“Why have you not stood for a seat in the Commons yourself?” he asked when Lord Archer had finished. “It’s clear that you know everything there is to know about the political situation.”
Lord Archer leaned back in his chair, relaxing for the first time since Trevor had entered the room. “To be honest, Your Grace, while I am well versed in the matter, it is not my passion. My greatest pleasure comes from running the estates. I have—have always had—an affinity for numbers and I’m never happier than when I’m managing the estate books and making the numbers balance.”
Despite himself, Trevor was surprised. “But you spoke just now as if you thought about nothing but politics morning, noon, and night.”
The other man shrugged. “It is my job to be informed. And I am interested in it. Just not to the point of wishing to make it my life’s work.”
“You are the younger son of the Duke of Pemberton, correct?”
“Yes,” Lord Archer said, flicking a nonexistent bit of fluff from his coat sleeve. “As a younger son, I was given the options of the army, the church, or being a personal secretary. Having no affinity for war and no special calling for the church, I chose the last. If there is one thing I know intimately, it’s how a ducal household runs.”
If that was the case, then Trevor would find the fellow a font of necessary information. But what Trevor truly wished to know was something he wasn’t sure the young man would be willing to tell him. “What can you tell me about the late duke?” Trevor asked abruptly. He had decided that if he was going to ask the question he may as well be blunt about it.
If Lord Archer was surprised, he didn’t show it. “What do you wish to know?” Trevor noticed a slight sharpening of his companion’s gaze. There was dislike in his eyes, but not for Trevor.
“You may as well tell me what you know about his death.”
The secretary’s jaw tightened. “His death was an accident,” Lord Archer said tightly. Gone was the affable young man of before, and in his place was a man who harbored a secret.
“You needn’t look at me like I’m the enemy,” Trevor said matter-of-factly. “I know what a bastard my cousin was. And I have no doubt that he deserved what happened to him.”
“Lady Wharton … I mean Her Grace,” Lord Archer corrected himself, “she told you? About that night?”
“Ah, so you’ve heard our news?” Trevor should not have been surprised that the word of their marriage had reached Lord Archer’s ears. But he was.
“It is my job to be informed, Your Grace,” Lord Archer said with a rueful grin. “And I happened to be in an alcove of the hallway when you informed the butler. Allow me to wish you both every happiness.”
Trevor inclined his head. “My thanks. And I should think it would be no surprise that my wife would share the circumstances of my predecessor’s death with me.”
Lord Archer reddened slightly. “I did not mean to sound so shocked. It’s just that none of the ladies is comfortable speaking about that night. Perdi—uh, I mean the young duchess”—to Trevor’s amusement the man lost his cool composure and thrust a hand through his thick dark hair—“does not speak of it at all. Even to … friends.”
Trevor had little doubt who the man meant by “friends.” He wondered how long the other man had been in love with his former employer’s wife. He also wondered if she knew. Of course this was hardly the stuff that he had come to the study to concern himself with. Steering the conversation back to the late duke, he said, “I know what happened that night. And I believe that someone is trying to frighten Isabella into confessing the truth of the matter to the authorities.”
He hadn’t intended to reveal all of this to Lord Archer when he’d first come into the study, but he was convinced that the man’s affection for the young dowager cleared him from the list of people who had reason to reveal the truth about the duke’s death. Trevor would eat his hat before he believed Lord Archer Lisle capable of betraying Perdita like that. Indeed, if Trevor was not mistaken, far from wishing to avenge Gervase’s death, the secretary wished he’d killed Trevor’s late cousin himself.
Even so, Trevor thought long and hard before responding when Lord Archer demanded, “Tell me everything from the beginning.”
Deciding to go with his gut and hoping he would not have cause to regret the decision, Trevor did.
* * *
“My dear Lady Wharton—oh no, I mean Your Grace, of course!”
It was the third time the Dowager Countess of Humphries had “slipped” and called Isabella by her old title. None of the old biddies who filled the drawing room at Ormonde House had forgotten for a minute that Isabella was now the Duchess of Ormonde. But they played at forgetting just to call attention to the fact that she’d married without their knowledge or approval. Not that the latter was necessary, but they certainly seemed to think it was.
Added to the surprise nature of her marriage was the fact that she’d married the Duke of Ormonde, stealing a march on their own daughters and granddaughters and in effect keeping the Ormonde title in the family. They would be loath to admit it, but as soon as an eligible titled gentleman surfaced on the marriage mart they all began to think of him as theirs until they declared otherwise. Such was the nature of marriage among the titled set.
“Of course, Lady Humphries,” Isabella said wryly, taking a sip of her tea. She scouted the room for someone, anyone, who might relieve her from this boring prattle, but alas, there was only Perdita, who was similarly engaged on the opposite side of the room.
“How long do you think the dowager will be confined to her bed?” Mrs. Selfridge, a kind, if abrupt, lady with whom the dowager had been friends for decades, asked. “I cannot think she is at all comfortable being cooped up in there.” The two had made their come-outs together and were known as much for their youthful exploits as for their standing in the
ton.
“She has always been a restless sort of person.”
“A week at the very least,” Isabella replied, not wishing to think of the dowager’s restlessness at the moment. Isabella had enough to deal with considering the attempts to drive her mad. “But I will be sure to tell her that you are thinking of her,” she said, not unkindly. “I know that she will appreciate your kind thoughts.”
“If you ask me,” Lady Humphries said with a raised brow, “rest is just what Louisa needs. She’s been at sixes and sevens ever since Gervase died as he did.” Her expression indicated that she had her doubts about the circumstances of that death. “It has been such a burden for her, to be left in charge of things in the absence of the new duke.” At this she sent a not-so-veiled glare Isabella’s way. A glare that Isabella returned gladly, considering that far from feeling burdened by her duties, the dowager had loved every minute of being in charge of the dukedom. “Some people”—again she glared at Isabella—“might have considered that while they were off sulking in the country.”
Before Isabella could retort, Trevor himself stepped into the drawing room, bringing all conversation to a halt.
“My apologies, ladies,” he said, at his most charming, Isabella noted with approval. It would take all that and more to make these old cats treat him with any sort of respect. “I hate to disturb your chat, but I was wondering if I might borrow my wife for a moment?”
She really should take a moment and introduce him to their guests, but Isabella was eager to escape them herself, so she excused herself to the company at large and followed him out into the hallway.
Once the door had closed behind them, Trevor pulled her wordlessly into a nearby parlor.
“What was that about?” she asked breathlessly. “Not that I’m not gratefu—”
He kissed her before she could finish. It was quick, and devastating. And ended far too soon.
“There,” he said, pulling away. “Had to get that out of the way first.”
Unable to respond, Isabella just touched her lips and looked up at him. Really, he had found the perfect way to silence her.
“Now,” he went on, annoyingly unaffected by the kiss. “I need you to tell me something.”
Bracing herself for a question relating to her previous marriage or perhaps about Perdita and Gervase’s relationship, she held her breath.
“What do you think of my coat?” he asked. Isabella thought he was joking at first, but his expression revealed that he was deadly serious. “Is it terribly out of fashion? I mean, it’s almost brand-new, yet Lord Archer informs me that I’ll have to have a whole new wardrobe made up if I’m to be taken seriously as the duke. I thought the whole point of being a duke was not having to bother with all of this nonsense.”
At the very real frustration in his gaze Isabella fought back the impulse to give him a hug. Instead she told him the truth. “While I’m sure that coat is very acceptable by Nettledean standards, it is quite out of fashion for London. Especially for someone of your standing. In fact, I think you will need to have new boots, new coats, new breeches. New everything. Just leave the details of it to Lord Archer. He knows exactly what a man of your standing will need to cut a dash. And if you don’t wish to be too much the dandy, he can at least ensure that you are dressed appropriately.”
Trevor frowned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
He looked like a pouting little boy, and Isabella gave in to impulse and smoothed the hair from his brow. “It might appease you somewhat to know that because you are a duke, you can have the boot maker, the tailor, the haberdasher all in to take your measurements here. So there’s no need to go out on a shopping expedition or to make a big show of it.”
But that didn’t seem to make him any happier. “It’s such a waste of time and effort,” he said with a sigh. “I know that these people depend upon my business to pay their own bills, but it does grate to know that I could completely rebuild the tenant cottages at Nettlefield for what a coat by Weston will cost me.”
Isabella did understand. Though she had grown up in a privileged household, her time working with charities had caused her to realize just how much money the people of the
ton
spent simply dressing themselves. “I know, dearest,” she said, blushing as the endearment escaped her lips before she could stop it. “That is to say, I do know what you mean. But think of it as another expense of maintaining the dukedom. Like paying the underbutler or ensuring that the carriages are well sprung.”
“I like that,” he said with a grin. “You just compared the ducal corpus to a well-sprung carriage.”
Seeing the glint in his eye, she moved closer. “If I recall correctly, Your Grace, you are quite well sprung as it is.”
Growling, Trevor pulled her against him.
“Oh, I do apologize,” Perdita squeaked from the doorway, hurriedly pulling the door closed again. “Only,” she called softly from the hallway, “there is a situation that I think you both should be apprised of.”
Leaning her head against her husband’s strong chest, Isabella sighed. “I miss Nettlefield already.”
“Yes, because being interrupted by my sisters is so much more agreeable than being interrupted by yours,” Trevor said, pulling back from her and tucking a strand of hair that had worked loose from its pins behind Isabella’s ear.
She turned and opened the door. “What is it, Perdy?”
“I’m afraid you’ve received a package,” Perdita said, making no attempt to hide her curious glances between Isabella and Trevor. “It’s in your sitting room. And it sounds quite odd.”
“What do you mean, ‘odd’?” Trevor asked, stepping up to slip his arm about Isabella’s waist.
“It rattles,” the young duchess said with a frown.
“I don’t understand,” Isabella said, her trepidation replaced with puzzlement. “Why should that be odd? It’s probably just a wedding gift that broke or something.”
“Not that kind of rattle,” Perdita said firmly. “It sounds like a…”
What other kind of rattle could there…?” Isabella froze.
“Oh my god,” she said, a chill running up her spine. “Like a baby’s rattle?”
At Perdita’s nod she knew with a start that her tormentor had followed her.
* * *
The package looked quite similar to the one with the rabbit in it, Trevor thought as he, Isabella, Perdita, and Lord Archer hovered around the gaily beribboned box.
“Shall I do the honors?” Lord Archer asked, removing a penknife from his pocket.
At Trevor’s nod the other man slipped the knife under the ribbons and cut them, leaving the lid of the box ready to be opened. Carefully, he put the knife down and removed the top from the box. All four of them leaned forward to peer into the bandbox.
Nestled within a carefully arranged froth of cloth was a tarnished silver baby’s rattle.
Exchanging a look with Isabella, Trevor reached in and removed the rattle, turning it about in his hands. Lord Archer, meanwhile, removed the cloth from the bandbox and shook it out. It was a dressing gown. A man’s dressing gown.
“What on earth?” Perdita asked, looking from the rattle to the gown. “Does this mean anything—?”
“It’s Wharton’s!” Isabella interrupted, stepping back from the gown as if it contained the body of the man himself. “And the rattle is one that I purchased before—” She broke off, dropping into a nearby chair.
“We bought it together,” Perdita said, moving to stand beside her sister. “The rattle. We bought it the week after Isabella found out she was to have a child.”
“There’s a note,” Lord Archer said, reaching into the box. He proffered the folded letter to Trevor, who took it warily.
I know what you did last season. And the season before. And I will make you pay.
“So this person is laying the blame on Isa for not only Gervase’s death, but also Wharton’s and her child’s?” Perdita asked, aghast. “Clearly this person is delusional.”
“Madmen often are,” Trevor said without a trace of irony. “This person, whoever they may be, seems to hold Isabella responsible for all the bad things that have ever befallen her. I wonder that they haven’t lodged a complaint against her for your mother’s death as well.”
“But who is it?” Isabella asked, jumping up from her seat to pace the chamber. “I cannot think of anyone who would mourn both Gervase and Wharton in the same breath. They were neither of them particularly well loved. Except by their mistresses. But as far as I know they never shared one.”