Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

by Jennifer Haymore

  There was a long silence. Finally, Sebastian stepped forward. “Thank you, doctor.”

  “I’ve bound her ribs to help with the pain, and left some laudanum. She was drowsy when I left her and probably sound asleep by now. I’ll leave direction on the treatment of her wounds while on the journey.”

  Jessica wiped away her tears, impatient with them, and strode to the writing desk by the tall window looking out over the driveway below. “Here is some paper and a pen, doctor. If you’d be so kind as to write the instructions out for me?”

  “Of course.” The doctor dipped the pen in the ink and scrawled a few lines while the family waited in silence, then pushed the paper across the desk toward Jessica. “Here you are, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Sebastian went to escort the doctor out, Serena said, “It’s near dawn. We should all get some rest. Especially you, Jessica. You’ve a long journey ahead.”

  “Yes,” Jessica said dully.

  Olivia slipped her hand in hers and tugged. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  Jessica was silent as she walked with Olivia upstairs. It seemed all her emotion and anger and urgency had been driven away by the doctor’s diagnosis. All she felt now was utterly numb.

  At her door, Olivia embraced her. “You’re such a good friend, Jessica. Out of all the people in the world, I would choose you to be my closest friend. Beatrice is lucky to have you.”

  She didn’t answer. She kissed her sister, went into her room, and tumbled into a fretful sleep. Morning seemed to come within minutes, and she was being shaken awake by Serena. “It’s time to go, Jess. You’ve time for a quick breakfast, but then you must be on your way.”

  At noon, they were in a carriage rattling over pitted roads on their way northward, to Prescot.

  Fenwicke returned to London feeling much stronger. He’d proved his superiority over his wife. True, she was a sniveling, cowering thing, but the way he’d so utterly mastered her reminded him of how strong he really was. He was a powerful man, and he could use that power to finally master the Duke of Wakefield.

  He’d succeed this time. He knew it. No longer would Max Buchanan look down that aristocratic nose at him. No, he’d beg for mercy, just like Beatrice had.

  Nothing would be better. Not only would it prove, once and for all, that Fenwicke was the superior man, but he’d finally rid himself of the man who just wouldn’t stop pestering him. He would finally move forward with his life with a clean slate, finally free from Max’s tenacious hold on his self-confidence. His long-time nemesis wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  Fenwicke dismissed his man with a flick of the wrist, but he didn’t leave his dressing room chair. He studied himself for a long time in the looking glass, pressing on the light wrinkles that had spread across his forehead in the past months. They weren’t so bad. And his eyes still held a dark glint of wickedness. A promise of… more that he knew the ladies couldn’t resist.

  He smiled at himself in the mirror. He was still a handsome devil, if he did say so himself.

  He rose, adjusted a soft wrinkle in his banyan, and wandered downstairs. He entered his morning room, finding his steaming coffee placed to the left of the morning correspondence, which was to the left of today’s Times, which was to the left of his boiled egg. Everything was as it should be.

  He seated himself, spread his napkin carefully across his lap, and smoothed all the wrinkles from it. Then he drank half of his coffee, and when he began to feel it work through him, he filtered through his correspondence. There were only two letters today. One was from his father—the old man who refused to die—and the other was from Brockton Hall.

  That was fast. Frowning, he broke the seal and read the childish, nearly indecipherable handwriting of his cook.

  My lord,

  My mistress left last night. I do not know where she went.

  However, Miss Jessica D_______ came to the house yesterday. She broke in and saw my mistress, though I threatened her with dire consequences which she wholeheartedly ignored.

  But my mistress is gone, to where I do not know. I can only guess that she has gone off with Miss D_______.

  Please forgive me, my lord.

  Fenwicke stared at the letter for a very long time. At first, he couldn’t believe it. Beatrice couldn’t have left Brockton Hall. He’d forbidden her to. She always obeyed his orders, because she knew very well the severity of the consequences if she didn’t.

  Yet the cook wouldn’t have written this letter to him if it weren’t true.

  Well, well, well.

  It seemed his wife had grown a rebellious streak. When he found her, the punishment would be severe indeed.

  Damn the Donovan sisters. Damn them all to hell. They’d done this. They’d caused Beatrice to misbehave in a way that had the potential to cause him a great deal of trouble. Those sisters had caused him nothing but difficulty ever since their arrival in England.

  His fury mounted, and he crushed the letter in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

  Beatrice certainly hadn’t kept her simpering little mouth shut. She’d probably told those Donovan sisters all manner of lies. And the Donovans had probably told Stratford. Stratford was someone Fenwicke had once admired—they’d gone carousing together many times over the years. Ever since he’d married the eldest Donovan sister, however, he’d become quite dull.

  Fenwicke clenched his teeth. Was Stratford involved in Beatrice’s disappearance? If so, this could become extremely complicated. Difficult, even. Stratford was a powerful man, with powerful connections.

  Not as powerful as me, Fenwicke reminded himself. His title, though only the courtesy title for his father’s heir, was higher than Stratford’s. He held precedence over the man. He always would.

  Maybe Stratford had some plan to ruin him. To steal his home in Sussex. To steal his wife.

  Fenwicke hissed through his teeth.

  He blinked hard and stared down at his hands clenched in his lap. If he was to beat them—beat them all—he must focus.

  He spent the afternoon at Tattersall’s, dreaming, thinking of all the horseflesh he’d keep in his stables once his father was dead. After he grew bored of that—because thinking of all the things he’d do once his father was dead sometimes started to grow into thinking of ways to kill the man—he went home and changed his clothes, and then he took his carriage to White’s.

  As soon as he walked into the card room, a hush fell over the room as, one by one, the men looked up at him. Every single expression was full of antipathy. Of disgust.

  He wound through the tables, feeling eyes on him, and joined a group of men at a table.

  “May I join you, gentlemen?” he asked, sliding into the empty chair.

  No one spoke. No one looked at him. Instead, they collected their winnings, stood, and walked away from the table, leaving him alone. As the last departing man walked past him, Fenwicke heard the slicing accusation like a razor across his throat.

  “Wife beater.”

  Fenwicke stood. Keeping his chin high and his back straight, he left White’s. He summoned his coachman and went straight home and into his drawing room, where he put out all the lights and sat on his most comfortable chair facing the fire.

  He really preferred his London house to his home in Sussex. It was a large, stately home situated in Mayfair on an enormous piece of property—well, enormous for a private dwelling within London and considering its proximity to everything important.

  He stared into his drawing room fire—the only supplier of light in the room—for a long while, but the flames died down until there were only a few glowing coals. Then those went black, and still he sat.

  Where had this newest scathing gossip come from? His first thought had been that it must be Beatrice spreading filth about him. But surely not. She didn’t have the gumption.

  It had to be someone else. Someone who hated him. The Earl of Stratford wasn’t in Town, and neither was his wife and her damnable
sisters.

  That left one man. One person in the world who was always trying to better him, who hated him. Who liked to pretend to be an innocent but had obviously been plotting to destroy him from the beginning.

  Maxwell Buchanan.

  The duke had buried his dagger deep. Now he’d twisted it by spreading these rumors about Beatrice.

  Fenwicke wasn’t about to roll over and die, however. Not yet. Not for a very, very long time. Wakefield would be dead long before he was.

  With this blow, the duke thought he’d won for good. Fenwicke’s reputation probably would never recover from this scandal. Max was probably in his new ducal lodgings congratulating himself on the fool he’d made of Fenwicke, three times over. He’d become a duke. He’d seduced the slut Olivia Donovan. Now, he’d destroyed Fenwicke’s reputation among his peers.

  But he hadn’t won. Not by a long shot. Because Fenwicke had plans of his own. Plans of vengeance that couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. Because Leonard Reece, the Marquis of Fenwicke, was no fool. He was a careful planner, and this time, he’d make certain he did things right.

  He couldn’t see his timepiece, but it was probably about three o’clock in the morning by now. The perfect time to find just the right kind of man to perform the task he had in mind.

  He rose and went to awaken his coachman.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dearest Miss Donovan,

  Will you join me at the theater on Thursday? A production of the new opera, Ninetta, is performing at Covent Garden, and I think you will enjoy it. I shall fetch you and Lady Stratford early in the evening and escort you there.

  Yours fondly,

  Wakefield

  Olivia glanced across the small drawing room at the dowager Lady Stratford, who had looked up from her tea and was gazing with interest at the letter in Olivia’s hand. The dowager’s mother, a crotchety old woman, was still upstairs taking her afternoon nap.

  “Would you like to go to the opera tomorrow night, my lady?” Olivia asked.

  “The opera? Goodness me. I haven’t been to the opera in years.”

  “The Duke of Wakefield has invited us.”

  At that, the countess broke into a wide smile. “Did he? What a lovely gentleman he is. How good of him not to have forgotten all about us lowly beings despite his lofty new title.”

  Olivia smiled down at the letter.

  “However,” the dowager continued, “my mother will have a tantrum if I leave her so soon. She wishes to monopolize my nights.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t go, then,” Olivia said.

  “Nonsense! Of course we shall go. It is an honor to be invited to a duke’s box, my dear. I’m sure many people are clamoring for an invitation like that.” Her smile turned sly. “Olivia, I do believe His Grace might have a tendre for you. And it seems to me that this is a sign of his intentions.”

  Olivia had been steadfastly avoiding thoughts about Max’s intentions, because Max’s words were so different from his actions. Trying to predict the man’s motives would only drive her to madness. Yet maybe the dowager had insight she did not. She cocked her head at the countess. “How do you mean, my lady?”

  The countess gave her an assessing look, then a sharp nod. “You’ve married sisters, so I feel I can be frank with you.”

  “By all means, please do.”

  “Well, my dear, the duke has been writing you nonstop since he left Sussex, and now he’s inviting you to the theater in a very public gesture. I do believe he’s sending the clear message that he wants you.”

  “As… his mistress?” Olivia asked, suddenly full of dread. Had she allowed her hopes to build too high? Would Max really flaunt her as his mistress? He’d wanted to be discreet about their relationship in Sussex—as much as he’d teased her about it, he’d ultimately seemed to have valued discretion as much as she had. And while he hadn’t treated her like a mistress, he’d also made it clear that he never intended to ask for anything more from any woman.

  The countess laughed. “Oh no, of course not. No, I mean that perhaps he is considering marriage.”

  Olivia released the breath she’d been holding. “I see.”

  Of course, the dowager hadn’t heard about his intention never to marry. She couldn’t know of Max’s fear of becoming like his father.

  If Olivia dared hope that he had changed his mind about marriage… Well, what if she was wrong? What if he didn’t want that from her? There was more at stake now than that day at the goose spring. If she believed he wanted her on a permanent basis, she’d drop those flimsy remaining walls protecting her heart, and she’d fall quickly. She’d build up so much hope, thinking of Max waking beside her every day, thinking of being his wife and of sharing a life with him, that she’d be setting herself up for a very long, very brutal fall.

  Socially, she was still far beneath him. Goodness, it was possible that she couldn’t even give him the heirs he would certainly need.

  Oh, she wished the countess hadn’t told her that. Because the older woman’s words further crumbled Olivia’s walls of defense.

  Olivia wanted it—wanted him—badly. She wanted him, and she wanted it to be forever.

  She couldn’t wait to see him. She’d count the hours until he came to escort her to the theater.

  That night, Max went to his club. Last night he’d eaten dinner alone, but tonight he felt like company and pleasant conversation.

  His time at White’s was made all the more pleasurable by his knowledge that Olivia had arrived in Town today. He was itching to see her, but he hadn’t wanted to call on her and the dowager when they were exhausted from travel. He hardly knew how he’d contain himself until tomorrow evening when he went to fetch them to the theater.

  So instead he tried to focus on the men surrounding him, on politics and sport, on his food and drink, when he saw Captain Langley, who approached him with a furrowed brow.

  “Good evening, Langley.”

  “Wakefield.” Langley’s dark eyes scanned the room, and then he gestured to a dimly lit corner. “Can you spare a few moments? There’s something I must speak with you about.”

  “Of course.” But Max’s gut clenched. God, had something happened to Olivia? Another fever? He sure as hell hoped not. She’d said there were lengthy intervals between her fevers—surely it was too soon.

  He sat in one of the seats. Langley pulled a chair closer before lowering himself in it, and he leaned forward. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight. If you didn’t come, I intended to call on you later.”

  “Tell me what it is.” Max swallowed past the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. “Has Olivia…?”

  Langley raised his hand. “Olivia is well, as far as I know. In fact, Stratford has sent me a letter saying she’s come to London with the dowager. He asked me to keep an eye on them.”

  Max released a breath of relief.

  “But what I have to say concerns the Donovans as well as your friend, Fenwicke.”

  Not Fenwicke again. “He’s not my friend,” Max said through clenched teeth.

  “That’s good to hear, because rumors have been flying, and I just received verification of their veracity from Stratford.”

  “Rumors about what?”

  “Fenwicke has been beating his wife.”

  Max’s eyelids sank shut. But he couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised. He’d seen Beatrice enough when he was at Stratford House to know that something must have happened to change her from the bright, happy debutante she’d once been. He just hadn’t made the connection. Now, it all made sense. “Good God. Is she…?”

  “After your last meeting here at the club, he returned to Sussex and beat her quite soundly.”

  Max clenched his fists. He had been responsible for Fenwicke’s anger, so the responsibility for the beating lay squarely on him.

  “The reports originated from a doctor who saw her in Sussex. He was appalled by the brutality of the beating and immediately set about destroying Fenwic
ke’s reputation.”

  “Without a thought for the young woman’s safety?”

  “She has run off.” Langley leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. “This part isn’t public knowledge. The doctor didn’t reveal any link between Lady Fenwicke and the Donovan sisters—apparently he had given his word that he wouldn’t—but you and I both know that Miss Jessica and Lady Fenwicke are bosom friends. Stratford informed me that it was Jessica who convinced the lady to run away.”

  Max just stared at Langley. Brave Jessica. He wasn’t surprised by this either—he could easily envision the youngest Donovan sister as a stubborn protector of anyone she held dear.

  “They’re both gone,” Langley said in a low voice. “Stratford didn’t reveal where they have gone, which is probably for the best. I know you’ve been locked up working, Wakefield, but everyone has heard the story by now. Fenwicke is back in Town, and he came here to White’s last night.”

  “What happened?” Max asked.

  “He was cut.”

  “Good,” Max bit out.

  “If what Stratford says is true—and he’s not the kind of man to exaggerate such a serious charge—the young lady is in risk of losing her life to Fenwicke’s violence. And, yes, he deserves to be cut.”

  “And more,” Max said.

  “And more,” Langley agreed. “But I thought you should know, since you’re—well, not his friend, but it appears you and Fenwicke have had a frequent association.”

  “Not by my choice.” Max leaned back in the chair. The information he’d just received drained away the excitement that had been bubbling up within him all night. He still wanted to see Olivia—perhaps even more than he had a few minutes ago—but he wanted to see her in private. He wanted to hold her, to make gentle love to her. To worship her perfect body and drink in her sweetness.