“After his father-in-law died, he took over and expanded operations, amassing significant wealth. He and his wife had one child, a son named Thomas Franklin Grigg, born in 1816.”
Wick made the mental calculation. “That would make Grigg’s son four-and-twenty today. Do you know what happened to him after his father’s death?”
“The specifics of that will take longer to trace, but I was able to ascertain a few facts. After Grigg’s business was ruined and he took his own life, his wife and child were left destitute. They lived with her relatives, moving from home to home. Eventually, when the boy was old enough, he pursued a career in the Church.”
Bea’s gaze collided with Wick’s: the shock in her eyes told him that she’d come to the same conclusion that he had. Male, early twenties, position in the Church—that described one person in her immediate circle.
“You don’t think Grigg’s son is…Frank Varnum?” she said to Wick.
“Varnum, you say?” Lugo cocked his head, his brown eyes alert.
“Yes, he’s the curate of the village church.” She hesitated. “He’s very nice.”
“Nice has nothing to do with it,” Wick said grimly. “He was around when all the attacks happened. If he is indeed Grigg’s son, then he has motive as well: revenge for his father.”
“In my inquiries, I encountered the name Varnum.” Lugo had removed a small notebook from his burgundy frock coat and was flipping through the pages. “Ah, yes. Varnum was the married surname of Mrs. Grigg’s sister, with whom she and her son stayed for some time after her husband’s death.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.” Certainty filled Wick. “Frank Varnum and Thomas Franklin Grigg must be one and the same, which makes Varnum our most likely suspect.”
Bea gnawed on her lip. “You’re right, even though I wish you weren’t.”
“You’ve a tender heart, angel.” Wick placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “But you mustn’t forget what this villain has done and what he’s capable of.”
“I’ll need another few days to follow the trail of Thomas Franklin Grigg,” Lugo said. “I should then be able to confirm whether or not he is indeed this Frank Varnum of which you speak. In the meantime, I urge you to alert those on your estate of the possible connection. Better safe than sorry.”
“Thank you, sir.” Beatrice nodded. “That is excellent advice.”
“We have one suspect, a very likely one, but I will continue to pursue other leads as well. There may be other persons with intimate connections to Grigg who have reason to do you harm. I will return in a few days’ time.”
“You have my gratitude, for not only taking on my case, but doing it so expeditiously.”
“It is my pleasure, my lady. Any friend of the Kent family is a friend of mine. And I have more reason than one to close this case quickly.” Mr. Lugo flashed a smile, dazzling in its brevity. “Mrs. Lugo tells me she will proceed on vacation without me if I do not complete the investigation in a timely manner.”
“Please express my sincere gratitude to her as well,” Bea said warmly.
The investigator bowed and left.
Wick joined Bea on the settee. “At least we’re making progress.”
“I still cannot believe Mr. Varnum is behind these attacks, but I must write Gentleman Henderson immediately.” Her brow lined with worry, her hands clasping in her lap. “Now that we know who the villain is, I need to return to Camden Manor. I don’t feel right being here while Mr. Varnum could launch another attack at any time.”
Wick’s jaw tautened, her words reminding him of the conversation they had to have. The one that Mr. Lugo’s revelations had delayed and, at the same time, made even more necessary.
“I don’t want you to travel without me,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous. And while Varnum is the most likely suspect, Lugo still needs time to confirm that he is, indeed, Grigg’s son and to investigate any other leads. Waiting a few more days for Lugo’s findings seems prudent.”
Her chin rose to a mutinous angle. “All the same, I feel like I should go home.”
He didn’t have time for another argument. He had to take the bull by the horns.
“I cannot escort you at the moment. Not with what is going on here,” he said bluntly.
Remorse filled her lavender eyes. “I’m being dreadfully selfish. Of course, you cannot leave. How…how bad was it at the office?”
“It wasn’t pretty.” He met her gaze squarely. “Some investors are panicking and trying to sell their shares, which means prices are starting to dip. We need to issue a statement that we will start building the railway as planned—or the panic will turn into widespread pandemonium. Then shares will go down…and perhaps our company with them.”
“But how can you make that statement without Mr. Norton’s verdict?”
He hated himself for what he had to ask of her.
“I need to ask you to sell your estate to GLNR,” he said.
Silence tautened between them.
“You said that you would not ask that of me.” She looked bewildered. “That the choice would be mine.”
“I know I said that. But circumstances…have changed.” He forced himself to go on, even as hurt spread like ink through her clear eyes. “The company is depending upon me, and I have to do the right thing. We can offer you money, Beatrice, enough to buy another estate anywhere you want—”
“I don’t want another estate. You know what Camden Manor means to me,” she whispered. “How can you ask this of me when you promised you would not?”
He had no answer for her. She was right. He was breaking his word to her, violating his code of honor, proving himself to be the failure he’d always been.
“I…” He felt walls closing around him. “Just forget I asked.”
“Of course I can’t forget it. Wick, I want to help you—but just as you have people depending on you, I have people depending upon me.”
At the anguish in her voice, self-loathing rose like bile in his throat. Damn him for putting her through this—especially when she had other worries to contend with. It was his job to protect her, and he was doing a shoddy job on all fronts.
“I understand,” he said gruffly.
“Do you?” Now anger threaded her words, and he was glad because he deserved it. “This isn’t the first time I failed to meet expectations, you know. After my accident, I was no longer the beautiful debutante Croydon wanted or the daughter my father was proud to call his own. My own brother couldn’t even look at me without being consumed by rage and the lust for revenge.”
His chest knotted. “I’m not like them. Beatrice…I love you.”
It wasn’t the way he meant to tell her of his feelings, but he felt the urgency to speak the truth, as if they were suddenly on borrowed time. He knew she cared for him, but did she love him in return? If she did, then surely they would find a way…
“Is love enough?” Her scar seemed to flinch against her pale skin.
Although it wasn’t the response he’d hoped for, he saw her despair and couldn’t stand to see her hurting. He reached for her hands, which were startlingly cold.
“Of course it is,” he said.
“My parents were in love,” she said in a remote voice. “They were utterly devoted to one another…until my accident. Then my papa couldn’t stand to be near me, stayed away from the family more and more. When he died, it was in the arms of his mistress. He broke my mama’s heart, and she passed away not long after. Happiness never lasts.”
Her story chilled him. Nonetheless, he rubbed her hands between his own.
“Our happiness will last,” he said firmly.
“How? If I do not yield, then your company will fail. How could you forgive me for destroying your success? And your partners and friends will surely see me as a pariah, as they would have every right to do.”
“That won’t happen—”
“And if I do yield,”—she let out a ragged breath—“then I cou
ld not forgive myself.”
He fought the growing tide of powerlessness. There had to be a solution.
“Mr. Norton’s report isn’t back yet,” he said doggedly. “There’s still hope that we can find an alternative solution. Listen to me, Beatrice: love will find a way.”
“The difference between you and me,” she whispered, “is that you actually believe that.”
* * *
Beatrice descended the steps the next morning with a leaden heart. She’d had breakfast sent up on a tray; she hadn’t felt sociable. Lisette had tried to cheer her up, dressing her in a frock the color of ripe raspberries, but she knew her grim state of mind showed. Although Wick had wanted to come to her last night, she’d refused him.
She’d needed to be alone, to have time to think…and prepare.
How she wished Fancy were here right now. Her bosom chum had been there after her life had disintegrated the first time, and Fancy’s presence would be a great comfort. For as much as Beatrice had grown to like Wick’s family and friends, she didn’t think she could rely on their kindness once she destroyed his company and career.
She wouldn’t even like herself.
I should have never left Camden Manor. I belong there—not here.
The impulse to return home was stronger than ever. Although she’d sent a note to her butler, telling him to be on the alert for Mr. Varnum, she felt like she was being derelict in her duties. The relief of identifying her secret enemy was dimmed by the knowledge that she wasn’t where she ought to be…and by her growing certainty that her time with Wick was coming to an end.
She didn’t blame him for asking her to reconsider yielding her land. Because of her, he was in a terrible bind. If only she could do as he asked, but she couldn’t.
I’m not like them. Beatrice…I love you.
His profession should have brought her joy, but all she could think about was the pain. The pain of losing him, a pain that would make all her other losses pale in comparison. A pain she would never recover from…because she loved him.
With every fiber of her being, even though she ought to have known better.
She reached the ground floor and went to see if Wick had left for the office. She heard his voice as she neared his study; she halted, hearing another voice. The door was cracked open, Wick and his mama’s conversation coming through.
“It’s not that I don’t like her, Wickham, but you could do so much better.”
The dowager’s words pricked like needles upon Bea’s heart.
“Mama, we’ve been through this.” Wick’s reply was firm. “I’m going to marry Beatrice, and it would give me the greatest happiness if you did not interfere.”
“Your happiness is precisely why we must have this conversation. Is it because she is a duke’s sister that you consider her a worthy bride? While her family’s blood may be blue, Hadleigh has more than a touch of madness, they say. From what my friends tell me, he—and his duchess, who reeks of trade—are no longer considered good ton due to their scandalous behavior.”
Bea ground her teeth together. She did not like the woman spreading gossip about her brother. Whether or not the gossip might have validity was irrelevant.
“I’m marrying Beatrice, not Hadleigh. And, as she told you, she is estranged from him.”
“Blood always tells, Wickham, you know that.”
“God, I hope not.” This last was muttered.
“What did you say, dearest?”
“Nothing, Mama. Now I hate to be rude but…”
“That is your problem, Wickham. I suppose it is my fault: I raised you to be a gentleman and, as a result, you are far too chivalrous for your own good. Given Lady Beatrice’s defect, I understand why you feel pity for her—”
“Pity is not what I feel for her, and I will not tolerate you speaking of defects she does not have.” The steel that entered Wick’s voice made Bea cling to her ever-dwindling hope. “I love her, Mama.”
“Oh, my dear boy, when did you become so bourgeois? I blame Carlisle. He and Violet practically live in each other’s pockets. The result of her upbringing, no doubt.”
“Richard is happy, thanks to Violet. Surely you can find no fault in that?”
The dowager sniffed. “Carlisle has always lacked refinement; he takes after your papa. But you, my boy, take after me, which means I understand your sensitive nature.”
“Is that where I inherited my sensitivity from?”
“Wickham, do not make light of the situation.” Frustration entered his mother’s voice. “The papers this morning say that a mob has congregated in front of your offices—a mob. After your blood for failing to negotiate the purchase of the land from some Beatrice Brown, who I presume is Beatrice Wodehouse. What sort of a disreputable creature has an alias?”
“She has a reason for wanting her privacy, Mama. None of this is her fault. If you must blame someone, blame me.”
“I most certainly will not blame you,” the dowager said hotly. “This morning’s papers are saying that she seduced you, that she’s using her feminine wiles to make a fool out of you—all so that she can get more money for her land.”
The papers are saying that…about me? Bea thought, stunned.
She didn’t know why she was surprised. In truth, she ought to have been prepared for the worst. But to be again brought into the public eye, to be again cast in a shameful light hurt more than she would have imagined.
“This beastly chit is about to ruin you. To destroy all that you’ve worked for and render you a spectacle of public failure. And still you will stand by her side?”
Agony splintered through Bea. While the dowager’s earlier comments had angered and humiliated her, she could disregard them for what they were: the petty concerns of a petty woman. She could not, however, ignore the veracity of the last statement, spoken with the desperation of a mother’s love.
Bea would end up ruining Wick. And he would still stand by her side.
But how will I live with myself?
As the dowager continued to rant, Bea’s temples throbbed. She wished she had a solution, a way out of this mess. She wished she could just abandon Camden Manor. At the same time, the very notion brought about visceral panic: her throat clenched, her palms dampened, every part of her bracing in denial.
Her estate was the one true refuge she’d ever had. The only thing that had kept her and those depending upon her safe. How could she knowingly give that up? She’d been in London for just a week, and already she was experiencing the hostility of the real world. Already she was feeling the intense urge to go home, where she belonged.
“Beg pardon, my lady.”
The butler’s voice startled her from her reverie. She stumbled back guiltily from the door.
“I was, um, just passing by…” Her cheeks burned. She was a terrible liar, and she wished she hadn’t felt compelled to fib, which only made her seem guiltier.
Being well trained, Wick’s butler did not blink an eye. “It is fortunate you are here, my lady. The letter you and Mr. Murray were expecting just arrived.”
The surveyor’s report. Her heart raced.
“I thought I heard a commotion out here.” Wick emerged, his hazel gaze honing in on her face. “Is everything all right?”
“The note from Mr. Norton arrived,” she managed.
Wick’s handsome features tautened as he took the letter from the butler. He ushered Beatrice into the study, where his mother waited. “Mama, I need to speak with Lady Beatrice in private.”
“Is that quite seemly?” the dowager began.
Something in Wick’s expression made her relent, and she departed in an offended swish. Wick went to his desk, sliding a letter opener under the seal. He paused, exhaling.
“Just read it,” Bea pleaded, clutching her hands.
He unfolded the page and scanned it.
“Norton says there is no other way through the property.” He looked up at her, his expression one of stunned defeat. “It’s
either the farms…or the railway.”
36
Bea sat in the window seat of her room, staring out the clear pane. An hour had passed since the arrival of Norton’s unambiguous report, the nail in the coffin of her future with Wick. If she didn’t give up her land, she killed his railway project. Any option she chose would end in pain…and she knew she’d already made her choice.
Wick’s reaction had told her he knew it too. He’d grown distant and cold; for once, he’d been bereft of words. What could he say, really? That he wouldn’t mind marrying the woman who’d destroyed his career, made him a public laughingstock? That he could still love such a woman?
It was over. He was just too honorable to admit it.
After he left to deliver the unwelcome news to his partners, she’d come up here. She didn’t want to be subjected to the dowager’s accusing looks. Nor did she feel up to the company of the Carlisles, whose kindness and compassion only made her feel worse.
A knock sounded, and Lisette entered. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but a letter came.”
Premonition slithered over Bea’s nape when she saw the note was addressed from her estate. She quickly broke the seal. Air rushed from her lungs as she read the brief sentences, written in her butler’s untidy hand.
“What is it, my lady?” Lisette asked with concern.
“There’s been another fire,” Bea said numbly. “The Ellerbys’ cottage burned down…and Mrs. Ellerby has been badly hurt.”
“Mon dieu,” the maid gasped.
This is my fault. Bea’s chest constricted, heat welling behind her eyes as she thought of the hurt she’d caused. Mrs. Ellerby was injured because of me. I should have been protecting her. I should have stayed at Camden Manor where I belong.
Instead, she’d allowed herself to be seduced by an impossible dream. She’d abandoned safety and good sense to go after happiness when she knew it could not last.
She shot up from the window seat. “I must get back.”
The Duke Redemption Page 27