Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  She felt a bit light-headed at the sudden demand. “That is very soon,” Katherine protested.

  “I cannot afford to wait,” he exclaimed. “The estate cannot afford it. The Howes have been a vital part of Sussex for centuries, and now, because of your obstinacy, we may have to withdraw that support. Why do you refuse to do what is best for everyone?”

  Katherine had already thought of how her resistance would affect the people on the estate, the tenants and servants and merchants who benefited from the Howe family. She didn’t want to hurt them at all, and this mess was none of their making. But mostly her acquiescence would benefit Lucien, not to mention put an end to any hope she had of private happiness, and she just couldn’t do it. Even if it made her selfish and cruel to all the Howe dependents, she couldn’t marry Lucien.

  Lucien’s eyes darkened at her stubborn silence. He stepped closer, and she barely stopped herself from edging backward. He put one finger under her chin and tipped up her face until she met his eyes. “My dear,” he said almost kindly, “you must acclimate your mind to this. You know full well there are too many reasons for it and none at all against it.”

  Katherine stayed mute, knowing he didn’t really care how many reasons she could think of against it.

  “Our marriage will remove all of the drain on the family coffers,” he went on. “I have need of a wife, and you are alone, without a husband or father to guide you. If you do not marry me, we are both ruined—I by the terms of that unfortunate note between my uncle and your father, and you because . . . well, my dear, I don’t mean to be cruel, but it’s not likely you’ll receive another offer. You are more than thirty years old now.”

  He didn’t say the rest, although she’d overheard him say it before: who would want a plain, mulish, likely barren widow of advanced age, even if she was rich? That had been before he realized how much her money was keeping him afloat, but she remembered. Even if it was true, she felt the sting. She turned her head, out of his touch. “I know how old I am.”

  “You know there’s no way around it,” he said, still in the gently urging tone. Lucien could be very smooth when it suited him. “I’ll procure a license tomorrow. Tell your mother she must conclude your purchases in a week’s time. We shall return to Sussex directly after the wedding.”

  She said nothing, and Lucien smiled. He laid the book of sermons back on the table and left, closing the door behind him. Katherine’s heart hurt with each beat. Would Gerard de Lacey accept her offer? Without him, she didn’t know how she would escape Lucien. He wasn’t a cruel man, that she had seen, but neither was he a tenderhearted or even an amiable sort. He had already persuaded her mother, who’d been urging Katherine for some time now to say yes. From a distance, Katherine could even admit it appeared a good match; she was a plain, drab widow well past her prime, and Lucien had a viscountcy and a handsome face. Even his religious fervor wouldn’t be seen by many as an obstacle.

  His badly indebted estate would be one, though. As long as he held her funds, Lucien could maintain the facade that he was well-off, but the moment that money was withdrawn, he would be all but ruined. He would have to disclose as much to any potential bride’s parents, and Katherine knew his pride forbade that. Even if it meant he had to marry her, a woman he tolerated with mild impatience and condescension, Lucien was adamant that no one should know his heritage was supported almost entirely by a merchant’s money. For all that he spoke so piously of God’s will, he cared a great deal for the opinion of other men.

  She sank into the chair and tucked her shawl more securely around her. The fire snapped quietly in the hearth, but she barely felt the heat of it. Her feet were still numb. Katherine rested her cheek against the threadbare wing of the chair and closed her eyes. It was a mad, incredible thing she had done tonight; part of her could hardly believe she’d gone through with it. Chasing across London after a complete stranger and begging him to marry her! Anyone who knew her would be amazed that placid, quiet Katherine Howe would even think of such a thing, let alone carry it off. Anyone who knew her would expect her to acknowledge the practical soundness of Lucien’s arguments and quietly accept his proposal. Surely after Lord Howe, who had been more than twenty years her senior, a husband like Lucien would be a delight. He was young, handsome, and respectable. Marriage to him would allow her to stay in her home of the last ten years, retain her status, and perhaps even have children. It would please her mother, who’d grown used to life as a relation of the Viscount Howe and thought Katherine was being a silly ninny. “Who else would have you, darling?” she asked in all innocent earnestness, the last time she visited. Katherine hadn’t had an answer because, of course, probably no one much better than Lucien would have her.

  But . . . Captain de Lacey was considering it. Something warm and giddy fluttered inside her stomach. Not just any man other than Lucien, but Gerard de Lacey, who could have any woman in England if he set his mind to it. Even though she knew his acceptance, if he accepted, would be because of her money and not because of her person, Katherine couldn’t completely snuff out the lingering girlish thrill at the thought of having him for her husband. She knew it was stupid; she really had no acquaintance with him, and her memory of him had already proven worthless. It might have been a terrible mistake, choosing him, but her mind refused to accept that. It wasn’t as though she’d had so many men to choose from, after all.

  There was a faint scratch at the door. Birdie, most likely, come to check on her. Katherine raised her head, and called, “Come in.”

  Birdie slipped into the room, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. She closed the door, then hurried over to set the cup down on the table beside Katherine. “Are you ill?” she murmured in concern. “I knew you’d catch a chill . . .”

  “No, I’m just cold.” Katherine sat up with a sigh and reached for the tea. The warmth of the cup against her hands burned for a moment, then felt unbearably good. She was thoroughly chilled, not just from her secret excursion but from Lucien’s promise: within a week. So it was imperative that she sneak out of the house again in three days to hear the captain’s answer. Lucien regularly went to philosophical meetings on that night, but it was possible his impatience for the wedding would throw him off. Perhaps she should pretend a serious illness sooner, to keep him from the room. He had come looking for her tonight, when she had claimed a terrible headache. A catarrh, perhaps, or an ague. It would have to be serious enough to keep her mother from visiting but not serious enough to make her want to install a physician in the room. Her escape must be carefully planned, and quickly. She cradled the cup in both hands and raised it to her face, inhaling deeply. “Thank you, Birdie.”

  The older woman gave her a meaningful look over the rim of the teacup as Katherine sipped the scalding tea. She knew the thanks were for more than just tea. “Regrets?”

  “None.” There was no hesitation in her answer. Lucien had driven away any trace of regret.

  Birdie sighed, lines of tension appearing across her forehead. “I hope this proceeds as you wish, madam.”

  Katherine thought of the captain again, from his long, confident stride to the charming way his mouth curled at the corners when he was amused. She felt again the force of Lucien’s stare as he told her to accept the inevitable. The captain didn’t love her, or even know her; but unlike Lucien, someday he might. And Katherine knew that if he did come to like her, perhaps even care for her a little, she could love him back. She was already halfway there, when he barely knew her name. She would have to guard herself carefully around him in case his feelings never progressed past gratitude and gentlemanly consideration, but that little kernel of hope, of possibility, was enough. “So do I, Birdie,” she whispered. “So do I.”

  Chapter 4

  Gerard set off toward London early the next morning. Late into the night he had been torn between laughing off Katherine Howe’s odd proposal and going on his way in search of the blackmailer, and taking advantage of her desperatio
n to snatch up a rich wife while she still wanted him. It appeared to be a circular problem: as long as the blackmailer was still free and able to cause trouble, Gerard was in desperate need of everything Katherine Howe offered . . . but haring off to catch the villain might cost him his best chance at financial security if he failed. It was unlikely other heiresses in possession of a hundred thousand pounds could be found at will. Finally he admitted he would have to verify just how real her proposal was, the sooner the better. If she had lied to him or misrepresented her situation, he could be on his way at once. He almost hoped for that outcome as he crossed the Thames, heading toward Holborn, where her solicitor had his offices. If everything she said was true . . . He had to make very certain of it before he decided, but he also had to do it quickly.

  Mr. Tyrell had plain but comfortable premises near Cary Street, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Gerard hadn’t had occasion to visit many solicitors, but he judged Mr. Tyrell to be a successful man. He sent in Lady Howe’s letter with his card by way of introduction and was shown in soon after. Tyrell greeted him very affably, looking rather genial and placid; but Gerard didn’t miss the shrewdness of his gaze.

  “How may I help you, sir?” Tyrell leaned back in his chair, the sunlight glinting off his round spectacles.

  “I require information about Lady Howe,” Gerard said. “As her letter indicated.”

  “Yes, indeed. Lady Howe instructed me to answer all your questions with perfect candor.”

  Gerard smiled. Tyrell didn’t look like he would say a word that wasn’t in direct response to a question, but he expected that. Damned lawyers. “How long have you known and been employed by the lady?”

  “I was employed by her father originally,” said Tyrell readily. “When he died, she asked me to stay on. I first met her when she was a child.”

  “What sort of man was her father?” Gerard couldn’t forget what she had said the night before, that her father had respected his, and that was what had led her to propose marriage to him.

  “Driven. Demanding. Ambitious and intelligent. I never saw anyone get the better of him in business.”

  Those attributes could explain why Hollenbrook admired Durham, who had been all of those things. Gerard wondered if the daughter was cut from the same cloth. “What was his background?”

  “Common.” Tyrell lifted one shoulder, not displaying a whiff of surprise at Gerard’s inquiries. “I’ve no idea who his parents were—Lady Howe would be better able to tell you that—but I believe he started as a young man in the mill he later came to own. Within twenty years he built up a considerable trade in dry goods and made a fortune supplying the army.”

  “Indeed,” muttered Gerard. He had his own opinion of the people who supplied the army, and much of it wasn’t flattering. “How large a fortune?” he asked abruptly.

  Tyrell’s glasses glittered as the attorney tilted his head. “Almost one hundred thirty thousand pounds, at his death.”

  Christ. Had Lady Howe understated things?

  “Thirty thousand pounds was left for his widow,” Tyrell went on. “The remainder to his daughter and her heirs.”

  No, she’d been exactly right. “Outright? Not to her husband?” Gerard knew very well a married woman’s property belonged to her husband. Katherine Howe might think it was hers, might desire it to be hers, but the law might not agree.

  “Outright,” said Tyrell with a slight smile. “Lord Howe died three weeks before Mr. Hollenbrook. I believe Mr. Hollenbrook changed his will before His Lordship was cold in the grave.”

  Then the money was really hers. A widow was almost as independent, legally, as a man. Why couldn’t she simply refuse this nephew’s entreaty to marry him? She said she didn’t want to marry again, but must.

  “Forgive me,” Gerard said, trying to sound somewhat confused and apologetic. “I understood Lady Howe to be in a tight circumstance. It sounds to me as though she’s a widow in possession of a large fortune, hardly desperate.”

  “I’m sure the lady knows her circumstances well enough to give a good report of them.”

  Gerard realized he was drumming his fingers on his boot, resting on his knee. Tyrell was as slippery as he’d expected him to be. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He sat forward and propped one elbow on the solicitor’s desk. “Mr. Tyrell, I am here at Lady Howe’s instigation, as you well know from her letter. I am contemplating marrying the lady, and would like a full and accurate picture of her situation. I haven’t time to query you for hours in search of what I need to know, and I must make my decision soon.”

  “Very good, Captain,” replied Tyrell, unruffled. “But Lady Howe is a very wealthy woman, with little experience of managing her own affairs. You must understand, in my position as her solicitor and as executor of her father’s estate, I wish to protect her interests as much as possible—including, of course, from fortune hunters.”

  “Didn’t she mention it?” Gerard asked in a silky voice. His patience was all but gone. “She proposed marriage to me. If anyone is in danger of being deceived, I suspect it is I.”

  Finally a moment of surprise flickered over Tyrell’s face. “Ah.”

  “Indeed. As she herself explicitly acknowledged, her fortune is a factor in my decision, but far from the only one. And as far as the fortune itself . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “I have every expectation of a substantial inheritance of my own.”

  “So I understand,” said the solicitor, proving himself acquainted with London gossip.

  Gerard pushed his family’s problem from his mind to focus on the question at hand. “So the money is hers, but there is a problem—over a loan, I believe.”

  “Yes.” Tyrell’s eyes narrowed on Gerard. He was quiet for a moment, glancing down at something on his desk. Lady Howe’s letter, most likely. When he looked up, the easy but opaque expression was gone from his face. He looked at Gerard with frank appraisal in his gaze. “Very well,” he murmured, then said in a normal voice, “Before the late Lord Howe’s death, he borrowed a large sum from his father-in-law. Mr. Hollenbrook was reluctant to lend the money; he did not have a high regard for the viscount’s economy, but for his daughter’s sake, he made the loan. My client wasn’t a foolish man, however, and he demanded security. Lord Howe was quite desperate, for he agreed to stake a prime, unentailed, piece of his land as security. The note was written so that if Mr. Hollenbrook died before it was repaid, the balance would be forgiven as part of Lady Howe’s inheritance. No doubt this is what Lord Howe anticipated, as Mr. Hollenbrook was in declining health by then. If Lord Howe predeceased Mr. Hollenbrook, however, the note endured, and the security could be seized at any time if payment was not made. This is indeed what happened, and thus Lady Howe became the holder of the note against her late husband’s estate.”

  “A curious agreement between a man and his son-in-law.”

  Mr. Tyrell’s smile was flat. “Mr. Hollenbrook had come to regret his daughter’s marriage. Mrs. Hollenbrook, I believe, was the force behind it. She comes from a higher society than her husband and was quite keen for her daughter to marry well. Howe held an old and respectable title, with a very pretty estate in Sussex. He was also in dire need of money. Miss Hollenbrook brought him twenty thousand pounds as dowry, and within five years every shilling of it was gone. Hollenbrook confided to me that he no longer trusted Lord Howe, which was why he insisted on such terms in the note.”

  Gerard nodded. That also agreed with what Katherine Howe told him. Her proposal was sounding more and more ideal for his needs. “How much is the note for?”

  “Ten thousand pounds. In addition, half of Lady Howe’s dowry must be returned, since she was left a widow with no children. Mr. Hollenbrook crafted a very exact marriage settlement. I highly doubt the new Lord Howe has the funds to pay it, even in increments. There is a mortgage upon his estate, and if he loses the land held in security, he’ll probably not be able to pay his mortgage.”

  And there was
the reason Lucien Howe wanted to marry her. Not only to gain the balance of Lady Howe’s money but to keep his estate solvent and intact. From what she said, the man hadn’t been very clever or tender in making his offer. Of course, she’d been neither of those things when she made her shocking proposal to him, either, but Gerard was coming to understand that better.

  “What sort of man is Lucien Howe?” he asked.

  “Young,” said Tyrell. “Arrogant. Greatly annoyed to discover just how indebted he is to Lady Howe. He called upon me soon after his uncle’s death, claiming to be Lady Howe’s guardian and demanding I relinquish control of her funds to him.”

  “I doubt Lady Howe agreed to that.”

  Tyrell dipped his head in acknowledgment. “The new Viscount Howe left my offices disappointed.”

  “So twenty thousand is tied up in this loan,” said Gerard slowly. “The balance—some eighty thousand pounds—is hers already. How is it invested?”

  “Safely,” replied Mr. Tyrell.

  He grinned. “Excellent. Thank you for your time, sir.”

  He left the solicitor’s offices and headed across town. Tyrell had answered his first question about Katherine Howe’s money, but that alone wasn’t enough. Her family was beginning to sound as shrewd as his. Howe must have been a slippery fellow for Hollenbrook to demand so much of him, and his heir sounded little better. Gerard wasn’t afraid of bold actions, but he tried to avoid stupid ones if at all possible. What sort of man, precisely, would he be facing in Lucien Howe if he married Katherine? Gerard certainly didn’t intend to just turn his back on twenty thousand pounds. He headed up Oxford Street, on his way to Cavendish Square, where he rapped the knocker of the Earl of Dowling’s home.