Good Dukes Wear Black (24 page)

For George to have survived the war only to be almost killed by some miscreant bent on mischief was infuriating. And there was no guarantee he'd survive his wound, though his chances were better now that he was back in his father's care.

It would be both good news and bad for Ophelia, he reflected. Though now, at least, they could question George about Maggie's whereabouts.

Crossing to the writing desk in the corner of the room, he quickly wrote out a note to Sir Michael asking to be kept informed of any further developments and rang for Wolfe to take it to the messenger in the kitchen.

When he entered the sitting room again it was to find that Ophelia had been joined by their friends who were all laughing merrily over some nonsensical tale Freddy was in the middle of.

But as soon as Ophelia saw him, she gasped, putting an end to the frivolity.

“What is it?” she asked, rushing to his side.

“You look as if a cat walked over your grave,” Mainwaring said.

“I've had some bad news, I'm afraid,” Trent said as he allowed Ophelia to lead him over to an empty spot on the sofa.

Ophelia busied herself with pouring him a cup of tea and piling several sandwiches and biscuits onto a plate. The room was silent as the group watched her every move. Waiting.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, Trent reached out and touched her arm.

“Ophelia, please,” he said softly. “I need to tell you this.”

But it was clear that she didn't wish to hear it. Even so, she placed both his teacup and plate on the table and allowed him to pull her down to sit beside him.

“Perhaps we should go,” Leonora said.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “You need some privacy.”

“No,” Trent said, looking up at them. “I'd like you to be here.”

“Maggie is dead, isn't she?” Ophelia said, not looking up from where she clasped her hands together in her lap.

“No,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “It is George. He's been found. Shot. In a rooming house in Richmond.”

“Is he alive?” Freddy asked, frowning.

“He is, thank God.” Trent watched as Ophelia looked up at him, her gaze troubled.

“When can we talk to him?” she asked, looking determined. “We need to know what he knows.”

“He's unable to speak just now,” Trent said with a shake of his head. “Sir Michael will contact me as soon as he's well enough to do so.”

Ophelia collapsed onto the sofa beside him. “I might have known. The first solid clue we've found and it is another dead end.”

“Not yet, it isn't,” he reassured her. “In fact, it might be our most promising one yet. The fact that someone tried to get rid of him could mean that someone wanted him out of the way. Probably because he can prove definitively that he didn't sign Dr. Hayes's writ.”

“And the good news is that Grayson is still alive,” Mainwaring said with a nod.

“He's right,” Trent said, taking a seat beside his wife and, despite her rigid posture, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We must account this as a good thing. Though I know you are frustrated and want answers now.”

A pall hung over the room as they all thought about what they could do next.

“Do you think this means that Maggie is lying somewhere injured, or worse?” Ophelia said in a shaky voice.

“I cannot know,” Trent answered her honestly. “But we must assume that she is alive and then we need to work as fast as we can to find her.”

“But where do we even begin?”

It was obvious to him that the week's events were finally catching up to Ophelia. Her usually optimistic disposition had been dimmed by the knowledge that there was no easy fix for any of this.

“I suggest that we let you get some rest, your grace,” Leonora said after exchanging a speaking glance with her husband. “There's nothing any of us can do today, so why don't we agree to speak again tomorrow afternoon?”

“Oh but … I thought…”

It was clear to Trent that it had just dawned on his new wife that once her friends left she'd be alone with him.

“An excellent idea, my dear,” Freddy said, rising. “I believe we could all use an evening to ourselves.”

Hermione kissed Ophelia on the cheek and whispered something to her that Trent was interested to see made Ophelia blush.

“Let me know if there's anything I can do,” Mainwaring said as he clapped Trent on the back. “Tomorrow, of course. I have plans this evening.”

“So would I if you lot would take yourselves off,” Trent answered under his breath, sparking a guffaw from his friend.

For a moment he and Ophelia stood at the door. Then she broke away from him and wandered over to look out the window at the back garden.

He surveyed the elegant line of her back, from where dark curls kissed the back of her neck, down to the flare of her hips and the rounded swell of her bottom. All respectably covered by the deep blue she'd chosen to wear for the wedding. And yet, as enticing an ensemble as he'd ever seen.

Though that perhaps had more to do with the woman herself than the skill of her modiste.

When they reached the door to the duchess's rooms, Trent opened it and ushered her inside.

The pale green furnishings were old-fashioned, but had been aired out and thoroughly cleaned on his orders yesterday. And Ophelia's maid had already unpacked her things and made little changes that should make her feel more at home.

Once they were a little ways into the room. Ophelia turned and straightened her spine. But before she could speak, he smiled and set his hands on her shoulders. “I thought perhaps I'd leave you to rest for a while.”

She relaxed a bit, but her next words surprised him. “Perhaps you'll stay with me, and get some rest too?”

Her eyes were wide pools of blue, and he hadn't had a sweeter invitation in his life.

So he nodded, and after removing his shoes, and helping her out of her gown and stays, they climbed up onto the bed. And as if they'd been sleeping together for years, Ophelia tucked herself into the curve of his neck, and slid her arm round his waist, and fell asleep.

*   *   *

When Ophelia awoke some hours later, she was alone. And disoriented. Then it all came rushing back to her. The wedding, the news about George Grayson, and finally the sweet way Trent had curled up with her and gone to sleep.

A glance at the clock revealed she had nearly an hour until supper, so she rose and went to the bellpull. Asking her maid to draw a bath, she set about preparing for the wedding night ahead.

Sometime later, feeling rather underdressed in a lovely but nearly transparent night rail and jacket that had been a wedding gift from Leonora and Hermione, Ophelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the knock on the connecting door to the duke's rooms.

“Come in,” she called, standing casually before the fire.

When the door opened and Trent, newly shaved and bathed, and dressed again in black finery, stepped into the room, she gave a mental curse.

“I knew it would be odd for me to attend supper in my night rail,” she said, mortified, “but Leonora and Hermione assured me that it was all the rage. But clearly you are expecting me in an evening gown. Give me just a few minutes, and I'll be dressed.” As she spoke, she did not look up at him, simply scurried across the room toward the bellpull. But as soon as she lifted her hand to grasp it, she felt his hand on her arm.

“Do not,” he said, “by all that is holy, change one thing about your attire and I will weep.”

Arrested by the feel of him pulling her into his arms, she dared to peek up at his face and saw that he was dead serious.

“Are you just being polite?” she asked, frowning.

“My dear Ophelia,” he said, his eyes intent, “I have never been more serious in my life. This is my favorite outfit you've ever worn in my presence, and if it were not likely to get me thrown into gaol, I'd demand that you wear nothing but this ensemble for the rest of our days together.”

Something about the twinkle in his eye told her that he was only partly serious. “You're sure?” she asked. “For it does feel a little odd for me to be wearing so little while you are so well dressed.”

“I do not wish you to feel odd,” he said with a half smile that revealed a single dimple. “Shall I take off some of my own clothes? Just for solidarity?”

“Now I know you're teasing me,” she said, pushing away, but confident that he did not think her in breach of some sort of wedding night etiquette.

“Perhaps a little,” he said, offering her his arm. “Now, let us go have some supper and you can tell me what else your friends told you about wedding nights. For I vow I am quite eager to hear what they had to say.”

Unable to stop herself, she laughed, and allowed him to lead her through the connecting doors and their respective dressing rooms and into his bedchamber.

Whereas her own rooms were furnished in delicate pale greens and furniture clearly made for a lady, his bedchamber was quite masculine. The furniture was heavy and dark and the curtains and bedclothes were dark blue. And had been chosen sometime in the past half century.

“I'm afraid I haven't spent much time redecorating these rooms,” he apologized, as he led her over to where a small table had been laid with a tablecloth and was covered with tureens and dishes filled with all sorts of delicacies.

“I'm afraid I'm too hungry to care,” she said as he pulled out a chair for her, and to her dismay, her stomach gave a little growl.

“Then by all means, eat,” he said with a chuckle as he took the seat opposite. “I am pleased to meet a lady who does not pick at her food like a bird.”

“No danger there,” she said as she bit into a bit of bread. “No danger at all.”

*   *   *

He found Ophelia to be a lively conversationalist, and thanks to their shared circle of friends they were able to tell stories without needing to explain their various relationships to the players. Ophelia asked what it had been like for the quartet of Trent, Mainwaring, Freddy, and the now departed Jonathan Craven at school. And Trent was able to make her laugh over their boyhood scrapes and feats of derring-do. And she shared with him tales of her childhood in London, which despite her sister's presence, sounded a bit lonely to his ears. She'd had friends, of course, but having been kept home and educated by a governess, she and Mariah had had only themselves to rely on for most of their youth.

“Then at some point,” she said wryly, “Mariah became the pretty one. It wasn't that I was considered to be particularly plain, you understand. Just that Mariah was so winsome—and quite able to use it to her advantage when necessary—that I faded into the background. It was galling to me at first. For every young lady longs to be the one who catches the gentlemen's eyes. But soon I found other ways to show my worth. My writing was one of them.”

“How so?” he asked, fascinated by these tales of the young Ophelia. He found it hard to believe that she was ever seen as anything but lovely, but he supposed it was impossible to draw comparisons when two sisters were standing side by side. Mariah was quite pretty, of course. But there was something rather vacant in her eyes that made him think that for all her looks she would not be nearly as entertaining a companion as her sister.

“You know how young people like to put on amateur theatricals and the like,” she said with a smile. When he nodded she continued, “Well, I was often called upon to pen our little plays. Especially when my sister wished to take a starring role. So I would spend all night scribbling out the most dreadful plays. Truly awful things with melodrama and mysterious inheritances and the like. And Mariah would take the lead role, and naturally, the most handsome of our neighbors, or sometimes some schoolfriend he'd brought home, would play opposite her.”

“So you were essentially playing matchmaker for your sister?” he asked with a laugh. He could think of few ladies who would so calmly hand over the best part to someone else. Even a sister.

“Sometimes.” Ophelia shrugged. “But it wasn't as if I were pining for any of these gentlemen. As far as I was concerned they were just foolish boys who would make terrible husbands one day. I had no wish to find myself married off to one of them.”

“And your sister?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Did she expect to marry one of them?”

“Hardly.” Ophelia laughed. “She wanted them no more than I did. What she did want was their adoration, and their undying devotion. Mariah has always been remarkably practical when it comes to things like romance. She has no time for sentiment, does our Mariah.”

Though she spoke wryly, Trent could sense that there was more to her confession than that. “What about you? Do you find any appeal in sentiment, Ophelia?”

The question hung in the air between them for a moment as he watched the candlelight dance across her lovely countenance. She really was the lovelier of the two sisters, he thought with a start. It wasn't that Mariah was ugly or unattractive. Far from it. But Ophelia had a quiet loveliness about her, something that took more than a glance to recognize. But once seen, it was impossible to miss again.

“I suppose I am as open to flattery as the next lady,” Ophelia said now. “And sentiment has its place, does it not? I imagine the right words uttered at the right moment could make my heart beat quite fast. But I'm not one to be constantly bursting into tears over the way a sunset moves me, or waxing poetic over a flower's beauty.”

Trent grinned at the image. “While you do not seem to be without feeling, I cannot imagine you are the sort of foolish creature who weeps over the delicacy of a bird wing either.”

“Far from it,” Ophelia confirmed. “Though I obviously appreciate bird wings as much as the next person.”

Laughing, Trent reached across the table and clasped her hand in his.”If you're finished with supper, I think it's time for bed.”