What the Duke Wants
Page 8
If he were to be honest, just for a moment, mind, he might admit he was purposely avoiding Beatryce and her repeated attempts to speak to him today. And for what? So he could sit here alone and contemplate some clumsy chit who would never, ever be a suitable duchess? Surely not. He simply felt it unjust to woo his intended when he was suffering such inner turmoil. Honest.
Yes, she (Grace) was beautiful. Yes, according to Cliff, she was intelligent and compassionate, but really, any future with her was impossible. He had an obligation to the duchy and she was wholly unsuitable.
So why couldn’t he force her from his mind? He had only just met her—this morning, in fact—and already she seemed destined to remain entrenched in his brain. To make matters worse, every conversation since dinner seemed to be centered on her. No matter who he was talking to. Cliff, Swindon. Even some of the other guests tittered about her behind her back. Nasty old crones.
Right. Enough of this nonsense. He would go up to bed posthaste and get a good night’s sleep—the nightcap should help with that. Cliff would find him should there be anything critical to report, which was fine. In his line of work, he was used to interrupted sleep caused by agency business. Then, tomorrow, first thing, he would ask Lady Beatryce to go for a ride and propose to her in the old folly near the lake he had heard mention of over dinner. He smiled. His sense of self and purpose was restored.
He downed the last of his drink and placed the empty glass on the table beside his chair. He was confident now that he had a plan to put his focus back on track with this marriage business. After a few more thoughtful moments, during which he tried in vain to block thoughts of Miss Radclyffe, he slapped his hands on his knees and stood, grabbing the empty snifter as he did. He was prepared to carry out his plans—sleep, wake, propose—without delay. He could do this.
A soft, unexpected sound from behind him caused him to drop his glass. It landed on the rug with a soft clink. The hair standing up on his arms told him without looking who had just entered the room. Or was it simply wishful thinking?
He pulled upon the last thread of his control as he turned about and painstakingly absorbed every detail of the vision standing just inside the doorway. Even though he knew it was she before he saw her, he was unprepared for the sight of Grace standing there silently before him. She was wearing a virgin-white cotton nightgown with a floor length long-sleeved wool robe—the nightwear of choice for the discerning spinster. And yet, she couldn’t have looked lovelier if he’d conjured her image up in his mind wearing the most provocative of lingerie. Her hair was down and loosely braided in a thick tail that hung over her shoulder to her waist. She was dressed for…bed.
Ah, hell.
He was entranced. Yet how could this be? He had seen his share of women in the most provoking nightwear, guaranteed to inflame a man’s desire, and yet nothing he had seen before had ever had him wanting to simply drop to his knees and worship a woman with all the passion in his soul. His quixotic thoughts were interrupted by her sudden nervous chatter.
“Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but well, I couldn’t sleep and thought to read, and thought the library would have a most excellent suggestion, I mean, selection, of books…er, something to read, so I thought I'd have a look again, and learned also, that my spectacles…were…” Her voice tapered off.
They stood staring at each other for what felt like an eternity before he finally broke the silence. “Miss Radclyffe. Do you always run about your home, when any number of guests might be up and about, wearing nothing but your night clothes?”
His sudden surge of anger actually caught him by surprise. The thought of her running into another guest while wearing nothing but her night clothes, even if she were more covered than most ball gowns, set his teeth on edge and he was furious at the thought. What if Cliff had still been about? Perhaps that was what she was hoping for, to catch Cliff unawares? It didn’t escape his notice that they had had an awful lot to say to each other over dinner. He even noticed his friend touching her arm a few times, and he shamefully remembered wanting to jump down the table and punch his friend in the face at the time. He had been horrified over the impulse.
“You weren’t, perhaps, planning a rendezvous in the library with a certain marquess by chance?” He knew his face was rigid.
“A…what?” She stuttered. “You think…I can’t…”
*
Grace was so angry she was at a loss for words, quite the opposite of her earlier verbal explosion of run-on thoughts. She had been unable to function properly for thoughts of the duke plaguing her all day, and now he was accusing her of setting up an assignation with another man? Such designs had never even crossed her mind, and she was simply stunned his thoughts would run in that direction.
For a moment, all she could do was stand there and gape at him. Finally, she pulled her thoughts together and twirled on her heel intending to leave…immediately. He was too much the insufferable boor to even waste her breath with a witty retort. To think she even considered this ridiculous lout for a single moment. Ugh. Well, now that she saw what he was like, he was well and truly made for Beatryce.
“Grace! Wait!”
She had almost made it out the library door before strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her back inside. He spun her around and pressed her against the nearest bookcase. She wasn’t more than a hairsbreadth away from his chest.
He held her trapped, and the intensity in his gaze was back, but no longer cold. He sounded breathless, and she could smell brandy as his breath caressed her face. Shivers ran up her arms at his close proximity and the purposeful look in his eye. She was suddenly feeling too hot, and she knew she was blushing. His hands gripped the shelves on either side of her head now, and his knuckles were white with his grip, creating the perfect cage to hold her in place.
“Grace, I’m sorry.”
He paused and held her gaze. For a moment, Grace allowed herself to stand there, locked in his sights. Despite her anger over his earlier implications, she undeniably longed for things that could never be. She was attracted to this man on a basic, animal level. It didn’t matter that society frowned at their differing classes. His head drew nearer, and for a fleeting moment, she was confident he would kiss her, and oh, how she wanted it. But she was consciously aware that it would be a mistake. He was nearly betrothed to her cousin, and though her cousin and she were not friends, Grace would never betray her family that way, especially with a man she barely knew. It was wrong.
So before their lips could meet, Grace ducked under his arm and darted out the library door.
*
Stonebridge remained completely still. He closed his eyes as he tried to hold on to her lingering scent and the image of her staring up at him with so much intensity—with desire in her eyes. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned his head against the books where only moments before she had stood within his arms, within his reach. His heart still beat erratically.
He had nearly kissed her. And what a mess that would have been. And yet, he was completely undone, for it wasn’t he who had stopped it from happening. He was inexplicably drawn to her. He, a duke, and she, a woman who was completely unsuitable for him in so many ways. On so many levels.
He didn’t really know her, but she made him feel, damn it. She made him nearly lose his head in public, something he swore after his ruinous fight at Eton so many years ago, he would never, ever do again. Then, there was the irrational flare of jealousy sparked by her behavior. It was beneath him. Him! He, who always maintained the utmost self-control, a character trait that was essential in his line of work. And lethal to more than just himself if lost.
He slammed his fist into the books on either side of his head before turning to look for his brandy glass. He forced her out of his head. He had to. But he needed another drink to calm the fire still raging inside. For once, he sought oblivion.
“I didn’t like that translation of Homer either, but you needn’t take it out on the book.”
He pulled it together and proceeded without missing a beat. As if this meeting was planned all along. As if nothing else had happened, or almost happened, in this very room.
“What do we know?”
Cliff sighed in exasperation. And Stonebridge knew his friend had witnessed far more than he would have liked. Fortunately, his friend chose to ignore what he saw. Good. For Cliff.
“No change on the current status of our informant. However, I do have a lot of news to impart. First, I received the information I requested from the Home Office. It seems that in the two years prior to the Irish uprising of 1798, the United Irishmen were actively rallying support for their cause: an independent Ireland completely free of English rule. As a result, many skirmishes erupted as tensions escalated. In an attempt to subdue the rebels and prevent a full out Irish Revolution, England’s agents captured many Irish insurgents, including our man, Murphy. We have clear documentation that Murphy was interrogated and held prisoner for at least a year, and then nothing. No record of him having been released, hung, drawn and quartered. Nothing.”
“Who was responsible for his interrogation?”
“There were many names listed over the course of the year; though, as with his release records, many pieces of documentation appear to be missing, tampered with, or plain incomplete. The most notable name we have on record is Lord Middlebury, but his interrogation was early on in Murphy’s captivity. October 1796.”
Middlebury? Good God.
“Also, there is a dated but unsigned letter in the file claiming that Murphy was spotted just outside of Bristol about a month after the paper trail ends. Based on the time frame, I suspect he was unlawfully released and secretly sent to Bristol. It doesn’t make sense for him to head in that direction. It’s not on the way to Ireland. Unless someone sent him there for a purpose. The timeframe is right; the letter is dated July 1797.”
Bristol? Near my own home?
“Regarding the assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, there was no official investigation into any threats over the course of 1797; however, I have a note here from my contact at the Home Office that states there was an attempt on the PM’s life during a house party at the home of the 9th Duke Stonebridge. At Stonebridge Park. In August of 1797. So, the timing is right.”
In my own damn home??? How could I have not been aware of that?
“I see the look on your face, Duke. You’re wondering how we never knew about the attack at Stonebridge Park. Well, remember, the attack was never officially investigated. My understanding is that William Pitt the Younger had many attempts on his life, and he often brushed off such attempts as inconsequential. It’s by pure luck that my contact at the Home Office knew about it.”
“But how could someone not make the connection? Someone attacks the PM in my father’s home, and my father turns up dead a month later?”
“I agree it’s odd, but then I believe that’s why the ‘accident’ was so elaborate—the point was to discredit your father’s character so that no one cared to look into it too closely. Add to that the Society involvement? We’re talking men with power here.”
The duke’s thoughts raced, reviewing, discounting, and revising all they knew about the case thus far. Would his father have taken it upon himself to investigate the assassination attempt on his own? Considering what he remembered of his father’s character, absolutely. He was certainly tenacious enough. Might he have been killed for what he discovered? Without a doubt.
Most importantly, if his father had discovered something, would he have documented his findings? Absolutely. His father was also meticulous.
A month had passed between the assassination attempt and his father’s murder. Knowing how powerful his father was, he was bound to have discovered something. Mightn’t he have hidden what he knew at Stonebridge Park? If his father had been following someone in the area, it made sense he would keep his findings there. The Park had been searched, but they must have missed something.
“Do you realize what this m—” continued Cliff.
“Yes. Damn it.” This new information had far reaching implications. Plus, murder and high treason? The sentence for a conviction of either charge meant death to the guilty party.
His mind whirled as he considered the culprit’s possible identity based on this new information. There were only two families near Stonebridge Park who would have the connections necessary to have a prisoner released and the documentation tampered with: one was laughable, the lord too weak and lazy to be involved with something so daring and shrewd; and the other, well, the idea wasn’t impossible—the family was well-known for their underhandedness, intolerance, and strong political ambitions—but the lord always seemed to be all hot air with no action—and real power to back him up. It was quite a stretch to believe he actually had the clout, connection, and confidence to pull off evidence tampering without getting caught.
“What about the Society itself? Any news there?”
“There’s not a lot to add to what we already know. We only have three suspected members, but no concrete evidence: Lord Middlebury, Lord Nash, and Lord Marchant. Middlebury is the highest ranking known suspect, but the Lord Middlebury from that time period is deceased now, and there has been no evidence to suggest his son has followed in his father’s footsteps, though it seems likely, given the family’s reputation and Middlebury’s individual personality. None of the three known suspects are believed to be the real power and money behind the group, though. Lords North and Fox were investigated, but were never officially considered. They would have been an obvious choice, of course, if one didn’t know them well. They had always been quite vocal in opposition to Pitt, but they never supported the idea of secret societies, preferring instead to operate publicly so as to never jeopardize their political careers. There has never been even a hint of a suggestion as to who was or is the real power behind the group, and since the Society seems to have all but disappeared since Pitt left office, further investigation into their activities has all but ceased in the last five years. Honestly, I believe they are just biding their time, but that’s my gut speaking. We need to find out who pulls the strings, then, I think, the pieces will fall into place.”
“Right. Middlebury cannot be a coincidence. He may not have been the kingpin, but he does have an estate near the Park, and his culpability is obvious. Perhaps, if we find proof through that avenue, we’ll discover the evidence we need to catch the rest of the men behind all this. Get the word out. Inform the rest of the team we’ll be meeting at Stonebridge Park Monday next.”
Bloody hell. My life just got a lot more complicated.
Chapter 8
The Back Gardens, Beckett House…
The Next Morning…
The morning mist still clung to the earth as Stonebridge raced his stallion, Abacus, across the parkland surrounding Beckett House. He had brought his horse with him on this trip, though normally, he wouldn’t have done so. He had suspected he would need the distraction, and he was proved right.
He had intended to ask Lady Beatryce to join him and propose this morning, but an aching head put him in too foul a temper for romance. He was in no mood to offer forth an appropriate proposal, and it wasn’t fair to Beatryce. That was all it was. Really.
Yes, he had thought long and hard about whether or not to delay his engagement pending his investigations into his father’s murder, but he decided he had to proceed as intended. He didn’t want to raise suspicions with a sudden change in his plans; therefore, caution was his best approach. He felt a tad guilty for his suspicious nature, but he was a logical man and good at what he did, and he would follow every lead no matter his personal feelings. T
his meant he had to see the house party to its conclusion, then head straight for Stonebridge Park after.
Despite the sore head and late night, he arose early as was his custom and headed out for a morning ride to clear the fuzz from his mind. He had drunk steadily last night. Drunk until he barely remembered crawling up the stairs to his bed. Excess drink was something in which he never indulged, and the drink didn’t even perform its intended function. He dreamt of her last night: Grace.
And long after stumbling into his bed at some untold hour of the morning, he awoke hard and aching for her. He had been dreaming of her naked and writhing in his bed as he…
Oh, hell, not again.
He pulled Abacus to a halt and rubbed his hand down his face. He had to put a stop to his recall of last night’s dream; it was becoming decidedly uncomfortable to ride his horse.
Since he was almost back to the house, he decided to walk Abacus the remainder of the way while he got himself under control. Dammit, he had a full hard-as-steel erection throbbing in his trousers. He dismounted, but held on to the reins in order to guide his horse on foot.
As he crested the last hill abutting the house’s rear gardens, he unerringly looked to the section of garden where yesterday’s muddy introduction to Grace Radclyffe had occurred. Was it only yesterday? He could still make out the exact location on a slight rise above a circular rose garden.
He jerked his gaze away before he started reliving the encounter. For the hundredth time. He focused instead on a circular path nearby. It was made up of four distinct rose beds with graveled paths between that led to a center circle with a statue of Venus in the middle. Around the edges of the center circle were four benches set at even intervals from which an observer could view either the statue or the surrounding roses.