The Duke's Indiscretion (23 page)

Colin lifted a shoulder negligibly, playing the disinterested husband well, he thought. “I do, but she is very busy with her charities and helping the Duchess of Durham prepare for her baby.” He sighed. “I'm afraid I don't see her very much.”

“So you are not in love with her?”

Colin blinked, suddenly flustered by the notion that had not, as yet, occurred to him. “What is love?” he countered with another shrug, forcing himself to keep his mind on the present task.

Sadie tipped her head to the side. “That is a shame,” she murmured. “If you loved her you would know.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed, shuffling a foot back and forth on the wooden floor.

“And now you and Lottie are lovers?” she asked, her voice soft and cunning.

Colin grinned, a little surprised that she asked so bluntly. “It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to say,” he whispered with a wink, trying to decide if the woman knew Lottie and his wife were one and the same. At this point, he simply couldn't tell.

She laughed softly, tossing her head back as if he'd completely flattered her.

“Then you keep very good secrets, sir,” she teased, slyly touching her elbow to his chest. “I know her very well, and she's never been so
enamored
of anyone. She's spoken of you and your handsome, charming manner for years.”

His first thought was how she'd accentuated the word
enamored
, as if he needed to be reminded she was French. But that quickly vanished when he actually considered her point. The notion of Charlotte being crazy about him for years struck him in a manner he couldn't describe if he chose to. He grew completely warm inside, immensely pleased with himself, though he would never, in a million years, tell that to anyone.

“Has she now,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck as if the praise embarrassed him.

“I happen to agree,” she fairly purred. “You are very handsome and charming, Colin. I've thought so since the first time we met.”

He couldn't care any less what Sadie thought of him. True, she was a beautiful Frenchwoman, sen
sual and no doubt experienced in bed. But where six months ago he would have pursued her without question or restraint, considering doing so now seemed childish and silly. It suddenly occurred to him how much he really did adore being married to Charlotte, and how much honesty and trust within that marriage mattered to him.

“And you are very lovely,” he replied, trying not to sound as unaffected by her as he felt.

Sadie sighed with exaggeration, gazing into his eyes as she leaned back against the wall. “Perhaps you'll tire of Lottie.”

He contained a laugh of absurdity. “Perhaps,” he said huskily. “But I thought you were good friends.”

Sadie rolled her eyes, and the idea that she was far less of a friend than Charlotte made her out to be irritated him.

“We are friends,” she agreed, “but when she leaves for Italy, I will still be here. Lonely.”

Colin stilled, his features going flat. “Leaves for Italy?”

She blinked in feigned surprise. “Oh, my goodness, you didn't know? She is to accompany Monsieur Porano to Milan when
The Bohemian Girl
closes. She's been invited to sing at
La Scala
next season.”

His chest burned as if it suddenly caught fire, his gut wrenched, but he did his best not to show his astonishment, his anger.

“She didn't tell me,” he said, trying to sound dejected rather than infuriated.

Sadie offered him an understanding smile. “Perhaps she cares less for you than you thought.”

That comment hit so close to home Colin's first
reaction was to slam his fist into her dressing room door, though with noble dignity he restrained himself. He simply couldn't believe anything this Frenchwoman said as fact without confirmation. And he knew, just
knew,
that Charlotte cared for him enough to discuss such an enormous opportunity with him before she accepted it wholeheartedly.

“Perhaps she does,” he repeated, though his voice sounded tight to his ears. “When did you learn of this marvelous offer she received?”

He had no idea why he asked that, but the look on her face told him everything.

She frowned as she toyed with the chain at her neck. “I suppose we've known for several days, perhaps a week now.”

He nodded, though for the first time in his life he felt utterly betrayed by a woman. His body broke out into a cold sweat as his mind began to boil with complex emotions he'd never before felt as one—frustration, hurt, bewilderment, fury.

His wife planned to leave him, had known about it for a week, and she hadn't said a word to him. What did that say about their marriage and newly discovered love affair? That she cared more for opera than the two of them? Really, he'd known all along that she did. He just wasn't prepared to admit it to himself after all they'd so recently discovered about each other, all they'd shared.

Sadie reached out and placed her hand flat on his chest. “I see you are surprised, Colin.”

He shrugged. “There will be other lovers in my life,” he murmured, trying not to look or sound as heartsick as he felt.

“I hope so,” she whispered. And then, before he considered her intentions, she leaned over and wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling his head down to meet her waiting lips.

She kissed him fiercely with an expert tongue, her palms planted on his cheeks. Stunned, Colin didn't react for several seconds. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and gave in to the pretense.

Lottie, Lottie, Lottie…I can't lose you now…

He supposed Sadie was a fine kisser, eager and clearly experienced. But he could think of nothing but his wife, her lush body, her sweet laugh and gorgeous blue eyes, her innocence in bed and outside of it. She was the only woman who mattered to him now, and as quickly as Sadie lifted his hand and placed it on her breast, he released her and took a step back.

“We can't do this here, not now, sweetheart,” he murmured, glancing briefly over his shoulder as he clasped his hands behind him.

She actually pouted and he almost snorted in distaste.

“Lottie will be looking for me soon,” he explained in an effort to appease her.

“Of course I understand,” she replied, her voice edgy with irritation even as she feigned sweetness. “But you know you can always find me here, willing to help you in your time of need.”

Colin sensed that she'd grown bored with him for now as she shook her gown out and smiled flatly, ready to dismiss him as if he were her plaything.

He inched closer again and ran a finger down her upper arm. “I'm so glad. I can always use female…companionship, Sadie.” Lowering his voice to a grave
whisper, he said, “But there is another reason I'm pursuing Lottie English.”

Her brows rose with renewed interest. “Indeed.”

“I've heard she possesses a rare piece of music,” he said, holding her gaze. “I'd like to find it.”

Colin watched her intently for any response. He'd used the word “find” instead of “see” because he hoped Sadie would infer that he wanted it for himself, without Lottie's knowledge.

Slowly, the Frenchwoman's expression went from curious to blank—the first honest response he'd gotten from her, he decided. Then she frowned negligibly and shook her head.

“I'm sure I don't know anything about rare music,” she replied quietly, lifting her hand back to the chain around her neck and rubbing it nervously. “Why do
you
want to find it?”

That question told him much. She hadn't asked what kind of music, who composed it, its sentimental value, age, or monetary worth, nor had she brushed it off easily as if she hadn't a clue and didn't really care. Instead, she asked him about his interest in finding the piece. Again, he could be completely wrong about her involvement in the plot to steal the score, but even the little doubt he'd held until now began to fade.

In a low murmur, he said, “Perhaps it's best to say I'm intrigued? As an admirer of music and the theater, you understand.”

She laughed softly, glancing up and down his body. “I never realized you were so secretive and had such…devious reasons for your daily visitations, Colin.”

“Do you know where it is?” he prodded good-naturedly, attempting to stay on topic.

She bit her bottom lip, eyeing him cautiously for a moment. “I have no idea, but if I hear anything about rare music, I will tell you first.”

He reached out and ran his thumb down the side of her neck. “I would be most appreciative.”

She took his hand and squeezed his fingers. “Then I will try very hard.”

Suddenly she released him, straightened, and took a step away. “And now, I will leave you to look for Lottie, your grace.”

With a formal curtsy, she turned on her heel and gracefully walked away.

Colin remained unmoved for seconds, listening to Porano sing. Then he turned a little and pressed his back into Charlotte's dressing room door—and saw her standing ten feet away, arms to her sides, gazing at him as if he'd just slapped her.

Goddammit all to hell.

She began walking toward him, and he noticed at once, even in the darkness, that her face had gone pale.

“Lottie—”

“I'm very busy right now, Colin,” she interrupted in a low, shaky voice, attempting to whisk by him and enter her dressing room.

He grabbed her by the shoulders before she could open the door, stopping her in her tracks. “What's wrong?” he asked gravely. “Did you see me with Sadie?”

For seconds she said nothing. Then she looked up into his eyes, her features neutral, smiling sweetly.
“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, but what you do with your free time is your business.”

Not wanting them observed in argument, he reached over and opened the door, then fairly shoved her into the room, closing it quickly behind him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, provoked by his gall.

He blocked her exit, his hands on his hips. “
She
kissed
me,
Charlotte.”

“She—” Her eyes grew wide as she blinked several times. Then her mouth dropped open and she began backing away from him.

It took him only seconds to realize she hadn't seen Sadie's aggressive contact with him at all. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. God, what a nightmare.

“Charlotte—”

“I need to get back to the stage,” she whispered.

Irrationally, that made him mad. “She knows about the music.”

Recovering her composure, she scoffed. “I'm sure you're mistaken.”

“No. I'm not,” he insisted, keeping his voice hushed.

Her eyes flashed angrily. “And you thought by kissing her you could gain that kind of information?” she asked through a hiss. “There isn't a woman alive who wouldn't like to be kissed by you, sir.”

He didn't know whether to gloat or be appalled.

“
She
kissed
me,
” he repeated. “I played along in an effort to gain her trust.”

“Her trust?” She shook her head. “So I suppose you didn't enjoy it,” she said sarcastically.

He groaned. “You're missing the point.”

“Oh, no. I think I understand the point all too well,” she shot back. “I realize I'm the one who told you to take a mistress at your leisure. The only thing I'm angry about is that you've chosen to seduce a personal friend of mine.”

He took two steps toward her and grabbed her by the shoulders, yanking her against him.

“Let me go!” she seethed in a whisper.

He ignored that. “First, she is not your friend if she's part of the scheme to harm you and steal your music,” he murmured succinctly, staring into her hurt-filled eyes. “Second, she is not your friend if she openly kisses your lover, and she knows we're lovers.”

She glared at him. “What did you do to encourage her, Colin?”

He had no answer for that, and she knew it. Everybody in England knew he was the country's most celebrated rake, even if it wasn't actually so. But as far as he could recall, he'd never hated, really hated, his reputation more than he did right now.

“Charlotte,” he started again, clutching her shoulders, “I'm trying to find the truth, and Sadie knows something. I'm sure of it.” He drew a deep breath, deciding it was time to reveal what was in his heart. “But more importantly, what matters the most to me is you. I don't want anyone but you in my bed. What we share when we make love—”

Her laugh of disgust cut him short. “We don't share anything in bed, Colin. Just bodies. And you're very, very good at sharing yours. Now let me go.”

Colin had never felt so stung by a comment in his entire life. Utterly shocked, he dropped his arms to his sides and she immediately brushed by him, opened the door, and walked out.

T
heir ride home had to be the most tense and uncomfortable they'd ever shared. Charlotte decided to ignore him as if he weren't even in her presence, and he hadn't bothered with an attempt to engage her in conversation, no doubt sensing the immense displeasure emanating from both her rigid form and avoiding gaze. Unfortunately, the time alone with him gave her ample opportunity to revel in her miserable thoughts.

It had to be one of the worst weeks of her life. After days of rejoicing in the offer to sing in Italy, trying to decide the best way to inform her husband and beg for his permission and good wishes, her well-ordered world had collapsed seconds after learning her husband had been kissed by one of her closest friends. Oddly, she believed Colin when he said Sadie had initiated it, though with his reputation, she didn't doubt he enjoyed it, which, she supposed, saddened her most of all.

Part of her just wanted to cry, the other part scream, though she refused to do either with him sitting across from her in close confines, his eyes shut, body relaxed, arms folded over his belly as if he hadn't a care in the world. At this point, she couldn't wait to retire to her room and crawl into bed where she could punch her aggravation into her pillow.

What made her angriest at herself was not knowing if she hated him or loved him. She did, however, realize that the man was far more complex than she had ever imagined, and she liked that about him very, very much. She'd married an illegal forger, a criminal, a funny and charming rake, and what amused her most was the keen realization of just how much she enjoyed him because of, or aside from, these flaws. So what did that make her other than stupid? Yet even if she remained blindly involved with him, never could she deny how he made her laugh with witty conversation, made her tingle at the mere sight of him, and yes, made her come alive in bed. Simply put, he fascinated her, and the more she considered his goodness, the guiltier she felt for saying they shared nothing but bodies when they made love. That was wrong of her, whether she felt that way or not, because she could see from his expression the second it came out of her mouth that she had hurt him.

Still, she'd meant it, though it hadn't occurred to her until today that something
was
missing when they were together intimately. She had to assume he'd done the same things in bed with other women, which meant that nothing they shared made her special to him. That's what hurt
her
most of all,
especially after seeing him so closely chatting with Sadie.

Now, as the coach stopped at the townhouse, she had to consider how to tell Colin of her offer to sing abroad, knowing fully well the circumstances had changed. He hadn't spoken to her since they'd left the theater, and she rather assumed he was angry about her last comment to him. But she wanted to get everything out in the open, to let him know he'd no longer need to sponsor her financially in Europe, at least for her engagement in Milan. Then again, maybe he didn't care what she did after their confrontation this afternoon. In any case, she had no intention of bringing the subject up tonight.

The two of them remained silent until they entered the house, then before she could bid him good evening and take her leave, he grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward his study.

“There are some things we need to discuss, Charlotte,” he said without explanation.

She grumbled. “Not now, Colin. I'm tired—”

“I'm tired, too,” he cut in, refusing to let her go. “I'm tired of the secrets between us. It's time to get them all out in the open.” He glanced over his shoulder, a tiny smirk on his mouth. “Wouldn't you agree?”

She couldn't possibly fight his grip, much less his determination, and so she gave him a flat smile and replied, “Of course. I'm always agreeable. Lead the way, sir.”

He shot her another fast look, though he didn't release her as they walked down the hall. But instead of stopping at his study where they always went for conversation, he continued past the drawing room
and into the dining room already set with china and linens for the evening meal, guiding her through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

Three servants and their housekeeper, Betsy, worked dutifully inside, preparing a dinner of roast beef with onion, by the smell of it. They all took quick notice of her and her husband, curtsying appropriately before returning to their duties, apparently not the least surprised to see the Duke of Newark walking past them, clutching his wife's hand.

A bit bewildered by his silent sense of purpose, she grew completely surprised when he moved directly toward the scullery under the back stairway that led to the second-floor bedrooms.

“What are you doing?” she asked while he opened the creaking door with his free hand.

He said nothing as he ushered her inside the dark, cramped area, the scent of cleaning solvents and flour assaulting her senses. He quickly moved around her, finally dropping her hand so he could push aside a tall shelf that held a few pots and pans, revealing a second door, unnoticed by her at first, secured with a large, sturdy lock.

A whirlwind of intrigue suddenly replaced her annoyance when he reached up onto the shelf and removed a key from inside a large saucepan. He inserted it into the lock, turned it until she heard a click, then removed the key and dropped it back into the pan. That done, he unlatched the door and pushed it open.

The distinct musty odor mixed with tobacco struck her at once. Without saying a word, he reached for her hand again, gently this time, and guided her into a room bathed in total darkness.

“Colin?” she whispered.

“Just a minute.”

Slightly unnerved, she stood where she was as he disappeared into the blackness. Seconds later he lit a lamp and she gasped, taking a step back, her eyes opening wide as she gazed around the room, absolutely incredulous.

Perhaps only twenty square feet in size, she stood inside a windowless alcove hideaway. Row after row of books, stacks of paper, manuscripts, and newspapers, most of them very old by the looks of their yellowed edges, lined three of the four walls, from floor to ceiling. Against the wall to her right, he'd erected three long, wooden shelves, piling them to the edges with glass jars and corked bottles filled to various levels with fluids of every color from clear to black, stacks of paint brushes, charcoal, metal plates of all sizes and shapes, and a basket full of tools similar to the two he used the day he first saw the Handel score. Directly across from her, on the opposite wall, stood a very thin, wooden ladder braced against stacked books, leading to a hinged door latched on the ceiling. To her left she noticed a tall reading lamp and one lone rocker, exactly like the one in his study, and at the center of the room, on a relatively high wooden table, sat two additional lamps, one of which he'd lit upon their entrance.

“Close the door,” he said, placing a palm flat on the table as he watched her with some amusement.

Gradually, her curiosity overcame her astonishment, and she did as he asked, pushing the door all the way shut so they remained alone in the silence. Then, crossing her arms over her breasts she began
to walk toward him, her eyes immediately focused on the table.

A wooden box, bolted near the far edge, contained three paint brushes of various sizes, and three jars of tightly sealed ink, placed into cleverly cut holes in the wood to prevent accidental spills. And in the center lay the Handel piece she'd given him, opened to the third page.

“This is the copy, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “The original is in my safe. I bring it here only when I'm working.”

She swallowed, giving him a quick glance before gazing back to the magnificent forgery. If he hadn't mentioned it, she would have scolded him for allowing her masterpiece to sit in the open next to jars of ink, tightly sealed and secured or not. But then he was a professional, and as she stared down at his copy, she couldn't help but be in awe of his talent. It truly looked original.

“You're very good,” she mumbled, her mind instantly filled with questions.

He grunted. “No, I'm better than good. I'm the best in England, perhaps even the best in all of Europe.”

She straightened, eyeing him from the other side of the table, a wry smile planted on her mouth. “The best at what? Forgery?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes.”

She gave a soft little laugh, shaking her head in confusion. “You seem quite certain of yourself, though I'm not sure
forgery
is something to be proud of, Colin.”

His expression remained quite serious as he cocked
his head to the side a bit, evaluating her. “Sit down, Charlotte,” he quietly ordered.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want you to,” he replied, hoisting himself up onto the side of the table, one foot still on the floor, the other dangling over the edge.

Charlotte began to sense an overwhelming gravity in his manner, and the notion that he seemed about to reveal some enormous secret made her walk to the rocker and sit, her hands folded in her lap and not a thought given to straightening her skirts.

After a long moment of silence, she expelled an exasperated breath. “How long are you going to make me wait?”

He smiled minutely, then replied, “I'm gathering my thoughts.”

She raised her brows and leaned back in the chair. “Really? You've never had trouble expressing yourself before.”

“You looked beautiful on stage today,” he murmured, watching her closely. “Sang brilliantly.”

His change of topic stumped her. “Thank you.”

“And,” he continued, “I'm very sorry about what happened at the theater.”

She felt her face flush as her heart sank. “I don't want to talk about it,” she returned evenly.

“We'll, we're going to talk about it because I need your trust, Charlotte,” he countered, his voice low and husky. “Can I trust you?”

Flustered, she had no idea how to gauge the workings of his mind. “What is this place?”

“Can I trust you?” he repeated.

His frank gaze and reflective manner seemed
strangely foreign coming from him, though the combination mesmerized her.

“Yes, you can trust me,” she said, subdued. “I've said as much the other times you've asked.”

He inhaled deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. “That's because trust is important in marriage. Especially in
my
marriage.”

She almost grinned. “You're that special?”

He smiled. “I'm that specia
lized
.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Colin, but I don't understand.”

After only a brief hesitation, he said, “You've asked me, on numerous occasions, what I do with my time. Well, this is it.” He gestured around the room with his head. “This is my workshop.”

She frowned. “I could have guessed that much.”

He softened a little, clasping his hands together between his spread legs. “I'm employed by the government.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

A very slow and beautiful grin graced his face, warming her within.

“When I was arrested years ago,” he explained, “I was given the opportunity to meet with Sir Thomas Kilborne, who is now my superior. He thought my work remarkable and offered me a deal I could not refuse. I told you the reasons I never went to prison, except for one: that I agreed to put my talents to good use for the Crown, for which I would be, and have been, handsomely paid.”

She gaped at him, her heartbeat quickening with every word of his disclosure.

“And so, ten years ago,” he continued, “I began
working with the branch of government that deals with forgers, forgery, and counterfeiting. Frankly, when I started, I was skeptical regarding the amount of work I'd be given, but I quickly learned there would always be plenty to do.” He grinned again, slyly. “It's amazing, Charlotte, how many forgers there are in the world—some professional, most amateurs, and very bad ones at that, and of course an ample number sponsored by their countries' governments.”

“This is unbelievable…” she breathed.

He shrugged. “Not really. I can forge anything, including money, papers, ancient or recent documents, and signatures. I can also detect a forgery, and that's generally what my employer needs and requires of me.” He gestured to the papers on the shelf to his right. “In those stacks are the signatures of nearly every dignitary in the civilized world today, and of course I add and delete them as they change. I also have access to signatures or handwriting samples from important people through the ages—from ancient Greek philosophers to Constantine, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Roman and Chinese emperors, American presidents, and of course our own monarchy. They're owned by the government and kept in a tightly secured area, sealed within a vault, to which I have unconditional admittance when needed.” He slumped a little. “The only thing I can't forge is creative art, though I can expose clever copies by analyzing the paper or background on which it's painted or drawn, and of course the signature of the artist. But the expert copy of art remains in the exclusive control of the artistically gifted, I'm afraid. I can't paint to save my soul.”

Charlotte just sat there, thoroughly dumbstruck. Never in her life would she have expected her notably lazy, socially engaging, rogue of a husband, who had spent the last few weeks following her around at the theater as if he had nothing more exciting to do, to be employed by the British government, accomplishing work so specialized and secretive he hadn't even revealed it to her until now, months after their wedding. Regardless of his wayward past, he now had to be widely held in high esteem given his expertise, and as she considered the respect he no doubt garnered from distinguished government officials, she grew strangely elated and extraordinarily proud of him as a man.