Never Deceive a Duke (19 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Howard. “Do you wish to see him?”

“I am afraid, Howard, that I must.”

Five minutes later, he stood before Mr. Peel’s desk, two letters in hand. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, de Vendenheim laid the first letter—an
unsigned
letter—down. “I am afraid some old debts are being called in,” he said. “George Kemble asks a favor.”

“Indeed? Of what sort?” Peel glanced down at the perfect, angular penmanship.

“Kemble is helping with a murder inquiry,” said de Vendenheim. “A private case, for the people who own Neville Shipping. He needs someone to hold a little fire to the local justice of the peace.”

Peel’s eyes were sweeping over the letter. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “And this is to be Kemble’s kindling, is it?”

De Vendenheim nodded. “It simply states that Mr. Kemble acts on your behalf in this matter,” he said. “And it strongly encourages the justice’s full cooperation.”

Peel smiled faintly. “Expecting trouble, is he?” But he took up his pen and, in an instant, slashed his signature across the bottom. “Now, what second small favor does Kemble ask? Out with it.”

De Vendenheim tried not to exhale aloud. “Do you know Lord Litting?”

Mr. Peel shrugged. “Socially, a bit.”

“The dead man is Litting’s uncle by marriage.”

Some of the confusion fell away from Peel’s face. “Yes, the Duke of Warneham’s death. There were some nasty whispers, I recall. But it was finally ruled an accident, was it not?”

“Yes, and it probably was,” said de Vendenheim. “But the rumors and questions have not died down, and Kemble wishes to pursue it, just to make certain. He wants me to speak with Litting, who was in the house, apparently, on the night of his uncle’s death. Sir Harold Hardell accompanied him.”

“Hardell.” Peel smiled a little grimly. “Is either a suspect?”

“Not so far as I know,” said the vicomte. “I’d like to question the nephew. But I may have to send him through the mangle a time or two, in order to press out what little information he may have.”

“Yes, well.” Peel coughed discreetly and reached for his pen. “I’m sure he will be a better man for it.”

De Vendenheim smiled grimly. “Perhaps, but it will likely make him angry,” he warned. “Still, we do owe Kem for his work in that smuggling case.”

“Pray do not give it a second thought.” Peel drew a sheet of letter paper from his drawer and began to scratch out a note. “Give this to Litting if there’s any trouble,” he said. “If I must choose between angering a nobleman I scarcely know and one of the best operatives we’ve ever had—well, it may be dashed awkward—but I know whom I shall choose.”

Gratefully, de Vendenheim took the note. “I hope you don’t regret this, sir,” he said.

“Yes.” Peel smiled faintly. “So do I.”

De Vendenheim was halfway out the door when Peel spoke again. “Wait, Max—what do you mean to do about Sir Harold?” he asked. “I should rather not make an enemy of a preeminent barrister.”

De Vendenheim nodded. “I shall leave him out of it, if at all possible,” he assured him.

Peel sighed. “Do what you can, then,” he added. “But Max?—”

Hand on the doorknob, de Vendenheim stuck his head back in. “Yes, sir?”

Peel looked deeply pensive. “Whatever else you do…see justice done.”

“I believe, my lady, that you are putting on a little weight,” said Nellie on Saturday morning. “This habit is getting just a little snug.”

Antonia turned toward the pier glass and stuck her thumb into the waistband of her skirt. “It is a little tighter,” she agreed. “Will it do, still?”

“Lord, yes, and you could do with another stone after that one,” said Nellie, going into the dressing room to fetch her mistress’s boots. “Where does the duke wish to ride today?”

“I don’t know,” Antonia confessed, following the maid. “He said only that he wished me to meet him at ten, and that it was a surprise.”

“Terry says they put in a new staircase up at the manor yesterday,” said Nellie. “Likely that’d be it.”

Antonia laughed. “I did nearly fall through the old one,” she said, pulling on her boots.

“Well, you stay near to the master, my lady,” Nellie advised, shaking her finger. “Don’t go wanderin’ off in that moldering old heap, do you hear? Next time he mightn’t be able to drag you back out again.”

“Why, Nellie, you make it sound utterly romantic!” said Antonia. “I do believe you are revising your opinion of our new duke.”

“Judgment’s still out,” Nellie bristled, brushing a speck of lint from Antonia’s habit. “But so long as he’s kind to you, his doings are none of my concern.”

Antonia laughed again and spun around before the mirror. It was a silly, girlish thing to do—but lately, she was feeling a little girlish. When the moment of dizziness subsided, she studied her face in the mirror, paying particular attention to the lines which were beginning to show at the corners of her eyes. She ran her hands down her bodice, smoothing the fabric over her breasts and ribs.

Yes, she still looked well enough, she thought. And she
had
put on weight. The bosom of the jacket was decidedly more snug, and her color was slowly returning. She was resting a little better, too, though she still was not taking her sleeping draught. When Dr. Osborne chided her, she simply changed the subject. She would no longer live her life sedated and uncertain. The choice was hers, and she had made it.

She was inordinately pleased that Gabriel had invited her to go riding today. It was such a simple pleasure, anticipation. It had been a long time since she had had anything to look forward to. But this was just riding, she reminded herself, holding her own gaze in the mirror.
Just riding
. With Gabriel, a man who was not for her. He had said so himself, and Antonia knew that he was right. No one in their right mind could wish to be saddled with her—not in that way. And for all his kindness, for all the pleasure his touch could engender in her, Gabriel kept a part of himself—a large part of himself—at a distance. She did not know him, and she must accept that she might never do so.

She cut a swift glance at the mantel clock. “Lud, look at the time!” she said, starting toward the shelf which held her hats. “Nellie, which hat do you think—”

The maid was sitting in something of a heap in the chair by the dressing room. Antonia rushed to her. “Nellie!” she said, kneeling. “What is it? Oh, my dear, you look pale as a ghost!”

Nellie dragged a hand across her brow, which was beaded in sweat. “Get up, ma’am, and move away,” she ordered. “I think per’aps I’ve caught something.”

Instead Antonia went to the bell and pulled it sharply, then poured a glass of water. “Have you a temperature, Nellie?” she asked anxiously. “Does your throat hurt?”

Reluctantly, the maid nodded. “Aye, since this morning,” she admitted. “I ought to have said so sooner. I thought…I thought it would come to naught.”

One of the upstairs maids came in and took one look at Nellie. “Lord, it’s that quinsy that’s going round!” declared the girl. “I could just wring the boot boy’s neck for carrying it into the house.”

Nellie was looking more bleary-eyed by the minute. Antonia felt guilty for not having noticed it sooner. “How many are ill with it now?” she asked.

“Rose and Linnie in the kitchens,” said the girl. “Three of the grooms and the stable boy. Then Jane fell ill this morning. Oh, Mrs. Waters, I really think you’d best go upstairs to bed. I shall have Mrs. Musbury make up a mustard plaster. Dr. Osborne’s already been sent for, I hope, on account of Jane.”

Antonia pointed to the door. “Off you go,” she said to Nellie. “You have your orders. And do not come back down under any circumstance until you are well again.”

“You will go for your ride?” Nellie demanded.

Antonia hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, if you wish. But I will check in on you as soon as I return.”

After a few more moments of protest, Nellie was bundled off in the care of the maid. Antonia grabbed the first riding hat she saw and hastened downstairs.

G
abriel hunkered behind the gravestone, sitting as motionless as he possibly could. The sun was hot on his shoulders, the air deathly still. Behind him, a honeybee droned. He could hear Cyril rushing across the grass, his breathing heavy. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink.

“Found you! Found you!” Cyril’s voice rang out some yards away.

There was a momentary scuffle in the grass. “Cyril, you cheated!” Jeremy’s voice trembled with anger. “You were to count a hundred.”

“I did!” said Cyril. “I did count a hundred!”

“Cyril? Lord Litting?” A man’s voice boomed across the churchyard.

“Oh, bugger it!” Jeremy whispered.

Gabriel peered around the gravestone to see a man in a cleric’s frock striding across the stubbled grass. Jeremy looked up at him defiantly and thrust out an arm. “There’s another over there,” he said, pointing. “It’s not just us.”

The priest turned around and scowled. Chin down, Gabriel came out to join them.

“I think the three of you know this is not a place for playing,” the priest chided. “Lord Litting, you are the eldest. These boys look to you for an example.”

“We’re sorry, sir.” Cyril, at least, looked truly contrite. “It shan’t happen again.”

“Kindly see that it does not,” said the priest. Then he turned to Gabriel and smiled. “You must be Gabriel Ventnor. Welcome to the village. Shall we see you at St. Alban’s on Sunday?”

Jeremy’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “He cannot come with us,” the boy spat. “My mamma says he’s just a godless Jew.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Jeremy,” said Cyril.

The priest set a warm hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “God welcomes everyone into his house, Lord Litting. I hope young Gabriel here will always remember that?”

Gareth waited a little impatiently at the foot of the steps. He held his horse’s head, while Statton, one of Sels don’s pensioners, held the reins of the small but beautiful gray gelding which Antonia always favored. Vaguely, Gareth wondered if the wizened old servant remembered him. He did not recall the groom, but that meant very little.

“It looks a good day for a ride,” said Gareth conversationally.

Statton spat into the gravel. “Fine, but turning,” he said in his raspy voice. “We’ll ’ave rain, belike, by supper.”

Gareth surveyed the sky. “Yes, I daresay.” He turned to face the former groom. “Listen, Statton, I appreciate your coming up from the village. This illness going round is the devil—just be sure you don’t take it yourself, all right?”

The old man drew a leather cord from beneath his worn leather jerkin. “Horseradish and cloves,” he said, flashing a near-toothless grin. “Wards it off.”

“I trust it will work for you,” said Gareth doubtfully. The man was taciturn, but Gareth pressed on, having nothing better to do while cooling his heels. The gray, too, seemed impatient, and was wheeling about, kicking up dust and gravel. “That’s a prime goer the duchess rides,” he commented. “Bred here at Selsdon, was he?”

The old man laughed, but it sounded bitter. “Weren’t nought bred here, Your Grace,” said Statton just as Kemble came down the stairs, a basket over his arm. “The old duke allowed it cost too much.”

“Really?” said Gareth. “I should have thought it more efficient.”

Statton shrugged and spat again. “Didn’t want the upkeep on the mares,” he said matter-of-factly. “Costs a lot to keep ’em in hay through the winter, and ’e allowed they weren’t never worth the trouble.”

Not worth the trouble! That must have been Warneham’s logic for letting Knollwood go to hell, too.

Kemble stopped to admire the gray. “Gorgeous creature,” he remarked, turning to Gareth. “Well, I’m off to the village to fetch Dr. Osborne and do a little shopping. May I get you anything?”

“Thank you, no.” Gareth was still stroking the gray’s nose, but the animal’s hindquarters kept shifting restlessly. “What do you need with Osborne?”

“Jane and Mrs. Waters have succumbed to that putrid throat going round.”

“Good Lord, this stuff is like the plague,” said Gareth. Kemble shrugged and went on his way. Gareth returned his attention to Statton. “Where did they get this gorgeous fellow?”

The old man’s squint narrowed. “Off Lord Mitchley back in ’21—that was afore the falling out—but ’e was bought for the duchess. Not this one. The one before.”

Gareth winced. “Yes, the one who fell.”

Statton shook his head. “No,” he said. “The lady who went to sleep and never woke.”

“Sorry, yes,” said Gareth. “I confess, I get them confused.”

At that, Statton wheezed with laughter, as if Gareth had just made the world’s greatest joke, but Gareth was still thinking of Warneham.

From his long days spent reviewing the estate accounts with Watson, Gareth was beginning to understand that his dead cousin had been a cheap, spiteful bastard. The spat with Lord Mitchley had begun over nothing—a bit of fence not kept in repair—and had escalated to the point of ridiculousness. He had ordered Cavendish and Watson to settle the matter.

Just then, Antonia interrupted his introspection by hastening down the stairs while making profuse apologies to both Gareth and the groom, and explaining Mrs. Waters’s illness. “And so we got her upstairs to bed,” she finished as Statton helped her mount. “Mr. Kemble has gone for Dr. Osborne.”

“Yes, so he said,” Gareth remarked. “I trust she will recover quickly.”

“I hope so,” said Antonia, wheeling the gray neatly around. “Good-bye, Statton!” she said, waving. “Thank you for coming to help out today!”

Antonia glanced across at Gabriel, and despite her worry over Nellie, she felt a wave of feminine admiration. Like anticipation, it was a welcome feeling after what had seemed an emotional drought. Gabriel was dressed for the country today in snug buff breeches and brown tasseled knee-boots which looked as if they had been molded to his calves. He wore the dark brown coat which he favored, and beneath it, a beautiful cream-colored waistcoat and impossibly snowy linen. In fact, his entire appearance was just a touch more elegant, but Antonia could not have put her finger on what it was, specifically. Mr. Kemble, she decided, had a trick or two up his sleeve.

She apologized again for being late. “I fear Nellie has spoilt your surprise,” she said as they circled around the carriage drive. “She has told me all about the new staircase at Knollwood.”

At that, Gabriel laughed, causing his eyes to crinkle charmingly at the corners. “No, that is hardly a surprise,” he said. “Turn here and go up behind the stables.”

She did so, but once up the little hill, she saw nothing save the entrance to the old bridle path.

Gabriel motioned towards it. “This is your surprise,” he said. “Watson has had it cleared. The shortcut to Knollwood is now yours to use as you please.”

Antonia felt her spirits oddly lift. “Shall we take it, then?”

“Yes, I plan to give you the grand tour,” he agreed. “As I recall from childhood, it is a pretty path, with a waterfall, and a little folly above the lake.”

The trip through the wood was peaceful, with Antonia turning this way and that in her saddle to admire everything around them. The path circled above the estate’s small lake, which extended from the pastures well up into the wood, where the pond’s source, a little cascade, came splashing down a rocky outcropping, then rushed beneath an arched stone bridge.

As they turned and began the climb toward Knollwood, Antonia spied the folly, a fanciful thing made of rough stone and mortar which matched the bridge. It was primitively built and far from elegant, but it had a magical quality which made it look entirely at home in the forest.

Gareth lifted his hand and pointed at it. “Cyril and I once pinched a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from Selsdon’s coachman,” he said. “We went up there to smoke it.”

Antonia laughed. He seemed so serious-minded now. It was hard to imagine him doing anything wayward. But if her husband’s stories were to be believed, he had been very wayward indeed. She found it a sobering thought.

“Antonia?” Gabriel had edged his mount nearer. “Are you perfectly all right?”

“Yes.” She lifted her head and smiled. “It is just that you seem so serious-minded now. What happened to you and Cyril? Were you caught and soundly whipped?”

“Oh, our punishment was swift, and entirely self-imposed,” he said. “We became deathly ill—you don’t wish to know the specifics. Just trust me when I say I spent enough time hanging over that stone balustrade to know that I never wished to smoke again.”

“May we walk up there?” she asked impulsively. “Or are we expected at Knollwood?”

Gabriel shook his head. “We needn’t even go unless you wish to,” he said, dismounting.

He tied his horse to a sapling which had escaped Watson’s hand scythes, then turned to help her down. Antonia felt his hands come around her waist, solid and strong, and he lifted her from the saddle with ease. But the path was not wide, and he stood very close as he set her down. Their coats brushed. She felt the heat of his eyes upon her and caught his gaze. Finally, Gabriel let her feet touch the ground. Antonia tried not to feel disappointed.

“I shall tether your horse.” Did she imagine it, or had his voice roughened? “There are some stone steps just there, beneath the leaves. No—wait. I shall give you my arm.”

The steps up to the folly were indeed slick with damp and leaves. She kicked the first two clear, then Gabriel stepped around her, smiled, and took her hand. It was large and solid, and for an instant, Antonia wished he would never let go. She felt safe, yet oddly in control when Gabriel was near. Perhaps he really was a guardian angel. With a smile playing at her lips, she considered it. No, he was just a little too wicked to be any sort of angel—and far too intriguing.

“It is always damp in this little hollow,” he said, sounding perfectly natural again. “There is moss everywhere, and bizarre little toadstools. Cyril used to claim that fairies came out here at night.”

“I believe they might still do,” she murmured, looking about.

At the top of the stairs, she stepped up into the folly, which was open at one side but was otherwise encircled by a stone balustrade. Deep inside, a wide bench had been built into the shelter. Gabriel stripped off his riding gloves, and she did likewise. Together, they used them to sweep away the dead leaves. When the worst was gone, they sat down together. She could feel the heat and the strength almost radiate from him, though only their arms actually touched.

It was not enough. She wanted more; wanted to know him in every possible way. But it was not what he wanted. Moreover, he was too guarded; too locked up tight within himself. There was a darkness inside him which gave her pause. With a suppressed sigh, Antonia put away such thoughts and looked out across the balcony at the lake’s beginning, far below.

“It is beautiful,” she finally said. “We are so high up, and the hill is so steep. It is amazing they ever built this here.”

“No one uses it,” said Gabriel quietly. “No one ever has—save for Cyril and me, so far as I know.”

“There is another folly,” Antonia remarked. “A pavilion, really. It is a grand, elegant thing made of Portland stone and marble. Someone said they used to have picnics there.”

Gabriel did not answer. Antonia felt something inside him shift, and she turned to look at him. His jaw was clenched, his face otherwise devoid of expression. “Yes,” he finally said. “It is down that road by the orchard, about half a mile on. There is a deer park, and beautiful gardens—and a lake which is…very big.”

“Yes, I walk there sometimes,” she answered, lightly covering her hand with his. The warmth of his hand and the strong sinewy strength in his fingers when he gripped hers was comforting at first, and then a little disconcerting. “Gabriel? Did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head, but his eyes were focused far into the distance. “It was there—in the deer park—that Cyril died,” he answered. “I wonder no one has asked me about it. I have been waiting—almost wishing, really—that someone would, and just get it over with.”

Antonia didn’t know what to say. “I had heard…yes, that there was an accident.”

His head swiveled about, his eyes almost accusing. “No you didn’t,” he said. “You heard I killed him. And I suppose that I did. But no one here ever once used the word
accident
.”

Antonia let her gaze fall. “No, you are right,” she admitted. “But then, the only person who ever spoke of it was…my late husband.”

“Yes, and I’ll bet he spoke of little else,” said Gareth grimly. “It became, I believe, the focus of his existence.”

“He was an angry, bitter man,” she whispered, toying with her gloves. “But in his defense, Gabriel, I can only say that I know what it is to lose a child. It…it makes you mad with grief, I think.”

“With grief, yes,” he returned. “But did you look for someone to blame?”

“Oh, I did not have to look, Gabriel,” she said hollowly. “I
knew
who was to blame. Me. Me and my awful, shrewish temper.”

He shook his head. “No. No, I do not believe that was the cause of a death.”

She turned a little on the stone bench and took both his hands in hers. “But I did it, Gabriel,” she said. “I caused it, as surely as if I’d killed her myself. I pushed and I pushed, until…until the worst happened.”

To her shock, he circled his fingers around her wrists and turned her hands over. “Antonia, I think
this
is the worst that could happen to anyone,” he rasped. “I want to know…I want to know, Antonia, why you did this to yourself. To your beautiful, beautiful body.
This
is a tragedy, too. The burden you bear is a tragedy.”

Antonia could not find the words. She stared at the scars, the scars she tried never to look at; thin, white curls like silvery worms drawn over her veins and tendons.

Gabriel cursed beneath his breath. “God, Antonia, I did not bring you here for this,” he whispered. “This was to be a pleasant outing. Suddenly I have ruined it, asking things I did not mean to ask. But since I saw those scars, I have been—I don’t know. Wounded for you. Cut up a little inside. I just…I just can’t understand
why
.”