A Duchess to Remember (19 page)

Rand regarded her for a moment, then said, “Can it be that you don’t know?”

“Know what, pray?” She tried to sound unconcerned, but she didn’t fool him.

Rand shrugged. “Norland might hold the title, but his mama holds the purse strings. He wouldn’t dare spend his inheritance on something of which the dowager disapproves.”

“And she does not approve of his scientific interests,” Cecily said.

Rand inclined his head.

Cecily was quick enough to see immediately how the dowager’s interference would affect her position, also. Her fortune would become Norland’s upon their marriage. In practice, that would mean her fortune was at the dowager’s disposal.

In a more generous spirit, Rand added, “To be fair to Norland, it is far better business practice for him to attract investors to his work than to fund it himself. That way, if the experiment fails, it is not his money he has gambled.”

Cecily looked discomfited. “It is better to gamble with someone else’s? I should not like to be responsible for another man losing his shirt.”

Rand shrugged. “A man like Grimshaw does not invest what he cannot afford to lose. He calculates the risks and demands a high return. Believe me, your sympathy is wasted on someone like him. In my experience, those with any kind of talent ought to be left to get on with their passion and leave the financial side of things to someone like me.”

She looked inquiring. “Is that
your
passion, then? Finance?”

He watched her steadily. “What do you think?”

She narrowed her eyes as she considered him. “No. I believe it goes deeper than that. I believe … You enjoy your role as fairy godmother.” She gave a gurgle of laughter at the inappropriate metaphor. “You like to bestow your riches on deserving people.”

The notion disconcerted him as much as it disgusted him. “I don’t do anything without profiting by it myself.”

“If you say so.” A small smile played about her mouth.

He relented. “It is not about the money; you’re right. But it
is
a far more selfish motive than you give me credit for. I enjoy seeing brilliant minds in action. They come up with a hypothesis or an idea, but it takes money—often a great deal of it—to turn those ideas into something tangible. Often it takes influence, too. So that is where I step in.”

“You invest your own money, then?” she asked.

He spread his hands. “That depends. Often, I am the conduit through which finance is arranged.”

“You cannot be seen to dirty your hands in trade, I suppose.”

Was there a touch of scorn in her voice?

He shrugged. “Land ownership is a business like any other, could our peers be brought to recognize it.”

The animation this remark brought to her face made his heart give a sharp pound.

“Yes!” She slapped a small hand on the table, making the cutlery jump. It was the first time she had ever made a gesture that wasn’t entirely elegant and controlled and polite.

“I was brought up with the notion that talking about business is vulgar,” said Cecily, her dark eyes sparkling. “And yet it’s a topic that interests me exceedingly. Not making money for its own sake, but so that I might do some good with it. Montford allowed me to participate in running the estate that forms the main part of my inheritance, you know. I helped him introduce a number of economies which increased profit without increasing rents. In return, he allowed me to dedicate a percentage of the income to my causes.”

Rand sat very still as he listened to this speech. He hoped his astonishment did not show on his face.

“Oh?” he said. “And what causes might they be?”

She flushed and bit her lip. “How horrid! I sound like one of those ghastly females who is forever prosing on about their own beneficence. Do not regard it. All I meant to say was that I enjoyed applying my mind to the task.”

“I asked the question because I want to know,” he said gently.

“Well…” She chewed her lip. “I have always been concerned for the plight of unfortunate women. A large part of the funds are spent in the local parish, as is proper, but some of it goes to assist indigent females in London through various charities.”

“And how do you select those charities?”

“That is the difficult part. I drew up a list of criteria and I rate each institution,” she said. A shadow of her ferocious scowl appeared. “I am forced to rely on Montford’s judgment on many of these matters and upon the investigations conducted by his man of business. The boards of such institutions would scarcely answer the interrogation of such a young lady as I am.”

“And yet, a
duchess
would command their attention, no matter how young,” Rand said.

She stared at him. Coolly, she responded, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

All at once, one missing piece of the puzzle that was Lady Cecily Westruther clicked into place.

“And so this is your particular passion, Cecily. What project occupies you now?”

Her mouth twisted a little ruefully. “Something different from the usual run of things. I daresay it will sound frivolous or ephemeral, perhaps. At this stage it is only a dream. I have not mentioned it to anyone, not even Montford.”

And certainly not to Norland, Rand surmised. “Believe me, Cecily, I do
not
think you frivolous.”

She picked up her napkin and pleated it. “I have always wished to establish a place for women who are of a creative bent to flourish. It seems to me that the only way most women can survive is to marry, and then all of their time is taken with the household and their babies. There is no time or—or mental space to write or to paint or to compose music. Only wealthy women or the men who gain patronage or earn their living in some other fashion can afford to do those things.”

“So you wish to support women in those endeavors.” He was fascinated. “How will you go about selecting candidates? How would you know where to find them?”

“I have made my selection for this particular trial,” said Cecily. “There is already a community like the ones I hope to build in one of the villages on the Harcourt Estate, where I grew up. It was the need I saw in these women that made me decide to help others like them. But you are right. I don’t know how I would go about discovering who most merits my assistance.”

Rand experienced that gut-clenching sense of excitement that told him a project was worthy of his time and money. Oh, not for any financial return it would yield but because of an intrinsic sense of rightness in the cause.

His first inclination was to offer suggestions and support.

But if he did that, would she not suspect an ulterior motive? And besides, he did not wish her to marry him out of gratitude or hope that he would help her achieve her dream. He did not barter his influence and material advantages in return for affection anymore. He’d learned that lesson early in life.

So he said, “I don’t know either, but I shall watch what you do with great interest.”

A statement calculated to both dismiss and approve of the conversation in the most unexceptionable manner.

She looked rather like she’d been slapped in the face. “Thank you. But pray, do forgive me! This endeavor is rather a hobbyhorse of mine. I tend to run on if given the slightest encouragement. So few people are interested, you see.”

The impulse to draw her into a practical discussion about the whys and wherefores of her project nagged at him. But he reminded himself that his resistance was in a just cause.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “I sincerely wish you the best in your mission. It is a worthy one.”

Rising, she curtsied, her lips pressed together as if to contain further speech on her favorite subject. “I believe I shall take the opportunity to return to your attics now, Your Grace.”

She seemed so crestfallen that he again repressed the urge to relent. He wanted nothing more than to delve further into a mind that seemed to burgeon with ideas and originality. But he wanted her to want him for himself. He would help her, but he wouldn’t dangle his assistance like a carrot.

So he tamped down the fire her inspiration and drive set inside him and regretfully let her go.

Sipping his ale, he thought of the bundle of letters he had found when he doubled back to the attics last night and let himself in with the spare key.

Was he missing something? There was nothing in these to warrant Cecily’s desperation, nor her urgency. Just a collection of amusing anecdotes and thumbnail sketches of family, neighbors, and servants.

Did he mean to hand the bundle over to her? Of course he did. Perhaps she might find them nestled at the bottom of the very last trunk.

He’d make sure he was there for the discovery. For he very much wanted to know what was missing from this small collection. And what Lady Cecily would do when she discovered the loss.

Chapter Fourteen

Five trunks and many hours later, Cecily was disheveled, tired, and famished, not to mention dispirited. It was dull, monotonous work sorting through Jonathon’s papers, without even the prospect of sparring with the duke to keep her entertained.

Not that she’d wanted him to assist her. Not that she entirely trusted him to do the job properly, either. Men were notoriously bad at looking for things. They so often missed what was right beneath their noses.

And then, too, there was the danger that if he found that letter she’d written to Jon enclosing her first installment of Sir Ninian’s adventures, he’d read it. That would be the surest way for him to smash her betrothal to smithereens.

Cecily couldn’t get her earlier conversation with Rand out of her head. He’d seemed so vitally interested in her schemes. The urgency in his voice, the compelling light in those striking eyes of his … He’d elicited far more information from her than she’d ever meant to tell. She’d never known such a connection with anyone, not even with Montford, whose mind always seemed the most attuned to her own.

That feeling had been … extraordinary. Then suddenly, it was as if a candle had snuffed inside Rand. He’d withdrawn again. He’d even made her feel a trifle foolish for chattering on so long.

Had she imagined his earlier interest? She didn’t think so. What had she said to make him become so guarded?

Ah, but what was the sense in worrying at that problem like a dog with a bone? Once she found that letter, she would not need to see Rand again.

The idea ought not to provoke such a feeling of loss inside her. How long had she known the dratted man? Hardly any time at all.

And she must stop calling him Rand, even if it was only in the privacy of her own mind.

Resolutely, Cecily forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

She hadn’t discovered any of her correspondence to Jonathon in the trunks, but she had found letters from various other relations, friends, and even lovers. She grimaced. At least, she assumed they were love letters, judging by their lingering scent. The last thing she wanted to do was read one of those.

A cursory inspection told her that all the other trunks contained correspondence to do with business matters. Jonathon had been organized, after a fashion. He had at least stored personal papers together, separately from his other documents.

So then why weren’t her letters there with the personal papers? Had someone removed them? Had Jon? Perhaps he’d kept them elsewhere. Perhaps they were still in the house, liable to be discovered by Bertram or Lavinia or one of the servants at any time.

She had no choice but to keep sifting through the rest of the trunks in the hope that her letters were caught up with other documents.

First, however, she must show her face downstairs. It was past noon and Lady Arden would wonder where her charge was.

*   *   *

“Might I have a word with you, Ashburn?” Norland bustled into the library, where Rand was engaged with his housekeeper, who had some last-minute questions about the menu for this evening.

“Thank you, Mrs. Juteney.” Rand dismissed her with a smile and rose. “Why don’t we take a turn in the gallery, Norland? Dismal day, or I’d suggest a walk outside.”

“What? Eh? Oh, yes, of course.”

“I’m told you’ve been sequestered in your bedchamber all day,” Ashburn remarked as they paced beneath the enigmatic stares of his forebears’ portraits.

Norland nodded. “When I heard Grimshaw was attending, there was no time to waste, you know. Must have everything just so when I lay out my plans to him.”

“I understand,” Rand said. “I trust you have everything you require?”

“Yes, yes, thank you. Kind of you to send up a sandwich. When I work, I forget everything else.”

“Including your betrothed,” murmured Rand.

Norland shot a quick glance at Rand and looked away. He gave an uncomfortable staccato laugh, rather like the bray of a donkey. “As to that, Lady Cecily and I understand one another well enough. She doesn’t wish me to live in her pocket. Indeed, nothing would displease her more, I daresay.”

“And what do
you
wish, Norland?” Rand cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you went on quite happily as a bachelor. I confess this betrothal took me by surprise.”

Norland’s harried expression deepened. “Well. Yes. I mean, I must own I was a little, ahem, surprised myself.”

“Oh?” What an intriguing confession.

“Long-standing arrangement between the families, of course,” said Norland. “But after my first wife died, God rest her, I quite thought … Well, that is to say, I did not realize Lady Cecily’s parents still held to the original, er, understanding between the families. I’d been married and fathered two sons since then.”

“Ah,” said Rand. The implication was clear. Norland had been trapped into honoring an arrangement that no one, least of all the groom himself, thought would ever be enforced. Arranged marriages were not so common now as they once had been. Only the highest sticklers insisted on them in this modern, romantic age.

“Daresay life will go on the same as it ever did once we’re married.” Norland rubbed his cheek with the back of one finger. “We are quite agreed upon that.”