by Mary Brendan
‘Enough! I have the gist of your vile attempt to blackmail me, sir, never fear.’ Joan’s complexion had alternated between scarlet and white as she’d listened to Stokes’s threats and lewd innuendo. She put a hand out to steady herself against the library table as fury and embarrassment rendered her light headed. She knew exactly what the cab driver had overheard; her little moans and sighs of that night constantly ebbed and flowed in her memory. She sucked in air, standing straighter and tilting up her chin. ‘You mistake my character if you believe I will bow to blackmail and pay you. However, I do not mistake your character, Mr Stokes. I know you for what you are. So go away. My word will be believed over yours and I am willing to put that to the test.’ Joan sought support from the furniture again while uttering her brave boast.
‘All in good time will I leave you be, my lady,’ Stokes snarled, abandoning all pretence at civility and respectfulness. ‘I can guess at what you refer to. I had a suspicion that somebody was close by when Mrs Denby and I were conversing in the Wentworths’ garden. It was you, wasn’t it, eavesdropping like a common servant?’
Joan felt guilty blood sting her cheeks, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of prodding her to lie and deny it.
Stokes snorted scornfully. ‘You may think you know me, but I know you equally well. High born, perhaps, but you’re as much a trollop as that lightskirt of the Squire’s.’ Hearing about her rival brought a flicker of emotion to cloud Joan’s eyes, making him smirk. ‘Ah, perhaps you did not know about his pretty little ladybird; the Cockney Blonde is quite devoted to him, so Mr Pryke tells me.’
Joan did know about his women. The vicar had let that slip weeks ago, but still she felt as though a knife had been plunged beneath her ribs. So Drew Rockleigh had a pretty blonde mistress who was devoted to him. She wondered if the poor thing realised he was unfaithful to her. Abruptly Joan saw their passionate encounter for what it had been: a tawdry liaison borne of opportunity and lust on his part and silly infatuation on hers. Rockleigh had done the decent thing and apologised to her, then brought her home safely; but he’d galloped away without a backward glance, doubtless keen to return to his Cockney Blonde’s bed. That night, while restless and bombarded by sensual memories, her mind had concocted a love affair from it because that’s what she’d wanted it to be.
Joan hurried to the door, but she hesitated in pulling it open too soon. The last thing she wanted was for a servant to overhear any of this conversation.
‘And never forget, my lady, that I also have influential friends.’ Stokes had strutted up behind Joan to hiss in her ear. ‘Lord Regan and his lady wife dance to my tune. And I can make you do so, too. After you have handed over one hundred guineas for my silence I shall not trouble you, or your father, again.’
‘One hundred guineas?’ Joan echoed in disbelief, spinning about. She had imagined he might demand a few guineas, but not a hundred of them. And she also knew that whatever Stokes said about leaving them in peace, he would be back again and again for more money.
‘My calculation reflects the value of the information I hold. It is money well invested if you consider the severity of the consequences should my lips unseal.’ Stokes inspected her boldly. Her prettily dishevelled dark hair trailing on rosy cheeks made Lady Joan look ready for bed. The thought of tumbling a duke’s daughter held a piquant appeal for an ambitious fellow determined to better himself. But he concentrated his efforts on getting the money, although he did give Joan’s arm a clumsy caress.
Joan recoiled from his stubby fingers, glaring at him. ‘My father will have you horsewhipped should he find out you have attempted to touch me and blackmail me, Mr Stokes. Take yourself off and I’ll say no more of your disgusting impertinence. And make sure to never return.’
She had spunk, that was obvious, Stokes realised. But her hauteur couldn’t disguise the fear in her eyes. She would never risk her tryst with the Squire becoming common knowledge; her duty to her family was paramount.
When Thadeus had related to him that a young woman had engaged him to take her to the Squire, Stokes had relished hearing about it. Thadeus had gone on to tell him that the cab driver had overheard Rockleigh calling the woman my lady. Thadeus was an investigator used to searching for a common denominator in odd coincidences. Two people had approached the detective to set up a meeting with Drew Rockleigh and after a few days of surveillance Thadeus’s hunch had paid off handsomely. The Duke of Thornley and Miss Morley lived beneath the same elegant roof. Thadeus had guessed his Grace had been attempting to buy off his daughter’s swain, but the girl was besotted enough with her lover to risk secretly seeking him out. Saul had quickly bullied Thadeus into allowing him to intervene; his cousin was a coward who’d not risk crossing a powerful aristocrat. Saul had no such qualms when scenting a small fortune in the offing.
Thadeus might blab out his business, but Saul was secretive about his own and only fed his cousin the information he wanted him to have. Few people understood how he accumulated his cash or his connections, but Saul had even surprised himself in managing to pin a duke’s daughter beneath his thumb. He looked Joan over with spiteful satisfaction.
‘A duke’s daughter fornicating on a coach seat with a street fighter,’ he tormented. ‘His Grace will become a laughing stock because of his wanton child.’
Joan could take no more; least of all because of the truth in his malice. She jerked open the door. ‘Leave this instant. Get out,’ she whispered.
Stokes smiled, dipping his head politely as though they had just concluded business amicably. ‘You may contact me through my cousin to pay what is due. I will tell Thadeus to expect your early visit, Lady Joan...or your father can expect mine...’
Chapter Eleven
In equal parts Bertha Denby resented and envied her elder brother, and always had.
Even as children, growing up in a slum, Drew had seemed high and mighty to her. Not for him the rough and tumble in a gutter with the other snotty-nosed imps scrabbling for farthings tossed by passers-by. As soon as Drew was old enough to do a day’s toil he’d earn his pennies honestly rather than beg. He’d boasted, too, that one day he’d be an officer in the Hussars, not a common soldier taking the King’s shilling.
Their affluent stepfather had bought Drew a commission in the Hussars, but even had he not, Bertha believed her brother would still have achieved his ambition; it wasn’t in his nature to give up on something.
Drew had always been able to discipline himself and rise above squalor and adversity. Bertha was sure she’d guessed how he’d acquired such worthy qualities: he was a guttersnipe with a distinguished sire. His character had been passed on from an admiral, or the like, whereas she had been a lowly seaman’s spawn. Their mother had been indiscriminate in her choice of client; when the ships docked and the navvies crowded the wharves, Rosemary would sooner lure a fellow with gold braid on his shoulders, but in their absence, anyone would do.
Spitefully Bertha reminded herself that with Saul’s help she’d finally tumbled her half-brother from his pedestal, snatching the riches left by Peter Rockleigh that Drew had refused to share with her. Now she was the one living the high life in Mayfair while he was back where he started, in a hovel.
Their stepfather had done his best to turn her into a lady, but he’d been doomed to failure from the start. If Drew was his father’s child then she was her mother’s: a harlot through and through. But she hoped her own daughter would turn out to be different, although Cecilia was already showing worrying signs of wantonness. Bertha knew she must soften Saul’s grip on his ward, for he would praise her flaws when it suited him to do so.
Cecilia yearned for Henry Laurenson to pay a call, but Saul had other plans for the girl and believed rich pickings were to be had from Lord Regan before she was married off.
Her brother and Luke Wolfson had been close friends before their estrangement and the co
nnection through marriage to the Morlands remained. The grapevine between mutual acquaintances might provide too much information to Lady Joan. She seemed a spirited and inquisitive young woman. Bertha had overheard Joan questioning Cecilia about her family at Lady Regan’s and there were things that should remain concealed. Much as she loved social climbing, Bertha realised it might be wise to keep her daughter apart from the Duke of Thornley’s daughter.
‘I should like to see Lady Joan again, Mama. Shall we invite her and her friend to tea this afternoon?’
Bertha flicked the pages of a journal, then lifted her eyes to Saul for his reaction to Cecilia’s request, hoping it would come in the negative. In addition to her other reservations, the establishment they’d taken on for the Season wasn’t grand enough for them to entertain a duke’s daughter. Stokes signalled with a glower that he disapproved of Cecilia’s idea.
‘It is short notice, my dear,’ Bertha said, standing up from her armchair. ‘We are attending Lady Regan’s soirée. It is time to choose a dress to wear.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ Cecilia cried. ‘Her husband gives me goosebumps when he creeps up behind me. I don’t like either of them.’
Saul surged to his feet, flinging aside The Times. ‘Lord Regan is showing interest in your future, and you would do well to encourage him rather than scoff.’
‘My papa wouldn’t have forced me to go,’ Cecilia protested. ‘I wish Uncle Drew were still here. Where is he? Why has he disappeared?’
‘He has troubles, that’s all you need to know,’ Bertha said quickly.
‘It’s not fair! Once he was like a papa to me. I should be told why he has gone away.’
‘It’s none of your concern,’ Stokes snarled, raising a hand as though to slap his ward. He clenched his splayed fingers, remembering himself, and instead pointed at the door. ‘Go to your room and get ready for your outing.’
Cecilia glanced at her mother, but got no assistance from that quarter. Bertha had already reseated herself and resumed looking at the journal. With a contemptuous snort Cecilia stormed from the parlour.
* * *
Joan was undoing the strings of her bonnet when her stepmother’s rapid footsteps echoed on the vestibule’s marble flags.
‘Louise is feeling a bit better, but her cough lingers,’ Joan reported. She’d returned home from visiting her friend’s sickbed and believed Maude must be eager to discover how the invalid did.
‘That is good news,’ Maude rattled off, smiling wanly. ‘Your papa has arrived home,’ she hurried on. ‘The Duke is not at all well, Joan. The physician has been sent for.’
Joan let her gloves and bonnet fall to the console table. ‘What ails him?’ she demanded anxiously.
‘He believes that the gumboil has poisoned his blood.’ Maude flapped a hand. ‘I have scolded him for not remaining at Thornley Heights to recover from the fever.’ Worriedly, she paced to and fro. ‘You know how obstinate he can be when he gets a maggot in his head over something. He said he had to come home to attend to a pressing matter and requested you go to him on your return.’ Maude gazed searchingly at her stepdaughter. ‘Are you aware of this matter he speaks about? Alfred said it was nothing for me to fret over. But how can I not if he is suffering for it?’
Joan comforted her stepmother with an embrace despite demons of her own squeezing her heart. She could guess what had made her father dash back to Mayfair. But had his Grace only known it, he could count Rockleigh as the lesser threat now Stokes had come after her.
Guilt and fear raged through Joan, turning her body alternately hot and cold. She dearly loved her father and if he were to relapse, or, God forbid, die because he’d sped home thinking he must cover up her past misdemeanours, she would never forgive herself. And neither, she guessed, would Maude should the woman ever find out about it.
Warning the Duke of a looming calamity would be sure to do him untold harm. Joan knew she had only two options: pay Stokes off and hope never to see him again—if she could get her hands on enough money—or enlist Rockleigh’s help in defeating him. He was also embroiled in the matter after all! In fact, he was to blame, having instigated the passion that Stokes now held over her head like the Sword of Damocles!
‘Alfred has sent me away, saying the sight of my Friday face makes him feel worse.’ Maude began dabbing at her moist eyes. ‘I fear he is delirious not to want his wife at his bedside at such a time.’
Joan squeezed her stepmother’s hands in comfort. ‘Papa is just being Papa. He’d sooner you were spared the distress of the sickroom.’ She had walked the short distance to and from her friend’s town house in Grosvenor Square, feeling quite light-hearted as the golden orb dropped to paint a sunset on the horizon. Since Stokes’s visit a few days ago Joan had convinced herself that the man would never risk having his swindle exposed and neither would he cross the powerful Duke of Thornley. With her papa now ill in bed the danger seemed terrifyingly real again.
‘You must not upset him either.’ Maude affectionately rubbed colour back into her stepdaughter’s pale cheek. When Joan had returned she’d had a healthy glow gained from the blustery outdoors.
‘We must both buck up.’ Joan forced a smile. ‘Papa is as strong as an ox and stubborn with it. He will be up and about again by the end of the week, you’ll see.’
Following a light knock on the door, Joan tiptoed into her father’s chamber. Tobias Bartlett was stationed on one side of the huge four-poster bed and a maid was on the other, dipping a cloth in cool water to bathe the patient’s brow. On noticing his daughter Alfred waved away the solemn-faced servants, urgently beckoning Joan.
‘Oh, Papa!’ Joan whispered as she drew closer and saw the crimson flush spotting his cheeks and the brightness in his eyes. The Duke was propped on pillows and his rasping for breath worsened as he tried to struggle up to greet her. ‘Why did you not rest in Devon till well enough to travel?’ Joan gripped the dry palms he held out to her.
‘I am well enough to travel...or I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ he weakly joked.
‘Indeed you are here, back with us, and must rest in bed and heed the doctor’s advice when he comes and tells you to stay just where you are.’ She raised his knuckles to her lips.
‘A concoction or two and I’ll be right as rain,’ the Duke wheezed, pulling the blankets this way and that as though he would fling them off and rise. ‘Mrs Lewis is mixing up some noxious brews for me.’ He chuckled huskily. ‘Kill or cure, that’ll be my choice.’ With surprising strength he suddenly drew Joan closer to the edge of the bed. ‘Has Rockleigh been a nuisance in my absence?’ he whispered, his burning breath fanning his daughter’s cheek.
‘He has not, Papa,’ Joan replied quietly. ‘There is nothing for you to fret over where he is concerned, I promise.’
‘You’ve not seen him then?’
‘I have...but...he was agreeable,’ Joan’s heartbeat slowed to a dull thud as erotic memories flowed into her mind. She felt ashamed even having such thoughts in her father’s presence.
‘So what did he do to please you?’ The Duke’s lips twitched in an optimistic smile.
‘We spent only a short time talking and parted quickly. It was dreadful weather and I wanted to avoid the storm,’ Joan carefully picked a path between truth and lie and embarrassment. ‘Did Old Matthews’s funeral go well?’ she said, changing the subject.
The Duke gave a tired nod. ‘A capital send off for him. A good crowd of people in the chapel, and a fine wake afterwards...’ He started to cough.
‘Hush...that is enough talking for now. Shall I fetch you a powder to help you sleep, Papa?’
‘No need, my dear, the sawbones is here.’ The Duke’s red-rimmed eyes veered past his daughter to the fellow entering with the housekeeper. Mrs Lewis was carrying a tray laden with bottles and cups. ‘No doubt between them they’ll fill me ful
l of potions fit to fell a thirteen-hand nag.’ Alfred patted his daughter’s arm. ‘Off you go now, my dear. You have put my mind at rest over it all.’ He sighed, sinking back against the pillows. ‘I wish I’d not tortured myself over it while away, imagining all sorts of chaos. Perhaps I should have stayed where I was in Devon for I feel weak as a kitten now...’
Having reported to Maude that the Duke seemed to be rallying, Joan returned to her chamber, alternately fretting over her papa’s health and the risk of Stokes smearing her name before she could come up with a plan to stop him. A moment later she glanced out of the window and her anxiety soared.
Despite Stokes having pulled his hat low over his eyes his identity was obvious. Joan wondered if her tormentor intended loitering until he believed the coast was clear to call on her again. He suddenly bowled off along the street, but Joan’s respite was brief; it had occurred to her that he might have watched her sick father being helped into the house by footmen earlier. If that were so, the villain would be calculating how to turn the Duke of Thornley’s weakness to his advantage.
‘I will tell Thadeus to expect your early visit, Lady Joan...or your father can expect mine...’ Those had been his parting words to her on the afternoon of his blackmail. Indeed, he had not waited long before returning to spy on the house. Now her father’s health was at stake Joan knew she daren’t wait long before acting.
* * *
‘Lady Joan! Um...please, do come in,’ Vincent Walters stuttered, striving to cover his blushing confusion at the astonishing sight of the Duke of Thornley’s daughter on his step at seven o’clock in the evening.
‘I’m sorry to turn up unannounced, sir,’ Joan began breathlessly. ‘But I’d be grateful for your assistance in an urgent matter, if you don’t mind.’ Given her mooning over him when younger, Joan spoke in a way designed to quash any suspicion Vincent might have that her inappropriate visit was romantically motivated.