Duchess in Love (8 page)

Cam's head had begun to pound in an unpleasant fashion. “I am honored to meet you,” he said.

The drunk looked confused and said, “What? What'd you say, son?”

“I am ravished with pleasure to meet you.”

That silenced him. “Foreign manners,” he said, looking suspiciously at Cam. “Foreign manners and red hair. I need a brandy.” And he turned and tottered back to the decanters lining the sideboard without another word.

Cam retreated to the chambers allotted him by Lady Troubridge, trying to dismiss a nasty suspicion that was
creeping into his mind. Marissa had black hair. Midnight black. So black it was…black.

Gina had hair the color of a ripened orange.

Perhaps he
did
have a penchant for red hair. It was a bewildering thought and didn't fit his vision of himself as an Englishman who lived in a cheerfully godforsaken country and fashioned plump naked women out of marble, a man who spent most of the day covered with gray marble dust.

There was no room in his life—in that life—for an irritating duchess.

For a wife.

T
he following morning Gina could not bring herself to visit the breakfast room. She huddled in bed, reliving every exchange with her husband. He was so very different than she remembered. How
male
he had become, she thought with a shiver. The way his shoulders—but no. It was more his eyes. There was something about the way he looked at her, as if she were a delicious private joke. She curled deeper under her covers, ignoring the way her stomach tingled at the memory of their kiss.

If the truth were told, many of Lady Troubridge's houseguests were similarly afflicted by an attack of memory. Sir Rushwood was also abed, brooding over an unpleasant remark made by his wife after he danced a waltz with the beauteous Mrs. Boylen. Tuppy Perwinkle had glimpsed his wife, Carola, dancing at least three times with a foppishly elegant man. Now he was in the breakfast room gloomily chewing toast and wondering if a new wardrobe might win back his wife's affections.

Gina was startled out of her reverie by the sound of her mother's voice followed by a swish of silk.

“Darling!” her mother announced. “Open your eyes. I am here. I arrived late last night.”

“I gathered that,” Gina mumbled, pushing herself up on the pillows. “May we have this discussion at a later hour, Mother?”

“I'm afraid not,” Lady Cranborne said, “given that I have made this trip merely to speak to you. I must return to London immediately for a meeting of the Ladies' Charity Organization. I have received another one!” she announced. The edge of hysteria in her voice finally caught her daughter's attention.

“Another what?” But she guessed, even before her mother answered.

“Another letter of course!” Lady Cranborne half screamed. “And what am I to do about it? My brother is dead!”

“Well, that's true,” Gina answered, startled. “But what does his death have to do with the arrival of this letter?”

“Everything!” said Lady Cranborne in anguished tones that might have come from an overwrought Ophelia.

Gina waited.

“Last time, I summoned my brother and he took care of it all. Everything! I didn't have to worry about the letter again. I believe he even hired a Bow Street Runner, although since he said nothing about it, I suppose the man was unsuccessful. And now we are alone. Even Cranborne has been dead these five years, although he was utterly useless when we received the first letter,
utterly useless
! All he could say was, ‘Thought the woman knew how to keep her mouth!'”

Gina had heard this summary of her father's abilities many a time, and reiteration was tedious.

“Thank God, Girton was a different kind of man from my husband,” Lady Cranborne continued without pause.

“Thank God he saw immediately that you had to marry his
son, because if it was up to your father, you would have been branded a bastard the length and breadth of England before he even understood the consequences. He was
that
beef-witted.”

“Yes, but Mother—”

“My brother simply took charge. He grasped the situation in two seconds and summoned Camden back from Oxford that very afternoon. And there you were, married the next day. If there's anything I admire, my dear, it's a man of
action
. Which your father was
not
!”

“Did you receive another blackmail letter?”

But her mother was striding back and forth so furiously that she didn't hear. “I begged your father, when you were brought to us, as a baby,” she cried. “I said, Cranborne,
if
you have an intelligent bone in your body, you'll pay That Woman off!”

Gina sighed. It was clearly going to be a lengthy conversation. She climbed out of bed, pulled on her robe, and sat down next to the fire.

“Did he obey me? Did he even
listen
to me? No! All Cranborne did was mumble about how distinguished That Woman was, and how she would never betray her own child. And what happened?”

“Nothing so terrible,” Gina put in. “I became a duchess, remember?”

“Due to my brother, never to Cranborne!” she said triumphantly. “The first letter arrived—and who would write an anonymous letter? A French person.
Obviously
it was That Woman who wrote the letter. And this one as well, no doubt.”

“Mother,” Gina repeated.

Lady Cranborne paced.

“Mother!”

“What? What is it?” She stopped her frantic walk in mid-
step and automatically put her hands to her hair. “Did you say something, dearest?”

“Countess Ligny cannot have written you a letter. She died last year.”

Lady Cranborne gaped.
“What?”

Gina nodded.

“Your—your—the woman who gave birth to you is
dead
? Impossible!”

“Mr. Rounton wrote me a letter, and he enclosed a notice from the Paris
Express
.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Gina saw the warning signs of an attack of temper. “I didn't want to upset you by even bringing up her name.”

“And what did you
do
about it?” Lady Cranborne asked.

“Do?”

“I know you, Gina!” she snapped. “I may not have given birth to you, but I did raise you! What did you
do
after receiving Rounton's letter?”

“I wrote a letter to her estate,” Gina admitted. “I was wondering whether she left a message or a note…”

Lady Cranborne rustled across the room and patted her daughter on the head. “I am sorry, dearest,” she said, dropping a kiss on pale red hair that precisely matched that of the infamous Countess Ligny. “I
am
truly sorry. The countess was an ingrate and a fool, even though her loss was my blessing.”

Gina took a deep breath. “It's all right. She paid no attention to me during her life, but I thought perhaps…” She shrugged. “The puzzling thing is, though—”

“Lud!” Lady Cranborne broke in, hand to her mouth. “If That Woman—if Countess Ligny didn't write this letter, then who did?”

“What does the letter say?”

Her mother fished in her reticule. “Here it is.” It was written on heavy stock, in a precise secretary hand.

For a moment Gina's eyes danced over the ornate loops and twists of the script without being able to decipher its meaning. Then suddenly the text jumped at her.

Might the Marquess be miffed?
The Duchess has a Brother.

“I have a brother,” she whispered. “I have a brother!”

“Must be a half brother,” Lady Cranborne corrected. “I never allowed your father anywhere near the continent after that trip to France had such ghastly consequences.” She caught herself. “I didn't mean that, darling. You are a blessing to me. Thank
God
That Woman didn't want to raise her own children. Lord knows where this brother of yours might be. Likely she threw him back at his father, same as she did with you.”

“But who on earth could have written this letter?”

“Obviously, the countess was careless. She assured your father that no one even knew that you existed. As soon as she realized she was
enceinte,
she retired to her country estate. And you appeared at our doorstep as a babe of only six weeks.” She gave her daughter an impulsive kiss. “It was the happiest day of my life.”

Gina smiled. “The happiest and the angriest, Mama.”

“True. But by then I had Cranborne's measure, my dear. If there was another such fool in the world, I never met him. If I hadn't kept him on a short leash, he'd have sprouted children like brussels sprouts in a cabbage patch, I swear to God.”

Gina was staring at the anonymous letter again. “Perhaps they'll write again and tell me where to find my brother.”

“More likely they will write and ask for money,” her mother pointed out. “The letter is clearly a threat. How do you think Bonnington will feel about you having an illegitimate brother?”

“Oh, he'll be—” but the words caught in her throat before she said that Sebastian would be happy for her. The fact was that from the moment she confessed the truth of her birth—that she was, in fact, her father's illegitimate child with a French countess—Sebastian had never mentioned the disreputable fact again. In fact, she suspected that he was pretending he never heard it. The story believed by most of England, that Gina was the orphaned child of one of Lady Cranborne's distant cousins, was far more palatable.

“He won't take it well,” Lady Cranborne pointed out. Then, with a faint giggle, “He'll be
miffed
.”

Gina had to admit the truth of that. “He won't like it. Particularly if there is a chance that the letter writer will actually spill the news to the public.”

“Thank goodness your father was never allowed to meddle with the estate. We're certainly rich enough to pay for this horrid person's silence.”

Gina sat down on the end of the bed. “I'm not so sure that is wise,” she said slowly. “The blackmailer has been waiting, hasn't he? Uncle Girton thwarted the initial threat of exposure by marrying me to Cam. But then Cam fled to Greece. So the letter writer has waited and waited. He must know that Cam is about to annul the marriage. And he thinks I will pay a fortune to ensure that Sebastian's offer of marriage holds.”

Lady Cranborne nodded. “As the Duchess of Girton, you could brazen your way through a scandal about your birth. But as an ex-duchess and a bastard, you make a poor prospect for a marchioness. Perhaps you should throw over the marquess now, before he has the chance to throw you over,” her mother suggested.

Gina looked at her suspiciously. “You simply don't like Sebastian.”

“True,” Lady Cranborne said, preening before the dress
ing table mirror. “I think he's a stick, my dear. But then I'm not marrying him.”

The words “Thank God” echoed silently in the room.

“Cam arrived last night.”

“Did he? How lovely! I can't wait to see the boy. I'll have to try to catch him at luncheon. Did I tell you that there is a meeting of the Ladies' Charity Organization tonight? I can tell you, in the darkest secrecy, of course, that there is a
small
chance that I shall be elected president. I shall refuse, of course.” Lady Cranborne looked affectionately at her aristocratic countenance. A thoroughly modern matron, she spent most of her time rushing from philanthropy to philanthropy.

“Congratulations, Mother!” Gina said, summoning up all the enthusiasm she could. “That would mean you are the head of four organizations, wouldn't it?”

“Three,” Lady Cranborne said. “I discarded the Golspie Cripples' Committee last week. Just a group of muddleheaded old ducks who didn't understand leadership. If there was one thing my brother taught me, it was how to lead. Although I must say that he handled young Camden very badly.
Very
badly. One of the few areas in which I'd seen him act in a bacon-brained manner, and so I told him.”

“Yes,” Gina said, remembering the battles that enlivened the house after Cam had fled to Italy, leaving his bride
virga intacta
in their marital bedchamber.

“It wasn't your fault, dearest. My brother had a heavy hand.”

“He could be cruel, Mother.”

“I wouldn't go so far. His harshness was due to his great intelligence.” Lady Cranborne patted her hair before the mirror.

Gina bit her tongue. The Girtons had made a practice of worshipping at the altar of intelligence over humanity; who
was she to try to change her mother's mind? “I suppose we must simply wait for another communication,” she said.

“Do you plan to inform Bonnington?” her mother asked.

“No.”

Lady Cranborne glanced over her shoulder with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Careful, darling,” she said.

“Keeping secrets from one's husband often signals the beginning of trouble in a marriage.”

“He is
not
my husband,” Gina said sharply. “Cam is my husband.”

“Well, then, tell Camden,” Lady Cranborne said, tucking an errant ringlet back under her cap. “He was shaping up to be almost as intelligent as his father, from what I remember.”

“More so, I think.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. Girton always complained that the boy was afraid of the dark and afraid of guns and who knows what else. All because he disliked hunting. Girton thought Camden was a milksop simply because he spent his time carving wooden boats rather than shooting animals. But I thought he showed signs of early acuity.”

“He's not a milksop. Not at all.”

“I never thought so,” her mother said. “Could tell he'd inherited the family brains. As did you, darling,” she added loyally.

Gina forbore to point out that she was no blood relation to the Girtons. Yet even in her brief reacquaintance with her husband, it was clear that conventions wouldn't bother him. “I wouldn't mind discussing the letter with Cam,” she said slowly.

Her mother nodded. “We could use some help. We'll need a man to deliver the money once it is demanded, for one thing.”

“I don't like the idea of paying for silence.”

“I don't like the idea of you being foisted out of society
either. Small minds must be appeased, and so we will pay through the nose to ensure you marry Bonnington, if that's what you wish. And then we will never pay another red cent! Because I don't care what the letter writer thinks; the
ton
will never ostracize the wife of a very wealthy marquess. Perhaps we'd better consider having the wedding directly after your annulment is obtained, however.”

“Sebastian has already obtained a special license.”

“Excellent. I shall leave you the note so that you can show it to your husband, darling. Do talk to him as soon as possible, won't you?” She hesitated. “I need hardly ask—but you have gotten rid of that dreadful little tutor of yours, haven't you?”