Chapter Twenty-one
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RUTCHESTER WAS AT breakfast and Dunrose wasn’t, but that didn’t strike Nothshire as anything all that out of the ordinary, as Dunrose often didn’t get out of bed until the afternoon.
Arthford was missing, too, however, and he didn’t know if that meant that Arthford had gone to the marchioness last night, if he’d stayed the night with her, and if he was, even now, already there.
They were meant to meet Champeraigne abominably early, however, at half past nine. He went upstairs to their bedchambers to seek them both after questioning Rutchester, who knew nothing about anything, having spent the entire night sulking after he’d thrown his fit with Dunrose’s staff. Rutchester, in many ways, was somewhat stunted, and Nothshire had thought this more than once. He behaved like an overgrown toddler sometimes. It was the reason he was so terrifying.
Arthford wasn’t in his bedchamber, but then neither was Dunrose, which struck him as odd. He could explain away Arthford, but not Dunrose.
He found Arthford’s valet, who said he’d been told not to tell him anything at all, and Nothshire said that was fine, of course, but perhaps the valet would like to explain that to the Duke of Rutchester.
“They’re in the attic,” said the valet immediately. “But if you tell him that I told you, I shall deny it.”
“The attic?” said Nothshire. “What would they be doing there?”
“I don’t know the particulars,” said the valet. “My master came to me in the midst of the night with blood all over his clothing, asking me to help him change and to clean the soiled clothing.”
“Blood?”
“He wasn’t wounded. It wasn’t his blood,” said the valet. “I have long ago learned not to ask too many questions when it comes to His Grace, so I didn’t.”
Nothshire went down to the breakfast parlor to collect Rutchester, and together they went into the attic.
Dunrose greeted them when they opened the door. Up here, the walls slanted, and the rooms were small and cramped. It had been designed for staff quarters, but now it wasn’t used at all. Dunrose was leaning against the wall. He was sans jacket, sans cravat, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He gave them a careless smile. “Wondered how long it’d take you to get up here. Thought you’d be here quicker, if you want to know the truth.”
“What is going on?” said Nothshire, pushing past him.
“He went to see her,” said Dunrose, “and then he came back and he was practically raving and he said that he wanted to go and find Penbrake. I went along to talk him out of it, truthfully, but I’m not really good at talking people out of things, it seems.” He shrugged.
“Oh, God in heaven,” said Nothshire, moving down the hallway, looking into rooms.
He found Arthford in the second room.
Penbrake was slumped on a bed, really just a bare mattress on a frame, seemingly unconscious. His arms were tied to the bedpost above his head. His face was bloody and swollen. He’d obviously been punched a few times. His nose might be broken. There was blood all over his clothing.
Arthford was seated in a chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked up at Nothshire. “No lectures. I won’t hear it.”
“We are meant to be going to Champeraigne right now,” said Nothshire.
“Didn’t kill him, I see,” said Rutchester from the doorway. “The lot of you, with the lack of follow-through.”
“I’m waiting,” said Arthford. “I need him to admit it, for one thing. And then to express regret. And then I shall kill him. But if I kill him before he does either of those things, it’s all for naught.”
Nothshire cast his gaze heavenward. What had he done to deserve this?
He glanced down at Penbrake and then at Arthford and then he pushed past Rutchester, back into the hallway. “Dunrose?”
“Yes?” said Dunrose.
“Go and send a servant to Champeraigne and tell him things have changed, and we need him here.”
“You can’t give him to Champeraigne until I’ve had my satisfaction from him,” called Arthford.
Nothshire called back, “The time to decide this was when I said we could call Champeraigne’s bluff. We were all in agreement that we would—”
“For me,” said Arthford. “We agreed to do it for me.”
“Is that why?” said Nothshire. “You really think every single one of us cares about defending the honor of your whore of a marchioness?”
“Don’t you dare call her that.” Arthford appeared in the doorway, hands clenched into fists.
Nothshire stared at Arthford. “Dunrose, go, please.”
Arthford started for Nothshire.
Rutchester wrapped an arm around his chest from behind and stopped him. “Simon,” he said softly.
Arthford turned to look at Rutchester. “Oliver, let go of me.”
“Can’t,” said Rutchester. “Benedict’s right, you know. We did not agree to this for you or for your marchioness.”
“Oh, fuck you all, then,” muttered Arthford, but he sagged against Rutchester, who let him go, and Arthford didn’t try to come at Nothshire again.
“Dunrose?” said Nothshire.
“He’s gone already,” said Rutchester.
Nothshire turned to look and Dunrose had, in fact, disappeared. He dragged a hand over his face. “All right, all right, it’s not ideal, I suppose, but we’ll claim ignorance. We will tell Champeraigne that we got his man, and that if he doesn’t like the way we did it, he should have been clearer in his directives. Champeraigne did indicate that you should not touch Penbrake, Simon, but we’ll cover for you. We’ll refuse to say who it was who roughed him up or brought him here and tied him to a bed. Not four, but one.”
“I want him dead,” said Arthford.
“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” said Nothshire.
Arthford rounded on Rutchester. “It’s quite convenient you chose now to decide to develop some kind of conscience.”
“That’s not what happened,” said Rutchester. “I’m just sick of doing your dirty work. Not four, but one, and I’m always the one.”
“You’re right,” said Nothshire. “We shouldn’t ask you to do those things, Oliver. I’m very sorry.”
Rutchester lowered his face, looking sulky again. “I don’t mean to be… I’m not a weakling about it, you understand, it’s just not fair.”
“I do,” said Nothshire, nodding.
Dunrose reappeared at the top of the stairs. “Erm, Nothshire?”
“Did you send the servant?”
“Well, yes, but then, as I was on my way back up, someone was at the door, and the servant was trying to get rid of her, but I recognized her as your viscountess—”
“What?” said Nothshire. “Patience is here?” He tore out of the attic, clambering down the steps even as the others yelled after him.
This entire morning could not get worse, could it? No, I shouldn’t have thought that, he thought. I’m tempting fate.
He stopped the first servant he found and wanted to know where the viscountess was, and discovered that—under Dunrose’s direction—she’d been put in a sitting room on the first floor, though the servant wasn’t sure what to do about her.
“We don’t have anything ready made for refreshments, nothing like what we’d offer a guest in the afternoon,” said the servant. “We are thinking about offering tea and there may be some biscuits, or we could take things from the breakfast parlor—”
“No, none of that matters,” he thundered and left the servant behind to go to the sitting room.
Arriving, he threw open the door.
She stood up from the chair where she had been perched. “Benedict!”
“What are you doing here?”
“What happened to Penbrake?” she said.
He groaned. “So, everyone at your brother’s house is out of their minds, I suppose. Did they leave Penbrake’s room a mess, signs of a struggle, all of that?”
“They,” she said. “I knew it wasn’t you. I knew you wouldn’t have gone and done that. Is he dead, though? Were you planning to kill him all along, because I can’t really make that make sense—”
“He’s not dead,” said Nothshire.
“Oh!” She put both hands against her chest, quite relieved.
He closed the distance between them and reached out for her. But then, he thought better of it, closed his hand, and lowered it. “You should not be here.”
She bit down on her bottom lip, abashed. “Apologies.”
He sighed.
“But I am now, so can you not tell me what is going on? Perhaps I can help. I can tell my brother that Penbrake isn’t dead or—” She scrunched up her nose. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t admit that I left the house or that I came here or that you are at all involved. Maybe I am no help.” A pause. “I should like to be, though. If I’m going to be your wife, I shall be the one person you can trust implicitly. And what benefits you benefits me, does it not?”
He hadn’t ever thought of a wife that way, as an asset, someone who could help him. He’d sort of always thought of a wife as another liability, some other responsibility, someone weak and helpless to depend upon him. The other dukes were not weak and helpless, but they did seem like a responsibility much of the time, and he had to look out for them. They were all of them damaged in various ways, but he was the one who seemed to have come out of it the most able to function, he thought. Well, Arthford was all right, but he had his weaknesses—case in point, the marchioness, which was why they were all in this pickle to begin with.
“Let me think on that,” he said. “Maybe you can help.” He sat down heavily on a chair in the sitting room. “I am going to tell you things that I cannot have you repeating, all right? Not to your maid, not to anyone.”
“I promise,” she said, sitting down too. “I had a stern talking to with Charlotte, but I think you already terrified her, and I want you to know that you can’t go around threatening people I care about like that, but that’s another discussion. We can save that.”
He smirked. She was charming, wasn’t she? Yes, he was quite badly gone for this woman, and he didn’t even feel sorry about it. “The Duke of Arthford is having a love affair with the Marchioness de Fateux.”
“Oh, who isn’t?” said Patience with a shrug.
He laughed, inclining his head. “All right, yes, that’s rather well known, her reputation.”
“She is also, however, very connected with Champeraigne, isn’t she? They are always together in that box of theirs at the opera. Or—well, I suppose it’s not theirs, is it, it belongs to some other man she’s bedding, but he has let her use it for years now. They are a fixture, though, her and Champeraigne, sitting in that box, whispering to each other, scheming things.”
“Yes, you have quite understood it accurately,” said Nothshire, “but the thing is, Arthford truly loves her, if you take my meaning. It’s not some dalliance for him. He is devoted to her.”
She furrowed her brow. “But she isn’t devoted back.”
“Well, that’s obvious to everyone except Arthford,” said Nothshire.
She nodded slowly.
“Apparently, Penbrake did something untoward with the marchioness. He drugged her and had his way with her, and Arthford says that’s a kind of ravagement, and I don’t disagree, but I also cannot summon the sort of righteous rage that Arthford has at the man. He thought we were going after Penbrake for a kind of reckoning. He assumed that Champeraigne was as outraged as he. But it seems Champeraigne is not at all interested in avenging the marchioness’s honor. We don’t know what he wants with him, but he specifically said that Arthford should not hurt Penbrake. When I told Arthford this, he got angry, and he’s taken matters into his own hands.”
“I see,” she said. “So, you’re in a position now where you have gone against Champeraigne, who won’t be pleased, and who holds a great deal of power over you, knowing your secrets. And where, in ceding to Champeraigne, your friend thinks you betrayed him.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” he said. “I have sent word for Champeraigne to come here, because there is no point in going to him, not when we have Penbrake under this roof. When he gets here, we have to deal with whatever his response is going to be.”
She regarded him. “I hesitate to say this, but have you never considered that perhaps you do not need to do the comte’s bidding? If you tell others what happened—”
“I have,” he said. “And it is true that it’s possible we might weather it. It would be socially disastrous, I think. No one would invite us to balls anymore. But in terms of there being any true repercussions? I doubt there would be. Someone would have to be angry enough with us to order us hung, and I don’t think anyone is. No one truly missed our fathers, certainly not their wives. Perhaps Dunrose’s grandmother, who is still alive, but beyond that, we are clear, I think.”
She nodded. “Just so. Why not, then?”
“The others don’t agree. We must all agree,” he said. “We are all in it together.”
“Well, if that was true, then Arthford shouldn’t have come and taken Penbrake out of my brother’s house!”
“Exactly right,” he said, throwing up his hands. “You see my perspective. It’s as if no one else does.”
She considered this. “What will he do, Champeraigne? Will he reveal your secret now?”
“I highly doubt it. Why ruin his best leverage against us? He extorts quite a bit of money from us as it is. If he tells, he cannot hold that over our heads. But he has other ways of making us sorry, I’m afraid. He knows a great deal about us. He knows things he has compelled us to do, smaller things, and he could reveal any number of our pettier crimes, even though many of them were done in his own service. He knows our weaknesses, and we all have them. Dunrose’s laudanum—he could interfere with Dunrose getting that and Dunrose is his puppet. He could manipulate the marchioness and make Arthford dance how he likes. I cannot enumerate all the things he could do, but there are many.”
“So, you must placate him,” she said. “And this is difficult to do when you don’t even know what he wants from Penbrake.”
“Exactly,” he said, and he had to say, he liked this, having someone to talk things through with.
“Well,” she said, “what if you were actually protecting Champeraigne by doing what you did to Penbrake?”
He sat up straight, shaking his head. “I don’t follow you.”
“I am saying, and this, of course, mind you, would require Penbrake being incapable of saying anything different, so I don’t know what I’m advocating you do to him, not precisely. I don’t wish to be advocating what I think I’m advocating. But if you say that Penbrake had designs to do Champeraigne harm and then you stopped him, well…?” She spread her hands.
He let out a little delighted laugh. “You’re more devious than I had given you credit, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not devious,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I suppose I’ve been having some practice at thinking about how to make things look a certain way while getting something else, what with scheming to have a child without getting married and the like.”
“It would work,” said Nothshire, nodding. “It would. But how did I uncover this thing? We haven’t even been near Penbrake. If I knew it all along, it would follow that I would have told Champeraigne before, wouldn’t it? So, I must have just now discovered it.”
“ I discovered it,” she said, with a little smile.
“You?”
“Well, your cover story was that you were going to call upon me, and that was going to get you into the house in the first place. So, it shouldn’t come as any surprise to Champeraigne that you and I are connected in some way, what way that is, he may have to infer. But I discovered it, and I had means to contact you, and you came to my brother’s house and acted decisively, to protect both Champeraigne’s interests and your own.”
“Yes,” said Nothshire, rubbing his chin. “Quite good. So, the only question now is, what was it Penbrake was doing?”