Redemption of the Duke (24 page)

The voice belonged to none other than Marian, speaking in the kindest tones he’d ever
heard from her.

“She and your uncle had a disagreement. I’m certain they will talk soon and resolve
everything.”

“Are you sure?” Frances demanded, her voice anguished.

“No one can ever be sure, dear, but we will pray for them.”

Pray that I can overcome being a fool,
he thought.

At the academy, Adam changed into breeches and a loose shirt, then entered the practice
room he’d requested. Shenstone was already there, rapier in his hand, chest protector
and mask carelessly piled on a bench.

Adam held up his mask questioningly, but Shenstone shook his head. Gritting his teeth,
angry that this confrontation was even necessary, Adam tossed his own mask away.

“Can we talk before we fence?” he demanded.

“Say what you need to say,” Shenstone said idly, his curly auburn hair already damp
with perspiration, as if he’d been practicing.

Adam sensed something being held back, and he was sick of it. “Then I’ll just say
it. I’ve been getting notes from someone anonymous, threatening to reveal something
from my wife’s past.”

Shenstone’s eyes narrowed, his sword stilled, but he said nothing.

“This blackguard doesn’t want money, just wants to feel his power over me, and maybe
humiliate my wife by revealing everything.”

“And you didn’t think to confide this in me before?” Shenstone demanded.

“You’ve been so angry with me, and I couldn’t see why. So I can’t help asking—are
you the one sending those letters, bribing little street urchins to bring them to
me?”

His dark eyes went wide. “You think I—your oldest friend—would—that I would—”

With a groan of frustration, he thrust his sword wildly. Though the tip was buttoned,
if Adam hadn’t parried, he still might have been seriously bruised. But maybe that’s
what Shenstone wanted, after goading him into not wearing his chest protector.

“Is that a yes?” Adam demanded between gritted teeth, launching his own attack.

Shenstone fell back. “No!” he shouted, thrusting forward again. “If I had such a problem
with you, I would come to you directly!”

“How can I believe that?” Adam demanded, slashing stroke after stroke, forcing his
friend on the defensive. “You’ve been angry for weeks over something you refuse to
talk to me about.”

“That’s different. It’s over a woman!”

“And my wife is a woman!” He slashed Shenstone along the upper arm, catching himself
enough to leave a welt beneath his damaged shirt, but not pierce the skin.

Shenstone stepped back, breathing heavily. “I didn’t . . . do this thing . . . Rothford,”
he said between breaths. “And I’ll tell you right now . . . why I am furious with
you—it’s over Lady Emmeline.”

Adam slowly let his sword tip sink to the floor. “Emmeline? Sophia’s friend? What
does she have to do with anything?”

“You used her badly!”

“I did not!” Adam shouted back. “I never courted the girl, never let her think anything
other than that we were friends. She was a child when I was gone, and I’ve barely
been back.”

“I was courting her, and you returned and it was as if I didn’t exist anymore,” Shenstone
said grimly.

Adam straightened. “That is what you’re upset about? I’ve never wanted her, would
never have taken her away from you. I could have told you all of this if you’d asked.”

Shenstone groaned and spun away, slashing the air with his sword. “It’s all her. She’s
fixated
on you and your damned title. You’ve always gotten whatever woman you fancied.”

“And did you not want me to have Faith?” Adam asked, lowering his voice as relief
began to replace his anger.

“I didn’t give a damn about Faith. I’m glad you have her. But Emmeline—she’s still
distraught, and nothing I say makes a difference.”

“Maybe you should give her some time to realize I was never going to be hers.”

Shenstone mumbled something and slashed the air again, but all the fight between them
sizzled and died.

“What about Sophia?” Adam asked.

Shenstone hesitated. “That, you need to talk to her about. It’s . . . not what you
think.” He sighed. “So what’s this about anonymous notes you thought I wrote?”

“Well, I didn’t really
believe
it, but you were acting so angry, and I didn’t have a clue why. I’m relieved you
didn’t write them.” And he briefly elaborated, minus the more incriminating notions
about Faith. “So all I can do is confront the people who’ve behaved oddly. There’s
a childhood friend of Faith’s I’m still investigating.”

“Did you have me investigated?” Shenstone asked, lip curling with amusement.

“No, though I did have you followed.”

“I shook him off.”

“You did not. You didn’t even see him.”

They slowly grinned at each other.

Adam held out a hand. “Forgive me my idiocy?”

Shenstone took it. “Forgive me my jealousy?”

They shook a little too hard, gripping tight, until at last Shenstone winced. “Damn,
your grip strengthened in India. Is it something in the water?”

Adam smiled, but it faded quickly. “I’ve already blown everything, you know. Faith
left me.”

“The lady’s companion left a
duke
?”

“I’m not much of a prize,” Adam said, shrugging. “I’ll find a way to make up for my
sins and bring her home. And I’ll stay away from Emmeline while I do.”

Shenstone rolled his eyes and said dryly, “Wonderful. Thanks.”

Adam clapped his friend on the back, but already his mind was thinking ahead. One
by one, he’d ruled people out—except Timothy Gilpin.

Chapter 23

T
hat first morning at Mrs. Evans’s, Faith found herself alone most of the time, the
lady respectful of her mourning for her marriage. She paced her bedroom for hours,
thinking she’d been alone for the last few years, had briefly become part of a family,
and now she was alone again.

She’d felt almost safe, even . . . loved, strange as it seemed, though he’d never
said the words. And she really must love him, or his behavior wouldn’t hurt so much.
It was as if her future had turned dark with foreboding, barren and lifeless without
his warmth, without his smile.

Oh, she was absolutely maudlin in her infatuation.

Late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door and she tensed, but it was only
Ellen. Much as the girl had wanted to attend her, she seemed distraught in the unfamiliar
house.

Ellen peered out the window, obviously trying to be subtle, but not succeeding. “That
man is still out there, Your Grace.”

Faith frowned and joined her at the window.

“I went down the block a ways,” Ellen said hesitatingly, “and came back upon him unawares.
He’s one of our footmen—Hales—so you don’t have to worry.”

Not worry? Faith thought. Of course she was worried. Adam was controlling, but she
was positive his aunt would have told him where Faith was going. Why did he feel the
need to watch out for her? And he’d started sending a footman with them wherever they
went. Was something else going on, something he hadn’t told her?

No surprise there, she thought with bitter exasperation.

“Oh, ma’am,” Ellen said, glancing at her, “you have a visitor.”

And she hadn’t said that right away? “Who is it?”

“Lady Sophia. She’s in the front parlor.”

The family assault had begun. But Faith wasn’t about to cower behind her bunker. She
descended to the parlor on the first floor and found Sophia looking somber, staring
out the window—at their footman?

She turned when Faith entered, but her smile didn’t lighten her sad eyes. “Faith.
Oh, Faith.” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and blinked furiously.

“Don’t cry,” Faith said gently, crossing the room to take her hand. “You didn’t do
anything.”

“Yes, I did! If you only knew—”

“You agreed to walk in on us alone, so we’d be compromised.”

Her watery green eyes went wide. “You knew?”

“I guessed and he confirmed. You only did what your brother asked. He can be very
persuasive.”

“You sound so bitter. Oh, Faith.” Sophia covered her eyes with the handkerchief.

It was strange how much Faith wanted to console her, when Sophia really had behaved
inappropriately.

“I just knew how much he loved you, and—”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, of course not. He would never speak freely of his feelings. Not the way we were
raised. I was young, and my older brothers left me alone, but they tortured Adam,
picking on him, ridiculing him from the time he was a little boy, and they were so
much older—old enough to know better. Adam learned not to show he liked anything,
because it would be taken away or ruined.”

“I had heard that your brothers resented your father’s focus on his new wife and younger
children, but I guess I didn’t realize they’d started tormenting him so young.” She’d
pretty much imagined that a child of a duke must have a magical upbringing, even if
he didn’t get along with his brothers.

“As a third son, he knew he’d have to support himself, but our father refused to believe
that his other sons would ever stoop so low as to cut off their brother.” Sophia sighed.
“Papa was always quick to believe the worst, once my brothers convinced him of Adam’s
wild ways. I was young, but even I could see Adam acted out just to be noticed, just
to matter, because once upon a time Papa had adored him. And my brothers made that
all go away.” Sophia gave her a hesitant glance. “I don’t know that telling you all
this matters. I just know that it won’t be easy for him to be open with anyone. I
had thought, at last, he’d been able to do that for you.”

“No, he never even came close. It wasn’t about love or vulnerability. It was about
guilt and power.”

“No, Faith, not power, never that. What does he care about power? He’s the duke now,
and I’m not sure he really even cared about that. But guilt? I don’t know.”

“If it’s not power, why is he having me followed?”

Sophia looked confused. So Faith pointed out the window.

“Don’t you see your footman?”

“Oh. No, I didn’t even see him. I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either. But I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Talk to me about something
else, anything else.”

“Then . . . you forgive me?”

“I do.”

A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away. “Thank you. Even though I don’t
deserve it, thank you. But what else can I tell you that even matters?”

“What about Mr. Percy?”

Sophia’s smile turned brittle. “I am done trying to make him love me.”

“But you were so hopeful!”

“But I was foolish and I should have simply held to the truth. Mr. Percy visited to
gently break the news that Lord Shenstone might be misleading me, since he was courting
another woman. I’m almost certain he meant Emmeline, but he didn’t want to hurt me
with it. As if I haven’t noticed Lord Shenstone’s fascination with her.”

Faith blinked in astonishment.
She
hadn’t noticed at all, but then she might have been distracted . . .

“And with all the mistakes I’ve recently made,” Sophia continued, “I couldn’t lie
anymore, so I told him the truth, that I’d asked Lord Shenstone to show an interest
in me when Mr. Percy was around, to make him jealous.”

“What did he say?” Faith asked, curious in spite of her own melancholy.

“He seemed truly surprised I would do something like that for him. But it didn’t matter.
He said he could not in good conscience court my favor, and did I not see from your
situation how marrying above one’s station could only make . . .” Her voice faded
away. “Oh, Faith, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m sorry to set such a bad example to Mr. Percy. And naturally you could
not tell him that the difference in rank had absolutely nothing to do with our problems.”

“Well, no, I would never reveal your private business. In some ways, I’m coming to
the realization that if Mr. Percy believes he cannot take the pressure of our different
backgrounds, then perhaps he really is not the man for me.”

She was trying to be strong, but Faith could see the hurt underneath, the fear that
Sophia worried she wasn’t worth fighting for.

At least Faith didn’t have to worry about that. Adam fought
too hard
for her.

“Enough about me,” Sophia said. “You haven’t asked about Adam.”

“You know I won’t. I only left this morning.”

“He avoided us all at breakfast, when Aunt Theodosia told us you were gone.”

“I imagine the duchess was quite satisfied.”

“You know she cannot bear anything harming her son,” Sophia chided. “She seemed worried
about him. And Marian—she worried about how to tell Frances.”

“Well, at least they weren’t gleefully dancing a jig together.” She blanched. “I’m
sorry to speak of your mother this way.”

“Pshaw,” Sophia said, sounding like her aunt. She took Faith’s hand. “What will you
do now, Faith? Please tell me you’ll think and maybe discuss things with Adam, and
then come home.”

“It’s not my home, Sophia,” she said gently. “It’s his. I don’t know what I’m going
to do. I feel . . . betrayed.”

B
ut Faith couldn’t forget about the man Adam had watching Mrs. Evans’s home, and by
the evening, when even Adam hadn’t called on her, she sent a missive to Aunt Theodosia
to meet somewhere. To her surprise, the lady came over immediately.

After the two old women exchanged the day’s gossip, the lady of the house retreated
so they could be alone.

“Aunt Theodosia, in no way did I mean you to rush over here,” Faith said.

“I know, my dear, but I’ve spent the day concerned about the two of you, and I could
not stay silent another minute, not when Adam is so worried, but determined to be
strong and silent and protect you.”

“And that footman outside is supposed to do it?”

“Ah, I knew that would not get past you. Yet you did not ask Adam directly.”

Faith sighed. “I am not ready to speak to him.”

“Meaning you’re afraid you will be quite overpowered with emotion.”

She lifted her chin. “And I don’t want to be, so I will give myself time.”

“To stop loving him?”

Faith said nothing.

“He will be angry I told you this,” Aunt Theodosia said, “but he’s still not thinking
clearly. He’s been receiving anonymous notes about your past, almost since you first
took the position with me.”

Faith’s mouth dropped open.

“He didn’t want to worry you, knew you’d probably flee if whatever is in your past
came to notice. He did not tell me your secrets, of course, nor would I want him to.”

“My God, everything I feared has come to pass,” Faith said, finding her voice at last.
She felt ill. “My sins are haunting me, threatening all of you.”

“No one knows your sins, my dear. No one has come forward and done anything, except
try to hurt Adam, to convince him to cast you off. He wouldn’t back down, has vowed
to figure all of this out.”

“But he told you rather than me?”

“He did not tell me willingly. And what would your response have been if he’d told
you
?”

Faith stiffened. “It doesn’t matter—it would have been
my
response, my choice.”

“And he was convinced you’d flee, possibly putting yourself in danger.”

“Instead he exposed all of you to terrible scandal. If you only knew—”

“I don’t want to know. We’ve all made mistakes, and apparently, yours didn’t bother
Adam.”

She flinched. How many men could have accepted that the woman they were involved with
had been a mistress? She could not fault Adam for that.

“But his mistakes bothered you,” Aunt Theodosia continued.

“He manipulated me into marriage! No one wants to be forced against their will.”

“I don’t remember seeing a gun.”

Faith gasped. “I couldn’t let him suffer for dishonoring me—you know that.”

“And he didn’t want you to suffer, knowing there was someone out there who wanted
to hurt him by hurting you.”

Faith let out her breath. The battle wasn’t with Aunt Theodosia, but with Adam. “Does
he have anyone he suspects?”

“He suspected everyone who knew you, and has gone to great pains to rule many out.”

“How many people do I know who . . .” Her voice faded off. “Timothy,” she breathed,
then immediately wished she could take it back.

“You know that man better than anyone. Should you discuss him with Adam?”

“I’ll think about it,” Faith said after a long moment.

“Good.” Aunt Theodosia braced her hands on her knees to rise, before finding her cane.
“Do let me know what you decide, won’t you?”

After the old woman had left, Faith sat still, the last few weeks rushing over her
as if she could see them in a new light. She already knew he’d looked into her past,
knew what she’d done, and still wanted to marry her, to protect her. But he’d risked
his family with this anonymous threat. He’d done that—for her. It didn’t make right
the wrongs he’d done, but she couldn’t stay here, practically a prisoner with a guard,
and do nothing to save his family from the scandal of her past.

She had to go back. Though he’d manipulated her, he was also willing to put his family’s
reputation on the line for her. And she wasn’t certain what that meant.

T
he next morning, Adam ate breakfast with his family, who cast sidelong glances at
him as if waiting for him to explode. But no one mentioned Faith.

Until Sophia dropped the napkin from her hand and cried, “Faith!”

He turned around and she was standing there, dark hair demurely caught back as if
she hadn’t been wild in bed with him not two nights ago. He stood up. She was wearing
one of those old shapeless gowns, too, rebuking everything he’d done for her.

And she looked—wonderful. The ache that had not left him since their argument eased
the smallest bit. She’d come home to him. Maybe she even loved him.

Because he loved her. Every moment without her had been full of the never-ending fear
that he’d ruined any chance to show her how much.

But she didn’t look at him. She looked at Sophia, who was softly crying as if at the
return of the sister she’d always wanted. Faith smiled at her, then went around the
table and gave her a bolstering hug.

“Faith!” Aunt Theodosia said a bit too heartily. “How is my dear friend, Mrs. Evans?
I do hope you were able to be of help with her speeches.”

As if Faith had only gone off on an errand of assistance.

“She is well, Aunt,” Faith said in a quiet voice. She nodded to his mother. “Ma’am.”