“Well, a girl is entitled to a bit of jealousy, isn’t she? It keeps her on her toes.” Her grin was so bright, so light-hearted that Rowena couldn’t help but laugh. Catherine’s step took on a bounce. “How am I not to compare myself to her when all of society does it every time one or the other of us steps out? And she forever shocking everyone as she does—trousers and cheek kissing and lapsing into French and Monegasque at the drop of a hat.”
But it wasn’t bitterness in her tone, nor envy, nor spite. To Rowena’s ears it sounded merely like the love of a good scandal, a tale to tell. Catherine, it seemed, was a gossip. Another something Rowena was well acquainted with, being from a tight-knit village. Perhaps not the most admirable trait, but it was hardly criminal.
They spoke of light things for the remaining minutes of travel, but Rowena’s mind wasn’t really on the activities planned for the rest of the house party or whose dress was the finer among the guests. It had drifted back to things her husband hadn’t seen fit to tell her even existed. Of the diamonds . . . and of their curse.
Did he believe it? Understand it? Or was he like all the other English, quick to dismiss it as superstition, despite all the evidence to the contrary?
A tremor started in her hands, and she clasped them together before her hostess could note it. Perhaps he had taken them as a favor to Brook. But did he plan on giving them back, or were they his? Perhaps he meant to sell them—though so far as she had seen, he had no need of funds, nor did the Staffords or Whitby.
But Catherine did. So if her claim to them was valid, why would he not just give the jewels to her?
No. No, if the curse were real, they should not wish it on anyone else.
They turned into the hall where the music spilled from the ballroom, where electric lights were lit and laughter filled all the crevices.
One of the ladies who had sneered at Rowena earlier rushed from the card room. “There you are, Kitty! I’m afraid I need your assistance. My darling husband has been too much in his cups again. Can you fetch servants to return him to his room?”
“Of course.” The congenial hostess was back, all vulnerability tucked away behind her smile. “Excuse me, Rowena. Rush.”
The two ladies hurried off together. It took Rowena a few seconds to realize that left her alone with Lord Rushworth in the hallway. And that he had turned to her with cold, unyielding eyes and a firm-set mouth.
She folded her arms over her middle, trying to find wits enough to make her excuses and leave. Unable to do anything but stare into those eyes—so very frigid they looked lifeless—and think how familiar they seemed. How like her father’s they were.
He edged nearer, but not so close she felt the need to back up. Just close enough that he could murmur, “Don’t hurt her. I don’t know what you’re about, Duchess, but please. She’s been through enough. If you dangle friendship before her nose only to use it against her—” Nostrils flaring, he shook his head. “Don’t. I beg you.”
She shook her head, trying to tell herself he was only concerned for his sister. Not like Father at all. Though her shaking hands were unconvinced. “I wouldn’t, my lord. I promise you. I have no ulterior motives.”
“I want to believe that, but I don’t know if I can.” Sighing, he turned to watch Catherine’s skirts disappear around a corner. “She’s all I have. I cannot help but worry for her. She may jest about how blessed she is to keep all this for my nephew, but the truth is, the debt is overcoming her. And there’s only so much I can do to help her now.”
“But if you had the diamonds, if you could sell them. . . .” If they could all be rid of the things and their curse, and someone could come out the better for it . . .
His face, for the first time, took on feeling. Soft and gentle, but also dismissive. “An ‘if’ that doesn’t bear thinking about, Duchess. They will never be ours. Your husband would never give them to us, not in a millennium.”
But why, when having them seemed to bring nothing but strife and division? Rowena tilted her head. “What if I convinced him? Have you someone who would buy them?”
He hesitated, his face now tormented. “Pratt had someone lined up, but Duchess, don’t. I beg you. It’s far too dangerous. If your husband discovers you trying to help us . . .”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.” Much as she doubted Brice’s motives in this situation, doubted his heart, she trusted in that much. He had protected her at every turn, had proven he wasn’t a violent man.
Rushworth backed away, and that emptiness returned to his eyes, so dark and bottomless it made her shiver. “Not with his fists, perhaps. But there are many ways to hurt someone.”
Rustling came from the nearest doorway, though Rowena couldn’t see through Lord Rushworth to know who it might be. But then a voice called out, “Lord Rushworth! Have you seen . . . ?” Ella. And when Rushworth turned, she obviously caught sight of Rowena. She sighed, looking relieved. “There you are.”
Rushworth stepped to the side with a small, polite bow. “Forgive me for not returning her to you more quickly, Lady Ella. When I heard you asking after her I had a feeling she may have taken a wrong turn somewhere, so I went in search. Such a maze, these hallways.”
Just like that, the light of suspicion in Ella’s eyes shifted to amusement. “They are, at that. Were you lost, Rowena?”
She didn’t want to lie—but what good would it do to confess she had gone off with Catherine of her own will? “I never would have found my way back without someone leading me. Sorry if I worried you, Ella.”
“Oh, no matter. You’re back now, safe and sound.” Still smiling, she dipped a curtsy to Lord Rushworth. “Thank you, my lord, for your efforts on her behalf.”
As he bowed again, more deeply this time, and gave Ella a half smile, he came off as charming. Even a bit rakish. “Anything, my lady, to keep the worry from your lovely eyes.” With that, he straightened, turned away, and his posture yet again returned to the passive, meek one that she had first noted.
What a confusing man. Which version of him was real? And why did the question leave her skin feeling slicked with fear?
Ella watched him go, bemusement on her face. “He’s never even spoken to me before tonight. But that smacked rather decisively of flirtation, didn’t it?”
No doubt the belle of every ball she attended, Ella shrugged it off. “Ah, well. We’d best get back to the ballroom. The music has struck up, and my brother would like to dance with his wife.”
Would he? Did he really, or was it just part of the charm, part of the story he painted for his friends? Rowena trailed Ella back inside, but her heart didn’t follow.
What hope did she have of ever being enough for him?
Fourteen
Brice led Rowena down the hall, keenly aware of the tremor in her hand where it rested against his arm—the tremor that had been quite absent earlier in the evening, but which he had noted the moment she reentered the room with Ella and he had claimed her for a dance.
The tremor that perfectly matched the shadow in her eyes. He had wanted to question her then and there, but during a waltz, surrounded by people who made no qualms about eavesdropping, was hardly the time.
His quiet question as to whether she was ready to retire had earned him a quick, grateful nod though. And now a glance over his shoulder proved that no one had followed them, no one else had decided to leave the ball so early. Still, he pitched his voice low. “You said you would find a maid.”
No, no, all wrong. That sounded like an accusation, which hadn’t been his intent at all.
His wife sighed and kept her gaze focused on the dull, scuffed floorboards beneath their feet. This guest wing was in dire need of improvements. “I didna find one.”
“I should have come with you.”
At that, she sent him an impatient glare. “I dinna need my husband walking me to the lavatory.”
Nor did he figure she would appreciate her husband seeking her out there—hence why he had sent Ella on the searc
h when her absence had stretched too long. “But Rushworth found you.”
Her grip on his arm tightened, and a wave of trembling swept over her. If he had laid a hand on her, if he had said anything to upset her . . . “What happened?”
Was the shake of her head a lie? “Nothing.”
He let silence envelop them as they turned the corner into the hallway where their rooms were located. “All right, then . . . What did you think of him?”
Her breath shook when she drew it in. “He . . . he reminds me somehow of my father.” The gas lamps on the wall caught the feeling in her eyes when she turned them on him. “Is he cruel? To his sister, I mean? She seemed fond of him, but—”
“Lady Pratt was there too?” He regretted the harsh question when her silver eyes went blank, shuttered. “I didn’t mean . . . It is only that—”
“Hush.” She came to an abrupt halt, clutching his arm to stop him too. Her focus had gone beyond him, toward their rooms. “Is that . . . ?”
He turned to see what had caught her attention, sucking in a gasp when he saw his door quickly shut and the light extinguish from beneath it. Davis? But his valet would have no cause to blow out the lamp—nor to close his door so hastily.
“Stay here.” He peeled her fingers from his arm and slid away, hurrying over the distance separating him from his door.
Rowena dogged his steps, muttering something about glaikit men.
They could debate his foolishness and hers later. Right now he indicated she should flatten herself against the wall to remain out of sight. He reached for the door latch, paused with his hand upon it. A deep breath, a Dear Lord . . .
Then he sprang. Pushed open the door, let it bang against the wall. He didn’t leap through, loath to have someone ready to take a swing at his head and leave Rowena without defense. And quite certain that whoever was within knew he was coming.
Rowena had apparently not stayed put. She held out an oil lamp that must have been burning on a table down the hall—and offered no apology in the even stare she settled on him either.
What had happened to the timid young lady he had known these past weeks? He took the lamp and dragged his attention back to his room. Scurrying sounds came from within, a scraping, a muffled, masculine curse.
Rowena’s hand touched his arm. “Should I go for help?”
“Not yet.” Even if she managed to find her way, it would be too late to help. “Just pray.” With that, he held up the lamp and eased through the doorway.
The light shone on all the unfamiliar furniture, but his focus went straight to the dark-clad figure ducking into . . . the wall? “Blast!” He charged forward, catching the hidden door just before it slid shut. “Stop! Get back here!”
As if the intruder had any intention of listening. Brice bullied the door open—a difficult enough task that he had to think the sliding panel hadn’t been used in years—and stepped through, holding his lamp high.
The light caught only the heels of black shoes, the shadow of dark trousers disappearing around a corner.
“Brice!”
He had one foot already poised to follow, even as a warning clanged through his spirit. Whomever it was knew these passages, and Brice most assuredly did not. To pursue would no doubt mean being pounced upon. But how could he let the man get away?
“Brice, it’s Davis! Please.”
Rowena’s plea brought him surging back through the hidden doorway. His lamplight now illuminated what he had missed in his rush through the room—his valet sagging unconscious on the floor. Rowena was bent over him, her fingers at his neck.
Relief colored her face when she looked up at him. “Alive, and his pulse is steady.”
“Praise God.” He slid the lamp onto the table and knelt beside her. “Davis? Davis, can you hear me?”
Davis muttered something that sounded akin to “newfangled butterflies” and rolled onto his side.
Brice rocked back on his heels. “Odd.”
“Laudanum, perhaps? My mother used to take it now and then when she had trouble sleeping, and I remember her muttering the strangest things.” Rowena pushed herself back to her feet. And froze. “Oh, gracious.”
“What?” But he needn’t have asked, only to have looked around. Every drawer was opened, emptied. Every one of his belongings turned out. With a sigh, he shoved himself upright too. “Ducky.”
Rowena meandered over to the chest of drawers and picked up a roll of pound notes. “Not a random theft, for certain.”
Something about the gaze she settled on him, cool and accusatory, made his breath catch. “I need to get Davis onto the bed.” And give himself a moment to consider how much he should tell her. And wonder at what Catherine and Rushworth had told her.
He found himself wishing he employed a slighter man as he slid his arms under Davis’s and levered him up. His head lolled, more nonsensical murmurs nearly making Brice forget himself and grin. Knowing Davis, he would be aghast at himself for appearing in such a state to Brice.
And for sleeping in his bed, but there was little help for it. Brice dragged him that direction, making no complaint when Rowena took the valet’s feet and helped settle him onto the mattress. Davis mumbled something about swimming strangely and rolled onto his side.
Rowena turned toward the lamp. “Ye should check him for injuries. I canna think how someone would have got him to take laudanum, if that’s what it is.” She lifted the light from the end table and brought it over to the one beside the bed, where another lamp sat, ready to be lit.
In the added glow, Brice noted the blood on Davis’s knuckles—not his own, as a dampened handkerchief soon proved—and he also found a knot on the back of his head.
Rowena had folded her arms across her middle. “I can find someone. Lady Pratt or the butler. The constable ought to be fetched.”
“No.” He pulled a blanket over his unconscious valet and turned to face his wife. “I’ll not have the whole house in an uproar over it, nor alarm Mother and Ella if it can be avoided.”
She stared at him as if he were daft. “Someone just attacked your man! Rifled through your things—”
“Yes, and praise God he seems all right despite it.”
Her nostrils flared, and she squared her shoulders, looking more the Highland countess than terrified lass. “And your things? Are ye not the least bit concerned that he found what he was looking for, whatever it may be?”
“No, I’m not concerned.” He might have been, could he not hear Cowan humming on the other side of the door that connected their rooms when he stepped near it, clearly oblivious to all transpiring on this side. He stopped before the chest of drawers. Diamond cufflinks, his money, and a rather pricey tie clip all lay scattered across the top. “What they’re looking for isn’t here.”
“The diamonds.” Rowena snatched up one of his shirts from where it lay in a heap on the floor and folded it with a few precise, economical, furious motions. “They said ye have them, that Catherine watched Brook give them to you.”
He swept the valuables back into the drawer open beneath them. Said nothing.
“Ye’ll not even deny it?” She shoved the folded shirt into his chest. “Why? Why would ye take them, Brice?”
She wouldn’t understand. Even the Staffords didn’t understand. They had only granted him what they deemed his insane request to humor him. “They were having a baby. They didn’t need to worry with Catherine and her brother coming after them.”
“I daresay it’s more her brother than the lady.” She snatched a waistcoat from the chair it had landed on. “But regardless. Ye’re a fool or worse, Duke, if ye know there is danger attached to them but take them anyway.”
“She would have come after me anyway. I was only—”
“Ye brought a curse into yer house!” She kept her volume low, though there was no hiding her furor as she slapped the waistcoat into a drawer. “And for what?”
A chill skittered up his spine. “The only curse is the greed of man.
The lust the jewels inspire in them.”
She spun from him with a sound of disgust. “Oh, aye, ye English with your logical ways. Ye canna understand it, so ye dismiss it out of hand.”
He caught her elbow, though he released her again in the next second when she jerked at his touch. Blast. It was going to take a lifetime to figure out how to behave with her. “Rowena, please. I dismiss nothing. And I wrestled with the Lord for months over this before I accepted the jewels. It was what He asked of me.”
“Ye’re playing with fire. Can ye not see that?” She sank into the chair by the door, sitting atop another of his shirts.
“It is a risk, but a controlled one.” He held out a hand, pleading with her to understand. “But I promise you, I will keep you safe.”
“As you did Davis?” She folded her arms across her middle and shook her head. “There are powers beyond human control, Brice. Powers ye best not fool with. Get rid of the diamonds. I beg you. Wherever they are, please, get rid of them.”
His hand fell to his side. “I can’t. They’re not mine to dispose of.”
“Well, I havena such qualms.” Now she held out a hand. “Give them to me. I’ll be rid of them, and pray that the curse goes with them before anyone else can get hurt or worse.”
“Rowena.”
She surged back to her feet, thrusting that outstretched hand his way. “I canna live under a curse. I canna. Dinna ask it of me. Get rid of them, or let me.”
“If the curse were only some disembodied power out to get us, perhaps I would. But it’s not. It’s people, Rowena, these people, and they would never believe us if we said we’d tossed them into the sea. If I let them stand to watch, they would insist I had thrown imitations.” He took her fingers slowly in his. “There’s no point in getting rid of them. We must end it, once and for all.”
Her eyes, large and dry, shouted sorrow as she slipped her fingers free. “Then give them to Lord Rushworth. Let him have the curse o’er his head. We can help Catherine break free of him, we can—”
“She is no innocent!” He shoved his now-free hand through his hair and half-turned back toward the bed. “She does not want to be free of her brother. She wants the Fire Eyes—nothing less.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 18