Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Page 23

  Nollworth rocked back in his seat. “Yes, kind indeed. I imagine it comes as very welcome news to you.”

  “Neither welcome nor unwelcome,” Gerard lied smoothly. “Merely . . . informative.”

  “Ah, informative,” murmured Nollworth, lingering on the last word. “That’s quite another matter.”

  So there was another card in his hand. “As my wife wrote you, I’m looking into a question of some family history. Reverend Ogilvie’s name appeared, but only once. It was my hope, however faint, he might help sort out my questions. But the event was many years ago, though, and since the gentleman’s gone to his heavenly reward . . .” Gerard lifted one hand in a gesture of acceptance. “It is a disappointment.”

  “Family history.” Nollworth flashed his reptilian smile again. “Yes, I can imagine your disappointment.” He scratched his chin. “I did wonder why someone might be looking for my dear papa-in-law. Caused a bit of a commotion, it did, when your letter arrived. You couldn’t be a friend of his, or else you’d’ve known he was dead—and most likely be glad to leave him to the worms.”

  He inclined his head. “No, I was never acquainted with the man personally.”

  “That’s right, you weren’t.” The visitor’s hooded eyes burned with fiendish delight. Gerard could easily imagine him casting evil spells over a bubbling cauldron in the woods. “If you had been acquainted, you would know old Billy Ogilvie was the devil’s own spit. You would know he was likely to help an old woman across the street only so he could pick her pocket. Anyone who knew him at all knew not to turn his back on Billy.” Nollworth’s lips stretched in a gruesome grin. “But then, you’re a young fellow. Billy was before your time. He was much more of an age to know your father.”

  A carriage drove past the house, the rattle of its wheels loud in the silence that engulfed the room. “Yes,” said Gerard evenly. “I expect he was.”

  “It was quite remarkable to get a letter from a duke’s son. What on earth would such a person want with old Billy?” Nollworth’s eyes weren’t birdlike; they were a snake’s eyes, cold and hungry. “I’m not a hasty man. I took my time to see if I wasn’t being hoaxed. An hour reading the London papers was enough to make me think it was quite the opposite.” He leaned forward, his skinny neck stretching out. “Old Billy held the key to this Durham Dilemma, didn’t he?”

  A muscle twitched in Gerard’s jaw before he could stop it. “If he had, you may rest assured it would have been allowed to go to his grave with him. My father wasn’t the sort to leave loose ends hanging.”

  Nollworth gave a thin, wheezy chuckle. “But he left this one, didn’t he? One very long, very loose end. Dangling about, just waiting to snare his son by the neck.”

  “I’m not convinced of that.” Gerard flicked his fingers. “But if he did, by some chance, my brothers and I are each prepared to snip that loose end cleanly off at the root.” He smiled in warning. “We are, after all, Durham’s own blood.”

  His visitor’s lip curled. “A bit lax in your personal life, too, are you? I expect that don’t matter much to a duke’s son. Much is forgiven or overlooked in a son of nobility . . . unless he’s just a bastard.”

  It wouldn’t take much to wring Nollworth’s thin, shriveled neck. Gerard’s hands itched to try it, just to shake that gloating, superior look off his face. “You might do well to keep that in mind.”

  “Come now, young man, you don’t want to lose your temper with me.”

  “Why not?” Gerard stretched out his legs and folded his arms, striving for a grasp on his temper that was growing more tenuous by the moment.

  “Because I have something you might want very much.” Nollworth made a show of picking delicately at a mole on the back of his left hand. “Old Billy died and cost me a plump purse to bury. My wife, sentimental woman, kept all his things. His watch, his damned drawings, all his books . . .”

  “Sentimental, indeed.”

  “He kept ledgers, you know,” Nollworth went on almost idly. “Notebooks and diaries and all sorts of records. They go back . . . Oh, decades, I expect. He did harbor dreams of being a regular curate, once upon a time. If only he’d had the good fortune to marry a rich lady, he might never have been sent to the Fleet. So damaging to a man’s prospects, prison . . .”

  Gerard let out his breath slowly, although his pulse leaped at the mention of ledgers and notebooks. Durham’s confessional letter mentioned signing his name in the minister’s register, in a tavern near the Fleet. If Nollworth had that register, or anything else affirming Durham’s clandestine marriage, Gerard had to get it, no matter what Nollworth extorted from him. “What are you proposing?”

  “I’m sure there’s a fair value for something so important to your family history.” Nollworth laughed his dry, dusty laugh. “To you, or to someone else. I only offer you first rights to it because I’m a family man myself.”

  He should be grateful for that pretense, Gerard supposed. “Very well. If you have anything of interest to me, we shall fix a price—as thanks for your discretion and consideration.”

  Nollworth reeked of triumph. “I knew we could reach an agreement. I leave within the hour. Don’t be lazy.”

  “Send these books. Should they prove . . . informative, I shall be very, generously, grateful.”

  The old man’s face darkened. “Oh, no, boy. I’m not traipsing back and forth to Bath, and I’m not letting the ledgers out of my sight until we make our bargain.”

  “You wish me to buy them sight unseen?” Gerard cocked an eyebrow. “Very well. Twenty pounds.”

  “Two hundred pounds!”

  Gerard sniffed in disdain. “Impossible. They may well be useless to me.”

  Nollworth puckered up his face. “I’m sure there’s others as might be interested. Who might become a duke if your sire proves a bigamist?”

  Gerard counted to ten inside his head. “Fifty pounds.”

  Nollworth stabbed his cane into the floor. “No. You’ll come with me, this very day, if you want anything to do with those books. I’m not a cheat, but I won’t be cheated by you, either. Tell me now, sir: are you coming to see the books, or am I writing to a lord who might be a duke when I return home?”

  They faced each other in silence. Nollworth obviously thought he held the winning hand. The hell of it was, he did. Gerard wanted—needed—to know what was in those books. If he could find some proof that his father’s first marriage hadn’t been fully legal, he could put an end to any danger from the blackmailer. If he found some proof the marriage was legal, all the more need to own it. The only way to know if Ogilvie’s journals could help was to look at them. If they were useless, or Nollworth’s father-in-law wasn’t the William Ogilvie he sought, he could always walk away, but if not . . . Under no circumstances could Cousin Augustus be allowed to know about the registers, let alone possess them.

  “I shall be ready in an hour,” he said through thin lips.

  Nollworth’s oily smile broke out again. “I’ll await you down at the pub in Avon Street,” he said graciously. He limped past Gerard into the hall, where he took his hat from Bragg and bowed politely. “Good day, sir.”

  Bragg watched him go down the steps before turning to Gerard. “Slippery otter, ain’t he?”

  “Poisonous as well.” Gerard exhaled, his mind running over the preparations he had to make. “We leave in an hour. He may have something of interest. Send to Carter, and ask if he can come along on an errand out of town for a day or two. Get the horses saddled, and pack for two days.” He paused. “Pack my pistols as well.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Bragg hurried off.

  Gerard flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles. The urge to strike Nollworth had left his hands cramped from the tension of not forming fists. If not for the post clerk’s description of the letter sender, Gerard would have suspected Nollworth himself was the blackmailer. The man certainly had the cold calculation and venality necessary. He was all but blackmailing
Gerard now. If Nollworth had sent the earlier letters, he might have changed his strategy and decided to make one last bold demand.

  But the earlier request for money had been for far more than Nollworth wanted, and no mention was made of it after the initial demand. Nollworth didn’t seem the type to let a ransom demand languish and be ignored. If Nollworth was the blackmailer and possessed unqualified proof of Durham’s marriage, he would have asked for more than two hundred pounds—and Gerard would have paid it.

  So he had to go to Allenton and see what the man had, and only an hour to prepare. He glanced at the stairs. What was the bloody rush? He had to see Kate, and talk to her, and try to explain—or rather, understand—but only an hour . . .

  He took the stairs two at a time. “Kate!” He threw open the door, but the dressing room was empty. “Kate,” he called again, heading for the bedroom. “Kate, where are you?”

  “Madam has gone out.” He whirled around to see Mrs. Dennis standing in the doorway, her face stony. “Is there something you wanted, sir?”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She wanted a walk.” The abigail’s glare made her feelings clear. “Alone.”

  Gerard shoved one hand through his hair. He strode to the window and peered out, but there was no sight of his wife. “When will she return?”

  “In a bit.”

  “When, Mrs. Dennis?”

  The woman jumped at his shout. “In an hour or two, she said.”

  He swore. Bragg slipped into the room, no doubt to pack. “Is my horse ready yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” said the startled Bragg. Gerard swore again with greater feeling. Mrs. Dennis gasped, and Bragg leaped toward the door. “I’ll do it myself, this very moment.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” He strode from the room and went down to the mews, where the boy was just leading his bay out to saddle. He waved the lad aside and saddled the horse himself with the efficiency of a cavalryman. A few minutes later he rode out into the street, looking in each direction for Kate. But she was nowhere to be seen, not down any street he passed riding through Bath, nor down any street he passed on the way home. He hoped she hadn’t gone too far, but it was a nice day, excellent walking weather. She could be on top of Beechen Cliff for all he knew; she’d told him all about her walks there with Cora Fitzwilliam. He had to see her before he left. If nothing else, he had to tell her her letter had borne fruit. He tied the horse in front of the house in Queen Square as Carter trotted up.

  “Bragg sent word you needed me,” he called, touching his hat brim.

  Gerard nodded, still glancing about for his wife. “It may turn out to be a blind end, but I would be very glad of your company.”

  Carter laughed. “Well, the army’s left me well practiced at chasing down blind ends. I am at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Carter.” A flash of blue caught his eye. There—there she was, at the end of the street. He turned to go to her as Bragg came out to join them, leading his own horse and lugging bulging saddlebags for Gerard’s horse over one shoulder.

  “Captain, ’tis an hour,” his man called.

  Gerard just waved irately at him and continued on his way, eating up the distance with long strides. She saw him coming and her own steps slowed—a bad omen if ever he saw one. He muttered a curse, then almost stopped dead in his tracks as his mind blanked. What would he say to her? He felt stunned anew at her admission—she loved him! It was still soaking into his brain. The usual reply to such a declaration of course was a like one, but those words wouldn’t come. What did that mean? Hard on the heels of that question followed shame that he had coerced the admission from her, and in such a manner. What sort of man used desire and passion against his wife? He didn’t deserve her love even if she still felt any for him.

  By the time they finally met, each was moving so slowly it seemed time had paused. Gerard stared at her pale, composed face and felt like a tongue-tied boy.

  “Did your visitor provide any help?” she asked. Aside from the shadows in her eyes, there was no sign she was uneasy or upset. He wished she would show some emotion, any emotion. He would feel much better if she screamed at him, or even cried.

  “Perhaps.” Now he not only didn’t know what to say, he was acutely conscious of the public nature of this conversation. Wasn’t Lady Darby’s house the one behind him? And another gossipy old lady no doubt lived in the one before him. God help either lady if she was listening at her window now. “He believes he can, that is.”

  Kate nodded calmly, as if they spoke of the weather. “I am glad to hear it.” Her eyes flickered to something behind him. “Are you leaving?”

  “Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Nollworth claims to have some ledgers that may prove illuminating. He won’t just sell them to me but insists I come fetch them. They might be rubbish, of course. But hopefully they’ll be valuable,” he added quickly, realizing too late he was denigrating her efforts.

  “I hope they will help.” Her deep blue eyes were so steady and dark, the way they used to be just a few weeks ago. As if she’d pulled back from what happened around her and didn’t want to discuss it any more than he did. Which surely meant he was making a dreadful hash of things.

  “I have to go see if he has anything,” he said, giving up any hope of a meaningful conversation or farewell. “I’ll be back in two days.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him Bragg and Carter were waiting, pointedly facing away from him and Kate. In front of him she waited, contained and cool, for his response. A river of words—explanations, half-understood feelings, and other thoughts—rushed through his mind until they dammed themselves up inside his head. He needed more than an hour to think this through. He sighed. “I will see you then.” He wanted to pull her close for a proper kiss, public street or not, but her pose wasn’t welcoming; he couldn’t do it. Instead he leaned down and brushed a light kiss on her cheek. She stood like a statue. He lifted his head and looked at her in growing despair.

  “Good luck,” was all she said, her expression unchanged.

  He managed to nod before turning and striding back to his horse. Damn it. Damn Nollworth and his spectacularly bad timing. Damn Howe for bruising Kate’s spirit so badly she wouldn’t just have a blazing fit of temper and throw a pitcher at his head. Damn him for not once anticipating, even in the midst of the most glorious tupping imaginable, that his wife might fall even a little bit in love with him. “Let’s be done with this,” he muttered to Carter as he swung into the saddle and kicked the horse onward.

  Chapter 23

  Nollworth hadn’t lied; he kept everything, not just of Ogilvie’s. What he called his storeroom was really an old stable with sagging walls, filled almost to the rafters with old trunks and crates, broken furniture, rusty farm tools, and piles of other items that looked like pure rubbish. “His things’ll be in there,” said the old man, dragging aside a large piece of canvas covering some of the mess. “All of them.”

  “Where are the books?” Gerard coughed, waving aside the dust and straw bits stirred up.

  “In there.”

  “Where? In the trunks?” Carter glanced at Gerard, who knew what he meant. It would take days to unpack them, let alone look through any books to determine if they were helpful at all. “All these trunks are filled with books?”

  “Not all.” Nollworth swabbed his face with a dirty handkerchief. “Some, though.”

  An angry screeching from outside sliced through the room. “Mr. Nollworth, what are you about? You, sirrah, are at your last prayers! I’ll have an answer this time—you’ll not be taking off for Bath for two days again and leaving the chores to me without so much as a by-your-leave—”

  Nollworth could move with surprising speed when he wished. He was in the doorway in a flash. “Quiet, woman,” he barked. “This is my business!”

  “Those are my father’s things!” the woman’s voice raged, c
oming closer. “What are you plotting? If you think to sell them for scrap, I’ve a mind to—”

  “Hush,” ordered Nollworth. He flung wide the door, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust. “Hush, Mrs. Nollworth. We’ve guests.” He flourished one arm toward Gerard and Carter. “See? Gentlemen, my wife, Mrs. Nollworth. My dear, this is Lord Captain de Lacey and Lieutenant Carter.”

  Mrs. Nollworth’s mouth had dropped open at the sight of them. She was a stout, sturdy woman with a florid face and arms like a butcher’s. She was clutching a large wooden ladle in a menacing manner but quickly hid it behind her back when she saw them. “Sirs,” she said, dipping into an off-balance curtsey. “Er . . . Welcome to our home.”

  Carter’s eyes drifted upward, over the rough shed. A chicken strutted through the open door and darted into the pile of cast-off furniture, clucking loudly. Gerard cleared his throat. “Thank you, madam. I hope we’re not intruding.”

  She looked torn between the desire to maintain appearances and the urge to ask who the devil they were and why they were in her shed. “No,” she said, looking to her husband for a moment. “Of course not.”

  “We’ll leave you to it,” said Nollworth quickly. “Come, Mrs. Nollworth.”

  “What—you’re giving away Father’s things?” protested his wife, resisting his efforts to push her out the door. “What’s this about, Mr. Nollworth?”

  “They just want to have a look,” he said. “Come along with me, I’ll explain . . .”

  “Your father may have had some connection to my family many years ago,” said Gerard. As much as he was enjoying the sight of Nollworth getting bullied, he had to look in those crates. “Your husband has agreed to allow me to look through his books.”

  “But you’ll not be taking anything?” Mrs. Nollworth had her ladle up again and gave her husband a furious glance when he tried to urge her out the door.

  Gerard gave her his most charming smile. “I wouldn’t dream of doing so without your permission.” So much for his hope of buying everything and carting it back to Bath to examine in more comfortable surroundings. “But if I should find something relevant to my family, I would very much like to take it back to show my brothers, who are just as curious as I. We would be suitably grateful, naturally.”