The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (3 page)

Tessa closed the door without a sound. Well. This was a dilemma. How could she leave her rooms if he might be passing in the corridor at any moment? She could ask for a new suite, perhaps, in another part of the hotel, but that would be a terrible bother. On the other hand, having to sneak in and out of her own hotel room was the height of inconvenience. What was she to do now?

She shook her head at her own dithering. “Mary, did you pack a veil?” she asked her maid, who was bustling about the room unpacking the valises.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary produced the veil, draping it over her bonnet, and Tessa picked up her parasol as well. She would not be held prisoner in her own room, but neither did she want to break her promise to Eugenie. Not that he was bound to recognize her, even if he did see her. Eugenie was worried over nothing. She was well beneath the notice of any earl, particularly a vain, arrogant, indolent one. On her guard this time, she let herself out of the room, and safely escaped the hotel.

C
harlie was having a hard time ridding himself of Mr. Lucas, the smooth and somewhat oily hotel proprietor. He had no objection to being personally greeted, nor to being shown to his rooms, and then to a larger, better suite when the first was unacceptable. But then he wanted the man to leave, and instead Mr. Lucas stayed, blathering on about his hotel’s service. Mostly Charlie was tired and longed to prop up his stiff leg, nearly healed by now though still ungainly, but Mr. Lucas was undeniably annoying as well.

“Yes, that will be all,” he said at last, resorting to a lofty, bored voice. “Thank you, Mr. Lucas.” He motioned to Barnes, his valet, who obediently whisked the obsequious hotelier out the door.

“Fetch something to eat, Barnes.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Without being asked, Barnes offered the cane he had just removed from the trunk. With a grimace, Charlie took it, inhaling deeply as he shifted his weight off the injured limb. He was trying to wean himself off the cane, but by evening it was still welcome, much to his disgust. What a bloody nuisance a broken leg was. He’d fallen down the stairs after too much brandy almost two months ago and broken it in two places. It no longer throbbed as though a red-hot poker had been rammed into it, but after a long day in the carriage, it was stiff and sore. He hobbled across the room and settled himself in the chair by the window overlooking George Street.

“Shall I procure some laudanum?” Barnes murmured when he had arranged a tray with dinner and a bottle of claret at Charlie’s elbow.

He scowled and eased his aching foot onto a stool, surreptitiously placed by Barnes. He still wore his boots, and it would hurt like the devil to take them off. Of course, he probably deserved the pain. It was a good substitute for the sorrow he ought to feel at his father’s death. “No.”

He dismissed his valet and picked up the glass of wine. It was still incredible to him that the duke was dead. Durham had been eighty, but remained vigorous and vital in his memory; Charlie had been sure, when he got Edward’s first letter detailing their father’s failing health, that the duke would survive on force of will alone. Edward had written a dozen more letters, first hinting and then outright asking him to return home, but Charlie hadn’t gone. Partly because of his broken leg—the doctor had strictly warned him to stay in bed or be crippled for life—but partly because he just couldn’t. In the eleven years since he left home, he’d had a letter from his father every few months, letting him know how splendid things were without him at Lastings: how brilliant and capable Edward was at business, how clever and heroic Gerard was in the army. Those letters never intimated the slightest hint of reconciliation, and now it was too late.

For a few maudlin moments he tried to remember what life had been like, years ago, when his mother still lived and made his father smile. The memories were dusty and dim, and mostly of just his mother, as if he had deliberately cut the duke out of them. He remembered the way the joy went out of his father after her death, like a candle snuffed out. But he couldn’t remember a moment since then when he and Durham had gotten along.

And Charlie couldn’t see how that would have changed had he obeyed his father’s dying wish and returned home in time to hear Durham’s confession. His father, that unforgiving paragon of ruthlessness and keen judgment, had had a scandalous past. No, not simply scandalous; Charlie knew scandal, and what his father had done was something much worse. As a young man, Durham had entered into a secret marriage with an inappropriate young woman—an actress!—and then simply parted ways from her when they ceased to get along. There was no divorce, and until the day of his death, Durham had no idea if she still lived or had died years ago.

Quite aside from the element of hypocrisy, it was nearly the worst sort of thing he could have done, in every respect. The vast majority of the Durham holdings were entailed on the next duke; most of the money was also tied to the estate, although Charlie’s mother’s dowry funds had been held separately and become a handsome sum under first Durham’s and then Edward’s management. As long as Charlie became the next duke, all three brothers had a secure future. If he didn’t inherit, though, because he was an illegitimate son of a bigamous marriage, he and his brothers would each only be left with his share of their mother’s dowry and a single property his father had won in a bet.

As if all that weren’t bad enough, someone had discovered this clandestine marriage and begun sending Durham blackmail letters a year before his death. For that year, the duke had known his past was a boil about to burst, and instead of confessing it then, he’d hidden it. He had betrayed his sons in the worst way, not only with an illicit marriage but with his utter inability to humble himself and admit fault.

Whatever bitter irony Charlie might have appreciated about the situation—at least the old devil had known what he was talking about when he railed about unwise attachments to inappropriate females—was lost in the enraging realization that this could ruin all three of them, and the deep alarm that they wouldn’t be able to stop it. Hell, they couldn’t even agree on a plan to solve the problem. Edward favored a legal battle, and Gerard announced his intention to find and shoot the blackmailer. Charlie, to his private horror, had no ideas at all, which made him almost resent his brothers for being so certain they did. It seemed the best thing he could do was stay out of the way of their plans, to avoid mucking things up.

Not that either of them had been proved right. Edward, against advice, told his fiancée of the trouble, and she faithlessly sold the story to a scandal sheet and then jilted him. If things had been grim before, they became positively beastly after that, when all London began scrutinizing their every move and whispering about the Durham Dilemma, as the gossip rags had dubbed the disaster. Charlie endured it with his usual front of careless disregard for anything unpleasant, but inside he seethed. He still thought Edward’s plan to mount a bold, swift legal action was eminently reasonable and the most likely to succeed, but the gossip complicated things. The courts moved slowly. And when he called on Edward after a few weeks to see how they were progressing, his brother not only said it wasn’t over but sent him a dispatch case filled with all the documents and told him he must fight for Durham himself. For the first time Charlie could ever recall, Edward was leaving a task unfinished and turning it to him. That was shocking enough, to say nothing of alarming. It got even worse when Edward threw all his usual caution and reserve to the wind to marry an outspoken widow who had bewitched him—there was no other explanation for such shockingly unusual behavior on his brother’s part.

And now it appeared Gerard’s plan to bring the blackmailer to a swift and brutal end had also run off track. After disappearing for weeks, the first word they had from their youngest brother was a desperate letter for help. Edward actually refused to go, which thoroughly quashed all Charlie’s amusement at his head-over-heels tumble into love. Edward handed the letter to him and wished him luck, then retired to make love to his new wife in shameful, callous, blatant disregard of his duty to family. Or so Charlie imagined, as he told Barnes to pack his things.

So now he was in Bath. Tomorrow he would call on Gerard, discover what sort of trouble his brother was in, and then . . . He had no idea. Chase down the blackmailer, he supposed, since that should provide a link to the truth. Either the villain had proof of his charges and meant to demand something for it, or he didn’t, in which case his actions would all come to nothing when Charlie was declared the rightful duke. Charlie couldn’t decide which seemed more unlikely. Hopefully Gerard had learned something useful, but he had also somehow acquired a wife, according to his letter, and Charlie had seen how marriage changed Edward. It still amazed him that ruthlessly logical and practical Edward had thrown over his family for a woman; Gerard, always more prone to emotion and impulse, was likely to do even worse, if he’d also fallen in love with his bride. And that would leave only Charlie to find the blackmailer, discover the truth about Durham’s long-lost first wife, prove his claim to the dukedom, and save them all from disgrace.

He caught sight of the leather satchel on the writing desk across the room. In it were all the documents and correspondence from the investigators and the solicitors relating to that damned Durham Dilemma, as well as his father’s confessional letter. He turned his head away, not wanting to look at it. He’d forced himself to bring it all to Bath, but just thinking about it left him angry at his father, irked at his brothers, and deeply, privately, alarmed that his entire life now hung by a thread. If rumors in London—and Edward’s expensive solicitor—could be believed, Durham’s distant cousin Augustus was about to file a competing claim to the dukedom, alleging that Charlie could not prove he was the sole legitimate heir. If the House of Lords upheld that claim, the title and all its trappings would be lost—at best, held in abeyance until proof was found, or at worst, irrevocably awarded to Augustus. Either outcome would effectively ruin him.

Charlie hoped to high heaven the answer to all their troubles could be found in Bath. And even more, he hoped he was capable of finding it before the House of Lords heard his petition.

He let his head drop back against the chair and closed his eyes. How ironic that the first time anyone expected great things of him, the stakes were so high. Right now he didn’t want to think of anything beyond his dinner and the glass of wine in his hand. If the lady from downstairs could see him now, she would surely think him the most indolent, useless fellow on earth.

A smile touched his lips, picturing her defiant expression when she realized he’d heard her disdainful remark. She was sorry he’d overheard, but not sorry at all for saying it. What a prudish bit of skirt. No doubt she had a collection of prayer books and doted on her brood of small dogs. Charlie was accustomed to people making up their minds about him before they ever met him, but for some reason she amused him. It was always so unfortunate when a woman with a mouth like hers turned out to be a judgmental harridan. In fact, if she looked less cross, he might have said she was attractive, but it was hard to call any woman a beauty when she was looking down her nose at him. He wondered if she’d formed her opinion of him from the London gossip sheets or if his infamy had preceded him to Bath.

He raised his glass in silent toast to her. For tonight at least he would be utterly, happily indolent. And he hoped the thought rankled her deeply.

Chapter 2

T
essa’s luck held for the first couple of days. Only twice did she hear Lord Gresham’s name, and both times she was able to turn aside or slip away without seeing the man himself. From one exchange overheard in the corridor, she gathered he had left town, and although he kept his room at the York, the staff wasn’t sure he would return. She breathed a sigh of relief at the news. It had been a near miss, but now that worry was over and she could carry on with her business.

Eugenie slowly recovered from her paralyzing fear that Tessa would humiliate them all and became her old self—which is to say she was a bit silly and inclined to fancy herself on the verge of illness, but sweet-tempered and anxious not to hinder Tessa. A visit to Molland’s sweet shop did a great deal to restore Eugenie’s humor, and an expedition to the Pump Room set her thoroughly to rights.

“Such healing waters,” she exclaimed, even though she grimaced as she sipped them. “Tessa dear, you really should take a glass. One never knows what terrible maladies might await you in the countryside.”

“I shall endure as best I can, without benefit of the waters.” Tessa had tasted the Bath waters before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. Eugenie, on the other hand, would try any remedy suggested to her. “I vow, that lady’s pelisse is a full six inches longer than last season. Do you think my sister would like it?” And the mineral waters were forgotten, as her companion was successfully diverted into a close study of every fashion in the room.

After two days of shopping Tessa went down to the tearoom at the hotel. This was the real reason she had come to Bath; a canal was to be built some fifteen miles to the south, conveying coal from the mines between Mells and Coleford to Bath and then onward to London and other markets. There was already a prosperous canal in place, which would serve as a starting point for this new branch. The path was surveyed, the plans were drawn, and Tessa—or rather, her brother, Viscount Marchmont—had been invited to purchase shares in the new branch. William, as usual, was unsure. He was capable of seeing every side of every issue, and would never decide on anything if left to his own devices. Everyone agreed it was better to send Tessa to meet Hiram Scott, who was part owner of an ironworks near the proposed path of the canal and was heavily recruiting new investors. Tessa was never swayed by the exquisite cut of someone’s waistcoat, or even by a convincing prospectus; she had the practical—almost ruthless, her sister called it—turn of mind necessary to make wise investments, and the forthright demeanor vital to getting the truth.

“Mrs. Neville.” Mr. Scott was waiting for her with a smile. They had met before, at her brother’s home, and Mr. Scott had displayed no reluctance to deal with a woman at that time. Of course, a very large investment hung on her decision, and he was under no illusions about that.

“Mr. Scott.” She bobbed a brief curtsy in response to his bow, then took the seat he pulled out for her. “It is very good of you to meet me in Bath.”

“I hope I might answer all your questions, ma’am, and spare you the trip south.” He seated himself opposite Tessa and laid a portfolio of plans in front of her. “The canal works are truly no place for a lady.”

Tessa paused, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. “Do you object to a lady visiting, then?” William had been quite explicit that he was relying solely on her report to decide whether to purchase shares. If Mr. Scott had any qualms about opening his books to a woman, he might as well let her know now and spare them both the aggravation.

“Not at all,” replied the man promptly—smoothly. “I wish only to spare my investors any inconvenience. It’s also my job to give a fair and accurate report of the works. I hope to do it well enough that not everyone feels the need to visit personally.” He lifted one shoulder, still smiling. “I daresay your visit would be far pleasanter for us, who are used to the rough conditions and bemoan the lack of fair company.”

She allowed a small smile. “You flatter me, sir. I am only trying to give my brother a full view of the project before he commits so much money to it.”

They were both lying to each other, she knew, but at least Mr. Scott was willing to engage in the pretense. Many men treated her as if she hadn’t a thought in her brain. She had learned long ago to arm herself with strongly worded letters from her brother, emphatically stating that he would give great weight to her recommendation. It tended to adjust men’s view of her, she had found, if they knew she could turn aside their requests with one word. In this case, William was contemplating a rather large investment, six thousand pounds, and he was very anxious over it. Investors in the Somerset Coal Canal had reaped healthy returns on their investments, which argued in favor of it. But it was a great deal of money—nearly a year’s income—and William’s overriding fear in life was of losing his income. Like his father before him, he had been born without an ounce of business sense. Fortunately for him, Tessa, like her mother before her, had been born with enough of that for three people. Fortunately for everyone, her brother did have enough sense to realize this and to make her a part of everything he did.

Mr. Scott further endeared himself to her when he ordered a tea tray, then sat back and let her read in peace when the refreshments arrived. Tessa skimmed through the surveyor’s reports and studied the maps and plots of the countryside, speckled with coal mines marked in red. She flipped through the documents outlining the construction, including the estimated costs. She looked at the list of subscribers, because there was no point investing William’s money if the whole enterprise was doomed to fail. She asked a few questions for clarity, and Mr. Scott gave reasonable answers. Finally she closed the portfolio and slid it back across the table to him.

“It looks to be in order, sir. Since I must be my brother’s eyes and ears in this, I still would like to see the works myself.”

He accepted it with good grace, assuring her he would be prepared to give her a thorough viewing of the site. “I beg pardon I cannot escort you there myself,” he added, “but I must return on the morrow. I’ve been away over a month now.”

Tessa waved aside his apology. “I quite understand. My companion and I shall follow by the end of the week.”

“Might I take the liberty of arranging lodging for you? Frome isn’t nearly as elegant as Bath, but I shall find something suitable, if you wish. I will send word as soon as I secure rooms in your name.”

“That would be very good of you, sir.”

He shook her hand, another point in his favor, and departed. Tessa went upstairs to find Eugenie, who was reading a novel from the lending library. It must have been a Gothic one, from the way she had a handkerchief pressed to her lips as she read and the start she gave when Tessa came into the room. “Goodness!”

“It must be a good book.” She smiled as she took the chair across from Eugenie. “You’re flushed.”

“Heavens, yes!” Eugenie fanned her pink face with her handkerchief as she set the book aside. “It’s ever so dramatic—a young girl thrust upon a family of strangers in the dark of night, a perilous journal through a mysterious forest . . . I expect brigands and murderers are waiting around every corner.”

“No doubt. But I expect Mrs. Radcliff will bring it all out well in the end.”

“Of course she will.” Eugenie gave a stout nod. “She’s one of my favorites. I would never read her again if she didn’t make it all come right in the end.”

Tessa laughed. It never failed to amuse her that Eugenie, who fretted over the slightest breeze or cough, loved Gothic novels where the heroine endured a hundred dire dangers.

“How did you find Mr. Scott, dear?”

“Very well. Informative and polite.”

“I think he fancies you.” Eugenie turned to the tea tray beside her and touched the side of the pot. “Would you like some tea?”

“Fancies me?” Tessa raised her eyebrows, trying not to laugh again. Eugenie was an incurable romantic. “You flatter me, Eugenie.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. He’s not a gentleman, of course, but he’s a prosperous man, and he understands you.” The old lady gave her an almost sly smile. “And he’s not blind, dear.”

“Nor is he a fool,” Tessa retorted. “I’ve given him no encouragement of that sort.”

“Nor should you. Your brother would not approve, I’m sure, although it would lift dear Lady Woodall’s spirits if she thought you were finally taking an interest—”

“I’m not.” Tessa got to her feet. Heaven save her from Louise’s raptures if she ever gave any sign of wanting to marry anyone. She had made that mistake once, and had her heart not just broken but crushed beyond repair. “I am decidedly not interested in Mr. Scott, and if you tell my sister so—”

“Oh, never! I never would!” cried Eugenie, blushing again. “I merely remarked how happy she would be if you did relent on your
vow
against men.”

Tessa pressed her lips together. She hadn’t made any vow against men, just a vow never to be misled by a man’s flattery and attention again. Once was bad enough. Trust Eugenie to cast her self-preserving instincts in such a melodramatic light. “I am only interested in the shares Mr. Scott has offered William,” she said evenly. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Oh.” Eugenie visibly deflated. “We’re going to Frome, then?”

Tessa had said from the beginning she intended to visit the canal works between Frome and Mells. It defied her comprehension how everyone around her constantly doubted her words. “Yes, we leave the day after tomorrow. I have a few more commissions before we go. You might wish to procure some more novels, as I understand the countryside is a good deal less refined than Bath.”

Her companion sighed. “Yes, dear.”

Tessa spent the next day making arrangements and preparations to spend as long as a fortnight in Frome. Louise had asked her to purchase several things, and although she tried to get her companion to tend to her sister’s fashion needs, Eugenie would have needed a month to make the decisions required of her. Tessa, on the other hand, was able to place the orders in a single day and arrange for it all to be shipped to her sister. Her own purchases took a bit longer, but by tea time she returned to the hotel, a little footsore but pleased with her day’s work. Eugenie had flagged by midday, so she had returned to the York earlier. Tessa walked through the lounge and untied her bonnet as she peered into the tearoom in search of her companion.

She had completely forgotten about the Earl of Gresham and her bad-tempered assessment of him. She hadn’t seen him or his servants about the hotel in three days or more, nor heard his name. It was a rude shock, therefore, to come around the corner and see him sitting at a table in the center of the room, his long legs crossed before him in a pose of elegant ease.

It was an even greater shock to see Eugenie sitting on the other side of the table, smiling brightly at him.