A Scoundrel by Moonlight (23 page)

N
ot until afternoon could Nell escape the duchess’s benevolent tyranny and arrange an appointment with the duke. Physically she felt stronger, although the wound in her heart over Leath’s treachery seeped perpetual poison.

A footman escorted her across a gleaming parquet floor to a closed door. Nell squared her shoulders, but she feared that she’d left her courage in the cottage in the Peaks. She smoothed her skirts, unaccustomed to the feel of the rich fabric. Apparently her dress was still drying. This gorgeous dark blue gown belonged to Lady Hillbrook, who was close to her size. The duchess was long and lean like an elegant greyhound. Lady Harmsworth was built like a valkyrie.

Lady Hillbrook, another beautiful brunette although less inclined than the duchess to insist on her own way, had provided a couple of dresses more extravagant than anything Nell had ever owned. Although she reflected sourly that Leath’s mistress would wear clothes like this. She vaguely remembered a dress allowance in that prosaic contract. Probably she should be flattered that he’d had it drawn up.
If those pathetic letters were any indication, he hadn’t taken such trouble with the other women he’d duped.

The thought of those letters and what she owed Dorothy steadied wavering courage.

The door opened and she stepped into a spacious library, more leather and mahogany than Leath’s extravaganza in marble and gold, but just as impressive. She gulped back traitorous weakness, as memories of hours working with the marquess overcame her. Hours when she’d deceived herself that she served a man of principle. She’d fallen in love with that man, but he was a chimera. Her love had been fatally misplaced, but the effort to crush it hurt. Dear God, it hurt.

She blinked back tears and realized that this encounter would be even more daunting than expected. The room overflowed with tall, well-dressed men. She blinked again and raised her chin. She’d risked so much for this moment. She couldn’t falter. Even if, despite everything, some shameful element deep in her soul recoiled from Leath’s destruction.

Nell told herself that she felt guilty about the marchioness. But the truth was that her foolish, faithful heart hadn’t relinquished its love. And the futile hope that she was mistaken. That those letters were meant for some other Marquess of Leath. That she’d misunderstood Dorothy’s dying words.

“Miss Trim, how are you feeling?” The duke abandoned his companions and approached with a ground-eating stride that reminded her painfully of Leath’s prowl.

Stop it, Nell. You’re only torturing yourself. Avenge Dorothy, then go away and establish a life.

Except that even now, she couldn’t imagine a life without the vile, duplicitous Lord Leath. She really was a hopeless case.

“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsy, hopefully more graceful than last night’s stumble.

He took her arm with a firm gentleness that reminded her of the duchess and drew her toward a seat near the fire. The crowd dwindled to a handsome blond man and a brawny figure with horrific scars marking his saturnine face. Both took chairs near her while the duke stood before the hearth.

A rough-coated brindle hound rose in front of the fire and wandered lazily across to Nell. For a moment, intelligent dark eyes inspected her, then he settled on the floor at her side with a doggy groan.

“Don’t mind Sirius,” the fair man said.

“I’ve ordered tea. Would you like some?” Sedgemoor clearly sought to put her at ease. But her eyes immediately fastened on the papers near his elbow on the mantelpiece. Familiar papers. Papers condemning the Marquess of Leath.

“No, thank you,” she said faintly, grateful to be sitting. She had a horrible feeling that if she tried to stand, her legs might crumple beneath her. Her hand dropped to fondle the dog’s soft ears. At least one creature in this room seemed to be on her side.

As if understanding her nervousness, the blond man sent her an encouraging smile. Thanks to the newspapers, she knew who these men were. The Adonis was Sir Richard Harmsworth, arbiter of fashion. The scowling beast was Jonas Merrick, Viscount Hillbrook, reputedly the richest man in Europe. All this masculine power in one room made her feel short of air. She gulped against faintness.

“Miss Trim, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited Lord Hillbrook and Sir Richard to hear what you have to say,” Sedgemoor said.

The two men bowed in her direction as Sedgemoor
performed the introductions. She straightened and told herself for Dorothy’s sake, she could do this. She’d failed her sister in her last months. She wouldn’t fail her now.

Nell steadied her voice, although she was sure they heard the betraying huskiness. “The more people who know about Lord Leath’s offenses, the better. The whole point of bringing you the letters, Your Grace, is for you to make their contents public.”

There. She was committed. She ignored her heart’s anguished entreaties to give Leath the benefit of the doubt. She had no doubts.

“Before I take this further, I need to know a little more. Whether the letters are genuine, for example.”

Surprised, Nell stared at him. All through yesterday’s purgatorial journey, she’d played this scene out in her mind. She’d imagined that she’d show the duke the letters, he’d gratefully accept this chance to crush his enemy, then he’d take control of the marquess’s comeuppance. Stupidly, it had never occurred to her that His Grace might doubt the letters’ authenticity.

“We’re not questioning your honesty, Miss Trim,” Sir Richard said. “But it’s possible that someone is using you to harm Leath, some political enemy perhaps.”

She stifled a bitter laugh. “The letters are real. I took them from his lordship’s personal luggage yesterday morning.” She paused. “And I have my own reasons for wanting to bring Lord Leath to his knees.”

Hillbrook and Sir Richard shared a speaking look, and she clenched her fists in her lap, trepidation retreating behind rage. Finding those letters had reawakened her anger and grief over Dorothy’s death. That anger now gave her impetus to continue.

In a low voice and with a firmness that surprised her, Nell
set out the tale of Dorothy’s ruin and her decision to seek justice for her half-sister. She spoke about her weeks at Alloway Chase and her thwarted attempts to find proof of the marquess’s debauchery. The only part of the story she didn’t share was her idiocy in falling victim to the libertine. She made no attempt to hide her deceptions and failures, apart from her heart’s failure to recognize a liar.

By the time she’d finished, the short twilight had deepened into night. His Grace had lit the candles, but the room was shadowy and the atmosphere felt increasingly conspiratorial.

She was grateful that the men had listened without interruption. If she’d needed to stop and defend her statements, she’d have lost all confidence. “When I found the letters, I came here, seeking a champion.”

“But why come to me?” Sedgemoor asked. “Had we met?”

“No, Your Grace. The newspapers said that you and Lord Leath were at outs. I hoped you’d have a vested interest in helping.”

Sir Richard frowned. “If what Miss Trim says is true, the man is a rabid dog.”

Hillbrook too looked troubled. “If it’s true. I must say I haven’t seen anything to indicate villainy at this level.”

“The letters prove it.” Nell struggled not to sound desperate. “If you don’t believe me, track down the women who wrote them. And there’s the added proof of the letter blackmailing his lordship for return of the diary.”

“Ah, the diary,” Sedgemoor said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers and tapping them on his chin. He now sat in the circle with the rest of them. “Lord Leath doesn’t strike me as a man partial to melodrama. And surely he’s too clever to leave such condemnatory evidence.”

“It clearly exists.” After hearing her story, how could they
doubt that Leath must be stopped? “Dorothy saw it and this Greengrass man claims to have it.”

“Cam and I have experience of Greengrass,” Sir Richard said. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him. And given he’s a big brute, that’s not far at all.”

“Although I hear you bested him in three punches,” the duke said, surprising Nell. She’d immediately labeled the elegant fellow as decorative rather than useful.

Sir Richard looked uncomfortable. “Genevieve told you about that, did she?”

“She told Pen.”

“That’s the same as telling you.” Sir Richard glanced across at Nell. He was the least imperious of the three men. His blue eyes were kind and when he smiled, she felt like he meant it.

Lord Hillbrook seemed to reserve judgment, but when he examined her, his cold black eyes pierced to her soul. Pray God he didn’t see the roiling confusion there or the humiliating truth that Leath’s dupes included Eleanor Trim.

His Grace was harder to read. She picked up no hostility, but her revelations hadn’t roused his enthusiasm.

Sir Richard slouched picturesquely in his chair. He was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. It was difficult to imagine him married to the terrifyingly clever Genevieve. “My apologies. We speak in riddles, Miss Trim. This isn’t our first encounter with Hector Greengrass. He worked for Leath’s uncle, Neville Fairbrother, whose outrages would make your hair curl.”

“Clearly Lord Leath comes from a rotten tree,” she said grimly, still struggling against feelings of disloyalty toward her deceitful lover. “The family connection must be how Greengrass got the diary.”

“The evidence against Leath seems damning,” Hillbrook
said slowly. “But I still find it a stretch to believe that he’s responsible. For a start, I can’t see how his parliamentary work left him time to pursue women up and down the country. The fellow must never sleep to be so busy in the government and still fit in all this wenching.”

Nell studied the three men and saw that her story, while it had undoubtedly moved them, hadn’t convinced them of Leath’s guilt. She surged to her feet, disgust and outrage twisting like snakes in her belly. Her sudden movement startled Sirius from his doze and he jumped up, bristling.

She should have realized that when push came to shove, justice wouldn’t outweigh the aristocratic bond. These men were reluctant to expose Leath as a blight on the country, because they were linked through birth and prestige. A black mark against the marquess constituted a black mark against all noblemen.

She wouldn’t let them close ranks. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go elsewhere,” she said adamantly. “The press will be interested, I’m sure.”

All three rose when she did. Part of their gentleman’s code. Like protecting their own. The duke spoke in a soothing tone. “My dear Miss Trim, let’s not be hasty.”

She frowned. “We need to be hasty. Lord Leath has done enough damage.”

Nell couldn’t interpret the look that the duke sent the other two men. “We know you believe that. But before we take action, we need to be sure the facts are straight. If we attack Leath publicly, only to find that we’re on shaky ground with our accusations, he’ll sue us for libel then continue with impunity.”

“We need to be certain of our footing,” Hillbrook said. “Although I understand your impatience.”

“Especially after weeks in the cad’s company,” Sir Richard said.

She searched his face, but found no ulterior meaning to his comment. “I owed it to my sister.”

The heat in her cheeks flared as she remembered what she’d done with wicked Lord Leath during those weeks. Thank God these men weren’t mind readers. Although when she saw Lord Hillbrook’s eyes narrow, she feared that perhaps he might be.

No, that was her guilty conscience speaking. She’d been misled and mistaken. Now she aimed in the right direction. She’d avenge Dorothy. She’d make sure Leath despoiled no more innocent girls. And if she died trying, she’d mend the jagged chasm in her soul.

“With investigation, it’s possible that we’ll find more evidence,” Hillbrook said.

She sighed. “I hoped that my part was done and I could leave everything to you.”

Sedgemoor smiled. His air of self-containment and competence provided the perfect foil for Leath’s energy and cleverness. “Miss Trim, we only ask you to stay while we dig a little deeper.”

“You can contact me in Mearsall,” she said desperately. She was frantic to return to her old life, to prove that she was the same person she’d been, to forget tall, gray-eyed lords who lied.

“A few days,” His Grace said. “These allegations are so grave, we’ll have to back them to the final word.”

Unwillingly she nodded, although disappointment tasted bitter. She didn’t want to play the crusader. She wanted to find somewhere to hide away and come to terms with her sins. And her broken heart.

To Nell’s dismay, her warm welcome at Fentonwyck continued. She’d assumed that after that interview with His Grace
and his cronies, she’d remain in her room awaiting developments. Or in view of her status as lowborn interloper, the duchess would shift her to the servants’ quarters. Even if upon arrival, the Rothermeres had mistaken her for some wayward gentlewoman—her clothes were cheap, but her horse definitely wasn’t—when she’d told her story, she’d been frank about her humble background.