Chapter 17
Henry barely waited for the ladies as he stormed back to the estate, his boots crunching against the gravel of Arundel Park’s drive.
The others—including Charlotte and the rest of her party—chattered as they followed at a more leisurely pace, but Henry had little energy for further conversation.
His mind was a tangle of worries, one thread leading to another until he could barely make sense of them all.
William. He should tell him about Leonard’s arrival and his so-called apology to Charlotte. He hesitated outside the entrance, wondering whether to go and find his friend straight away, but decided he had better clear his head first. He needed to think.
He muttered an excuse about a pressing matter that required his attention and took his leave before anyone could protest. He strode through the grand entrance and down the hall to his office, where he closed the heavy door behind him with a sigh of relief.
The momentary silence felt like a balm, but it did little to calm his racing thoughts.
Sir Roger. The very name set his nerves alight.
He had to speak with William, to confide in his old friend and seek counsel on the matter, but first, he needed a moment of solitude.
He poured himself a generous measure of brandy and took a sip, letting the warmth spread through him and soothe the edge of his nerves.
It was then that he saw the letter on his desk.
Unsealed. Unaddressed.
His stomach sank. Not another threat.
Frowning, he set his glass down and mentally prepared himself for whatever was inside. With trembling fingers, he unfolded the paper. The words leapt out at him:
Be at the secluded alcove of the grotto at 4:30 p.m., or suffer the consequences of your secret being made public.
Henry’s pulse quickened, and the room seemed to grow colder. Another note that was meant to blackmail him; no doubt a payout would be demanded in exchange for silence about the secret he guarded so closely.
One of them, anyway.
The blackmailer must be bold to leave such a note so carelessly upon his desk as if certain he would obey.
All thoughts of speaking with William vanished. Henry began to pace, the letter still in hand. He had suspected from the start that whoever was behind the first note sought to leverage his secret for financial gain or, worse, power over him.
What if the mysterious letter writer truly did know the secret of his birth?
His insides chilled at the thought. But surely that was impossible. No one could know. Unless his mother had said something she oughtn’t.
But no, she would never. By doing so, she’d suffer under the weight of the scandal almost as much as he would. Perhaps he could ask for her opinion on who it might be, but if this was simply a ploy for money, he did not wish to risk distressing her unnecessarily.
He would see what the villain wanted first.
The minutes dragged until, finally, it was time.
Henry donned what he hoped was a neutral expression and made his way to the gardens, keeping a careful eye on his surroundings, watching for observers who may be watching where he was going, looking for a reaction.
But the house and gardens were quiet. Following afternoon tea, most of his guests had retired to their rooms or the drawing room.
The grotto where he was to meet the messenger lay at the farthest end of the grounds, secluded by hedges and old oaks. A perfect place for a clandestine meeting.
But before he could reach it, he caught sight of a young woman strolling through the flower garden, alone and unchaperoned.
It was a different young lady to the one he had seen in the corridor before the appearance of the first note.
His heart lurched. Could there be more than one person in on this scheme?
This did not feel like something a lady would do. Unless it was a spectacularly ruthless ploy to force him into marriage?
But then, who would want to marry into a potential scandal? Certainly not a well-bred society miss. No doubt the woman was just taking the opportunity for some private time with her thoughts—that was certainly something he could understand.
She turned at the sound of his approach, recognition dawning in her eyes. He recognized her as Miss Fairchild. He had scarcely exchanged more than pleasantries with her before today, and that only during their walk into town.
He bowed, hiding a sigh of frustration. Her unexpected presence could cause the messenger to cancel the meeting if they spotted her.
“You are quite far from the house, Miss Fairchild,” he remarked, forcing a light tone. “I had assumed everyone would be taking a well-earned rest before dinner.”
She offered a small laugh, tucking a loose golden curl behind her ear and batting her eyelashes as she looked up at him. “My parents insisted I take some air. They said I looked peaked.”
Henry frowned. “With no chaperone? Surely they did not suggest you wander around the grounds unaccompanied?”
“Oh!” Miss Fairchild flushed, and her eyes slid away from his.
Was she lying? Perhaps she had a rendezvous planned with one of the other gentlemen?
“Yes, I intended to bring my friend, but she is busy, and I do feel so unwell,” Miss Fairchild said in a rush.
He studied her for a moment. Her skin was pink with a healthy glow, and she showed no sign of either fever or fatigue. “You appear perfectly well to me,” he said bluntly, hoping his rudeness would cause her to make excuses and leave.
She giggled at that and moved a step closer. “That is kind of you to say, Your Grace.”
Henry bit back another sigh. This was the last thing he needed. His every nerve was stretched taut from awaiting his unknown blackmailer, and yet here he was, trapped in idle conversation and a flirtation he most certainly did not welcome.
Charlotte would never be so brash, he thought and then chided himself for the comparison. It wasn’t fair to either woman.
“Would you not be more comfortable enjoying the sun from one of the drawing rooms?” he suggested, doing his best to remain patient. “I believe the west sitting room is particularly fine at this hour.”
Miss Fairchild hesitated, as if weighing his words, before fluttering her lashes once again in what she no doubt thought was a fetching manner. “But the gardens are ever so lovely at this time of day, are they not? I adore the scent of the roses.”
As though to prove her point, she rose to smell a bloom on the nearby trellis, angling her decolletage at him. He quickly looked away.
Struggling to maintain his composure, Henry resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder toward the grotto.
Every passing second increased his risk of missing the meeting and finding out who his blackmailer was and what they wanted.
It seemed he would simply have to directly request that Miss Fairchild leave the garden.
Scandalously rude, but effective. His mother would be horrified at such treatment of a guest, but what choice did he have?
Before he could do so, however, a rustling of skirts and low murmurs reached his ears. The arrival of a chaperone for Miss Fairchild, perhaps? He turned, plastering on a polite smile, accepting with a sinking of his stomach that he was not going to meet his mysterious correspondent this evening.
A group of women were approaching along the garden path leading to the grotto, obviously having decided on an early evening walk. They were mothers, mostly, though there were a few young ladies among them.
Including Charlotte.
Henry’s stomach dropped as he caught the flicker of surprise and disappointment in her gaze, as she looked from him to Miss Fairchild and back again. There was a question in her eyes, and he realized what this must look like. Especially as Miss Fairchild discreetly took a step closer toward him.
He had done nothing wrong, and yet he felt inexplicably guilty under Charlotte’s scrutiny. As though he had betrayed something unspoken between them.
Miss Fairchild’s mother was among the group, and the moment she laid eyes upon them, she let out a sharp gasp. “Harriet!” she exclaimed, unnecessarily loudly. “What are you doing out here alone?”
“We were merely conversing, Mother,” Miss Fairchild replied, a tinge of color in her cheeks.
She didn’t sound at all convincing, and Henry started to wonder if the entire thing had been staged. Miss Fairchild could have seen him leaving by the side door and cut him off near the grotto.
Lady Fairchild cast a swift glance between them, her expression shifting from shock to something more calculating as her eyes rested on Henry.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she gasped, a bejeweled hand flying to her ample bosom, “I do hope this is not a… compromising situation.”
Henry stiffened. “Certainly not, madam. I was out for a walk and came across Miss Fairchild quite unexpectedly. She says she feels unwell. I was just advising her that it is unseemly for her to be here without a chaperone. She said it was your idea for her to take a walk. Alone.”
Some of the other mothers exchanged knowing looks.
It was clear that for Lady Fairchild, this was an opportunity rather than a true scandal.
If she could claim her daughter had been alone with the duke, even for a moment, then there was a hint of impropriety.
And with just a shadow of doubt, she might well push for a match.
Refusing would make Henry look like the worst kind of rake.
He looked pleadingly at Charlotte, silently praying that she could see what was happening here. But she was avoiding his eyes, her complexion pale.
The other women in the group were not so easily swayed.
One of the older ladies, Lady Withersby, shook her head sharply, glaring at Lady Fairchild.
“I daresay nothing untoward has occurred. It is rather warm today. I should think Miss Fairchild merely wished to enjoy the breeze if she feels unwell. And really, Mary.” Lady Withersby sniffed disapprovingly.
“You should not be so remiss as to allow her to wander around willy-nilly, unaccompanied.”
Lady Fairchild opened and closed her mouth like a fish. The Withersbys were above her in the social pecking order—third cousins to the royal family—and there was little she could say.
Henry silently thanked the older lady for rescuing him.
Another woman, no doubt eager to keep her own daughters in the running, nodded. “Indeed. Lady Withersby is right. Besides, His Grace has confirmed that he only just came across Miss Fairchild. They are scarcely alone with us here in attendance.”
For a moment, a silent battle waged in the air, but eventually, Lady Fairchild relented. “Yes…. Yes, of course. Apologies, Your Grace. I am glad no misunderstanding has arisen.”
Henry resisted the urge to sigh in relief, instead nodding curtly at the Fairchild women. “If you will excuse me, ladies,” he said, inclining his head, “I have an appointment I must keep.” He risked a glance at Charlotte, but she had already turned her back and was walking briskly away.
There was no choice but to try to speak to her another time. Right now he had more pressing business.
He turned and walked quickly toward the grotto, hoping desperately that he had not missed his chance. But when he reached the designated spot, there was, as he expected, no one waiting. No shadowed figure lurked in the alcove. There was no whisper of movement among the trees.
If the blackmailer had ever been here, they weren’t now.
Henry cursed under his breath. Once again he had missed his chance to unravel this mystery.
His pulse hammered as he scanned the area, but it was clear that whoever had called him here was gone. Assuming they had ever intended to appear at all. He had to face the possibility that the author of the anonymous notes was simply playing with him, toying with him as a cat would a mouse.
Dread settled deep in his chest at the thought. If this was part of some wider plan to torment him, then what would they do next?