The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) (26 page)

The property had once been a hunting box with some attached acreage. Caro and Elizabeth had made it into a farm. They’d pooled what little money they had been between them, had hired men to lay the fields and plow the ground, year after year. Even with all that work, though, the land wasn’t truly theirs. Caro had been left the hunting box for her lifetime only. After she passed away, the property would go to some distant cousin.

With five thousand pounds, Minnie might purchase her great-aunts’ farm when the time came.

With five thousand pounds, she could do that and go very far away. Wilhelmina Pursling might disappear. She could go where nobody had ever heard of her. Somewhere where she wouldn’t have to make herself small to try and please a man. All she would have to do to get that safety was precisely what she’d promised Robert in the first place. She would have to be his enemy.

But the alternative…

She could simply tell the duchess no. For all the woman talked about knowing her son, Minnie didn’t believe she had any notion of who he was. Robert wouldn’t be happy with some proper peer’s daughter. She’d seen the light that came into his eyes when he talked about his plans for the future. If she did this, she couldn’t pretend it was for his benefit.

It was for hers. Because she would rather betray a man she could come to love than face the crowd again.

She could see her pale reflection in the window glass, superimposed on the farm. She looked herself over—those too-pale cheeks, the scar on her face. Eyes that shifted around, refusing to fix on any one spot. She held up her hand and watched it tremble.

“You’re only considering this because you’re scared,” she told herself.

But that wasn’t quite true. It was because she was terrified.

Chapter Seventeen

D
USK CAME, BUT
M
INNIE HAD NOT YET COME TO A DECISION.
She was pacing in her room when she heard a pounding on the door below. There was the noise of scuffling and then a shriek from the entry beneath her feet.

“Minnie! Minnie!” Lydia’s voice.

Minnie rushed to her door. A storm had come on since the duchess’s visit and rain beat against the windows in sheets.

Minnie didn’t stop to put on slippers. She simply threw her bedroom door open and darted toward the stairs. Her friend stood in the entry, dripping water in a puddle. Her hair had fallen from its half-curls to lie in a sodden black mess at her shoulders. Her skirts and petticoats were bedraggled.

“Minnie,” she said again, before Minnie could descend the stairs to her. “Stevens is back, and you would not believe what he is saying to Papa. He’s saying—”

Minnie held a finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tilted her head to where the maid stood, watching in confusion.
Don’t say anything. They might gossip.

“He’s saying,” Lydia said in hushed tones, coming up the staircase, “that
you’re
the author of those handbills.”

Minnie’s heart pounded in her chest. “Is he? Has he any proof?”

“He’s saying that you are a liar and a cheat—that he has proof that your mother never married, not ever, that you’re a child of sin. He’s saying your real name is Minerva Lane—”

Minnie set her hand over Lydia’s mouth. “Shh,” she repeated softly. “I know what he’s saying. No need to repeat it. Who does he think Minerva Lane is?”

Lydia frowned at the question. “Just—just some other woman. Stevens thought it was the name you were given to hide the truth of your illegitimacy.”

So. Stevens had discovered her real name—she
had
lived in Manchester when she was a tiny child, and someone must have remembered the connection. But he hadn’t traced her family history, or figured out why she’d taken on a new name. If he’d been looking in Manchester, he might well have missed the reason. After all, the scandal had broken in London.

“You have to come sort it all out. Stevens is talking about a warrant for your arrest.”

“For my arrest?” Minnie gasped.

“For criminal sedition. Papa has known you all these years. I don’t know how it could have happened, how he could think anything so impossible. I heard it all through the door. Minnie, you must come. Maybe if you send for the duke…”

Thunder rattled the windows, so loud that Minnie flinched.

“No,” she said swiftly. “Not him. Not him. He can’t save me.”

Stevens might not know why Minerva Lane had changed her name, but he would soon. Once that name was uttered in public, there would be no hiding her past. If Minnie married Robert, exposure would not just be a possibility. It would be a certainty. She would never be able to escape this noose around her neck. She could feel it tightening about her now.

Another clap of thunder came, long and low, vibrating through the air. Her hands trembled with it, and in the end, fear made the decision for her. She had a heartbeat to choose between ruin and betrayal, between the possibility of love and the certainty of defeat. And when it came down to it, love had served her poorly before.

“We have to leave now,” Lydia insisted. “I know you can put things right. You always do.”

Minnie knew what she had to do. She could see it already, a nightmare vision stripped of color.

“Have a horse saddled,” Minnie said to the housemaid, who still waited in the entry below.

There was only one path out of this mess, and it was going to break Minnie’s heart.

“Come, come.” Lydia tugged on her sleeve.

“Dry off a little.” Not that it would do any good, what with them venturing out again. “I need…five minutes. Five minutes to gather some papers.” Five minutes to slay two birds with one single betrayal.

She walked into her room in a daze. Slowly, she pulled out the stash of papers she’d built up. Evidence, painstakingly collected. Including the letter he’d written her.

Minnie looked straight ahead. Her heart thumped heavily, but she bundled it all up without trembling.

I
T TOOK NEARLY THREE
-
QUARTERS OF AN HOUR
for Minnie to make her way to the Charingfords’ house in the storm. By the time she arrived, Minnie’s skirts were dripping and her hair was no doubt a tangled, sodden mess. But there was no time to waste with anything so frivolous as drying. As soon as Lydia escorted her inside, she threw the parlor doors open and walked inside.

“Miss Pursling!” Mr. Charingford exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

Stevens slowly stood, folding his arms in disapproval. His eyes slid over Minnie, fell on Lydia behind her, and then shifted away. “Miss Charingford,” he said icily. His gaze shifted back to Minnie.

“Tell them,” Lydia said behind her. “Tell them the truth.”

Stevens shifted to look at Minnie. “You, I presume, are Miss Minerva Lane.”

She had known it was coming. Her stomach lurched, even so, at hearing her old name spoken aloud, seeing the look in Stevens’s eyes. Lights flashed in front of her vision.

It is nothing. You are nothing. It can’t touch you here.

“Correct,” Minnie said.

Behind her, Lydia let out a gasp. But Minnie couldn’t look back. She couldn’t bear to see her friend’s face now.

“So, you’re a bastard. What else have you been hiding?”

Minnie held up a hand. “I am a great many things,” she said quietly. “But there is one accusation that will not hold. I am not, nor have I ever been, a writer of seditious handbills.”

“Lies,” Stevens growled.

Minnie met Mr. Charingford’s eyes. “I have never been involved—and all the proof points to another man.”

Stevens shook a finger at her. “More lies.”

But Mr. Charingford stepped forward. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because, Minnie, as little as I would like to think of you in this way, I know what you can do.”

He didn’t look at his daughter as he spoke, but Minnie knew he was thinking of that long-ago afternoon when she’d explained what needed to be done to safeguard Lydia’s reputation.

She ignored him. “I shall prove it.”

All her emotions seemed distant—a light stuffed away under a metal hood, shining brightly where nobody could see it. She was dark and calm. She was nothing inside.

“Who do you claim is responsible?” Charingford asked. “Grantham? Peters?”

She opened the fabric sack at her side. She’d wrapped the contents first in waxed paper, then in oilcloth; they were only a little damp when she pulled them out.

“These,” she said, separating out the first sheaf of pages, “are the papers that our dear friend
De minimis
has produced thus far. The following can be observed under a jeweler’s lens. First, the type that produced these has an
e
with a defect: it has a hairline crack. Right here.” Facts. That was all she was: a collection of facts, and no more. She pointed, and then flipped a page. “And on this one. And this next one here. It’s quite distinctive.”

She spread another sheaf of papers in front of her. “These are the sort of papers that can be purchased in large quantity here in Leicester.”

Stevens started forward.

Minnie held up a hand. “They are all made locally. You’ll note that I’ve marked their origin in the corner; even if you do not trust me, you can ascertain the truth of what I’m saying with a morning’s inquiry. Use that same jeweler’s lens on this paper, and you’ll discover something that will hardly seem surprising. All the paper that is made in Leicester takes advantage of local materials. The three mills here all incorporate waste products from the textile industry into their papers: rags, bits of cotton, wool. Paper from Leicester, when closely examined, has characteristic threads of fibers throughout, no matter what the grade. This—” she tapped Robert’s handbills “—this has none.”

“What are you trying to say?”

She ignored Stevens. She was an encyclopedia, a dictionary, telling truths and nothing more.

“Here are samples of printing from the local presses. I have cataloged the defects in the type personally; once again, I assure you that a little time spent on your part would verify this assertion. You will note that there are no hairline fractures in any
e
that is the size shown in the handbill.”

“Come to the point,
Miss Lane.”
Stevens sneered. “We already knew that whoever was producing the handbill was not acting alone. This only tells me that you had help from abroad. A national organization, perhaps?”

She wouldn’t let him fluster her. Mr. Charingford was watching her more closely. Deliberately, she picked up another few pieces of paper. “Now, this paper was purchased in London. You’ll note that I have paper of several different grades in this pile. This one—” she plucked the piece from the bottom “—this one here, you’ll discover is a precise match in content for the paper on which the handbills are printed. Do keep the rest of the paper in mind, however. Who do you suppose the manufacturer is?”

“I’m in no mood to play guessing games. You’ve already said it’s from London.”

“It’s from Graydon Mills. Do you know anything about Graydon Mills?”

“I tell you,
Miss Lane,
if you do not come to a conclusion—”

“Let her finish,” Charingford growled.

Minnie nodded. “Graydon Mills was founded sixty-seven years ago by a Mr. Hansworth Graydon, a farmer who made his first fortune in sheep, and his second, third, and fourth fortunes in manufacturing. He owned quite an empire. His wealth was so extensive that he was able to marry his daughter well. When Mr. Hansworth Graydon died, he left the bulk of his properties to his grandson. You know him as Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell, the ninth Duke of Clermont.”

This was met with silence, then a snort of derision.

“You have to be mad,” Stevens sneered. “You think to escape your rightful punishment by exploiting so far-fetched a coincidence?”

Mr. Charingford said nothing, just motioned for Minnie to continue.

“His Grace uses paper from Graydon Mills for all his personal correspondence as well,” Minnie said. “A premium grade, to be sure.”

“I don’t care if he does!” Stevens’s face was turning red. “I’ve heard enough innuendo. Charingford, if you will—”

Slowly, Minnie drew out the letter he’d handed her on the train.