THE DURHAM DILEMMA
, it read across the top of the page. “Rumors are swirling about town that the late Duke of Durham may have left his sons an unexpected, and much unwanted, inheritance,” the story began.
The duke, who died only a week ago, contracted a secret marriage several decades ago. One can only wonder why it was kept so secret until now, when the dukedom and all its wealth are poised in the balance. Perhaps because that marriage was still lawfully binding when the duke married his duchess? Perhaps because all three Durham sons would be totally disinherited if it were discovered? But it seems the Durham sons are not unaware of this dark secret. Lord Gresham, the eldest—and perhaps future duke—has taken to his bed and not been seen in over a week. Lord Edward de Lacey is suddenly and unexpectedly in town, consulting solicitors. Surely the appearance of Augustus de Lacey, the cousin who would be heir presumptive, cannot be far off. And one can only wonder what society will make of this dreadful dilemma . . .
The piece went on, wandering into ever more incendiary suppositions, but Francesca’s mouth had fallen open by the third sentence. Her mind whirled. Well, that certainly explained why Lord Edward summoned Wittiers. She had expected it was some ordinary matter of money or property. This was far more serious, involving not only money and property but his standing in society and the life he had been born to expect, to say nothing of his very name. Of course, she was doubtful even James Wittiers could argue a dukedom from someone else’s grasp if there were evidence it rightfully belonged to that person, but in Lord Edward’s place, she would have used every leverage at her disposal to secure Wittiers’s services, too.
And perhaps . . . She eyed the size of the letters screaming across the front page. She thought of Sloan, tall, big, loud, and hawk-eyed. If this edition sold well, he’d print more about this Durham dilemma tomorrow, and the day after. If Lord Edward had ever looked crossly at his scullery maid, Sloan would probably have her sad story in his paper by the end of the week.
Perhaps that handed her a bit of leverage as well.
She jumped up from the table and gave a hard pull on the bell rope. “Mrs. Hotchkiss, I must go out,” she said when the housekeeper hurried in. “Immediately.”
“I’ll send Mr. Hotchkiss for the horses at once,” replied the woman, startled. “Will you be changing?”
Francesca looked down at her comfortable morning dress. “Oh, goodness, yes. I want to look breathtaking. I’ve just gotten a second chance with Edward de Lacey!”
It was barely an hour later that her carriage turned once more into Berkeley Square. The facade of the Durham residence looked even more imposing under the roiling black clouds above, but today she walked sedately up the steps and rapped the knocker, firmly but not nearly as hard as her heart was pounding behind her ribs.
This time she told the butler it was imperative that she speak to Lord Edward on a matter related to their conversation the previous day. She held her breath, hoping that Lord Edward hadn’t told his servants not to admit her again, and when they did so, she switched to hoping he would agree to see her. By the time she was shown into the same blue room to wait, her stays felt way too tight and she had to clasp her hands together to keep from wringing them.
Today she only waited a few minutes before he strode through the door, as severe as she remembered. She noticed the black band around his sleeve. Perhaps mourning accounted for his dark, plain clothing. His expression was as imperturbable as it had been yesterday, but she smiled as he closed the door behind him.
“Lady Gordon.” He bowed, his gray eyes steady on her.
“My lord.” She curtsied. “I have come to apologize.”
“Indeed.” His gaze flickered over her. Francesca knew she looked her best today, in a rich green walking dress with golden ribbons. There was no overt admiration in his gaze, only examination, but it made her feel more confident all the same to know there was no fault with her appearance. “I assure you, that is not necessary.”
“But it is,” she said with feeling. He meant that she needn’t have come again; she meant that she had made a mistake in approaching him so intemperately to begin with. There very much was a need for her to apologize. “I was very out of temper yesterday, and spoke imprudently and impolitely.”
“Not at all,” he replied, proving himself a better liar than she had anticipated. “I am delighted you have found other aid. Now—”
“No,” she said gently. “I still have need of your aid—but now, I believe, you may be in need of mine as well.” She drew out the page of newsprint from her reticule. “Perhaps you have not seen.”
For a moment he just looked at her with those cool gray eyes, measuring her. Francesca waited patiently, holding out the paper. She knew his type, this straight and proper gentleman. He’d see his name in the newspaper, and the shocking rumors attached to it, and be furious. Men dueled over such things. Lord Edward would rage about a bit, and when he calmed down she would make her offer. Unless he was a very great fool, he would see the sense of it at once. And then she would have the chance she so desperately needed.
He took the newspaper, smoothing the curled edges and pulling it flat. His eyes never left her, as if he waited for some flicker of temper as an excuse to dismiss her again. Today, though, she was on her very best behavior. Yesterday she had been half mad with frustration and outrage and even fear, but today she was given a reprieve, and she meant to make the very most of it. Today, nothing he said or did would make her lose her temper, even if she had to bite off her own tongue to keep silent. Francesca met his gaze evenly, keeping her face arranged in a modest, serene expression, and waited.
Finally he looked at the newspaper, his gaze dipping away from hers. His eyelashes looked absurdly long from this angle, she thought in surprise, thick and dark against his cheeks. Her Aunt Evelyn used to say every woman had some feature to be proud of, be it a lovely neck or good skin or fine eyes; she wondered if Lord Edward de Lacey was proud of his long, beautiful eyelashes, and had to press her lips together to avoid smiling at the thought.
He didn’t look up for some time, more than enough to have read the offending piece several times over. She had unconsciously tensed in anticipation of an outburst, but his face didn’t change, and he didn’t move. He could have been carved of marble for all the reaction and emotion he showed, even though the paper had all but called him and his brothers bastards and imposters. She was just beginning to wonder if she had grossly misunderstood things when he spoke.
“Very well, Lady Gordon,” he said without looking up. “You have piqued my interest. What bargain have you come to offer?”
“I am acquainted with Mr. Sloan, who publishes this newspaper. He has come to my musicales on a few occasions.” He had propositioned her as well. She said a sincere prayer of thanks that she had declined him gently and not laughed in his face. One never knew when a shred of goodwill might be needed. “I can arrange a meeting to persuade him to print a retraction.”
Lord Edward was silent for a long moment. “I could sue him for defamation.”
“He would never print a retraction then,” she said. “He is . . . somewhat stubborn when confronted.” Sloan was an ambitious man who’d worked his way up from nothing to a position of some power. Of course, he’d done it by printing the most scandalous gossip and salacious stories in his gossip sheets, which were consequently in hot demand. If Lord Edward filed a suit, Sloan would react like a caged bear and print everything he could find about the de Laceys, even if he libeled himself right into debtor’s prison. That, Francesca was certain, would help no one, least of all her. “But I believe, because of our acquaintance, he would listen to me.”
“And you could persuade him to retract this?” He slanted her a dry look. “No doubt he will be reluctant to withdraw such a shocking story.”
“I can persuade him,” she said, ignoring any whisper of doubt in her mind. If she couldn’t persuade Sloan, she would have nothing to entice Lord Edward into helping her.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the bare, beautiful room. At the window he stopped, feet braced apart and hands clasped behind his back, the newspaper still between his fingers. Only when he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back did Francesca see any sign of tension in him. She had to admire that, given what Sloan had printed in his gossip sheet. She never found it easy to keep such tight rein on her thoughts and feelings; in Lord Edward’s place, she would have broken something by now, most likely.
“And what service would you ask of me, in thanks for this favor?” he asked after a few minutes, turning his head slightly to ask over his shoulder.
Francesca took some eager steps forward before catching herself. “I require help with a legal matter. My niece, Georgina, has been living with her stepmother since her father’s death. My sister, her mother, died two years ago. Her father had promised to name me in his will but he did not; there is no legal guardian living. I am godmother to Georgina, and I would like to raise her now that both her parents are gone, but her stepmother refuses to allow me even to see the child, and has moved house without telling anyone where they went. I want to find my niece and have her given into my care.”
“I am not certain I see how I could help you at all.”
She sidled a few more steps toward him, but moderately this time. “James Wittiers was the only solicitor who didn’t shake his head in regret or patronize me for being a hysterical female. If you merely help me find another reputable solicitor who will take my case seriously, I would consider it very fair repayment.”
He half turned, not quite facing her, and cocked his head. “You wish me to interview solicitors for you?”
“No,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly as hope dug its shiny talons into her heart. “I wish you to help me interview solicitors. They have all dismissed a woman alone, of no great standing and no great fortune. I have funds to pay,” she rushed to assure him. “I am not asking for charity. I merely need . . . consequence.”
He inhaled deeply, still staring fixedly across the room, not toward her. Francesca studied his profile, hardly daring to breathe. He had a firm jaw, which was now tensed tight, and a slight crook to his nose that wasn’t apparent from straight on. Somehow the thought of him fighting and having his nose broken at some point in life made him seem more approachable, more like her and less the exalted son of a duke. He also has a nice mouth, a small part of her noticed. She remembered the way he had smiled at her yesterday, at the end, and thought to herself that he would be a very dangerous man if ever roused to passion. And for some reason she found the image very attractive.
She stopped her wayward thoughts with a guilty flinch. She wanted his help in her quest to find Georgina. She had no business wondering what it would be like to see him in a passion, or what it would take to arouse him so. She must have become lonelier than she’d thought since Cecil died. If she wanted a man, Lord Alconbury could be hers in a matter of hours, and he was amusing, charming, and attracted to her. And obviously, since she didn’t want Alconbury enough to take what he had frequently hinted she could, she didn’t want a man at all. Especially not this dark, somber man who needed to smile more.
“I presume you have a list,” he said at last. “Of solicitors.”
“I— Yes.” She gathered her wandering wits. “Four or five names.”
He nodded slowly, his head sinking lower until he had an almost brooding air. “Bring Sloan,” he said, very quietly. “As soon as you can.”
“Of course,” she said, even as her heart skipped a beat. “I will send word the moment I hear from him.”
Finally he turned to her. “Thank you, Lady Gordon.” He put out his hand. “I believe we have an agreement.”
She put her hand in his. “I’m sorry it began under these circumstances,” she said honestly, with a flicker of her eyes toward the newspaper he still held.
Without looking at it, he folded the paper in half and put it behind his back. “Indeed,” was all he said.
Francesca was impressed. The man must have ice in his blood, or perhaps in his belly; his hand was certainly warm enough, wrapped around hers. She could feel the warmth and strength of his grip even through her gloves. His fingers pressed hers for a moment, and then he released her.
“Good day, sir,” she said, her voice gone oddly breathless.
He studied her. His eyes weren’t cold, flat gray at all; there were shards of blue in them, like glimpses of clear sky between clearing clouds. “Until later,” he replied.
E
dward stood at the window for a long time. His caller appeared on the steps below. Even on this dark and cloudy day her hair shone like a new penny. He hadn’t noticed that gleam when she was in this room, just a few feet away from him. Next time, he’d have to look more closely at her hair and not be so distracted by the rest of her.
And there was plenty to distract him. On the street below, she spoke to her coachman, one gloved hand gesturing eloquently as the man nodded. She was pleased; every line of her figure radiated it. If he could see her face, no doubt her eyes would be glowing and that lovely flush of color would have risen as before, when he told her to bring Sloan. It put him in mind of fresh peaches or newly bloomed roses, soft and pink and begging to be touched. His eyes tracked the curve of her cheek, visible beneath her bonnet, but it was too far to see if his mental image was correct. Her shawl had slipped down one shoulder, exposing the skin of her bosom, as pale as fresh cream next to the dark green of her dress. At least his memory of her bosom had proved highly accurate. The fashionable gown she’d worn this morning had shown off those assets even better than the severe dark dress yesterday. Lord Gordon, whoever he was or had been, was a fortunate fellow.
She finished speaking to her coachman and stepped into the carriage with a brief flash of trim white ankle. The driver closed the door behind her and climbed up on his box. The horses started off, and Lady Gordon was gone—for now.
He supposed he ought not to think of her at all, especially not with this fascinated awareness, but thinking of her was preferable to thinking of anything else—particularly his fiancée, Louisa, who had told someone his secret after vowing not to. His first incredulous thought, on reading the newspaper Lady Gordon had brought, was that someone spied on him, or that Wittiers had been indiscreet, or that one of his brothers let something slip after too much wine. But buried in the dregs of the story was mention of his engagement—or rather, his recently broken engagement. Since even he hadn’t known it was broken, the source could only be, somehow, Louisa. He’d been on the verge of calling on her father this morning when Lady Gordon arrived. Thank heaven she had, since it saved him from making a damned fool of himself for presuming he could trust his own bloody fiancée.
The cheap gossip sheet crumpled in his fist, and he forced himself to smooth it out and read it once more. Edward seethed at the thought of having to beg the man who printed it for a retraction, even though he knew it was his best hope of salvaging matters. A quick retraction would allow him to deny the horrible truths printed in front of him, or at least turn a repressive eye on any gossipers. If Lady Gordon could effect one, he would indeed be in her debt, although some damage had already been done.
Slowly, deliberately, he ripped the paper into shreds. The ink left smudges on his fingers, as if the malice on the page were seeping into him like some poison. He crossed the room to the fireplace and tossed the pieces into the grate, then rang the bell. “Lay a fire,” he instructed the footman who came. “At once.” He wanted a bonfire, to obliterate that rag from his home.
The servant bowed and hurried off. Edward scowled at his stained hands, and went upstairs to wash. Fervently he wished he were still in Sussex. There he could have gone for weeks without needing to see anyone or face any whispers. In London he doubted he could go anywhere now without encountering someone who had heard the rumors; rumor, his father used to say, was the only thing that spread faster than contagion.
The truth of that was borne out within a few minutes, when Gerard returned. Edward heard his brother’s voice, and then his footsteps in the hall, as he was scrubbing the last trace of ink from his hands. With barely a knock on the door, Gerard barged in. “What the bloody hell is this?”
Edward glanced at the familiar page of newsprint in his brother’s upraised fist. “A piece of rubbish. I’m surprised you read such things, Gerard.”
His brother flushed. “I don’t—except when my own name is in them and people hail me from passing carriages to ask if I’m about to flee the country with the Durham silver plate.”
He sighed and reached for a towel. “I’m sorry for that. It was as rude a shock to me as it was to you.”
Gerard narrowed his eyes. Edward said nothing; he wouldn’t have to. Gerard was more perceptive than people gave him credit for. His brother bent his head and read the newspaper as though searching for something, then winced. Edward knew what part he had read, or finally grasped. “Damn. I’m sorry, Edward,” he said quietly. Nothing more. Charlie would have made some mention of being right about Louisa, or at least kept speaking about the matter when he wanted to say nothing at all about it. Gerard knew when to keep his mouth closed. Edward had never appreciated that about his younger brother more than he did now.
“No apology is necessary,” he replied evenly. Pity was useless.
Gerard cleared his throat and folded the newspaper. “How should we respond?”
“I’ve already had a suggestion. It may be possible to persuade the printer to issue a retraction.”
“That will cost a pretty penny.”
Edward thought of Lady Gordon’s gleaming hair and luscious bosom. If this Sloan fellow were half as fascinated by her as he was . . . “Perhaps not. It may only cost me a personal favor.”
Now his brother was intrigued. “To whom? Not that I feel inclined to offer this gossipmonger anything, mind you.”
He smiled thinly. “Nor I. No, the favor would be for an intermediary who wishes something else from me.”
“What?”
He hesitated. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell Gerard about Lady Gordon. She was exactly the sort of woman his brother liked; if nothing else, Gerard would applaud her boldness in offering her bargain, although Edward imagined he would admire many other things about her as well. “Nothing very exciting,” he said vaguely. “A legal problem.”
That squelched his brother’s interest. “Ah. Then you don’t plan to visit the printer?”
“Stay out of this, Gerard,” Edward warned, seeing his brother flex his hands. Gerard’s temper was a little too hot for this situation. From what Lady Gordon had said, Sloan required delicate manipulation. Even if she had merely told him that to gain his assistance, he was fairly certain it wasn’t wise to beat a man with a printing press.
“What? I only want to help.”
That was probably true, but they would almost certainly disagree on the method of help. He just gave Gerard a speaking look. Beating up the printer wouldn’t help their cause at all. “In that case, I’ve got the papers you want downstairs,” he said, changing the subject to one they both approved. “Father’s reports as well as the blackmail letters themselves. I hope you see something in them that Pierce missed.”
They went downstairs to their father’s study, which still smelled faintly of his tobacco. Edward couldn’t help feeling as if some part of his father’s spirit lingered there as they looked through the four brief letters to Durham, threatening the exposure of his long-ago marriage to Dorothy Cope unless the sum of five thousand pounds, all in gold coin, was left near a certain gravestone in the churchyard of St. Martin’s in London. They reread all the reports from Durham’s investigators as well, which Edward privately thought very thorough. He didn’t see much for Gerard to exploit.
“This isn’t much to go on,” Gerard finally said, echoing his thoughts.
Edward shrugged. “You don’t have to go after the blackmailer.”
His brother’s expression hardened. “Oh, I’m going after him. This bloody thief has already caused us a lot of trouble and now started a scandal. He’ll regret sending these.” He sat back and stared thoughtfully into space. “I wonder if someone was sent to watch the churchyard other than on the dates specified in the letters.”
“Father made no mention of it.” Edward glanced through the long, detailed letter from his father to be sure. Durham had written out a summary of his actions as best he could recall them, and made no mention of watching the graveyard. Edward still wished he had known at the time, instead of later, but he could read between the lines of his father’s shaky, scratchy scrawl. Durham had died with a terrible weight on his heart. “If he did, nothing must have come of it.”
“I could try leaving a package at the gravestone and see what happens,” Gerard murmured. “Or chat up the rector and see who’s been lingering about the church lately . . .”
“I leave you to it, then.” Edward rose. “I’ve got a few things to attend to.” Sending a note to Earl Halston, principally, to verify that his betrothal was indeed over.
“No doubt.” Gerard got up to leave, folding the letters and reports carefully. “Edward . . .” His head bent over his task, he didn’t look up as he spoke. “I have no proof, but Halston is reputedly in a very tight spot. A fellow was telling me last night at White’s that Halston hoped to have his daughter wed before the end of summer. The promise of your marriage to Louisa has been keeping his creditors at bay, but . . .” He cleared his throat, fiddling with the papers before shoving them into his pocket. “That is to say, ending it might not have been Louisa’s desire.”
But she hadn’t brought herself to confide in him about it either way, as he confided in her. And she had explicitly promised to keep his confidence. Edward felt that betrayal more sharply than any mercenary behavior on Louisa’s part. He could have understood and perhaps even accepted a severe financial crisis, if she had just told him. He could have understood if her family recoiled from the scandal. But a broken promise was something else. “Thank you, Gerard,” he said quietly.
His brother coughed, then murmured a farewell and left, his face set in that determined expression that made Edward wonder if perhaps Gerard might succeed where Durham had failed. It didn’t change what he meant to have Wittiers do, but it would be rather gratifying to see the instigator of this disaster punished in some way.
The reply to his note to Halston was swift in coming. The earl was polite, but said that given the unexpected upheaval in Edward’s life, it was only natural that he must withdraw his consent to the marriage, as a concerned father. Edward wondered if his concern or Louisa’s had been the prevailing factor, and how exactly a gossip sheet had gotten wind of the break before he himself was told. He had promised Louisa he would call on her father at the earliest convenience; would it have been too much to expect to be told to his face, and not made to look like a jilted idiot in front of all London? Apparently so.
He was still brooding over it when the butler brought another note. This one was in a round, vibrant hand that conveyed energy. Without even breaking the seal, Edward knew it was from Lady Gordon.
Dear sir,
I have prevailed upon Mr. S to call on me this evening before dinner. I believe it will put him more at ease to call at my home instead of yours. It would be best if you arrived earlier, so that we may discuss our circumstances. If you could join me at six o’clock, I would be much obliged.
Humbly yours,
F. Gordon
He wondered how she had persuaded Sloan to come. He wondered what circumstances they would have to discuss. And most of all, he wondered what the F stood for.
H
e arrived promptly at six that evening. Her home was a quaint little town house not far from Russell Square, nothing to the quiet elegance of Berkeley Square but appealing nonetheless. The footman ran up the stairs ahead of him to rap the knocker, and the door was almost instantly opened by a neat, middle-aged housekeeper.
“Come in, my lord,” she said, holding the door as Edward walked in. “Lady Gordon is expecting you.” And indeed, the lady herself appeared as he was shedding his coat and hat.
“Good evening, sir.” She dipped a curtsey. “Thank you for coming.”
He barely heard what she said. Her hair, shining as brightly as before, was arranged in loose, seductive waves that looked as though a man had been running his hands through it, and she had just caught it up in a few combs. Tendrils curled around her temples and at the nape of her neck, teasing that fine, fair skin he had remarked earlier. Her gown looked ordinary until she moved, when it swirled and caught on the curves of her hip and waist. He had thought it was some dark silk, but realized instead it was thin black net draped over a gown the color of flame that shimmered with her every movement. The image of a living flame, smoldering beneath a respectable facade, caught his imagination and fixed him in place. What else about her burned?
She cocked her head to one side as he stood staring at her. “I hope my note wasn’t abrupt,” she said. “You said you wished to see him as soon as possible—”
“Yes!” Edward gave himself a mental shake and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Gordon. Your note was perfectly timed, and I have no complaint.”
Her expression eased into a smile. There was something about the way her chin dipped and the way her eyes sparkled that made it look rather coy and seductive. Or perhaps that was his imagination, which seemed to have sprouted wings and soared out of its normal range tonight. She held out one hand toward a pair of doors standing open. “Won’t you come in? We have some matters to settle first.”