Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Page 27

“This morning, sir. He came in to post another letter, and I recognized him at once.” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve been watching for him ever since you came to see Mr. Watson, my lord,” he said proudly. “I never forget a face, I don’t, and I knew, if only I waited patiently enough, sooner or later he’d—”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted Gerard. “Did you speak to him?”

  “I did. He had two letters to post—both to London, sir—and I worked my brains to think how I could ask his name while he counted out the coins for postage. Finally I says, ‘How good to see you again, Mr. Smythe. I’m delighted to see you’ve recovered enough to go out.’ Well, he looked quite amazed, and said, ‘You’ve mistake me, I’m not Mr. Smythe at all.’ ” The clerk was practically wiggling with excitement as he told his story. “I affected great astonishment, sir, and declared again that he must be Mr. Smythe, who has lived down the lane from my mother these last five years. ‘I know your wife,’ I told him. Well, he was not pleased by that. He said he had no wife, and I was mistaken. Again I pretended ignorance, and shook my head, muttering that he must have a fever of the brain to say such things, for didn’t I know my own mother’s neighbors? He was growing irate, my lord, and finally he exclaimed, ‘My name, sirrah, is Hiram Scott, and you have taken leave of your senses if you think me someone else!’ ” Brynfield beamed at Gerard. “Unfortunately I had to remain at the counter, sir, and had no opportunity of following him. I would have come directly, but I’ve only just closed up the post office.”

  “I see,” said Gerard slowly. “I left my card with Mr. Watson, that it might be given to this man.”

  Mr. Brynfield’s expression shifted, becoming a shade coyer. “I know, my lord, but Mr. Watson wasn’t in at the time, and I didn’t have the card you left. I thought it best to find out as much as I could and report to you. After all, there’s no telling whether the man would have called upon you had I handed him the card with your compliments.”

  And coming in person, the clerk could present his prize in triumph. Or perhaps he sensed that Gerard might prefer more subtle methods—which he did, no question. Now he had the man’s name, and with no warning to the fellow that anyone would be looking for him. All in all, it was the best outcome possible.

  “Quite right,” he told the man. “Excellent work. I applaud your quick thinking. Er—would I be improper to express my gratitude more tangibly?”

  The clerk’s smile said it all. “I’m sure you could never be improper, my lord.”

  Gerard smiled back as he counted out some guineas. “I do try to avoid it. But a service must be rewarded.”

  “Thank ’ee very kindly, sir. I’m delighted to have been of use.” The guineas disappeared into Brynfield’s pocket in the blink of an eye. “And if I should see the gentleman in question again, I’ll be pleased to let you know of it.”

  “By all means.”

  Gerard thought hard after William Brynfield had gone. Hiram Scott. The name meant nothing to him, but that counted for little. They only had to find him, then pry the truth from him. “Hiram Scott,” he said absently. “What’s his interest in Father’s marriage?”

  “I take it that’s our fellow?” asked Charlie.

  He glanced up, mildly surprised to see his brother still there. “Yes—apparently. I took the letters to the post office here, hoping someone might recall something about the sender. That clerk, Brynfield, marked one of the letters. He thought he’d know the man who sent it if he ever returned, and now . . .” He spread his hands wide.

  Charlie came around the sofa and sat down, a thin line between his brows. “Who the devil is Hiram Scott?”

  “I’ve no bloody idea.”

  “Why the hell would he be blackmailing Durham?”

  “I’ve no bloody idea,” repeated Gerard.

  Charlie shot him a dark glance. “What bloody ideas do you have? I presume you have one or two after a month of searching.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Certain things had been coalescing in his mind ever since talking it over with Kate, and more and more he thought one question of hers pointed in the right direction. “I suspect we’re being fooled—trifled with. I suspect he doesn’t want money or anything at all from us. This fellow wants to ruin us, or perhaps only to drive us mad looking for something that probably doesn’t exist.”

  Charlie’s irritation dropped away. All expression vanished from his face, in fact. “Explain.”

  He took the chair opposite his brother. “Consider this. The letters arrived one at a time, more taunting than demanding or threatening. Durham sent out five investigators after the first one, but the second note makes no mention of their failure. Is it likely someone with such a keen interest in the matter wouldn’t know, or suspect, Durham would take action? Not until the third note does the villain ask for anything, and he didn’t even try to collect it. The last note never repeated the demand for money, only that the blackmailer could ruin Durham at any moment—but he never did. Not one whiff of this appeared anywhere before Durham died. Perhaps Louisa Halston beat him to it when Edward told her, but if you really wanted to press someone, wouldn’t you threaten to tell a newspaper or a notorious gossip? It could be done anonymously, without danger to the instigator, and spread like wildfire until no one could tell where it began.”

  “But who is Hiram Scott that he would wish to torment Durham?”

  He sighed. “Why would he wish to torment us? This did nothing to Father. The dukedom was his, and nothing could change that. It would embarrass, but not harm. We, on the other hand . . .”

  Charlie’s face looked like a stone mask. “But you don’t know who Hiram Scott is. I don’t know who Hiram Scott is. Why would he bedevil us?”

  Gerard flipped one hand impatiently. “Perhaps he’s Louisa Halston’s secret lover and wished to disrupt Edward’s engagement to her.”

  “Unlikely,” replied Charlie. “She was promptly betrothed to the Marquis of Calverton.”

  “Perhaps he acted for Calverton.”

  “Then how the bloody hell did Calverton know about Dorothy Cope?” said Charlie crossly. “Whoever did this didn’t blindly kick the hive; he knew something nobody’s spoken of in sixty years. Where could he have gotten that information?”

  “I don’t know!” Gerard shoved his hands through his hair as his temper ran short. “He didn’t learn it from the minister, though. I’ve just returned from unearthing his wedding registers, and if they’ve seen the light of day in ten years, I’ll eat every page. The minister himself died a decade ago. You’ll have to sort that out yourself.”

  “Then how—” Charlie stopped short. “Myself?”

  Gerard nodded, jumping to his feet. “I’m going after Kate. You might be able to track down Scott since he was in Bath this morning. The notebooks are in my study; let me get them for you.”

  “Howe said she was well, merely visiting her mother. A day or two delay won’t do any harm!” Charlie protested, following Gerard into the study.

  “It will to me,” he said simply. He picked up the eight notebooks and handed them to Charlie. “Somewhere in here may be proof of Father’s clandestine wedding—or not. It’s the best I could do. With this, and whatever you can find about Hiram Scott, you should have a good start on cleaving this Gordian knot.”

  “A name and some notebooks,” said Charlie incredulously. “That’s all?”

  “It’s more than Edward and I began with,” Gerard retorted. His brother’s face was stony, but his eyes weren’t. Curiosity conspired with his temper. “Why have you taken this so calmly, Charlie? Why do you act as though you don’t give a bloody damn whether we all lose everything?”

  Something flickered across Charlie’s face, guilt or anxiety or even mere indignation, but he said nothing. Gerard threw up his hands and turned to go. He could leave for Cobham at first light if he sent Bragg out to get a fresh horse now.

  “Do you truly think this whole thing has been aimed at us rather than at
Durham?” asked Charlie slowly from behind him.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems as likely as anything else at the moment. Father said he burned the marriage certificate, so no one stumbled across that. These records have been hidden in a barn in Somerset for at least a decade, and likely longer. Augustus wouldn’t blackmail Durham even if he stands to benefit the most; he’d have no need. The ransom was never claimed, nor even mentioned again. What else could be the purpose of this?”

  Charlie looked down at the notebooks in his hand. “Do you have the blackmail letters? The originals?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have them?”

  “Of course,” said Gerard in surprise. He went to his desk and got them.

  Charlie’s face was drawn and troubled as he took them. For a moment he just looked at the letters, holding up one after the other. “Yes, it’s my turn to take this on,” he said quietly. He glanced up. “And you’re right to retrieve your wife. Let me come with you.”

  “You don’t have to,” began Gerard.

  “Please.” Charlie gave a faint smile. “Allow me to meet my newest sister-in-law. I seem to be collecting them faster than I can make their acquaintance. Besides, my travel coach stands ready.”

  That was a good argument. “Very well.” Gerard cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming to Bath, Charlie.”

  His brother tucked the blackmailer’s letters into his pocket. All trace of indolence was gone from his demeanor. “I suppose I’m the only one left with time and freedom to solve this, as the last bachelor among us.” He shot Gerard a measuring look. “Lady Howe was rumored to be a very wealthy woman. You married her because you feared we’d lose Durham and be left destitute, didn’t you?”

  Gerard thought back to his first meeting with Kate, when she’d been as somber and stiff as a schoolmistress making her proposal. Even then he’d been tantalized by the prospect of thawing her, though he’d never guessed how it would turn out. “Yes,” he said softly. “I married her for money. But I’m going after her now for love.”

  Chapter 27

  At Gerard’s prodding, they left just after dawn the next morning. It was forty miles to Cobham. At first Gerard regretted leaving his horse behind, but as the miles rolled on he grew more appreciative of the coach. Charlie traveled in style, with Durham’s best-sprung coach and four. It would also make the return journey more comfortable for Kate, assuming she returned to Bath with them—and Gerard meant to make sure of that. But even now that he knew where she was and that she was safe, he was having trouble keeping himself in check enough to sit still. Charlie finally told him to bugger himself before dropping his hat over his face and pretending to sleep. Gerard glared at him and resumed staring out the window, watching for the first sight of the house.

  It was a very pretty estate, nestled in rolling green hills. Their approach had been noted, for the butler and two footmen were waiting in front of the house, standing at attention, when the coach rolled up the drive. Gerard leaped out as soon as the wheels stopped, hoping for a glimpse of Kate, but the only lady to greet them when they were shown into the drawing room was her mother.

  “Captain.” With a fond smile Mrs. Hollenbrook floated across the carpet and extended her hand. “What a delight to see you again!”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” He took her hand and bowed briefly. “You must forgive me for presuming upon family, but I’ve brought my brother. May I present the Duke of Durham?”

  Like the beam from a lantern, her attention swung fully from Gerard to Charlie. “Your Grace!” Mrs. Hollenbrook gazed at Charlie as if he were the Prince Regent himself before sinking into a curtsey so deep, her knee must have touched the floor.

  “Er . . . Yes.” Charlie’s eyebrows were halfway up his forehead, a sight Gerard had never seen before. Who would have guessed the clinging, simpering Mrs. Hollenbrook could reduce his eternally bored and insouciant brother to this?

  “Welcome to my humble home.” Their hostess rose gracefully, beaming at him. “I never dreamed of such an honor, sir. May I serve you tea? Or coffee? Anything you would like at all, I’m sure we can provide.”

  Charlie cast Gerard a glance. “Thank you, madam. That is most . . . hospitable.”

  As she turned toward the bell, Gerard seized his brother’s arm. “I have to find Kate,” he whispered.

  “I’m coming with you,” Charlie said, with a wary glance at Mrs. Hollenbrook.

  “No!” He shook off Charlie’s restraining hand. “I need to speak to Kate without her mother about, and all you have to do to distract her is sit there and be a duke.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have left London,” muttered Charlie after a pause.

  “Think of it as the first of many duties you’ll have to endure for Durham.” He then added, “Thank you.”

  “Go.” His brother had assumed a rather grim but regal expression. “Try to be charming, Gerard. I shan’t endure any duty forever.”

  Gerard grinned and slipped out of the room as Charlie stepped forward, asking some question of Mrs. Hollenbrook to cover his brother’s escape. How fortunate Charlie had come along after all.

  He found her in the garden. It had been terraced on the side of a hill and rose through four levels. She was on the third level, a wide straw hat on her head and a basket over one arm. She appeared to be cutting flowers, and added one to the basket as he shaded his eyes and looked up at her. The breeze caught her light green skirts, swirling them around her legs. The wide brim of her hat hid most of her face, but he could see the soft curve of her mouth as she bent down and chose another flower. It was a mundane task, but just watching the way she moved acted as a balm on him; a riot of thoughts and feelings, shrieking furies with spurs and daggers that had prodded him mercilessly for days, suddenly fell into calm order. He’d been right, that all would become clear when he saw her again. It hit him then that she was beautiful—not her face, but her, that ineffable something within her that made her Kate. He’d been too blind to see it, just as he’d been so focused on finding the blackmailer, he never wondered about the man’s true purpose. He’d been fooling himself about his marriage from the start, but no longer.

  After a moment she turned his way. He just caught sight of her face before she noticed him, and her expression blanked.

  “Kate!” He bounded up the steps. “Wait—”

  “Wait for what?” She regarded him levelly.

  Gerard stopped. There was a dispassionate assurance in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He hated the uncertain, skittish look in her face, but this new calm unsettled him. It gave the impression she had made up her mind, and he would not be able to change it. “Wait for me,” he said. “I want to speak to you.” He wanted to snatch her into his arms and hold her close, to breathe deeply of the orange-water perfume she wore, to finally appreciate the treasure he had unwittingly gained when he married her. Who would have guessed, when she made her blunt and pragmatic proposal, the bride was of infinitely more value than the fortune?

  “What a surprise to see you here,” she said.

  “Is it?” He cocked his head. “You left Bath without a word of farewell, and you’re surprised to see me?”

  A lovely flush rose in her cheeks, but her voice never wavered. “I trust you got my note.”

  “Nearly not,” Gerard replied. “Lucien Howe took it.”

  “Lucien?” A small frown pinched her brow. “How did he get it?”

  “He paid the upstairs maid to steal it for him.”

  “Well.” She looked down at the basket on her arm and shuffled the flowers in it. “Birdie never trusted her.”

  “In its place he left what looked like a ransom note.” Gerard cleared his throat. “He should recover in good time.”

  She darted a measuring look at him from under her lashes. “You struck Lucien?”

  “Just once. I thought he was behind your absence.” He paused. “And then when I read your note, I
thought you’d left me.”

  Her chin went up a fraction. “I did.”

  For some reason he liked that spark of defiance. He never could resist any challenge she threw at him. “Ah. Then all that talk of love . . . ?”

  “I didn’t lie.” The pulse in her throat was throbbing noticeably. “Nor, I think, did you.”

  “No, Kate, I never lied to you. I told you at the beginning I wanted to take you to bed.”

  Scarlet rushed up her face. “Not because you loved me.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I didn’t know you enough to love you.” He gave her a meaningful glance. “But I did want to bed you.”

  “Men can bed any woman,” she said stiffly. “It means nothing.”

  He paused. “Nothing,” he repeated thoughtfully. “It rarely means nothing. And sometimes, in very particular circumstances, it means a great deal.”

  Then he stopped and just stood there, looking at her with those blue, blue eyes, so tall and dark and painfully attractive. Kate had hoped a few days away from him would steady her nerves and quiet her longings, but it didn’t seem to have worked that way. Her silly, stupid heart leaped into her throat when she looked down to see him standing at the foot of the terrace, and now it was beating so hard her chest hurt. He had come after her—but why? She was more defenseless than ever against the pathetic yearnings of her heart and body.

  “How fascinating,” she said, hoping he didn’t see how her fingers were clenched into her palms. “One would never guess from the behavior of certain gentlemen.”

  “Devil take them. We’re speaking only of one gentleman.” He laid one hand on his chest, still watching her closely.

  She forced her eyebrows up. “Indeed. What did it mean, then, when you said you wished to bed me?”

  “It meant I wished to be a good husband, and someday, a good father. It meant you intrigued me, with your prickly, bold manner, and I’ve never been able to ignore a challenge.”

  “A challenge!” She turned away, but he caught hold of her hand and refused to let her go.