The ruby necklace lay cool against her throat, and she impulsively decided to sleep with the jewels tonight as a reminder of what she and James had shared. Harriet would arrive soon and prepare her bath. Bella knew better than to attempt to hide tonight’s events from the old woman. She could not help but notice the rubies, but even more telling, Harriet would see the glow in Bella’s face.
She left the sitting room and entered the adjoining bedchamber. One of the maids must have already been there for the coverlet was drawn back.
Bella took a step forward, then froze.
A shiver of fear raced down her spine.
There was a dagger thrust into her pillow, pinning a note in place.
She pulled the dagger from the pillow, causing a burst of feathers to float above the coverlet. Her hand trembled as she read the note.
Bella,
Meet me at midnight tomorrow in the back gardens with the ledger. Do not fail me. The duke lives. My next shot, whether for him or another, will be true.
Rupert had not even bothered to sign the note. Bella looked frantically about. The windows were shut and locked. There were no signs of forced entry. So how had Rupert entered?
Was it plausible that Rupert had walked in through the front door?
She felt as if every drop of blood had drained from her head. She had allowed herself to believe that Rupert wouldn’t risk his neck by returning.
She had been terribly wrong. His desire for the ledger outweighed any risks. But the trouble was she had not found the ledger.
What was she to do?
Could she prepare a fake ledger? She swiftly dismissed the notion. She’d never recall all the transactions. She could beg Rupert’s understanding, tell him the ledger was not in her possession, but she knew he would never believe her.
She bit her lip until it throbbed like her pulse. She had foolishly believed that her future was secure. James had gifted her with his deed, which would allow her to remain at Wyndmoor and write to her heart’s content. She had the memory of James’s lovemaking to warm her on the cold nights ahead, and a contract for the Times to keep her mind busy.
But such respite was not to be. Rupert’s message was clear. He had shot and come close to killing the duke. Whether Rupert had panicked and fired unintentionally was not relevant. The fact that he’d returned proclaimed how desperate he was to retrieve the ledger. Next time he would kill. Who his victim would be, she could only guess.
None of it mattered. Only one option remained.
The door opened wide, and Harriet stood in the entrance.
Bella turned slowly, the dagger still clutched in her hand.
Harriet froze, mouth open. Then her eyes flew from the dagger to the blood-red rubies at Bella’s throat. “What happened?”
“Help me pack. We’re leaving for London.”
James sat at the escritoire in his bedchamber and scrawled a letter to the dowager duchess. The content of the letter was brusque, the tone coolly impersonal—one of a barrister addressing a court. The gist of the letter: He would leave Wyndmoor Manor immediately, return to London in two days’ time, and permanently move into the mansion on Park Street. Advise the servants of the new duke’s arrival.
Not for the first time that evening, he acknowledged that his feelings for Bella had become complicated and the thought of returning to London held little appeal. Yet duty called, and he knew that he must return and conclude his business dealings at Lincoln’s Inn, deal with his grandmother’s demands, and confront Gregory. At least one item was certain—Bella would remain at Wyndmoor Manor. Gifting her with the deed ensured that. Her desire for the property had been utmost in her mind, and he need not worry she’d disappear and he wouldn’t be able to find her.
He could wait until the time was right, until he heard back from his investigator regarding Bella, until all his business matters were settled and his inheritance properly claimed, before returning here and settling things between them. One night of lovemaking, no matter how extraordinary, had not satisfied this craving....
Setting aside the pen, he was folding the piece of foolscap when the door opened. He turned, expecting Coates.
Bella.
His gut clenched at the sight of her. She was still in the amethyst gown with his rubies draped about her neck. Gone were her pearl combs, and her glorious hair framed her exquisite features and green, catlike eyes.
His attraction was immediate and total. Desire and possessiveness raged in his blood. Had she come to spend their remaining night together?
He stood. She shut the door and stepped forward.
But something was not right.
Through the searing lust he was slow to register the anxious look on her face, as if she was holding a mountain of raw emotion in check. Tension radiated from her, and she clutched her hands behind her back.
His initial excitement at her arrival in his bedchamber became concern. “Is something amiss?”
Coming forward, she extended her hand to place a document on his escritoire.
His deed to Wyndmoor Manor.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I believe you should have the place. Does your offer still stand to pay me for the property?”
Something inside him shifted. Desire waned. Instinct and intuition reared.
“Why the change of heart?”
Her voice was flat. “I’ve reconsidered. It doesn’t feel right. The place reminds you of your father, the old duke. You should be the rightful owner. I’ve decided that I’d rather go to London.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “London? Whatever happened to your writing aspirations? You had led me to believe that being an independent landowner allowed you to finally live your life the way you chose.”
“I can write in London. I’ll be closer to my editor at the Times... . May even be able to meet him.”
“But that would be fruitless, would it not? The editor believes you are a man.”
She paled a shade. He fought the desire to shake her until she confessed the truth. It was no longer a question of if she was in trouble, but what the trouble was. What had happened in an hour’s time?
“Will you honor your offer?” she asked again.
He walked toward her with measured steps, near enough that he could reach out and touch her should he wish to do so. He raised a hand to finger a curl at her cheek. She sucked in a breath, her green eyes pools of appeal. He detected her shiver of desire, but another emotion overpowered it—fear. It oozed from her—like one of his criminal defendants prior to testifying on the stand before an angry jury.
He quickly considered the turn of events. If she wasn’t at Wyndmoor Manor, then she would be closer to him in London. He’d have to alter his plans....
A thin chill hung at the edge of his words. “I’ll honor my offer on one condition. You accompany me to London tomorrow.”
“I accept.”
Her answer was too quickly given. She was running from something ... or someone.
He wouldn’t ask again. He had attempted to extract the truth from her before, but to no avail. He would now resort to the legal strategies with which he was more familiar.
“Thank you,” she said. “It seems I’m in your debt once again.”
“Go, Bella. Go now and pack.”
As soon as she departed, James went in search of Bobby. Well past midnight, he found the stable lad in his bed in the servant’s quarters. James shook his shoulder.
“The horses?” Bobby woke with a start.
James shook his head. “The horses are fine, Bobby. I’ve come on a different matter. Bella and Harriet will accompany us to London tomorrow. The women will ride in my carriage as I prefer to ride Maximus. When we get to London the women plan to part ways with me. I’m expected at the mansion on Park Street. Bella’s whereabouts, however, are unknown. I want you to stay with her. I want to know where they end up. Understand?”
“Will she protest?”
“It’s no matter. Follow h
er, if need be.”
Bobby grinned. “It won’t be a problem, Your Grace. I grew up in the London streets and know my way around like the back of my hand. She’ll never spot me.”
Chapter 22
London was nothing like Bella remembered. Although she had been born here, she and her father had moved to the country when she was seven. Her memories were hazy—her small bedchamber in their modest brick home, the hawker’s cries of “Fresh hot buns!” outside her window rivaling the church bell Sunday mornings, playing with the rambunctious neighborhood children, and the smell of flowerboxes in the spring.
They had left Wyndmoor Manor early the previous morning, had stopped at an inn for the night, and had pressed onward at the first touch of dawn. James, it seemed, was in a great rush to return to London. Bella had voiced no complaint. The hectic pace suited her, for each mile they put behind them hastened her distance from Rupert. London offered her a chance to hide and disappear amongst the hustle and bustle of the city. It also meant parting from James, but that would have happened whether or not she had stayed in Hertfordshire. He had a life here, and combined with his new title, his return was inevitable.
The city air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and impending rain. Sitting in the duke’s luxurious carriage, she looked out at the cobbled streets as they wove around ramshackle hackneys, two-wheeled gigs driven by young gentlemen, and heavy horses pulling brewers’ drays prodded by coarse tradesmen. They passed a coffeehouse and the aroma of freshly ground beans made her mouth water. In the distance, the city’s blackened chimneys grappled with church spires to crowd the hazy sky.
Harriet sat on the padded bench across from Bella, her gaze glued to the window, her fascination with the city evident in her expression. James rode Maximus beside the carriage. The women had protested, saying they would take a coach at the nearest posting inn, but James had refused, reassuring them he preferred to ride his horse.
The carriage stopped before an imposing structure built of stone, white brick, and marble. Letters etched in the stone proclaimed the building to be the Bank of England. To the east was the London Stock Exchange.
James dismounted Maximus and spoke through the carriage window. “I’ll be but a minute.”
Bella nodded and watched as James entered the bank. As soon as he was out of sight, Harriet opened the door and stepped down. “I’d best find us transportation. There are plenty of hackneys on this street.” Harriet shut the door, leaving Bella alone.
Minutes passed, and the temperature in the carriage rose. Bella’s nerves were tense. She needed to be on her way before what little strength she had evaporated.
At last, James emerged from the bank with a packet tucked under his arm. He opened the carriage door and handed her the packet. “Payment in full for Wyndmoor.”
“Thank you.”
“I shall escort you to wherever you choose.”
She tried to keep her heart cold and still. “No. We will be fine from here on. You need to attend the dowager duchess.”
“Then allow my driver and Bobby to accompany you.”
“That’s not necessary. We have more than sufficient funds to rent a hackney cab and find a house.”
She expected him to argue, but he offered her his arm instead. She accepted his aid and stepped from the carriage. A bright shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and struck his dark hair and perfect features. He was so startling handsome that her heart jumped. She wanted to kiss his lips for the last time. It didn’t matter that they stood in a busy London street with passersby. The noise of the city thrummed in the background.
His expression shuttered, and he inclined his head toward the street. “Your cab is ready,” James said.
The parting is easy for him, Bella thought, and I feel as if I am leaving a part of my soul behind.
She turned and saw that Harriet had flagged down a hackney cab and the driver was loading their baggage on top. They had left items behind and had taken only what was necessary and manageable.
James opened the door of the hackney. As she moved to enter, he touched her cheek and raised her hand to brush his lips across the back of her fingers. Pain squeezed her heart.
Lifting his head, dark blue eyes probed to her very soul. “Never forget my offer. Send for me should you need to.”
Bella directed the driver straight to her childhood neighborhood—close to Portman Square and its magnificent mansions, but not so close as to be unaffordable by the working class. Time had changed the neighborhood, however, and the once well-swept cobbled streets were in disrepair, parts of them slick with horse dung and rotting refuse. Smocked tradesmen scurried about on their way to work, and children dressed in plain clothes rushed to the cotton factories.
The driver knew of a boarding house looking for a tenant and took them there. Bella stepped from the cab and looked up at a three-story red brick house with black shutters.
“You mean to stay here?” Harriet asked.
“It’s perfect. Rupert will never think to search here.”
The landlady was a thick-boned woman with an enormous bosom and lips set in a perpetual sneer. “Third floor is empty. Rent is due the first of the month. No exceptions.”
Bella paid the woman. It would do.
“What’s yer name?” the landlady asked.
Bella gave the first alias that came to mind—James’s suggested pseudonym for her writing career. “Mrs. Roundbottom,” she blurted out.
The woman hesitated for a brief moment, her thin lips twitching, before tucking the rent money in her bodice and handing Bella a key.
Bella let out a held-in breath. Reason warned they couldn’t stay in one place for long. If Rupert had inherited half of his twin’s resourcefulness, there was a good chance he could find them.
But at least James would be safe.
The mansion on Park Street was a massive pile of stone and marble. James had set foot inside before, of course, but only on rare occasions as a young boy when he had been summoned by the dowager duchess.
The old duke’s butler, Stodges, opened the door before James had a chance to knock. Straight-backed and serious, he had the look of a gunnery sergeant. The scowl James remembered as a youth, however, was a lukewarm smile today.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Stodges said. “The dowager is in the silver drawing room.”
James nodded and followed Stodges across the marble vestibule. Priceless masterpieces from Rembrandt, Benjamin Marshall, Sawrey Gilpin, and Gerard Ter Borch hung on the walls. They turned down a hallway and James spotted a portrait of the old duke painted by renowned portrait painter Martin Archer Shee. The accuracy of the painting was remarkable and James stared at the dark, curling hair graying at the temples, aquiline nose, and mercurial blue eyes so similar to his own. The duke wasn’t smiling; rather his mouth was thin with a cynical twist, giving him the stubborn, yet arrogant look James remembered.
The irony of James’s current situation struck him. Just months ago he would have mocked anyone who even suggested he was the rightful heir. For his entire life, the mansion had been a taunting symbol of everything James had never been entitled to. He had been raised as the family outcast, only to suddenly learn that he rightfully owned it all.
Stodges opened the door of the silver drawing room, and James strode inside. Richly decorated with striped blue and silver silk drapes and a thick Oriental carpet, it was one of three drawing rooms in the house. The dowager duchess sat at a Roman-inspired pedestal card table with lion paw feet playing solitaire. As soon as she saw James, she set down her cards.
Stodges quietly departed and shut the door behind him.
Steel-blue eyes met James’s own. “So you’ve finally arrived. I thought you were wallowing away in a drunken stupor in that insignificant country estate.”
“What a splendid welcome. Did you not receive my note?”
She pushed back her chair and stood. “It’s been weeks. I expected you to come home sooner.”
Home
. This place was no more a home than the boarding school in which he had resided his entire childhood. The fact that his grandmother did not recognize this spoke volumes of her own character.
Her mouth thinned with displeasure, and she shot him a cool stare. “We have much to discuss. You have a responsibility to this house and the title.”
James made a show of glancing about the exquisite drawing room. “The mansion surely has suffered no ill effects during my absence. I’m confident you have kept all the servants in line.”
“Do not belittle me. You are now a duke.”
“Yes, about that. Are you certain of my legitimacy?”
She appeared momentarily flustered. “I told you that your father confessed to me on his deathbed. I had a solicitor look into the marriage license and it was properly recorded.”
“Ah, I see,” he said softly, mockingly. “But numerous questions have been plaguing me these past weeks. Why tell anyone? It is no secret you have never approved of my existence. Why repeat what the old duke said? Why not take it to your grave? Gregory is still the old duke’s son, and the title would have passed straight to him with no one the wiser. After all, he was raised and groomed to be the duke.”
The dowager’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Are you suggesting I lie? My heart will surely break.”
“Please save your dramatics for Drury Lane. We both know your heart is as soft as a paving stone. You never act unless there is a beneficial purpose for you and your coveted status in the ton.”
James had wondered about the dowager’s true motives ever since she had stormed the Old Bailey Courthouse and delivered the news of his father’s death.
“Come now,” James prodded. “No one else is present, and you are free to speak the truth. It has to do with Gregory, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she pointed a finger at his chest. “Now you listen to me. Since the time of the first Duke of Blackwood, the title has passed straight from father to son, and I have a responsibility to ensure its integrity. You are the true duke.”
In the Barrister's Bed Page 19