The Secret Pearl (10 page)

“He is a she,” the duke said. “And your mother and Nanny might have something to say about a house pet.”

But Lady Pamela was not listening. She was playing with her puppy and laughing as it caught at her fingers with its sharp little teeth.

Fleur kept her eyes on the child and the puppy, her shoulders back, her chin high, her hands clasped together as she felt him turn to her and his eyes pass over her.

“You did not suspect?” he asked her quietly.

She could not move. If she moved a muscle, she would come all to pieces.

“You did not suspect,” he said, and knelt down beside his daughter.

It was arranged that the puppy would stay in the stables until it had been house-trained. Pamela could visit whenever she wanted as long as doing so did not interrupt either her lessons or her rest. After that she would be able to take her pet into the house, provided it was never allowed to stray down onto the
piano nobile
to give her mother a fit of the vapors or to send Sidney into a roaring rage.

The duke remained in the stables as Fleur took his daughter by the hand and led her back to the house, chattering without pause. The puppy was the sweetest little thing. The Chamberlain children were going to be ever so envious when they saw him—her. She was going to train it to sit up and beg
and to walk at her heels. Wasn’t her papa the most wonderful papa in the whole wide world?

Fleur took the child back the way they had come, up the steps, across the great hall, through the archway and up the stairs, along the corridor to the nursery, where Mrs. Clement was waiting. Lady Pamela’s chatter increased in speed and volume for the benefit of her new audience.

“Classes are at an end for today, Miss Hamilton,” the nurse said dismissively.

Fleur walked to her room without hesitation, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it, her eyes closed, as if by doing so she could keep out the world.

And then she went rushing across the room to the closet, where she leaned over the closestool and retched and retched until her stomach was sore from dry heaves.

“H
IS GRACE THE DOOK
has left London,” Mr. Snedburg reported to Lord Brocklehurst on a sweltering hot day in May. His face bore a distinct resemblance to a lobster. “Taking his secretary, Mr. Houghton, with him. That seems to settle the matter. He was the very man who hired Miss Fleur Hamilton, sir.”

“It must be her and that must be her destination,” his client said, watching with frowning disapproval as the Runner mopped at his face with a large handkerchief. “What excuse can I find for going there? You have not discovered the whereabouts of Lord Thomas Kent by any chance, have you?”

“I have not yet turned my inquiries his way,” Mr. Snedburg said. “I can do so, but is it necessary, sir? If the young lady is wanted for murder, I can go down there posthaste with your say-so as a justice of the peace and a warrant for her arrest and haul her back. She will not escape from me, you may be sure. You can have her head in a noose and her feet swinging on air in no time at all, sir.”

Lord Brocklehurst shuddered slightly. “Find Lord Thomas
Kent for me,” he said, “or find me a way of appearing at that house without seeming to be a complete imbecile, and your job will be at an end. I’ll do the bringing back.”

“Then all you need to do, sir, is go down there and fetch her,” Mr. Snedburg said, wiping the back of his neck and eyeing the decanters on the sideboard with a decidedly wistful air. “You don’t need no excooses when the dook’s governess is a murderer and a jewel thief.”

“Thank you.” Lord Brocklehurst fixed the Runner with a cold eye. “I shall do this in my own way. Bring me the information I want and I will settle with you.”

“There is to be a party at Willoughby Hall,” the Runner said, “by all accounts, sir. I shall get you a list of the guests and which of them are in London and have not left yet.”

“As soon as possible, if you please,” Lord Brocklehurst said, brightening. He rose dismissively.

“You may depend upon it, sir,” Mr. Snedburg said. “And if Lord Thomas is in England, I shall ferret him out.”

Lord Brocklehurst crossed the room to pour himself a drink when he was alone again, and stood with the decanter in his hands, staring frowningly at it.

She had to be Isabella. But working as governess to the Duke of Ridgeway? And hired by his secretary, who had sat at that agency for four days waiting just for her?

What the devil was going on? If Ridgeway or anyone else had laid a hand on her … His hand tightened on the decanter.

He was going to find her. She was going to see things his way if it was the last thing he ever accomplished. Now, of course, she would have little choice but to view things as he did. Not that he had ever wanted to threaten her. He had never thought it would be necessary.

Foolish woman. He had always been amazed by her stubbornness. He had not been able to understand her reasoning. Of course, women in love were never reasonable. And she had fancied herself in love with that milksop Daniel Booth.
Though what Isabella had seen in a clergyman who was still only a curate, it was impossible to say. Long limbs, blond curls, and blue eyes—he supposed they must be enough for a woman who did not know what was good for her.

He closed his eyes and thought of Isabella’s sunset-gold hair, felt his fingers twined in its silkiness, smelled its fragrance.

Damnation, but he had her where he wanted her now, and she would be made to see it. If he had to start threatening, then he would do so. A dangling noose did not make a comfortable mental image. He would make it up to her later.

I
T ANGERED THE
D
UKE
of Ridgeway, standing on the upper terrace outside his house early on the morning after his arrival and looking out over the park that was almost everything of home to him, to know that it was all to be invaded in two days’ time.

He loved to entertain at Willoughby. He loved to host concerts and grand balls when possible and to entertain his neighbors to dinner and cards or conversation. He even enjoyed having the occasional overnight guest. But he hated having a houseful of people who looked for nothing but gay and mindless entertainment—Sybil’s type of people. And he had seen the guest list. This occasion was to be no exception to the general rule.

He loved the peace and quiet of his home almost more than anything else in his life. And that was to be shattered for goodness knew how long. Sybil’s guests never knew quite when to leave once they had come.

He strolled across the terrace and along the side of the house to the lawns at the back and the kitchen garden and greenhouses.

What he would not give for his freedom, he thought in an unguarded moment, and immediately had a mental image of
Pamela and her excitement over her dog, which she had insisted on calling Tiny, though he had explained to her that the puppy would grow. And he thought of her sleepy face and tumbled hair when he had gone to her the night before, not realizing that she would be in bed already. He thought of her warm clinging arms and her wet kiss and her question.

“You won’t go away again, Papa?”

“I will be here for a good long while,” he had assured her.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he had said, hugging the slight little body and kissing her. “Go to sleep now. I will see you tomorrow.”

No. A child had a right to a secure home and two parents even if they were not model parents by any stretch of the imagination. He had been wrong to leave her for so long merely for the sake of his own peace of mind.

He drew to a halt. There was a woman strolling past the massive flowerbeds, where the house flowers were grown.

She was not quite as he remembered her. In fact, when he had looked at her the afternoon before, his first impression had been that Houghton had made a mistake and engaged the wrong woman. But it was she, of course. He had seen that on a closer look.

Whenever he had thought of her in the past weeks, he had pictured her as thin and pale, not at all pretty, only marginally attractive. There had been those long, slim legs, of course, and the shapely hips and firm, high breasts. But a basically unattractive woman—a gentlewoman down on her luck, he had guessed, someone he had felt obliged to help for some unknown reason.

He had helped her.

She was not as he remembered her. She had put on enough weight that her figure was now alluring even through the barrier of her clothes. Her face had color and a healthy glow. It was no longer shadowed and haggard. And her hair, which he had remembered as a dull, tired red, now glowed fire-golden.

Miss Fleur Hamilton, he had discovered the day before with something less than pleased surprise, was a startlingly beautiful woman.

In one way only was she as he remembered her. She was like a marble statue: cool, remote, unresponsive. She had spoken scarcely a word to him during their first encounter, though she had watched him every moment while he took his pleasure of her, he recalled. She had spoken not a word the day before. She had not even curtsied to him.

She had only shrunk from him, naked terror and revulsion in her eyes, when he had offered her his arm to go down the stairs. Why would he have offered his arm to a servant, anyway?

Don’t touch me
. His lips thinned. She could probably teach Sybil a thing or two about cringing.

He continued his progress toward her, and he knew before he came up to her that she had became aware of his approach, though she gave no visible sign and did not look his way.

“Good morning, Miss Hamilton,” he said quietly, stopping when he was still several feet away from her.

She looked back at him with that steady, direct look he remembered.

“Do you like the early morning too?” he asked. “I always find it the loveliest time to be outdoors.”

“I will not be your mistress,” she said in a steady, low voice.

“Won’t you?” he said. “Pardon me, but did I ask?”

“It is so very clear,” she said. “I understood perfectly as soon as I saw you yesterday. I will not be your mistress.”

“I understood that you had been employed as my daughter’s governess,” he said. “I expect you to devote all your energies to that task, ma’am.”

“It is disgusting,” she said. “You are a married man. You have brought me here to live beneath the same roof as your wife and daughter. You expect me to spend several hours a day teaching your daughter. And you expect me also to be your whore here under such conditions. Is that why you paid me so
well and fed me? So that I would be beholden to you? I will go back to the gutter where I belong, but I will not allow you to touch me again. You disgust me.”

He was angry with the girl. Furious. How dared she? Accusing him of bringing her here to his ancestral home to teach Pamela so that he could sport with her among the groves and in the attics.

“Let me make one thing clear, Miss Hamilton,” he said quietly, his hands clasped behind his back. “I instructed my secretary to employ you because you were desperately in need of employment other than that in which you had chosen to engage. I was satisfied from his report that you had been employed in a suitable capacity. You are my servant, ma’am, well paid and well looked after, I believe you will agree. I am not in the habit of consorting with my servants. I am certainly not in the habit of sleeping with them. When I need a whore, I employ one who offers her services for the purpose, and I pay her accordingly. Have I made myself clear?”

She flushed and said nothing.

His eyes narrowed. “I seem to recall having to tell you once before that when I ask a question I require an answer,” he said. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She looked at him steadily, her chin up. “Yes, your grace.”

He inclined his head to her. “You may continue your walk,” he said. “Good day to you, ma’am.”

He strode back the way he had come, the morning ruined by the heat of his temper and the turmoil of his feelings. But he was thankful for his years in the army, which had taught him the discipline of releasing his temper only through words.

He had wanted to take the woman by the arms and shake her until her head flopped on her neck. He had wanted to hurt her, to leave bruises.

He branched off from the terrace to cross a lawn that would take him to the lake. And he deliberately slowed both his steps
and his mind. His experiences as an officer had taught him to do the latter, to think with icy logic rather than with white-hot fury.

If she had believed what she said—and she obviously had—then he must admit to himself that she had shown remarkable courage. He supposed that it would not be easy for a woman in a lowly and precarious situation to spit in the eye of a duke. And that was what she had done, figuratively speaking.

She had shown a moral outrage at what she thought he had planned. A whore with morals? But why not? There were any number of respectable women who entirely lacked them.

She had told him that he was disgusting. Was it just the behavior she had imagined him capable of? Or was it his person she had found repulsive?

He did not doubt that it was at least partly the latter. He had unclothed himself completely in front of her, something he had not done with any woman before—not since acquiring his wounds, anyway. And he had stood before her, fully visible to her all the time he had been coupling with her.

He had done it deliberately, he realized now, a release from all the pain and self-consciousness and degradation he had lived with for six years. He had wanted one woman to see him, a woman who could not afford to show revulsion or to refuse him.

And she had passed the test, courageous Fleur, whose eyes had not wavered from his despite the fact that for her it had been a far more momentous occasion than he had realized until it was too late.

Well, so she found him disgusting. Was it so surprising? And did it matter? She was his servant, one of countless many. He had given her employment because she needed it and would never have made a success of being a whore. He had done his part to atone both for his sin of infidelity and for his part in setting the girl on the road to degradation and ruin.