Lord Margrave's Secret Desire (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 4)

by Samantha Grace

  “Forgive my curiosity,” Stanhurst said, “but how did you know the Nesses had guests?”

  “Papa saw you passing by the other day,” Anne blurted and blushed, averting her gaze.

  Sophia turned to leave her post. She had work to do.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Evans said, “and my dear husband said nothing to any of us. I never would have known if those men hadn’t come to the door this morning.”

  Sophia froze; her breath caught.

  “What men?” the duke asked.

  “No one of interest,” Mrs. Evans said. “An older gentleman and his servant. They became separated from a hunting party. I did not recognize the host’s name, but gentlemen come up from London all the time to let manor houses this time of year. They asked Mr. Evans if any strangers had passed through the area recently. Mr. Evans said he hadn’t seen anyone except our neighbors’ guests.”

  Sophia returned to studying the woman and her daughters as the duke questioned her further. Mrs. Evans had nothing helpful to add. The men had gone on their way and hadn’t been spotted again.

  “I will take the sweet breads to Cousin Alexander,” Stanhurst said and plucked the basket from Mrs. Evan’s hands before she could protest. “Good day, ladies.”

  The woman bristled when he walked away, dismissing her with the arrogance of a duke. As the housekeeper herded the woman and her daughters from the foyer, Mrs. Evans grumbled about Stanhurst’s uppity manners for someone lowborn.

  The housekeeper chirped a happy good-bye, interrupting the neighbor’s complaints, and closed the door with enough force to be satisfying.

  When Stanhurst walked into the study, he caught Sophia spying. He arched a dark eyebrow. “Did you overhear the conversation?”

  She nodded and swallowed. “It could be anyone, could it not? There is no cause for worry.”

  “Yes, of course.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers back and forth across his brow as if warding off a pain. “Nevertheless, we should practice caution. No more walks around the grounds until we are certain the men who questioned the neighbors are harmless.”

  Sophia took a cleansing breath. “Auntie will not easily be discouraged from following her morning routine.”

  “I expect it will be easier to convince her if she is provided a good reason to stay indoors. Your aunt deserves to know her life could be in danger.” The duke’s stern tone left no doubt he expected Sophia to accept his guidance.

  She nibbled her bottom lip. Perhaps he was right. It had been well and good to shelter Aunt Beatrice when it seemed they were safe, but if Farrin and his men were close, the time had come to confide in her. “I will tell her tonight after supper.”

  “Very good,” the duke said. “I will inform Lieutenant Locke of the latest development while you return to deciphering the letters.”

  He made a shooing motion with his hand that would have irritated her under different circumstances. She resumed her place at the desk. Crispin had entrusted her with this task, and she would not disappoint him.

  When the duke and Crispin’s brother came to inquire into her progress an hour later, they found her slumped in the chair, staring at the papers and book on the desk.

  “Are you unwell?” The duke’s voice jolted her from the stunned trance she had fallen under.

  She blinked the men into focus and gathered a stack of papers from the desk, holding them close to her chest. “I have deciphered all of the letters. Your Grace, perhaps you should sit.”

  Stanhurst pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at her. “Do not treat me as an invalid, Miss Darlington. What did you discover?”

  Her mouth was dry; she licked her parched lips. Her gaze strayed back and forth between the men. “Y-your brother was raising funds to hire a mercenary group—”

  “The Black Death,” he snapped. “I know about them. To what end?”

  She frowned in censorship. Stanhurst was anxious; she understood his distress. Nevertheless, she would not abide becoming his whipping boy. Crispin’s brother inserted himself into the conversation, acting as a peacekeeper.

  “Please, Miss Darlington,” Lieutenant Locke said gently. “Do continue when you are ready.”

  She met the lieutenant’s gaze, shoring up her courage to deliver the news. “The Black Death has been hired to rescue Napoleon. Once he is liberated, he intends to drive the Spanish from their colonies in America and reward his supporters with land and titles in his new empire. Your brother and Lord Van Middleburg secured investors to pay the warriors’ fee. Gentlemen, we might be on the brink of another war.”

  When she glanced at the duke, his eyes blazed with a fury that caused her to quiver. “You found evidence Geoffrey was a... traitor.” He spat the last word. “Give me the letters, Miss Darlington.”

  She hesitated a full heartbeat then placed his brother’s letters and the deciphered messages into his outstretched hand. “Thank you for your service.” He tucked the papers under his arm, spun on his heel, and marched from the study.

  Sophia watched helplessly as the duke commandeered the only proof they had that England’s interests were in jeopardy.

  “What should we do?” she whispered. “What if he destroys the evidence?”

  Lieutenant Locke grimaced. “He risked everything bringing the letters to Crispin, and his worst fears have been made real. Allow him time to recover. I believe the duke will make the correct choice.”

  She hoped Crispin’s brother was not underestimating Stanhurst. Desperation caused men to take desperate measures. When the duke did not join them for supper, her concern grew.

  If only Crispin was here...

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t devote her attention to solving the problem of how to recover the letters from Stanhurst. It was time to have a conversation with Aunt Beatrice—a task Sophia dreaded. When she and Aunt Beatrice retreated to the drawing room, Lieutenant Locke created an excuse not to join them as prearranged.

  A jug of claret sat on the sideboard, and Sophia crossed the room to pour a glass for her aunt. When she returned with the wine, Aunt Beatrice waved it away. “You seem tense, dearest. Perhaps you should partake instead.”

  “I am afraid I would become a dismal companion if I did.” Sophia placed the glass on the low table in front of the settee and sat beside her aunt. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “I do not find it surprising. What were you working at all day in the study?”

  “Crispin requested help with correspondence.” How easily lies fell from Sophia’s lips these days. She cleared her throat. “Auntie, I have not been forthcoming with you, and I am worried you will be disappointed.”

  Aunt Beatrice patted her hand. “You could never disappoint me, my sweet girl.”

  Sophia took a deep breath and started her story with the moment Farrin tried to steal the map from Wedmore House and ended with the real reason Sophia and Aunt Beatrice were staying with Crispin’s family.

  “I am sorry I did not tell you, Auntie. My sisters and I wanted to protect you.”

  Aunt Beatrice, who had held her tongue while Sophia was speaking, pursed her lips. Inwardly, Sophia cringed. She was in for a good scolding—much deserved but still unappealing.

  “Sophia Anastasia Marietta Jane,” Aunt Beatrice bit off each name as if barely restraining herself from yelling. “It has never been and never will be your responsibility to protect me. When Charlie asked me to help raise you and your sisters, I knew what was expected of me. I swore to him and to each of you that I would do everything within my power to protect you. That is my responsibility. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  “Furthermore, Lord Margrave has overstepped his bounds greatly. He is your betrothed, not your husband, and he has no authority to take matters into his hands. He should have consulted with me, and I would have made the decision.”

  “I understand, but please do not fault Crispin. I begged him not to tell you.”

  Aunt Beatrice jabbed
a finger in her direction. “It was not your place to make decisions either. I have been caring for you since you were a little girl, and I always kept your best interests in mind. I may not have given birth to you and your sisters, but you are my children.”

  “I know, Auntie.”

  As her aunt continued her tirade, Sophia’s nose began to tickle and her vision blurred with tears. Aunt Beatrice stopped mid-sentence. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. Eventually, she asked, “Why are you crying?”

  “I cannot bear the thought of losing you like Mama.”

  “Oh, dearest.”

  Aunt Beatrice’s stern face softened. She gathered Sophia in a hug. Her aunt was thinner than she had been when Sophia sat on her lap as a child, but her hugs were just as strong. When her aunt released her and drew back, she cupped Sophia’s cheek.

  “I am not going anywhere anytime soon, sweet girl. Do not waste a moment fretting about it. I have too much to do. There is still Evangeline to see settled into marriage, baby blankets to knit, and Charlie’s household to run.”

  “I thought you would live with Crispin and me.”

  Aunt Beatrice laughed. “I do not expect Lord Margrave would appreciate having me underfoot. Besides, Evangeline cannot be left on her own. Can you imagine the mess she would make of Hartland Manor? There would be even more holes to fall into around the estate, and the groundskeeper has already threatened to tender his resignation if she does not stop her excavations.”

  Sophia laughed too and swiped the dampness from her eyes. “She did find Roman coins one autumn.”

  “The import of her discovery was lost on the man, I think.”

  Sophia leaned against the settee cushion, more relaxed than she had been for a while. She and Aunt Beatrice reminisced about Sophia’s childhood, recalling funny stories involving her sisters. She missed Regina and Evangeline, and she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she had missed Aunt Beatrice. Being unable to confide in her aunt had created an unintended rift between them. Relief washed over Sophia, as comforting as one of Auntie’s knitted shawls.

  “Well, dearest,” Aunt Beatrice said and yawned. “It is early, but I am ready for bed. Would you like to crawl in with me tonight like old times?”

  Sophia was too old to snuggle with her aunt, but she couldn’t resist keeping her close. “Yes, please.”

  They retreated to their respective chambers above stairs to ready for bed. Dressed in her night rail and wrapper, Sophia slipped into the corridor to make her way to her aunt’s room next door. She glanced toward the door at the end of the passage. A light was burning in the duke’s chambers. He hadn’t made an appearance since he disappeared with the letters. She could only imagine the demons he wrestled tonight.

  May you triumph over them, Your Grace.

  Despite the early hour, Sophia was exhausted. Her eyes felt gritty and her back ached from too many hours spent bent over a desk. She did not recall surrendering to sleep, but a strident bellow jolted her awake.

  “Fire! There’s a fire!”

  Twenty-eight

  Sophia bolted upright in bed—eyes wide, heart hammering. Interwoven with panicked voices were the sounds of people running outside the bedchamber door. A man shouted orders she couldn’t make out. She grabbed her aunt’s shoulder and jostled her.

  “Auntie, wake up!”

  Her aunt mumbled in her sleep.

  Sophia shook her harder. “Aunt Beatrice, the house is on fire. Wake up!”

  The racket in the corridor grew louder, and she heard her name. “Sophia, where are you?”

  The bedchamber door flew open. The Duke of Stanhurst burst into the room with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose. He dropped his hand. “Thank God! You were not in your chamber.”

  The interruption broke through Aunt Beatrice’s deep sleep. She stirred and mumbled, “What is happening?”

  “There is a fire. We must go.” Sophia scrambled from bed. “She needs help, Your Grace.”

  Stanhurst stalked across the room and lifted Aunt Beatrice from the bed, cradling her against his chest. Auntie was awake enough now to bark orders.

  “Bring my sewing basket.”

  “There isn’t time.” Sophia grabbed her wrapper at the foot of the bed and found her slippers. “We must save ourselves.”

  “No!” Aunt Beatrice kicked her legs and made such a fuss that she almost toppled from the duke’s arms.

  “Stop! I will get it.” Sophia found the basket near the chair where Aunt Beatrice had been working earlier and snatched it from the floor. She followed Stanhurst and her aunt into the corridor. A light haze hung on the air.

  “Cover your face,” the duke said.

  She fished the baby blanket from her aunt’s basket and shoved it into Aunt Beatrice’s hands before balling up her wrapper to cover her own mouth and nose.

  Taking the lead, she held onto the duke’s arm to guide him while feeling the wall with her hand. Crispin’s mother was sobbing from the floor below.

  “Mother, let’s go,” Lieutenant Locke commanded. “They carried Father through the servants’ wing.”

  A wave of heat rolled up the staircase.

  “Get low,” Stanhurst shouted.

  Sophia dropped to her bottom and scooted down the stairs, dragging the basket with her. Aunt Beatrice and the duke followed suit.

  Orange flames licked at the walls in the foyer. Sophia stood; her eyes stung.

  “Stay down and go!” Stanhurst nudged her toward the front door.

  Crispin’s brother barged inside the house to take her elbow and pull her to safety. Sophia stumbled into the night, dropped the wrapper and basket, and gulped fresh air.

  The duke burst outside with Aunt Beatrice in his arms. Once they were a safe distance from the house, he lowered her to the grass and collapsed on his knees beside her, panting. Aunt Beatrice doubled over, coughing.

  Sophia walked on wobbly legs to reach her. “Auntie, have you been injured?”

  “No,” Aunt Beatrice said between coughs and reached a hand toward her. “Bring my knitting.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Do it,” her aunt snapped.

  With an exasperated sigh, Sophia retrieved the basket and dropped it on the ground next to her aunt.

  “Thank you.” Aunt Beatrice shoved the baby blanket deep into the basket, taking care to arrange it just so.

  Satisfied her aunt was well—despite her new obsession with babies—Sophia turned her attention toward the others gathered on the lawn. Mrs. Ness was sitting on the grass cradling her husband’s head while two manservants stood close to the housekeeper. Everyone had escaped the manor house and gaped as the fire hungrily consumed the home.

  Black smoke rolled into the night sky, obliterating the stars, and a relentless crackle filled the air. Occasionally, an eerie creak and echoing bang emanated from deep within the house. With so few of them and the nearest neighbors at least two miles away, there was nothing to do except become voyeurs to the destruction. Fortunately, there were no other buildings close, and no wind to whip sparks into the air.

  Lieutenant Locke tunneled his fingers through his hair. Soot left it darker than natural. He cleared his throat and addressed the servants. “My father cannot tolerate the night air. Retrieve the handcart. We should get him to the groundkeeper’s cottage. Teddy, carry a message to the Evans and tell them we need shelter for the night.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young men said in unison, shaking off the shock that had kept them immobilized, and set off on their tasks. Lieutenant Locke was not finished issuing orders. “Mrs. Poindexter, I would like you to run ahead to the cottage and ready a bed.”

  The housekeeper hurried in the direction of the cottage.

  The manservant returned with the handcart, and Sophia tried not to gawk while the lieutenant and duke loaded Mr. Ness into the bed of the cart. Dressed in only a nightshirt, his emaciated body was on display. It was her first time to catch sight of Crispin’s stepfather, and her c
uriosity battled with the desire to help him maintain dignity by not looking. He groaned several times during the process and mumbled his thanks once he was settled on the hard cart bed. His bare calves hung over the edge of the handcart.

  Sophia retrieved her wrapper and carried it to Crispin’s mother. “Please, take this for Mr. Ness.”

  Crispin’s mother accepted the once blue satin robe and covered her husband as best as she could. The duke shrugged out of his jacket and offered it as well. When the handcart rolled over a small knoll, Mr. Ness gritted his teeth. He didn’t utter a word of complaint, however. Mrs. Ness walked beside the handcart, murmuring words of comfort for her husband. Lieutenant Locke excused himself to see his parents settled and promised to return shortly.

  “Mr. Evans will send a carriage soon,” he said. “He is a good man. He would not ignore a neighbor in need.”

  Sophia, Aunt Beatrice, and the duke were left alone. The blaze heated Sophia’s back. She crossed her arms, newly aware her thin night rail was far from modest, but the duke was not looking at her or her aunt. His gaze was trained to the darkness beyond the circle of light created by the fire.

  She nervously wet her lips. “I hope Lieutenant Locke is right about—”

  “Quiet,” Stanhurst hissed. “I hear something out there.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat.

  Aunt Beatrice sidled up to Sophia. “We should join the others at the groundkeeper’s cottage.” When her aunt linked arms, Sophia looked down and gasped. Aunt Beatrice was cradling a small pistol in the palm of her hand.

  “Auntie, how...where...?”

  “My sewing basket,” Aunt Beatrice muttered. “I protect my own.”

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up at the back of Sophia’s throat. The situation was too ludicrous by half. Perhaps she was still safe in bed and dreaming.

  “Your Grace,” Aunt Beatrice said, “let us withdraw to the cottage with the others.”

  Stanhurst snapped his head toward them, blinking as if trying to claw his way through the foggy layers of a deep sleep. “Yes, very good,” he said at last.

  As they turned to go, a sharp voice split the night. “Stay where you are.”