Chapter Ten
Tony did not come home for dinner. The duke did not notice his absence, so maybe it was not such an unusual occurrence. Lucinda was starting to regret her argument with Tony at the exhibition.
After dinner, she and Marianne practiced at the pianoforte and played with Sasha, while the duke addressed business in his study and the dowager duchess read a book by the fire until it was time to retire. A rare night off from the social whirl.
Once May had readied her for bed, Lucinda lay staring up at the canopy.
She had perhaps been a little too harsh on Tony.
She had let her frustration bubble to the surface.
Or was it that she worried that if Tony’s behavior persuaded Dunstan to be no longer interested, there would be no other gentlemen worth setting her cap for?
That her chances of getting a husband would be reduced to nothing.
She should have been more grateful to Tony for taking her on at all.
She was grateful, and she was scared. He could, she decided, tell the duke that they had a falling out and have her shipped off to Ashtonvale, never to have another season, or indeed see Tony again. She could not let that happen.
The thought of never seeing him again gave her a strange, empty feeling in her chest, in her heart.
The worry that he could so easily send her away, even if he had given no indication he would, leached into her very bones.
She knew she was imagining the consequences of something that might not happen but could not help the irrational fear she felt.
It was a soul-deep desperation she could not control.
She got out of bed and wrapped her shawl around her and groped around for her slippers in the dark.
She needed a distraction. Perhaps the book Marianne had recommended.
It was still in the parlor. She lit a candle and made her way downstairs.
She met a footman in the foyer, and he opened the door for her.
She quickly found the book and went to make her way back upstairs when the light down the hall caught her eye.
Curiosity made her feet move and before she knew it, she was standing in the doorway to Tony’s study.
He had his back to her. Heat flowed through her body at the sight before her.
He was naked from the waist up. Her breath hitched.
Her lungs began to burn from holding her breath.
His broad shoulders tapered into a slim waist. His skin glowed in the candlelight. She bit her lip and watched on.
He moved about the room and then returned to the trunk at the side of the room.
She had never seen a man’s naked torso before except in a sculpture, certainly not in real life.
Tony had nice arms, strong arms. Muscles rippled as he threw a shirt over his head and pulled it down.
He ran a hand through his hair and poured himself a drink.
His breeches were dirty, as were his stockings, and he had kicked off his shoes.
He was a man comfortable with his body and his surroundings, and she was invading his privacy.
She backed out quietly and tiptoed back to the stairs.
Halfway up, she stopped when he strode down the hallway.
He glanced up, saw her, saw her book, bowed, and went into the parlor.
No greeting, no charging up the stairs to kiss her.
So, he was still angry with her. Growling, she stomped up the remaining stairs, forgetting that everyone was asleep.
In her room, she threw the book on the bed and burst into tears.
This was not what she wanted. Lucinda knew it was irrational.
As beautiful as Ashtonvale sounded, she did not want to be banished there.
She was just starting to find her feet here, her voice.
Although so far, it had not worked to her advantage.
She was an idiot to think this marriage mart foolishness would guarantee her a husband.
Was she even worthy of a husband? Would she even make a good wife?
She had no experience with men or children.
Maybe this was all a mistake, and her dreams were nothing more than fanciful wishes.
Oh, but she wanted the fairytale. If wishes were fishes, as Miss Covington would always say when someone complained.
The time for wishing was over. If she wanted a life of her own making, she would have to work for it, fight for it.
This was the third ball in as many days, and Tony was heartily sick of them.
He was tired of watching Lucinda dance with men he could barely tolerate.
He knew that if he commented on the gentlemen, Lucinda would react by giving him her hands-on-hips stance and that eye roll—one he’d seen far too often this week.
He had lost her trust, and that was entirely his own fault.
Her questions were always the same. Were they murderers or wanted debtors?
Marianne, too, had sided with Lucinda. Had he lost his sister, too?
This ball was in full swing and there was much scandal broth being poured for all who were interested.
Normally, such gossip did not tempt Tony to linger, but as it was about Lucinda, he suddenly was listening carefully.
To any casual observer, he would look like he was just moving about the room, but, in fact, he was gathering information.
More surprising was to find it was the older set that was talking the most about her.
Why had she suddenly appeared, and had she really been stuck at some school?
Was she truly Foxton’s daughter? This one surprised him.
Just one glance at her hair should have been sufficient evidence.
Was she some imposter, simply husband hunting?
Did she really have a decent dowry, or was it all a ruse?
Had she pulled the wool over the eyes of the entire Ashton family?
His mother poked him with her fan. “You have not danced with either your sister or Lucinda at the last two balls. What is going on with you?”
“Nothing. they no longer need me to dance with them as their dance cards are full.”
“You have been a closed book since the exhibition. Did you say something insensitive, dear?”
If only you knew. “We had a difference of opinion, that is all.”
“Balderdash, my boy. Lucinda is a forgiving young lady. You must have said something awful.”
“Truly, Mother, there is nothing for you to worry about.”
“Tell me you did not tell her the rumors about her father. Oh, do not look so surprised. I hear the gossip too, you know.”
“What have you heard?”
“They are debating whether or not he is really dead and if he is dead, how did he die? Worse, they are questioning Lucinda’s claim as his daughter, even with the hair. I am troubled by this turn. I do not like it, I tell you, I do not like it.”
“I heard similar things. Please try and shield Lucinda from hearing the rumors until I can determine any truth to them.”
“Of course, but, my dear, what if there is no truth to find?”
“Lucinda is who she says she is. Why would Markham go to such lengths to create a lie?”
“Perhaps she is his stepsister born out of wedlock and he wanted to avoid scandal?”
“Mother, really. Your imagination knows no bounds. I know Markham; he would never try to dupe me.”
His mother studied him for a few moments and nodded. “I will take your word on that then. I have become quite attached to her and do not want to be disappointed if she is not who she says she is.”
“Do you think she is lying?”
“No. I do not. I fear her confidence will be shattered if she thinks others do not believe who she is. In the meantime, can you please apologize for whatever stupid thing you said to her? She has been miserable for days.”
He was miserable, too. “As you wish, Mother.”
“That is my boy. Make it soon for all our sakes.”
“On the topic of apologies, perhaps you should remind your eldest son that saying things out of turn is not very nice.”
“Warrington has been so busy lately; I am sure he did not mean what he said. You should see the amount of mail that comes and goes from his office. It is excessive.”
“So, because he is head of the family, he can tell tales about me, and it be dismissed out of hand?”
“What tales?”
“He said I was a dullard, Mother. He told the girls that I hated art, horse riding, and reading, for heaven’s sake.”
“He did not say it quite like that, but I understand it was not appropriate in front of your ward or sister. I will talk to him.”
“Thank you. Now, I must take my leave.”
“But you have not danced?”
“Tomorrow, I promise.” He pecked her on the cheek and made his leave.
Beckett was in the hack waiting for him as instructed. “Well, m’lord, ain’t you got yourself into a right pickle.”
Tony frowned. “Depends what kind of pickle you mean.”
“Our lovely Miss Sterling and her pa.”
“Oh, that pickle.” She was his problem, but Beckett knew that.
“Her pa, Foxton. He were a right dunderhead. Got ’imself into something he shoulda kept his fingers out of and it got him kill’d.”
“Well, yes, we know he is dead, but was he murdered or was it by his own hand? The gossip is all over the ton it seems. Everyone has an opinion on the matter.”
“That be the puzzle, eh? Coulda been the Prussians that did it or maybe not.”
“Well, he must have done something foolish.”
“Stafford, he weren’t happy when he found out who her pa was.”
“It was not a secret to my knowledge.” Tony was starting to get a bad feeling about this conversation.
“I heard ’is body was not in a good state. Some say Foxton were tortured; some say he looked to ’ave been poisoned. Either way, it were not a kind death.”
“Strange. I could find nothing in the old newspapers around that time about his death. He simply disappeared.”
“Anyone would think they were trying to cover it up or at least keep it quiet like, wouldn’t you say, m’lord?”
Tony nodded. “Stafford. He must have known.”
“It were before ’is time he said.”
It was a terrible thing to have a whole life swept under the carpet like one never existed. What the hell had Foxton done?
“You know what rumors are like, m’lord. Once it gets back to the wrong people, lord knows what they will think or do. I doubt they will bother but…” He shrugged.
“Damn and blast it, Beckett. How am I going to keep this from her? She will hear the gossip eventually and be hurt we kept it from her. Either way, it could destroy any fond memories she has left of her father.”
“True, m’lord, but word of warning, you better to tell ’er before the gossipmongers do.”
“What’s my instruction from Stafford?”
“He thinks Foxton stole something important, something very valuable. You need to find out what she knows.”
What was he to do about this situation? “Leave it with me. I will ask her.”
“All right then, I will be off. You know where to find me.” He thumped the roof of the hack with a gloved fist and jumped out before it had even come to a full stop.
Beckett melted into the darkness before Tony could blink.
Beckett was London’s shadows, its dank alleys and worn cobbles.
He was like an old tenement house: There was a slight lean to him but somehow, against all odds, he still stood proud decades later.
Like smoke, he came and went in an instant only to linger on the breeze to remind you he had been there at all.