Chapter Two The Duke Who Came Demanding
For several years, Sebastian Rookwood, Duke of Halgrave, had believed himself beyond the reach of surprise.
It was not that life had been kind enough to leave him unshaken.
Quite the contrary. He had inherited a dukedom at an age when other men were still permitted to mistake arrogance for character, had buried a father with whom duty had been easier than affection, had seen estates mismanaged beneath the polish of old title, debts disguised beneath ancestral dignity, tenants fearful of a steward who had misunderstood authority for license, and relations who arrived at funerals with mourning bands on their sleeves and calculations behind their eyes.
He had learned early that shock was a luxury.
A man might feel it later, in private, with the door locked and the lamp low.
He did not show it before servants, rivals, creditors, solicitors, or women who looked at him as though his title were merely another lie society had agreed to tell.
And yet Miss Marianne Vale had surprised him.
Not by her accusation alone. He had heard worse.
Society had a talent for saying cruel things softly and cowardly things behind fans.
He had endured whispers about Evangeline for years, each one wrapped in pity, speculation or moral regret.
Poor Lady Evangeline. Such a pity. So high-spirited.
So easily led. Such a trial for the family.
And the Duke, of course, had done what he could.
Or had he? One never knew with men so cold.
No, it was not the substance of Miss Vale’s words that struck him. It was their precision.
Then perhaps, Your Grace, you should have listened when she tried to speak.
There were accusations designed to wound broadly, in the hope that some part of them might land. Miss Vale’s had not been of that kind. Hers had found the hidden place directly, as though she had been standing for years with her hand upon the latch of a room he had thought no one else knew existed.
Sebastian did not move. Had he moved, he might have crossed the study and taken the packet from her hands, and though he was angry enough to want it, he was not fool enough to mistake violence for authority.
The room was too small, too crowded with dead Lady Theodosia’s presence, too thick with watching female eyes.
Miss Vane stood behind the desk like a judge who had not yet declared the court in session.
The housekeeper remained by the door, all stiff cap and indignation, as though one word from him would have her ordering him into the street.
And Miss Vale, who ought by every rule of rank, sex and station to have lowered her gaze after speaking so unforgivably, did nothing of the kind.
She stood near the window, holding his sister’s name in her hands, and looked at him with neither triumph nor apology.
That angered him more than insolence would have done.
Insolence he could have dismissed. Fear he could have managed. Tears he could have endured with the practised courtesy of a man who had spent too many years watching women weep over matters he could not repair.
But composure — her composure — was intolerable.
“You presume a great deal, Miss Vale,” he said.
His voice did not rise. His father had taught him that raised voices were for men uncertain of obedience. Sebastian had discarded many of the old Duke’s lessons, but not that one.
Miss Vale’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the packet. Had he not been watching for weakness, he would have missed it.
“I remember a great deal, Your Grace.”
“Memory is not evidence.”
“No,” she replied. “But neither is rank.”
The housekeeper drew a breath that sounded almost like admiration badly disguised as horror.
Miss Vane’s gaze moved from Miss Vale to Sebastian. “This conversation will proceed with civility, or it will not proceed at all.”
Sebastian looked at her then, and for the first time since entering Lantern House allowed himself to consider the woman who had inherited the place.
Miss Helena Vane was not like her aunt, if the old stories of Lady Theodosia were to be trusted.
Lady Theodosia Vane had been famous in certain circles for dominating dinner tables, committees and bishops with equal vigour.
She had been large in person, larger in opinion, and wholly indifferent to masculine discomfort.
Her niece possessed no such obvious force.
She was slender, dark-clad, almost austere, with a face that betrayed little and eyes that missed less.
There was no theatricality in her. That made her more dangerous, not less.
“I did not come here to be insulted,” Sebastian said.
“No,” Miss Vane answered. “You came here to issue a demand. The distinction is not as flattering as you appear to suppose.”
Had any man said it, Sebastian would have ended the interview.
Had any woman of his own circle said it, he might have considered it evidence of breeding sharpened by boredom.
But here, in this house with its locked desks and female silences and his sister’s initials lying upon old paper, the words did not behave like mere impertinence. They behaved like a boundary.
He had encountered too few of those in women’s houses. Or perhaps that was untrue. Perhaps he had encountered them often and been trained not to notice unless they inconvenienced him.
The thought irritated him because it sounded like something Miss Vale might say.
He removed his gloves with care, finger by finger, and laid them with his hat upon the nearest chair.
“Very well. You wish civility. I shall give you facts. A ledger belonging to the Halgrave estate disappeared some years ago. It contained private entries related to my sister, Lady Evangeline Rookwood, and to certain settlements drawn before her illness. Three days ago, I received a letter informing me that Lady Theodosia Vane had hidden it in this house. The same letter warned that if I did not retrieve it, the name of Rookwood would be destroyed.”
Miss Vale’s expression did not alter, but he saw the intelligence quicken in her eyes.
“Anonymous?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Written by hand?”
“Blocked capitals.”
“Delivered?”
“To my London house.”
“When?”
“Near midnight.”
“By whom?”
“The footman saw no one.”
“And you came here because an unsigned threat told you to?”
He looked at her coldly. “I came here because Lady Theodosia Vane involved herself in my sister’s affairs while my sister was alive, because certain papers did vanish after Evangeline’s disgrace, and because I have spent years searching for what was taken.”
The words were out before he had decided to reveal so much.
Miss Vane heard it. So did Miss Vale.
“You have searched for years?” Miss Vale asked.
Something in her tone changed. Not softened. He would not have forgiven softness. But she had moved from accusation to attention.
“Yes.”
“Publicly?”
“No.”
“Why?”
There it was again. A question like a blade slipped between ribs. Not loudly asked. Not dramatically. Simply placed where it would do most damage.
Sebastian turned away from the window’s weak light and looked at the portrait above the mantel. Sir Edmund Vane, whoever he had been, watched the room with painted resignation. Fortunate man, Sebastian thought. Death excused one from answering women’s questions.
“Because public searches require public explanations,” he said.
“And your sister’s name would have suffered?”
“My sister’s name had already suffered.”
“Then perhaps it could also have been defended publicly.”
“Miss Vale,” Miss Vane said, more sharply this time.
But Sebastian lifted a hand. He did not know why. Perhaps because he would rather meet the accusation directly than have it removed for propriety’s sake, like a knife politely taken from a dinner table.
“No. Let her speak. She has clearly formed an opinion.”
Miss Vale lowered the packet to the desk, though she kept one hand upon it. “I have formed several.”
“I had gathered as much.”
“Few of them are flattering.”
“Flattery is plentiful elsewhere.”
“Then you will not miss mine.”
It was not wit precisely. It had too much iron in it.
Yet despite himself, despite the anger that still beat with unpleasant steadiness beneath his ribs, Sebastian felt the faintest spark of something dangerously like appreciation.
Miss Vale did not chatter. She did not perform.
She did not toss cleverness into the room like ribbons for admiration.
She placed words exactly where she wanted them and left them there.
It was infuriating.
It was effective.
Miss Vane stepped from behind the desk. “Your Grace, before this continues, I must make one matter plain. Miss Vale remains present.”
Sebastian looked from one woman to the other. “I would prefer to discuss family matters privately.”
“You are in a private room.”
“With you.”
“And with Miss Vale.”
“She is a paid companion, is she not?”
There. He saw it then, though she gave almost nothing away. Not a flinch. Not a blush. Not even the proud lift of the chin some women used when injured. But something in Miss Vale became stiller, as water becomes stiller when frost begins at the edges.
It should not have mattered. The statement was fact.
She had been Lady Theodosia’s companion.
She was, by Miss Vane’s own introduction, an assistant in the house.
Sebastian had dealt all his life in rank, occupation and right of access.
Certain matters were discussed before family, solicitors, trustees, equals.
Certain matters were not discussed before dependants.
Yet in that instant he knew he had wounded her.
Worse, he knew she had expected it.