But he could not let the Duke see any of his unease. He had the upper hand in this deal from the beginning. Despite his lowly rank, he had been the one with the money, the power.
“Marry my daughter,” and the Duke of Banfield had no choice but to agree. It had been the Baron’s proudest moment. At last he had been the one with strength, with influence. At last he had been the gentleman he wanted to be.
The Duke gestured to an armchair. “Please, My Lord. Sit. We have much to discuss. Would you like some tea? Or something a little stronger?”
The Baron lowered himself into the chair. Already, he could feel a line of sweat running down his back. “Something a little stronger, I think,” he said with a chuckle that sounded as forced as it felt.
The Duke chuckled along with him. “Of course.” He gestured to his footman to go to the cabinet in the corner of the room. The footman pulled out a bottle of unidentifiable amber liquid. Whatever it was, the Baron needed a rather large glass of it.
Why do I feel as though the Duke has the upper hand?
He glanced around him. Banfield’s parlor was rather miserable. The armchair on which he sat was worn and creaky, the velvet curtains threadbare in places. The whole room had a sad and neglected air to it.
Just look at the way this gentleman is living. How is it fair that he is held in such high esteem, by virtue of nothing but his title? I’m far more of a success than he will ever be. And yet he will always be worth more than me.
The Duke handed him a glass and the Baron took a hurried mouthful. Whiskey, he realized. Cheap stuff. It burned his throat on the way down.
The Duke sat opposite him, bringing his own glass to his lips. He took a miniscule sip. “I should like the wedding to take place in Saint George’s of Mayfair,” he said. “My family has been attending services there since it was built. And I assume the banquet will be held at your manor?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Plans are well underway. My staff are preparing a fine spread. And as you may have heard, I’m something of an expert when it comes to wine. So you can be assured of the finest drops…” The Baron gulped down another mouthful of whiskey. Why was he unable to stop speaking?
“That sounds acceptable,” said the Duke with a smile.
The Baron peered at him curiously. “I must say, Your Grace, you seem rather more amenable to this marriage than you were the last time we spoke of it.”
The Duke set his glass down on the side table. “I’ve had time to think on it. I admit, I felt more than a little cornered when you first proposed the arrangement.” He crossed one leg over the other. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came to like the idea.” He smiled. “After all, you say your daughter is young and beautiful. A lovely young lady. What more could I want in a bride?”
The Baron’s smile felt forced. “Yes, Your Grace. Letitia is all of those things. All of those things and more.”
The Duke nodded. “I would very much like to meet her. As soon as possible. Do you think that could be arranged?”
The Baron stiffened. Perspiration prickled his forehead. “Of course, Your Grace. Letitia is very excited about meeting you too. She’s heard great things.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? And what great things might they be?”
“Well,” the Baron spluttered. “I…”
“You see,” said the Duke, his face darkening slightly, “the thing is, I’ve heard some rather disturbing rumors of late. Rumors involving your daughter.”
“Oh?” The Baron’s voice came out half-formed. “And what rumors would they be?”
“I’ve heard word that Letitia has run away.”
The Baron laughed far too loudly. “Run away, indeed!”
The Duke leaned forward in his chair. “So the rumors are lies?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Of course they are.”
“Are you certain of that, My Lord? Because if I were to find out you were lying, I would take great pleasure in ensuring every gentleman in high society knows how little you value the truth.” He fixed the Baron with hard eyes. “I may have little money, My Lord, but I have great influence, as you know.” He leaned back in his chair with infuriating calmness. “After all, that’s why you sought to marry your daughter to me, is it not?”
“Yes,” the Baron said throatily. “You have great influence, Your Grace.”
How had things come to this? Here he was pandering to the Duke, the way he always did around other members of the nobility. Things were supposed to be different this time. He had the upper hand over Banfield. The Duke owed him a considerable sum. And yet the Baron still felt like the lesser gentleman.
He could feel the situation sliding from his control. The situation, he realized sickly, had not been his control. Not since the moment Letitia’s lady’s maid had come bolting down the stairs and told him his daughter was missing.
Anger began to bubble inside him. Anger at the ton, anger at Letitia, anger at the Duke.
Anger at himself.
“Is everything all right, Lord Mullins?” the Duke said smoothly. “You look rather flustered. Perhaps a little water?”
The Baron leaped suddenly to his feet. He would not let himself be patronized this way. He had a lifetime of being looked down upon. The Duke’s marriage to Letitia was supposed to change all of that.
“I do not take well to threats!” he hissed, his anger tearing free.
The Duke stood. He kept his face even. “Threats?” he repeated. “I don’t seek to threaten you, My Lord. I simply mean to discover the truth. After all, if my bride-to-be has disappeared, I would rather like to know of it.”
The Baron took a step closer, clenching his hands into fists. “No one has disappeared,” he spat.
The Duke glanced down at the Baron’s clasped hands, then looked back up to meet his eyes. “I’m afraid, My Lord, I really do think you are a liar.”
Rage tore through the Baron’s body, making his skin burn and his vision blur. Before the thought was properly formed, he found himself flaying a wild fist towards the Duke.
Banfield stumbled backwards, calling sharply for his footmen.
Coward.
The Baron lurched for him again. The Duke darted out of the way, leaving the Baron to slam into the side table. Pain shot through his leg, and he cursed aloud.
And here they were, the Duke’s footmen, charging into the room, all fierce-eyed and obedient. They circled the Baron, as though trying to cage him. Two of the men began to edge towards him. Did they mean to restrain him?
That look in their eyes… Look what they think of me. I’m worthless, even to lowly footmen…
The Baron’s thoughts knocked together wildly. He turned in a slow circle, staring down each of these men who sought to take him down.
And suddenly there were hands on him, grabbing his arms from behind. The Baron thrashed wildly, shoving the footman away. He threw a wild punch, connecting to the side of the man’s face. The footman stumbled backwards with a grunt.
Suddenly, he wanted to destroy every inch of this pathetic, run-down excuse for a parlor. Wanted all the worn-out finery the Duke had inherited to lie in pieces on the floor.
This meeting had been a set-up from the beginning, the Baron could see that now. And Banfield would not get away with it.
The Baron grabbed his half-drunk whiskey glass and flung it in the direction of the Duke. Banfield ducked, leaving the glass to smash against the wall. The Baron flung the second glass, then whirled around, his arm thrashing wildly at the china lamp on the side table. He watched it fly through the air. And as he turned, the Baron caught sight of a small figure standing at the back of the room.
Letitia.
The Baron froze, watching the lamp sail towards her. His eyes locked with hers, and he saw that she too was fixed in place, watching the lamp fly. And from the hallway came another gentleman. He shoved hard against Letitia’s shoulder, knocking her from the path of the lamp. It fell to the floor and splintered noisily
, its pieces spraying across the parlor.
The Baron stood motionless. Around him, the Duke’s footmen were still. He could feel their eyes on him.
But he didn’t care about the footmen. He did not take his eyes off his daughter. What was she doing here? He couldn’t make sense of it.
She was dressed in a gray woolen dress, her hair unadorned and pinned simply at her neck. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in an expression of horror.
“Letitia,” he coughed. A part of him wanted to rush towards her and hold her in his arms. But her eyes were flashing with an intensity he had never seen.
Just how much of this had she witnessed? How much had she heard? It didn’t matter. Whatever she had seen, it had been enough.
He had never meant for his daughter to see this side of him. He had kept her blind to it for eighteen years. But she was blind no longer.
“Letitia.” He tried again. “I was so worried. I—”
“Don’t you pretend to be concerned for me,” she hissed.
The Baron stared at her, open-mouthed. He had never heard her speak with such fire in her voice. Where had such ferocity come from? The last time he had seen his daughter, she had been a fragile scrap of a thing, barely brave enough to venture beyond her bedroom door. What had changed?
“How did you come to be here?” he asked. “Where have you been? I was so…”
“You were so what, Father? You were so concerned my wedding would not go ahead? You were so concerned you would lose the chance to have His Grace as your son-in-law?”
The Baron’s stomach rolled. He took a step towards her, shards of broken glass crunching beneath his feet. “Letitia, my darling, I—”
“No,” she snapped. “No, you don’t get to explain, Father. I know you never cared a scrap about my happiness. All that ever mattered to you was your own advancement.”
“That’s not true. I—”
“At least have the courage to admit it!” she hissed.
The Baron fell silent. Was he truly being silenced by his own daughter? He looked down, his eyes falling to the blue and white shards of the lamp. A great wave of shame washed over him.
Letitia began to walk towards him, slowly and steadily. She looked up and down at him with scrutinizing eyes. “His Grace offered you terms by which he would make his repayments,” she said, ice in her voice. “It is a deal you ought to have taken.” Her eyes narrowed. “A deal you will take. Do you understand me?” And suddenly, as though a crack had appeared in her bold façade, the Baron heard a waver in her voice.
A part of him longed to pull her into his arms. Assure her everything would be all right, the way he had done when she was a child. But he knew well that his chance to do such a thing was long gone.
Letitia swiped at a stray tear, visibly angry with herself for her show of emotion. The tall gentleman who had pushed her away from the lamp stepped towards her, pressing a gentle hand to her shoulder.
“Miss Caddy? Are you all right?”
Letitia nodded wordlessly.
“Who are you?” the Baron demanded.
The gentleman fixed him with hard eyes. “Algernon Fletcher, My Lord. The Marquess of Radcliffe.”
The Baron swallowed hard. “Lord Radcliffe.”
The Marquess folded his arms across his chest. “When your daughter is finished with you, you and I also have business to discuss,” he said tersely. “I’d like to hear precisely why you believe my product is inferior enough to refuse payment.”
The Baron felt the color in his face intensify.
“I’m rather sure my father has no issue with your product, Lord Radcliffe,” Letitia said, not taking her eyes from the Baron. “I’m rather sure his refusal to pay what he owes has far more to do with his own need to be noticed. Doesn’t it, Father?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Letitia took a step closer. “Doesn’t it, Father?”
“Yes,” the Baron blurted. “Yes.” He looked at his feet. “You’ll have the money first thing tomorrow, Lord Radcliffe.”
The Marquess said nothing. He just looked at Letitia, his eyes gentle and brimming with concern.
Is there something between them?
The Baron looked around him at the circle of footmen, at the fierce eyes of the Duke. And for the first time, he began to see the magnitude of what he had done. If word of this got out, it would destroy him.
He looked desperately at the Duke. “I will clear your debts,” he said. “Every penny. If you will only keep this to yourself.”
The Duke folded his arms. “I will pay my debts, Lord Mullins. Because that is what a decent gentleman would do. But I will pay them in coin. Not by marrying your daughter. She deserves far more than to be treated as mere currency. Is that clear?”
The Baron nodded, his voice trapped in his throat. “You will tell no one?” he managed.
The Duke walked slowly towards him, arms folded across his chest. He nodded his thanks to his footmen and gestured for them to leave. “I will tell no one, My Lord. But I was not the only one who witnessed this scene. So I cannot promise you word will not spread.” A small smile appeared in the corner of his lips. “After all, My Lord, the truth has a way of finding its way out, does it not?”
The Baron swallowed heavily. He looked back at his daughter. She was standing close to Lord Radcliffe, her hands clutching tight fistfuls of her drab gray skirts.
“Go,” she said tersely.
The Baron felt her words cut into him. “I only wanted the best for you, Letitia,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, Father. I’m not a fool. You wanted the best for yourself.”
Chapter 32
Letitia watched through the window as her father’s coach disappeared. She turned to look back at the pieces of the lamp lying across the floor of the Duke’s parlor.
She had grown up afraid to leave her house. Grown up believing monsters and evil men lurked around every corner. And yet the true villain had been hiding in plain sight in the bedchamber on the other side of the hall.
She felt Lord Radcliffe’s gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned to look up at him. Gave him a faint smile.
“How do you feel?” he asked gently.
Letitia sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know.” Her thoughts were so tangled she could not even begin to make sense of them. Was it grief she was feeling? Anger? Betrayal? Satisfaction? Perhaps all of these things at once.
She heard the Duke’s footsteps click their way towards her. “That was quite something, Miss Caddy. You’re far stronger than your father gave you credit for.”
Letitia smiled to herself. In all her eighteen years of life, no one had ever called her anything close to strong before. But yes, she realized, she had been strong. Had shown her father her life was not something with which he could barter.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “For both your kind words, and for helping to show my father the error of his ways.” She sighed heavily. “And I’m so sorry. I truly feel the need to apologize for his behavior.”
The Duke followed her gaze to the shattered pieces of the lamp. “It’s no matter, Miss Caddy. It will all be replaced. And you are not responsible for your father’s behavior.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “Good luck to you. I hope life is kind to you.” He hesitated. “I hope in time you may mend things with your father.”
Letitia smiled wryly. Such a thing felt impossible.
I’d happily never see my father again.
The Duke turned to Lord Radcliffe. “We must continue our meeting, Radcliffe. I’m sure you have much advice to offer.”
Lord Radcliffe smiled. “Of course. We shall arrange a meeting.”
Letitia walked out of the Duke’s manor, feeling more than a little unsteady. Nothing felt quite real. She felt trapped between two lives. No longer was she Molly Cooper, kitchen hand. But neither was she meek and submissive Letitia Caddy, who had let her life be dictated by her father.
Lord Radcliffe held out his hand to help her into the coach. “Where do you wish to go?” he asked gently.
For a moment, Letitia said nothing.
Where am I to go?
She longed to see her mother. But the thought of sharing her home with her father was unbearable. She couldn’t do it. Not yet at least.
She looked up at Lord Radcliffe with hooded eyes. “I want to go back to your manor,” she said, a little of her old shyness returning. “I want to be your kitchen hand for just a little longer.”
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