A Diamond for a Duke : Book 4: Camellia: Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters - The Elbury Bouquet)

by Arietta Richmond

  “That is similar to what I have heard. But… I do not see how that affects you, or what a blackmailer might use to harm your reputations?”

  Bella looked puzzled – Camellia could almost see her thinking as she waited for Lady Georgette to answer.

  “I… I don’t know. Unless they intend to simply fabricate something.”

  “Perhaps that is the case.”

  Lady Marie had, whilst they were talking, taken the letter from her sister’s unresisting grasp, and read it. Now she looked up, her eyes full of both fear and anger.

  “The way that this is worded… ‘your family’s proven lack of moral rectitude, if further revealed, would shatter your fragile reputations’. To me, that suggests exactly what you say – that they would invent something, implying that we, as well as our brother, have in some way been afflicted with doubtful morals, just through being our father’s children. But why? Why would someone do this to us?”

  The rumble of the carriage wheels was the only sound for some minutes, as each of them thought hard. Eventually, Camellia spoke.

  “I don’t know. Money is the obvious motive – but why you, and not someone else of the ton, who likely has things far more scandalous in their lives, I do not know.”

  Lady Georgette looked at the paper again, frowning.

  “They do not even give instructions here for how we should pay what they ask for – it simply says that ‘instructions will be sent to you’ and that we are to place an advertisement in the Daily Tattler, with some specific wording, to acknowledge that we have received this, and that we agree to pay.”

  “Surely you do not think to pay it!”

  Bella’s voice was deeply shocked.

  “What else can we do? I do not want our reputations ruined, or my brother more tarnished by gossip than he already has been.”

  Camellia considered how she would feel if such a thing threatened her sisters, and could understand – she would also be very tempted to pay – or at least to say that she would, whilst seeking a way to avoid doing so.

  “I can understand why you feel that way. But… perhaps you can place the advertisement, but not mean to truly pay? We can attempt to discover who the blackmailer is, and deal with them somehow, before you have to pay? Should you not tell your brother, first, though, for surely he will wish to assist you?”

  “No!”

  “No, I don’t…”

  Lady Georgette and Lady Marie spoke at the same moment, then both stopped and met each other’s eyes for a moment before Georgette went on.

  “Blackwater despises the gossips, and was so monumentally furious when the gossip first happened, that we decided never to let him know that we knew of it, never to mention it. And when it died down, we were grateful. If we told him of this, I fear that he would do something rash, which would damage his reputation, and possibly ours by accident. I would not risk such a thing. If we can deal with this ourselves, it will be better.”

  Camellia doubted that, but then again… if it was her in their place, she might well not tell her siblings, for fear of what they might do….

  “Well… if you are sure. But at least let me help you. There are those connected to my family who have ways and means for discovering things – especially when those things are of a nefarious nature.”

  The sisters met each other’s eyes again and Camellia waited, hoping that they would agree. She understood that some silent communication passed between them, and sighed with relief when Lady Georgette turned back to her.

  “Yes, I think that we would appreciate your help, so long as it is extremely discreet. I am, frankly, afraid – I do not think that facing this alone would be helpful. But you must not tell our brother.”

  “I won’t.”

  For now, Camellia added in her thoughts.

  <<<>>>

  Damien felt unaccountably nervous as the hackney cab carried him past the fashionable shops, and into the streets beyond. Not too far beyond, he noted, but far enough to mean that the highest of the ton would never venture there. Mr Swithin had replied to his request for the location of Bentick and Black, Gentlemen’s Outfitters, with a detailed set of directions, and the agreement that he would not, in any way, forewarn Mr Black of Damien’s wish to see the shop, or its owner.

  What would this man be like, this half-brother he had never known? Would he like him? Would he find him convincing, or would he feel that the man was a fraud?

  The questions tumbled through his mind as the cab bumped over uneven cobbles in the chill of the February afternoon. There were no answers, of course - only the moment of stepping through the shop door could bring him those.

  He was attired in his plainest clothes, and had used a hackney cab so that nothing about his arrival might cause his half-brother to suspect his identity. There was little he could do about the scar on his cheek, or the lines of his face – which, if this Thomas Black truly resembled him, the man might surely recognise.

  He had to rely upon the fact that his visit was utterly unexpected to protect him. It did not feel, he had to admit, much like a shield at all, from what might be either a pleasant, or very unpleasant, conversation.

  The cab stopped, and he stepped down.

  “Wait, if you will, jarvey. Here’s extra for your time.” He tossed the cabbie some coins, and watched the man’s eyes widen with greed. “There’ll be more once you’ve delivered me back to where you originally picked me up.”

  The jarvey nodded, and Damien turned to the plain and unassuming door beside the window display of canes, hats, and cravat pins. He straightened, took a steadying breath, and pushed it open.

  <<<>>>

  Camellia drew the hood of her cloak more closely about her face, and peeked through the dusty window of the hackney cab. She had never felt so utterly exposed in her life.

  This had seemed a sensible idea when she had decided to do it, but the further they went from her home, the more unsure she became.

  This morning, she had dressed in her oldest, plainest clothes, wrapped her old cloak around her, gathered her reticule with a moderate amount of coin, and slipped out through the garden gate, past the stables and up the lane to a side road. It had been easy to hail a hackney cab, and she had given the jarvey the direction of the shop which she had received from her man of business.

  He had been most concerned at her wish to visit her investment, not because he wished to keep her away, but because, it seemed, the shop which she had invested in sold items exclusively for gentlemen. She had still been determined to at least see the shopfront, and the location, to watch for a little, and assess the type of customer who frequented the place, before she made her decision about further investment.

  To go inside would have been better, but as a woman, she could not just walk into a gentlemen’s outfitters. Her nerves were made worse by the fact that she was alone. She could not remember ever going out into the city before, without at least a maid or a footman with her. Internally, she berated herself for being weak and silly – women went about alone every day – it was only her privileged place in society which granted her assistance, protection, and company, automatically.

  The cab travelled slowly down Bond Street, where the traffic was heavy, even this early in the day, and then turned into a side street. Two cross streets down, it pulled to a stop. The jarvey opened the small hatch and spoke to her.

  “’Ere we are Miss. It’s that one there, with the window display and the hangin’ sign. Will you be goin’ in there?”

  He waited. Camellia swallowed, her mouth dry.

  “Just stay here, please. I won’t be going in. I will pay you extra to simply sit here, with me in the cab, and then take me back to where you picked me up, once I am ready.”

  The cabbie eyed her as if she was more than a little mad, but nodded as soon as she handed him a coin. He shut the hatch, and Camellia turned her eyes back to the window. She pulled out a handkerchief, and rubbed some of the dust and grime away, so that she could see m
ore clearly.

  The shopfront was unassuming – plain, with a simple window display of elegant looking gentlemen’s items – hats, canes, cravat pins, snuff boxes, shaving accessories and more. The sign above the door proclaimed it to be the correct shop – Bentick and Black, Gentlemen’s Outfitters. As she watched, the door opened, and a man began to step out, then paused, and turned, going rapidly back in. Surely she was mistaken, but for a moment, she was certain that it had been Lord Setford.

  Shaking her head at her own whimsy, she settled back to watching. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, a small number of gentlemen came and went, some leaving carrying parcels, others not. It was obvious that the shop did, indeed, do quite a good trade, with customers from both the lower ranks of the ton and the merchant classes.

  Then, just as she was beginning to consider telling the jarvey to take her home, another cab drew up, right in front of the shop. The door opened, and a gentleman stepped out, turning to pay his driver. Camellia’s breath stopped. It did not matter that he was dressed in a far more modest quality of attire than usual, nor that he wore a hat which partly obscured his face – she was still utterly certain of his identity, instantly. But… what was he doing here?

  As she watched, he went into the shop, and the cab which had brought him drove off a short distance up the street, then stopped to wait. Camellia’s mind was racing. Why would a man of Blackwater’s station in life frequent a shop in this sort of area? He was of the highest of the ton – and she would have expected this small shop to be far beneath him. Dukes normally frequented only the best of the shops on Bond Street.

  Perhaps he sought to avoid the gossips? But it did not make sense.

  And, the horrible thought came to her, if he was a customer of this shop, was he one of the ones who did not pay his bills? One of those whose lack of consideration was putting the survival of this business at risk? She could not imagine it – after all, he had seemed unworried by the amount that his sisters’ gowns were going to cost – yet she had to consider the possibility.

  It disturbed her greatly, for she realised in that instant that she was coming to like the man, even more than she liked his sisters, more, perhaps, than was wise. But if he was one who did not pay shopkeepers… then that was an association which she could not allow to become close. To do so would go against every principle she lived by.

  She continued watching, and some time later, he emerged from the shop – without any packages, she noted – paused on the street, frowned when he saw her cab, staring at it for a moment, then realised it was not his, apparently, and glanced around, spotted his waiting driver, went to his cab, and climbed in. As he looked in her direction, she had pulled back from the window, suddenly terrified that he might have seen her, but he gave no sign of having done so.

  His cab drove off, and she was left staring at that unassuming shopfront again. But something about the whole incident had tipped the balance in her mind – she would happily put more funds into the survival of this business, even if only to give herself time to unravel this puzzle.

  She told the jarvey to take her back to where he’d picked her up from, and leant back onto the seat to think.

  <<<>>>

  Inside the shop, all was quiet.

  “You can come out now, Lord Setford. Both cabs have driven off.”

  Setford emerged through the curtain from the back room, and gave Thomas an elegant bow.

  “My thanks for the unplanned use of your back room, Mr Black. I do not wish to draw attention to exactly what sort of items I obtain from your shop. And being seen here by people who know of my… occupation… would do just that. Was that a visitor you expected?”

  “No, my Lord. But… am I correct in assuming that he is not who he said he was? That in fact he is…?”

  “Your half-brother? Yes.”

  “Then why?”

  “I suspect he was curious to see you, before doing anything more… formal.”

  Chapter Eight

  As Damien settled into the seat of the cab, bearing him away from Bentick and Black, the whole strange course of events replayed itself in his head, from the moment that he had pushed open the door to the shop, causing a small bell to ring above his head.

  The interior of the shop had been well lit, with elegant sconced lamps, and the items for sale well laid out and presented tastefully – much as he would have expected to find on a shop on Bond Street itself. In response to the bell, a man had appeared through a curtain from the back of the shop, and, as the man stepped directly into the light of one of the lamps, Damien had been hard pressed not to gasp.

  It was like looking at the portrait which hung in the gallery at Blackwater Chase – the portrait of his father as a young man. In that instant, all doubt left him – this man was his father’s son. But whether he was a money hungry opportunist, or an honest businessman, as Mr Swithin suggested, remained to be seen. Damien had swallowed, hard, and kept his face impassive.

  Inside, his mind was in turmoil. He had not expected to be faced with this… ghost of his father in his younger years. And suddenly, he wondered, as others wondered about him – could a man who looked so like his father, also have other things in common with that father – less desirable things? It was unreasonable of him to think such a thought of a man he had just seen for the first time, but the resemblance was so strong, it did odd things to the mind.

  He shook the thought away – this man, of all men, was unlikely to have such predilections, being the cast-off result of such a peccadillo.

  Green eyes, almost as bright as his own, regarded him curiously.

  “May I help you my Lord?”

  At that moment, Damien realised that he had thought no further than stepping through the door. He would have to improvise.

  “I… I am interested in ordering a swordcane, if you deal in such items?”

  “I do. Let me show you some samples, so that you can more easily indicate what style you would prefer, and so that I can gauge your height, reach and style.”

  The man turned away, and Damien felt somehow released from standing frozen in place. His breathing steadied back to a normal pace. Was this how others felt, when he fixed them with a stern glare? He watched with interest as the man went to a cabinet on one wall, opened the glass paned doors, and drew out four different canes – all of which qualified as works of art.

  He turned back, the canes held across his arms, and went to the counter which stood at one side of the room. Damien followed him, and reached out to brush his fingers over the chased silver head which graced one of the canes. He had not come here with the intent to buy something, but now… he suspected that he would end up doing so.

  “These are beautiful work.”

  “Thank you.” Those green eyes, so similar to his own, met his again for a moment, and Damien felt carefully inspected – would the man guess who he was? But the eyes flicked away, and he lifted the cane which Damien had touched, pushed a near invisible button under the curve of the silver head, and slid out the sword which it released. “I think that this one is probably the closest to being the right length and balance for you, my Lord. You are much of a height and weight with me, and it is the one that suits me best.”

  That said, the man – Thomas Black, Damien reminded himself, his half-brother – stepped back, and moved the slim blade through a series of practice patterns. He was, Damien had to admit, not a bad swordsman, if a little imprecise with some manoeuvres. Just seeing it made Damien wish for a sword in his own hand, for the soothing, calming effects of immersing himself in the flow of practice. When he spoke, he did so softly, not wanting to disrupt the concentration of the man before him.

  “Indeed, I suspect that you are right. If you extend your arm, just a little more, as you move through that turn, you will find that the weight of the sword becomes less perceptible, the flow easier.”

  For a second, Mr Black’s eyes flicked to his, then away.

  Damien wondered if he had missteppe
d, if the man before him might take offence at the suggestion, but even as he wondered, Thomas did exactly as he had instructed, and immediately, the fluidity of the movement grew, as Damien had known it would. He said nothing more, and a bare minute later, Mr Black came to a stop – also fluidly, the slim blade coming to rest with its point to the ground, beside him. He lifted it, and shifted his grip, offering the hilt to Damien.

  “Thank you. You were perfectly right. I must remember that, when next I practice. Please, try this one for yourself, so that I can see in what ways the one we make for you will need to differ.”

  Damien slipped his hand around the silver of the cane head, which was shaped as a dragon, and cunningly wrought so that it made an excellent hilt for the sword – although a little short for the width of his palm as his hand curled about it.

  “Here–” he indicated the exact point, “-it would need to be just a little wider.”

  Mr Black nodded, studying his hand a moment, then stepped back. Damien moved more to the centre of the shop floor, then raised the sword, feeling its weight and balance, closing his eyes for a moment to still himself completely, then he allowed the familiar patterns to take him, flowing through each movement, adapting to the lightness of the blade, and the different distribution of weight along its length. For minutes, there was no sound but the soft rush of air split by the passing blade, and all of the nervous worry and uncertainty which had filled him before he had entered the shop fell away, cut from him as surely as the blade cut the air. In that moment, nothing existed but the blade in his hand.

  When he came to a stop, he was in exactly the same position that Mr Black had been - still, sword beside him, tip to the floor. He was aware of the subtle irony of it. Mr Swithin had been right – it seemed they were very alike. The voice brought him back to the moment.

  “May I say that you are, my Lord, quite the best swordsman I have ever seen.”

  “Thank you. This is by far the best sword cane I have ever held. I will, most definitely, wish to order one like this – with, of course, the adjustment to the hilt, and, I think, a shifting of the weight of the blade a little more up towards the hilt. From here…” he lifted the sword and balanced it on the side of the narrow blade, across one finger, finding the point where it teetered, but did not tip, “…to about here…” he indicated a spot an inch or so closer to the hilt, with the finger of his other hand, “Then, for a blade which must be small enough in profile to fit into a cane, I believe it would be perfect for me. The length is right as it is.”