by Maya Rodale
She would miss their weekly meetings, and all the occasions when they gathered together for tea and gossip. She might still join them, but it wouldn’t be the same. They would go on and laugh over Grenville’s latest tirade against anything pleasant. Or Knightly. And Eliza would hollowly laugh along, or worse, wait until they could explain to her what she would have experienced with them if she had been there.
Suddenly, she felt so very alone.
“Are you—” Sophie asked again.
But a nervous Eliza said, “Yes, I am sure.”
“Very well,” Sophie answered, folding her gloves in her hand. Lovely kidskin gloves in the most delicate butter-colored leather. Within hours she’d be able to buy her own expensive gloves, Eliza thought. And send Wycliff to Africa.
“I am nervous,” she said, to soothe Sophie. And she was, in truth. What if he did not believe her? What would she do if this plan fell through?
“You don’t have to do it,” Sophie offered.
“I don’t see any other way.”
“You can wait until some other opportunity presents itself . . .”
“If I wait, he’ll likely marry Lady Shackley. Although, I’m not sure that will make any difference to me.” He still might, anyway, because of the child. But she wanted the duke to have options. She knew what it was like to not have choices—any woman did.
“I hope the earl is at home,” Sophie said. “I would be vexed if he weren’t. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“Neither could I,” Eliza agreed. She couldn’t sleep, for all her heated, wanton, longing for the duke. She wanted his kiss, his touch, his love. Should she have gone to his chamber? The thought crossed her mind, more than once. Courage failed her, and instead she waited for his knock on her door. It never came.
“If Alvanley is the rake that Julianna says he is,” Sophie said, “then he should likely be sleeping now, which means that we have a chance of catching him.”
“Albeit before his morning coffee, which is a dangerous time to ask a man for anything. I still think we should have called later.”
“Technically, we shouldn’t be calling at all,” Sophie remarked. “But then what’s a little breech of propriety when ten thousand pounds are at stake?”
“Goodness, I’m so far beyond the bounds of propriety that calling upon a known bachelor before noon is the least of it,” Eliza said, and she even laughed.
“Well at any rate, here we are,” Sophie said as the carriage rolled to a stop. “It’s too late to turn back now.”
The Earl of Alvanley’s home was large but not massive. It was in excellent repair. Even the door knocker was polished to such a high shine that Eliza could see her distorted reflection in it. Her expression was cool, collected, which was a miracle considering all the knots in her stomach.
The butler opened the door before they had a chance to knock. No wonder it stayed so shiny.
His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, upon seeing two women on the doorstep at a bachelor’s residence. Before noon.
Nevertheless, he admitted them into the foyer. Eliza bit her lip to keep her jaw from dropping. Like everything else, the green marble floor was polished to a high shine, and it reflected a large crystal chandelier. Her knees ached, just imagining having to keep that marble in such a state. The walls were covered in a forest-colored paper and hung with huge landscape paintings in massive gold leaf frames. Everything was impeccable and of the highest quality. One could tell, just with a glance.
“We would like an audience with Lord Alvanley,” Sophie said grandly, sounding very duchesslike.
“I shall see if he is at home,” the butler answered flatly, clearly not impressed. He probably thought them both actresses or some other strumpets. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“W.G. Meadows,” Sophie said with a delicious grin. The butler’s complexion paled, though his countenance remained unchanged. “And I am the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon.”
“Ah,” the butler said dryly. “Then perhaps you would like to wait in the drawing room. A maid will bring you refreshments while you wait.”
“Thank you ever so much,” Sophie replied, tugging at the fingertips of her gloves as she strolled after the butler. Eliza followed.
They waited for a quarter hour in the drawing room. Everything in it was expensive, Eliza could tell. All the chairs and settees were upholstered in thick green velvet and blue damask. The occasional tables were all of some high quality wood, and polished so they gleamed almost as bright as the door knocker or the foyer floors. A massive portrait of an incredibly buxom woman hung above the mantel. Her attire was a whisper of fabric so sheer and worthless as a garment she might as well not have worn it. The room was definitely the domain of a wealthy bachelor—neat, impeccable, free from the traffic of family or the little warm touches of a woman.
A maid brought a tea tray. Sophie poured, and seemed right at home among the fine things. Eliza thought she herself was far too likely to break something, particularly of the priceless heirloom variety. Nevertheless, she bravely sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup. They waited.
She opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps they ought to come another time, like never, when the paneled oak doors swung open.
It was the earl. He was tall, with sandy colored hair and brown eyes still heavy lidded from sleep. Julianna had told them he was approaching his fortieth year. Like many a man in London, the earl was a sworn bachelor. But he had long ago inherited, and seemed free of the nagging relations that pressured one to marry and produce brats. The earl entertained himself with drinks, cheroots, and wagers. And, apparently, ordering his staff to polish everything to a ridiculous shine.
“Duchess,” he drawled by way of greeting. Sophie inclined her head.
Then his gaze came to settle on Eliza, coolly assessing her. “You must be W.G. Meadows,” he said at last. “I wasn’t expecting a woman, and yet I’m not surprised. That is, if you are who you say you are.”
Eliza nodded yes.
Sophie returned to sitting on the settee, and so they all sat and the earl gratefully accepted a cup of coffee brought in by a maid. He took a sip, ahhed, crossed one leg over the other and said “Where to begin?”
“I suppose you won’t simply hand over a bank note for ten thousand pounds,” Eliza remarked dryly.
“Which is why I am here,” Sophie added. “To provide proof.”
The earl sipped his coffee before replying.
“With all due respect, Duchess, while I do take your word for it, you must understand that I cannot give away such a great sum over tea in the morning. Dear God, it is morning,” Alvanley said, glancing at the clock resting on the mantel. “There are not many things I arise before noon for. This had better be good.”
“We couldn’t call at regular hours and risk being seen,” Sophie explained.
“Indeed,” the earl agreed, sipping his coffee with pleasure.
“What kind of proof are you looking for?” Eliza asked.
“To start, I would love to know how you did it,” the earl said. “You are not some society miss, of that I’m certain, even though I make it a point never to pay too much attention to those silly young fools. Present company excluded, naturally. You might be his mistress, but I hadn’t heard that Wycliff kept one. Then again, he is a Wycliff so how could he not?”
“I took employ as a housemaid in His Grace’s residence,” Eliza explained.
The earl’s eyes lit up, and not just from the coffee either.
“Brilliant,” he said in a clipped but awed way. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“Thank you,” Eliza answered primly. It was a devilishly good disguise. She just had to ruin it by falling in love with her duke.
“Household gossip is a gold mine. There are no secrets belowstairs, from what I understand. It seems from your writing, though, that you also managed to gain the duke’s confidence. That is also not surprising, given that he’s one of the Wicked Wycliffs. They have
a taste for their household help, more so than the average peer, which is really saying something.”
Eliza wanted to blurt out that he wasn’t a regular old Wycliff, and that there was so much more to him than anyone ever saw or that she was allowed to relate. That reminded her why she was here.
“Eliza has kept the Writing Girls entertained with news of the duke,” Sophie said.
“Yes, the Writing Girls. And now it turns out there is a fourth. I don’t suppose either of you care to confirm the identity of the Lady of Distinction?”
“Not even for another ten thousand pounds,” Sophie answered, smiling mischievously.
“Some secrets are meant to be kept,” Eliza added.
“I wonder why you are selling yours?” Alvanley turned to ask her.
“I have my reasons,” she answered evasively. She was already confessing enough.
“And I haven’t offered a bounty for those. Understood,” he said with a laugh. “You’ve already offered up the information I am after—or at least a good lie and quite the ruse, given that you’ve brought in the duchess. However, I’m not quite certain I believe you, W.G. Meadows. Not ten thousand pounds certain.”
“What would make you believe?” Eliza asked calmly, carefully lifting the teacup to her mouth for a sip. Her hand did not waver, and she was proud of that.
“I think I should like to read about this little scene in your next column,” the earl said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Eliza said. The earl lifted a brow. “Mr. Knightly would read it, and he would not be pleased that I am here about this, to say the least. We run the risk that the column then wouldn’t be printed.”
“I concede your point,” the earl said, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. “What about a different line entirely?”
“That should be possible,” Eliza replied. “Nothing that would call too much attention. After all, as long as we three know it, it suits our purposes.”
“If I were to see it in print in the next installment of ‘The Tattooed Duke,’ then I will have a bank draft ready by afternoon tea. Please do not call this early again.”
“Perfect. What should the line be?”
Alvanley sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Eliza took deep breaths to quell her impatience. The earl picked up a book at hand.
“The poems of Byron,” he said by way of explanation. After flipping through, he paused and said, “ ‘In secret we met, in silence I grieve.’ ”
Eliza smiled sadly at the line, all too fitting for her present circumstances. “Very well, Lord Alvanley. I shall see you Saturday next.”
Chapter 41
In Which the Child Arrives
A drawing room across town
Althea had a talent for finding a man at his weakest, the way a lion could sniff out wounded prey.
On Saturday afternoon Wycliff received the note, stinky to high heaven with her perfume. The child—your child—has arrived, she wrote in her loopy, ladylike handwriting. Do come at once. Ever yours, Althea.
It was probably the last thing he wanted to deal with after the latest calamity in The London Weekly. He considered going at once, simply to avoid Eliza, but thought better of it. Give Althea an inch and she’d take an ocean. But it did not seem fair to keep the child waiting, uncertain. Lord only knew what she told him.
With his heart thudding out the beats of the word Timbuktu, Wycliff knocked on Lady Althea’s door. Her butler answered and went through the ridiculous routine of checking whether the lady was at home to callers, when Wycliff could hear her ladyship haranguing the servants from the foyer. Something about the temperature of the tea.
After being kept waiting for fifteen excruciating minutes, he was admitted.
“Wycliff. Darling.” Althea strolled toward him, her hand held out in greeting, her gaze fixed upon him.
Youthful folly, he thought, and that made him think of Eliza and her foolish marriage. He supposed, in some way, he understood her. Not that he wanted to.
“Althea,” he said by way of greeting. He took her hand but would not kiss it. He thought of Eliza, the traitoress, and how he still wanted her. Duty impelled him to be here, but he did not have to like it.
The expedition! His better judgment reminded him. Be nice!
“My heart is warmed that you have found a moment for us in your busy schedule,” she said. “You must be busy, being a duke, though I have no idea what occupies your days, since you do not frequent society . . .”
And then she turned to reveal the child. He was a pale, pudgy thing, with Althea’s light golden hair, her blue eyes, and her scowl. His fingers and face were sticky with pastry. Wycliff’s gut clenched. This was not his child. Couldn’t be. Or was that wishful thinking?
“I’d like to introduce you to William. The little Lord Shackley,” she said with a sparkling laugh. The boy, about ten years of age, showed the good sense to wince at the pet name from his mother.
Was it Shackley’s boy? Wouldn’t that be something—the name passing along with the blood? Wycliff looked up at the portrait of the late Lord Shackley hanging over the fireplace. His coloring was dark, his features strong. This was not his child either.
“William, dearest, this is mother’s special friend. The Duke of Wycliff.”
“How do you do?” the boy said politely. Then he ambled off to the tea tray and the stacks of pastries.
“William, do join us. I’m sure the duke wishes to become better acquainted with you.”
“Indeed,” Wycliff said. And this time he took a seat opposite the child. Althea sat next to her boy.
Wycliff had a father, barely. The man who had sired him lived in the same house, but his attention was always focused on mistresses or housemaids or anything other than a small boy who spent hours poring over maps and sneaking away from his governess to go exploring.
So he tried to connect with William, little Lord Shackley. He asked about school, studies, friends, travels, anything. He wanted to find some common point of interest with this creature who was supposedly his, sticky face and all.
“You needn’t interrogate him,” Althea said, miffed. “He’s only a small boy.”
Young perhaps, Wycliff thought, but not small.
“How old are you, William?” Wycliff asked the child in one last desperate attempt to make conversation and to find some bond between them.
“Ten.” He spoke with his mouth full. Disgusting. Wycliff hadn’t had the most attentive of nurses, but basic table manners had been a must. Cook had insisted upon it.
“When is your birthday?” Wycliff asked. Perhaps he might get the lad a present. Or a cake. Althea simply petted the child’s mop of curls.
“August the twentieth,” the boy answered solemnly. Then he licked his fingers.
“August,” Wycliff repeated. Something didn’t seem quite right about that.
“Wycliff, what are you about?” she asked. “Of course the boy knows his birthday!”
“Yes, but I did not know it. And now that I do . . .” He smiled, sadly for her. But his heart was lighter. “It comes down to simple mathematics, Althea. You and I were caught in September, and it was the last time we were together. I remember because we were celebrating my own birthday. I set sail a fortnight later, in October. According to the immutable laws of nature, the child would have been conceived in January. By then I was in Paris and packing my things for Venice. While my prowess as a lover is well known, even I admit I cannot perform the act from another continent.”
“Well,” she huffed, her cheeks reddening to match her lips. “Well.”
Did she really not know that he hadn’t fathered her child? Given the education provided to women, or lack of it, this was a possibility. Or was it a scheme?
Little Lord Shackley had been eyeing the pastry plate during this entire lesson on simple mathematics and procreation. Now he made his selection and merrily devoured it, oblivious to his mother’s distress.
“I see I have left you speechless. I sh
all leave you to your privacy in order to recover yourself.”
“You owe everything to me,” she said in a low voice that sent chills racing up and down his spine. It was, in a way, the truth. “And I waited for you. Can you see how it looks to society—I have been spurned again and again by you. I can’t bear it!”
“I’m not much of a romantic, Althea, but that is not a reason for marriage.”
“But my money is?” she questioned, and he felt the sharpness of her words. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. I know why you answered my letters. I’ve read the papers.”
“I’ll get my expedition. And I have no need of your money.”
“This is not the end, Wycliff. I will not be made a fool by you,” Althea said, with her painted red lips.
Oh, but it was the end. Wasn’t it?
Chapter 42
In Which the Duke Calls Upon the Earl
Lord Alvanley was sipping coffee in his drawing room when Wycliff was shown in.
“I may have just met your nemesis, Your Grace,” Alvanley remarked between sips.
“About yea high,” the duke asked, holding his hand to chest height, “black hair, glorious figure? Sly, yet cheeky?”
“How interesting,” Alvanley murmured. Then he reached for a cheroot from the box on the side table and offered one to Wycliff, who declined that, as well as the offer for coffee.
“Why would that be interesting?” Wycliff asked, having a good idea.
“Oh, merely that you think it’s a woman,” Alvanley replied easily. “Unless you are describing a man as having a glorious figure.”
“Women are capable of the worst treachery, such as that of W.G. Meadows,” Wycliff remarked. “And I’m not in the habit of commenting on men’s figures, glorious or not. I’m here about your offer.”
“Ten thousand pounds for whomever unmasks W.G. Meadows,” Alvanley confirmed. He lit the cheroot and exhaled a slow stream of smoke.