Rules of Attraction

by Christina Dodd

  Rubbing his hands again, Charles said, “No, sir. He wasn’t jealous at all.”

  Dougald barely maintained his gravity. Charles was enjoying this a little too much. As Dougald would be, if the situation were not so serious. “Charles, you over-step your bounds.”

  Charles cowered back to the far wall.

  After a long, hard stare, Dougald turned his attention back to Seaton. “Now, I want your confession, and I want it now. What foolish little action have you been taking?”

  Seaton glanced at Charles, then at Dougald. “Nothing. I haven’t been…”

  Dougald began to stand.

  Charles whimpered.

  Seaton changed his tone and his intent. “That is…I…I didn’t think that you knew…”

  Dougald reseated himself. “Confess.”

  Squaring his padded shoulders, Seaton said, “I’ll return it all.”

  Dougald didn’t have to feign confusion. “Return…it…all.”

  Seaton clasped his forehead. “It was that necklace that gave me away, wasn’t it? The one I took from Mrs. Grizzle?”

  Still not comprehending, Dougald stared at Seaton, his distant cousin, the man who was confessing…to the wrong crime.

  Charles took over the interrogation. “You took a necklace from Mrs. Grizzle?”

  Seaton glanced around and realized he had guessed wrong. He tried again. “Not the necklace? Then it was vases. Lady McCarn’s prize Ming vases. They were too big, but such a challenge I don’t know how anyone could expect I wouldn’t be tempted.”

  Dougald recovered enough to string words, and thoughts, together. “You took Lady McCarn’s prize Ming vases. You stole—”

  “Not stole. Stole is such an ugly word. I…gathered the vases. They look quite lovely in my bedchamber.” Clearly, Seaton didn’t know what to make of Dougald’s dumbfounded expression, and in a typically Seaton diversion, he shifted the blame. “It’s your fault, Lord Raeburn, that I needed to decorate my own bedchamber. You can’t expect a man of delicacy to reside in that disgrace of a room, and you wouldn’t spend the blunt to make my habitation worthy of me.”

  “I felt that the family rooms should be done first…” Dougald realized he was excusing himself to a thief, and snapped, “Redecorating your bedchamber doesn’t explain a stolen necklace. I assume you’re selling the jewelry for cash.”

  Seaton placed his hand on his chest. “I am a gentleman. I don’t sell the things I gather!”

  Baffled, Dougald tried to clarify. “You…keep them?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “I look at them.” As Seaton realized Dougald would allow him to live, he relaxed. He leaned back in his chair and in a chatty tone related, “I have quite an extensive collection. You can come and gaze on it sometime.”

  If Seaton was seeking to distract Dougald, he was doing a dazzling job. “You still have everything.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then I will take you up on your offer. You will return it all.”

  Seaton’s eyes widened. He sat up straight. His hands clenched. “Not really? To whom?”

  “The owners.”

  Panic filled Seaton’s voice. “People will not understand. They will think badly of me.”

  Charles used his most soothing tone. “A master such as you will be able to replace the items so that the owners will believe them simply misplaced.”

  “But I won’t have them.”

  “You can do it, or I’ll do it for you.”

  At Dougald’s less-than-subtle threat, Seaton gave a sob. “The jewelry? The ceramics? The paintings?”

  “Paintings?” Dougald could imagine Seaton taking a large painting off the wall, hiding it under his coat and slipping out.

  “Did I say paintings?” Seaton dabbed at his eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I meant…”

  “The paintings, too.” Dougald didn’t know whether to laugh or join Seaton in tears.

  “This is an outrage!”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Obviously the servants had to know about Seaton’s little idiosyncrasy.

  “I don’t have to submit to such an indignity.”

  “You do if you want to continue living here.” At least one of Dougald’s neighbors must have noticed the losses associated with Seaton’s visits.

  Seaton pulled his gloves out of his pocket and slapped them against his palm. “Such cruelty and lack of refinement would cause yet another stain on your reputation.”

  “If I have survived the rumors of murder, which you have taken such care to spread, I believe I could survive the ignominy of turning out my brigand heir.” Dougald couldn’t imagine what kind of rumors followed in Seaton’s wake.

  Seaton stood. “Such an ugly word—brigand. Very well. I shall do as you wish. But may the results be on your head!”

  Charles opened the door, and Seaton stalked out.

  As Charles shut the door, Dougald leaned his head into his hands. He was tired. He was worried. For the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do next. “Charles, do you think Seaton pulled the wool over our eyes?”

  Enigmatically, Charles replied, “I will speak to the detectives again.”

  Dougald lifted his head and stared at his valet, silently demanding a better answer.

  Charles yielded. “No, my lord, I suspect Sir Onslow is just as you accused—merely a petty thief.”

  “We have no other suspects.”

  “Not at this moment, my lord.”

  “You must continue to watch over Madame.”

  “As always,” Charles proclaimed.

  Another, lesser suspicion struck Dougald. “I suppose that diamond collar pin Seaton wears that looks so much like mine—is mine.”

  “I thought I had misplaced it.”

  Dougald met his valet’s cynically amused gaze. “I never liked it anyway.”

  25

  She would never be pleasured again. Morosely, Hannah sat in the afternoon sun in the aunts’ workroom and stitched the pieces of Prince Albert’s face together. The weight of a man, the press of his chest against hers, the sounds, the smells, the friction, the closeness…never again.

  “That’s Prince Albert’s eyebrow, not his chin!” Miss Minnie plucked the weaving out of Hannah’s hand.

  Miss Minnie was certainly cantankerous today.

  Hannah moved to sit next to Aunt Spring.

  “Would you thread me a needle, dear?” Aunt Spring suggested.

  The first time Hannah had left Dougald and his lovemaking behind, she had been stoic—because, she now realized, she’d been too much of a looby to realize what she was giving up. Now she knew. The scrape of a morning beard across her breasts when he suckled her. The texture of rough hair against her palms when she stroked his chest. Silken strands of his mane falling around her face when he kissed her. And he’d allowed Charles to cut his hair!

  To put in a proper appearance before Her Majesty, Charles had said.

  To spite her, Hannah thought.

  “Not that color, dear.” Aunt Spring pointed at the gold thread. “That color. Wherever is your mind?”

  Hannah blinked at her.

  “Never mind.” Aunt Spring gave her a gentle push. “I’ll get one of the serving maids to thread my needle.”

  Hannah made her way to the looms.

  Although if Dougald had been happy these last four days, Hannah had seen confounded little evidence of it. Rather he looked haggard, as if he’d been getting little peace and less sleep.

  Hannah hoped so. She hoped he was miserable. She hoped every time he saw her at the breakfast table, every time he heard her call to the aunts, every time he thought of her, he felt guilty, distressed, angry…but she couldn’t lie to herself. Actually, what she wanted him to feel was the torments of the flesh. She hoped he looked at her and his cock rose and crowed.

  Heaven knew she’d been dressing to encourage his refractory instincts. Every night she stayed awake late, stit
ching on her gowns—lowering the necklines, tightening the waists, adding a ruffle of lace on her petticoats or her pantalettes. Every day she made sure he viewed her cleavage, her ankle…her smile. He would never know she suffered when she gazed at him, imagining how empty her flesh would always be, how she would wither and grow old alone, without the comfort of a husband. A lover. Dougald.

  The treadles thumped and the shuttles flew as Aunt Isabel and Aunt Ethel wove the last bits of the Queen’s tapestry.

  The old women’s shoulders sagged, their eyes were bloodshot, but their lips were set in firm determination. Two days hence, just before noon, Queen Victoria would arrive in her royally outfitted train car. With the help of the maids, who fetched and carried anything the aunts might need, and Hannah, who organized and lent a hand, the tapestry would be complete and hanging on the wall in the great hall, majestic in its splendor.

  Hannah was satisfied she had done her part—in between imagining, with the faintest of smiles, how she could further torment Dougald. She had to move quickly; she had little time, after all, before she would leave Raeburn Castle. She had little time before she saw the Queen again, before she was introduced to the Burroughses and told them who she was.

  Her eyes narrowed. Dougald had better be willing to produce the packet of love letters as proof of her parentage, or she would be forced to…to…stay here until he did.

  She laughed bitterly.

  Aunt Ethel’s loom slowed. “What’s so funny, dear?”

  Hannah stared at her. “What?”

  Aunt Ethel handed her a piece of the weaving that would soon be placed within the tapestry. “Dear, your needlework is so delicate. Minnie outlined a crown there to be stitched. Would you like to work on it?”

  “Of course, ma’am, to help you is what I’m here for.” Hannah took the tapestry and dipped the already threaded needle into the weaving

  Dougald would produce her father’s love letters to her mother, because he had made it clear he would do anything to get rid of her.

  She had abandoned him.

  She hadn’t really tried to make their marriage work.

  Which just showed that man had rats in his garret. She’d done everything she could to make their marriage work, and nothing he had said had caused her the slightest doubt that her efforts had been of the highest order. No doubt. Not the slightest.

  He’d been the one at fault. For everything!

  “Dear, what are you doing? It’s supposed to be a crown of beaten gold, not a raw nugget.”

  Aunt Ethel snatched the tapestry away from Hannah while Hannah blinked in astonishment. A quick glance showed the needlework to be slightly less than perfect, yes, but she considered the aunts to have been remarkably unappreciative of her efforts to help them. Oh, perhaps she had been a little distracted, but surely—

  Aunt Isabel’s shuttle slowed. “Miss Setterington, dear, would you please go elsewhere? It irritates me when you sit there in a brown study. Brace up, girl! The Queen is coming!”

  Hannah dragged her attention to Aunt Isabel. “I irritate you?”

  Something about her expression must have alarmed the two old ladies, because Aunt Ethel muttered, “Now you’ve done it.”

  Aunt Isabel waved her hands. “No, no, not irritate. Only when I’m peckish, then everything irritates me.”

  “And Isabel must be hungry, for she’s been as cross as the colonel’s cat,” Aunt Ethel said. “You’d be doing me a favor, Miss Setterington, if you would seek out Mrs. Trenchard and see if tea is on its way up.”

  “One of the maids—”

  “No, not one of the maids!” Aunt Isabel caught herself. “I mean…I swear the maids wander off, their minds on their shattered love affairs, and they never deliver the message, and we’re up here famished. Please, Miss Setterington, we trust you.”

  That made sense to Hannah.

  Miss Minnie and Aunt Spring came to stand by the looms and watch her as she drifted out of the chamber in search of Mrs. Trenchard.

  “She’s walking well,” Aunt Ethel said. “Her ankle has healed nicely.”

  “Yes, but she’s brooding.” Aunt Spring held her needle, gold thread dangling. “Now we have Dougald and Hannah brooding.”

  “I’ve had to take out every piece of work she’s done for the last two days, and there’s no time for this.” Exasperation sounded plain in Miss Minnie’s voice.

  “I vow, when she hurt her foot she lost her mind,” Aunt Ethel said.

  Aunt Isabel’s chin set. “Perhaps we should sit them both down and give them a good lecture.”

  Aunt Spring patted Aunt Isabel’s shoulder. “Now, dear, we shouldn’t interfere.”

  “But we will,” Miss Minnie said. “If they don’t work it out on their own soon, we will definitely interfere.” She swept them all with a leveling glance.

  “Please do remember my conviction.”

  “Minnie, I told you, that’s the balmiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Aunt Ethel said.

  “I never wager unless I’m sure I’m right.” Miss Minnie cracked a rarely used and utterly complacent smile. “Now, back to work, ladies. We have the Queen’s tapestry to finish.”

  * * *

  Charles caught Hannah as she descended the stairs. “Mademoiselle Setterington, I was given a message for you from His Lordship.”

  Hannah stared down at Dougald’s valet. He stood a step below her, allowing her an exceptional view of his bald spot. He had been hanging about a lot lately. She’d glimpsed him watching her as she walked the corridors, she’d seen him peering at her when she spoke to Seaton, she had even had him escort her from her bedchamber to the breakfast room.

  If she’d been in the mood to care, his obsessive gawking and his constant presence would have annoyed her. But what did it matter if her old enemy hated her for not leaving as his master demanded? She would be gone soon enough, and Charles could find Dougald a real wife, one who was dewy and meek and deferential. And stupid. And ugly. And infertile. With a hidden mean streak.

  Cheered by the thought, Hannah said, “I thought His Lordship was out inspecting the gardens.” Then she wished she had kept her mouth shut, because if she didn’t care she wouldn’t have remembered Dougald’s schedule.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle Setterington, but one of the maids brought me this and asked that I give it to you.” He offered the folded paper. “As you know, I live to serve you and the master.”

  Hannah wondered if wild laughter was inappropriate, then decided it was too much effort. “Very well.” She accepted the note with ill grace and stuffed it into her apron pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “It’s not sealed, so I’m sure you read it. What does it say?”

  Charles snapped to attention. “I do not read the master’s letters to his beloved wife.”

  “Sh.” Hannah glanced around. A maid knelt on one of the upper steps, scrubbing and waxing. In the corridor, a footman balanced on a ladder, dusting the cornice. If they had heard Charles identify her as Dougald’s wife, they gave no notice.

  “Madame, we cannot keep your title a secret. Everyone must know soon.”

  “Not until I’m gone.”

  “You’re not leaving.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  Charles stepped closer and lowered his voice. “His Lordship cannot wed another woman because of the shameful rumors of your murder. If you divorce, it will be expensive and disgraceful, and again he will not be able to wed. So one way or another, you must stay.”

  Hannah watched his expressive nostrils quiver. Charles wanted her to stay? How unlikely. Yet…why would he say it if it were not true?

  She knew the answer to that. She wanted to leave, and Charles made it his policy to want the opposite.

  Hannah snorted.

  “Completely unladylike,” Charles scolded.

  “I have to find Mrs. Trenchard.” Turning her back on the pompous little gump, she hurried down the stairs.

  “In his note, His
Lordship might be expressing his desire to see you immediately,” Charles called.

  She walked backward down the corridor. “He doesn’t always get what he desires.”

  “If I can help it…”

  She turned the corner into the sparkling clean great hall and Charles’s voice faded. Did he always have to have the last word?

  Yet…she slowed. Curiosity nibbled at her. Why had Dougald sent her a note? She drew it from her pocket. He had scarcely spoken to her these last days, and now he had taken the time to write a note and send it in from the gardens. What did it mean? Was this a drastic attempt to get rid of her before Her Majesty arrived? Or did he yearn to beg her pardon, to beg her to stay?

  Moving as cautiously as if the note contained an ambush, she spread the sheet and read the simple message.

  Hannah, come to the tower room in the east wing. I have an idea for the Queen’s visit, and I wish to consult with you.

  Not an insult. Not a plea. She stared at the thin, black handwriting. Just a request that she attend him. Consult with him…consult with you. He never wished to consult with her, so what did this mean? Was it some kind of apology? Did he want to get her alone and beg her forgiveness?

  Outrageous. Absurd.

  She liked the notion.

  She started back.

  Of course, she wouldn’t forgive Dougald. He didn’t deserve forgiveness—stupid man who thought she was responsible for part of their breakup. It wasn’t true. It just wasn’t.

  As she approached the stairway, she looked for Charles, but he had disappeared. She breathed a sigh of relief; she didn’t want him to know she had given in and read Dougald’s note. Stopping, she read it again. Why in the east wing tower?

  Hannah passed the maid on the stairway.

  Perhaps Dougald thought of taking Queen Victoria to the top to show her the view.

  As she trod the corridors to the east wing, Hannah saw only one footman, carrying a bucket of sudsy water.

  Perhaps Dougald had heard how Queen Victoria liked to hear local legends. Perhaps he had some fanciful notion of telling her the tale of Lord Raeburn’s bride and how that wife had loved unwisely, been imprisoned by her husband, and jumped to her death. It wasn’t a bad idea; the picturesque tale would probably enthrall Her Majesty.