by Darcy,Regina
Would the men who danced with her be attracted to her independence of thought? He didn’t realize that he was frowning but Hermione saw him do so. As soon as the dance ended, she smiled at her partner and said that it was time she paid attention to her husband.
“He has you all day,” argued the young man, “and all night,” he added meaningfully. “May I not cherish these few moments of your company?”
“I must go to him,” she insisted.
“I shall bring you punch,” he declared, bringing her to her husband before leaving on his errand.
“What troubles you?” she asked, as another dance began and she told the man whose name was on her dance card that she needed to rest. He was disappointed, but said that he would bring her punch, and left before she could decline.
“You shall be awash in punch at this rate,” Brentford commented. “I’m not surprised that you would be thirsty from the number of times you have danced.”
“Should I have refused?” she asked, genuinely uncertain of the protocol.
He was, he realised, being a boorish husband. “No, my dear Duchess,” he replied. “You have earned your success tonight. I can do nothing, it seems, but admire you from afar. You are a siren and no man can resist your song.”
One man can, she thought. The man to whom I am married. The man who loves the mother of his illegitimate child so very much that he gave her his mother’s name.
“You could, perhaps, dance with me.”
Brentford looked into the crowd amassed along the sides of the dance floor. “If we’re to dance, we’d best do it now, before your suitors come back with your punch and discover that each is not the only one to serve you,” he advised.
She laughed. “Perhaps one cup could be for you,” she suggested. “
“I very much doubt if succour for the husband is what the young men tend. My lady, may I have the sublime pleasure of dancing with my wife?”
She curtseyed to him, a gesture that was noted by many of the guests who observed that the licentious duke appeared to have been felled by Cupid’s arrows. As the couple danced, all eyes were upon them. It was as if, one wag commented, that they weren’t married at all but were having a splendid love affair, for married people never looked at one another with such hungry eyes, nor smiled at each other with such anticipation. Brentford, the Corinthians agreed, had done it again; he had vanished for a year and when everyone suspected that he was becoming a country squire, he had instead been closeted with the most enchanting woman in England—his wife.
The next day, the talk on the streets and in the social columns was of the grand romance of the Duke of Brentford and his lovely wife. Her beauty, her charm, her grace, all agreed were unique. Hermione, in bed dreaming, was unaware that she was the subject of such glowing discourse. Brentford, likewise dreaming, had no knowledge that the ball had caught the attention of Society’s ever-ravenous appetite for something new.
The woman who had waited in the shadows heard the gossip as well, although she was not a member of high society. As she waited on customers at one of London’s most popular coffee shops, she pieced together the names, the dates, and the events of what to London was a love story. Alma Roe knew differently, and she intended to profit from what she knew.
She was not the only one listening to the saga of the beautiful young duchess whose looks and conversation had captivated London. As he left the solicitor’s office on yet another fruitless effort to have Hermione Lang declared dead and himself the heir to Lord Fitzgerald’s estate, Donald Wilder’s first reaction was one of rage. The girl who had rejected his advances and then disappeared had suddenly reappeared in the guise of a duchess. How had it happened?
He returned to his rented lodgings and as he ate his lunch, he chewed, drank, and thought. She was not dead. She was an obstacle in his path. The worst part was now she was a duchess. He could not pursue her inheritance as long as she was alive. But if she was the desired wife of a wealthy duke, there was another path to wealth.
Alma Roe, unaware that she was not the only conspirator in the city reacting adversely to the story of the Duchess of Brentford, informed her mistress that she was feeling ill and would need to return to her lodgings to recover. Once in her rooms, however, she changed her clothing, donning a yellow frock, her best dress, and a bonnet with a bright yellow ribbon. When a hackney cab pulled up, she directed the driver to take her to the Duke of Brentford’s home.
Donald Wilder also hired a cab to take him to the Duke’s house, but unlike Mrs Roe, he did not ascend the stairs and knock on the door for admittance. Instead, he walked around the boundaries of the house, noticing the layout, the stables, the grounds. An answer would come to him; it always did. He was not afraid to be ruthless or even criminal if that would bring him the ends he desired.
Brentford was the first to arise and he did so with vigour, instructing Michaels to shave him and dress him quickly. The night had been productive; upon awakening, Brentford had come to the realization that simply because the marriage had begun as a charade was insufficient reason for it to continue in the same manner. Why could he and his lovely wife not become husband and wife in truth? He would present the suggestion to her over breakfast and discover her thoughts. If she were averse, then there was nothing to be done. But last night, as they danced, and on the carriage ride home, he had not sensed aversion from her.
He was idling over a cup of coffee in the breakfast room when Michaels the butler entered.
“Sir, a woman would like to speak to you.”
“Who is she?” Brentford asked curiously.
“She will not give her name.”
“Then I will not give her entrance.”
“She says . . . Your Grace, she says it’s to do with the child.”
“The child? Pandora?”
The Duke’s eyes met those of his butler with complete understanding. The servants did not know the complete story but they knew more than what had been told to them.
“Shall I bring her in, sir?” Michaels’ tone indicated that he did not think this the proper response, but it was not his place to give advice.
“No . . . I shall come out.”
He left the breakfast room and went to the front entrance hall where a woman—Michaels had been discreet but revealing when he refrained from describing the caller as a lady—stood. She was dressed well enough, and she still looked familiar to him, but Brentford’s discerning eye noticed that something was amiss. Perhaps it was the calculating appraisal in her countenance, as he approached, that alerted him to be wary.
“Your Grace,” she said in a shrill note of false cheer.
He bowed briefly. “Who have I the honour of receiving?”
“I understand that felicitations are in order.”
“Thank you.”
Whatever she expected, it was not brevity. The cheerful yellow bonnet did not diminish the hostility that flared in her face.
“I think you misunderstand me, Your Grace.”
Brentford sighed, polite resignation masking whatever he was thinking, his features arranged into an impassive mask. “I doubt it,” he said in the mild tone of voice he employed when he was most intent on making sure that there were no misapprehensions regarding the topics under discussion.
“I understand that you and your lovely wife married in secret, and that you have had a child.”
Brentford said nothing.
“Is that correct?”
“Madame, I appreciate your undoubted kindness in visiting me in my home to tender your felicitations, but I have other business to attend to. Therefore, let us agree that your thoughts are appreciated and that we both have other—”
“Don’t think that you’ll be getting rid of me so easily, Your Grace. I’m not one of those witless girls who falls under the spell of your charms long enough for you to find your way under their skirts, leaving them with the consequences.”
“You obviously have mistaken me for someone else,” Brentford said,
an edge to his voice.
“The Brentford’s are known for their free-and-easy ways, Your Grace. Those ways bear fruit, and occasionally, children. Duchess, perhaps you would like to join us?”
TEN
His visitor, facing the staircase, had seen what he had not: Hermione coming down from the upper floor, her expression watchful as she witnessed the conversation between the husband she had fallen in love with and a woman who appeared to know him much better than his wife did.
Brentford turned and only then did his expression change to one of defeat. “Hermione, will you excuse me? I have private business to discuss.”
“Is it private business concerning Althea?” she asked evenly although she felt a breaking dam of tears threatening her composure.
“If Althea is the name of the child that you are claiming as your own, then yes, it concerns her,” the unwelcome woman clarified.
“Should we not discuss this together?”
“No, we should not,” Brentford replied in a hard voice.
“This person plainly intends to turn a profit from a matter which is none of her business and I do not intend to tolerate her attempts at extortion.”
“Do you not, Your Grace? Even if to ignore me is to ensure your ruin in court?”
Hermione felt as if she could not bear it. The woman obviously was confident of her information and its potential to cause scandal. On Brentford’s face was a look of desperation that she had never witnessed before. This then, was the woman. The mother of Althea, the child he loved enough to give her his mother’s name. Had he cast off the woman without providing for her? Had he stolen the child, knowing that the mother’s social status would never permit her to keep a child if he wanted the baby himself?
She found herself walking toward the door.
“Hermione! Please, let me explain. You are mistaken—”
She heard no more. As if in a daze, she opened the door and went outside, where she continued to walk without destination.
Concealed in the woods across the street, Donald Wilder could not believe his luck. There she was, the woman who had thought she could prevent him from succeeding in his plan to obtain her inheritance and profit as the Lord of Fitzgerald Manor. Those plans were dashed now that she was married to another, but in that marriage was a better option.
He followed her, using the shrubbery and landscape, and at times passers-by, to stay out of view. She seemed unaware of her surroundings. Perhaps something had gone awry with her mysterious marriage, leaving her vulnerable. Keeping an eye out for circumstance, Donald Wilder edged closer to her, at one point directly behind her. There was no one nearby. He quickened his pace.
“Hermione,” he said quietly.
She didn’t hear him.
Donald Wilder smiled. Quickly scanning the street, he saw that there was no one in view. She was alone and defenceless.
Suddenly, Hermione felt an arm grasping her around her throat as a man’s powerful grip pulled her into a copse of woods on the corner of the quiet street. She tried to cry out but felt as if she were being strangled with no air coming into her lungs. Once they were deeper into the woods, she felt herself flung to the ground.
“Yes, it’s me,” Donald Wilder said, satisfied to see the expression of terror capturing her face. “You thought that you had escaped me. You did not. I have dedicated myself to finding you and I have been successful. If your husband adores you as much as the gossips say, he will pay any price to get you back. But we must make this interesting, must we not?” He came closer.
Hermione, sprawled upon the grass, tried to get up, but she had been injured in her fall and her ankle would not support her efforts. She sat up, leaning her body upon her arms.
“Leave me alone,” she ordered him.
“I think you need to learn the lesson that I tried to teach you in April. I am the master and you will obey, or you will, as I warned you, face the consequences.”
Hermione saw his fist coming toward her, and then she saw nothing at all as she fell back upon the ground.
Wilder smiled. All he needed now was an improvised story of his rescue of this young woman, a sympathetic cab driver, a message to the Duke of Brentford, and passage to France.
But the Duke was not at home when the street urchin delivered the message. Mr Michaels gave the dirt-stained envelope a dismissive sniff and left it on the salver. The Duke was not at home for dinner, by which time Mrs Hines was worried. The Duchess was not present and had given no indication of her whereabouts. The Duke had left without telling anyone where he was going or why. She conferred with the butler, who belatedly remembered the note he had received.
Mr Michaels was reluctant to open mail addressed to the Duke. Mrs Hines, slightly braver, disagreed. Something was not right. This, she said, could be something for the Bow Street Runners. Mr Michaels paled. Publicity was something to be avoided at all costs. Mrs Hines argued that first it was necessary to know what threatened to incite publicity. They were still disagreeing when the door opened and the Duke, looking dishevelled, entered.
“My lord!” exclaimed Michaels. “You are home.”
“Finally,” Brentford said, handing his hat to the butler. “Michaels, before I so much as eat a bit of food, I shall require a very generous glass of whiskey. Perhaps two. I have much to explain to the Duchess and I require fortification to do so.”
“She is not at home, Your Grace,” said Mrs Hines.
“There’s a message that came for you, sir,” Michaels told him, fetching the note.
Brentford ripped it open and read it. “Where is Michaels?” he said. “I need him.”
“He is upstairs, sir, tending to your clothing from last night—”
“That is unimportant. The Duchess has been abducted. I need Michaels and his peculiar brand of insight.”
Bow Street, Michaels agreed when his father fetched him and he and the Duke were alone in the library, was out of the question.
The message had been succinct: I have the Duchess. For a price, you may have her back, Brentford read. Do not think that you will affect an escape so easily this time. I will have what I am entitled to. Bring 20,000 pounds by midnight to a representative of mine who will be waiting on the docks. Come alone. My emissary will know who you are. If you bring the money, you will have your Duchess back. If you do not, she will find a home in the Atlantic. Choose wisely.
Brentford read the message again. “No name. No indication of who had taken her.”
“May I, sir?”
Brentford handed Michaels the note. “’Do not think you will affect an escape so easily this time.’” Michaels read.
“Escape from what? And what time before? Does this make any sense at all?”
“Possibly. The Duchess escaped from the control of her guardian at the inn. Was that the first time?”
Comprehension dawned. “Of course! He has taken her, and in the state she was in, she would not have been attentive to her surroundings. He is sending an emissary, he writes. Michaels, I rather doubt that a man of Mr Wilder’s larcenous nature would entrust 20,000 pounds to an emissary. I think that he will be on the dock himself tonight. I shall meet him, as he demands. But you, armed, shall go to the docks well in advance of the midnight hour and you shall follow him. He will lead us to the Duchess. Are you willing?”
Michaels managed to look mildly interested. “I shall have to abandon your tailcoat, my lord, which has somehow acquired a stain on it.”
Brentford smiled, the first time he had done so in hours. “If this succeeds, Michaels, I shall clean my coat myself.”
“In that case, Your Grace, I suggest that we proceed.”
Hermione had awakened with a pounding headache, a bruised face and a gag covering her mouth. Her arms were bound behind her. She was alone; there was no candlelight and she was in darkness. She remembered nothing after Mr Wilder had hit her with his fist. She was terribly thirsty and frightened. She was on a ship; she could tell that much from the slow movement
of the vessel upon the water, but how she had gotten there was a mystery.
Then she heard a noise, followed by footsteps. A key turned in the lock.
Mr Wilder stood in the doorway, candlestick in one hand, a satchel in the other, and a triumphant grin on his face.
“You’re worth more to me as a hostage than you are as a wife,” he said. “With this money, there’s no need to wait to get control of your inheritance. You may go to your death knowing that your bridegroom was willing to pay the ransom. Alas, he has returned home to await your return, but I do not think it would be wise to allow you to live. Silly girl, you should have accepted my proposal. You would be alive.”
“She is alive, Wilder,” Brentford spoke, concealed by the shadows. “It is you who now faces the hangman’s noose.”
ELEVEN
Wilder swung the satchel in an attempt to strike Brentford, undeterred by the glint of the pistol in the Duke’s hand. He failed to see Michaels, hidden behind the Duke, who lunged forward, grabbing the satchel and throwing Wilder off balance.
Brentford handed Michaels his pistol. “Can you shoot him if he tries to escape?”
“I’ll shoot something,” Michaels said. “I may kill him by mistake, however.”
The Duke shrugged. “No matter.” He moved closer to Hermione to unfasten the bonds and remove the gag over her mouth. “My love, I have much to explain to you, and I only ask that you give me the chance to do so. But first, we must await the authorities so that Mr Wilder—I wouldn’t try that; Michaels is a very bad shot and he might shoot you so that you die quickly, but he’s just as likely to shoot you so that you bleed to death slowly and in pain. Michaels, we must attend to your lack of skill at some point.”