Jilting the Duke (9 page)

He always awoke shaking with frustration and anger, his heart racing and his body covered with sweat. The dream had visited him less frequently over the years, the benefit of brandy or an intoxicating woman. But its intensity never lessened. For days after, he would revisit the dream while waking, playing the scenes over in his mind. He allowed himself the torment. He never wanted to forget the dream's message: that he was a fool. And each time, he renewed his pledge that no woman would make him a fool again. And for nine years, no woman had, his heart protected by Sophia's betrayal.

But a year ago, the dream had changed. Sophia came to him in joy as always, and they made love passionately, but when she disappeared from his bed, he found himself in the churchyard of an English village, following her through the gravestones. Suddenly she was gone, and Aidan stood at an open grave, watching a wooden casket be lowered into the ground.

At the side of the grave stood Tom, dressed in black mourning clothes, thinner, older, with a red flush on his cheeks and leaning on a cane. Tom held out his hand, saying, “I have never had greater need of a friend or brother.” Aidan, moved by the sorrow in Tom's eyes, took a step toward him, but he disappeared before Aidan reached the other side of the open grave.

This night, Aidan awoke to his name being called by a male voice he would have known despite the separation of many years: Tom's voice. He threw himself from the bed, listening as the voice came from the garden below his open window. As he pulled open the long glass doors onto the balcony, Aidan was struck suddenly by memories of childhood, of climbing down the balcony at his father's house to meet Tom for nighttime adventures, of patrolling the woods at the edge of the estate, playing Arthur's knights or Norse marauders, and of circling their rowboats in the pond to fight as Nelson's armada. Aidan felt the loss of his friendship with Tom slip past his defenses and settle as an ache in his memory.

The garden was lit by a full moon, with mists passing below on the grounds, shrouding the familiar shapes of the hedges and walkways into new unfamiliar ones. The ridges of the old flower beds, now unkempt, appeared like so many graves. A dark figure stood beside one of the beds, and, as in Aidan's dream, held out his hand to Aidan, then disappeared.

Aidan caught himself as he was about to climb down the balcony. Moved with sudden and surprising emotion, he stretched his hand out to the garden where he was certain Tom had stood, but where now there was only fog and darkness.

Chapter Ten

Charters pushed hard against the garden door, pressing his shoulder against the crack of rotten wood. The door fell open, broken against the latch.

The house had few servants. An old butler too deaf to hear the groan of the wood as it collapsed. The cook, his wife, too arthritic to move quickly, if at all. Charters left the broken door as a payment for the sweet lemonade and savory cakes the cook had always saved for his visits when he was young. Perhaps it would be enough to save the staff from suspicion. The house was characteristic of the aged: careful locks at the front, rotting doors on the back, as if a burglar always entered through the main door rather than hopping the wall at the mews.

The late Lord Montcrief's study opened directly off the back, still carrying the faint smell of death. The glass-fronted cabinet of curiosities sat prominently before the desk, the key in the lock. Charters shook his head: Montcrief would not have been pleased to see his treasures so unattended.

Charters pulled the key from the lock and dropped it on the floor, to suggest haste. The piece he wanted was wrapped in soft flannel, pushed to the back of the drawer beneath the cabinet. Montcrief had always thought it a copy, but Charters knew different. He unwrapped the antique Damascus blade reverently, felt the knife's heft and balance, then slipped it into the empty scabbard at his waist. From the cabinet itself, he gathered half a dozen of Montcrief's smaller objet d'art and put them in a bag. He slipped back out of the house into the night.

At the wall closest to the mews, Charters poured the items from the bag on the ground. A burglary gone awry; the pieces recovered. That's how the newspapers would tell it. Then, he let himself out the garden gate, locking it behind him, his hand caressing the hilt of the knife.

As he walked away from the wall, Charters wondered wryly if he should thank Aldine for all his help. Most of the documents Aldine gave him to deliver appeared mundane: a death notice, a house being let, an investments report. But others contained information some would pay to keep confidential, and still others would pay to learn. Without Aldine's deliveries, Charters wouldn't have known that Montcrief's treasures still remained in his old home. Nor would he have known that Lady Wilmot still employed Luca Bruni, one of Tom's confederates in the spy game. A member of the Carbonari in the household of a British peer. Charters could make much of that.

He rubbed his thumb on the smooth hilt as he walked. Had both Forster and Lady Wilmot signed the same set of papers? If so, what business connected the two? Charters would have to find the papers later on his own. But where? He'd already searched all of Aldine's files related to Lady Wilmot and found nothing. And Aldine never carried papers home. It was a complication.

Forster was a complication as well. At Harrow, they had been in the same form, well-matched rivals, both in their studies and at chess. Both third sons, they had no guaranteed sinecure. Instead, each was forced to be reliant on his wits and skills to advance. During the wars, Charters had listened for Forster's name, learning the young officer had been with Wellington at Badajoz and Salamanca. After that, Forster had been nowhere for several years, though rumor had placed him in clandestine circles.

Charters had been imagining a pretty game of cat and mouse with the lovely Lady Wilmot, ending—as they so often did—with her apparent suicide or accidental death. But Forster was one of the few men in London who could fit the pieces together. Was Forster involved somehow with Lady Wilmot? If so, Charters had less time than he'd imagined. But complications often made the game a more worthy challenge.

Chapter Eleven

Working all morning in the garden with Perkins, Sophia didn't realize until well past noon that Forster had never sent round a note about visiting Ian. She should have been angry, but she was only surprised and disappointed. She had almost convinced herself that Aidan would care about Ian's feelings, but this was exactly the sort of behavior she had predicted to Tom. Perhaps it was for the best. If Forster couldn't play with a child for an hour or so when he had himself suggested it, then she had little to fear from him as an interfering guardian. But she was unexpectedly sorry to have been right.

Ian, however, would be hurt and out of sorts. Though his father's illness and death had made Ian mature, he was still young. She would need to soothe his disappointment. Perhaps a visit with Nate or a trip to the Royal Menagerie as a treat. Surely Dodsley would know where a boy might like to go in London.

She dusted her hands on her gardening apron, cursed under her breath, and went to comfort her son.

As she approached the nursery, she heard Ian's laugh, boisterous and excited. Thank God, she thought, for Luca. But in the nursery she found Forster, sitting on the floor, surrounded by soldiers, and Ian, animated with delight.

Ian saw her immediately. “Mama, Mama, I won. I beat him. And look . . .” He grabbed up some soldiers and ran to her, putting them in her hands. “Forster brought me the set he and Papa used to play with. See . . .” He ran back to the pile of soldiers and picked out the banner-bearer. “See how he matches some of the men. This set has four armies, so that I can have bigger battles.” Ian threw his arms around her waist. “Isn't it tremendous? Forster says I may keep them. May I? May I?”

Sophia could not refuse such pure joy. “If Forster is certain that he wishes to give the set to you.” She looked at Aidan, who had unfolded himself from the floor and was brushing off his trousers.

“I'm certain.”

Ian cheered and hugged Sophia again.

“Tell his grace thank you for his gift,” she reminded gently.

“I already have, Mama,” Ian said. “He told me I had to have your permission to keep them. May I show Luca my new soldiers?”

“Certainly. You may play until we dress for dinner, but remember we dine at your aunt's tonight.” Sophia was barely able to finish her sentence before Ian, yelling for Luca, ran from the room, leaving her alone with Aidan.

She turned to him, still smiling at Ian's happiness. “I'm sure Ian will value the soldiers. When he is older, if you wish for him to return them for your own sons to treasure, I'm sure he will.”

“They have been in a box for many years. I'd rather Ian enjoy them.” Aidan did not acknowledge her comment about sons.

“That is very kind. I can't think of anything that Ian would value more. He and Tom used to play at soldier for hours. . . .” She let the sentence fall off into silence. Aidan was standing close by, not so close that she felt ill at ease, but enough for her to be aware of his height, the breadth of his shoulders. She shook herself inwardly. Her awareness of him was nothing unusual. She had always been aware of him. “How long have you been here?”

Aidan laughed. “Long enough to realize that the last time I sat on the floor playing soldiers, my bones were much younger.” He leaned forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them, “Lavender. That's it. You smell like lavender.”

For a moment, Sophia thought Aidan had intended to embrace her, and her heart leapt. But it was only the lavender.

“I've been in the garden . . . planting. I thought you had forgotten him—you didn't send a note—I was coming to console him. I was so relieved to hear him laughing.”

“Can you forgive my lapse in etiquette?” He smiled apologetically. “I had intended simply to deliver the box with the soldiers, but Ian saw me at the door, and . . . well, after that we were deep in the throes of battle.” He leaned into her once more and breathed deeply. “I've always loved the scent of lavender. Perhaps you could show me where lavender would grow best in my garden.”

“If you would like. I seem to have used up all London had remaining this far into summer. I've written the estate for more. Perkins can bring some to your garden when he returns with the new plants.”

It had been easy to reject Phee's recommendation to seduce Aidan out of the guardianship before she'd seen him again. But now with him so close, she felt torn between her heart and her head. Her heart wanted to step into his embrace and taste his kisses once more. But her head told her not to break their civil distance lest the resulting conversation turn acrimonious and destroy their ability to care for Ian together.

“With Ian as my ward, I will come to town more frequently. It would be embarrassing to let the garden remain in disrepair,” he offered confidentially. “I don't live far. You can even see the barest corner of my rooftop from the nursery windows.” Sophia searched his face, but found no hint that he'd recognized her in the park.

“I'd be happy to offer whatever advice you find useful.” Anything to encourage him to come into town rather than take Ian to his estate. She led him to the stairs.

“The plants should arrive next week?”

“Yes. Perkins has family on the estate, and I told him there was no reason to return quickly.”

“Then I look forward to next week.” They descended in companionable silence.

Dodsley met them at the foot of the stairs, then disappeared to retrieve Aidan's coat, hat, and gloves.

“As for tonight, what time would be best to collect you and Ian?”

“Tonight?” She struggled to remember what she might have agreed to. “We have promised to go to Ophelia's for a family dinner.”

“Yes, and Ophelia has asked me to play escort. She insists the ducal carriage will be more comfortable than, as she said, ‘that claptrap carriage of Tom's.'”

“Oh, dear. I knew it rattled.” She could not refuse, not with him living so near. Dodsley, returning, helped Aidan into his coat, and Sophia noticed how the broad line of his shoulders fit exactly. “Would an hour before be sufficient to arrive on time?”

“We'll have time to spare.” Aidan put on his hat and gloves, then, offering a gracious half-bow, took his leave.

* * *

Aidan considered his morning well-spent. He'd set his footman to watch Sophia's house and report when Ian went to the park with his nurse. Then, he had timed his arrival to coincide with Ian's returning home. He wanted to give the soldiers to Ian without Sophia present.

He had moved the soldiers to London for his nephews, but he had never been able to part with the box—or even open it. He'd justified it to himself by saying the little devils could not treat things with care. But in truth, the soldiers, horses, wagons, and cannons were not simply toys to be set on a felt battleground, but reminders of a youth spent with Tom. As Ian—so nearly resembling his father—lifted each figure from the box, Aidan allowed himself to remember. Their tricks and games. Their scrapes and secrets.

Sharp-witted and funny, Ian knew stories from Aidan's shared youth with Tom. But Ian also asked questions that suggested someone had been sending Tom reports on Aidan's activities for years. The information went beyond typical tourist fare.

But who?

“Ian”—Aidan had laughed, after a pointed question about his expenditures at his club—“did your mother tell you stories about me, too?”

Ian looked into the distance. “No, Mama never talks about her childhood, and Papa told me that I shouldn't tell Mama the stories he told me about you.”

“Why?”

“Papa said it would make her sad, so we made you a secret.”

The stories Tom had told Ian seemed clearly designed to make the boy accept Aidan's guardianship. But why keep them a secret from Sophia? True, Sophia wouldn't have wanted her child to romanticize the scrapes of a youth run wild. But was there more to it?

At the thought of Sophia, Aidan smiled despite himself. Sophia transformed by Ian's joy, though still reserved and cautious, was more filled with life than the Sophia he had met yesterday. Yesterday's Sophia was bolstered by her library and the protection of Tom's portrait. But today's Sophia, caught off guard at finding Aidan in the nursery, had none of those supports. Even her clothes made her more human, a light muslin gardening frock, stained from grass and mud. He wanted more time to watch her reactions, to learn how to shape his demeanor to gain her trust.

At least that's what he told himself.

Aidan stopped on the sidewalk, letting the street vendors move around him. Only one person could have sent Tom such detailed intelligence. Recalling the address, he caught a hackney for the offices of Leverill and Cort.

He arrived in the City some thirty minutes later. He knew what he wanted—no, needed—to know. But how to encourage the stocky solicitor to comply? Where Sophia was concerned, Aidan rarely told the truth. At first, he'd lied to conceal his growing affection from a father who believed all women avaricious: “Beware of women, my boy: if you steal a kiss, they will snatch your purse.” Then after Sophia's marriage to Tom, he'd lied to preserve the possibility of revenge. But Aldine was not the sort of man one could easily manipulate, and Aidan was left with telling the truth . . . or at least a portion of it.

A brown-haired clerk with small dark glasses and a limp met him at the entrance and escorted him to Aldine's office. The odd-looking fellow had accompanied Aldine to deliver the guardianship papers. Something niggled at the back of Aidan's memory—an unsettling mix of familiarity and distrust, as if he had recognized something hiding in a shadow. Likely, the sensation was just an echo of the world of suspicion and subterfuge in which he had worked during the war. But before he could trace the feeling, the clerk knocked on Aldine's office door and announced him.

Aldine sat at a desk piled high with paper, surrounded by shelves and cabinets, filing drawers and cubbyholes. Papers rolled tightly rested in the range of cubbyholes to his right. But what would have been chaos under other men had the appearance of a studied order under Aldine. Aidan knew without question that Aldine could place his hands in an instant on any papers he wanted.

Aldine began to rise, but Aidan waved him back into his seat, then placed his overcoat on the back of a chair and sat. “I have some questions.”

“About the guardianship.” Aldine anticipated.

“In a way. To what extent did your correspondence with the late Lord Wilmot include information about my life?”

Aldine smiled enigmatically. “The late Lord Wilmot wished to remain apprised of your . . . activities. I provided news from various sources.”

“You had me watched.” Aidan interpreted.

“My predecessors did so. I preferred different methods.”

Aidan raised an eyebrow.

“A traveler at an inn near your estate gathers more than adequate information about the status of your rents, your crops. A young blade in need of funds listens well at your club. The firm has ears in most of the clubs, gambling hells, and brothels, even at Almack's. But be assured: none of my listeners would have found it striking for your name to appear on my list.”

Observing was easy when the subject didn't know he was being watched. And Aidan hadn't thought of himself as an object of investigation since the war.

“I did no less for Wilmot than I would do for your grace. I assume you wish to know what information I sent Lord Wilmot.” Aldine took a roll of papers from one of the cubbyholes, then spread the roll out on his blotter and placed weights on each corner to hold the papers flat.

Aidan leaned forward to read the documents, but Aldine motioned him back.

“You will refuse to let me read your correspondence?”

“No. Lord Wilmot gave his permission to make the correspondence available to you, at your request. But it is to remain a secret from her ladyship, until such time as you give your consent. I sent the information about you separately from our regular correspondence, including it in the embassy packet. A young clerk collected it from the ambassador's staff.”

“Did you find Wilmot's wish to conceal his correspondence from Lady Wilmot suspicious?”

“You may form your own judgment.” Aldine took his hat off the rack. “Will you accompany me? Or would you prefer I bring the papers to your home?”

“I'll accompany you.” Aidan pulled on his coat.

“I assume you are not averse to subterfuge?”

Aidan nodded his agreement.

Aldine continued, “Then, I'm accepting your offer for coffee at your club. As we leave, we should discuss the horses you intend to purchase at Tattersalls.”

“I see you still listen,” Aidan said.

“I remain his young lordship's agent.” Aldine opened his bag and left it at the side of the desk, and lifted his overcoat off the rack. The two men walked out of the office discussing the merits of the ponies to be auctioned on Monday.

Outside the offices, Aldine hailed a hackney and followed Aidan into it, settling into the back-facing seat. “Solicitor's offices are not always secure.”

“The papers you laid out on the desk?”

“A diversion.”

“Your open valise by the desk is also a diversion.”

“I wish it to appear we had nothing to discuss but ponies and coffee.”

“You suspect one of your clerks?”

“I'm uncertain.” Aldine looked out the carriage window, and Aidan followed his gaze. They were close to his club.

“I assumed we were traveling somewhere other than my club.”

“Can I trust you to keep our destination a secret? Or must we travel with the windows shuttered?”