Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“You’re still awake,” Leo noted, removing his gloves with care.
The Stagmore townhouse blazed with light despite the lateness of the hour when his carriage finally delivered him to its imposing entrance. Dismissing his bemused butler’s offer of assistance, he made his way directly to his study, only to find it already occupied.
Beatrice sat before the fire, a leather-bound volume open in her lap, though her gaze was fixed on the dancing flames rather than the pages. She looked up at his entrance, her expression a curious mix of relief and apprehension.
“I found sleep… elusive,” she replied, closing the book and setting it aside. Leo wondered if she chose that word because she did not want to admit that she was waiting for him. “Did you discover anything of value?”
The question was posed with such direct simplicity that he found himself momentarily disarmed. The careful games of advance and retreat that characterized their usual interactions seemed suddenly inappropriate in the face of her evident concern.
“And what would you offer in exchange for such information, Duchess?” he asked, the teasing words emerging despite his earlier resolution to maintain a businesslike approach. “Information of such value surely deserves some form of… compensation.”
Her eyes narrowed, the flicker of disappointment in her expression sending an unexpected pang through his chest.
“Must you always twist our interactions into something improper? Can we not simply converse as reasonable adults with a common purpose?”
Leo studied her for a moment, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggested her sleeplessness was not a recent development.
“Where is the fun in that?” he countered, though the words lacked their usual edge. “Do you never seek amusement, Duchess? Do you find no pleasure in the small provocations that enliven tedious circumstances?”
“Not with rakes,” she replied promptly, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a reluctant twitch of amusement.
He moved closer, drawn by the motion.
“Oh, my dear,” he murmured, his voice dropping to the register that had proven effective in their previous encounters, “the most exquisite amusement is to be found with rakes. Or have you forgotten our… encounter in the library?”
The flush that rose to her cheeks was all the answer he needed, the memory of their kiss clearly as vivid in her mind as it remained in his own.
“You’re exceedingly pretty when you blush for me,” he observed, gratified by the deepening of her color at his words.
“Enough,” she huffed, rising from her chair with sudden determination. “Will you tell me what you discovered, or must I endure further provocation?”
Leo sighed, recognizing the futility of teasing her when her expression was set in such determined lines.
“Very well. Miss Finley appears to have abandoned her position at the Gilded Lion approximately a fortnight ago and subsequently abandoned her lodgings three days after. The circumstances suggest she feared for her safety.”
“Her safety?” Beatrice echoed, her momentary irritation giving way to genuine concern. “From whom?”
“That remains unclear, though the mention of Lord Westbury’s name elicited a most illuminating reaction from a maid at the establishment. It seems my cousin may have connections to the Gilded Lion that extend beyond casual patronage.”
“We must return to her lodgings,” Beatrice declared, her expression resolute. “Perhaps there’s a clue, an indication of where she might have gone.”
“There’s nothing there,” Leo said, shaking his head. “The landlord made that quite clear. Besides, I have no intention of involving you in what is clearly becoming a dangerous investigation.”
Her chin lifted in the now-familiar gesture of defiance that he found both irritating and oddly compelling.
“I will not be relegated to ornamental status while you undertake all meaningful action, Your Grace. I am as invested in Philip’s whereabouts as you are, and potentially more knowledgeable about his relationship with Anna. ”
“The establishments and areas we must search are no place for a duchess,” Leo insisted, stepping closer until merely inches separated them. “This is not a matter of convention or propriety, but of genuine concern for your safety.”
“My safety is my own concern,” she retorted, refusing to yield ground despite his proximity. “I am not some delicate hothouse flower to be sheltered from every uncomfortable breeze.”
Their faces were now close enough that he could detect the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair, could observe the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
The proximity awakened the same awareness that had characterized their encounter in the library, a tension that hummed between them like a plucked string.
“This is not a request, Duchess,” he stated, his voice lowering to ensure she understood the finality of his decision. “You will remain here, where your safety is assured.”
For a moment, he thought she might continue to argue, her eyes flashing with indignation that transformed her from merely beautiful to utterly breathtaking.
Then, with a swiftness that caught him entirely off guard, she turned on her heel and left, the door closing behind her with a decisive click.
Leo stared at the empty space where she had stood, feeling that he had somehow managed to lose this skirmish despite his apparent victory.
When the morning light filtered through the heavy brocade curtains of the Stagmore townhouse, Beatrice was already awake, her mind having granted her little respite during the night.
The soft knock at her door prompted her to straighten her posture in the window seat, where she had been watching the street below with unseeing eyes.
“Enter,” she called, expecting her lady’s maid with a breakfast tray.
Instead, Mrs. Winters, the townhouse’s keeper, appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral as she bobbed a perfect curtsy.
“Good morning, Your Grace. His Grace asked me to inform you that he has departed on business and does not anticipate returning until this evening.”
“I see,” Beatrice replied, masking her irritation with practiced composure. “Did His Grace mention the nature of this business?”
“No, Your Grace. He left shortly after dawn.” The housekeeper’s tone suggested this was not unusual behavior for the master of the house.
“Thank you, Mrs. Winters. Please have my breakfast served in the morning room.”
After the housekeeper departed, Beatrice moved to her dressing table, examining her reflection with critical assessment.
The woman who gazed back at her appeared composed, every inch the duchess that Society expected.
Yet beneath that serene exterior, a storm of frustration and determination brewed.
“So, this is how it shall be,” she murmured to her reflection. “He acts while I am expected to wait demurely for his return.”
Her husband’s high-handed dismissal the previous evening still rankled.
Despite the practical nature of their arrangement, she had begun to hope they might forge a partnership of equals.
Instead, he had reverted to treating her as a decorative accessory, useful for maintaining appearances but unsuitable for matters of substance.
By the time Emilia had dressed her in a morning gown of dove-gray silk, Beatrice had formulated her plan.
If Leo insisted on excluding her from the search for Philip and Anna, she would simply need to make her own inquiries through alternative channels.
After a perfunctory breakfast, she penned a brief note requesting her carriage be prepared. Within the hour, she found herself being conveyed through London’s fashionable streets toward a destination that would have raised eyebrows in certain circles—the residence of the Marquess of Tillfield.
“The Duchess of Stagmore to see Lord Tillfield,” she announced to the startled butler who answered the door. “On a matter of some urgency.”
The butler’s hesitation was palpable. “Your Grace! I… His Lordship is not accustomed to receiving visitors at this hour, particularly—”
“Female visitors. Yes, I’m quite aware,” Beatrice interrupted with uncharacteristic brusqueness. “Please inform him that I request a private audience regarding a matter of mutual concern.”
Without another word, the butler bowed and ushered her into a tasteful drawing room, promising to alert his master immediately.
The Marquess appeared remarkably quickly, his usual languid elegance somewhat disheveled, suggesting he had been hastily roused from late morning slumber.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow that managed to be both formal and slightly ironic. “What an unexpected pleasure. When my butler mentioned a duchess at my door before noon, I assumed he had overindulged in my port.”
“Lord Tillfield,” Beatrice acknowledged, declining to sit when he gestured toward a chair. “I apologize for the unconventional timing of my visit, but circumstances require discretion.”
“Discretion?” His eyebrows rose with theatrical precision. “Now you have my undivided attention. Please continue, though perhaps you might sit? Standing conversations always strike me as unnecessarily taxing.”
Beatrice hesitated before relenting, arranging her skirts as she perched on the edge of an elegantly upholstered chair. “I need information regarding my husband’s whereabouts. I believe you accompanied him to the Gilded Lion last night.”
The Marquess’s expression shifted, surprise briefly replacing his practiced nonchalance. “Your Grace, whatever would give you the impression that I—”
“Please do not insult my intelligence, Lord Tillfield,” Beatrice interrupted. “Philip is my friend as well as His Grace’s cousin. If he is in danger, I cannot sit idly by while others determine his fate.”
For a moment, the Marquess merely studied her with an assessing gaze that belied his reputation for frivolity.
“Leo will have my head for this,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.