“No.” It was a relief to be able to admit it.
“Luke’s older sister. Half sister, actually. Born well before the marriage and the heir, but not under the best of circumstances. I am not precisely an embarrassment, but very close. If I were a little less outré, I might fit in better with the Daudet family, but as it is, I am like the eccentric aunt you never want to sit next to at the din ner table.”
Madeline blinked at the frank declaration. It was true; their coloring was very different, but she believed the claim. And it made sense. “I see.”
“I believe the general view is that I might say or do anything. Like”—one auburn brow quirked up—“drawing a nude of my brother’s paramour. Do you mind me coming for an impromptu visit?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you being polite and politic, or truthful?”
“Truthful.” Madeline meant it. This was a fascinat ing glimpse into a part of Luke’s life she didn’t know existed. “Please stay. Shall I ring for tea, or would you prefer sherry?”
“You are admirably difficult to shock, Lady Brewer. I like that.”
“My life isn’t exactly following a conservative and acceptable course at this time,” Madeline murmured, meaning every word. “I am in no position to cast askance glances at anyone. I take it Luke did not send you here.”
“Of course not. He might even be furious with me.” Regina relaxed back on the settee and grinned. The lighthearted expression granted her already beautiful features an undeniable charm. “Luckily, as much as he hates interference in his life, he gets over being angry very quickly. Did you know that?”
It was impossible to not laugh. “No. What else don’t I know?”
“Plenty, I am sure. My brother has his secrets, but I doubt by saying that I am giving away anything you haven’t guessed already about him.”
“He reveals only what he wants you to know and that isn’t much, I admit.”
“Yes.” Regina leveled an approving look at her.“I think we will get along. Tell me, are you in love with him?”
This time she
was
rendered incapable of speech at the deeply personal nature of the question upon such brief acquaintance. She wasn’t sure she would answer her mother if asked so directly. Madeline just sat help less.
“You must be,” Regina Daudet said in a philosophi cal tone. “I’ve thought about it. This isn’t typical behav ior for you any more than it is for him, so you have to possess an underlying reason to risk your reputation this way. Oh, it is hardly likely society will ostracize you, since you are a widow, but still, you have carefully pre served that status for quite a long time. Luke is different, and, I agree, worth a risk or two.”
“I haven’t told him.” The words were stilted, but still they came out as a clear admission.
She wasn’t sure why she confided it so easily, but it was . . . liberating.
“No?” Regina raised a brow. “Still, you’ve been good for him. It’s just getting him to admit to himself you are not just another passing fancy that will be difficult. But you must be. The nightmares are better, or at least he hasn’t visited me in the hours before dawn since he met you.”
“He has trouble sleeping?” True enough, Madeline had always fallen asleep first, even that night at the inn. She didn’t know, and it bothered her instantly be cause she wanted to know
everything
about him. With a frown she thought back over their nights together. There actually weren’t all that many to consider, but she did realize she’d never seen him asleep.
His sister nodded, her gray eyes somber and distant. “He lost the woman he loved in Spain, and she still haunts his dreams.”
Frozen, shocked, Madeline sat very still. The clock in the corner sounded loud.
It explained so much.
And yet didn’t explain nearly enough.
“Can you tell me about her?”
Regina shook her head, her silver eyes sympathetic. “No. For two reasons. Firstly, I don’t know enough to help you, and secondly, because he needs to be the one.” She stopped, and then added softly, “Luke needs to tell
someone,
and I think you are the perfect choice.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I
t was the sense of disquiet before the battle.
Luke recognized it. A certain quality of sensation that crawled along the skin and left marks in its wake, like a poisonous creature with tiny claws. Not necessarily impending doom—that was far too dramatic—but an inherent unease when you knew something was wrong.
Alice Stewart was both cousin to Lord Brewer and possibly the recipient of a significant amount of funds just before his death. The proximity of his death and the gift of the money bothered Luke, and he tugged on a dry shirt and picked up a clean cravat, his mind moving swiftly as he reviewed the brief facts he knew.
Madeline’s husband had withdrawn money from his bankers and given it to someone—possibly Mrs. Stewart, and then he had suddenly died. Hopefully those two events weren’t connected, but it made him wonder. Colin May had given the woman a considerable amount of coin—or Michael apparently thought so—and then he had perished from an unexpected ailment.
Luke didn’t like the sound of it.
Then, five long years later, the journal turned up. Why? Subsequently, it was left in a place where it would be found, and, if so, that made Fitch merely a prop in the drama. Would anyone else deliberately want to humiliate Madeline?
At a guess, Alice Stewart would have access to the house as a guest. She could have taken the journal at any time in those five years after her cousin’s death. Having it put where it would be found was a petty act, and, quite frankly, seemed directed purposely at Madeline. He’d thought so the minute he found out how Fitch came to have it. Sending the stockings and garters also seemed malicious, but not actively dangerous. In retrospect, perhaps it was more an action a vindictive female might take.
Michael wanted him to talk to Madeline. Luke was beginning to think perhaps he shouldn’t wait.
Hastily he finished dressing, yanked on his boots, and ordered his carriage brought around in the unfriendly drizzle. Not fifteen minutes later he clambered out of the vehicle, and heedless of the late-afternoon hour and that anyone might see him, swiftly took the steps and used the brass knocker on the door.
Madeline’s butler, Hubert, opened the door and stepped back in resignation with a formal bow. “My Lord Altea. Please come in or you’ll get a soaking. I will announce you.”
Luke stepped into the polished foyer, an amused part of him reading the expression on the butler’s face. Were any of the servants ignorant of the fact he was Madeline’s lover? Probably not.
“Thank you.” Why did he think this visit so urgent? He wasn’t sure, but it felt in his gut like it might be. Michael was never involved in small intrigues. His interest alone was alarming enough to warrant an interview as soon as possible.
“Just a moment, sir.”
Luke waited impatiently, not certain what he was even going to say when he had a chance to question her about all this, his mind forming and discarding theories on why, suddenly, she was linked to possible espionage, deceit, and maybe even murder.
She could be in danger.
It wasn’t Hubert who came down the hall, but, to his amazement, his older sister, who took one look at his face and laughed, the sound light and musical. “I sketched her,” Regina said in explanation as a footman hurried to retrieve a light cloak.
What the devil was going on? “Regina, what are you doing here?” he asked, and without thought reached forward to take the garment and settle it around her shoulders.
“As I said, I sketched her.” She smoothed back her hair and smiled at him, a knowing look in her eye. “I wanted to stop by and see if she liked the gift.”
“I’ve never interfered in
your
life,” he said dryly, not that it ever did any good whatsoever to chide his older sister on her sometimes impulsive actions.
“I’ve never needed it,” she declared blithely, oblivious to the footman and Hubert, who had returned and now stood waiting. “You, on the other hand, have foibles that have to be addressed.”
She swept out into the dreary, late-afternoon rain, the smile on her expression causing him severe misgivings. Was there anything more dangerous than two women in a man’s life talking about him without his presence?
He doubted it.
This was all becoming very complicated.
But that aside, not nearly as complicated as the mess with the journal. Luke followed Hubert down the hall to a formal drawing room, where Madeline still sat in a delicate chair upholstered in dark blue velvet, a half smile on her soft mouth. “Good afternoon, my lord. I am rather surprised to see you, but this is a day for surprises, apparently.”
He could really only imagine what she and Regina had to say to each other. “Why would you be surprised to see me?”
Hubert withdrew and tactfully pulled the doors closed without being asked.
Yes, all the servants know. Probably all of London knows.
“Because you have never called in the afternoon.”
No, he hadn’t. He was usually forced to sneak through the back door in the shelter of the night. “I need to talk to you,” he said, trying to ignore the irritation he felt—irrationally, of course—over not being able to stroll through her front door like any other caller.
Well, he
could
. If he wished.
Did he wish?
He was afraid he did. That he wanted to call in the daylight, send flowers, buy her a magnificent necklace to match the earrings, to wake up in her arms . . .
“About?” Madeline wore a simple blue gown that matched the surroundings. Her gaze was direct, her body seemingly relaxed, yet somehow he knew she wasn’t.
“About what?” he asked, riveted in the moment, just gazing at her. Was this love? The first time it had hap pened to him it had been different. Blazing, combustible, part of the drama of war and danger and forbidden long ing . . . He’d been younger, too, and more idealistic, and Maria, with her fiery temper and dark, dramatic beauty, such a contrast to his cool English demeanor. This was different, like drifting down a serene river, warm and contented, with the sun shining above and the whisper of a breeze in the green leaves of the trees on the bank. . . .
It held at bay the past. Nothing would ever erase it, but maybe for the first time he knew it could be set aside. The pain, the guilt, the horror . . .
“You said you need to talk to me.”
The interruption to his reverie was welcome, because he didn’t want to travel down that dark path of pain ful memories. “Tell me about Alice Stewart,” he ordered more abruptly than he’d intended.
“Alice?” Madeline stared at him, wide eyed, obvi ously bewildered. “What do you wish to know?”
“Everything.”
“Why?” She blinked.
“I’ll explain, but first, just tell me what you know about her.”
Madeline considered his request, her smooth brow furrowing. “She’s been out of the country for years and just recently returned. We aren’t close acquaintances, despite her relationship with Colin. I doubt I can tell you anything of significance at all.”
“Would she have known about the journal?”
Madeline sat back, her fine brows drawing together in a quizzical frown. “Colin’s journal? I . . . I don’t know. She called, of course, upon her return to England. We did, naturally, speak about Colin. Perhaps I mentioned his journal. She knew of his tendency to write down his thoughts; all of his family did. Why?”
“Where was she when she was out of the country?”
“I’m not sure. Is this an interrogation?”
“France, possibly?”
“Of course not. We were at war.”
He ignored that indignant denial, starting to form a clearer picture of what might have happened if Roget was really involved. “Did you know she’d asked for a large sum of money from your husband before she embarked on her trip out of the country that lasted so many years?”
The question made her straighten in her chair. Her eyes were dark and liquid in the muted afternoon light. Slowly she replied, “That was where it went? When the solicitor was going through Colin’s affairs, he asked me about it. I was too devastated in my grief to even ven ture a guess, but later I did wonder. My husband didn’t normally discuss his business affairs, but it was quite a sum, and I was surprised he didn’t tell me what he’d done with it.”
Luke stared at a small statue on a side table for a mo ment, not seeing it, his mind elsewhere. It was coming together, but they were still missing quite a few pieces. “So she might have received money from your husband right before he died, it is undisputed she disappeared for years, and the moment she comes back to England the journal is stolen and subsequently left for Fitch—or anyone else—to find. Have I got the right of it so far?”
“I suppose.” Madeline gazed at him, her expression troubled. “Whatever made you think of all of this in such a light? I’ve never cared for Alice all that much, but then again, I don’t dislike her either. Colin was fond of her, and that was enough for me.”