Chapter 20
“Thank you,” Cecilia nervously slid a hand down to smooth her olive gown as she looked at the door to Lady Jane’s demure, French-style chalet in Kent.
The journey had taken less than an hour when Cecilia had decided on what she truly wanted to get from this meeting. As she mounted the steps, she wondered if she should have asked Cassian for help, but no.
This is my battle.
After she knocked, a footman let her in and took her coat. A butler met her and led her upstairs to a parlor. The parlor was paneled in dark wood, with gilt-framed portraits on the walls.
The understated opulence of the room was highlighted by its simple blue damask wallpaper and white trimming, brass chandelier, and an ormolu clock on a mantle above a fireplace.
The table had been immaculately set; against the backdrop of snowy linen, silver gleamed, and crystal sparkled, elegant floral arrangements adding color and fragrance to the ambiance.
“Your Grace,” Lady Jane stood, her shot silk gown of periwinkle blue clung to her flawless figure. “Welcome. I hope the journey was not too taxing.”
“Not at all,” Cecilia replied. “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you,” Jane replied, “Please sit. Lady Catherine is on her way.”
A maid came, greeting them, and poured their tea while Cecilia asked, “I suppose I set up this meeting because I feel it is high time something is done to stem the damage Whitmore has done to freshly debuted women, including myself. Not once have I ever approached him with anything—” she wrinkled her nose “—sexual.”
“Which,” Lady Jane sighed, “if anyone had a speck of loyalty and sense would never believe, but I suppose the ladies of the ton are happy to yank the rug out from a fellow lady that, in their eyes, did not deserve what she had.”
Cecilia winced. “Did people really think that way all this time?”
“Yes,” Lady Jane replied. “I can speak from experience, as they did it to me when I was with Whitmore. You, however, were too pure to think someone would try to undermine you. It’s called the marriage mart for a reason, dear.”
“Well, I guess I took that burden off my would-be-saboteur’s hands,” Cecilia sighed. “Nevertheless, I am still in a conundrum. I don’t know what to do to stop his maliciousness. Did he ever accuse you of being a… a tart?”
“The angel of the ton would not dare,” Lady Jane said lightly, but Cecilia was confused about the heavy sarcasm in her tone. “Not in public anyhow.”
Frowning, Cecilia asked, “What do you mean?”
“Gabriel courted me when he was twenty-two,” she said. “And coming into his own as many lords do and with that—” she reached for a stack of letters, “—was sewing his wild oats.
“At first, he was the perfect gentleman, but months into our courtship, he began to pen requests,” Lady Jane continued.
“Requests,” Cecilia echoed. “Like what?”
Unfolding an old letter, Lady Jane handed it to her. “See for yourself.”
Curious, Cecilia spotted a familiar hand, the overly elaborate loops and swoops of Gabriel’s writing.
That was familiar. What was not familiar was the salacious content Gabriel had written.
Only two passages in, her skin was burning down to her toes, and she finally set the letter aside, purely uncomfortable.
She swallowed. “I… I was not aware he thought like that. Not once had he ever approached me like that.”
“That is the thing about Gabriel,” Lady Jane cut into her orange cake. “He is a master of two faces, and when he realized that being a Duddering Rake would not get him the attention he wanted, he changed into the Paragon of London, and quickly enough that no one noticed.”
She sipped her cooling tea. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you keep these letters? Surely, your husband would find them upsetting.”
“I kept them because I knew one day someone would see through the veneer Whitmore has and bring him to account. As for Liam,” Lady Jane smiled. “He is not one to grow jealous over some old paper.”
Setting the cup down, Cecilia sighed. “As incriminating as that is, I am not sure whether it can help me. He can always claim it is a lie, and if published, it will hurt you more than him. You know how the double standard with women is, doubly so when facing a Duke.”
A knock from the doorway had both of them turning as Lady Catherine stepped in, her dark hair piled high on her head, and her lovely violet traveling dress had a powerful, masculine edge to it as it was styled à la militaire.
Her eyes were lowered. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I know how you can show the world how much of a hypocrite Rutherford is.”
Lady Jane frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”
Taking her sweet time to sit and have her tea made, her smile was heavily conspiratorial. “In the early days, it was rumored that Gabriel once fathered a son by a maid he dismissed and moved to Oxford.”
A feather could have knocked Cecilia over. She blinked once, twice, reached for the teapot, but Lady Jane took it from her as her hand was quaking like a ship in the middle of a storm.
Stunned, she blurted, “Pardon?”
“It is no longer spoken much, but it is almost certainly verifiable,” Lady Catherine continued. “That might be your smoking gun, my dear.”
Shaking her head, Cecilia said, “It sounds… petty. I cannot do something so underhanded.”
“I can,” Catherine said easily. “Or do you want me to tell you about the hell he gave my husband when he wanted to expand his business? Whitmore instructed everyone to avoid him as if he carried the plague, simply for spite against me.”
This time, Cecilia’s jaw dropped, “What? Are you—are we talking about the same Gabriel here?”
“We are,” Lady Jane nodded resolutely. “And it is about time someone exposed him as the true danger he is. You cannot handle a barking dog with kid gloves. You need to bark louder.”
Cecilia sighed once more. “I appreciate the effort, but isn’t that too far?”
“And the harm he and his new intended are doing to you is not?” Lady Jane arched a brow.
“I appreciate that you are a pacifist, Your Grace, but at times, one cannot turn the cheek or else others too will be hurt. If I had never done so many years ago, you would never have been in this position. No, you need to show your teeth now, and not slink away and let them win.”
Her stomach roiled. “But this?”
“I know it is unsettling, but this will shut him down,” Catherine interjected. “The man is accusing you of something he has done himself. Doesn’t that burn you to your core?”
“It does…” Cecilia admitted.
Lady Jane reached over the table and rested her hand on Cecilia’s. “Gabriel did this to himself—it is only fair that he finally faces his comeuppance.”
She is right.
After a long breath, she asked, “How do we find this woman, and how do we go about this without damaging her too?”
Arriving home in the deepening dusk, Cecilia learned that Cassian was away in the town on business, and while she wondered if that business had to do with the mayor and his daughter, she forced herself to trust that Cassian would be respectful.
“Please arrange a bath for me,” Cecilia told her maid as she plucked her gloves off, “and then, a light supper.”
As her maid helped her out of the traveling gown and into her silken robe, she wandered into her makeshift library while waiting for the bath to be readied.
There were a few trunks she had not looked through yet, and to pass the time, she plucked one up—it was surprisingly light—and snapped the locks. Peering into the bottom, she plucked out a bag and a folded… board?
“What is this?” she murmured to herself.
Peering at it, she spotted the brass hinges at the sides. She gently opened it to unfold a wonderful chess table, the playing board made up of ebony and satin wood squares, with storage compartments for the chess pieces.
“It is gorgeous,” she breathed as she tipped the bag of pieces; a knight slipped into her hand. But this was not a typical knight piece with the horse head.
This was a miniature sculpture of a horse rearing on its hind legs while a knight in armor sat atop it holding a lance. The white counterpart was nearly identical.
“Your Grace,” Abigail said from the doorway. “Your bath is ready.”
Setting the bag down, Cecilia followed her maid to the bathroom, and soon enough she was sinking into a relaxing bath in hot lavender and citrus-scented suds.
She rested her head against the towel draped over the edge of the tub as Abigail washed her hair. She sluggishly lifted her head to allow her hair to be rinsed, then, as her hair was wrapped, she drifted into a doze.
Cecilia found herself on the edge of a dock, the sky on the horizon dark and foreboding. A ship was pulling away from the dock, and her eyes locked on Cassian; he was on the bow of the ship, his dark clothes a contrast against the wood behind him.
His face was staid under his hand, while the tails of his jacket fluttered in the wind. His face did not betray any emotion as the ship pulled away, and her heart sank.
She then felt herself falling backward and hitting the water over the edge of the pier. The cold surged into her mouth and nose, and the light dimmed the further she sank—
Gasping, Cecilia snapped up from the water where she had sunk two inches under the surface and coughed violently.
“Your Grace!” Abigail dashed into the room, her expression frantic. She dropped to the side of the tub and began gently smacking Cecilia’s back. “Are you all right?”
Numbly, she nodded and then sucked in a deep breath. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Let me help you up,” Abigail said, “I don’t think His Grace will be pleased to find that you drowned in two feet of water under my watch.”
Amused, Cecilia replied, “I agree.”
Dressing in a nightgown, a slip of pink silk this time, and her white wrapper, she ate her light supper and then went back to her library. She lit every lamp, then settled the chessboard on the table and took a seat.