The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (6 page)

His brother shot him a narrow-eyed look. “You haven’t forgotten what I said, about Scott wanting to torment us more than to profit from Father’s indiscretion?”

Charlie hadn’t, although he still didn’t know what to make of the idea. Gerard had suggested that Scott didn’t really care about the money he’d tried to extort from Durham, that his true purpose was merely to torment and harass his sons. That would explain why the demand for money was made only once, months ago, and never repeated, but otherwise it made little sense. Why had Scott sent the letters only to Durham, not to any of them, if his aim was to rattle them and not Durham? And why hadn’t he sent more, once the scandal broke? It had been several weeks since a gossip sheet ignited the furor over his father’s clandestine first marriage, but not a single scurrilous letter had arrived in over two months. Of all the people Charlie could think of who might wish to torment him—and he allowed there were some—he couldn’t think of one who had the restraint not to.

“He hasn’t sent another letter,” he reminded his brother. “If he wished to torment us, wouldn’t he have tried to draw a little more blood, once his threats blossomed into public scandal? Edward would have paid a small fortune to end the rumors, if Scott had approached him at the right moment. If his sole purpose was to torment us, he must have great discipline in savoring his triumph in silence, without even a single word of gloating.”

“True.” Gerard thought a moment. “What lady at the York Hotel did Scott meet?”

Charlie’s smile was slight. “An interesting creature. She despises me.”

“What did you do?” asked his brother, half in interest, half in suspicion.

“I believe I inconvenienced her,” he said mildly. “Without any forethought or intention, but it roused her ire.”

“Is she part of the blackmail scheme?”

“I’ve no idea.” But he thought it still possible. Such hostility must spring from something more than a dislike of his appearance. Indolent! Surely it would take more than a passing glance to determine that.

“What are you going to do?” Gerard, as ever, leapt right to action. “Shall I send out inquiries about her as well? I know an excellent fellow here in Bath who would be glad to take up the task, Lieutenant Carter from my regiment.”

“I’ve already learned a good deal about her, thank you.” Charlie raised one eyebrow at his brother’s expression of surprise. “Do try not to look astonished. It required nothing more than sitting in the tearoom, chatting with her elderly companion.”

“The tearoom?” Gerard repeated incredulously, a tinge of horror in his voice. And no wonder; sitting with Mrs. Bates would be truly awful to Gerard, who never had been able to sit still for long, especially not to converse about fashions with elderly ladies. He was very like their father in that.

Charlie chose to accept it as a compliment to his superior patience. “Indeed. It is a fine place to meet ladies.”

“I suppose it must be.” Gerard grimaced. “What did you learn?”

There was no reason not to tell his brother everything, but for some reason he hesitated. He could see no connection between his family and Tessa Neville apart from Hiram Scott, and no idea why Hiram Scott had begun blackmailing their father. It was possible the postal clerk had mistaken Scott for the true blackmailer as well. It was really a slender thread of possibility that he was on the right track by following Mrs. Neville, but he was still determined to pursue her. Besides, he had nothing else to go on. “Nothing of any obvious import,” he said slowly. “But she leaves Bath tomorrow—to follow Scott, I believe—and I intend to follow her.”

Chapter 5

T
he trip south to Frome was every bit as trying as Tessa had feared.

Eugenie had nothing to do with it. Contrary to her usual fretting over the inconveniences and discomforts of travel, she was quiet the entire journey. Tessa enjoyed the peace at first, but then grew concerned. It was so unlike Eugenie to be silent, she began to fear her companion had taken ill.

“Eugenie, are you feeling well?” she finally asked.

“Yes, dear, I’m very well.” The older woman summoned a rueful smile. “I shall miss Bath, though.”

“Of course. But we will be in London within the month, and that must cheer you,” Tessa cajoled her.

“It does! Most certainly.” She sighed, flicking at the fringe of her shawl. “I do hope I shan’t be a bother to you until then.”

“What nonsense,” said Tessa in surprise. “You’re not a bother to me. I’m delighted to have your company.” Which was generally true; the moments when Eugenie made her want to tear out her own hair were infrequent and brief. But it was very uncharacteristic for Eugenie to be so melancholy. “If anything, I’m sorry I cannot offer you a more diverting trip than through the backways of Somerset. I know you would rather have remained in Bath.”

Eugenie’s face lightened a bit. “Indeed,” she said wistfully. “But it was not to be.” She looked at Tessa’s face and blushed. “Don’t worry, dear, about me. I’ll be cheerful, I promise.”

Tessa suspected her companion was still mourning the loss of Lord Gresham’s company more than anything else. She felt sorry for depriving Eugenie of something so wonderful and thrilling, but at the same time, she couldn’t shake her relief to be away from the earl. It seemed odd for a dazzlingly handsome, wealthy nobleman to pay attention to any woman unless he wanted something from her, and there was precious little an earl could hope to gain from Eugenie, who had neither money nor rank nor influence. She was simply a sweet, kindhearted older lady who liked her novels and gossip about the latest fashion.

So why was he interested in her? Eugenie declared Lord Gresham didn’t care a whit for Tessa’s impertinent remark about him, which only doubled the mystery. What other connection was there between them that he would care about? Tessa hadn’t been to London in years, and she was sure she would have remembered if she’d ever met Lord Gresham. Heaven knew she hadn’t been able to get his face out of her mind, nor forget how his voice sounded, which was almost as unnerving as the mere fact of his interest in her. She told herself she should be more concerned about that than about whatever he might want from her or Eugenie. And now that they’d left him behind in Bath, it was highly unlikely she even needed to worry about it. Chances were, he wouldn’t remember her even if they came face-to-face in London.

Frome was barely a dozen miles from Bath, but the countryside underwent a complete change as they drove south. The rolling verdant hills around Bath degenerated into a harsher, wilder landscape punctured by rocky outcrops that gave a forbidding look to the land. The elegant cream stone of Bath’s buildings gave way to small towns garbed in brick and thatch, the houses smaller and meaner. At times the workings of the coal seams could be glimpsed from the road, the shouts and calls of the miners audible over the rattle of the carriage wheels. The roads were terrible, hardly more than rutted tracks; no wonder there was keen interest in a canal to bring the coal to market. It took almost the entire day to reach Frome, and Tessa stepped down from the carriage feeling as battered and tired as if they’d traveled forty miles or more.

As promised in the letter he’d left her in Bath, Mr. Scott had arranged lodging for them at a small inn. After the luxury of the York Hotel, it seemed rather plain and almost shabby. Tessa saw Eugenie’s face fall at the sight of their small rooms, and tried not to sigh. First she had to disappoint Eugenie’s hopes regarding Lord Gresham, and now she would feel guilty for having dragged the poor lady away from the comfortable York for this lodging. Curse Louise for making such a fuss over this trip. Tessa couldn’t think of anyone who would care if she came to see the canal alone—not anyone whose opinion she valued, at any rate. She still suspected Louise had wanted Eugenie out of the way as she prepared for her move to London. Louise loved the older lady dearly, but she also knew Eugenie’s endless worries would wear away her most exuberant plans. After fourteen years of marriage to doughty Lord Woodall, Louise was ready to embrace widowhood and the delights of London at the same time.

Still, Tessa had to breathe deeply to fight back her indignation. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Eugenie; rather the contrary, in fact. Eugenie had lived with them for almost as long as she could remember, as devoted to the three children as their own mother had been. Tessa never wanted to hurt Eugenie, no matter how trying her little vagaries could be at times. She hadn’t wanted to bring the older lady along on this trip precisely because it would be dull and uncomfortable and only Louise would care if anyone commented on Tessa traveling with only her maid, Mary, for company. She was eight-and-twenty years old, for heaven’s sake, and capable of taking care of herself. There was no need to fear ruining her marital prospects, because she had none and wanted none, and if someone decided to attack and rob her on the road, the presence of Eugenie was hardly likely to serve as any deterrent. If only Louise had been rational and logical, she would have seen that it made far more sense for Eugenie to stay home at Rushwood, or even to remain in Bath while she visited the canal works herself.

But that was all pointless wishing now. She had given in, after all, when Louise grew hysterical and dramatic, and Eugenie was with her. They would all have to make the best of things.

“Shall we step out to tea?” Tessa asked as Mary began unpacking their things. It was too late in the day to do much more, and after hours in the travel chaise, she wanted a bit of exercise.

“Yes, dear, if you like.” Eugenie smiled valiantly, although without any of the wide-eyed enthusiasm she’d displayed on their arrival in Bath. Of course, it was highly unlikely they’d meet anyone as illustrious as the Earl of Gresham in Frome—and thank goodness for that, Tessa reminded herself.

She gave her companion her arm as they left the inn. Another week or so and they would be on their way to London, where there would be plenty to brighten Eugenie’s eyes again.

O
nce Charlie knew where his quarry was headed, he saw no point in rushing out of Bath at an uncivilized hour. He enjoyed his breakfast and then settled into the hired coach for the journey. At his instruction, Barnes put the leather satchel from Edward in the carriage instead of packed away in a trunk, and finally, reluctantly, Charlie opened it.

The first item he removed was a copy of the petition filed with the Home Office, requesting the writ of summons that would establish Charles de Lacey as the eighteenth Duke of Durham. The pages of dense, neat script made his eyes cross. His brother Edward had hired the best legal minds in London to produce this; there was nothing he could add to it, even if he’d had the first idea about what it said. Gingerly, Charlie set it aside.

Next he pulled out a packet of letters, bound with string, which proved to be from Mr. Pierce, Durham’s country solicitor. These went back over a year and included letters from Durham in reply to Pierce’s. Charlie stared at his father’s handwriting, no longer as sharp and bold as it had once been but shaky, almost scrawling, at times. He knew Edward had handled the vast majority of Durham business for eight years or more. Mr. Pierce must have written to Edward at least every week during the span of these letters, and yet the solicitor had never breathed a word about them. Durham had commanded him not to. Charlie read one letter from Pierce, reporting almost miserably on the lack of progress by the hired investigators; they had exhausted all clues of Dorothy, and begged for any scintilla of information that might guide them to more fruitful inquiries. But Durham could remember none. He had told them all he knew, and their inability to find any trace of the woman left him displeased and skeptical of their competence. His writing had deteriorated, but Charlie could hear the duke’s impatience as if his father were reading the reply aloud.

He sighed and put the packet aside. There was another stack of letters, from the London solicitor recently engaged by Edward to try again where Durham’s earlier investigators had failed. Charlie could see no substantial difference between them, nor did he have any wish to try. Those investigators had been looking for Dorothy Cope, the long-lost Fleet wife. Charlie was looking for Hiram Scott, who had tried to blackmail them. Find Scott, he reasoned, and he would find a link to Dorothy. Dorothy was the key to the whole puzzle, and it wouldn’t be solved until he found her, but Scott was apparently the only one who knew anything about her.

He took out the blackmail letters themselves, obligingly handed over by Gerard, and the stack of thin, battered notebooks Gerard had unearthed from a country farmer’s stable in Somerset. They were the records of one William Ogilvie, who had allegedly performed the marriage ceremony between Durham and Dorothy in the shadow of Fleet Prison. Charlie’s first attempt at reading them, in Bath, hadn’t gone well, but then he’d chanced to meet Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Neville. With any luck, he wouldn’t need to read these registers after all. He set them aside with a great deal of relief.

And then there was Durham’s letter, his last confession. It was the last letter in his own hand, recounting his ill-fated amour and begging forgiveness. It was dated only five days before he died, when he must have known he wouldn’t live to see the matter resolved—when he knew he had failed. Charlie had read it when Edward and Gerard brought it to London weeks ago, and the sight of it still filled him with fury. It was the coward’s way, to confess in a letter that wouldn’t be read until after his death, when he would be forever removed from any condemnation or questions.

For a few minutes Charlie thought about the woman who had so bewitched his father sixty years ago. Durham’s letter had said surprisingly little about her, only that she was a spirited beauty who shared his taste in revels. What sort of revels had his father enjoyed? What sort of passion had he conceived for the alluring Dorothy, and how had she managed to resist him at all? The duke was in his forties when Charlie was born, a matured man with a will of iron who brooked no refusals. But if he’d ever been frivolous and devoted to revelry, Charlie never saw a sign of it.

He sighed and put all the papers back into the satchel. Clearly he hadn’t known his father well at all. As much as he feared coming up short in this quest to root out the truth about the duke, he couldn’t deny a certain amount of morbid curiosity. What had his father been like as a young man? Had his heart broken over his first love, as his own had? Perhaps it had been this misadventure that shaped Durham into the demanding man he became. Had he viewed that early humiliation as a lesson—and if so, what lesson? As far as Charlie could see, the main thing his father seemed to have learned was to keep it secret at all costs, and that hadn’t turned out terribly well in the end. And the one time Durham might have put the lesson to good use and admitted his youthful indiscretion, when he opposed Charlie’s long-ago desire to marry Maria Gronow, the duke had instead acted with all the compassion and sympathy of a boulder.

Despite the late start, he reached the village of Frome in good time. The afternoon sun was sinking over the crooked silhouette of the roofs, and the carriage creaked as the roads sloped upward into town. A glance out the window put him in mind of the wooden blocks he and his brothers had played with as boys. Frome had the same appearance as their imagined towns, built for the sole purpose of being destroyed, a haphazard arrangement of wooden buildings on the side of the hill. The idea of knocking the whole town down with a cricket bat, as Gerard had once done with their blocks, was mildly amusing.

When the carriage stopped at an inn, Charlie stepped down and cast a more critical eye about him. He had no qualms admitting he liked comfort—even luxury—and the inn before him appeared to offer little of either. It was neat enough, but on the shabby side, and fairly small. He reminded himself he could endure some rough living for a few days, and went inside to take rooms.

After seeing the alleged best room, though, he promptly decided he couldn’t bear it after all. The bed was thin and uninviting, the window wouldn’t close all the way, and through the wall he could hear the sounds of a couple arguing. He told Barnes to go out the next morning in search of something better, preferably a cottage or house where he would have some privacy.

“Somewhere quiet,” he told his valet, as the argument next door grew more heated. “As near Frome as possible, though.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” murmured his man.

“And none of that title in Frome,” Charlie added. Barnes and his other servants had begun addressing him as the duke from the day he learned that his father died, but he was not formally the Duke of Durham, and had only used the title among family. It occurred to him now that it might be best to keep all mention of the dukedom quiet, especially until he learned more about Scott. “I’m still Gresham while we’re here.”

“As you wish, sir.” Barnes bowed.

He crossed the room and pushed open the warped window. A brisk breeze blew in from the direction of the river. Somewhere nearby, Hiram Scott was waiting for him, knowingly or not. Charlie wanted to get the maximum benefit from their first meeting. The only question was . . . how?

After thinking about it overnight, he got up early the next morning to strike the first blow. It was surprisingly easy; a few desultory inquiries in the inn’s taproom were enough to discover Hiram Scott owned an ironworks in Mells, a small village nearby. It appeared to be a prosperous enterprise, from the respect in people’s voices when they spoke of Scott. Charlie murmured something about canals, and again received an easy acknowledgment. There was a canal branch being dug to Frome, intended to run westward through the coal fields and, of course, Mells. Mr. Scott was an enthusiastic promoter of the canal and was well-known in Frome for trying to drum up investments. One gentleman said Scott must hardly know where his own bed was anymore, he traveled so far and so often in search of new investors for his project.