She might never love him, but she could not deny that affection had grown and not only because of the pleasure. She still grappled with the role he had played in her life, and with the results of that duel, but she found it harder to assume he had done it over something insignificant.
Her thoughts drifted back to that night when she had helped him wash. She had never told anyone except Sarah about her feelings for Lakewood. Penthurst had guessed, however. He had seen her interest in that duel for what it was. If he had not demanded she tell him, would she have done so anyway? The urge to do so had been building ever since they said the vows. Perhaps she had hoped that if she laid that down between them, there was a chance one of them would find a way to step over it.
That had not happened. Yet the revelation had changed how they dealt with each other. Not for the better, but not for the worse either. More honestly perhaps. She only knew that in giving voice to that resentment, she had been relieved of some of the resentment itself.
Now, this stupid letter had come, reminding her in the worst way that she still harbored secrets that could do far more damage than any admission of her girlish love for another man.
“I do not know what to do, Sarah. I picture little letters coming all through my life as he repeatedly threatens exposure and asks for more. I doubt he will ever say I have paid enough, and hand me that manuscript.”
“Seems to me you should have agreed to my first idea, that we steal it back.”
“Well, I cannot even consider that now. It would be a fine thing if I were caught breaking into Trilby’s home.”
Considering the story given out for her elopement, that would give the gossips something to talk about! Nor did she think Trilby kept the manuscript where he lived. The mounting evidence said he would be too shrewd to do so, and would not risk her sending someone to find it. For a dull man, Trilby kept making some unexpectedly sharp decisions.
She stared at the letter with increasing annoyance. He had also proved himself unreliable. No agreement would ever be honored. Trilby had not even made reference in this letter to her demand to see proof he still had the manuscript before further payment. No page from it had come with his letter. No promise to provide proof either. For all she knew he did not have the whole manuscript. Perhaps he had only come to possess a few pages, which he had used to lure her in this deeply.
The notion stunned her once it popped into her head. Was he that bold? That cunning? If so, she had been the worst fool.
If he only had a few pages, that did not answer the question of how he had come by them. No one knew about that manuscript, so its theft had always been hard to envision. A few pages, however, might more easily be obtained and passed along. A servant could have found it all, read it, and seen the value of those lists, for example . . .
Something else popped into her head. An old memory emerged from the cloud where it lived—the image of a sunny spring day, and the shade under a tree, and ivy picking at her skirt while a book of poetry was shared . . .
It was not true that no one knew about the manuscript. Lakewood had known. She had told him about it under that tree. She had even brought some of it with her when he next visited her, and amused him by reading a couple of pages.
Surely he had never told anyone else. Why would he? Nor could he have taken it himself. It had still been in her trunk when she received the news of his death.
“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.
Lydia opened a drawer in her writing table and set the letter under a stack of paper. “I am going to do what I should have done from the start, and try to find out how Trilby came to have that manuscript, if indeed he has it at all.”
“It may be wise to put him off for a while with just a bit more money. I’d not want to have to explain all of this to the duke, if I were you.”
She rebelled at the idea of giving the scoundrel one more penny. However, Sarah was correct. Another payment might be unavoidable, to keep him at bay.
• • •
Two hours later Lydia sat in her brother’s study, beside his desk. He sat behind it and the family solicitor, Mr. Ottley, occupied a chair drawn close to the other side. On the desk lay several large, vellum documents written with a flourishing hand.
“As agreed between you and His Grace, Lord Southwaite, the lady is to receive a thousand in pin money per annum, paid quarterly. There is also to be an open account for her wardrobe of two thousand per annum, with an additional thousand this year so she might purchase the necessities of her new station.” Mr. Ottley handed one of the documents to Southwaite to read and check.
“And this itemizes the settlement you are making on her, to be in trust. This other one she must sign. She gives up her dower rights in return for a lump sum, to be apportioned to her children upon her death. The addendum to it lists the allowances for her household after the duke’s death, or if she should at some point live separately from him while he is alive.”
She looked at her brother. He ignored her curiosity on that last point while he perused that document too.
More followed. She was to have her own carriage and two footmen at her beck and call. She was to choose her own servants to attend to her personal needs. She would have free use of the family heirloom jewels, but most of them would not pass into her private possession. That page included a few unusual provisions too, such as the duke’s acceptance that he would not interfere with her family relationships.
Southwaite scribbled his signature on the stacked sheets, and Mr. Ottley departed.
“I know little about these things, brother, but some of it sounded peculiar to me,” she said.
He shrugged. “It is wise to attempt to cover all eventualities. He understood that was all I was doing.”
“It will take some effort at extravagance for me to spend three thousand on my wardrobe this year.”
“He thought you would need more. I think that aunt of his does not restrain herself at the modistes, and that is his only recent reference, except—” He caught himself. He suddenly decided the inkwell would be more convenient on the left side of the desk. He moved it there with great concentration.
“Except his mistresses?”
Southwaite reconsidered his desk, and moved the inkwell back to its old position.
Her brother would know about the mistresses. He assumed the likelihood there would be more of them, as was so common among peers, especially those who made arranged marriages for financial or dynastic purposes. Or due to being obligated to do the right thing after comprising an innocent. She supposed that was why he included that bit about a separate household in the settlement documents.
Then again, maybe he thought the duke would want to put her in a separate residence if she became the problem wife just as she had been the problem sister.
“Thank you for looking out for me in this matter. It could not have been easy to bargain against a fait accompli.”
“There was little bargaining, Lydia. He agreed to almost everything without discussion.” He smiled. “The Dukes of Penthurst can afford to do that.”
“How fortunate for me. I am not being facetious. I know that few women have my good fortune, or even a fraction of that settlement. While I did not seek this match, or even want it, I am not so stupid as to ignore its many benefits.”
“I hope the day comes when you tell me you are not only fortunate, but happy, Lydia.”
She was not sure that day would come. She was not even sure she knew what happiness meant. Something like that time in Hampshire, she supposed. Perhaps only ignorant, silly girls could be truly happy.
“Before I go, please explain how this money comes to me. Do I have to ask the duke for my pin money?”
“It is not an allowance to be given at his discretion. I expect his solicitor will have it delivered to you, or put in a bank account for you to use. In a week or two the first amount should be available.”
Two weeks. She needed it sooner than that.
“Do you have an immediate
need to buy pins?” he asked. “I am sure Penthurst will give you money, Lydia. He just has not thought about how you are without any funds now.”
“I would rather not ask him. I will have to wait.”
He pulled open a drawer and flipped up the top of a wooden box. “What do you need?”
“Two hundred and fifty?”
She received a sharp glance for that.
“I trust it is not so you can gamble.”
“No, not that.” Mostly not, at least.
He handed a small stack of banknotes to her.
She stuffed the notes in her reticule. “I will pay you back when my pin money arrives.”
He walked her to the door. “Between not having to buy your wedding wardrobe, and being spared the cost of your keep in the future, I can afford to make this a gift.”
“I had not considered that. You are now free of the worry and cost of me. This has turned out very nicely for you.”
He grinned. “It has indeed.”
• • •
Aunt Amelia clearly saw Lydia as a duchess now, and not a wayward niece. Delicacies poised on pretty plates on her tiny drawing room’s tables. Expensive tea filled their cups. Lydia knew her aunt could ill afford such luxuries, and felt guilty such money had been spent for this brief social call.
Rosalyn felt no guilt at all. She critically surveyed the plates, and complained that her tea was too hot. She found fault with one of the cakes and advised Amelia on a better shop where, for a few shillings more, superior sweets could be found.
Amelia fawned at everything Rosalyn said. They had a friendship, but poor Amelia was the supplicant in it, not the master. That her aunt now fawned at everything she said too was too odd for Lydia to bear.
“I expect that you will be adding to your wardrobe now, Duchess.” Amelia’s soft, round face shined with joy. “It will be exciting to see what you choose.”
“I have not begun thinking about that yet. And please do not address me that way. We are family.”
“Your niece still does not comprehend her new station, Amelia. Of course you must address her thus, as must everyone. Too much familiarity is unwise. Why, do you call the earl Darius?”
Amelia flushed. “Yes, I do. Only sometimes,” she hastened to add. “Not often at all.”
“As do I,” Lydia said. “You do not address me as Duchess, Rosalyn. If my aunt must, so must you.”
Rosalyn’s mouth pursed into a kiss of disapproval. “See what I must contend with, Amelia. One would think a marriage made like hers would engender gratitude and humility.”
“A sad business,” Amelia said, shaking her head.
“I think you should tell the duke to lecture me on gratitude and humility, Rosalyn, although he may not understand why my gratitude should be toward you.”
Rosalyn decided to ignore her challenge in favor of Amelia’s agreement. “I trust you have not been too embarrassed by those rumors coming out of Buxton, Amelia, dear.”
Amelia hung her head. “Not too much. Although there were a few cruel things said in my hearing the first few days, the duke’s threats have moved that from drawing rooms to boudoirs. I suppose after what happened with the Baron Lakewood, everyone believes he will duel if there is gossip. So sad that was too. I always thought the baron was a nice man, and very kind.”
Rosalyn glared at Amelia. It took poor Amelia a good ten count to realize her terrible faux pas. Her face fell in dismay. “Not that I in any way question the rightness of it. Honor is honor, of course.” She looked desperately from Rosalyn to Lydia, close to tears. “I am not such a good judge of character. I am sure he was wicked just as Mr. Trilby seems to be.”
“There is nothing wrong with liking a man who showed you considerable kindness,” Lydia said.
“He did, didn’t he? Especially that spring after my dear Harold passed away. You remember, Lydia? You were with me for part of my time at the cottage. He would come to call when he came down from town, and sometimes even brought friends, to draw me out of myself.”
“I do remember.” Although he brought no friends during her visit, because after he attended to Aunt Amelia, he would spend the afternoon with her niece. “You are not obligated to condemn him just because you are drinking tea with relatives of the man who shot him. Isn’t that right, Rosalyn?”
Rosalyn’s ire faded. “Of course. Although, Amelia, you are correct about your inability to judge character.”
Amelia was quick to agree. In fact she spent the rest of the visit agreeing with everything Rosalyn said, even when Rosalyn opined that Lydia would be wise to place herself totally and unconditionally in Rosalyn’s hands while she learned her duties.
Rendered an object of discussion rather than being a discussant herself, Lydia waited out the hour. At its conclusion she saw Rosalyn into the carriage, but did not enter herself.
“Forgive me, but I left a glove. I will return in a thrice,” she said.
“Send the footman—”
But Lydia had already reached the door.
She went back to her aunt. “I need to ask you something. Has there been any trouble at your cottage in Hampshire? Evidence of trespassing, or of theft?”
“Theft! Goodness, why would you think that? All appears in order when I go down. I have not noticed anything missing.”
“Has the caretaker ever written of”—Of what?—“anything out of the ordinary?”
Aunt Amelia gave it some thought, shaking her head even as she did. “If he ever did, it was not notable enough for me to recall it now.”
Lydia did not know if that was good news or not. How much easier if she learned the house had been ransacked last winter.
After returning Rosalyn to Grosvenor Square, she had the carriage take her to Aunt Hortense.
She heard little of what Hortense said while they sat in her private sitting room. Her aunt never needed strict attention to hold a conversation, since her own voice interested her more than anyone else’s. While Hortense pontificated on everything from politics to fashion, Lydia laid some plans.
Perhaps it was time to learn if Lakewood had been Aunt Amelia’s nice, kind man, or Cassandra’s scoundrel. In the least, it might be time to find out which he had been with Lydia Alfreton. Unfortunately, the answer lay in memories that she had worked hard to shut away.
They would never come to her here in London. Too many other people here had opinions about him, and each one influenced her. Penthurst’s criticisms in particular had shaken her faith badly.
She wished she could claim that she had woken after their night together secure in her own view of the great love she had thrown in his face. Instead she had met the dawn enclosed in his embrace, and spent an hour pretending to sleep so she might remain in that warmth while she doubted herself. Had she been so infatuated with Lakewood that she never really knew him?
It was time to find out about that too. If she really wanted to know the truth, she needed to go where the truth could be found. It lay in her own mind, and in her own heart. And in Hampshire.
• • •
Two nights later Lydia jumped out of Penthurst’s carriage and strode to the door of the house. She breezed past the servant who opened it, then quickly walked to the library. Empty. She retraced her steps.
“Where is he?”
“The duke is in his study,” the butler said.
That meant he dealt with estate business. Normally she would not interrupt, but this was not a normal night. She marched up the stairs, and to the door of the study that sat at the end of his apartment. She did not request entry, but walked right in.
He sat on a chair with an oil lamp on a nearby table. His hounds lulled at his feet. A stack of papers and parchments covered his lap. He concentrated on them so much that it took him a few moments to become aware of her presence.
“Lydia.” His gaze swept over her. “You look lovely tonight. Where did you go? The theater?”
“No, I went to Mrs. Burton’s for a while. A very brief
while. Of course you know what I discovered.”
“Unless you went only to observe, I do indeed.” He appeared vaguely amused.
She could not believe his calm, but then he had not been the one embarrassed in front of a salon full of people. “Mrs. B said I could no longer game there. She said you had written to inform her of this. How dare you!”
“How dare I?” Any amusement disappeared. “Remember that you are talking to your husband, Lydia. I have the right to dare whatever I choose.”
“I do not accept that you have the right to do this just because you choose to. Worse, you did not even tell me. I think you wanted me to be turned away. I think you wanted the whole world to see that you controlled me now.”
“Only a woman who has never known control would think you now suffered it. Do not try my patience or I will follow my better judgment and make sure you behave exactly as I believe you should.”
She collected herself so her anger would not push this into a huge row. She would be calm too, and rational. He was not an unreasonable man.
“You said I could still visit the tables.”
“I said until you lost one hundred a year. You have already lost more than that this year. To me alone. So you are done until January.”
“That was one wager. I am well ahead for the year. I was even ahead that night.”
“With me, you were down. A holiday from the tables is in order, anyway.”
“That is not fair. It is how I earn money. The only way I can. I have expenses.”
“You have no need to earn money. If you need money, I will give it to you.”
“Then it is your money. There are things I want my money for. So I can do what I like with it, without permission from anyone.” He was not looking reasonable at all. Quite the opposite. “Not for anything bad or dangerous or even stupid. Certainly not for jewels or silks. You are welcome to spend your money on those things for me.”
“Not dangerous or bad. Not luxuries. Then, what?”
How to explain it? Could any man even understand? Rich or poor, they always had their own money of some amount, to use according to their own judgment. They never had to ask brothers or husbands or trustees, or explain what they intended to do. They did not have settlements that decreed allowances or pin money to be used with their own discretion, but clearly delineated and arranged by lawyers to come from their husbands.
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