Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke

by Tessa Candle

  When they arrived, DeGroen sent off a message summoning his grandfather’s solicitor. Tilly exchanged her wedding dress for something from her trousseau. She was too stunned even to remark what. And Frederick set about ordering a meal and fetching them all champagne.

  Tilly and DeGroen drooped as they sat down to luncheon. She felt as grey as the clouds that drizzled over London, casting a gloomy air through the dining room window.

  “Drink your champagne, you two silly creatures! Do not be so dreary! True, it has been a hell of a day, but things are not so bad.”

  DeGroen tilted his head and looked at Frederick in disbelief.

  “Do not look at me like that. Neither one of you especially liked the old man. I am sure he grew on you, but frankly, I can bear witness that his strictures have been a constant topic of mockery and complaint.”

  “Frederick,” Tilly tried to rein in her brother’s glib babble, “think how DeGroen must feel, and do not run on so.”

  “Oh!” Frederick was not to be repressed. “I do not mean to speak ill of the dead, but you know it is true. And a quick death must be better than the lingering suffering of illness and old age. Yes, yes, I know it is very indecent of me to speak the truth on such an occasion, but no one ought to feel sorry for the old gaffer. He died in church, a boon his heart probably never dared hope for, and he died in the happy estate of watching his heir marry.”

  “Well, you are right about that much. He is happy.” DeGroen’s spirits seemed to lift. He even raised a glass to meet Frederick’s, and drank his champagne.

  Tilly did not drink any more wine. Her stomach, though it had earlier been complaining of hunger, became unsteady now that it was being fed. It quailed at the thought of anything stronger than a cup of tea.

  “I think the question that none of us is mentioning, but must hang upon all our minds, is what now?” DeGroen mused.

  “I think you mean, shall you and I now wed?” Tilly put up her hand to ward off Frederick’s offer of more champagne in her untouched glass.

  DeGroen nodded. “Precisely. But I suppose we will know more when we speak to the solicitor.”

  “Still, it will look very, very odd if we do not wed, after all this. I mean, Frederick is married now, so I suppose that much is taken care of. But if you, to put it indelicately, make off with your inheritance and leave me in the lurch, what will people think?”

  “I suppose they would think me a villain.” DeGroen’s lips curled. “But what of it? The rich never suffer for their villainy, real or imagined.”

  Frederick laughed and the two toasted again, drinking deeply to this bit of truth.

  DeGroen continued. “I would only be too happy to jilt you, my darling. My dearest wish is to abandon you and make off with my ill-gotten wealth so that you might marry the Duke of Bartholmer. And all the ton would approve your stellar recovery from such a crushing blow as letting me evade your grasp.” He chuckled darkly. “Well, at least publicly. Privately the ton would gnash their teeth in bitter mistrust of your good fortune and in anger that their nastiest darts of scandal had been blunted.”

  Tilly pursed her lips in distaste. “No doubt. But it seems Rutherford has other ideas. I believe his heart may be elsewhere engaged.”

  “Impossible!” Frederick and DeGroen said it together, then laughed merrily at themselves.

  Tilly was glad someone was happy. Her stomach churned. “Oh God!” She ran from the room.

  She made it to her chamber and was sick. Her nerves were getting the better of her, she supposed.

  After some time, Frederick tapped and called though the door. “Tiddly? I am sorry if I distressed you with my glibness, darling. Is there anything I can do?”

  Tilly opened the door. “Oh Frederick, do you not know that I am quite accustomed to your stupid way of going on?” She smiled at him, and he looked relieved. “I have just been sick.”

  “Sick?” He squinted at her. “My Tiddly? That is unheard of. Well come along, if you are all done with that nasty business, and wait with me in the parlour. DeGroen is talking to his solicitor, and I don’t suppose we can get away with eavesdropping by the office door.”

  When the solicitor left, DeGroen had a dazed look.

  Tilly and Frederick watched his face, waiting for some explanation.

  Frederick finally huffed. “Out with it, man! What news?”

  “The best news.” DeGroen shook his head as if trying to wake himself from a dream. “My grandfather did not merely change the will. He transferred everything to me while he was still living, though he asked the solicitor to delay notice to me. All the residue in the estate is also to be mine, though nothing remains in it except a collection of old bibles.”

  Tilly gasped. “So...”

  “So, with your usual deft cunning, you have narrowly escaped marrying one of the richest men in England, sister.” Frederick was grinning as he made for the bell-pull beside Tilly. “This calls for more champagne!”

  Tilly managed a smile before falling in a dead faint.

  Chapter 60

  A fit of nerves seized Rutherford, as his carriage pulled up at DeGroen’s home.

  What was he doing? What sort of idiot went to the home of his rival to congratulate him on stealing away the only woman he could ever love?

  A noble idiot. Rutherford laughed bitterly at his own reply. The same sort of idiot that sat in his carriage having conversations with himself, instead of getting on with the task at hand.

  He took up his bouquet and stepped out into the rain, eschewing the offered umbrella and instructing his men to carry the crate of champagne to the servants’ entrance.

  The door was answered by a very merry looking butler, who took his card and his bouquet, and ushered him into the entry room.

  “My men are delivering my gift to the happy couple around back. I hope you will deliver these flowers, with my compliments. I know my coming at such a time is unpardonable, but I should like to request five minutes of Mr. DeGroen’s time, if he would oblige me.”

  “My lord,” the man straightened his spine to look sharp,“I am afraid the master is not to home.”

  Rutherford did not bother to correct the man about his title. His card still bore the style of the Earl of Drake. There was no point in scaring the servant further. “Do you expect him back soon? May I wait?”

  “I cannot say when he will return. I know he will be very sorry to have missed such a distinguished caller. But we have sadly had a death in the family, my lord.” The man looked very properly sombre. “He and Mrs. DeGroen have gone to make final arrangements for Mr. Fowler.”

  He and Mrs. DeGroen. There was the answer Rutherford had dreaded. He stepped backward as though he had been struck, rubbing his shoulder.

  The servant looked concerned. “Forgive me, my lord, for my careless abruptness. I had no idea that Mr. Fowler was an acquaintance. May I order a restorative for your lordship?” The man quickly retrieved a chair from the far wall.

  “No. Thank you. I shall be well,” Rutherford croaked, as his last hope trickled out of him. “Only give the happy couple my sincerest felicitations.”

  Then, not waiting for the door to be opened for him, he bolted from the house.

  Chapter 61

  When Tilly awakened from her faint, she was laid out on a chaise longue. DeGroen was holding her hand, and Frederick was wafting smelling salts under her nose.

  It all came back to her. She was free. Nothing but appearances kept her bound to this engagement. And appearances could be managed.

  “All right. Enough. I am well.” Tilly sat up. “Odd. I never faint.”

  “True.” Frederick nodded, jiggling her arm as he was wont to do. “A bit prone to fits of arm waving, but definitely not the fainting type.”

  “Must have been the prospect of all that money slipping through your fingers.” DeGroen smirked.

  Tilly rolled her eyes and slapped Frederick’s hand away from her arm, as she replied to DeGroen. “A wiser woman might pay
double your fortune, just to be rid of you.”

  DeGroen grasped his heart as if mortally stabbed. “Do not let the fainting spell fool you, Freddy. She is still as much of a termagant as ever.”

  Frederick laughed. “You know you might want to take this fainting business up as an accomplishment, dear sister. You do it so elegantly.”

  “True.” DeGroen joined in. “You grabbed the bell pull as you fell. That might never be fixed. And you kicked over the blue urn. It was not so much a faint as a falling paroxysm of destruction. Neatly done, darling.”

  Tilly shook her head. She knew nothing would keep DeGroen down for long. It was nice to see him merry again. “You are in a good mood. I suppose the fact that you shall be free of me agrees with you.”

  DeGroen gave her a wicked smile. “Not at all, darling. I could always set you up as a mistress.”

  Tilly laughed for a long time. “That, as Crump would say, would be about as much use to you as a teat on a bull ox.”

  “Not so, not so! Think of my credit as a distinguished man about town. A carte blanche or two would be just the thing.”

  Just then Mrs. DeGroen was announced.

  DeGroen screwed his features into a pained look. “She wants to make everything up to her rich son by assisting with funeral arrangements for the father that she loathed. Lord, I have to get out of this town.”

  “And I have to get out of this parlour. Good luck, DeGroen.” Tilly ran for the door. She did not wish to be forced into company with that horrid, tedious woman.

  “But what about the Bow Street lads?” Frederick enquired.

  “Hang them!” Tilly called behind her as she dashed away. Whatever questions they had would keep until tomorrow. She had to go see Rutherford.

  It was probably pointless, and it would be humiliating to throw herself at him like some desperate, cast off strumpet, but she had to try. She owed their love that one attempt. And moreover, she owed herself the gift of extinguishing the poisonous little taper of what if? before its fumes choked her.

  She did not wish to become some hand-wringing old maid, haunting windows that only afforded views of the past. Maybe he loved another, but if he did, she would pick up the pieces of her heart and try to get on with things. However, if it had been a mere dalliance… could she not forgive him that?

  As she made to step into her carriage, the scent from the sachet wafted out. She stopped. “God no.” The odour of roses brought a fresh wave of nausea over her.

  “No roses.” She swallowed and stepped back. “Bring around one of the unmarked carriages, but hang up some lemon sachets.” She heaved a quavering sigh at the debasement of it all. “And put a bucket in it.”

  Chapter 62

  Rutherford stood a stone’s throw from Tilly’s warehouse, eyeing the door where the smoky lads had hung about when he made his last desperate visit.

  The area did not smell any better, but the last rays of the sun made it less shadowy. And there were fewer urchins now. Just several large men, who were clearly standing guard.

  He doubted Tilly had halted her sales entirely, but perhaps she was already in the process of changing over her business to integrate with her projected clinics.

  He smiled, then frowned when he recognized the stupid hypocrisy of that smile. Tilly had changed for the better, and for his sake. She was moving forward. But here he was back at the same place, and for the same reason.

  Only now all was lost. He had lost.

  That’s true, said an insidious little voice inside of him, but there is comfort to be had. You do not need to feel any of this. It can all go away.

  He hated the voice, but a small part of him loved the promise, longed for the blissful oblivion. And another, larger part wanted to punish himself. Wanted to lower himself into the gutter where he belonged.

  He took a few steps back. No. This was not what he wanted. If he needed a distraction, he would find a purposeful one. He rubbed his scar. Losing Tilly was a torment, but it would be so much worse to sully the memory of their love by betraying her trust.

  He had promised her to stop. He would keep his word.

  He kicked a stone. No, it was not just that little manifestation of honour that subsisted on the promise kept. It was the very well-spring of honour that was at stake. If a man could not take his proper pride in both hands and say that he did right because it was right, not because of any other benefit or obligation, what sort of man was he?

  A man without true honour. True honour was not transient. It was not a commodity to be bargained for with punishments or inducements.

  Rutherford would walk away from this place, from this poison, and he would do it because he owed it to himself. Not to Tilly. Not to the memory of his uncle. To his own essential nature, to his pride of character, to his honour.

  And all honour aside, his basic self-interest also demanded abstinence. He never wanted to be sick like that again. He would feel his broken heart, focus on the tasks before him, distract himself with exercise, and get well again. He had the will and he would do it, damn it all!

  He shook his head at his own foolishness. What was he doing here? He was about to return to his carriage when a blow to the back of his skull made the world go grey.

  Chapter 63

  It was risky, calling at Rutherford’s front door again. Tilly had hunted down Mrs. Carlton at her parents’ house, so that much countenance she had. But showing up on his front stoop, on the day when her wedding had halted for a murder of which Rutherford was suspected? That could not be interpreted favourably—not if she had a half dozen chaperones. What of the Bow Street investigation? And worse, what of the gossip?

  Tilly surprised herself by not really caring anymore. She was too tired, too disordered, too sick, too broken-hearted, and if the gossips had something to say, they would say it. Evidence was hardly necessary, anyway.

  “I am sorry. His grace is not to home.” Smythe looked even more above his company than usual.

  And this was only his first day as head servant to a duke. Tilly feared that in a year’s time he would be intolerable. She decided to loosen his lips with a little white lie. “I had understood that I was to meet his grace here. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Faced with the prospect of displeasing his master by turning away a person whom the duke had particularly summoned, Smythe capitulated. “I do not know when his grace will return, but you may wait in the parlour, if you will, Mrs. DeGroen. I shall have the fire made up.”

  Tilly froze. He had called her Mrs. DeGroen. Was he just surmising, or did Rutherford think she had married today, too? Could Rutherford imagine that she had just lifted her silken hem to kick the old man’s corpse aside, and then, pounding on the pulpit for order, demanded that the priest continue, as if nothing had happened?

  She could almost laugh at the image, but she was not in the mood.

  Indeed, Rutherford might think her that heartless. She had certainly done her best to persuade him she was marrying for money, and that nothing would stop her.

  “I am afraid I am not Mrs. DeGroen. I am still just Miss Ravelsham.”

  He bowed his head. “I beg your pardon for the mistake, Miss.”

  “Not at all. It is quite understandable. May I enquire whether his grace was also labouring under this false impression?”

  “He may have mentioned it, Miss.” It was not until then that the look of concern upon Smythe’s face caught Tilly’s attention.

  She threw caution to the wind. “Did his grace say where he was going?”

  “He did not.” Smythe’s face was now a beacon of worry.

  “Thank you. I cannot stay.” She returned to the door.

  “He took the Bartholmer carriage.” Smythe tried to look like he had not murmured the words, as he saw her out.

  Well, that would narrow it down. But she was already forming a surmise. She would look first in the place where she most hoped he would not be.

  Chapter 64

  When Rutherford came to his sen
ses, he was lying on a comfortable bed with a quilted-topped down duvet, behind the bars of a dimly lit cell. He lifted his hurting head to look around.

  A large man was making up a fire in the adjoining chamber, his back turned. Rutherford looked around to see if he might slip free. The iron-barred door had monstrous large lock. There was nothing he might use as a weapon. He slumped back in despair.

  The man heard him stirring, and turned to face him. It was Crump.

  “You ruddy bastard!” Rutherford sprang to his feet. “I should have dispatched your worthless soul when I had the chance.”

  Crump sighed. “I reckon there hain’t much point in talk. I have my orders, and talk won’t change ’em.”

  Rutherford did not accept this dismissal. “I am glad for this much, that you are showing your true colours. Miss Ravelsh—Mrs. DeGroen will at least be taken in by you no longer.”

  A strange look passed over the man’s broad face. He seemed to be contemplating something, but then thought the better of it. He planted himself in a chair by a small table, apparently resolved to keep his own counsel.

  Rutherford found this calm snub extremely provoking. “You must work cheaper than I had guessed, for Delacroix cannot have two farthings to jingle. Indeed, I am surprised to see such an elaborate dungeon—especially when it is patrolled by such a low-rate yahoo.”

  The man still said nothing, but calmly opened a book on the table, picked up a pencil and began to work at something.

  “Well, now I am astonished! Does the great lummox pretend to write? Indeed, his no-count little worm of a master has furnished him with paper for this pantomime of literacy? This is a wonder.”

  Crump persisted in his labour. Rutherford thought he should try a different tack. “I do not suppose anyone told you that I am now the Duke of Bartholmer.”