The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Then why didn’t she?”

  “She had no chance. Richard died in a carriage accident just outside London. The first to be notified was Mr. Goodman, who was Richard’s solicitor at the time and became one of the trustees after Richard’s death. It was he who carried the news to Westcourt, then stayed to see after the duke’s affairs. She couldn’t escape without Goodman following her. Which is why she concocted her own plans.”

  He stroked her neck. “Couldn’t she confide her fears?”

  “Her diary makes it clear that Goodman didn’t believe her when she swore Chester had killed Richard. Easier to think grief had addled her wits. Richard had entrusted Montrose’s safety to her. She knew Chester was evil. She knew the significance of the wounds on Richard’s head that the trustees dismissed.”

  John turned her to face him. “What wounds?”

  “Richard did not die because his carriage overturned. Chester ran him into the ditch, then bashed both Richard and his coachman on the head while they were too stunned to defend themselves. His own driver also died. But no trace was ever found of the passenger people had noted when they passed his carriage just before the accident. Unfortunately, they couldn’t identify the passenger, and Chester swore he’d not authorized his coachman to use his carriage that day.”

  “So she feared Montrose was next.”

  “Chester wanted the title. With Richard gone, only a two-year child stood between him and his desire. He’d come down from Cambridge only two weeks earlier, so he wasted no time going after it. Would you trust him to leave Montrose alone?”

  “No.” He sighed, drawing her against his side. “How did she smuggle Montrose out of the house?”

  “She and Richard often kept Montrose in their suite, sometimes for days at a time. The staff considered it eccentric, if not downright scandalous, but their graces were young enough to be excused, and it set a precedent. She kept Montrose with her from the moment of Richard’s death and barred the nursery staff from her rooms. Mr. Goodman was appalled, but the staff knew Montrose eased her grief. Several people saw him over the next week. After she helped her maid slip out in the dead of night, she maintained the pretense that he was with her for another three days before admitting that he was gone.”

  “To put off pursuit.”

  She nodded. “The duke’s secretary, Bernard, was her only ally – a temporary one, for the trustees had their own staff. Bernard left within the month. It was he who had purchased the Scotland property. She let him reveal that purchase, which focused the pursuit in that direction. The French maid naturally focused attention on France.”

  “Where did she really go?”

  “London.”

  “Why? If the maid had allies in town, they would have stepped forward long ago.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what Francine told people about Montrose, not that it matters. The investigator can trace her once I show him the diary.”

  “It is very likely the duke is dead,” he reminded her quietly. “London is not very healthy.”

  “Perhaps, but it might also explain why she hasn’t told him who he is. Chester had never met her, so she could have watched him without fear of recognition. If she saw his evil growing worse, she might have concluded that bringing Montrose forward would jeopardize his life, betraying the duchess’s trust. Chester has no son who will feel dispossessed when Montrose claims the title, so there is little urgency in settling matters.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Perhaps not, but the investigator will find the truth once he knows where to start.”

  He drew her head down on his shoulder as her lids drooped shut. “Sleep,” he murmured. “You need it.”

  She ought to move, but she was too comfortable. And now that she had a plan, she could finally relax. She slept.

  Chapter Twelve

  Richard is frustrated because the deputy minister is perpetually busy – or so the man claims. I think he’s avoiding Richard so he can ignore the problem. Government grinds so slowly one wonders how anything

  moves ahead. But Richard will persevere.

  Duchess of Westfield, June 1786

  John pushed aside his breakfast and skimmed the accumulated mail. Or tried. Fog shrouded his mind, making yesterday’s revelations sound like a Radcliffe novel. Murder. Mayhem. Missing heirs. His head felt ready to burst.

  Eight hours in a carriage with the lady who’d refused his offer had been painful. He still couldn’t believe she’d said no. Didn’t Faith understand how much she would suffer if she tried to live alone? The law offered few respectable choices for spinsters, and custom reduced those even further. Wedding a social inferior was better than life as a companion, which was her only real alternative. Loss of virtue made a governess post impossible. And if she was right about her family, living with them as a poor relation would keep her miserable.

  Other positions would bar her from society, assuming she could find one. No one would hire her as a servant, or even a housekeeper, unless she lied about her breeding. She lacked the skills to assist a dressmaker. Shopkeepers rarely looked outside their families for help. The stage. Prostitution…

  It didn’t bear thinking of.

  He must convince her that marriage was her best choice. Granted, it would weaken her ties to her class. A low-bred female could wed an aristocrat and have her children accepted even if she wasn’t. But a male could never do so. He would remain forever in his own station, as would his wife and children.

  The more John considered her refusal, the less he understood it. Shock might explain her first reaction, but she’d moved beyond shock long before they’d reached town, accepting her change of fortune and planning how best to help the staff survive Chester’s wrath. She’d shown remarkable resilience and a steely spine that could weather any storm. Her intelligence was acute. She had enjoyed their lovemaking as much as he, which should have reconciled her to the match.

  Sweep my dearest Faith into matrimony…

  Reginald had implied that the duke might do so. Was that Faith’s dream, too? Was that why she’d suddenly decided the duke might be alive?

  It was a ridiculous notion on all counts. Despite her feeble attempts to explain why a duke of thirty-two might shirk his duty, she must know that no aristocrat would hide from responsibility. Duty was bred into lords, especially high ones. If it turned out that she was right, then the ninth Westfield was a coward. Such a man would never step forward to help an unknown and unexpected ward who had already ruined herself. Faith was too sheltered to understand aristocratic thinking.

  John steepled his hands under his chin and frowned. If she was that sheltered, then he must be patient, for she would accept the truth only through bitter experience. All he could do in the meantime was protect her while they chased the ghost of the ninth duke.

  The duchess’s diary raised puzzling questions. Why had Richard appointed Goodman to a trustee post when he knew Goodman didn’t believe that Chester was evil? Shouldn’t he have chosen men dedicated to protecting his family at all cost?

  John knew Chester was a cad, and not just because the man had sold Faith to Bitstaff. Chester had broken every rule gentlemen supposedly lived by. And he was no stranger to crime. Even a quick glance through the estate ledger raised questions about his honesty. John had been pondering what to do when Faith had diverted him. It was another reason he must call on the trustees without delay.

  He’d known from the moment he’d spotted those inconsistencies that rescuing Westcourt was a dream he would never realize. Chester did not intend to renovate the house. He would use John’s reports to extract money from the trustees, then spend that money on himself, telling Lady Catherine and the others that the trustees had decided repairs were too costly. Faith would be furious when she found out.

  On the thought, she appeared in the doorway.

  “Good morning.” He nodded toward the sideboard. “Shall I have Treburn fix you a plate, or would you prefer to help you
rself?”

  “Don’t bother your butler.” She scooped up eggs and ham, then poured coffee. “The house is larger than I expected.” They’d been too tired for a tour last night.

  “It was originally two houses that I combined into one.”

  “Is that usual in town?”

  “No, though it does happen occasionally. My office had outgrown the ground floor, so when the neighboring house became available, I bought it. The first and second floors are for personal use. My students live upstairs.”

  “You have students?”

  “Four. All architects teach. They won’t bother you, though. They have their own entrance and staircase, and they never venture into my private quarters.”

  “They wouldn’t bother me anyway.” She shrugged, studying his dining room. It was the first room he’d redone after expanding his office. He’d covered three walls with deep red silk, then enlarged the windows overlooking Hanover Square until they filled the fourth. Using slender iron glazing bars instead of the usual wood made the entire wall appear to be glass.

  “Breathtaking,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Because it is unique – until next month. I’m incorporating the system into Mr. Fairview’s house.”

  “You must love light.”

  “Of course. The worst house I ever worked on was an early Palladian manor whose designer had carried the philosophy of blank wall space to extremes. Its tiny windows made even the drawing room look like a dungeon, and the rest of the place was worse. The owner was burning a fortune in candles.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Enlarged the existing windows, installed new windows, then added a dome to bring light into the interior.” He shook his head. “I will never understand why people embrace impractical ideas in the name of fashion. If you can’t see your surroundings, what is the point in having them?”

  “Fashion is rarely practical,” she pointed out, spreading honey on a piece of toast. “It must change often and cannot repeat itself. How else can we know who is fashionable and who is not?”

  “I prefer comfort over fashion any day.”

  “But you would make a poor living if everyone followed suit. No one would refurbish their homes.”

  “You have a point, though the refurbishing I do is usually part of a larger project, such as adding modern conveniences or correcting structural defects. Without regular maintenance, a building will fail. Witness Westcourt.”

  She nodded, then changed the subject. “We must find the investigator’s direction today so we can speak to his staff before Chester turns them against us—”

  “Why would he? He told us the search was over, so he can hardly expect us to check on its progress. Besides, Bow Street considers truth before rank. They won’t toss us out without a hearing, no matter what Chester claims.”

  “Bow Street has nothing to do with this. Chester hired a private investigator, not a runner.”

  John frowned. Very few men engaged in such work. Most were either incompetent or venal, which was why nearly everyone hired runners if they needed such services. He knew of only one investigator who could be trusted. Was Chester stupid enough to hire him when his own behavior was suspect? “Which one?”

  “Lord Portland. He has a reputation for discretion as well as tenaciousness.”

  “I know.” Relieved, yet oddly disturbed, he summoned a footman and requested pen and paper.

  Faith’s brows shot up as he scribbled a request for a meeting at Alex Portland’s earliest convenience. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “We’ve been friends since I redesigned his country house three years ago. He despises dishonesty, which makes one wonder why Chester hired him. Even if he knows the duke is dead, he should never give Alex an excuse to pry into his affairs. Not if the duchess was right about his crimes.” Alex was very, very thorough. And he never failed.

  The footman left with John’s message.

  “Why does a lord with a country estate work as an investigator?” asked Faith, frowning.

  “He loves puzzles.” John shrugged. “He’s an earl’s younger son who earned his title tracking down French spies and English traitors during the war. The estate and fortune came from his grandmother. But he prefers investigations to agriculture. He’s very good.”

  “Then he will likely still be in France.”

  “I doubt it. Alex would never go to France without proof that Montrose actually went there. Chester’s orders don’t constitute proof.” And since he’d seen Alex only last week…

  Faith swallowed a bite of ham. “That sounds encouraging.”

  “Very. His mind remains open until he amasses all the facts. And he hates dishonor, greed, and selfishness. That’s what motivated nearly everyone he hunted for the government.”

  “You know him well.”

  “As well as anyone can – he won’t discuss large chunks of his life, so no one truly knows him.” They’d grown close before Alex received his title, so John had never felt wary of him. Alex was one of the few gentlemen he knew who cared more about character than breeding. Their friendship belied Soane’s strictures about remembering his place, but his mother would have approved. She had tried to instill in him the best traits of all classes, which made him comfortable with a variety of people. Alex had the same outlook, perhaps because he’d so often lived as a member of the lower classes while pursuing his investigations.

  John finished his coffee, then regaled Faith with tales of Lord and Lady Portland. By the time Treburn appeared with Alex’s reply, Faith’s mouth hung open.

  Treburn extended his salver. “For you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Alex was home, as expected. “He will see us immediately. Are you finished.”

  She nodded. “That was fast.”

  “He lives two streets over. We’ll walk.”

  * * * *

  “John!” Alex clapped him on the shoulder before ushering him into his study. He was a tall man with dark hair. Pale blue eyes gleamed in a scarred face capable of scaring dogs, children, and timid maidens. “Good to see you, but what the devil is so urgent?”

  “We have information about one of your cases.” John introduced Faith, adding, “She’s the Duke of Westfield’s ward.”

  Alex raised one brow. “No one mentioned a ward.”

  “Hardly a surprise,” said Faith. “It has no bearing on finding him.”

  A maid arrived with a tea tray.

  “What can you tell me about the duke’s fate?” asked John when they were again alone.

  “You know my investigations are confidential.”

  John frowned. “All right. Let’s try this. Have you spoken to the trustees?”

  “Why?”

  “I have urgent business with them, but I don’t have their names. Lord Chester claims the original trustees retired some time ago. Since he refuses to identify their replacements, no one at Westcourt can apprise them of trouble without going through Chester.”

  “That isn’t proper.”

  “I know. Your quest is legitimate, as is Westcourt’s need for my own services. But I’ve discovered that Lord Chester filters all requests, passing on only what he wants the trustees to know. I suspect he filters their responses as well. And he is prone to exaggeration if not outright distortion.”

  “A grave charge.” Alex pursed his lips.

  “But true.” He shook his head. “I found proof that he has embezzled thousands from the estate”—Faith gasped—“and lied to the family and Westcourt dependents. His misconduct began the moment he assumed the steward’s post.” As fury exploded through Faith’s eyes, he laid a hand over hers and squeezed. This wasn’t the place for questions.

  “Lord Chester approached me as spokesman for the trustees,” said Alex slowly. “I thought nothing of it as he is intimately involved in my commission. He charged me with proving the duke’s fate.”

  “A legitimate quest, as I said. Miss Harper also seeks that inf
ormation, since the man is her guardian.”

  Faith nodded. “I believe he may be alive, in which case he will need protection until Chester can be prosecuted. Embezzlement?” she added, turning to John.

  “We will discuss that later.” He turned to Alex. “It is obvious that the trustees are lax. Neither they nor any representative has visited the estate or examined the books since Goodman was there—” He glanced at Faith.

  “—nineteen years ago.”

  “Chester already claims the title when doing business with underlings. I did not discover his true standing until after I arrived to do a preliminary survey.”

  “He probably is the duke,” Alex reminded him.

  “But not yet, which is why we are here. Who are the current trustees?”

  “Meeks, Donaldson, and MacPherson. Meeks is a solicitor with offices at Lincoln’s Inn. The others are with Cray’s Bank on the Strand.”

  John again turned to Faith, raising his brow.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of them. Even the bank has changed. Westfield always used Child’s.”

  “Odd,” said Alex. “Why would the bank change?”

  “Perhaps Child’s asked questions Lord Chester didn’t wish to answer,” said John. “I will pursue that later. How goes your search for the duke?”

  “Slow.” Alex relaxed. “Francine DuBois covered her tracks very well. No one by that name took the packet to France.”

  “She may have used a false name.”

  “Which would have required getting papers in that name. Prying out the names of women who obtained travel passes in July 1788 is arduous, but I have a man working on it. He will then have to verify their identities, which will take time. Until I have some idea where she went, there is little point in traveling there myself.”

  Faith snorted. “Chester claims that you have been in France for two months, found the information you seek, and are due back next week.”

  Alex scowled. “He knows better. France is much larger than England. Until I know which district to search, there is no point in travel. At the moment I’m seeking her earlier employers. One of them might recall her background.”