The Third Duke's the Charm (16 page)

Chapter Sixteen

It to
ok some courage to walk up the elegant steps of the Lacrosse London residence, but Charles had already faced two irate fathers with varying results, so at least he had some experience, he thought as he handed his card to the footman who answered the door. Besides, he was calling for Vivian, not Sir Edwin.

Perhaps she might know where Lucien had hared off to without a word. After all, they were affianced.

“Charles!”

When she entered the drawing room, he turned from studying a particularly hideous vase he assumed her mother had acquired and was surprised when she rushed into his arms.

She’d never done
that
before.

It was interesting, but he was struck instantly by two things as he held her close and she pressed her face to his shoulder: First of all, she looked quite different in a green day gown that flattered her slender form and for once didn’t hide it under layers of fabric; and second, she was decidedly pale.

Something inside him went cold. He was married, she was engaged, and he’d pictured this moment to be quite different, with joy for both of them, and he knew her so well that her evident unhappiness confirmed his uneasiness.

“Viv, what’s wrong?” he demanded as he gently disentangled himself and drew back, his voice uneven, one finger tipping up her chin. “Where’s Lucien? I’ve called for the past three days and have been told he hasn’t been home. They don’t know where he is. He didn’t inform any of his staff he was going to take a journey and his valet says he did not even pack a valise.”

“I don’t know either.” She said nothing about his elopement, but then again, they had discussed it at length before it ever happened, so that was already settled between them. “I’m concerned.” She stepped back, but her green eyes held a decided shimmer that could be tears. “And so glad you are here.”

It wasn’t like they didn’t know each other well and he found her display of emotion unsettling. Normally she was much more self-possessed.

“I saw him when we got to town, but as you know, he doesn’t stay at Sanford House . . . he hates the formality.” Charles had a knot in his stomach that wasn’t entirely worry for his brother. “Could it be my father’s health? My father and I aren’t speaking right now because as you know he is furious with me. I wondered if maybe no one would tell me at his command if he wasn’t well. Has
your
father heard anything?”

Vivian sank into a chair and shook her head. “No. My parents are as baffled as I am. Why would it be your father?”

“That blasted cough.” He knew he could be honest with her, his voice raw. “Lucien seems to think it is serious.”

It took her a moment, but she said faintly, “Now that you mention it, I have noticed the duke hasn’t seemed himself.”

“Lucien said nothing to you?”

“No.”

That probably wasn’t a surprise. His brother was anticipating his wedding, and from the perspective of a newly married man, Charles knew he would want to protect Louisa from the truth if he thought it would ruin that special day. “I have no idea if that might be it or not.”

“Where do
you
think Lucien is?”

He wished he could give her a definitive answer. If he thought he had the answer, he wouldn’t have come to her. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m here. I am worried about him
and
about my father.”

“If Lucien knew you were in London, surely he’d contact you if something was wrong.”

“I would think so,” Charles agreed grimly, staring down at her, too unsettled to sit. “Or you. Your wedding is Saturday.”

“Unless he has changed his mind.” Her lips trembled just a fraction.

No
, he thought, remembering his last meeting with his brother. Lucien had not changed his mind.

“He hasn’t.” That he could say with all certainty. “Louisa and I were invited when I saw him just a few days ago. It isn’t as if he and I have any animosity toward each other over you, so you are correct, I think he would contact me.”

It was endearing—and very much the Vivian he knew—that she seemed surprised, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “Why ever would you have animosity over me?”

“Lucien’s interest in you isn’t a recent occurrence.”

Was he betraying his brother? In a way, he supposed he was breaching some sort of male code, but then again, Vivian was his closest friend and she looked forlorn enough that he felt she needed to know. In further explanation, he added, “He thought you and I were lovers, so he kept his distance.”

“What?” She was unflatteringly aghast, her slim fingers clenched together in her lap, an incredulous expression on her face.

“Men and women traditionally are not the best of friends, Viv. It happens, we are proof of that, but usually there is some sexual interest involved, and lest you forget, we were engaged to be married.”

She seemed at a loss for words, her glossy dark hair as usual just a little untidy, a loose curl from her chignon brushing her neck. She
was
actually beautiful, Charles thought, and he’d seen her grow from a girl to a woman but only in an abstract sense because she was just Viv. Lucien always had discerning taste in women.

That aside, it seemed at the moment, he and Vivian needed each other once again.

Carefully, he elaborated, “What I am saying is that he wouldn’t abandon you or avoid the wedding. That means something else has happened. I think if he really has been gone for three days and as neither you nor I know where he is, we need to actively start searching for him.”

The slight blush that had invaded her cheeks when he’d said the words ‘sexual interest’ faded again to a pallor. “Where?”

“I’ll travel back to Cheynes Hall.” He rubbed his jaw. “I can’t imagine he’s there without letting us know he was leaving town, but I suppose it is the most logical place to start. Either way, my father needs to know he’s missing.”

“That makes sense.” Vivian squared her shoulders. “My father will help, of course. Lily’s husband, Lord Damien, is a very clever sort and worked for Wellington during the war. I’d already entertained the idea of asking him if he could possibly find time to ask some discreet questions, but I was afraid to proceed. After talking to you, I feel more confident that is what to do next.” She added quietly, “Thank you, Charles.”

He shook his head. “I have more to thank you for than you can imagine.”

The ghost of a strained smile touched her mouth. “Scotland was a capital idea then?”

“Most capital.” He smiled back with probably just as much effort.

“I thought it might be.”

“You always did have the best ideas.”

“Like the time I suggested we borrow your brother’s prize horse and take a midnight ride into the village?”

It was good to see her laugh, even if it was just a slight ease in her tense demeanor. He said wryly, “I believe it was not viewed as borrowing, but more like theft, and I thought Lucien might kill me when we returned. How did I know that particular horse had cost him thousands of pounds? I was twelve.”

“He
was
furious.” She made a small effort at a grin. “I suppose, after all these years, I should confess it was I who suggested it.”

“I suspect with time passed, and his weakness for your charms, he would forgive you.”

“We need to find him.” Vivian’s voice held a vulnerable tremble he’d never heard before.

He loved her, and he loved his brother, and he wanted them to be as happy as Louisa made him.

“We will,” he promised.

***

Being starved, bound, and tossed in the hold of a ship was unbearable enough but the insatiable thirst was the worst of it. Lucien’s wrists were bleeding as he tried yet again with no success to loosen the bonds around them.

I am going to die here
.

The thought was sobering, cutting into his panic.

He might. Only twice someone had come with water and food and he’d been allowed to eat and drink but none of his questions had been answered. Once he’d finished, the burly crew member had tied his hands again, and he might have tried to resist but he was admittedly weak, and that, he’d already gathered, was part of the entire point of this diabolical abduction. They were keeping him barely alive at best.

It was infuriating.

It was puzzling.

Not that he was precisely thinking straight. When he slept it was fitfully and he dreamed, often of Vivian, her smooth skin under his fingertips, her mouth soft against his, her gasp as she climaxed for the first time.

He needed to live. There was also his father, who was quietly and privately dying. He should have been more forthright with Charles, he thought, as he lay against the hard boards of his small prison. Their father was
dying
. Maybe it was his damned romantic soul but he’d tried to convey his concerns without the entire truth ruining his younger brother’s euphoric happiness over his unconventional marriage. Why the hell hadn’t he been more brutally honest?

In retrospect, for someone who considered himself to be a very pragmatic man, he hadn’t conducted himself that way. In his quest to soften the reality, he’d possibly postponed a much-needed reconciliation between his father and Charles.

Damn all
.

Where was he being taken? He had not the slightest idea, and his hoarse demands for answers had been met with no response.

The seas were rough, the ship rolling. He could hear the wind even though he knew now he was in the hold somewhere. There were rats . . . if he thought again about how they crawled across his legs now and then, just a brief scurry, he would lose whatever composure he had left. So, very carefully, slowly, he rotated his left wrist and began again the process of freedom . . .

Only nothing came of it. He bled and tugged, swore and pulled, but he didn’t win.

***

“I can see why Lord Charles wants at least a few gowns with all due speed.”

Louisa couldn’t decide if she should be insulted by the superior attitude of the modiste, or if it was simply her usual brusque manner. What was the proper response? Should she point out that on the salary of a simple country vicar purchasing an expensive wardrobe for his daughters was not an option, nor was it necessary?

But now she was the daughter-in-law of a duke and just the past few days staying at Sanford House had taught her that possibly servants were more snobbish than their employers in some ways. Certainly this woman, small, dark, and attired in tasteful striped silk, her hair done up in an intricate style, seemed to look down her nose at Louisa’s simple gown. “My husband said you are the best dressmaker in London.”

Surely that was innocuous enough.

Madam Gardon didn’t look flattered, but she did give a slight sniff as if Louisa went up a small fraction in her estimation. “With your fair coloring, we should consider some vivid fabrics. Tell me you aren’t set on pastels. I’ll have them start bringing the bolts in.”

And she did, in a bewildering array of Lyon silks, georgettes, and muslins, some printed with floral patterns, some delicately interwoven with shimmering strands that caught the light, some simply rich and gorgeous. Louisa had to admit after half an hour she was overwhelmed.

“Whatever you think,” she said helplessly, wishing that Charles wasn’t late, for he’d promised to guide her, and after all, she was spending his money.

“Very well.” Madam Gardon fired off a series of requests, sent out the men who had hauled in the fabrics, and brought in several young ladies who proceeded to help Louisa disrobe down to her chemise. Tape measures were wrapped around her waist and bosom, and it was about at that moment Charles was finally ushered into the room.

And he wasn’t alone. A woman came in with him, elderly and obviously someone of importance, for the room was suddenly a bustle of energy and the dressmaker replaced her superior attitude with a fawning deference. “Your Grace. How lovely to see you.”

“Is it?” The duchess—it must have been from the form of address—accepted a chair. “Please tell me you are not going to consider that shade of pink. The child will look like she is still in leading strings. Bring more samples, please.”

“Of course.”

Louisa wasn’t positive if she should stand her ground or run from the room. Luckily Charles winked at her. “I am sorry I am late, my love.” He dropped into a chair, his appreciative gaze surveying her half-clad form. “But at least I didn’t miss the best part of this process. May I present the Dowager Duchess of Eddington. We happened to cross paths at Sanford House and she offered to accompany me.”

Louisa blushed at his reference to her state of undress. She might not have if they didn’t have an audience, but one of the girls assisting her giggled and it reminded her they were certainly not back in the country where no gentleman would ever be allowed in to a fitting. The duchess was surveying her like a prize mare.

“Good bones,” the older woman declared with a nod. “The right colors will make all the difference. Let us proceed.”

“My pleasure.” Charles acquiesced and if it weren’t for the strained look around his mouth, Louisa would have thought he was simply relieved not to have to participate.

“Madam Gardon has been very helpful,” she ventured. It wasn’t lost on her that her husband’s stark masculinity was emphasized by the very feminine surroundings, and she doubted she was the only one that noticed. The assistants seemed suddenly more helpful.

Normally she might find that a little annoying, but instead she was concerned. After a moment she said, “What’s wrong?”

Because she knew something
was
wrong.

“Darling, what makes you think . . .” he trailed off, holding her gaze. Then he nodded, just barely. “I’ll tell you later. That’s a very beautiful azure silk. Let’s have that, shall we? And the deep rose tulle. What else has been selected? Where are the sketches? Your Grace, what do you think?”

“I’d like to see more shades, but the blue is acceptable.”

It took another hour as styles and necklines were discussed, Louisa much more of an observer than a participant, but finally she was allowed to dress back in her old faded gown and her husband escorted her out to the street, the duchess remarkably staying behind and still quibbling over details. Once they were in the carriage, she said without preamble, “Charles, first you are very late, and then you bring along someone I’ve never met before to select my new gowns . . . a duchess, no less, and—”