An Invitation to Seduction (25 page)

“What happened to him?”

“He died many years ago. I was near to being a man, and I wept like a baby—where no one could see, of course.”

“You do not strike me as a man who would weep.”

“I have only wept twice in my life. When I lost my dog and when I lost my father. I do not love often, Kitty, nor do I love many, but when I love, I love deeply.”

She nodded, not certain she wanted the conversation to follow this path. “I figured that out,” she said softly.

“If you see this dog as a danger to you, she will be. She will become what you expect of her.”

The challenge was there, the gauntlet tossed down. “Will you let me hold her?”

“Yes, of course.”

She took the puppy in her arms, surprised by the softness and the warmth, more surprised by how the dog stilled, as though content to be where she was.

“Ah, it seems she is truly your dog, and well she knows it.”

“I didn’t give you a gift,” she blurted. “A wedding gift. I didn’t give you one.”

“You married me, Kitty. That was gift enough.”

K
itty had always known that a good deal of married life involved corresponding for one purpose or another: to thank someone for calling, to invite someone to call. She’d not expected married life to entail gazing out the window into the garden and wondering when her husband might return.

Married a mere three days, she’d begun to think that she and Richard might seldom venture from the bedroom—which she had to admit was a notion she no longer felt uncomfortable with. The things they did quite amazed her. His patience, his tutoring, his explaining…she’d never thought actually to relish the marriage act. She’d certainly never expected to come to realize so soon that her body’s reactions to Richard’s touches were more natural than her constant retreats had been.

She tried to imagine spending as much time in bed with Farthingham, and she simply couldn’t envision it. She thought he might have been quick about it—as quick as he was with his kisses on her forehead and cheek—and
then they’d have gone off to play with friends. She couldn’t help but believe that her marriage to Farthingham would have been so very different from her marriage to Richard.

She would have been content with Farthingham because she would have never known anything different. But now, having experienced marriage to Richard…

He’d been gone but a few hours, and she missed him already.

With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the task at hand. As a child, she’d been taught perfect penmanship, had mastered the eloquence of the written word, phrasing her thoughts in a way that made them almost poetical. So she didn’t know why she’d put off the one letter she knew she needed to write, the one she had no desire to write.

Her usual habit was to address unpleasant tasks first so that her reward was taking on the pleasanter endeavors. But this chore she kept avoiding—writing to the woman who’d given birth to her. She was certain her parents had thought she’d welcome knowing Jessye Bainbridge, but the truth of the matter was that she would have preferred not to. She saw too much of herself in Jessye—the pale skin, the red hair, the green eyes.

Kitty wasn’t tall, dark, and exotic like Madeline. She was coarse and too often reflected her roots. Her roots wouldn’t have written the letter, so she took a deep breath, dipped the nub of the pen into the inkwell, and applied it to the delicate parchment that carried her husband’s family’s crest.

She began her letter as she did each one she wrote to the woman:

Dear Mother Jessye

She’d never liked the name. A man’s name. She’d liked even less referring to her as Mother Jessye, as though she were a nun when she was anything but. Her dislike for this woman was not a part of herself that she relished, was not something she’d ever shared with anyone. It made her feel mean, ugly, and petty.

Kitty stared out the window. Where to go from there escaped her. Did she reveal the whole embarrassing situation, confess that she was more like Jessye than she’d ever wanted to be, or did she let sleeping dogs lie. Surely everyone would comprehend the truth of the matter when her child came only eight months after the marriage—if that. Dear God, she’d had visions of him coming earlier. A month early, and people would speculate. Earlier and eyebrows would wag because there would be no doubt.

Oh, the shame of it. She didn’t want her child to know about her what she knew about the woman who’d given birth to her: that she’d not been strong enough to resist temptation. And yet she had to wonder if any woman—when pulled toward such incredible sensations—would have the power to resist.

She did not consider herself weak. Rather the temptation to give in to Richard’s touch had been so overwhelming.

Had Jessye found herself in a similar situation? Not weak, but simply confronted by an overpowering attraction?

Kitty sat back in her chair. She’d never considered the
circumstances of her conception from the angle of power rather than weakness. Yet the man had abandoned her mother. While the attraction might have been powerful, the man had been weak.

Unlike Richard, who’d not hesitated even a heartbeat before announcing that he would marry Kitty. How devastating it must have been for Jessye to have shared such intimacy with a man, and then to discover he was unworthy of her.

Yes, he was the unworthy one. Not her mother.

Kitty placed her hand on her stomach where her own child now grew. She’d always been obsessed with the shame of her birth and never considered the larger picture.

What might she have done had Richard not married her? She had wealth. She could support her child without a husband. Jessye had been penniless. Twenty-one years ago. Her mother had only been seventeen.

Her mother. She’d never truly thought of the woman as her mother before. Seventeen. Abandoned. Alone. Poor.

Not weak. Simply human. Wanting what was best for her child.

Oh, dear God,
Kitty whispered, as tears stung her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth. How unfair she’d been. How judgmental. She’d judged her mother’s actions without truly understanding them.

Moving the top piece of paper aside, she again dipped her pen into the inkwell before writing:

She scowled at the words, which were totally inadequate for expressing her feelings. How could she truly reveal her sentiments?

By honestly confessing all.

Sometime later, lost within the numerous pages of her doubts, fears, worries, and realizations of sacrifices made, she barely stirred when Watkins walked into the room.

“Your Grace?”

Distracted by her musings, she turned her head slightly. “Yes, Watkins.”

“There is a gentleman from Scotland Yard who wishes a moment of your time.”

“Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Whatever does he want?”

“I’m certain I have no idea.”

Of course, he didn’t. And even if he did, he was too proper to speculate. “I’ll see him.”

She couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want, but she didn’t think it would be wise to deny him.

Inspector Alistair Boulton wasn’t at all what Kitty expected in a man whose job it was to enforce the law. He had a youthful, eager face and startling blue eyes that invited trust.

“Your Grace, thank you for seeing me,” he began.

“Would you care for some tea?”

“No, thank you. I fear this is not a social call.”

“Then how can I help you, Inspector?”

“I was hoping you would be so kind as to answer a few questions that will help me in my investigation regarding the murder of Lord Farthingham.”

K
itty stared at the man as though he were quite mad. A strangled laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it. “Murder? Do you intend to put Nature on trial?”

“No, madam. We intend to prove that
your husband
murdered Lord Farthingham.”

She felt as though the words were traveling through a tunnel filled with wind, roaring through her mind with such velocity that she couldn’t grab on to them. “Why would he murder Lord Farthingham? What could he possibly hope to gain?”

The man gave her a pointed look, and suddenly, he didn’t appear so youthful or trustworthy. He appeared to be a man with a suspicious nature who searched for answers in places where they didn’t exist.

The room tilted as though some giant hand had lifted one end. “Have you gone mad?”

“Are you aware that your husband was suspected of murdering his father?”

“His father died during a storm at sea.”

“Exactly. And another man dies while on the duke’s boat during a storm at sea. Coincidence? We think not. Rather we suspect a pattern of behavior that is most troublesome.”

Kitty held her hands up in front of her as though that would be enough to stop the images from bombarding her, to stop his relentless pursuit of this ridiculous theory.

“Your Grace, I know this news is disconcerting, but please hear me out. Your husband and his father had been overheard arguing heatedly the morning before they last sailed. When the storm came up, the crew was told to board a lifeboat. Your husband and his father remained on the ship…again arguing. Arguing in the midst of a storm. Your husband towed his father to shore, but the old duke’s head had been bashed in. Your husband claimed it was the result of the storm. We are more inclined to believe your husband did the bashing.”

“To gain what?”

“The dukedom. Men have been known to kill for much less.”

The story was incredible. Kitty began pacing, her thoughts a jumble. “And now you think he killed Lord Farthingham?”

“Yes. We have a witness who overheard the gentlemen arguing.”

“What witness?”

“I am not at liberty to say. The duke and Lord Farthingham went out on a boat that should have had four crewmen.”

“They’re competitive men who wanted to test their skills…”

“Or Weddington wished to have fewer around him who could speculate as to the reason behind Farthingham’s death. The sea leaves no witnesses.”

She shook her head, a throbbing between her temples. “It was an accident.”

“He made a payment of six thousand pounds to Lord Farthingham’s family and gave them a legal document, signed by him, indicating that he would provide them with an annual sum of six thousand pounds each year hereafter as long as he drew breath.”

Her legs no longer able to support her, she sank into the chair. “He knew Lord Farthingham was in need of funds. It was no secret that it was that very need that caused Lord Farthingham to want to marry me. The duke was no doubt feeling guilty—”

“Our sentiments exactly.”

Horrified by his conclusion following her words, Kitty could do little more than stare at the man. Yes, Richard was competitive, he didn’t like to lose, he’d wanted Kitty, made that perfectly clear throughout the Season…but murder?

As his coach came to a halt in front of his London residence, Richard couldn’t be happier with the direction that his marriage had taken. He’d been loath to leave Kitty that morning, but he did have business ventures that needed his attention. He couldn’t very well begin to neglect all that provided a comfortable living for his family.

Although with Kitty at his side, he realized he needed little else. He so loved her passionate nature, as well as her curiosity—once she’d become comfortable with her body’s reactions to his touch.

The day of the storm still haunted him, the decisions he’d made, the actions he’d taken—but the guilt was lessening. And he was beginning to hope that a day would come when all the doubts would no longer linger, when he might even be able to share with Kitty everything that
had happened that day—and know that she would forgive him.

The footman opened the door, and Richard strode into the entry hallway. Watkins immediately approached as though he’d been waiting for Richard’s arrival.

“Watkins, where might I find the duchess?”

“Her Grace is in the drawing room—”

“Thank you, Watkins.” Richard turned—

“—with a gentleman from Scotland Yard.”

Richard froze, as trepidation sliced through him. “Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Close to half an hour.”

Richard nodded. “Well, I’d best see to his reason for being here.”

Although God help him, he feared he already knew.

When he entered the drawing room, he was certain of it.

Kitty was as white as the sheets upon which they’d made love only that morning. Sitting in a chair, she looked as frail and devastated as she had the night of the storm, when Farthingham had become lost to her.

He crossed the room. “Kitty—”

She rose to her feet, horror clearly written on her face. “He said you murdered your father.”

“That was never proven.”

The words were wrong, so wrong. But he’d grown tired of proclaiming his innocence when so many had doubted him. But they couldn’t doubt the facts. No one had ever been able to prove he murdered his father.

“He said you murdered Nicky.”

And she believed him, her certainty evident in her eyes.

“What did you tell him?”

“She told me nothing, Your Grace, but others have. I’m Inspector Alistair Boulton, Scotland Yard. In my pos
session, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Nicholas Glenville, the Marquess of Farthingham. I would ask that you accompany me peacefully.”

Richard felt a sinking, as though he were once again in the midst of the storm, being battered about, terrified that the storm would once again win. He faced the man. “I am a peer of the realm, sir. It would not occur to me to behave in any manner except as a gentleman.”

Richard headed toward the door.

“Richard, tell me you didn’t do it,” Kitty called after him.

In that moment, he lost all hope of ever holding her heart—not when she believed him capable of such a despicable act.

He strode from the room without answering and without looking back.

“This is absurd,” the Dowager Duchess proclaimed. “It’s Weddy’s death all over again. What sort of son do people think I’ve brought up—to hold him accountable every time that damned sea has its way?”

“Your Grace, you must calm down.”

The words were quietly spoken by Lionel Gurney, Richard’s solicitor. He’d arrived at the dower house with his assistant, Mr. Lacey, a few moments earlier.

Into the silence that had followed Richard’s departure, Kitty had realized the absurdity of the arrest as well. She’d listened to Inspector Boulton reveal the evidence bit by bit until he’d had her convinced.

But the evidence failed to take into account the kind of man that Richard was.

Murder Farthingham? No, she couldn’t see him murdering anyone in order to gain anything.

She couldn’t take back the awful words she’d carelessly tossed at him, which she knew had cut him to the
quick. His stiff posture had told her that. She was grateful his back had been to her and she’d been unable to read the devastation in his face that he surely must have felt. Would he ever forgive her for doubting him? Could she ever forgive herself?

She’d called for a carriage and come to tell Richard’s mother of what had transpired. The Dowager Duchess had immediately sent for Richard’s solicitor, who’d only just come from meeting with Richard.

“When can we see him?” Kitty asked. She sat in a chair near the sofa where the Dowager Duchess and Lady Anne were holding hands.

“Presently, he does not wish to be visited by anyone. I’m certain you can understand. The circumstances…the man’s pride,” Mr. Gurney explained.

“Will he not see any of us?” Lady Anne asked.

“He’d rather not. His accommodations are sparse, but not terribly depressing. Still, he doesn’t wish to cause you any unnecessary heartache.”

The Dowager Duchess released a tiny sob. “My poor Richard.”

“Mama,” Lady Anne cooed. “He’ll be fine. He’s not guilty. Surely they’ll see that.”

No doubts were woven in Lady Anne’s voice, and Kitty felt guilty that her voice had not carried the same conviction when she’d last spoken to Richard.

“I fear that they won’t see it until he is tried before the House of Lords,” Mr. Gurney stated. “Which shouldn’t be too long in coming. These are unique circumstances, and everything is progressing quite quickly.”

“Did Farthingham wash up onshore somewhere?” Lady Anne asked.

Kitty shuddered at the image, but she could hardly blame Lady Anne for wanting some sort of evidence.

“No. No body has been found,” Mr. Gurney said.

“Then how can they accuse Richard of murder?” Lady Anne asked.

“Apparently they have witnesses who provide damaging circumstantial evidence. It would be best that we not discuss the particulars in case you are called to testify.”

“Inspector Boulton told me that things were overheard,” Kitty said.

“Quite so.”

“I can’t see that it’s anything more than gossip,” Kitty said.

“Indeed. Scotland Yard’s reputation leaves much to be desired. They are in need of some sort of crime that will draw the nation’s attention to their competence so that they might feel vindicated. What could be better than an opportunity to bring a peer to task?”

“I should think a true crime would serve them better,” the Dowager Duchess said.

“You mustn’t fret so. Your son will be proven innocent,” Mr. Gurney assured her.

“I thought he was innocent until proven guilty,” Kitty said, although she certainly hadn’t expressed that belief earlier in the day, and now she was feeling quite ashamed of her reaction.

Mr. Gurney got to his feet. “You are quite right, Your Grace. He is innocent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must begin to prepare his defense. Sir Ambrose will argue the duke’s case before the House of Lords. You may rest easy. The duke has utmost confidence in the barrister’s abilities.”

All the ladies rose and bid the gentlemen farewell. Mr. Gurney promptly left the room, while Mr. Lacey lingered.

If Kitty were not so worried about Richard, she might have paid more attention to the man earlier when Mr. Gurney introduced him. He was quite young and very nice-looking.

“Lady Anne, if I can be of service in any way…” His voice trailed off as though he were embarrassed to have spoken at all and could think of nothing further to say.

“Thank you, Mr. Lacey,” Lady Anne said. “I appreciate your kind concern.”

With a brisk nod, he turned and strode from the room.

With a huge sigh, the Dowager Duchess dropped back on to the sofa. “I very nearly didn’t survive the accusations before. They were most cruel. I fear they will be much worse this go-round.”

Kitty didn’t know how things could get any worse, but she feared that she’d soon find out.