The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (4 page)

Chapter 3

C
harlie was beginning to think he had used up his store of luck in life. He’d had a rather good streak of it over the last thirty-odd years, but now it all appeared to be coming to a crashing end.

He arrived in Bath only to find his brother had left. More than a little put out, he had to cool his heels for the better part of two days, waiting. He had no idea what this meant for the trouble Gerard’s letter had mentioned, and even more curiously, there was no sign of the wife his youngest brother had mentioned. Gerard, married? He’d left London a contented bachelor, set on tracking a blackmailer. Now he had a wife? Following so soon after Edward’s whirlwind courtship and wedding, it felt almost like a desertion to Charlie. Obviously his brothers weren’t nearly as worried about losing Durham as they claimed to be, if they had time to fall in love and marry.

When Gerard did return to Bath, he hardly cared at all for solving the Durham Dilemma. Some quarrel had sent his wife off, and Gerard could think of nothing but following her. Half amused, half concerned, Charlie went with him. By the time he met his newest sister-in-law, he knew Gerard would abandon him as Edward had done. Edward at least made a little speech pricking him with guilt, telling him the dukedom was his to pursue or lose; Gerard effectively said he cared more for his wife and it was Charlie’s duty to find the blackmailer. This was all well and good for Gerard, whose new bride had brought him a large fortune that would insulate him from the consequences of failure. Charlie, on the other hand, was astonished that both his brothers were turning everything over to him after they’d barely consulted him on what to do. Now they thought he was suited to handle the entire problem on his own?

The sad truth was, he feared he wouldn’t be up to this challenge. His brothers had been unable to solve it. Gerard had uncovered the blackmailer’s name, Hiram Scott, but then passed up an opportunity to pursue him in favor of haring off to reconcile with his wife. Instead Gerard handed over the original blackmail letters and eight ancient notebooks from the Fleet minister who had married Durham to his first wife all those decades ago, and wished Charlie luck.

The very thing he seemed to have run out of.

Charlie had no experience in locating someone, especially someone who wished to remain unknown. Gerard at least had some military training, and Edward had the patience to plod through hundreds of possibilities, but Charlie had never had to exert himself; people came to him. He tried to make sense of the minister’s notebooks, but there were a dozen entries per page, all in faded, cramped handwriting. The thought of combing through all eight books made his eyes water, but he squared his shoulders and made himself open the first book.

After an hour of frustration, Charlie set it aside. He wasn’t giving up, but this would require some fortification.

Instead of having something sent up to his rooms, he went downstairs, away from the ledgers and documents and other proof of his present morass. He should have brought his chef with him, so he could have a proper pot of coffee instead of tea. He should probably send out inquiries about Hiram Scott; the man had been in Bath just a few days ago, according to the postal clerk who had recognized him and reported his presence to Gerard. In fact, he had just caught Mr. Lucas’s eye, intending to ask where he might hire a man to ask some discreet questions, when the very name he was seeking floated by his ear.

“From Mr. Hiram Scott! You must take it right up for Mrs. Neville, Mary; she’ll be expecting this letter.” The speaker was a petite older lady swathed in a lavender shawl, her white curls clustered under a lace cap. She handed over a sealed letter to a younger woman, obviously a maid from the way she curtsied and hurried off with it, a number of parcels in her other arm. Charlie watched the letter go with hungry eyes. Then he turned toward the woman who had received it. Perhaps his luck hadn’t deserted him after all.

“Are you well, madam?”

At his query, she looked up from digging in her reticule. Her eyes traveled up his figure, growing wider and wider until she met his gaze. Her mouth dropped open and her cheeks flushed bright pink before she stammered, “Oh—Oh, indeed, sir!”

“Forgive me,” he said with a penitent, though charming, smile. “You looked a trifle unsteady. May I escort you to a chair?”

“Oh—well—I’m sure I’m perfectly . . .” Her flustered protests died away as Charlie offered his arm. For a moment she simply looked at it, before a slow awe dawned across her face. “Now that you ask, perhaps I am just a
shade
unwell. It is too kind of you to trouble yourself.” Gingerly she placed her hand on his arm.

“It is no trouble at all,” he replied. Charlie had spent ages sitting with his aunt, the Countess of Dowling, and her friends, and he knew just how to appeal to older ladies.

“Is everything all right, my lord?” Mr. Lucas appeared beside him, his oily, fawning expression in place.

“No, indeed not,” said Charlie as his unwitting captive started to nod her head. “This lady is feeling unwell. Allow me to escort you to a table in the tearoom, Mrs. . . . ?”

“B-B-Bates,” she stammered. “Eugenie Bates, my lord.” She bobbed a sort of curtsy, looking every bit as unsteady as he had declared her to be. And no wonder; he wasn’t giving her a chance to demur, holding her hand lightly but firmly on his arm.

“How delightful to make your acquaintance,” he replied. “I am Gresham. Bring tea at once, and something to eat,” he directed Mr. Lucas, urging Mrs. Bates toward the tearoom. “And some sherry, just in case.”

“Oh,” squeaked the lady, pinker than ever. “My lord, you are too,
too
kind!”

“Any gentleman would do the same for a lady,” he assured her. “But here—I am presuming! Do you require your maid? Shall I send someone after her, or escort you to your room to rest?”

They had reached the table. A waiter whisked up to them with a tray of delicate sandwiches, no doubt intended for someone else but diverted at Charlie’s imperious demand. Mrs. Bates cast a dazed look over the table—the best in the room—and sighing in longing. Charlie eased out a chair. “Be seated, madam,” he said gently. “Just for a moment, until you recover.”

As expected, no older lady of strained means could resist that invitation. She wet her lips, then fell into his trap, sinking down in the chair he held. Hiding his satisfaction under a concerned mien, Charlie seated himself opposite her. “Please, Mrs. Bates, eat something. I cannot rest easy until you do. Ah, Mr. Lucas,” he said, turning to find the hotelier leaping forward. “You have the sherry?”

“Oh, sir, I’m sure I don’t need that . . .” Her protest died away as Mr. Lucas presented a pair of glasses and a bottle of fine, pale sherry. The expression on her face argued very much against her words.

“Just a drop.” Charlie leaned forward and poured a small glass, giving her a sly wink as he placed it in front of her. “To allay my fears.”

“Well . . .” She smiled, blushing again, and took a tiny sip.

It was child’s play from there. Under the influence of the sherry, fresh tea, and a plate of pastries in addition to the sandwiches, Charlie learned all he wanted to know from Eugenie Bates. She was in town with her dear, late cousin’s daughter, a widow named Mrs. Neville. They were from Wiltshire, where they lived with Mrs. Neville’s brother, Viscount Marchmont, at the very lovely family estate called Rushwood. The siblings’ widowed sister, Lady Woodall, was soon to take up residence in London, and she had charged Mrs. Bates with discovering the latest in fashions. Charlie equably answered all her hesitant questions, divining that Lady Woodall’s young son, Thomas, would be the prime beneficiary of his sartorial wisdom. Mrs. Bates was not sorry she wouldn’t be moving permanently to London herself, as the city seemed too intimidating and taxing, although she did so look forward to visiting her dear relations there and seeing the sights.

Between her words, Charlie read more detail: she was a poor relation, shuttled from home to home as convenient for her hosts. She considered herself utterly beneath his notice, and his continued attentions acted as the most efficient lubricant on her reserve. The sherry, no doubt, helped as well.

Slowly he began to steer the conversation toward his object. A decade of enforced sloth and idleness had some benefits; Charlie had learned well the trick of listening to someone with only one ear while still making the proper responses. As she chattered along, increasingly voluble after he poured a second glass of sherry, he tried to guess what brought Hiram Scott, blackmailer, into contact with this apparently innocent elderly lady. She had sent the letter upstairs, and said his whole name; Scott wasn’t likely well-known to her, or she would have referred to him more familiarly. Her young friend, Mrs. Neville, must know the man well, since she was expecting his letter, but how?

The first time he mentioned Mrs. Neville, though, Mrs. Bates grew suddenly quiet. She continued to smile and blush at him, but uneasily. Charlie exerted every ounce of charm he possessed, but still learned little. Mrs. Neville had business in town, and she was out shopping. That was all Mrs. Bates would share. What about Mrs. Neville did Mrs. Bates not want him to know? There was something, he could tell. He was just about to invite both women to dine with him that evening when his companion’s expression broke with relief.

“Why, look at the time! I really must be going, my lord. It was too,
too
kind of you to be so solicitous of me, but I’m
quite
refreshed now.”

Charlie turned his head, certain the mysterious Mrs. Neville had arrived. As suspected, a woman hovered in the doorway, fluttering her hand at Mrs. Bates. She quickly lowered her arm when she noticed him looking, and something like a grimace flashed across her face.

He could guess why. Mrs. Neville was the woman who had called him indolent the night he arrived in Bath. Now, as then, a slow grin spread over his face. Oh, this was too perfect. Somehow he’d been hoping to meet the beautiful shrew face-to-face, just once. He rose to his feet, already looking forward to the coming clash.

She crossed the room as if someone were shoving her in the back. By the time she reached the table, she had arranged her face into a stiff, polite smile, but he didn’t miss the wariness in her eyes. “My lord, this is my dear friend, Mrs. Neville,” said Mrs. Bates, tittering nervously. “Tessa dear, Lord Gresham has been
so
attentive to me since I became unwell a little while ago.”

Her gaze touched the sherry glass for a moment, as if she suspected he had plied the older woman with wine. “How very kind, sir.” At last she looked directly at him. Her eyes were the most unusual color of green, pale and clear like a polished peridot. For a moment he stared, set off-balance by their shade and depth. “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”

“Not in the slightest.” He recovered his most charming smile. “It was entirely my pleasure. In fact, I was about to invite Mrs. Bates, and you, to dine with me this evening, as we are both travelers without friends in town.”

“Oh!” Delight pinkened Mrs. Bates’s face, but it was quickly snuffed by worry. “Oh, how very kind of you, sir! But we are . . . that is . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked anxiously to the younger woman.

“That is excessively kind, but we must, unfortunately, refuse, my lord,” Mrs. Neville said smoothly. She had a lovely voice, clear and ringing with confidence. From her voice, at least, she managed to keep all trace of dislike. “We must retire early, as we depart in the morning.”

“Ah,” he replied. “A sad disappointment, to part so soon after meeting. I understand you are to be in London later this year; perhaps our paths will intersect there.”

Mrs. Neville’s eyes went to her companion, who blanched and tried to smile. How interesting; she wasn’t pleased Mrs. Bates had told him about their trip to London. “Perhaps,” was all she said. “If you are unwell, Eugenie, we should return to our rooms so you can rest.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Bates gave herself a small shake. “Yes, of course. The time . . . and my head . . . Thank you ever so much, Lord Gresham. It was perfectly delightful, sitting with you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he assured her, bowing over her hand as he helped her rise from her chair. “Might I walk you to your room, in case you should feel faint again?”

Mrs. Neville didn’t approve of that, he could tell. Her mouth pressed into a flat line and the little pendant on the chain around her neck twitched in time with her rapid pulse. It convinced Charlie there was something here to root out, something she didn’t want him to learn about her. Did she know anything about Dorothy Cope, Durham’s long-missing first wife? She was nervous, and he was determined to know why.

“Well . . . now that you mention it, I do feel a bit weak in the knees . . .” Mrs. Bates let her hand linger in his, and cast a pleading look at her young friend. “It wouldn’t be improper, would it, Tessa dear?”

Mrs. Neville fixed her penetrating gaze on her companion. It was clear she thought it highly improper, or at least undesirable. Whatever she wished to hide, though, it was clear Mrs. Bates had no inkling of it. “Of course not.”

“I promise to behave myself with the utmost circumspection,” he said gravely, but letting his eyes twinkle at Mrs. Bates. She turned pink and smiled back, softening again. “Just to your door, where I will deliver you to your maid’s care.” To drive home his advantage, he looked up, over the old lady’s head, to Mr. Lucas. “Deliver the sherry to Mrs. Bates’s room, Mr. Lucas. It restored her so wonderfully.”

Mrs. Bates gave a faint gasp of delight. Mrs. Neville’s eyes frosted over. “You are kindness itself!” cried the older lady, now clinging to his arm. “Tessa dear, isn’t he the most charming gentleman?”

“Without question.” Her stiff smile back in place, Mrs. Neville turned and headed for the door. Charlie followed, in no rush to pursue her since he had her companion well and truly snared. Mrs. Bates hung on his arm, enthusing about his kindness and gentlemanly nature and how very glad she was that he had been around in her moment of need, for she was quite fearful she would have needed a doctor if he hadn’t come to her rescue. Charlie murmured the appropriate reassurances and flattering replies, but half his mind was turning over Mrs. Neville’s reaction. Mrs. Bates knew to be wary of him, though not strongly enough to resist when he tempted her with pastries and sherry. She seemed anxious for the younger woman’s approval, but she didn’t appear to be in great fear of her disapproval.