Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (20 page)

Observing the still-raw pain in the other man’s eyes, Max knew Langley was withholding a great deal. Yet, it wasn’t his place to pry. Max raised his glass at Langley. “Don’t worry, Captain. It’s a new year. And I intend to make Olivia Donovan my wife by the end of it.”

A week later, Fenwicke paced his study, hatred burning an acid hole in his chest.

Maxwell Buchanan had become a duke. Surpassed him in status and title.

Worse, infinitely worse, the man had beaten Fenwicke at his own game of seduction. He’d succeeded where Fenwicke had failed.

He’d been so certain Max would fail with Olivia Donovan, just like he had. But he hadn’t. The bastard had seduced her. Had touched her, over and over again.

Fenwicke could kill Max for that alone. For touching what he’d considered solely his since the first moment he’d laid eyes on the woman.

He had always despised Maxwell Buchanan. How Max had looked down his nose at him their whole lives. Max had always thought himself better than Fenwicke. Had always thought himself not only intellectually and physically superior, but morally superior as well.

Fenwicke thought of the disdainful press of Max’s lips when they’d been discussing Olivia Donovan at that ball last Season, and how he’d mentioned Beatrice, just to get a rise out of him. Fenwicke had wanted to slap that gloating look right off the man’s face. He’d wanted to thrust Beatrice in front of him and shout, “Look! Look at this fat shell of a woman! How can you possibly expect me to want to bed her, much less remain faithful?”

Beatrice had been far away in Sussex, otherwise Fenwicke would have been tempted to do it.

Two years ago, Beatrice had been an ideal bride. She was from a highly admired family and came with an enormous fortune of her own. She was quiet and shy, respectable yet poised. She was in possession of a pair of strong hips, which boded well for bearing him children. And, two years ago, she had been the belle of the London Season. Everyone had wanted her.

Fenwicke loved competition, and above all, he liked to
win. He’d done everything in his power to win Beatrice, and he’d succeeded. His wedding to her, with all those titled gentlemen staring at him in glazed-eyed envy, was one of the pinnacle moments of his life.

Only after he’d married her had he realized what a bore she really was. And she was such a damned weakling it made him sick.

Max had since seen firsthand what had become of Fenwick’s unfortunate wife in the past two years. Surely now he understood why Fenwicke chose courtesans and other whores over that woman. A man couldn’t be blamed for seeking satisfaction elsewhere when he was shackled to such a dull lump.

Yet still Max looked upon him with a holier-than-thou countenance that made Fenwicke boil, made him want to scream in rage, made him want to wring his neck and wipe that damned superior look off his face.

And now… now this.

Fenwicke looked over at his desk. There it was. The newspaper lying on the smooth, gleaming wood.

He could see the squiggling black lines of the article that meant his demise. Some damned bastard at White’s had leaked the entire tale.

In easily breakable code, it told of the bet Fenwicke had made with Max: “At a certain gentleman’s club in St. James, Lord F______ initiated a wager with Lord H______, who has since risen to the rank of duke.”

Pfft,
he thought. Any simpleminded sod in London could decipher that one.

It spoke of their old bet about which one of them would ascend to a dukedom first, and it revealed the terms of their second bet, leaving out the name of the lady.
Fenwicke wished it had revealed her name. He would have liked that family—especially Olivia herself—to squirm.

Alas, he wasn’t even granted that bit of satisfaction. No, it was all bad for him. In small black lettering, the article went on to say that not only had no one seen Fenwicke strutting about in shirtsleeves since his foe had risen to the title of duke, no one expected to see him thus. No one could imagine that he’d allow himself to be so disgraced on the streets of London, even to save his honor.

Translation: No one believed that he, Leonard Reece, the Marquis of Fenwicke, was honorable.

The article went on to say that Fenwicke hadn’t paid the new duke for losing the wager they’d made concerning the young lady. More embarrassing, it stated that sources on the inside of Lord F______’s household had revealed that Lord F______ didn’t have sufficient funds to pay the duke, and therefore the duke would most likely never see the money that was rightfully his.

Worst of all, the article expounded on the duke’s virtues. He’d forgiven the debt from the kindness of his heart. He’d shown great restraint by not calling Lord F______ out.

Fenwicke shook his head, snorting at the stupidity of it. Whoever had spread the story had certainly decided to offer a warped rendition of the events. What about the part where Max had slammed his fist into Fenwicke’s face? The black smudge beneath his eye was still there. He hadn’t left the deuced house since that night—he looked like something out of a child’s nightmare.

Even after his eye healed, he couldn’t leave his house. Not if he didn’t want to hear the whispers, the laughter surrounding him.

He rang the bell, summoning his man. When the servant appeared in the doorway, Fenwicke said, “Pack my bags immediately. We’re leaving in an hour’s time.”

There was no other choice. He’d return to Sussex and his insipid wife. At least until he developed some sort of reasonable plan.

J
essica hadn’t seen Beatrice in a whole week. The weather had been frightful, unlike anything Jessica had ever seen. Of course, she was only eighteen. Her family had moved to Antigua from England when she was five years old, and she remembered nothing of English weather.

But it was truly, magnificently awful. One could hardly venture outside, and if one did, one would be frozen solid within moments. Last week Jessica had made the mistake of going outdoors and she’d returned from Beatrice’s house at dusk cold through to her very bones. It had taken hours, a hot bath, hot stones, warming herself before the fire, wearing every bit of wool she could find, before her teeth stopped chattering and she was warm enough to engage in a basic conversation with her sisters. Who’d laughed at her! Laughed, as if they didn’t feel the same piercing coldness she did.

She liked England. She did. She liked the depth of the green during the summer, the people, the stately homes,
the bustle of the city. But she hated the weather. It was enough to make her want to go home.

She laughed quietly to herself.
Almost
enough, she amended. Mother was still in Antigua. Even though Serena was sending Mother an allowance, none of the Donovan sisters wanted to return to be squashed beneath their mother’s selfish, domineering thumb.

England was much better than that, despite the weather.

Today, Jessica’s maid had informed her that the temperature had increased by ten degrees since yesterday, and it was a quite respectable fifty-two degrees outside.

Jessica was bored with staying inside, and she missed Beatrice terribly. She asked her sisters if they wanted to accompany her, but all three of them were playing with Margie, who had taken her first steps yesterday, a feat which delighted every single other adult in the house inordinately. Serena had actually cried over it… though Jessica harbored some suspicion that they weren’t only tears of happiness. They were tears for what she had lost. For the child she had wanted so badly and now was concerned she might never have.

Phoebe and Olivia had seemed to understand, too, for they were being overly comforting and sweet toward Serena. Jessica wanted to make Serena feel better, too, but Phoebe and Olivia left her no room to do so.

So she donned her heaviest coat—for fifty-two degrees now meant it would likely be close to freezing by the time she returned home later—and her bonnet, mittens, and boots, and then she ventured outside.

There was no breeze, and the air felt balmy compared to last week’s freeze. Not balmy compared to any day of the year in Antigua, though, Jessica thought grimly.

She hurried over the wet, muddy path, and her long strides brought her to Beatrice’s house in less than half an hour. She went to the front door and knocked as she usually did.

No one came.

As the moments passed, Jessica’s heart began to pound. Beatrice never left the house. That left two possibilities. Either her husband was at home, or Beatrice had given instructions not to open the door for her.

The first seemed the likeliest scenario. Jessica turned back and stepped down the stairs that led to the drive, and looked up at the windows on the first and second floors. All was silent. There was no movement.

There was one certain way she could tell if that awful Lord Fenwicke was in residence: by checking to see if his traveling carriage was in the stables.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried around the back of the house and to the stables. She opened the door and came face-to-face with a stable boy, who jumped back, startled, shovel in hand.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed.

The boy just stared at her, wide-eyed, mouth agape. He smelled like he’d been mucking the stalls.

She gave him a broad smile. “Pray, can you tell me whether Lord Fenwicke is in residence?”

“Lord Fenwicke, miss?”

“Yes. Lord Fenwicke. Is he here?”

“Here, miss?”

“Is Lord Fenwicke here?” she repeated, her patience quickly wearing thin.

“Why, no, miss. He’s gone back to London this morning.”

Her heart sank. “When did he arrive?”

The boy scrunched his face up in thought. “Um… well, he arrived on Sunday when we was all at church, miss. So I b’lieve it’s been four days.”

Oh, good heavens. She glanced back at the house, then thanked him. The stable boy blushed and mumbled something, but she didn’t hear—she had already turned and was hurrying toward the house. This time she didn’t knock. She simply tried the door handle to the servants’ entrance. It was, thankfully, unlocked. The cook looked up, startled, as Jessica entered the kitchen from the scullery.

The older woman dropped her spoon into whatever was boiling in the pot she stirred. “Oh! Miss Donovan, I—” She broke off abruptly, her pale face flushing.

“I’m here to see Lady Fenwicke.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, the cook glanced nervously at the door leading to the outside corridor. Most of the people in this house were slaves to Lord Fenwicke’s whims and possessed no loyalty whatsoever to Beatrice, but she and the cook, with their common interest, had developed a tentative friendship. Beatrice had told Jessica, however, that the older woman was still terrified of the master and that if pressed, her loyalties would sway to the man who paid her. Beatrice didn’t blame her for that in the least. Jessica did, though.

“Lord Fenwicke is gone, isn’t he?” she asked sharply.

“Well, yes, he—”

“Then I’m going upstairs.”

“Wait!”

When Jessica turned to the older woman, she patted her bonnet nervously. “My mistress isn’t at home, Miss Donovan.”

Jessica gave an impatient huff. “We both know that is untrue.” She strode out of the kitchen, ignoring the woman’s continued protests.

Her heart thumped in her chest. The corridors were curiously quiet, emptier of servants than they usually were this time of day.

She checked the downstairs drawing room first. Finding it vacant, she hurried upstairs and looked in the salon and the library. Both were quiet and still.

Slowing her steps, Jessica walked to Beatrice’s bedchamber door. Raising her hand, she knocked gently.

No answer.

She tried again, rapping a little harder this time, leaning her ear against the door. She wanted to call Beatrice’s name, but if Beatrice was in there, if she had been hurt by her husband, she might not respond to Jessica’s voice.

Again, Beatrice didn’t respond, but Jessica heard the rustling sounds of movement inside. She cracked open the door.

The room was quiet and still, but Beatrice’s dark gray bed curtains were drawn. Slowly, Jessica advanced. Slowly, she pushed open the curtain.

What she saw made her gasp out loud.

Beatrice was lying in bed, both her eyes swollen completely shut. Her mouth was swollen, too, and dried blood encrusted it. There was also a line of dried blood near her temple.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice sharp but slurred by the swelling.

“Oh, Beatrice,” Jessica whispered. She would not cry.
She. Would. Not.
But her chest was so tight with fear and grief for her friend that she felt near to bursting.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed. “Oh, my darling friend. What has he done to you?”

“Jessica?”

“What can I do, Beatrice? How can I help you?”

Beatrice’s lip quivered, and she rolled away. “You can’t.”

“Is it…” Jessica swallowed hard. “Is it just your face… or did he hurt you elsewhere?”

After a long moment of silence, the other woman said, “He hurt me everywhere.”

She dissolved into hiccupping sobs that must have pained her terribly, because she cringed with each gulping breath she took.

Jessica was terrified. More than anything, she wanted to make this better. But she didn’t know how. She didn’t know what to do. This was so far out of her realm. All she knew for certain was that she wanted to kill Lord Fenwicke with her bare hands. She truly wanted him dead. And if no one else would perform the deed, she would. Gladly.

She kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed beside Beatrice, holding her, smoothing her hair, kissing her temple for a long time. When the other woman’s sobs diminished, Jessica left the bed and went in search of warm water, which she retrieved from the kitchens with a minimal amount of crisp words exchanged with the cook. When she returned upstairs, she asked Beatrice where all the servants were.

“I think my husband gave the household servants the week off with pay.”

Jessica felt sick. “So you lie here suffering with no help, and they’re rewarded?”

Beatrice didn’t answer.