blame spirits. It would be only a partial lie, and Paul had endured his fair share of times when the aftereffects of imbibing too much alcohol hampered the day after.

  Miss Masbeck impatiently brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ears. “Your grace?” She looked to him, not the duchess. “I apologize, but I must see to some… matters.”

  He nodded and she rose without waiting for a word of assent. When she passed by him in the doorway, he moved over only enough for her to make it through. She would not meet his eyes, though he tried to catch hers.

  All right, he thought. I shall solve that problem later. He granted that any conversation with Isabel could leave one itching to leave her presence. Miss Masbeck had probably been insulted in a half-dozen ways, at least.

  Right now, he had imperative things to surmount, one of them being his marriage.

  Chapter Twelve

  The days bloomed into weeks. By the time the first of October arrived, Jeremy had taken painful mental strides to prepare himself for what might turn out to be the worst battlefield he’d ever encountered. He needed to talk to Isabel. Specifically, talk to her about dissolving their marriage.

  He sat behind his behemoth of a desk and stared bleakly at the orderly bookshelves before him. His office felt so empty without Miss Masbeck, who was currently in London with her parents. As it had been for days, now, the laudanum was his only steady companion. He kept it to himself, tucked away in a drawer, but always had it at the ready. He’d long since perfected opening it with just one hand. How bizarre it felt that at one time, he took it fully for granted what he could easily do with two.