Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Page 25

  Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. If Gerard could go off without a word and not come back, so could she. She was going mad, waiting for a note he couldn’t be bothered to send. Going to Cobham wasn’t ideal, but it was the only avenue open to her. At least at Cobham she wouldn’t lie awake at nights, straining her ears for the sound of his horse or the tread of his foot outside her door.

  “Very well, Mama,” she said at last. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Oh, darling.” Her mother gave her a misty smile. “I knew I could count on you. Cobham will be so good for you, too. Your nerves were always delicate. I vow, you look so pale; this shade of blue quite overwhelms you, Katherine.”

  She smiled resolutely. She was keeping her new dresses, whether Mama approved or not. “Only for a visit. I can’t stay longer than a fortnight.”

  “What! Only a fortnight! But dearest, you shall hardly be settled back in before a fortnight is over. You must stay a month at least.”

  “A fortnight,” Kate repeated. “Less if my husband sends for me.”

  “My poor child.” Mama folded her gently into her arms. “Yes, of course, if he sends for you, you must go. But surely he won’t tear you away from me again—Oh, but I must have you both at Cobham! Yes, if he comes, he must stay as well, now he is part of the family.” She gave Kate a bright smile. “You’ll feel better away from Bath. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  She went to say good-bye to Cora while Birdie packed. When she said she was leaving Bath, Cora gasped. “But you will come back, won’t you?” she cried.

  “Of course,” Kate assured her. “I just feel that some time away will restore my equilibrium.”

  Cora sighed in relief. “That is very reasonable. Do you want to leave a letter for Danny to carry to Captain de Lacey?”

  “No.” Kate gave a firm shake of her head. “I don’t think I shall. We aren’t much for writing letters, the captain and I.”

  Her friend’s lips parted. “Oh,” she said softly. “I see.” She regarded Kate somberly for a moment. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. What are letters to a man anyway?”

  “Nothing much, I understand.”

  “And he would hardly keep you from going with your own mother.”

  “No man likes to thwart my mother’s wishes.”

  “And he can always fetch you home if he misses you too desperately.”

  “He can,” Kate agreed.

  “Well.” Cora nodded slowly. “All in all, I agree: you must make a visit to your mother.” Then she heaved a sigh. “But I shall miss you!”

  “And I you.” Kate squeezed her friend’s hands. “May I write to you?”

  “I require it,” declared Cora. “And I shall write you. I expect there will be something of great interest to report when Danny and the captain finally return to find you gone.”

  “Be that as it may, I am done sitting at home waiting.” She squared her shoulders, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. “I have said all I had to say. If he wishes to make any response, he can find me at Cobham.”

  Chapter 25

  Gerard was fast coming to wish he’d never heard of Reverend Ogilvie. He’d seen enough of Robert Nollworth to last six lifetimes, and breathed enough dust to fill all of Spain. Searching the dead reverend’s trunks ended up meaning they must clear out Nollworth’s wretched storeroom, since the Nollworths apparently kept every broken bucket and footstool they’d ever owned. One morning he and Carter got a section cleared, carting things into the stable yard so they could unearth more boxes and crates, only to have to drag everything back inside when it began to rain, and Mrs. Nollworth flew out of her house screaming that her belongings were being ruined. The chickens who roosted in the old stable were the pleasantest part of the whole ordeal, and Gerard could have happily killed and plucked a few of them just to have quiet.

  In desperation he offered Nollworth a hundred pounds for the reverend’s things, but now Nollworth felt even more sure of himself. He countered with five hundred pounds, which Gerard rashly rejected in a flash of temper.

  But soon, by God, he sorely regretted it. Five hundred pounds would have been a small price to pay to get out of this circle of hell. Nollworth’s storage stable was a filthy, ramshackle hovel. The town of Allenton was barely a village, with only one inn three miles away, close to the Bristol Road. The inn was almost as depressing and dirty as the storage shed, and Gerard set Bragg to cleaning everything, every day. When he returned home, he planned to burn every piece of clothing he’d brought with him, strongly suspecting it would have picked up vermin of all sorts. With a grim realization that he might have gotten in over his head, he finally wrote to his brother Edward. The explanation of why he needed help grew too tortured, so he settled for admitting he did need aid and imploring Edward to come at once. He told Bragg to send it off express and felt a bit of relief. Even just talking to his logical, rational brother would help.

  But worst of all, he still didn’t know what to say to Kate. Every night he pulled out fresh paper and ink and tried to write. He filled page after page with apologies and explanations, and every night he threw it all into the fire when he read what he’d written. But every day that he didn’t send word to her built up the guilt he felt, as well as the pressure to write a decent letter the next day. Finally Gerard accepted that he couldn’t put his thoughts on paper and would have to wait until he saw her in person, no matter how cowardly it felt.

  Carter made a hurried trip to Bath for fresh supplies and unwittingly brought back a hair shirt for Gerard. “I saw your lady wife, by the way,” he said as they began work on yet another crate the day after he returned. They had sifted through barely a quarter of the detritus, but this was one of the last five crates, presuming no more appeared from under the rubbish they were still clearing away. “She was curious to know what we’d uncovered.”

  His stomach knotted at the mention of his wife. Even as he felt like the lowest rogue alive, he missed her. Sleeping alone in the hard, flat bed at the inn, on a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes every time he shifted, he dreamed of waking to find her in his arms, her brass-bright hair tickling his chest, her soft skin warm against his. Behind closed eyelids, he could picture her sleepy smile when he turned her over and kissed her awake. He could hear her soft gasps of ecstasy as he made love to her. And worst of all, he couldn’t forget the intoxicating peals of her laughter when they lay in bed and talked of nonsense. God. He was an idiot. He’d taken all that for granted, too caught up in his focus on finding the blackmailer to notice her devotion and wonder whence it sprang. A woman who said she would be content with a marriage of convenience didn’t listen intently and sympathetically while he poured out the sordid story of his father’s shameful past. Or allow him every sort of liberty with her body and follow his urging to take similar liberties with his. Or hold him so tenderly.

  “How did she look?” His voice sounded distant.

  Carter applied the iron bar to the lid of another crate. “She looked quite well.”

  Damn. She wasn’t lying awake at night, as he was? She wasn’t ready to rip out her hair in frustration from being separated, as he was? He should be glad she was well; instead, selfish bastard that he was, Gerard wished she’d evidenced some sign of longing. She hadn’t sent a note to him back with Carter. He was almost glad of that, for his guilt at not writing to her would have been almost unbearable if she had.

  In other words, he was content to sort Nollworth’s rubbish, cowardly relieved that his wife, who loved him, hadn’t written to him, thus proving herself far too good for the likes of him.

  “Bloody hell,” he said suddenly. “I’m sick of this.” He grabbed the edge of the crate Carter had just pried open and heaved it up. Astonished, but realizing what he was about, Carter took hold of the other side and together they toppled the crate onto its side with a great smash. Straw flew everywhere, and a pair of chickens ran flapping and squawking out of the stable. On one knee, Gerar
d pawed through the things that tumbled out of the crate. “Find any books,” he said to Carter. “We’ve wasted too much time looking through letters and other meaningless rot. A notebook or register is all I care for. Just leave the rest.”

  “As you say.”

  Abandoning any semblance of delicacy or care, they plowed into the rubbish in the stable, searching it as roughly as a pair of thieves. Crockery broke. Carter stepped on a hoe buried in the straw, and the handle flew up to smack him in the face. Gerard cracked his head on the sloping loft as he climbed over piles of ruined furniture to reach things stored high. A loose trunk latch scraped across his arm and ripped his sleeve almost off as he rooted through the straw that covered everything. But finally, at long last, he spied a small writing case hidden up in the eaves. The surface was stained with water, but when he hauled it down and broke the lock to open it, the contents were dry.

  “Carter.” Carefully Gerard lifted out one slim volume. It looked more like a betting notebook than a church register, but when he carried it to the light and opened to a random page, what he saw recorded within made him shout in triumph. “Carter!”

  His friend clambered through the mess to his side. “Is that it?”

  “Perhaps,” muttered Gerard, paging gently through the book. The ink had faded to near invisibility, but by squinting, he could just make it out. “Married this tenth day of February, Henry Potts, bachelor, and Jane Ellis, spinster . . .” He closed the book. “I’ve had enough of picking through this rat’s warren. I’m taking these and going back to Bath.”

  “Excellent news,” said Carter fervently. He touched the swelling on his cheek where the hoe had struck him. “I was beginning to fear for our lives.”

  He retrieved the rest of the books from the case, eight in all, and carried them to the house with Carter at his heels. Nollworth met them at the door. “Eh, found something useful, have you?” he crowed, when he spied the books.

  “Perhaps,” said Gerard levelly. “Perhaps not. But my patience has run out, and this is your last chance to strike a bargain.” He held up the notebooks. “Eighty pounds for these, and these alone.”

  Nollworth’s brows descended. “One hundred fifty pounds!”

  Gerard leaned closer and fixed a grim stare on the man. “Ninety pounds, and I won’t burn down your miserable storeroom.”

  “What is this?” cried Mrs. Nollworth, hurrying up behind her husband. Her eyes lit on the books Gerard held. “Are those what you were seeking, sir?”

  “I believe so, madam,” said Gerard before Nollworth could speak. “I trust ninety pounds will compensate you for the loss of these.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Ninety—! Why, that is very generous, sir—”

  “Go back to your washing, woman,” snarled her husband, his face red. “I’m dealing with these gentlemen.”

  “I will be glad to send back any books that have no meaning to my family,” Gerard added, watching the wife’s face. She at least had some trace of decency.

  “Ninety pounds,” she gasped again, fanning herself with one hand. “Why, yes, certainly you may borrow them for ninety pounds. I’m sure my good father would wish no less!”

  “Martha, quiet your mouth!” Nollworth turned on Gerard, practically spitting in fury. “I’ll have the money now, then.”

  “I’ll write you a draft on my bank.”

  “Hard coin,” snapped the older man with a baleful glare. “Now.”

  Gerard’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t got ninety pounds in coin in my pocket. I’ll send my man back with it from Bath.”

  “You think me a fool? You’ll not take so much as a page until I have the money in my hand. In fact,” he went on, growing louder, “go on back to Bath. I can see you’re not interested in these books. I’ll just see if someone else might have a fancy for them!”

  “Mr. Nollworth,” exclaimed his wife, jamming her hands on her hips. “You’re shaming us both! Ninety pounds!”

  Carter cleared his throat. “I would be glad to ride to Bath and bring the funds.”

  Gerard tore his seething gaze off Nollworth. “You don’t mind?”

  His friend glanced at the Nollworths. “Not at all. It would be my pleasure. We’ve done twenty-mile rides many a time for Wellesley.”

  “ ’Tis nearly forty miles to Bath and back.”

  Carter lowered his voice. “And a day well spent if it puts an end to this.” He raised his eyes to Nollworth. “I’ll leave at once.”

  Gerard exhaled. “Thank you.” One more day, then he could return to Kate.

  When he reached Queen Square two long days later, Gerard was hot, filthy, tired, and desperately eager to see Kate. He leaped up the step and let himself in, leaving Bragg to take the horses. He carried the notebooks in one hand. In the time it had taken Carter to ride to Bath and back to fetch the funds, Gerard had pored over the notebooks. Like many disreputable parsons, it appeared Ogilvie conducted his illicit weddings in several establishments, from taverns to the front parlor of a brothel. Each notebook had been assigned to one location, so the dates were all intermixed and sometimes not specified at all. The ink had faded to a pale yellow on the old paper, and in many cases the faint writing was illegible even under strong sunlight. An hour’s reading was enough to make one’s eyes burn and one’s head ache fiercely. It would be quite a job to comb through them for one particular entry.

  But the notebooks were his, thanks to Kate. She pursued the question of Ogilvie when he thought it hopeless. If Durham’s clandestine marriage showed up in the pages of these books, it would be invaluable, either for proving the marriage illegal or for affording him the chance to destroy the only tangible proof of any connection between his father and Dorothy Cope. The London solicitor had said there were a few ways to affirm a marriage, whether it satisfied every legal requirement or not; a record of any sort was one. One way or another, there would be no record of any legal marriage when Gerard finished with the books. And he owed it entirely to his wife.

  “Where is your mistress?” he demanded of the footman, Foley, who came running as he stood stripping off coat, hat, and gloves.

  “M’lady left, sir, but His Grace has been waiting since yesterday.”

  “What?” Gerard stopped in shock. “His Grace?”

  Foley nodded, looking a bit anxious. “Yes, my lord. The Duke of Durham.”

  Blast. His hands dropped. What was he doing here? “And milady is out?” he asked again, then sighed. “Where is His Grace?”

  “In your study, sir.”

  Putting aside his disappointment that Kate wasn’t at home, he strode to his study and pushed open the door. “What do you want?”

  His eldest brother looked up from his book and smiled sardonically. “A pleasure to see you also, Gerard.”

  Gerard ran his hands over his head and prayed for fortitude. Charlie sat in the chair behind his desk and was the picture of indolent elegance, from his languid posture to the elaborate tea tray sitting at his elbow. “Of course it’s a pleasure to see you—a very unexpected one.”

  Charlie’s lips twitched. “So I see.” He closed his book and set it down. “Edward sends his regards.”

  “Where the devil is he? I specifically asked him to come.”

  “Yes, I know. I did warn him you would be cruelly disappointed by the substitution.” His brother drew out a letter from his waistcoat pocket and made a show of unfolding it. “ ‘Edward, come to Bath with all haste. I require your help most urgently. I have the blackmailer’s description, and may have discovered the minister’s records, but cannot pursue both, as I must return home to my wife.’ ” Charlie glanced up with exaggerated surprise. “Wife? What wife?”

  “My wife,” growled Gerard, prowling restlessly around the room, listening for any sound indicating Kate’s return. He dropped Ogilvie’s notebooks on the corner of his desk. “The lady I married. You must have met her when you invaded my home. Why the bloody hell didn’t Edward
come?”

  This seemed to amuse Charlie. “He refused to come, and you shan’t be able to fault him when you hear the reason. I expect he’s making love to his own wife at this moment. Your letter arrived on the day of his marriage, forming a rather unusual wedding gift.”

  “Edward, married?” Gerard was struck speechless all over again. “To whom—? Ah, the redheaded widow with the lovely bosom?”

  “Indeed.” Charlie inclined his head. “The fetching Lady Gordon apparently swept him off his feet. Or knocked him senseless. Perhaps both.”

  Gerard grinned a little, remembering the vibrant woman he’d met in London, the one Edward pointedly hadn’t wanted him to meet. “She must have. Just a few weeks ago Edward claimed it was only some business about solicitors between them, and he couldn’t wait to conclude it. He married her already? It took him almost a year to decide he would propose to Louisa Halston.”

  “Yes, I gather certain women are capable of inspiring a feverish urgency in men, like the sirens of old.” Charlie reached for the teacup on the tray and raised it to his lips. “Perhaps you are familiar with this species, given you also gained a wife in that time—even earlier than Edward managed it. Did you marry her the moment you reached Bath, or the following morning?”

  Gerard’s shoulders slumped at the mention of his wife. He dropped into a chair and rubbed his face wearily. “I married her before I left London.”

  Charlie choked on his tea. “What?”

  “I was sure Aunt Margaret would tell you if the gossip mill didn’t. I married Viscount Howe’s widow.”

  His brother’s eyelids slid down until he was regarding Gerard almost lazily. “No, it never reached my ears. Love at first sight?” he asked in a silky tone.