The Price of Deception (15 page)

Mary cleared her throat over the snide remark by her
daughter-in-law. She glanced at Robert, who shot her a look of
anger back in her direction. Mary dabbed her lips with a napkin and
placed it back on her lap. She turned to Jacquelyn.

“Men have their business; women
have their decorating. I dare say, though, we need to ask Robert
for a much larger budget this time as compensation for his absence.
Don’t you think?”

Jacquelyn smiled. “You can afford to give us a rather
large allowance, my dear, can’t you? After all, I’m sure your
business trip will be profitable.”

Robert saw the glare in her eye. “Of course,” he
conceded. “Whatever you need. I’ll be departing in the morning, so
do as you please.”

After the comment left his lips, he
put down his fork. The announcement had not been easy, nor would
eating the rest of his dinner while he stared at lilies and ducks.
Things couldn’t be more uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much of an
appetite. I need to speak with Giles about packing my bags,
anyway.”

He pushed his chair back, set his
napkin down next to his plate, and left the room.

* * * *

Giles traveled with Robert at his request. The
following morning his trunks were loaded upon the carriage to the
train station, where he’d travel to Dover and then transfer by ship
to Calais. After another rail journey to Paris, he would arrive. He
did not care to open up the townhouse and bring back a full
complement of staff just for his use, so he decided to stay at the
Hotel de Louvre instead.

He planned to leave early in the morning to forego
goodbyes to his wife. Unfortunately, that well thought-out plan
failed. She had knocked on his door at morning’s light, just as he
had finished dressing.

“Robert, let me in.”

He did so and found her standing on
the threshold in her bathrobe. “I’m about to leave, Jacquelyn. Make
it quick.”

“Quick? Like you are with me?”

“Have you come to say goodbye or have you come to
bitch at me about something?”

“No, I’ve come to ask you to visit
my bed when you return from your trip. I promise to try and fulfill
my wifely duties in a more enthusiastic approach.”

Shocked at her statement, Robert stared at her in
disbelief. He hadn’t been to her bed since the night of their
argument. She wanted his seed. Either that or she surmised he
headed to Paris for one thing and nothing else.

“We’ll discuss it when I return,”
he stated, in a non-committal tone. He pulled out his pocket watch
from his vest and noted the time.

“I need to go. The train leaves within the hour.”

Jacquelyn grasped his forearm and flashed him a
mocking look. “Don’t over exert yourself too much, my dear. Come
back rested so we can have our private times.”

She turned and sauntered down the hall and closed the
door to her bedchamber. Robert called for Giles.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Of course, Duke. I’ll have the footmen load the
luggage on the carriage.”

Robert took hold of his coat and trotted down the
stairs toward the door. He couldn’t remember a time that he felt
such a need to escape. Unsure of the future, he could only hope it
that it included Suzette and his son.

* * * *

Jacquelyn had returned to her room.
She watched out the window of her suite as the carriage pulled away
and headed down the long pebble path to the main road. By tomorrow,
he’d be in Paris and up to something. It irked her not knowing what
and decided that the time had arrived to snoop around and find
out.

She wrapped the sash of her robe
tightly around her slim waist. Only the housemaids were up,
cleaning the ashes out of the fireplaces from the night before.
They usually took no notice of her actions, and frankly she didn’t
care whether they noted her whereabouts or not.

Mary often slept in much later, enjoying mid-morning
breakfasts on the veranda during nice weather. At six o’clock in
the morning, she’d be fast asleep.

Jacquelyn made her way downstairs
and walked the long corridor that led to Robert’s study. She had
never dared to enter his private domain, but desperate women had
their own vices. She arrived at the door and saw it open. The
housemaid knelt in front of the fireplace brushing the last bit of
ash into her bucket.

“Leave,” Jacquelyn ordered.

The maid jumped to her feet, curtsied, and did as
told. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jacquelyn waited for her to retreat down the hallway,
then stepped inside and locked the door behind her. Not quite light
enough in the dark mahogany study to see well, Jacquelyn lit the
oil lamp on the corner of Robert’s desk. The action reminded her
that she wanted to upgrade their estate to the new electric lights,
which would be the next order of business upon Robert’s return.

At first, Jacquelyn really didn’t know what to look
for in her husband’s study. Clues. She needed some idea of what
deceit he was up to. Since he spent most of his time inside this
room, certainly there must be some answer for her to discover.

She flopped herself in Robert’s overstuffed leather
chair and eyed all the papers on his desktop. Very carefully, she
lifted and returned to the same place each document she examined,
worried that if she shuffled them too much, he’d realize someone
had been snooping around.

Nothing of interest satisfied her curiosity, and then
she decided to try the drawers. She opened and examined the
contents in each, which only revealed boring information about
tenants on the land they owned.

As she pulled the last drawer handle, she discovered
that it had been locked. She tugged on it for some time, but it
would not budge open. Her tenacious determination would not
discourage her from discovering the contents.

She took a long hairpin from her up-swept hair and
poked one end into the keyhole. Jacquelyn fiddled with it for some
time, moving it back and forth until she heard a click. Ecstatic
that she had gained entrance, she slowly pulled the drawer open and
began rifling through its contents.

An envelope with a return address from a Monsieur
Girard, Solicitor, in Paris caught her eye. It immediately piqued
her interest, so she pulled out the contents, opened the letter,
and read the correspondence. The name of Philippe Moreau met her
prying eyes, the man who Robert told her was an old acquaintance.
Why had he sought more information about him?

Jacquelyn read the investigative report slowly and
took particular notice of one paragraph.

As far as his personal life, Philippe Moreau married
a Camille Rousseau in November of 1878, two children have been born
of the marriage. Robert Philippe Moreau, birth date May 2, 1879,
and Angelique Juliet Moreau, born March 21, 1884. His wife and
children currently reside at his current residence of 82 rue
Charbonneau in Paris, France.

Jacquelyn read the words over and over again until
finally she understood their meaning. “He said that she died. Is
she not dead?”

She laid the letter down on Robert’s desk in an
attempt to make sense of what she had just read. The dates were
confusing. She had given birth to that little boy in May of 1879.
Jacquelyn had married Robert in October of 1878. She picked up her
hand and began to count the months backward on her fingers—April,
March, February, January, December, November, October, September,
August.

“August,” she said aloud. She paused for a moment
until the revelation unfolded in all its horror. “Oh, my god!”

She jumped to her feet and stepped back from the
desk. Robert’s emphatic statement in the gardens filled her
thoughts.

“That’s enough, Jacquelyn. There is nothing there
besides a young lad named Robert—a common name and nothing
more.”

If that were true, why did he request an
investigation of some man he supposedly knew? The suspicion she
entertained when she saw the little blond-haired boy with blue eyes
returned to torment her tenfold. Did the boy belong to Robert? Had
he gone to Paris to search them out?

Afraid to discover what else lay in the drawer,
Jacquelyn eased herself back down into the chair. More papers
caught her attention in the bottom, which contained a series of
letters to another solicitor by the name of Benoit. With each
envelope she opened, the puzzle became more convoluted. Robert had
invested in Philippe Moreau’s company too, but why?

The last letter, however, revealed
more than she cared to know. Philippe Moreau had agreed to travel
to the West Indies. The dates were obvious. He had left Paris over
a week ago, and Robert had gone to Paris during his
absence.

“Bastard,” she seethed in anger. “My husband is an
unfaithful bastard!”

Jacquelyn resisted the urge to crumble the letter she
held in her hand. With great difficulty, she folded it and inserted
it back into the envelope. Each were cautiously replaced just as
she found them. When through, she closed the drawer but could not
relock it with her hairpin.

Frustrated, she left it open, convinced Robert would
think he had forgotten to lock it. She glanced at the clock on the
mantel. Almost an hour had passed. For a moment, she regretted
searching out matters in her husband’s office. The upsetting
evidence sickened her heart. It appeared as if he had an
illegitimate child.

A child
.
The thought repeated in Jacquelyn’s mind multiple times, until the
hurt festered unrestrained. Her eyes filled with tears. If it were
true, her womb held the blame. The fault lay not with his seed, but
with her body.

Jacquelyn brought her hand to her throat. Her misery
choked the breath from her lungs. The cruel reality of the reason
behind her barren state tore through her soul like a blade.

Barely able to move, she stumbled toward the door and
then wandered back up to her bedchamber. Once inside, she fell upon
her bed and sobbed until her eyes were swollen and red. When she
had released her despair, she emerged a different woman. A strange,
cold emptiness possessed her core.

“Duchess, are you all right?” Dorcas called to her
from the other side of the door.

“Yes, I’m fine. You may enter.”

Jacquelyn stood to her feet. “I want a bath this
morning, Dorcas.”

“Yes, ma’am, but are you all
right, my lady? You look as if you’ve been . . .
crying.”

“Nothing of consequence, Dorcas. It’s nothing that I
can’t handle on my own.”

Jacquelyn felt a chill go down her spine. The
emptiness she had felt only moments before seemed to be replaced
with a hard coldness. Never again would she cry over her
barrenness. Never again would she trust her wandering husband. She
would harden her heart toward everything and everyone and shield
herself from further pain. No one would hurt her again.

Jacquelyn slipped under the readied
bath water. This time she instructed Dorcas to pour in primrose
bath fragrance. The aroma soothed her tension.

Finished with her duties, Dorcas
turned to leave and Jacquelyn protested.

“Sit with me, Dorcas.”

“Sit with you,
Duchess?”

“Yes, pull up a chair and sit with your mistress.
That is what I’ve asked.”

She noted the confused look on her maid’s face, but
she obeyed as commanded and pulled up a chair next to the tub.

“Hand me that bar of soap and cloth.”

Dorcas did as told and watched her as she foamed the
bar of soap into bubbles. Jacquelyn began to wash her body
methodically limb by limb.

“Sometimes I envy you, Dorcas,” she began casually.
“You seem to have such a simplistic life just caring for me. No
worries. No family. No husband to give you grief.”

“My life is nothing to envy, my
lady. You have everything riches could offer. The title of Duchess,
money, a beautiful home, and a handsome husband. Why would you want
my life, for goodness sake?”

“Oh, I have my reasons. Just because I’m a Duchess,
it does not mean that I am a happy woman. Do you think the Duke
makes me happy?”

“Oh, my lady, I cannot speculate
on such a private matter.”

Jacquelyn accepted her honest response. “Well, I
assure you, he does not.”

She continued to wash, symbolically rubbing away her
past life. In a few more minutes, she would allow it to slip
through the drain by her toes and disappear forever.

“You see, I was born to be a Duchess.”

Jacquelyn moved the washcloth down her slim legs, and
conveyed to Dorcas her fate in life.

“My mother bred me to be a proper lady. My father was
determined that I would marry well. I was well educated. Preened.
Taught impeccable manners. My voice was trained to sing, my fingers
trained to play the piano. I speak German and am articulate in the
French tongue. I have all the qualities of being an excellent wife,
and that is all I wanted to be in life—an excellent wife and
mother.”

She finished washing her legs and then wrung out the
cloth and laid it over the edge of the tub.

“You see before you a complete
failure, Dorcas. I have done none of these things. I am not, in my
husband’s eyes, a good wife in bed. He married me because his
father told him to do so, not because he loved me. I cannot produce
an heir, and he beds other women and probably has produced a child
with one of them. Isn’t that the mark of a complete
failure?”

She heard Dorcas gasp and then turned to look at her
in the eyes.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say, Duchess. I do not
see you as a failure. You are a beautiful woman and a kind mistress
to me.”

Jacquelyn could see that her truthful confession had
made her lady’s maid feel extremely uncomfortable. Her eyes glassed
over with tears. How touching, she thought, that her maid held
compassion for her plight.