It was all he could do not to kiss those lips into the sweet submission he had tasted earlier.
Instead he left her to her displeasure, satisfied that he had won that round. Miranda was living in a home he provided with servants to see to her needs. The wet nurse Mrs. Cooper had been hired to care for the child on a more permanent basis. He had done his duty to the babe. Once the authorities captured the imposter, he could arrange a more suitable arrangement, perhaps a cottage in the country.
Of course if he did that, he would never be able to see her with any regularity.
Damn and blast. He did not want her gone from his life.
A knock sounded at the door. He scowled, as his servants knew not to disturb him while he was in the music room. But then again, he had not been working on his music anyway.
“Come!” he called, well aware that his annoyance carried in his voice.
The door opened and Travers looked in. “My apologies, Your Grace, but Mr. Wallace is here.”
“Has he found the blackguard already? That was fast work.” He gathered his composition pages into a neat stack and set them on the desk. “Put him in my study, Travers. I shall be there directly.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
When Wylde entered the study several minutes later, Wallace stood in front of his desk, fussing with his glasses, as was his habit. He looked up with some eagerness, quickly replacing his spectacles. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Wallace, I trust you have news for me?”
“Indeed I do, indeed I do.”
Wylde moved to sit behind his desk. “Very efficient of you, Wallace. So who is he?”
“He, sir? I have come today to talk about Miss Fontaine.”
“Indeed?” His curiosity rose, which annoyed him greatly. She was just a woman, and a difficult one at that. She should not command so much of his attention.
“You did ask me to look into her background.”
“I did.”
Wallace pulled out a small journal. “She arrived in London almost a week ago. Before that she lived in a small sea town called Little Depping. Since arriving in London, she has been living in the home of Thaddeus LeGrande, an actor of some renown on the London stage.”
“I am acquainted with Mr. LeGrande. And you might want to note that Miss Fontaine is no longer staying in his home. I moved her to one of my properties.”
Wallace made a scribble in his notebook. “So noted, Your Grace. Shall I continue investigating Miss Fontaine, then?”
“Why would you not?”
Mr. Wallace cleared his throat but held Wylde’s gaze squarely when he replied, “I was not certain if the lady’s relationship with you was one of a private nature.”
Wylde suppressed the glimmer of irritation with effort. “If you are inferring that she is my mistress, she is not. I am looking after her at the behest of my grandmother.”
“Ah. Very well, then.” Wallace pushed up his spectacles. “I just…one assumes…well, given that the young lady’s mother was known to be a woman who gave her favors easily—”
Wylde leaned forward. “What are you implying, Wallace? That Miss Fontaine’s mother was a lightskirt?”
Wallace’s face reddened. “Ah…she was, Your Grace, at least in the last years before she died.”
“The devil you say!” Utterly shocked, Wylde sat back. Never would he have imagined such a thing. He’d known she had some mystery in her past, but assumed it was a romance gone sour or just simple poverty. Could she be an opportunist after all?
Wallace shifted his feet. “Actually, it is quite a common tale, Your Grace. Miranda Fontaine’s mother was the actress Fannie Fontaine. She caused quite a stir on Drury Lane before she disappeared from London some twenty years ago.”
“Who is Miss Fontaine’s father? I am assuming Fannie Fontaine left London because she was with child.”
“I believe that is the case, Your Grace, but no one I spoke to can name the father. It was all quite secretive.”
“Who did you speak to, Wallace? I admit you have stunned me with your quick response to my query.”
“The servants who work for Mrs. Weatherby,” Wallace said. “However, that lady herself proved quite knowledgeable on the matter.”
“Mrs. Weatherby! Did I not specifically tell you not to interrogate her?”
“You did, Your Grace, but she came to me while I was questioning her staff. She offered the information of her own volition.”
“Indeed?” Wylde tapped his fingers on the desk. “A very interesting situation. Perhaps she recalls Fannie Fontaine.”
“A possibility, sir. I will continue to investigate if you require it.”
“Perhaps.” He pondered the matter. When he had believed Miranda to be an opportunist after some quick money, it seemed ethical to have her investigated. However, now that he knew her a bit, he had to admit that he felt a bit guilty for looking into her past.
Still, according to Wallace’s findings she was the daughter of an actress turned prostitute, one whose father had not chosen to acknowledge her. This would imply a life lacking in comfort. Had she seized an opportunity to better her lot by claiming Lettie Dupree’s child at birth?
Blast it all. Just when he believed that he had uncovered the woman’s true character, facts arose to throw doubt into the mix.
Did he continue the investigation or did he order Wallace to cease?
“Is that all you have learned?” he asked.
“There is more, Your Grace, though not about Miss Fontaine.”
“About the imposter, then?”
“No, sir. During my investigation of Miss Fontaine, I naturally looked into the background of Mr. Thaddeus LeGrande.”
“I am acquainted with Mr. LeGrande.”
“I have discovered that he has been the trustee for an investment account in Miss Fontaine’s name. Recently the account was closed, but I am told substantial withdrawals were taken from it over the past few years.”
“And yet Miss Fontaine only arrived in London recently.” Wylde scowled as he realized the implication. “LeGrande is indebted to one of the most ruthless moneylenders in London.”
“He is a gamester, Your Grace.”
“Indeed he is. And his luck has not been good lately.”
“Would you like me to observe his movements?”
Wylde pondered the idea for a moment. “No, I will speak to him myself. I would like you to continue to follow the imposter.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
A knock came at the door. Wylde frowned as Travers poked his head in. “My apologies, Your Grace, but there are some callers who demand to see you.”
“Tell them—”
“We shall speak to His Grace immediately!” Two women pushed past the servant and into the room. “How dare you attempt to avoid us, Wyldehaven! After what you did!”
Wylde slowly got to his feet. “Lady Nantwick, Mrs. Colley. How may I be of assistance?”
“Assistance!” Lady Nantwick, an overly plump bear of a woman, strode forward, her oversized bosom heaving with outrage and her face red with temper. “You may account for the damage you have done to Clarise’s new curricle, you scoundrel!”
“Your new curricle?” Aware of Wallace quietly retreating to a spot out of the ladies’ way, Wylde looked at Lady Nantwick’s bony, horse-faced companion and noted she was paler than usual. “Madam, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Mr. Colley has finally received his inheritance from his distant cousin,” Lady Nantwick said before Mrs. Colley could open her mouth. “He has bought her a fine new curricle that was delivered just this morning.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Colley,” Wylde said. “However, I cannot understand how your new curricle pertains to me.”
“Because you caused the accident!” Lady Nantwick declared, stabbing a finger at him.
Wylde cast a glance at Wallace, awful suspicion creeping through him, then returned his attention to Mrs. Co
lley. “What accident?”
“The one in Hyde Park just this afternoon,” Lady Nantwick said. “You and that devil’s stallion of yours ran us off the trail while you were racing with that young pup Westermann. The wheel broke, and Clarise and I were almost killed!”
“I was not in Hyde Park today,” Wylde said.
“Do not even attempt to deny it,” Lady Nantwick warned, shaking her finger at him. “I have known you since you were in the nursery, Wyldehaven, and I cannot condone such behavior. What will your grandmother say?”
“I am certain I cannot imagine. What time did this occur?”
“I do not understand the need for foolish questions,” Lady Nantwick said with a huff. “Clearly it is obvious that Clarise and I were touring the park at the very fashionable hour of four o’clock so that all of the ton could observe her new curricle.”
“Of course you were.” Wylde caught Wallace’s eye and inclined his head toward the door. The runner gave an imperceptible nod and quietly left the room.
“I cannot fathom what you were about, racing through the park at such speed. And at such an hour! Why, we could have been killed!”
Wylde looked past Lady Nantwick. “Mrs. Colley, was the carriage badly damaged?”
“It was,” Lady Nantwick said.
Wylde pinned her with an impatient glance. “Lady Nantwick, I was speaking to Mrs. Colley.”
“Dear Clarise is overset.” Lady Nantwick went to her comrade and placed an arm around her shoulders. “She needs her friends around her.”
“How lucky that you were with her.” Wylde took a step forward that edged Lady Nantwick aside and left him facing Clarise Colley. “Mrs. Colley, what happened?”
“Well, I never!” Lady Nantwick gasped.
Wylde cast her a hard look that had her clamping her lips closed.
“The carriage,” Mrs. Colley whispered. Her pale blue eyes looked huge in her face, and the look of accusation she gave him sent guilt curling through his gut, though he had done nothing wrong. “My husband told me to wait for him.”
“There, there, Clarise.” Lady Nantwick shoved her way between the two of them, patting Clarise’s arm. “His Grace will take responsibility for his actions, of that I am certain. He will make things right with Mr. Colley.” Her glare dared Wylde to contradict her. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Wyldehaven. If her coachman had not acted quickly, the curricle would have overturned and someone would have been injured.”
“I hurt my arm,” Mrs. Colley whispered, lowering her shawl to show him a nasty scrape along her forearm.
His anger ebbed. However trying the situation, these ladies were innocent victims of the imposter.
“Clarise, why did you not tell me?” Lady Nantwick marched to the door and opened it, but Wylde took two strides and blocked her before she could summon a servant. Lady Nantwick opened her mouth to protest, eyes sparking with fury.
“See to Mrs. Colley,” he said quietly, then looked at the footman standing in the hallway. “Please send Mrs. Bentley with some water and bandages.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman scurried away. Wylde met Lady Nantwick’s gaze.
“And what about the curricle?” she demanded.
“I will take care of the matter. Please, allow my staff to see you to the parlor while we wait for my housekeeper to bring the bandages. And Lady Nantwick, if you would kindly refresh my memory of what happened?”
She sniffed. “At least you are willing to do what is right.”
He merely nodded, resigned to once again be judged guilty without trial. “I try.”
“Mrs. Langston is one of the richest widows in London,” Thaddeus whispered as he and Miranda made their way across the crowded salon toward the lady in question. “She has specifically requested an introduction.”
“I try not to anticipate anything,” Miranda said, but inside she was quivering with excitement. Every new performance brought her one step closer to total freedom, to a time where she could be financially independent without compromising any of her principles or succumbing to the whims of a man.
The memory of Wyldehaven’s kiss crept into her thoughts, and she ruthlessly pushed it aside. The fact that he had moved her into a home he paid for still chafed. If not for James, she would never have tolerated such boldness. But until she accumulated enough funds to live comfortably and support a child, she had no choice but to bide her time.
Dear God, she hated waking every day wondering if today was the day Wyldehaven would either tire of James and send him away or decide that she should show her gratitude for his generosity with other, more personal, favors. And she feared her answer if pressed.
The contessa would provide enough income so she could make her own decisions about her life, but the illusion could not protect her heart should Wylde turn his full power of seduction on her.
“Mrs. Langston,” Thaddeus said, coming to a halt beside the handsome woman who stood talking with Mrs. Weatherby. “May I present the Contessa della Pietra?”
“Contessa!” Mrs. Langston clapped her hands together. “I am so pleased to meet you. I simply must have you perform at my dinner party on Tuesday. Do tell me you are not already engaged.”
Miranda glanced at Thaddeus, who gave an imperceptible nod, indicating her schedule was free. “I would be most delighted, Mrs. Langston.”
“Splendid! And you, Mr. LeGrande.” She gave him a playful tap on his arm with her fan. “Do escort me to the refreshment table.”
“It will be my honor.” Gallantly offering his arm, Thaddeus escorted the woman away, leaving Miranda blinking at the mercurial temperament of her new patron.
“You have become all the rage, Contessa,” Mrs. Weatherby said.
“Thanks to you,” Miranda replied. “It was you who provided the opportunity.”
Mrs. Weatherby smiled, her famous blue eyes sparkling with humor. “I remember what it felt like to crave that chance to make something of myself.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t know if you are aware, but I was born a fisherman’s daughter. I spent most of my life outside the doors of Society—at least the acceptable part. The gentlemen enjoyed my company quite well, while their wives crossed the street when they saw me. And then Mr. Weatherby decided to spurn convention and make me his wife.”
“And everything changed for you.”
Mrs. Weatherby gave a bark of laughter. “Hardly, my dear! I was quite horribly ostracized…but then dear Allen passed away and left me a wealthy widow. And suddenly I had more ‘friends’ than I could count.” She glanced around the room. “I decided to use my newfound position to help others in my position. Others like you.”
It had been so long since anyone had expressed concern for her welfare that Miranda blinked back the sudden sting of tears. She glanced around at the crowd to compose herself. “I wish there were more people in the world like you.”
“Now, dear.” Mrs. Weatherby took a handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to her. “You must not have red eyes when you perform.”
Miranda laughed and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
“Use your beauty and your talent, dear girl. It will take you far in this world. I predict you will have a great career on the stage.”
“No.” Miranda shook her head and twisted the handkerchief in her fingers. “I have no desire to join the theater. I am content to sing at private functions, nothing more.”
Mrs. Weatherby gaped. “Are you mad? You could easily become the most sought-after performer in London. It is a great opportunity.”
“I have no desire for fame, Mrs. Weatherby.”
“I admit I am astonished. Your mother certainly had the highest of aspirations.”
Miranda froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your mother. We were friends, you know, at least until she disappeared from London so suddenly.” Mrs. Weatherby lowered her voice. “Dear Thaddeus told me who you were that first night—as if I could not figure it out for myself! You
are the very image of Fannie, my girl.”
Miranda could only stare, fear nearly suffocating her. Would Mrs. Weatherby reveal her deception? If the world discovered she was not who she claimed to be, her chance to make enough money to keep James would be gone. All she would have left would be the whims of Wyldehaven.
Her face must have revealed her panic, for Mrs. Weatherby reached out to pat her hand. “Have no fear, my dear. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you,” Miranda managed.
“Now come along, Contessa. Mrs. Langston is eager to see you perform.”
“Mrs. Weatherby, my name is Miranda.”
The older woman smiled. “And you may call me Lizzie.”
“Lizzie, then.”
They began to make their way through the crowded salon. Miranda smiled at those they passed, but as they neared the piano, one woman stared at her with an intensity that nearly made her falter. The elegantly dressed blonde looked to be past her prime, but clearly had once been a great beauty. Her eyes were a stunning green, her poise perfect, and her figure looked to be that of a much younger woman. A beauty mark near the corner of her mouth drew attention to her classic bone structure. She did not smile.
A younger version of the woman stood nearby, her youth evident in her glowing skin and the excited sparkle in her eyes. She was dressed completely in white, as befitted a debutante.
Mother and daughter, Miranda thought. But why did the mother stare so intensely?
Deciding to ignore the odd behavior, she made her way past the group to the pianoforte. Then someone from behind her gasped. Miranda glanced back to see the older woman sink to the floor in a swoon, the young girl frantically attending her. She paused.
“No, no.” Mrs. Weatherby urged her along even as Miranda tried to gauge the situation. “The servants are tending to Lady Rothgard. The heat in here, you know. Do not let this interrupt the entertainment.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 11