The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (11 page)

Lord Gresham didn’t reply, and she looked up to see him staring at her, his eyes dark and intense. She sat a little forward in her chair, beginning to fear he was in the same grim mood he’d fallen into at the ironworks. “Has he satisfied your doubts, sir?”

He blinked, and a vaguely bitter smile curved his mouth. “Not at all.”

She shot him a puzzled glance—it sounded almost ominous, when he said it that way—but he didn’t say anything else. She sipped more lemonade, wishing for once that she could chatter as easily as Eugenie did with him. “Have you really come to see the canal?” she said, unable to hold back the curiosity any longer.

His eyes brightened and he leaned back in his chair. The sun was full in his face, gleaming on his dark hair and flashing off the signet ring on his finger as he propped his chin in one hand. “Of course. As you yourself noted, Frome has few other attractions.”

She nodded. “You didn’t seem deeply interested when we visited Mells.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t expect him to show me any troublesome parts.”

“So you think there are some?”

“I’ve never built a canal,” he said, stretching out his long legs in front of him, “but I’ve yet to hear of any large engineering project that didn’t have troublesome spots.”

That confirmed her own feeling. She put down her glass of lemonade and turned her full attention on him. “Where do you think the problems lie?”

He took his time replying, but for the first time Tessa didn’t feel uncomfortable at his regard. His dark eyes moved over her face thoughtfully, without teasing or laughing. “I expect the money is a problem,” he said at last. “Scott wouldn’t travel so widely in search of investors if he had plenty of funds. And more than one canal company has brought bills before Parliament seeking more funding authority.”

“Yes.” She frowned. “They’re usually successful, aren’t they? Has this canal applied for a new act?”

Again he hesitated. “Not that I know of.”

“Nor have I.” That was reassuring. Lord Gresham, with a seat in Parliament, would surely know if this canal had lobbied for a new act to raise more funds, or even if there had been rumblings of it. And he wouldn’t be here at all, considering an investment himself, if he knew of serious shortfalls. She ought to have thought of that sooner. “Other canals have been built with the original authorization. Mr. Scott assures me this one will be as well.”

“It would be in his interest to say so, wouldn’t it?” murmured the earl. “He wants to persuade you his canal is a sound investment.”

“Which is why I won’t agree until I see the account books,” she pointed out.

He nodded. “One wonders why Mr. Scott hasn’t produced them promptly, then. I presume he knew before your visit you wished to see the books.”

“Yes, I told him at Rushwood when he came to see my brother, and I told him again in Bath a week ago.” Her mouth tightened as she thought about it. “It’s a trifle annoying he hasn’t got them ready yet.”

“Yes. It might make one wonder what he has to do to make them ready.”

She tipped her head to one side and studied him. He lounged very easily and informally in his chair, but with none of the lurking laughter she was accustomed to seeing in his face. He was regarding her as curiously as she was watching him, she realized. Of course, they were having a remarkably serious conversation. “Do you think I’m odd to want to see the books?” she asked on impulse.

“Odd?” His eyebrows flew up.

“Yes, for a woman to care so much about money.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think we are all born with our own talents and interests, male and female. If you have the intellect and the interest for investing, I see no reason why you wouldn’t wish to see the account books. I presume Scott wants a handsome sum from your brother.”

“Yes, six thousand pounds.”

Gresham inclined his head. “There you are.”

“Most men find it odd that I have either the interest or the intellect,” she said, then wondered why she’d told him that. She might as well have embroidered the words “prosy bluestocking” across her bodice. She forced a smile. “Most women find it odd, as well.”

“Most people have frivolous interests, and intellects to match, as my father used to say.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I doubt he would have said it of you, though.”

Tessa warmed, feeling as though he’d just paid her a true compliment. “Thank you, sir.”

He chuckled. “At last! A compliment paid, and no charges of flummery.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Thank you,” she said again, just as Louise had instructed her to reply to any kind word.

Something changed in his eyes as he looked, becoming more contemplative, almost as if he had just realized something about her. Uneasily, Tessa picked up her lemonade and drank some more. It was warm now, not as cool and refreshing as before, but still delicious. She set the glass down with some regret when it was gone. “I should return to town. Mrs. Bates will wonder what’s become of me.”

His gaze dropped. “Alas, your wildflowers have wilted.”

Tessa looked down at the clutch of bluebells, lying limply in her lap. “Oh. And I picked them all. What a waste.”

With a quick motion, Lord Gresham dashed the lemonade remaining in his glass onto the ground. “We can put them in water and revive them.” He got to his feet. “Come.”

Tessa obeyed, trailing behind him as he strode to the stream, glass in hand. She watched in mild surprise as he stepped onto a rock jutting out of the bank, then to another large rock amid the swiftly running water, and carefully stooped down to fill the glass. He glanced up at her and grinned. “You must jump in and save me if I slip,” he called. “This water is freezing cold.”

Dumbly she nodded. Balanced on a rock amid the rushing water, paying no heed to the water spraying his white shirtsleeves and spotless breeches as he filled a glass with water for a bunch of wilted bluebells, the Earl of Gresham was mesmerizing. He didn’t look indolent or arrogant at all, but rather . . . gallant. He rose and cast a measuring eye toward the bank.

“Stand back,” he said.

“What?” She wrenched her gaze from his shirt, thoroughly dampened to his skin. “Why?”

“In case I fall,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet a moment before taking one giant, lunging step toward the bank. His polished boot hit the stone he had originally stepped from, but it was slick with water and Tessa realized with horror that he was about to take an ignominious plunge into the stream.

“Oh!” She leaped forward and flung out her hand. He grabbed it just in time, balanced precariously for a moment, then leapt nimbly onto the bank, not seeming to care that his polished boot landed ankle-deep in the mud.

“You saved me!” He grinned at her, giving her hand a light press before letting go. “Did I injure your arm?”

“No.” Her fingers tingled. Had she really leaped out and grabbed him? “Not at all.”

“Good. Put the flowers in,” he said, holding out the glass. Tessa held out the bluebells, and he took them, poking the roots down into the water and draping the drooping stems over the rim. “They’ll revive in a bit,” he predicted. “I shall send them into Frome when they do.”

She looked up at him in wonder. Dark hair tumbled forward over his brow after his jaunt into the brook. Up close she could see the faint shadow of stubble beginning on his jaw, and smell the crisp scent of his shirtsleeves. That signet ring on his right hand flashed as he pushed the stems deeper into the glass. Her hand felt warm, remembering the clasp of his fingers around hers. “That’s quite a lot of effort for wildflowers,” she said before her brain could rein in her tongue.

He looked up from the flowers. “Not if they are dear to you.”

She forced her gaze back to the bluebells. “They are just wildflowers,” she said softly. “Small and insignificant and common.”

He was quiet, and she stole a glance at his face. He had that probing look again, as if he were trying to make out something essential about her. She was accustomed to seeing that sort of look on people’s faces, but Lord Gresham’s expression was . . . different. He didn’t seem confounded or alarmed or even dismayed by what he saw in her, but curious. Surprised. Almost . . . intrigued.

“No bit of beauty is small or insignificant,” he murmured. “And as for common . . . I’ve never seen the like.” He touched one dainty flower head, less wilted than the rest, and turned it up toward her. “Don’t belittle it. Marvel, instead, that such a creation sprang up out of a common field, with no one around to appreciate it until you walked by.”

“And now I have pulled it out by the roots,” she said.

He grinned, and the air between them lightened noticeably. “Only to share it with others. The bluebells would have wilted anyway, in a day or two. Now they will have brought joy and beauty to others before they do.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “A lovely way of putting it.” She tipped her face up to him again. “Thank you for the lemonade.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Heavens above. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes when he smiled at her, and she was sure the earth moved beneath her feet. It should have sent her scurrying away; she’d fallen for a handsome man who paid her attention before. But somehow she didn’t feel the same wariness she’d worn like a second skin ever since. Somehow she liked the way this man smiled at her.

“I had the right of you the other day,” she said impulsively. “You are a silver-tongued devil.”

He chuckled. “I knew I would improve upon you.”

Tessa just pursed her lips. They walked to the end of the gravel drive, where a low stone wall separated Mill Cottage’s grounds from the road. “I would be glad to walk you back into Frome,” he said, but she shook her head.

“There is no need. It’s not even a mile, and the sun is still bright.”

He bowed his head and didn’t argue, which she found refreshing. “Give my regards to Mrs. Bates.”

“I will.” Tessa hesitated. “She will be so pleased to hear you are well.”

The earl grinned ruefully. “Yes, I’ve neglected her, haven’t I? I should like to call again, if I am welcome.”

“Very welcome,” she said, then blushed at her unintentionally quick reply.

Lord Gresham stopped by the stone gatepost and gave a very civil little bow. “And you are very welcome for more lemonade, any time your wanderings bring you this way, Mrs. Neville.”

She ducked her head. It would be harder than she thought to stay away now. “Thank you. Good day.” She set off at a brisk stroll, restraining herself from looking back. He was a gentleman, with the exquisite manners to match; that was all. But she liked him more and more every time she saw him. It wasn’t every man who would care for wild bluebells.

When the road bent around the clump of oaks, she dared a quick peek over her shoulder. He was still watching her, leaning against the stone post, one muddy boot propped over the other. She could just make out the smile on his face as he lifted the glass of wildflowers in salute. Tessa raised her hand in reply, then hurried onward.

She smiled all the way back into Frome.

Chapter 9

M
rs. Neville’s surprise visit brightened Charlie’s mood considerably. Two days of disciplined hard work had been even more taxing than he’d expected, and he certainly hadn’t thought it would be simple. But this was his duty, his cross to bear, and he was determined not to shirk it any longer. Edward had shouldered the daunting and tedious task of hiring a lawyer. Gerard had gone off to risk his life and liberty for the family. Charlie told himself he was more than capable of reading some dusty old ledgers in search of his father’s ill-fated marriage. All he had to do was read through each page, one faint, illegible line at a time. There was no possible reason he couldn’t complete this task successfully. He just had to be disciplined.

So he had buckled down and painstakingly begun working his way through the marriage registers, and it made him want to race back to London as fast as possible. The registers told tales of desperation, poverty, and questionable morality that left him grim and gloomy. A forty-two-year-old man wedding a girl of sixteen, in the front parlor of a brothel. Charlie would bet anything the signature of the bride’s “mother” was really the brothel’s madam, foisting an unwanted girl off her hands. A couple married in a tavern for a shilling and a chicken, with another shilling to be paid later. This was the way his father had married? He tried to picture the duke and some mysterious but alluring girl waiting their turn in the tavern while the couple with the chicken plighted their troths, and utterly failed. How could Durham not have known that was a bad omen? Charlie had been about to tell Barnes to bring drink far stronger than lemonade when his valet remarked there was a lady lingering on the road, looking his way.

He told himself he was desperate for any respite from the registers as he rushed to intercept her. But there was no denying the thrill that shot through his veins when she looked up at him with those crystal clear eyes and professed to have walked this way by chance. Tessa Neville was not a flighty female who wandered the countryside obliviously. He knew she would never admit it, but he wondered—even hoped—if she might have passed his cottage with the thought of meeting him again. And the possibility was inordinately pleasing.

He still wasn’t quite sure what about her drew him. There were her eyes, no question, and the frank way she looked at him. The rest of her was lovely as well, from her sleek dark curls to a curved, supple figure he had to work hard not to admire openly. She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met, and in the end Charlie simply gave up trying to puzzle it out. Whatever it was, he liked it. He was used to women who batted their eyelashes and simpered, or boldly murmured propositions in his ear. It kept a man on guard, ready to deflect any unwanted offers with charm and speed, constantly vigilant for any traps laid by hopeful duchesses-to-be. If Tessa Neville saw anything appealing about his person or was laying a matrimonial trap, she concealed it well. And the attraction of proving himself worthy of her good opinion was too much for him to resist.

Of course, he still had to mind his tongue around her. He knew she hadn’t quite believed him when he claimed he only wanted an introduction to Hiram Scott, and he barely managed to deflect her question about why he paid attention to her and Mrs. Bates at all. What he’d told her was the truth—now—but it hadn’t always been true, and he didn’t want to think what she would say if she ever learned he’d once suspected her, even slightly, of blackmail. That was the sort of secret he planned to carry to his grave. Now that he’d gained some ground in Mrs. Neville’s affections, he meant to keep it.

Charlie dressed with care the next day. The cheerful pot of bluebells sat on a table in his bedroom, his excuse for calling on her. He thought he’d killed them at first; it had been a long time since he’d done any gardening. He was more likely to send a footman to order flowers from a London florist when he wanted to impress a lady. But it seemed he’d done a decent enough job, after almost falling into the brook, for the wildflowers had perked up after being planted in an earthen pot, and he was disgustingly eager to give them back to Mrs. Neville.

The sound of a carriage outside caught his attention. A quick glance out the window made him curse under his breath. Hiram Scott was stepping down from a gig, handing the reins to one of the lads from the stable.

Charlie paced away from the window, thinking hard. Perhaps Scott had come to press his demands in private. Perhaps he thought himself still concealed and wanted to take a new tactic to get the money. The man had gall, coming here.

When Barnes brought in the card, Charlie let his visitor wait awhile before he went down. He would say as little as possible and give Scott every opportunity to place the noose around his own neck. After letting the man sit for over a quarter hour, he went down to the small parlor. “Mr. Scott,” he said, affecting the bored, imperious tones he’d used at the ironworks. “This is a surprise.”

The other man swept a bow. He didn’t seem at all put out by being left waiting. “I hope you will forgive the liberty, sir. If I’ve called at an inconvenient time . . .”

Charlie waved one hand. “Here in the country, there are no convenient hours.” He took a seat and indicated his guest should do the same. “What brings you to Frome?”

Scott seated himself, looking very pleased. “I come to issue an invitation, my lord. As a prospective investor, you would be very welcome to join me for a dinner with a few other shareholders and committee members.”

Charlie gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “Dinner.”

“Yes.” Scott nodded, still smiling genially as if he hadn’t schemed and plotted to disrupt Charlie’s entire life. “Tomorrow evening in Frome. It isn’t a full meeting of the committee, so not much business will be discussed, but we would be delighted to have you join us.”

Charlie made a noncommittal noise in his throat. The idea of dining with a canal committee held very little appeal, but it was another opportunity to take Scott’s measure. So far the man had him utterly puzzled; was he a conniving swindler, a man desperately trying to conceal his attempt at blackmail, or a hopeless sycophant mistaken for a villain? Charlie couldn’t tell, and he was hesitant to act until he could sort it out.

“Normally we would dine on board the company’s yacht,” Scott went on at Charlie’s silence. “The
Saville
is in dock for repairs at the moment, though, so we shall gather at The Bear in Frome. The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Lewis, is renowned for her cooking, and they keep a very good table.”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “I lodged at The Bear until recently.” The food had been the only attraction, in his opinion, although any renown must be considered relative.

Scott bowed his head with another gratified smile. “Mr. Lewis did mention it to me, when I spoke with him. It was he who told me where I might call upon you to extend the invitation.”

“Will Mrs. Neville be attending?” he asked, still delaying. He hoped not. She was too distracting.

Scott hesitated only a moment, but Charlie saw it. “I do not know, sir,” said the man carefully. “But I would be pleased to invite her, if that would be agreeable to you.”

Damn. Now Scott thought he wanted her there. And worse, Charlie realized he couldn’t say no. Mrs. Neville would want to be there, and truth be told, she had more right to be there than he did, if they really meant to discuss canal business. She might actually wish to invest, while he wouldn’t be giving Scott one bloody farthing, not even if his canal mined gold sovereigns straight from the earth. And if Scott ever told her that he hadn’t wanted her to be there . . .

He made himself lift one shoulder. “I presumed she would be as welcome as I, since she is also a prospective shareholder.”

“Of course, of course,” said Scott heartily. “I hesitated only because it won’t be a purely business affair, my lord. And as the only lady, she might feel out of place.”

“Perhaps she is already otherwise engaged,” replied Charlie, knowing it was unlikely. There was nothing to do in Frome, and this canal was her whole reason for coming into Somerset. Even if she’d had other plans, she would change them to meet the canal committee. But he had a feeling Scott had planned a gentlemen’s dinner, and she
would
be out of place, whether she knew it or not. Scott wanted money, badly enough to blackmail a duke for it; letting a woman attend a meeting shouldn’t bother him, if six thousand pounds hung on her approval. Charlie wondered if the other men of the committee would feel the same.

“That shall be for Mrs. Neville to decide,” said Scott with a look that indicated his feelings about the subject. “I shall invite her directly. May I count you among our dinner companions, sir?”

He nodded once. “You may.” If he said no, Scott might not care to invite Mrs. Neville after all, and Charlie didn’t want that. She would be furious to learn she had been excluded, and to be honest, it smacked of unfairness. If she attended the dinner, he would rather be there than not. Just in case the other gentlemen weren’t so gentlemanly after all.

“Excellent!” Scott beamed at him. “It was a great delight to learn of your interest in our canal, sir. If there is any way I might help you decide to make an investment, I would be delighted to do so. Perhaps you would care to see the prospectus?”

Mrs. Neville had already seen it and called it useless. “By all means,” said Charlie languidly, guessing that the appearance of indifference would spur Scott to greater efforts. “Send it if you like.”

He guessed correctly. “I would be pleased to conduct you to any part of the works you wished to see,” Scott went on, an eager gleam in his eye. “Or correspond with your man of business, should you have cargoes suitable for shipping on the canal. Shareholders are preferred in shipments, you know, and pay very reasonable rates.”

Charlie lifted one shoulder again, and decided to rattle Scott a bit. “Perhaps. But you may deal with me directly; my man is occupied in London.” By which he meant his brother Edward, the one with a head for business. Not that the de Laceys would be conducting any legitimate business with Hiram Scott.

“Of—Of course,” said Scott. He hesitated, then forced a smile, looking discomfited for the first time. “I confess it is rare to deal with a man of your standing directly, Lord Gresham.”

He raised his brows. “Is it?”

“Yes. Naturally, I called upon each shareholder, in case any should take a deeper interest, but . . .” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Although, may I inquire how you learned of our canal? I don’t believe your name was on our original list of gentlemen whose support we solicited.”

Charlie didn’t move a muscle although his heart skipped a beat. Was this the opening he’d been waiting for? “I first heard of it in Bath,” he said evenly. “From my brother, Captain de Lacey.”

Gerard’s name produced no flicker of recognition, even though Gerard had been prominently in Bath for some time. “Of course,” Scott said. “I travel through Bath quite frequently, although I can’t recall the pleasure of your brother’s acquaintance . . .”

“He took up residence only recently,” said Charlie. “After the death of our father.”

He expected to see something; some twitch of the jaw, a blink of the eye, a stiff smile. Scott showed none of that. His face instantly became grave. “My condolences, my lord,” he murmured.

Charlie stared at him. His pulse beat like a drum in his ears. For a moment he forgot all about stealth and cold revenge, and thought of nothing more than thrashing Scott within an inch of his life. How dare the man sit there and offer his sympathy on Durham’s death, as if he hadn’t darkened the duke’s final months with his threats and demands? What the bloody hell was this man’s game?

With difficulty he brought his breathing back under control, and unclenched his fist. He had to untangle this mystery all the way. “Thank you,” he said when he was able to speak calmly.

Scott looked uncertain at Charlie’s frigid tone. He shifted in his chair. “Indeed. Well, however you became interested in the canal, I am delighted by it. I pride myself on being most attentive to my shareholders; if there is anything I can do—”

“Yes, yes,” said Charlie, getting to his feet. “Thank you for your visit today, Mr. Scott. I shall see you tomorrow evening.”

Scott smiled in relief. “Very good, my lord. Eight o’clock, if that suits—”

“Yes. Good day, Mr. Scott.” He had to get the fellow out of his house before he punched him.

Charlie waited until the canal promoter was out the door before cursing a blue streak. By God, he hated that man, for everything from starting the trouble in the first place to not showing any proper sign of terror at the approaching retribution. But he didn’t merely want to confront Scott; he wanted to ruin the man, for all that he’d done. And if he had to endure a shareholder dinner to destroy Scott completely, so be it.

And Mrs. Neville would be there. He took a slow, calming breath and told himself that didn’t matter. His purpose here was Scott, not her. It didn’t work; he was still looking forward to seeing her, despite his serious misgivings about her presence. In fact, all the more reason he should be there. He certainly didn’t want Scott to win her over now. This way he could keep an eye on her and try to steer her away from Scott’s clutches.

But otherwise . . . he had no idea what to make of Scott’s behavior. The man didn’t show the slightest trace of shame or uneasiness at facing him, nor even opportunistic greed. It was as if Scott had no idea that he had any relation at all to Durham—which simply couldn’t be true. Gerard had been utterly right: the threat of exposing Dorothy Cope’s marriage to Durham really wouldn’t have hurt Durham, except through his children. Scott had to know that. Wouldn’t he have taken even passing notice of who those children were? It was quite likely Durham’s death had been reported in every ha’penny gossip paper in Britain, thanks to the scandal.

This unexpected cordiality was upending Charlie’s plans. He had anticipated a confrontation, but Scott wasn’t rising to it. It was making him unsure of himself, unsure of Gerard’s report, unsure of the postal clerk’s identification. If he had the wrong man, all this would have been wasted effort. Charlie did not want to leave a single point to chance; he couldn’t afford to. The Committee for Privileges would require absolute verification of his right to the dukedom in light of the salacious rumors about his father. He was scouring the registers for any proof, one way or another, of a marriage ceremony, before he struck his final blow. It was slow, miserable work, and so far he’d found nothing. It was entirely likely he’d find nothing in the remaining registers, leaving him right where he was now: unable to prove or disprove anything in his father’s final confessional letter, and uncertain enough of Scott that he dared not do anything to him.