She couldn’t help smiling. “A lovely way of putting it.” She tipped her face up to him again. “Thank you for the lemonade.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Heavens above. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes when he smiled at her, and she was sure the earth moved beneath her feet. It should have sent her scurrying away; she’d fallen for a handsome man who paid her attention before. But somehow she didn’t feel the same wariness she’d worn like a second skin ever since. Somehow she liked the way this man smiled at her.
“I had the right of you the other day,” she said impulsively. “You are a silver-tongued devil.”
He chuckled. “I knew I would improve upon you.”
Tessa just pursed her lips. They walked to the end of the gravel drive, where a low stone wall separated Mill Cottage’s grounds from the road. “I would be glad to walk you back into Frome,” he said, but she shook her head.
“There is no need. It’s not even a mile, and the sun is still bright.”
He bowed his head and didn’t argue, which she found refreshing. “Give my regards to Mrs. Bates.”
“I will.” Tessa hesitated. “She will be so pleased to hear you are well.”
The earl grinned ruefully. “Yes, I’ve neglected her, haven’t I? I should like to call again, if I am welcome.”
“Very welcome,” she said, then blushed at her unintentionally quick reply.
Lord Gresham stopped by the stone gatepost and gave a very civil little bow. “And you are very welcome for more lemonade, any time your wanderings bring you this way, Mrs. Neville.”
She ducked her head. It would be harder than she thought to stay away now. “Thank you. Good day.” She set off at a brisk stroll, restraining herself from looking back. He was a gentleman, with the exquisite manners to match; that was all. But she liked him more and more every time she saw him. It wasn’t every man who would care for wild bluebells.
When the road bent around the clump of oaks, she dared a quick peek over her shoulder. He was still watching her, leaning against the stone post, one muddy boot propped over the other. She could just make out the smile on his face as he lifted the glass of wildflowers in salute. Tessa raised her hand in reply, then hurried onward.
She smiled all the way back into Frome.
Chapter 9
Mrs. Neville’s surprise visit brightened Charlie’s mood considerably. Two days of disciplined hard work had been even more taxing than he’d expected, and he certainly hadn’t thought it would be simple. But this was his duty, his cross to bear, and he was determined not to shirk it any longer. Edward had shouldered the daunting and tedious task of hiring a lawyer. Gerard had gone off to risk his life and liberty for the family. Charlie told himself he was more than capable of reading some dusty old ledgers in search of his father’s ill-fated marriage. All he had to do was read through each page, one faint, illegible line at a time. There was no possible reason he couldn’t complete this task successfully. He just had to be disciplined.
So he had buckled down and painstakingly begun working his way through the marriage registers, and it made him want to race back to London as fast as possible. The registers told tales of desperation, poverty, and questionable morality that left him grim and gloomy. A forty-two-year-old man wedding a girl of sixteen, in the front parlor of a brothel. Charlie would bet anything the signature of the bride’s “mother” was really the brothel’s madam, foisting an unwanted girl off her hands. A couple married in a tavern for a shilling and a chicken, with another shilling to be paid later. This was the way his father had married? He tried to picture the duke and some mysterious but alluring girl waiting their turn in the tavern while the couple with the chicken plighted their troths, and utterly failed. How could Durham not have known that was a bad omen? Charlie had been about to tell Barnes to bring drink far stronger than lemonade when his valet remarked there was a lady lingering on the road, looking his way.
He told himself he was desperate for any respite from the registers as he rushed to intercept her. But there was no denying the thrill that shot through his veins when she looked up at him with those crystal clear eyes and professed to have walked this way by chance. Tessa Neville was not a flighty female who wandered the countryside obliviously. He knew she would never admit it, but he wondered—even hoped—if she might have passed his cottage with the thought of meeting him again. And the possibility was inordinately pleasing.
He still wasn’t quite sure what about her drew him. There were her eyes, no question, and the frank way she looked at him. The rest of her was lovely as well, from her sleek dark curls to a curved, supple figure he had to work hard not to admire openly. She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met, and in the end Charlie simply gave up trying to puzzle it out. Whatever it was, he liked it. He was used to women who batted their eyelashes and simpered, or boldly murmured propositions in his ear. It kept a man on guard, ready to deflect any unwanted offers with charm and speed, constantly vigilant for any traps laid by hopeful duchesses-to-be. If Tessa Neville saw anything appealing about his person or was laying a matrimonial trap, she concealed it well. And the attraction of proving himself worthy of her good opinion was too much for him to resist.
Of course, he still had to mind his tongue around her. He knew she hadn’t quite believed him when he claimed he only wanted an introduction to Hiram Scott, and he barely managed to deflect her question about why he paid attention to her and Mrs. Bates at all. What he’d told her was the truth—now—but it hadn’t always been true, and he didn’t want to think what she would say if she ever learned he’d once suspected her, even slightly, of blackmail. That was the sort of secret he planned to carry to his grave. Now that he’d gained some ground in Mrs. Neville’s affections, he meant to keep it.
Charlie dressed with care the next day. The cheerful pot of bluebells sat on a table in his bedroom, his excuse for calling on her. He thought he’d killed them at first; it had been a long time since he’d done any gardening. He was more likely to send a footman to order flowers from a London florist when he wanted to impress a lady. But it seemed he’d done a decent enough job, after almost falling into the brook, for the wildflowers had perked up after being planted in an earthen pot, and he was disgustingly eager to give them back to Mrs. Neville.
The sound of a carriage outside caught his attention. A quick glance out the window made him curse under his breath. Hiram Scott was stepping down from a gig, handing the reins to one of the lads from the stable.
Charlie paced away from the window, thinking hard. Perhaps Scott had come to press his demands in private. Perhaps he thought himself still concealed and wanted to take a new tactic to get the money. The man had gall, coming here.
When Barnes brought in the card, Charlie let his visitor wait awhile before he went down. He would say as little as possible and give Scott every opportunity to place the noose around his own neck. After letting the man sit for over a quarter hour, he went down to the small parlor. “Mr. Scott,” he said, affecting the bored, imperious tones he’d used at the ironworks. “This is a surprise.”
The other man swept a bow. He didn’t seem at all put out by being left waiting. “I hope you will forgive the liberty, sir. If I’ve called at an inconvenient time . . .”
Charlie waved one hand. “Here in the country, there are no convenient hours.” He took a seat and indicated his guest should do the same. “What brings you to Frome?”
Scott seated himself, looking very pleased. “I come to issue an invitation, my lord. As a prospective investor, you would be very welcome to join me for a dinner with a few other shareholders and committee members.”
Charlie gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “Dinner.”
“Yes.” Scott nodded, still smiling genially as if he hadn’t schemed and plotted to disrupt Charlie’s entire life. “Tomorrow evening in Frome. It isn’t a full meeting of the committee, so no
t much business will be discussed, but we would be delighted to have you join us.”
Charlie made a noncommittal noise in his throat. The idea of dining with a canal committee held very little appeal, but it was another opportunity to take Scott’s measure. So far the man had him utterly puzzled; was he a conniving swindler, a man desperately trying to conceal his attempt at blackmail, or a hopeless sycophant mistaken for a villain? Charlie couldn’t tell, and he was hesitant to act until he could sort it out.
“Normally we would dine on board the company’s yacht,” Scott went on at Charlie’s silence. “The Saville is in dock for repairs at the moment, though, so we shall gather at The Bear in Frome. The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Lewis, is renowned for her cooking, and they keep a very good table.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “I lodged at The Bear until recently.” The food had been the only attraction, in his opinion, although any renown must be considered relative.
Scott bowed his head with another gratified smile. “Mr. Lewis did mention it to me, when I spoke with him. It was he who told me where I might call upon you to extend the invitation.”
“Will Mrs. Neville be attending?” he asked, still delaying. He hoped not. She was too distracting.
Scott hesitated only a moment, but Charlie saw it. “I do not know, sir,” said the man carefully. “But I would be pleased to invite her, if that would be agreeable to you.”
Damn. Now Scott thought he wanted her there. And worse, Charlie realized he couldn’t say no. Mrs. Neville would want to be there, and truth be told, she had more right to be there than he did, if they really meant to discuss canal business. She might actually wish to invest, while he wouldn’t be giving Scott one bloody farthing, not even if his canal mined gold sovereigns straight from the earth. And if Scott ever told her that he hadn’t wanted her to be there . . .
He made himself lift one shoulder. “I presumed she would be as welcome as I, since she is also a prospective shareholder.”
“Of course, of course,” said Scott heartily. “I hesitated only because it won’t be a purely business affair, my lord. And as the only lady, she might feel out of place.”
“Perhaps she is already otherwise engaged,” replied Charlie, knowing it was unlikely. There was nothing to do in Frome, and this canal was her whole reason for coming into Somerset. Even if she’d had other plans, she would change them to meet the canal committee. But he had a feeling Scott had planned a gentlemen’s dinner, and she would be out of place, whether she knew it or not. Scott wanted money, badly enough to blackmail a duke for it; letting a woman attend a meeting shouldn’t bother him, if six thousand pounds hung on her approval. Charlie wondered if the other men of the committee would feel the same.
“That shall be for Mrs. Neville to decide,” said Scott with a look that indicated his feelings about the subject. “I shall invite her directly. May I count you among our dinner companions, sir?”
He nodded once. “You may.” If he said no, Scott might not care to invite Mrs. Neville after all, and Charlie didn’t want that. She would be furious to learn she had been excluded, and to be honest, it smacked of unfairness. If she attended the dinner, he would rather be there than not. Just in case the other gentlemen weren’t so gentlemanly after all.
“Excellent!” Scott beamed at him. “It was a great delight to learn of your interest in our canal, sir. If there is any way I might help you decide to make an investment, I would be delighted to do so. Perhaps you would care to see the prospectus?”
Mrs. Neville had already seen it and called it useless. “By all means,” said Charlie languidly, guessing that the appearance of indifference would spur Scott to greater efforts. “Send it if you like.”
He guessed correctly. “I would be pleased to conduct you to any part of the works you wished to see,” Scott went on, an eager gleam in his eye. “Or correspond with your man of business, should you have cargoes suitable for shipping on the canal. Shareholders are preferred in shipments, you know, and pay very reasonable rates.”
Charlie lifted one shoulder again, and decided to rattle Scott a bit. “Perhaps. But you may deal with me directly; my man is occupied in London.” By which he meant his brother Edward, the one with a head for business. Not that the de Laceys would be conducting any legitimate business with Hiram Scott.
“Of—Of course,” said Scott. He hesitated, then forced a smile, looking discomfited for the first time. “I confess it is rare to deal with a man of your standing directly, Lord Gresham.”
He raised his brows. “Is it?”
“Yes. Naturally, I called upon each shareholder, in case any should take a deeper interest, but . . .” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Although, may I inquire how you learned of our canal? I don’t believe your name was on our original list of gentlemen whose support we solicited.”
Charlie didn’t move a muscle although his heart skipped a beat. Was this the opening he’d been waiting for? “I first heard of it in Bath,” he said evenly. “From my brother, Captain de Lacey.”
Gerard’s name produced no flicker of recognition, even though Gerard had been prominently in Bath for some time. “Of course,” Scott said. “I travel through Bath quite frequently, although I can’t recall the pleasure of your brother’s acquaintance . . .”
“He took up residence only recently,” said Charlie. “After the death of our father.”
He expected to see something; some twitch of the jaw, a blink of the eye, a stiff smile. Scott showed none of that. His face instantly became grave. “My condolences, my lord,” he murmured.
Charlie stared at him. His pulse beat like a drum in his ears. For a moment he forgot all about stealth and cold revenge, and thought of nothing more than thrashing Scott within an inch of his life. How dare the man sit there and offer his sympathy on Durham’s death, as if he hadn’t darkened the duke’s final months with his threats and demands? What the bloody hell was this man’s game?
With difficulty he brought his breathing back under control, and unclenched his fist. He had to untangle this mystery all the way. “Thank you,” he said when he was able to speak calmly.
Scott looked uncertain at Charlie’s frigid tone. He shifted in his chair. “Indeed. Well, however you became interested in the canal, I am delighted by it. I pride myself on being most attentive to my shareholders; if there is anything I can do—”
“Yes, yes,” said Charlie, getting to his feet. “Thank you for your visit today, Mr. Scott. I shall see you tomorrow evening.”
Scott smiled in relief. “Very good, my lord. Eight o’clock, if that suits—”
“Yes. Good day, Mr. Scott.” He had to get the fellow out of his house before he punched him.
Charlie waited until the canal promoter was out the door before cursing a blue streak. By God, he hated that man, for everything from starting the trouble in the first place to not showing any proper sign of terror at the approaching retribution. But he didn’t merely want to confront Scott; he wanted to ruin the man, for all that he’d done. And if he had to endure a shareholder dinner to destroy Scott completely, so be it.
And Mrs. Neville would be there. He took a slow, calming breath and told himself that didn’t matter. His purpose here was Scott, not her. It didn’t work; he was still looking forward to seeing her, despite his serious misgivings about her presence. In fact, all the more reason he should be there. He certainly didn’t want Scott to win her over now. This way he could keep an eye on her and try to steer her away from Scott’s clutches.
But otherwise . . . he had no idea what to make of Scott’s behavior. The man didn’t show the slightest trace of shame or uneasiness at facing him, nor even opportunistic greed. It was as if Scott had no idea that he had any relation at all to Durham—which simply couldn’t be true. Gerard had been utterly right: the threat of exposing Dorothy Cope’s marriage to Durham really wouldn’t have hurt Durham, except through hi
s children. Scott had to know that. Wouldn’t he have taken even passing notice of who those children were? It was quite likely Durham’s death had been reported in every ha’penny gossip paper in Britain, thanks to the scandal.
This unexpected cordiality was upending Charlie’s plans. He had anticipated a confrontation, but Scott wasn’t rising to it. It was making him unsure of himself, unsure of Gerard’s report, unsure of the postal clerk’s identification. If he had the wrong man, all this would have been wasted effort. Charlie did not want to leave a single point to chance; he couldn’t afford to. The Committee for Privileges would require absolute verification of his right to the dukedom in light of the salacious rumors about his father. He was scouring the registers for any proof, one way or another, of a marriage ceremony, before he struck his final blow. It was slow, miserable work, and so far he’d found nothing. It was entirely likely he’d find nothing in the remaining registers, leaving him right where he was now: unable to prove or disprove anything in his father’s final confessional letter, and uncertain enough of Scott that he dared not do anything to him.
He tried not to think again that he was the brother least likely to solve this tangle. Perhaps he should hand it back to Edward or Gerard, or at least show them how weak their clues were. Grinding his teeth, he went to the writing table and drew out a piece of paper. He wrote a summary of his meetings with Hiram Scott, detailing how blithely unaware the man seemed to be. He wrote of the canal and the ironworks, looking again for any connection to Durham; Edward would know if their father had ever dealt with Scott financially. He asked how likely it was that the postal clerk in Bath had remembered the right man who sent the blackmail letters after so many months. And he inquired how the legal proceedings in London were faring.
That last point made him hesitate. Edward had claimed he gave Charlie everything about it. He could probably read for himself how strong his case was and how well the solicitor had prepared it. All those documents were also in the leather satchel, but he hadn’t read them. He hadn’t finished reading the marriage registers, not even after the last two days of rather conscientious work. They still sat on the side of the writing desk, taunting him.
The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke Page 12