The Accidental Duchess (4 page)

“Southwaite now believes that Lakewood put himself in the way of your shot,” Ambury said. “He thinks it was a kind of suicide, so his name might never be sullied.”

Penthurst had come to the same conclusion after reliving those moments hundreds of times. He had deliberately aimed wide, so Lakewood would have the chance to stand down still. Instead it appeared Lakewood had moved toward the aim.

“As I said, the accusations I made hardly warranted suicide. They were dishonorable, but not damning. He could have survived it. Other men have.”

“Perhaps there was more to it than you think.”

“I have long suspected that there was.” There had been a few halfhearted attempts to find out, none of them effective. The man was dead, and it felt wrong to muck around his history just to relieve one’s own curiosity or sense of guilt.

“Do you want me to poke around a little, to see what turns up?” Ambury asked.

“I do not think so. I will let you know should I decide differently.” It would be better if Ambury and the others did not even learn what he knew already, let alone what might be found with an investigation.

More drops now. A fine rain drizzled, with heavy clouds promising more. They moved their mounts to a trot. A minute later the sky opened.

“Hell, here it comes.” Ambury pushed his horse to a canter.

Their speed did nothing for their sight as they sped for the park’s entrance. Even so, Penthurst noticed the two women running toward a tree for some shelter. A lady and her servant from the looks of it. He glanced to the sky, and doubted that tree would keep them dry for long.

He turned his horse toward the tree. Ambury noticed and did the same. They reined in only a few moments after the women had ducked under the branches.

“Lydia!” Ambury said. “It is an odd time to be taking a turn in the park.”

“It seemed a good idea an hour ago.”

“I will go tell your coachman to bring the carriage here.”

The maid plucked off her bonnet and shook it fiercely. “We walked the whole way.” She gave her mistress a resentful glance.

Lydia did not react to that, least of all to put the servant in her place. Penthurst thought that generous of her. Perhaps she felt some guilt for dragging the woman here on foot.

He dismounted. “It does not look like it will end soon. We will take you home. You will still get wet, but the misery will be shorter.” He shrugged off his frock coat and swung it around Lydia’s shoulders. While she remained startled by that, he lifted her onto the saddle of his horse.

Ambury did the same for the servant, who froze into wide-eyed silence.

He swung himself up behind Lydia. With her feminine legs dangling down the side of his horse, he reached around her for the reins. She stiffened.

“Forgive me,” he said. “There is nothing else for it.”

“Of course.”

“Grab on to something to steady yourself, or I will be obligated to become even more familiar by holding you in place.”

The sphinx blushed. She clutched at the front of the saddle so hard her knuckles whitened.

Ambury ducked under the branches and rode off, fast enough that the servant let out a squeal. Lydia did not make a sound as Penthurst followed.

L
ydia tried not to move in the slightest way, but it proved impossible on a cantering horse. Seated sideways like this, her legs dangling and her rump threatening to slide off, she kept jostling back and forth. The forth did not concern her, since it shifted her body toward the horse’s neck. The back, unfortunately, bumped her up against the formidable chest of the Duke of Penthurst.

She looked straight ahead and pretended that did not continue with a regular rhythm that mortified her. Why couldn’t Ambury have taken her on his horse? Up ahead all she could see of Sarah were her shoes, swinging to the horse’s gait.

Bump. Bump
. At least the thick frock coat over her shoulders and arms cushioned her so it did not become too intimate a connection. Penthurst’s shirtsleeves, gleaming white and pure in the rain, circled her rather too closely, however, and there was no thick wool on them.

The rain poured down. Her escort seemed not to notice as it soaked his hair and those shirtsleeves and the waistcoat a few inches from her nose.
Bump
. A nice waistcoat, she noticed out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head to give it a closer study.
Bump
. Her nose smashed right into brocade the color of claret. Her face squished against the detailed silver embroidery. She even felt the warmth of his body through the fabric.

“My apologies, Lydia. There was a depression in the ground and a small jump saved you much discomfort.” His voice, low and masculine, flowed into her ear.

She pulled away and tried to straighten her bonnet with one hand. A stream of water poured off the center of the brim, right onto her nose. She looked a fright, she knew. Fortunately she did not worry whether she impressed Penthurst. He was the last man in the world whose opinion she cared about.

“It is rather fancy.” She pointed her nose to the waistcoat since she dared not let go of the saddle and use a finger. “You have not totally reformed your taste. You no longer wear the satins and gold braid, and you finally cut off that queue, but you will make your point anyway, won’t you?”

“I do not understand the desire gentlemen have today for looking like bankers. These plain styles are only a fashion, and will pass.”

“It has not been a small change, like a new sleeve. All of you appear very different from how you appeared ten years ago. I do not believe the old ways will come back, for men at least, because this is more democratic. You do not truly look like a banker. However, the distinction between you and a banker is far less visible now than in the past.”

“Do you believe that is a good thing?”

“What I believe does not matter. It simply is the way it is.”

“That is a slippery answer. No wonder your brother worries about you, if you respond to his questions like that.” He lowered his head so he spoke right into her ear. “Or do you have no opinions, Lydia? Is the mind as blank as the face? I do not think so. I suspect there are many opinions behind that mask, even high passions, that you dare not allow others to know. Perhaps you put up a wall to keep us all from seeing the truth in you.”

His warm breath sent a shiver through her. His speculation passed close to the truth, distressingly close. The intimacy of his comments, made all the more startling by his pressing physicality, reminded her of the one other time he had spoken to her like this, as a man might speak to a woman, and not just the sister of a friend. This time it did not shock her as much, but then what he said now did not carry the same danger.

She had put the memory of that other time in a room in her head, closed the door, and never looked at it again. Now, it burst forth, bringing with it once more her confusion, then shock, then resentment. Despite the way it made their intimacy on this horse more awkward, she welcomed the memory because she realized she might have a way to find that ten thousand after all.

“It must not be a good wall that I build,” she stammered, clutching at her poise as desperately as the saddle. “If you can see through it with such ease, either it is transparent, or your conceit lends your sight abilities only you can trust.”

She fixed her gaze on the houses passing by her view, but she felt him there, warming her shoulder, paying too much attention. Did she imagine that those shirtsleeves moved closer together, closing on her? Not to steady her either. As they trotted down the cobblestone street she bumped all the more, now to and fro. Her back kept hitting his arm. She had to brace herself hard to avoid her breast doing the same to the arm in front.

Finally they entered Berkeley Square. He slowed the horse to a sedate walk. They approached her house just as Ambury swung Sarah off his saddle. Sarah, who had rarely ridden on a horse, looked delighted and giddy. She and Ambury laughed about something. Then the door opened, and a tall, dark-haired man stepped out. Her brother.

He said something to Sarah. She made a quick curtsy, and darted in out of the rain. Ambury gestured up the lane. Southwaite turned and, with a curious expression, his dark eyes watched Penthurst’s horse.

Grooms came to hold the horses. Southwaite stepped down to the street. “I see you found some lost baggage, Penthurst.”

“Not lost so much as stranded by the storm.”

Her brother reached up and lifted her down. He gave her a good examination from head to toe, shaking his head. “It was an odd morning to go for a walk, Lydia.”

“I desired a turn amid nature’s glories.”

“People who live on squares can have that whenever they choose, without hiking all over town. It is why houses on squares are desirable.” He shook his head again in the exasperated, helpless way he so often used with her. He plucked the frock coat off her shoulders. “Go and dry off, then please visit Emma. She has been waiting all morning for your return so she can share news. Cassandra is already there.”

She gathered her sodden skirt and squished her soaked shoes up to the door. As she crossed the threshold she heard her brother address his friends.

“Gentlemen, come in and have some coffee and dry yourselves too. I would have a word with you both.”

 • • • 

P
enthurst and Ambury stretched their boots toward the low fire in the library. A servant handed them each coffee. Their coats dried on a nearby rustic chair brought in just for that purpose. Southwaite stood at the side of the mantel.

“This is very good of you, Southwaite, but we only brought back two women who were caught by the storm,” Ambury said. “I could cross the square and let my valet relieve your servants of all this bother.”

“I said I wanted a word with you.”

“Yes, you did. Let me assure you that whatever Lydia’s reason for going to the park today, it was innocent, I am sure.”

Southwaite scowled. “Did you think I suspected otherwise?”

Ambury took his time drinking some coffee. “Your scold when she came back implied you did.”

“I was simply commenting on my sister’s odd behavior . . . It implies nothing else.”

“Good. But if you did suspect something, rest assured that from what I could see there was no one in the park this morning whom she might have planned to meet. I was the only person there whom she probably even knew.” He began to drink again, but the cup paused halfway to his lips. “Well, and Penthurst here.”

A strange little silence ensued.

“Yes, well, she is home and upstairs and hearing what I want to tell both of you,” Southwaite stood a little taller. “Emma is with child.”

“That is wonderful news, Southwaite.” Penthurst stood and clapped his friend’s shoulder in congratulations.

“I’ll say so. Why are you giving us only coffee?” Ambury demanded. “It may be early, but brandy at least is called for no matter what the hour.”

Brandy it was, and an hour of good cheer and happy speculation. Penthurst warmed to the camaraderie that resembled what they had all shared years ago, before duties and duels had created distance between them.

He and Ambury took their leave together.

“Lydia was probably in the park to meet someone, of course,” Ambury said as he settled in his saddle. “If it were a budding tendre, or an inappropriate one, she would not want to be seen in this square with him, especially in early morning.”

“Then hopefully it was the former, and Southwaite will hand her off soon and be free of the worry of her.”

Ambury turned his horse away. Penthurst aimed for the streets beyond the square.

 • • • 

S
arah barely allowed Lydia to enter her apartment before dancing forward with excitement. “It is wonderful news, is it not, milady?”

“How did you learn of it already?”

“Cook told me while I dried out by the kitchen fire. An upstairs maid told her. I think Lady Southwaite’s lady’s maid told the upstairs maid, and—”

“And no doubt you learned of it before I did. It is wonderful news, however. Emma is so pleased. She has known for a few months, but delayed even telling my brother until it all looked very good and sure.”

“She is four months along, cook said. Why, that means there will be a baby by spring.”

Sarah helped her out of her still-damp clothes. There had not been time to change before going to Emma. When word is buzzing that there is big news, one wants to hear what it is. She had dried as best she could with a linen while she, Emma, and Cassandra enjoyed a happy time in Emma’s dressing room.

The excitement had pushed the morning out of her mind, but now it crowded back in, deflating her joy and returning her worries. A week, Trilby had said. It would take a miracle to find ten thousand in a week. Or one very good piece of luck.

“Sarah, do you tell others here about me, like cook told you about Emma?”

Sarah did not deny it immediately the way Lydia expected. Instead she set down the damp hose she had just removed and sat, looking thoughtful. “There have been a few times when things have slipped out. Not important ones. It is just that in a big, busy house like this, what is and is not private can become gray, can’t it? I have to remind myself that I may know things your family does not.”

“If I told you it was important they not know something, do you think you could make sure it never slipped out? I need to talk to someone about something, Sarah, and I cannot share this with Emma or Cassandra.”

Sarah moved to sit beside her on the divan. She embraced her with one arm. “Of course I can. I always did when we were little, didn’t I? I know that you are milady now, but in my heart you will always be Deea.”

It was the name Sarah had called her when they were small children. Hearing it now brought unexpected comfort.

“I am being blackmailed, Sarah.” She told her about Trilby and the novel, and his demands. “The situation is ridiculous, but that does not mean it is not dangerous.”

Sarah reacted the way a good friend should, with shock and concern. “He sounds too greedy to me. Such a high amount! Does he not fear you will go to your brother with this? That is your best choice now, isn’t it?”

“What will I say to him? That I wrote a novel that reads like a journal, and someone got his hands on it and noticed that parts of it might be interpreted in ways that paint me as disloyal? So hand me a fortune so I can buy him off, please?”

She had not told Sarah
everything
. She had left out the parts of the novel that crossed the lines of propriety regarding romantic events. Just remembering the explicit nature of that chapter made her face warm. No respectable novel contained such things, but she had never really believed her manuscript would be published.

She needed to make sure it never was.

“Perhaps we can steal it,” Sarah said. “We will learn where he lives, and sneak in, and find it and—”

“Even if we learn where he lives, there is no guarantee the manuscript is there. I fear that I must find a way to get hold of the money and buy back my stupid words.”

“Have you not accumulated some from your gambling? By now you should have a good amount, I would think.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately . . .” She shrugged.

That money did not stay in her purse. She had uses for it. Secret ones, known only to her. She made gifts, often anonymous, to worthy causes.

She would like to claim some goodness in doing it, but she received so much pleasure that the gestures almost felt selfish. Nor were her gifts only about charity. With each one she made a little declaration to herself that she had a separate life, was a separate person, and had purpose.

She wondered if the goodness of the acts was diminished by the prideful motivations, or the pleasure she took in winning that money?

Probably so.

Sarah stood and started plucking the hairpins out of Lydia’s wet, snarled hair. “Can you borrow the money from a friend?”

“A lesser amount, perhaps. Such a sum, however—I am sure that neither Emma nor Cassandra could help me without going to their husbands for it. Even women like us do not have this kind of money, Sarah. Not unless it is in trust, which means unavailable.”

“If so, what was he thinking in asking for so much?”

“I think he assumed I could win it at the tables.”

Disapproval danced tiny steps over Sarah’s face. With nary a word, she moved behind Lydia and began brushing out her hair.

“I could possibly do it that way,” Lydia mused, thinking aloud. “It would take time, however. I have never risked so much, or won so much, let alone in a week. I would never dare to try to do it all in one night—that might be really pressing my luck.” She thought back to her ride in the rain, and the idea that had come to her then. “Unless it were just one wager. Yes, that is how I should do it, if I try that path at all, I think. I am sure I would win then, and I could meet Mr. Trilby’s deadline.”

“I don’t gamble, so forgive me if my question is stupid, but—if the other person puts down ten thousand, won’t you need ten thousand too?”

She thought again about that odd encounter with Penthurst the first time she went to Mrs. Burton’s last year. He had deliberately tried to shock her, she realized later. He had succeeded, for that night at least. Yet in doing that, he had proposed a very high wager, had he not? If a gentleman does that, he is bound to see it through if the offer is accepted.