“I’m not an amateur. You consulted with me for years. Since I—”
“Was a babe in swaddling?” he finished with spiteful flourish.
“Oh!” She gasped at that gibe to her apparent youth. True, she had been an adolescent when they first began writing to each other, but she was no child. Not then. Not now. She had just turned twenty.
Papa had oft teased that she had never been a child, that she had come directly into this world wide-eyed and ready to work alongside him. An old soul, he had called her. “Did you have any issue with anything I imparted to you in my correspondence?”
He pressed his lips together in a mutinous line. “As you well know, most of my inquiries were superficial in nature.”
She gawked at him. “Are you that unwilling to give me even the smallest amount of credit?”
“Much of our letters was personal,” he flung out, his eyes snapping darkly.
She hesitated, pondering that and realizing it was indeed true. He might have reached out initially with medical questions, but their correspondence had developed into something much more casual and friendly in nature.
She considered him carefully, noting the muscle ticking angrily in his jaw. He was indeed heated over her deception, and she realized it was partly due to this. He felt betrayed.
“Are you a trained physician?” he challenged.
His very question squashed her flash of guilt. Given that females were not permitted to attend medical schools in Britain, she did not think that to be a fair question. She would have to travel abroad to France or America if she wished to become a physician, and only if she were accepted into a medical college there. She was no stranger to the difficulties such a task presented. Few women, even abroad, were admitted into medical schools.
She pursed her lips before replying, “It’s not so easy for my sex. Women are not permitted to be doctors . . . but I trained beside my father for years. I may not be a doctor, but I’m no amateur either. I have skills and—”
“How many?” He nodded once, prompting her to answer.
“How many what?” she asked with a sense of wariness.
“How many others have you written to pretending to be your father? How many others have you duped?”
Oh. She shifted the weight on her feet. “You make it sound criminal.”
“I am no legal expert, but I am fairly certain it is criminal. At the very least it’s immoral.”
She lifted her chin in defiance, refusing to let him shame her. It was easy for him to judge. The man was the heir to a dukedom. He could do anything or be anything. He would not know limitations.
If she lived in a different world, if she had been born a man, she would have applied and been admitted to medical school. As a little girl she had once wanted that. She had foolishly thought it was a future she could claim for herself . . . before Papa had explained to her that such things did not happen. He’d told her his own alma mater, Middlesex, would never admit a female. Nor would any of the other medical schools in the kingdom.
“I’m helping people. I was helping you and everyone else I corresponded with. You took my advice, superficial though it may have been. Do not deny it.”
“Fortunately none of your advice has killed anyone . . . that we are aware.”
“It has not,” she replied in outrage. “I have not killed anyone!”
“How many?” he pressed again, returning to his earlier question. “How many others have you been corresponding with whilst pretending to be your father?”
“Oh.” Several moments slid by before she finally, reluctantly, answered. “Three.” Then, she grudgingly added, “Maybe ten.”
“Ten?” His incredulity succeeded in embarrassing her, despite her personal avowal to not let this man shame her. “This madness must stop, Miss Langley.”
She nodded once, petulantly, despising the way he pronounced her name—so very crisply and correctly. As though he were an exasperated schoolmaster or aggrieved governess.
And yet he was correct. She knew that now.
It had to stop. No more corresponding as Papa.
She had never considered that it would come back around to plague her. Perhaps it was shortsighted and foolish, but she had not imagined any adverse consequences to her actions. She saw only that she was able to help people beyond Brambledon. She’d never had that kind of reach before, and it had gone to her head.
She did not want someone else showing up on her doorstep. She would have to content herself with treating the denizens of Brambledon. At least that did not involve duplicity.
He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Do not count on me to keep your deception and trickery a secret.”
She canted her head, wariness creeping over her. “What are you saying?”
“I referred you to several of my fellow officers. Durham? He’s an army surgeon.”
She nodded once, recalling him. “Yes.”
“Do you correspond with him?”
“Yes,” she admitted, dragging the word out slowly. “We have exchanged a few letters over the years.”
“Of course. I am responsible for that. You’ve made me complicit in your deceit. I must write to all and sundry and inform them that they’ve been receiving advice from a charlatan.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Why, you—you spiteful—”
“If I am full of spite, Miss Langley,” he cut in, his voice sharp as a whip, “it is because I have been duped by a fraud.” He stepped close, invading her space with all his crackling anger. “I have wasted precious time to come here and see you when I could have been locating someone who could actually help the Duchess of Birchwood and ease her suffering.”
“If you would only tell me what ails her, I could be that someone to help her. Perhaps you could take me to see her and—”
“Are you mad?” He let loose one harsh burst of laughter.
“You know I’m not ignorant when it comes to medical matters. Think back on our letters. Did I never once supply you with useful information?” she challenged.
“Right now I prefer to forget them.”
“A woman can know things.” She squared her shoulders, hot indignation burning through her, eating at her composure. “We are not merely decorative creatures. We can be more than wives a-and brood mares!”
His dark eyebrows winged high. “I don’t doubt the intelligence of women . . . I merely doubt your integrity. And as for your knowledge, I do not trust in it.”
A hissed breath escaped her.
He continued, “As soon as I reach London, I shall be writing to Durham and all those I once recommended you to so that no one else falls victim to your trickery.” He held aloft a finger. “Perhaps I’ll even write to your local lord mayor and let him know of the deceiver he has in his community.”
“You’ll . . . expose me?” She flattened a hand against her chest. She had not thought . . . not imagined . . .
“For the protection of all, yes.” He scanned the gardens again, clearly moving on in his mind from thoughts of her. He had no concern at the effect of his words. He would ruin her. He thought her that deserving of that. “Is there a gate where I might exit from the garden?” He only wanted to leave in the speediest way possible.
Her mind whirred, her heart racing. If he destroyed her reputation at Brambledon and no one came to her for her services, then what would she have? What would she do with herself? What would she be?
Heavens, the village might have to get an actual doctor to replace her father if they no longer had faith in her.
“Oh, you sanctimonious prig!”
He scanned the garden anew, seemingly indifferent to her accusation as he searched. “Ah. I see a gate. Well then.” He looked back at her.
Her reputation as a healer in these parts meant everything to her. She could not lose that. He could not take that from her. She had to find a way to stop him.
He gave a curt wave. “I’m away then.”
/> She glared at him—not that it appeared to affect him. He turned smartly on his heels. She scowled after him, loathing warring with a sharp sense of desperation inside her.
She had to prove to him that she knew what she was about. Then he would forget all about her subterfuge. He would forget and forgive and she could go on as normal with her reputation intact.
Chapter 7
Constantine was intercepted at the front of the grand house. His hopes of slipping away without having to encounter another member of the household were dashed, unfortunately.
“Sinclair,” Warrington hailed, stepping in front of him. Clearly the man had been lying in wait, knowing he would depart through the garden.
Constantine peered rather desperately over the man’s shoulder in the general direction of the stables, his desired destination. His usual equilibrium fluttered like frayed ribbons in the wind. Coming here had been a mistake. A colossal waste of time. The doctor was dead and he’d been corresponding with a charlatan all this time.
The betrayal cut keenly.
The Duke of Warrington clapped a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that felt somewhat forced. Constantine stared at the hand and then looked back at the man’s face.
“You are not leaving so soon, are you?” Warrington inquired.
“That was my intention, yes, Your Grace.” There was nothing here for him, after all.
“You must stay the night. Half the day is lost already. Stay and you can leave at first light. It’s the sensible plan.”
The last thing he wanted was to be stuck beneath the roof with this family. He could ride a few hours and then stay the night at an inn. At least there he would not be forced to talk to anyone and make pleasantries.
“I would not want to impose—”
“Nonsense! No imposition.”
Constantine studied the man’s face, wondering why it mattered so much to him where he stayed the night. Certainly he did not care.
Warrington’s gaze skittered away from him toward the house. Constantine tracked his gaze where it rested on a window. Framed within that window stood the duchess, looking on the sight of them with a hopeful expression.
Of course, the duke’s lovely wife had put him up to this. For whatever reason, she wanted Constantine to stay the night.
“Let us ply you with fine food and a comfortable bed. You’ll not find that at any nearby inns. Cook trained in France. It is the least we can offer you after coming all this way to only be met with disappointment.”
He was making a strong argument. Constantine enjoyed fine food. Living in a tent and eating food prepared over a campfire had given him an intense appreciation for tasty fare.
Warrington nodded toward the house. “Come now. You can rest in your chamber until dinner. We’ll leave you in peace.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “You’ve my vow on that. I’ll see to it that no one disturbs you until then.”
He looked sharply at the nobleman. Was Constantine so very easy to read then? Did he have a sign looped about his neck declaring himself anxious to be rid of this place and, most notably, Miss Nora Langley?
“Very well. I cannot refuse such a generous offer of hospitality.” He would not wish word getting back to Birchwood that he refused the hospitality of a peer. He was trying to prove himself a fitting heir, after all.
“Splendid.” The duke motioned him toward the house. “Let’s get you settled then.”
If Nora thought having dinner with Mr. Sinclair might work in her favor, she was mistaken. There was no softening of him toward her. He sat stiff lipped, largely ignoring her as they dined. He spoke to Marian and Nathaniel, but not Nora. Oh, if she asked a direct question of him he would offer a monosyllable response. No more than that. The barest courtesy was only extended to her. Eventually she gave up and finished her meal in silence, attempting to not pout so obviously.
She understood he was displeased with her, but how was she to win him over if he would not speak to her? From the way he avoided even looking at her, she knew he was still angry and as determined as ever to expose her to Durham and the others. He’d said as much and gave no indication that he had changed his mind.
They retired to the drawing room after dinner. Her brother-in-law was not one of those men who abandoned his wife at the first opportunity. Quite the opposite. They spent their evenings together . . . and even much of their days. They sincerely enjoyed each other.
Warrington occupied the sofa beside Marian, smiling at her in his usual besotted fashion as she regaled them with a tale of Mrs. Pratt’s pig that once invaded their garden. It was a story that largely featured Nora as she had been the one to straddle the beast and ride it back home to their neighbor.
In fact, most of Marian’s stories this evening had revolved around Nora. She frowned. Amusing anecdotes all with Nora at the center.
Marian’s laughter eased. “That’s our Nora. Intrepid as the day is long.”
Sinclair dutifully followed Marian’s gaze to Nora. Despite her sister’s rousing affirmation, his eyes remained coolly unmoved.
Nora sat ramrod straight on the sofa, trying to appear natural beneath their scrutiny.
Marian reached for her glass, but something happened. She lost her grip. It slipped ever so slightly, spilling her drink down the front of her gown. “Oh, clumsy me!” she exclaimed as her husband quickly claimed a napkin for her.
Warrington helped her to her feet. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Sinclair rose to his feet, too.
“Oh, please, don’t get up.” Marian waved one hand in reassurance while she settled her other hand on her husband’s arm. “Stay. Finish your drink. Nora will keep you company.”
Nora stifled a groan. Her sister was the height of obvious. Ever since she had married, ever since Charlotte had married, she had been incorrigible, pelting man after man at Nora. Her matchmaking efforts were unsubtle.
Only Nora could not believe her sister was attempting matchmaking now with Sinclair. The man was scarcely civil to her.
The door thudded shut after them, and it was Nora, Sinclair and the footman in the corner.
Silence fell.
Sinclair looked none too pleased, but that would be no different than how he looked in general . . . at least in their short acquaintance.
She sat in the swelling silence, trying not to let the awkwardness of the moment overtake her. No easy task when her sister and brother-in-law abandoned her to the company of Sinclair in what was an obvious attempt at matchmaking.
She rubbed her sweating palms on her skirts. Sweating palms was a physiological reaction to a stressful situation. Nora supposed this qualified. Sweaty palms. Dilated eyes. Irregular breathing. Nausea even. Yes, yes, yes, yes. At least she wasn’t retching at his feet.
She breathed in and out slowly, trying to ease her nerves.
She glanced to the liveried footman. Danny, she believed his name. He stared ahead, not glancing at them, acting as though he was oblivious to their very existence, but, of course, he was not. Of course, he was listening to their every word and would no doubt report it all later below stairs to those who were interested.
Perhaps Marian was not attempting to matchmake. Nora considered this. It was rather extreme, after all, to imagine herself with a duke. Nora would be the first to declare such a thing absurd. Unfortunately, her sister did not recognize that. Apparently she thought a handsome, virile duke was within Nora’s reach.
Nora dipped her head to hide her smirk. It would be easier for Nora to rope the moon than snare the heir to a dukedom. Even if she wanted to . . . which she resoundingly did not.
Marian could accomplish such a thing. She had accomplished it, after all, because she was Marian. It was within her reach—obviously. With her beauty and grace, Marian naturally slid into the role of duchess. She’d actually served as a companion to a duke’s daughter for a time before Papa died and she had to return home. Marian knew how that world functioned.
Nora did not know or care to know. She actually chafed ag
ainst the binds of this life and it wasn’t even her life. Not really. This was Marian’s life. Nora was merely included in it.
Perhaps Marian was not matchmaking as much as attempting to soothe over Sinclair’s ruffled feathers. By leaving him alone with me?
Nora almost giggled at that. She was not known for her charming disposition. It usually did not take a gentleman long to make his excuses and leave her company.
Sinclair had not hidden how very aggrieved he was over her deception. Marian had tried to reassure him, little good it had done. He’d not disguised his contempt of her during their garden stroll.
A glimpse of motion drew her attention back to him as he lifted his glass for a drink. She watched him, the way his throat moved, tendons working in the lamplight. He drank deeply, as though trying to empty his glass. Of course he was anxious to take his leave.
Why should he be any different from any other gentleman she ever met?
Heavens knew he was eager to make his escape. When he’d left her in the gardens she thought he would be leaving then.
But he’d remained. Now she had a second chance at him. A second chance to change his mind about her before he ruined her reputation and the only patient she would be allowed to treat in Brambledon would be the random chicken.
Charm, however elusive for her, was something she was going to have to implement. She cleared her throat. “What made you decide to stay, Mr. Sinclair?” She fixed a smile to her face.
He stared at her thoughtfully as though debating whether or not he would answer her.
Speak. Please speak. It would only heighten the awkwardness if he chose to ignore her.
At last, his voice filled the air between them. “Your brother-in-law can be very persuasive.”
“Nathaniel?” She blinked in some surprise. Nate had gone after him and convinced him to remain? Why had he done that? What had he said? He was not a garrulous sort, and she hardly thought he cared enough about Sinclair to make such an effort to keep him here.
“Yes. Although I believe he was prompted by your sister.”
“Ah.” That, she could believe. Nathaniel would do just about anything for her. “I think it’s more accurate to say my sister is persuasive.”
The Duke Effect EPB Page 5