A Duke to Remember (A Season for Scandal Book 2) (2 page)

The duchess’s eyes became a little sharper. “Francis wants to see me die in here,” she said, straightening her spine. “But Abigail won’t let that happen. There’s nothing wrong with me, and they all know it. Abigail will fetch Noah.”

Elise stilled. “Your son?”

The duchess tipped her head, her eyes losing their focus, her brief lucidity slipping away.

Elise cursed inwardly. “But your son is dead.”

“Dead, dead, dead,” the duchess mumbled in a singsong voice. “He’s not dead. Just…gone.” Her words slurred slightly.

Elise wanted to shake her but was careful to keep her expression neutral. “Gone where, Your Grace?”

“I never got him back,” she replied, and there were tears tracking down her haggard cheeks now.

Elise stared at her. What did that mean?

The duchess was quiet for a few moments, and Elise wasn’t sure if the woman was even aware of her presence now.

“He gave me roses for my birthday when he was seven,” the duchess said suddenly, a wistful expression on her face. The slur had vanished, but she sounded distant now. “Not a bouquet, but an entire garden of damask roses. Fickle things, damask roses. But Noah grew them. That child could make anything grow. Such a sweet boy.”

“Where is he now, Your Grace?” Elise prodded. Was it possible that the duchess was telling the truth? That the rightful heir to the dukedom of Ashland was still alive? Or was this a desperate, drugged wish, wrought by the grief and sorrow of a mother who had lost a son? “Where is Noah now?” Elise repeated.

The duchess was silent for nearly a full minute before her shoulders slumped forward once again. “Who are you?” she asked Elise. “Are you another doctor?”

Elise closed her eyes briefly. “Yes,” she replied.

“I don’t want to go in the cold water again,” the duchess pleaded, and her voice shook. “Where is Abigail?”

“She’s coming,” Elise told her. “She’s coming as soon as she can so you can go home.”

“I don’t want to stay here anymore.” Withered, bent fingers clawed at Elise’s own hands.

“You won’t have to. I promise.” She said it knowing promises were dangerous things. Especially when Elise was sure another month in this place would kill the duchess.

“I’m very tired,” the duchess whispered.

“I know.” Elise stood, and the woman’s hands fell away from hers to rest lifelessly on her faded skirts.

Elise took stock of her surroundings—the heavy stone walls and the thick bars of the gates. This room was a heavily fortified dungeon, and it would be exceedingly difficult to break its prisoner out. Not impossible, of course, for Elise felt certain that there were many inside this place who could be bribed and leveraged if it came to that. But such things took time, especially when Elise did not have any established contacts. And the duchess did not have the luxury of time.

Ellery cleared his throat loudly behind Elise. “I think that is enough,” he said. “It is clear that my aunt has been fatigued.”

“Indeed.” Elise retrieved her notebook from the floor, careful to school her expression.

“What did you discover about this patient?” the steward demanded as Elise approached him. Behind him Ellery was watching her keenly.

That she has been dosed with narcotics, probably by you. That she might harbor knowledge that would prevent Mr. Francis Ellery from getting what he wants.

“Her ladyship is clearly delusional,” Elise said, choosing her words with care and telling the men everything they wanted to hear. “Confuses the present with the past, has only scant moments of lucidity, and is unable to recall even the most recent conversations.”

As expected, both men relaxed. “So you see why the duchess must remain here, don’t you?” Ellery prompted.

Elise didn’t trust herself to answer. Instead she flipped open her notebook and scribbled
Where is Noah Ellery?
If only to keep herself from saying something she might regret later.

“Did you wish to see any of the other patients while you are here today, Dr. Rowley?” the steward asked. “We have one who thinks he’s a dog. Barks till the wee hours of the morning and will only eat off the floor.” He chuckled. “Most entertaining. A pity the public can no longer pay to witness it.”

Elise took a steadying breath. “No, that will be all for me today. My area of interest is confined to ladies of pedigree.”

“Too bad.”

“My thanks for your time, gentlemen.” She forced the words through her lips. “I’ll take my leave now.”

“Suit yourself.” He frowned. “What hospital are you with again, Doctor? The directors didn’t say.”

Elise took a last look at the defeated, confused woman still sitting on the edge of her bed. “Neither did I,” she said, and then hurried back toward the maze of corridors that would take her out of Bedlam.

Francis Ellery watched the detestable doctor go with a curl to his lip.

He was both pleased and relieved that the doctor had seen exactly what Francis had wanted him to see, but the insufferable arrogance and disrespect that he’d used to address Francis was enough to make him see red. But that would soon change.

His father had always been fond of telling Francis he’d been relieved that the burden of the duchy of Ashland had fallen on his older brother’s shoulders. Being a younger son was a blessing. It had freed him from a landslide of responsibility and allowed him the liberty to choose how he lived his life and even whom he married. Being a duke wasn’t as glamorous as one might think.

His father had been an idiot.

Not only did the Ashland title come with mind-boggling wealth, it came with power trumped only by the bloody monarchy. What sort of man would not want those things?

And now all of that could be his. Francis wanted—no, needed—it all. He was so close, he could almost taste it. The old duke had died. Francis’s father was dead. There was only one thing stopping the courts from handing over everything Francis had ever wanted.

And that was his lunatic of a cousin. Who was very inconveniently missing.

Missing
wasn’t good enough for the courts to transfer the peerage from Noah Ellery to Francis Ellery.
Missing
wasn’t even good enough to transfer any of the duchy’s properties and wealth. Especially with the duchess running her mouth, trumpeting to anyone who would listen that her precious son was still alive.

Francis had certainly taken care of that problem. He’d then turned his attention to the one remaining and sought the sort of help that a situation like this required. That sort of help was expensive, but would be worth every penny in the end. If Noah Ellery was alive, he would be found.

And if the courts wanted a body, he would give them one.

T
he offices of Chegarre & Associates were tucked into the clutter of Covent Square, hidden in plain sight in the shadow of St Paul’s Church. The long piazzas that lined the raucous marketplace were crowded today, as they were every day. And being that the Covent Square neighborhood was populated largely by those who made their living as entertainers, of both the artistic and the intimate persuasion, the tenements saw traffic that ebbed and flowed at all hours of the day and night. No one had the interest or the time to notice the comings and goings of Elise DeVries. Which was exactly how she wanted it.

There was no sign outside the shabby-fronted building that housed Chegarre & Associates, nor did the consultancy advertise its services in the
Times
. Even so, every person in the ton—and many outside it—knew about Chegarre and the secret miracles it worked for its clients.

Chegarre & Associates was a firm dedicated to fixing the private and personal problems of the very public people who were wealthy enough to afford Chegarre’s astronomical fees. When faced with the threat of humiliation, scandal, or dishonor, one could do no better than to avail oneself of Chegarre’s expert team for a solution. Elise had been a partner in the firm for just over five years, and there was little that surprised her any longer. She’d covertly tidied up inconvenient deaths, separated scandalous lovers, quashed illicit affairs, shut down illegal businesses, foiled kidnappings and extortion plots, and helped to zero out debts and addictions. The firm was masterful at making scandal simply disappear.

Which was not to say that resolving the Ashland matter would be easy.

Elise climbed the worn stone steps and let herself into the building, shutting the heavy wooden door firmly behind her. Immediately the din of the square vanished, replaced with a blessed silence. While the exterior of the once-luxurious town house still presented the same shabby facade as its neighbors, the interior had been restored to its former glory. The grandeur of the past was evident in the details of the polished wood on the walls and floor, the sparkle of crystal from the chandeliers and sconces overhead, and the subtle sheen of marble where it framed welcoming hearths. Elise leaned against the door and closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted in the absence of an audience.

She pulled off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes, making black spots dance behind her closed lids.

Seeing a woman restrained as the duchess had been had evoked unpleasant memories. And now, in the quiet and privacy of this space, it left her more than a little unsettled to be reminded of the lengths certain people would go to in the pursuit of their ambitions. Which was ridiculous, she knew. Greed and ambition were the very things that brought business to her doorstep, and the prevalence of both meant that all the members of the firm lived quite well. But for the first time since she had been hired by Chegarre, Elise wondered if perhaps she needed a break from the darker side of human nature. Perhaps she just needed to get out of London for a while.

Or perhaps she just needed a good, stiff drink.

“Miz Elise.”

Elise’s eyes snapped open. “Good afternoon, Roderick,” she said to the boy standing before her. He was about eight, dressed formally as befitted a pint-size butler, though the entire effect was somewhat ruined by the untamable cowlick that stood straight up from the back of his head.

“Didn’t recognize you from the window or I would’ve got the door for you,” he said, scratching his head.

“That was kind of the idea,” Elise replied, pushing herself wearily off the door and starting into the hall. Between this job and her work as a part-time actress at the Theatre Royal, she barely recognized herself anymore at any given moment. Every day brought a new role and a new deception to play out.

“I like that costume,” Roddy offered. “That’s a good one. You look like a real doctor.”

But she wasn’t a real doctor, Elise thought unhappily. She wasn’t a real anything, in fact. She was a chameleon, paid to become whomever the situation required. And false credentials would get her only so far.

“Mr. Alex is in the drawing room waiting for you,” Roddy continued.

“Good.” Elise brightened at that. Alexander Lavoie was not only her brother but a partner of Chegarre & Associates. As the owner of one of the most exclusive gaming hells in London, he was intimately familiar with the most influential and infamous members of the ton. And Alex had a particular talent for taking the secrets of these elite gamblers and depositing them into his coffers along with their money. This talent alone could turn a clever man into a very, very successful one.

And Alexander Lavoie was nothing if not clever.

“Lady Abigail is down in the kitchens,” Roddy told her. “Baking again. Says she couldn’t stand waiting and doing nothing. Do you want me to fetch her?”

“Not just yet.” Lady Abigail had been staying in the upstairs guest rooms of the town house while Elise assessed her case, and Elise couldn’t remember a time when their pantries had ever been as full of biscuits and breads.

“Are you sad, Miz Elise?” Roddy asked suddenly as they made their way toward the drawing room.

“What? Why do you ask?” Elise frowned.

“You looked kind of sad when you came in.”

She paused in the hall just outside the drawing room door. “Maybe a little. People can be horrible to each other. And sometimes it makes me sad to think about it too much.”

Roderick nodded sagely. “When I get sad or angry, I like to go down to the river and throw rocks into the water. It makes me feel better.”

Elise smiled despite herself. “Are you suggesting that I go throw rocks into the Thames?”

Roddy made a face. “Of course not, Miz Elise. Unless you want to. But surely you have something you like to do that makes
you
feel better?”

“Cows,” she said.

“Cows?”

“I used to milk the cows whenever I needed to think. Whenever I needed to let my mind rest and settle my thoughts.”

Roderick wrinkled his nose dubiously. “Did you want me to fetch you a cow? There are some kept over on—”

Elise laughed. “No, thank you, Roderick. I think you’ve cured any sadness for now. I can skip the milking for today.”

“Happy to help, Miz Elise.” Roddy flashed her a smile before he disappeared back down the hall, presumably in the direction of the kitchens and the delicious smells that were wafting up.

“Things must have gone poorly if you’re thinking of the old farm and wishing to milk cows again, little sister.” The drawl came from inside the doorway and Elise turned to find her brother leaning against the frame, his booted feet crossed and a half glass of whiskey in his hand.

He had hazel eyes as Elise did, though his tended toward dark amber while her own languished closer to green. They also shared the same dark, coffee-colored hair, though his possessed none of the wave that made hers curl. He was tall and lean, and the scar that started at his ear and ran over his cheekbone to catch at his lip gave him an intimidating appearance.

He stepped forward and made to kiss Elise on the cheek, before eyeing her beard in distaste and thinking better of it. Elise plucked the glass from his hand and took a bracing swallow, allowing the liquor to blaze a trail of fire down her throat.

“That bad?” Alex asked with some sympathy.

“Worse.” She drained what was left. “They have the duchess chained to her bed and drugged, and I’m quite certain Francis Ellery is paying to have her kept that way.” She pressed the cool glass to her forehead. “She’s utterly helpless.”

“Is she mad?”

“I don’t believe she is. But even if she were, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” She shuddered slightly. “I can’t leave her like that, Alex. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I know,” Alex said gently. “We’ll get this sorted. But we’ll do it one step at a time.”

Elise nodded and took a deep breath. “Of course.” She was letting too many of her own emotions muddy the waters here. And emotions had no place in this job. If she really wanted to help the duchess, she needed to focus on fact. “Tell me what you were able to find out about Francis Ellery,” she said.

“Come,” Alex urged, as he ushered her farther into the drawing room. “If we’re going to talk about Francis Ellery, I’m going to need more whiskey.”

Elise followed him into the room decorated in soothing shades of blue. A long Edward East clock kept time against the far wall, while beautifully carved furniture pieces upholstered in sumptuous brocades were arranged over the Aubusson rug at their feet. It was a room meant to impress and put even their most privileged clients at ease.

Alex plucked the glass from her hand and refilled it generously from a collection of crystal decanters along a rosewood sideboard. He handed the glass back to her before pouring another for himself and took a seat on the sofa, settling back into the plush cushions.

“Would you care to sit?” he inquired.

“I’ll stand.” It was all she could do not to pace.

“Suit yourself.”

Elise took a more measured sip from her glass. “Tell me about Francis Ellery,” she repeated.

“Francis Ellery”—Alex’s top lip turned up, pulling at his scar—“does not gamble at my establishment.”

“He doesn’t gamble?”

Alex swirled the contents of his glass. “I didn’t say that. He gambles heavily, but he no longer does so under my roof. He is a liar and a cheat. Two things I can never have on my gaming floor, if only because, together, they inevitably lead to violence. Which of course inevitably leads to the destruction of beautiful property, namely my own. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get bloodstains out of baize. Ghastly expensive, those faro tables.”

“So you’ve told me. On multiple occasions,” Elise said dryly. “What else?”

“Mr. Ellery has a number of gambling debts. Very large debts. And word is that the collectors are becoming impatient.”

“Ah. I can imagine Mr. Ellery is all the more eager to have the Ashland title in hand.”

Alex peered at Elise. “Are you aware of how much wealth is associated with the dukedom? The real property alone is staggering. The last duke was one of the single richest landholders in all of Southern England.”

“I am aware.” She paused. “What about the late duke’s son? Did you discover anything about him from your club clientele?”

“I did indeed. The Marquess of Heatherton, after a half-dozen glasses of my best French brandy, confided that there was, and still is, speculation about the boy. Especially now with the death of the old duke. Heatherton saw the boy only once when the child was near nine or ten—said he was the spitting image of his father—but after that he never saw him again. No evidence of him ever attending Eton or another school befitting a duke’s son. No appearances at country shoots or hunts, even once he was old enough to take part. The old duke refused to speak his son’s name, and the general consensus was that the boy had died, though no one ever confirmed it with any degree of confidence.”

“Huh.” Elise scratched at her beard.

“Heatherton did go on to say that he witnessed the duchess making a terrible scene when he called on Her Grace and Mr. Ellery to offer condolences after Ashland’s death. The marquess said the duchess became quite agitated. In fact she begged Heatherton to help her find her son. When Mr. Ellery reminded his aunt that Noah Ellery was long dead, she began raving, insisting he was alive, and eventually Mr. Ellery had to bodily drag the duchess from the room to see her settled upstairs. He took great pains to later excuse his aunt’s wild rant as a product of her mind-altering grief.”

“Mind-altering?” Elise asked.

“Ellery’s words, not mine. Though isn’t it terribly convenient that the single person who believes that Noah Ellery is alive has now been committed to Bedlam?”

Abigail will fetch Noah.
Elise heard Miriam’s words echo in her head. “She isn’t the only one who believes the heir to Ashland is alive. I think his sister does too.”

Alex’s brows rose. “And why, then, would Lady Abigail decline to mention this?”

“Perhaps I can answer that.”

Elise froze, an unpleasant ripple of unease coursing through her. Slowly she turned toward the voice that had spoken.

He was standing in the doorway of the study, one hand tucked into the front of his coat, the other resting on the top of a silver-tipped walking stick. He was a physically impressive man, with red-gold hair and pale-blue eyes set into an aquiline face reminiscent of early Tudor portraits, from before their monarchs had fallen victim to vice and the ravages of age. He was dressed expensively, the finest fabrics tailored to perfection on his sleek frame, a blindingly white cravat tied intricately at his neck. A gold ring glinted off a finger as he adjusted his grip on the head of his walking stick.

“King,” she said by way of careful greeting. It was the only name the man had. Or at least the only one Elise had ever heard. But that was to be expected from a man with no past who had risen ruthlessly and violently through the ranks of London’s underworld until he rested at the very pinnacle. He traded in rare antiquities, art, jewelry—anything, really, that could be obtained and that would fetch a price from discriminating buyers with very deep pockets and very few principles. Elise doubted that there existed anything in this world that King could not unearth. Assuming the money was right, of course.

“I let myself in,” the man said. “There was a decided lack of opposition. You might want to think about addressing that.”

“Come to steal the silverware, King?” Alex asked casually from the sofa, crossing his legs. He looked relaxed, but Elise could sense the hostility rolling off him in waves.

King’s eyes flickered in the direction of her brother briefly. “Perhaps not today, Mr. Lavoie.” He stepped into the room and walked slowly toward Elise. “By God, I can see why the duchess adores you.” He came to a stop in front of Elise, examining her appearance. “I would wager your own mother would never recognize you.”

“Miss Moore isn’t here at the moment,” Elise told him. Ivory Moore was both the founder of Chegarre & Associates and the former Duchess of Knightley. It was usually she who negotiated with King when necessity required it.