Chapter Nine
Gideon’s eyes narrowed on the widow. He had no intention of revealing details which could later be used to implicate him in treason.
“I have a question for you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. From where did these rumors spring?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“No? You, who have your finger on the pulse of the most powerful men and women in the nation, haven’t a clue?”
She lifted her chin incrementally. “I admit, I put out feelers.”
“And?”
“The information seemed to come straight from the Home Office.”
He considered his options. “What if I told you someone tried to frame me?”
“I’d say you have a very powerful enemy, indeed.”
He decided he’d learned all he could from her on that particular subject for now. Time to change tacks. “Tell me about Mrs. Barnes.”
A nearly indiscernible smile played at her mouth. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Barnes, or should I say, Mrs. Devereux? She came to me after friends recommended my services.”
“The Ladies’ Literary Society of London, I presume?”
“I see Mrs. Devereux has been forthcoming.”
“To a certain extent,” Gideon agreed. “Nevertheless, I wanted to hear the details of your involvement from your own mouth, as your name is high on the short list of those who may have betrayed me.”
He heard her sharp indrawn breath. “Why on earth would I betray you? I entered into your consortium because I trust in your ability to make money. Furthermore, I have no desire to dabble in treason.”
He was inclined to believe her. “Convince me. Why did you marry me off to Mrs. Barnes if you did not have secret, first-hand knowledge I had died?”
She spread her arms wide. “Why would I not? I had heard the rumors, and it was clear the insurance investigators had heard them, too. Whether or not they proved true remained to be seen. I knew only one thing for certain. I’d invested a great deal of money in your venture and it seemed unlikely I would see a dime of that money again if you were not part of the equation. Enter Mrs. Barnes.”
“Go on,” he said.
“When she told me she needed a husband, but did not want a husband, I thought of you immediately. I first had to ascertain she had the blunt to pay for such a distinguished groom.”
He snorted.
Her lips curved in a canny smile. “She did. Next, I asked myself, if you were innocent, what would draw you home, and the answer was simple. Nothing. You wouldn’t return so long as you were likely to hang as a traitor.”
“Enter Mrs. Barnes and our wedding in Calcutta,” Gideon said.
“Precisely. I set the date of the marriage so that it provided you with an alibi, making it impossible for you to have been both off the coast of Spain and cozying up to a new bride in Calcutta at the same time.”
“Very clever,” Gideon admitted.
“Yes. Not only did I recoup a fraction of my losses in one fell swoop with Mrs. Barnes’s fee, I also threw a tidy spanner into any accusation of your involvement in trading arms with the enemy.
“In short, if you were a traitor, I got some money back. If you weren’t, but died, I got some money back. And if you turned out to be innocent, I offered you a way to come home—and get the bulk of my money back.”
He gazed at her, impressed by her shrewd calculation. “What if, by doing so, you enabled a traitor to go scot-free?”
She placed her teacup and saucer on the tray. “What has the Crown ever done for me? On the other hand, you have been a good friend to me over the years, Devereux. I’d rather not see you hang.”
Her words touched him, but he knew her well enough to say with absolute certainty she would not thank him for expressing the sentiment overtly. “Why, Bessie, you flummox me.”
She snorted.
“I suppose I must take your name off the list of suspects,” he added. “At the very least, I can move it to the bottom.”
She huffed with laughter, then her expression sobered. “I would think the one who betrayed you obvious.”
Dirk Kennedy, no doubt. Gideon made no reply.
She nodded. “I see. You do not wish to believe it.”
He cleared his throat and, once again, changed the subject. “I assume you checked out my bluestocking wife before saddling me with her.”
She chuckled. “Of course. What can I tell you that you have not uncovered on your own? She is a widow, twenty-nine years of age, boasting a substantial inheritance. She hails from a remote, well-to-do village in Northumberland. She has a passion for scribbling in books and promoting unknown and controversial authors.”
Controversial? He had not known that, although, he couldn’t say the idea particularly surprised him.
“What of her late husband? What do know about him?”
She seemed intrigued by the question, and by the angle of her head, appeared to gaze at him through the netting of her cap.
He shifted in his seat, picked up the now-cold coffee, thought better of it, and set it back down.
“One Mr. Reginald Barnes, local gentry. Father was a nobleman’s spare. Family wealth, passed down. By all accounts, well-liked and quite dashingly handsome. She intimated they were promised from childhood.”
“Oh, yes, the beautiful bluestocking and her perfect husband.”
Her lips curved. “You find Mrs. Barnes pleasing?”
He scowled at the widow. “Of course. I’m not blind. She’s…” He broke off. He was hardly going to list the woman’s attributes. “Never mind that. She seems to have taken the notion of mourning her husband to the extreme. I simply wished to know why—to avoid any awkward situation, you understand.”
“Of course,” she said, far too smoothly.
Gideon slid her a suspicious look.
“I assume you refer to her atrocious gowns. I’m not sure her choice of clothing means what you think it does.”
“What in hell are you saying, Bessie? Speak plainly.”
“Are the frumpy gowns a show of mourning, or do they signify something else entirely?”
Gideon was losing patience. He had not come here to discuss the woman’s lack of fashion sense. “How did Mr. Barnes die?”
“A hunting accident, I believe. Died of a bullet wound, to be sure.”
As he could think of no further questions to ask, he rose to take his leave.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon rose as well and preceded him to the door. “Well, sir, what do you intend to do now?”
“I intend to discover who set me up.” He had not told her of the note he’d received, advising him of the date the cargo would arrive in Spain and warning him of possible subterfuge.
Whoever sent it had to know him well enough to predict he would make haste to try and avert any foul play.
Whoever sent it meant for him to die at sea, or at the very least, be branded a traitor. “And see my name cleared, of course.”
A sardonic smile played at her mouth. “That goes without saying, Devereux. I was asking about your wife.”
He thought of lithe woman with fae-blonde hair, imagined her intelligent, oft-laughing blue eyes and fine-boned face. The brazen woman who saw fit to help herself to everything he owned, while wearing dresses the lowliest of servants would spurn.
He also recalled with stunning clarity the awareness that sparked through him at the sight of her standing before his hearth.
“What do I intend? Obviously, I must keep her for the time being,” he replied in a carefully neutral tone as he stepped from the drawing room. “All should be well so long as she does not decide she wishes to remain married in truth.”
Her lips twitched. “I wouldn’t worry overly, Devereux.”
“No?”
“It took no small amount of convincing to get her to accept any sort of husband, dead or otherwise. She was quite vehement she did not want another one, absent one condition.”
Reluctant curiosity begged the question. “What condition is that?”
“She does not wish to marry again, save for love.”
Gideon snorted. “That rules me out.” Before he turned to follow the servant who had materialized from the shadows, he thought he heard the widow’s soft words. “We will see about that, Gideon Devereux.”
He did not look back.
Gideon deposited his phaeton with the groom in the mews behind his street and made his way to the front door of his town house.
He let himself in, waving Higgins off when he saw the butler hastening toward the foyer. “I can manage my own coat and gloves, Higgins.”
His long-time butler murmured his assent, but continued toward him. “Sir, a message arrived while you were out.”
“Oh?”
“From the duke, sir. I thought you’d want to know.” Higgins handed him the folded and sealed missive.
“Thank you.” He thumbed off his father’s seal, and unfolded the parchment, then scanned the brief missive.
The duke was in town, as Grayson had predicted, and had summoned him. There was no reason he couldn’t go now. On the other hand, he was supposedly a recently married man. “Is my wife about?”
A pleased gleam shone in the servant’s faded eyes. “Aye, sir, she’s in her…” He broke off, his expression perplexed. “I don’t know what to call it, sir.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Mrs. Devereux has converted one of the upper guest chambers into a…” His eyes lit with inspiration. “An atelier. Last door on the—”
A feminine shriek sounded from the vicinity of the second floor, followed by an unladylike epithet. His English rose wife had an interesting vocabulary.
Gideon bounded up the stairs, then raced down the corridor toward the aforementioned chamber.
He flung the door open—to utter chaos.
The wardrobe, escritoire and bed which had previously occupied the bulk of the chamber had been removed.
A polished wooden table and chair—from his library, he was fairly sure—had been set before the window.
The shutters were folded back, and the gauze privacy curtains billowed in the afternoon breeze.
Fresh air and sunshine streamed in, illuminating mounds of papers, leather-bound tomes, notebooks, journals, newspapers—and in the center of it all, Gwen.
In her hand she clutched a document, which she studied wearing a furious scowl—and the same uninspired dress from this morning. Wisps of fine, blonde hair had escaped her once-neat bun, which now hung askew at her nape. She did not appear to have noticed he’d entered.