The Grace of a Duke (19 page)

Stunned by his use of an endearment, Charlotte straightened. “Yes?” she replied, not quite sure if she could yet call him ‘dear’ or perhaps, ‘darling’.

“Did your father arrange for you to marry someone other than me?” he asked outright, trying to remember what she’d said in the bath the day before.

Charlotte regarded Joshua, her good mood suddenly gone. What had her father done? She knew nothing specific, only a threat on his part regarding an earl, presumedly one who lacked an heir, perhaps a widower.
The Earl of Gisborn,
she remembered. But no other suitors had called on her – she had seen to that, reminding everyone she met that she was to be married very soon to the new Duke of Chichester. And when they voiced concern that Joshua Wainwright would not recover suitably from his burns, she quickly set them straight, speaking of his speedy recovery and his subsequent move back to Wisborough Oaks. She reminded them that he owned over six thousand acres of cultivated lands and an entire forest (without sounding too gauche when she mentioned it). And she was quick to defend her betrothed when her friends seemed disgusted that she would have to look upon a man who had been so horribly disfigured by his burns as to be considered unfit to be seen in mixed company. It seemed the extent of his injuries was vastly overstated by the gossips, so that while she waited at his bedside by day, helping with his care when the doctor allowed, she spent her nights at various social engagements, attempting to set to rights the incorrect information that was circulating amongst the London
ton
.

Even after Joshua returned to his duchy, she continued to espouse her good fortune in being betrothed to him, assuring everyone who would listen that he was recovering and would make an excellent duke.

And he was,
she thought, amazed at what he and those in his employ had been able to accomplish with regard to the rebuilding of the estate house and seeing to the duchy.

“I do not know,” she said with a shake of her head, not wanting to tell him about the Earl of Gisborn. She reread the words she’d written on his behalf, at first wondering at their meaning.
The godfather?
“Who is your godfather?” she wondered as she pretended to study the nib of the pen she held. A small protrusion from one side was causing her ‘o’s and ‘e’s and ‘a’s to close up too much. She looked about for a knife to sharpen it when the shadow of Joshua blocked out the feeble light from the window. He carefully lifted the pen from her hand, and, within a few seconds, replaced it with another. “I apologize for not having you use this one to start with,” he murmured, tossing the bad one into the fireplace. A spark danced as the quill hit the ashes. “The Earl of Torrington has the unenviable task of being my godfather. And who is yours?” he countered, wondering if she would admit it was Grandby.

“The devil himself,” Charlotte replied, her lip curling up as she lifted her face to regard him, knowing full well her comment could be considered a curse. She stilled her features as she took in the sight of Joshua. There was something very ... male, and very imposing and just a bit ... overwhelming about the way he stood there staring down at her. As if he suddenly knew her. Or knew something about her that she wished he didn’t. She felt color wash over her face. He was staring at her, she was sure, as if he had undressed her with his eyes and laid her bare and was gazing at her ... but, was that
wonder
she saw in his eyes? Or simply adoration?

Charlotte was aware of him in a way she hadn’t been before. Her breasts were suddenly heavy, her nightgown too tight. She was sure this must be what it felt like to want a man’s body pressed against hers. For if Joshua Wainwright had ordered her to his bed, she would have disrobed that very moment and rushed to do his bidding. She would have given herself to him, allowed him to take her virtue, a part of her he was certainly entitled to, and to plunder her for anything else he felt like taking.

She was sure she could see something of his desire as her gaze locked on his. But he suddenly turned his attention back to the window, the movement so unexpected that Charlotte inhaled sharply and had to hold her breath a moment to remind herself she was only fantasizing. What if the look she saw in his eye was merely ... pity?

Joshua had to take his eyes off her. He was sure she was seeing him – all of him as she sat and regarded him. He quickly considered his options. He could go to the archdeacon in Chichester and secure a marriage license. He and Charlotte could be married in a few days. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly, his attention on the eastern sky. A few clouds were spread above the horizon, their peach and purple mounds portending a beautiful day for the ride.

Charlotte looked up from the parchment, a bit startled by the question. “I will be one-and-twenty this Saturday,” she replied, wondering at the choice of question.
Unless it had to do with when she would be old enough to legally marry without her parents’ consent.
When Joshua didn’t immediately comment, she returned her attention to the parchment and wrote out the rest of his words.  Remembering his comment about bed linens, she wrote a postscriptum at the bottom of the sheet.
P.S. Should you have the opportunity, please make of Madame Faribault in Oxford Street the following request: To create a set of bed linens and pillow coverings from her finest and softest blue satin. Please apologize on my behalf as this order is probably beneath the sewing skills of her most excellent seamstresses, but I trust she can complete this assignment. Yours in service to His Grace, Charlotte Bingham.

She wondered if the estate manager would realize the linens were not for her but for his master. Perhaps the modiste would be able to complete the bedding before Garrett left the city and he could bring them back to Wisborough Oaks.

“Who owns the coach and horses that brought you here?”

Charlotte stiffened, realizing that, from the library, he might not have seen the Earl of Torrington’s seal on the door of the coach in which she and her maid had ridden from London. “Grandby,” she finally answered, about to add the earl’s threat that she not return to London until she had secured the title of Duchess of Chichester. The man had been quite adamant, insisting that she marry as soon as possible in light of what had happened to her father. If the Earl of Ellsworth died before she was safely married, there would be mourning to delay any union between her and the duke. But Joshua’s sidelong glance showed a bit of humor, and she bit back the additional information.

“And besides Grandby, who knows that you are here?”

Charlotte nearly gasped as she realized he had moved to stand directly behind her. She could practically feel his body heat at her back. She was about to look up but decided the pain in her back from the gesture would be too great. Staring straight ahead, she listed those she knew to be aware of her plans to leave London for Wisborough Oaks. “Grandby, of course. My mother. Lady Bostwick and, by now, Lord Bostwick. Lady Hannah. The servants who brought me. My maid. Nicholas,” she said as she tapped a finger on the desktop. “And Mr. McElliott and your servants, of course.”

Joshua moved to her left side and placed his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning on his arms as he considered the names. “Who is Nicholas?” he wondered, his brows furrowing.

“My cousin,” she replied with a nod. “By my uncle, Walter Bingham. He’s to inherit the title of Earl of Ellsworth when Father dies,” she said quietly.
Which could be any day now,
she considered with a bit of sadness. Her father may have beat her with a horsewhip, but he was still her father.

Joshua pushed himself away from the desk with a curse and scrubbed the good side of his face with an open hand.
I need a shave,
he thought absently.
Nicholas Bingham.
A gambler. Joshua knew him from the gaming hells he and Garrett used to frequent. “And what does Nicholas stand to inherit? Do you have any idea ... what your Father is worth? What lands he owns?” he wondered then, his mind racing with the new information. These weren’t exactly appropriate questions to ask of a lady, but at the moment, he had to hope that she would set aside propriety and answer as best she could. Besides, she was sitting at his writing desk wearing nothing but a satin nightgown, after all, her hair down to the middle of her back. And he was in nothing but a dressing gown. Propriety, indeed!

Charlotte’s eyebrows furrowed together. “There is an estate in Oxfordshire. Near Bampton. Six-thousand acres and a rather large house with assorted outbuildings and a barn. There’s more land in another part of the county, I believe, and a sawmill, too, but I’ve no idea of its worth,” she started, her voice a bit uneven. “The townhouse in London, of course, and another house in Mayfair. My dowry of ten-thousand pounds should be in an account somewhere. Probably at Barings,” she said off-handedly. “I’ve no idea what other holdings there might be,” she finished, her voice sounding desperate. “I’m of no help, am I?” she sighed before looking up to find him gazing at her with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“You’ve done fine,” he assured her, amazed that she was able to come up with the list that she did. “Now, write down all of what you’ve just said. And the bit about Nicholas, too,” Joshua ordered. “It may help Garrett in his search for answers about the fire.”

He didn’t add that it would also help to determine if another betrothal had replaced the one made eighteen years ago.

Chapter 19

Mr. McElliott Investigates

When a footman opened the outer doors to Barings Bank late that morning, Garrett entered the lobby and stepped to one side, aware that several men were directly behind him. They passed, continuing a conversation that sounded as if it had been going on for some time. “The investment isn’t sound, I tell you,” he heard a portly man utter while another seemed to insist it was a sure thing. “Prinny supports this,” a tall, bald man insisted as he tossed his hat to a footman.

A bit apprehensive about how to proceed, Garrett surveyed the bank lobby in search of a receptionist. He spotted a young man waving in his direction. Not recognizing the lad, he furrowed his brow and strode toward the clerk’s desk. Once in front of the smiling boy, he realized he did know him. “Clayton?” he guessed, noting how much older the kid appeared than when he’d first met him at the estate in Chiswick where Clayton worked as a caddie and Garrett gained his first experience in managing an estate. “Whatever are you doing here?” he wondered, extending his right hand to meet Clayton’s outstretched hand.

“Earning an honest living,” the boy replied with a grin as he shook hands with Garrett. His brown hair was cut short with just a bit of curl on his forehead, apparently an attempt to copy the latest hair style. “My new domain, sir,” he said, sweeping an open hand in a semi-circle about the desk. “And you?”

Garrett smiled broadly. “Working here now, are you?” he said, an eyebrow popping up. The lad had apparently proven himself worthy in his work as a messenger boy and now had the good fortune of being employed in the city. At Clayton’s nod, Garrett leaned forward. “Good. I need help in tracking down some information for my employer.” He’d received the missive from Joshua just an hour earlier, not too surprised at the feminine hand in which it was written and very pleased with the wealth of clues it contained.

Clayton’s eyes widened. “You have an employer?” he asked, a bit disappointed. “I thought maybe you’d struck it rich at faro and were going to make a big deposit.”

Shaking his head, Garrett feigned a hurt expression. “Not a chance. But my position as an estate manager affords me a far better livelihood,” he said proudly. “I work for the Duke of Chichester,” he proclaimed, watching for the boy’s reaction. When Clayton didn’t provide one, he added, “Joshua Wainwright.”

At the mention of the duke’s name, Clayton stood straighter. “His Grace with half a face?” he asked, his eyes taking on a startled look again.

Wincing at the familiar expression, Garrett finally nodded. “He’s really not burned that badly,” he said quietly, wondering if the phrase was being used all around London to describe the duke. “And he’s about to be married to a rather beautiful gel who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by his situation,” he added, hoping Clayton would spread
that
bit of news to everyone he knew.

“Of course not, if you don’t mind my saying, sir. She’s marrying a
duke
,” Clayton countered, as if that explained why the gel didn’t seem fazed by the situation.

Garrett suppressed the urge to sigh loudly. “Which is
why
I am here,” he replied, lowering his voice a bit. “Her father is on his deathbed, and there is some ... concern as to how the dowry will be provided to His Grace when the wedding has taken place.”

Clayton appeared to think on this information for several seconds before holding up a finger. “And the dowry is deposited ... here?” he wondered, not quite sure what Garrett was inferring.

Garrett shrugged. “Is it?” he countered, his right brow cocked in question.

Clayton took a look about the lobby and was about to leave the desk when he leaned against it. “What’s the about-to-be-dead guy’s name?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Struggling hard not to wince at the boy’s direct approach, he moved closer. “Earl of Ellsworth. Edward Bingham, of Mayfair,” Garrett answered in a low voice.

Clayton left his post and hurried off to a nearby hallway. Garrett watched as the boy disappeared behind one of the doors. He continued to keep his eye on the door, wondering whose office Clayton was in and then realized that perhaps it was a room filled with bank records. After ten minutes, he was tempted to redirect his efforts with someone else when Clayton suddenly returned to the desk, placing a sheet of foolscap in front of his old boss. “If there was a dowry here, it ain’t here anymore,” Clayton announced dejectedly. “At least, there’s not enough money left in this account to cover a dowry of ... how much did you say?”

“Ten thousand pounds,” Garrett whispered.

Clayton’s eyes widened. “The earl’s account is here, but it’s got a note on it about no further withdrawals being allowed by N. Bingham. The note was put in here just last week. A solicitor ...” He paused as he consulted the writing on the foolscap, “Harold Fitzpatrick, acting on behalf of Edward Bingham, handled the change,” he said, returning his attention to Garrett.

The estate manager schooled his features into an expression of boredom. So Nicholas Bingham had been raiding the family’s money. “Was there enough to cover the dowry? At one time?” he wondered then, hoping the lad would spill the original amount in the account.

“At one time there was nearly fifty-thousand pounds in here,” he commented in awe.” But now, I hardly think so,” Clayton replied. “Two-thousand, fifty-three pounds,” he whispered, his head shaking from side to side. “Hardly enough for a widow used to a fine life to live on,” he added.

Garrett held his breath for a moment.
Hardly enough, indeed.
“And there was no other account held here in the earl’s name?” he wondered. There had to be more somewhere!

“Not that I could find in our records,” Clayton replied. “Maybe it was in someone else’s name?” he suggested helpfully.

Garrett pondered the possibility, but quickly discarded it. Bingham would have had the dowry in an account of his own name, surely. At least there was the name of a solicitor he could track down.

Garrett bade farewell to his former employee and took his leave of the bank.