A Belated Bride (9 page)

He glanced at Hastings now. “Did anyone stop by the inn after my accident?”

The valet paused in the middle of polishing a silver brush. “A Mr. Mumferd inquired after you, Your Grace. He was most upset to discover you were not present.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“No, but I must say that he was uncommonly vulgar.” Hastings wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foreign. “I ventured to follow him. He traveled by decrepit nag to an inn called the Red Rooster.”

“
You
followed him?”

Hastings bowed. “Of course, my lord. By then, it was apparent that something had gone amiss with your ven- ture.” The valet finished polishing the brush. He laid it down and picked up a mirror and began to work on it, careful not to meet Lucien’s gaze. “I find it most distress- ing when you do not return as scheduled, Your Grace.”

“I sent for you as soon as I was able.”

The valet gave the mirror handle one last swipe and said, “I am aware of that, and I thank you.”

Lucien smothered a sigh. There were times when Hast- ings’s devotion became a damn irritation. Still, he couldn’t imagine where he would be without the implaca- ble valet; it had been due to Hastings’s extraordinary knowledge of gemstones that Lucien had managed to turn the Devereaux fortune around in just a few short years.

In the three years Hastings had been with Lucien, the duke had never asked his valet where he’d come by his knowledge of gems, and Hastings had never offered to explain. All in all, it was a very satisfactory arrangement,

one that allowed Lucien to keep the vow he’d made when he’d realized the mistake he’d made in marrying Sabrina: to never touch one pence of her money. It was the only way he knew to atone for his sins.

However, allying himself with an heiress had accom- plished one thing—it had reassured his creditors that their debts would be met. They’d ceased clamoring for pay- ment and were willing to extend their terms. Heavily aware of his responsibility toward his sister, he’d sold every horse in his father’s stables, as well as a few he him- self owned, and had taken the capital down to the docks. There, with the help of his solicitor, he’d invested the money in everything from tea to a diamond mine. The tea had paid handsomely, as had several other ventures, but because Lucien could not tell a quality diamond from a flawed one, he lost all of his profits in the mine.

Sick with the knowledge he’d have to start over again, Lucien had imbibed far too much brandy and confessed the whole to his new valet. Hastings had patiently ex- plained to his inebriated employer the merits of various quality jewels and how to detect flaws. Even in his tipsy state, Lucien had recognized the man’s wealth of knowl- edge. The next morning—once he’d rid himself of a mas- sive headache—he offered to pay Hastings twice his salary if he would teach Lucien all he knew.

Hastings agreed and Lucien began to study gems as single-mindedly as he had once pursued pleasure. Within a year he knew more than most Bond Street jewelers. Within two years, by judicious buying and selling, Lucien had amassed a small fortune. It was then that he’d had his brilliant idea.

Most of the money to be made in jewels came after the transformation of a quality stone into a piece of jewelry. Hastings’s connections came into play once more, for he

knew the owners of a questionable business on the East End who welcomed the opportunity to turn over a new leaf. Lucien made sure he paid his new employees enough so they’d have no desire to pilfer his coffers. To his sur- prise, they were amazingly loyal.

Once everything was in place, Lucien anonymously purchased one of the largest jewelers on Bond Street, known to have the business of the Prince Regent himself. The transaction went almost unnoticed, since the past owner stayed on to run the shop.

Since Lucien had his sister’s reputation to worry about, he never let it be known that he dabbled in anything as common as trade, though he freely admitted his interest in gems to any who asked. All of the ton soon knew the Duke of Wexford had a passion for jewels. What was not acceptable as a means to earn a fortune
was
acceptable as a leisure pursuit. Often he would receive word of some- one who had fallen on difficult times and might be inter- ested in selling some family heirlooms.

It was through his seeming hobby that the Home Office had recruited him. When the war began, Lucien had wanted to join in the effort, but the circumstances of his title had forced him to stay in England.

By a chance encounter with another collector, Lucien had learned of an illegal jewelry auction near London, the proceeds reputedly going to fund Napoleon’s efforts. His reputation as a collector had held him in good stead, and when he had attended the sale, he was able to discover the names of the sponsors of the nefarious plan—information he had immediately turned over to the Home Office.

Lucien sighed and leaned back in his chair. In all the times he’d run these little errands for the Home Office, not once had he failed. It was irritating to think that this time might be different.

That
was the real reason he was hesitant to leave Rose- mont, he decided with a sense of relief. It wasn’t because of Arabella; it was the desire to succeed. And to do so, he needed a better understanding of the Yorkshire smuggling mechanism. Lucien looked at the bottle of fine cognac Aunt Emma had thoughtfully placed in his room. The cut- crystal decanter sparkled with a thousand rainbow lights, sending splinters of color across the carpet.

Hmmm. Perhaps the answer was closer than he real- ized.

“You seem distracted, Your Grace,” Hastings said. “Quite unlike your usually cheerful self.”

Lucien quirked a brow. “I need to meet with Mumferd.

It is the reason I came to Yorkshire.”

The valet paused in the midst of replacing a coat in the wardrobe. “Shall I visit the Red Rooster and attempt to locate him?”

Lucien rubbed at his bandage, his gaze resting on the decanter. “No, I don’t want you risking yourself. It won’t hurt to wait another day. In the meantime, we will remain at Rosemont.”

“Very well, Your Grace.” Hastings closed the wardrobe door. “May I ask if you have yet had the opportunity to write Miss Devereaux?”

Though Lucien winced at the mention of his sister, he nodded. “I’ve written her every week.” Liza would be furious with him for disappearing and leaving her in Lon- don at the not-so-tender mercies of their Aunt Lavinia.

“Very good, sir. I hope you will forgive my presump- tion, but your sister particularly tasked me to remind you of your obligations, should the opportunity arise.”

That would be just like her. Strong-willed and de- plorably independent, Liza would be a handful for what- ever man took her to wife.

The valet opened a portmanteau and withdrew a writ- ing case. “Miss Devereaux feared you would fail to remember her once you became engrossed with your trav- els. I ventured to assure her that that would never happen.” “Of course I won’t forget her,” Lucien muttered, pull- ing himself to his feet and adjusting the sling that held his arm. “She’s far too busy trying to manage my affairs to

allow that to happen.”

“Very good, Your Grace. I shall see to it that paper and pen are waiting in the morning room.” The valet gathered the writing case and slipped out the door.

Lucien stared after him thoughtfully. His instincts tugged at him. There was a connection between Rosemont and his quarry; he would bet his life on it. And that meant that somehow Arabella was involved, whether she knew it or not. Lucien rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved chin. Perhaps he should arrange another visit with his reclusive hostess—only this time, he would be sure he stayed within the bounds of propriety.

Lucien adjusted the knot in his cravat to a more com- fortable position and wondered what secrets lay behind those deceptively innocent eyes. It would be a joy to dis- cover them for himself. A joy and a battle, in light of their unfortunate history.

Still, he was not without allies. Humming softly, Lu- cien collected the glass of tonic from the tray and then crossed to the window. He leaned out, shivering at the chilled afternoon wind. To his relief, no one moved in the garden below. He poured the tonic across a particularly sturdy rosebush, set the glass on the window ledge, and then headed for the door.

Arabella turned the page of the ledger and stifled a sigh. She’d hoped to bury herself in a sea of numbers and

banish the thought of her encounter with Lucien earlier this morning, but it was not to be. After a restless hour, she closed the ledger with an impatient thump. Across the room, Robert’s fingers tapped an impatient tattoo on the edge of his chair as he stared absently up at the portrait of the Captain.

The noise was annoying, but Arabella was glad to see him without a scowl marring his brow. He looked lost in thought, a strange light in his eyes.

The door opened. “Mr. Francot,” announced Mrs. Guin- ver, stiff with outrage.

A tall man, nattily attired in an olive-green coat and a drab kerseymere waistcoat, checked abruptly on the threshold when he saw Robert sitting by the fire. “Ah, Mr. Hadley!” He spoke loudly, as if Robert’s impairments had affected his ears rather than his legs. “How are you this cold winter day?”

Arabella closed her eyes. No matter how many times she hinted, Mr. Francot did not understand that his patently mannered way of talking to Robert infuriated him.

Robert turned to Arabella and said in an equally loud, overenunciated manner that bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Francot’s, “If you will excuse me, dear sister, I will go and see to our aunts.” Robert wheeled himself from the room without even a glance in the solicitor’s direction.

The door closed and Mr. Francot made a wry face. “I offended him, didn’t I?”

“Don’t mind Robert. He is just in a foul mood.”

Mr. Francot shook his head, his expression subdued. “It is something deeper than that; he dislikes me.”

“Then you are in good company, for he tells me daily that he cannot stand me.” She smiled and indicated a chair by the desk. “I am surprised to see you out on such a cold day. Surely there is no urgent business at hand?”

He took the chair she offered and slid it closer, pulling out a sheaf of papers from a leather folder and setting them on the desk. “I need your signature, and . . .” He hes- itated, his eyes darkening.

“Yes?”

“I hate to mention this, but . . . a payment is due at the end of the month.”

“You will receive the money Tuesday morning.” He blinked. “You . . . Can you?”

Arabella raised her brows.

“I’m sorry! I only meant I.. .” Mr. Francot clasped his hands together on the desk, apparently struggling with some great decision.

Silence reined as Arabella wrote her name on first one, then another tenant contract. Really, she didn’t have time for histrionics today. She still had the ledger to see to, and Wilson needed help fixing the wheel on the carriage.

Just as she lifted her pen from the last paper, the solici- tor burst out, “Miss Hadley, I should not say this, but I feel I must mention . . . I know how you feel about things, but . . . there
is
a way you can pay off all of your father’s debts and still have enough left for you, your brother, and your aunts to live quite comfortably.”

“Is it legal?”

His mouth dropped open. “Of course it is legal. I would
never
suggest that a lady such as yourself, so gently reared and educated, would do anything that was not impecca- ble—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, stifling a sigh. She should have known better than to tease such a serious man. “What is your idea?”

He took a deep breath. “Sell Rosemont.” “Are you mad?”

“I realize it has been in your family for a long time—”

“For almost three
hundred
years!”

“Which is exactly why it must be sold. Just look at this place. It is falling down around your ears.” He gestured to the room and, for an instant, Arabella saw it the way he saw it—the worn and faded carpet, the cracks in the plas- ter, the smoke-stained fireplace.

She put the quill back into the inkwell. “So long as one wall is standing, the Hadleys will
never
leave Rosemont.” “Miss Hadley, please.” He splayed his fingers across the smooth surface of the desk, his throat working nerv- ously as he tried to find the right words. “There is a buyer.

A very
eager
buyer.”

“Mr. Francot, I am not selling Rosemont. Not now, not ever.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Even with today’s rental agreements, there is no way you can collect the money necessary to pay Lord Harlbrook.”

“We had a record number of lambs this year. Even more than Sir Loughton.”

“If your sheep produced a hundred lambs a day, it still would not be enough. And as for the tenants . . .” He waved a dismissive hand at the papers she’d just signed. “You will spend more in upkeep on the cottages than you will receive in rent. You do the same every year, though you refuse to listen to me.”

“You would have these poor families living under leaky roofs and with horrid, smoking chimneys?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly, the light from the window glinting off the gray streaks in his hair. “You think with your heart and not your head, Miss Hadley. It does you credit as a woman, but not, I fancy, as a financier.”

Arabella fought the inclination to yank out her heavy cash box and toss it into his witless face. Instead, she slid

the papers across the desk. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Francot, but there is no need for it. We will come about some way or another.” She placed the contracts in his hand. “Please don’t let me keep you longer.”

He stood when she did, obviously bewildered by her dismissal. “Forgive me for suggesting...I hope I haven’t offended you or . . .” He broke off, his face as red as the carpet. “You don’t even know what the buyer has offered!”

“It doesn’t mat—”

“Yes, it does.” To her astonishment, he named a sum so outlandish she almost choked.

“That is absurd! Why would anyone pay more for a house than it is worth?”

His voice deepened with intensity, he answered, “Per- haps he fell in love.”