Chapter 17
Beatrice’s heart was racing as she returned to her seat and, with the appearance of calm, folded her hands in her lap. She could not look around to see if the duke was watching her. If she did, she knew she would flush crimson.
She could not believe what she had just done.
If anyone had seen her slip a note into the duke’s hand, it would be the scandal of the century.
And yet, she noted with irony, everything she had done recently would be the scandal of the century if it were discovered.
Of late, she had been behaving with such recklessness that she hardly knew herself anymore.
I suppose that is what happens when a woman feels cornered, she reflected ruefully. I have my brother to thank for that.
Speaking of her brother, he sat down next to her and gave her a small smile.
“You are doing very well,” he said in an undertone, leaning close to her. “Lord Pembroke is very pleased with you, indeed.”
Beatrice gave him a tight smile, and determination flared in her chest. “I have to run to the powder room,” she said. “Please do excuse me, brother.”
Her brother frowned. “But the music is about to start.”
“I do apologize, but it is urgent,” she said, and she stood up from her chair and hurried from the room, just as the harpist began to play another of her beautiful, breathtaking love songs.
However, instead of turning right toward the powder rooms, Beatrice turned left.
She had been to this townhouse several times before, although it had been years, and she believed she still knew the way to the conservatory.
Left, right, then right again… And there it was.
The large glass French doors that led out to the garden and the conservatory.
Hopefully, the duke would be there. In her note, she had said that he should meet her there at the beginning of the second act, and that she needed to speak with him.
But she had not noticed if he’d left the music room before her. She had been too busy trying to get out of there without drawing too much attention to herself.
The conservatory was dark as she pushed open the doors. There were no candles lit, only the dark shadows of plants, illuminated only by the moonlight that streamed in through the glass roof.
The smell of dirt and vegetation were strong and pungent, and she breathed in deeply. She had always preferred the country, and being in the conservatory felt like being back on the road again, free and wild, bold and daring.
She took several tentative steps forward, leaving the door open behind her so that she could leave quickly if she needed to.
And then she saw him.
The duke was standing several yards away, in front of a palm tree, watching her. The moment their eyes met, he hurried forward, placing both hands on her arms and looking down at her with such fierce protectiveness that she momentarily forgot how to breathe.
“Are you well, Miss Ashford?” he murmured, his eyes raking over her, as if looking for some sign of her distress or illness.
“I am well,” she said, laughing slightly, as she smiled up at him. “Did you think me ill?”
“Well… the tenor of your note did make me worry,” he said, frowning.
“And after everything you have been through these last few weeks…” he trailed off, shrugging, but the movement did not hide the obvious concern.
It made her heart swell, to think that he had been worried about her, and she struggled to compose herself before she was able to answer him.
“I am well,” she assured him again. “Actually, it is a matter regarding you which I hoped to speak about.”
“About me?” The duke blinked slowly. “And what matter might that be?”
Slowly, he dropped his hands, so that he was no longer holding her arms. She felt the absence of them dearly.
“It is something that Nathaniel, Mr. Carlton, said to me,” she said, and she explained everything he had told her about how he might lose his title, that he had been hearing whispers and rumors of that sort.
As she spoke, the duke’s face darkened, and when she was finished, his eyes were gleaming with something that scared her. Something like fury.
However, when he looked at her, she knew none of that anger was directed at her.
“I am disturbed to hear this,” he murmured, “but not entirely surprised. Strange things have been happening to me of late, and my own friend, the real Mr. Grenville, has heard similar rumors.”
“Really?” Beatrice took a step forward, her curiosity burning. “But how can that be? How can a duke lose his title?”
“I do not know,” the duke admitted. “I did not think it possible myself. But when I was in Dover, there were problems with several sales, questions to my authority and legitimacy to make such sales. And then more of these rumors.” He shook his head.
“I have my solicitor looking into it, of course, but it is troublesome. My father…”
He cleared his throat and looked away, and her heart clenched in her chest.
“I know that you will never let them take your father’s title and estate from you,” she murmured, taking another step toward him. “And I know that you will make him proud, as the next Duke of St. James.”
The duke looked back around at her, and there was something so painful in his eyes, so full of yearning, that she was tempted to take a step back. But she stood her ground, staring back up at him.
“You took a great risk in coming here,” he said suddenly, and to her surprise, he reached out and brought his hand to her cheek.
Very softly, he let it rest there, brushing against her skin.
Where he touched, she felt heat rise, and she was grateful for the shroud of darkness so that he could not see the blush on her cheeks.
“Your reputation would be ruined if anyone were to catch you here. And you did that all just to… what? Warn me?”
She swallowed, then nodded. “I did not want you to be in the dark, if someone is trying to take your title from you,” she whispered.
“I do not know why anyone would do that, it seems like madness to me, but when I think about the strange occurrences that happened to us on the road. The men who shot at us, for instance…” She shuddered.
“I wonder now, with this new information, if it might be related. If someone was trying to harm you in order to take your title.”
The duke’s frown deepened. “I admit, I thought the men on the road might be after you.”
“Me?!”
“Well, when I thought that you were a governess, or perhaps something else, on the run from a secret past.”
Beatrice actually laughed out loud. It was such an absurd idea that anyone would want to murder her, and it dissipated some of the tension. The duke grinned as well, and he let his hand fall.
“I see now that you are not the runaway daughter of a pirate or gang leader, whose life might actually come at a price.”
Beatrice laughed again, actually throwing her head back. “I had never thought of myself as anything so wild!”
“Oh, but you are,” the duke insisted. “One of the wildest creatures I have ever met. What kind of lady runs off from her guardian and then swims alone in a river? Only the very wildest and most untamed kind.”
“Well, I am tamed now,” Beatrice said, shaking her head and trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. “You see me now as I am forced to be by society: caged and perfectly coiffed, in binding gowns, behaving like the perfect society debutante, all demure smiles and toothless charm.”
“And yet…” His smile grew more wicked. “Within a few weeks of returning to London, you have slipped away at a musicale to be alone with a gentleman in a conservatory. That does not sound like someone who is caged.”
His eyes were burning, and something in Beatrice felt as if she were being pulled toward him, like some kind of invisible magnet was drawing her closer and closer.
She was standing right in front of him now, looking up into his eyes, which were boring into her own as if trying to discover every secret yearning that she had ever kept hidden.
He saw her, she realized. He saw her for who she truly was, underneath the finery and the polite, mannered version of herself that she had to show society.
He had seen the real her, when they were together on the road.
He might be the only person in the world who had ever really seen her.
Even more so than Vivienne and Mrs. Hamilton.
And she had never felt safe enough with anyone else to truly be herself.
Slowly, she raised herself up on her toes, so that her mouth was dangerously close to his.
“Your Grace…” she began, but he interrupted.
“Is Mr. Carlton courting you?”
“What?” Beatrice lost her balance and quickly stepped aside, standing once again on flat feet. She turned and looked back up at him, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Mr. Carlton,” the duke repeated, his voice low and dark. “Is he courting you as well as Mr. Pembroke?”
“I…”
But Beatrice did not have a chance to finish this sentence, because at that very moment, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps, very close, hurrying away from them. At the same time, she turned and saw the conservatory door, which she had left open, swing shut.
Something hard and hot landed in Beatrice’s belly. She whirled around to face the duke, whose expression was reserved.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered. “Someone was listening outside the conservatory!”
“We do not know that,” he said swiftly. “It simply could have been a servant passing by.”
“But the door… I left it open!”
“Again, it simply could have been a breeze that pushed it closed.” But he did not sound entirely convinced, and he quickly took her arm and led her to the door.
“We should get back, though,” he murmured.
“You go first. I shall not return and simply tell our hostess that I was feeling unwell and had to make my hasty exit.”
Beatrice was shaking as the duke led her out of the conservatory then up to the French doors that would take her back into the house. At the door, he paused, and she gazed back up at him. His expression was soft and surprisingly tender.
“Do not worry,” he murmured. “No one saw anything. I am sure of it. Your luck has not run out yet, Miss Ashford.”
He gave her one last, swift smile, then turned and strode across the garden, disappearing around the front of the house.
On shaking legs, Beatrice hurried back inside and made her way back to the music room.
She saw no one on the way there, and when she entered again, no one looked at her with suspicion.
Perhaps the duke was right. Perhaps her luck had won out again.
The next morning, however, Beatrice was feeling uneasy as she sat at the breakfast table buttering her toast. She had not slept well, although not all of it was out of worry that she had been seen the night before.
A significant part of her lack of sleep had been due to the memory of the duke’s hand on her cheek.
Every time she remembered it, she felt as if her stomach had been turned to liquid, and she tossed and turned, a hot, burning feeling making it difficult for her to sleep.
Now, however, she knew she looked pale and wan, and she was glad at least that her brother was not present. He would surely make some remark about how she ought to look less sickly if she were to get Lord Pembroke to propose.
She was just pouring herself another cup of tea when the door to the breakfast room opened and Vivienne burst inside.
The moment she saw her friend, Beatrice knew something was wrong. Vivienne looked pale as well, and her hair was not fully curled, as if she had left the house before finishing getting ready. Her pelisse was slightly askew, and she had not bothered to remove her gloves or her hat.
“Beatrice!” she cried, upon seeing her friend. “I must speak with you at once.”
“Very well,” Beatrice said, setting her cup down slowly. “Please, join me for a cup of tea…”
“Not here,” Vivienne said, her eyes flashing around the breakfast room as if looking for someone eavesdropping. “Let us speak outside.”
She took Beatrice’s hand, forcing her to stand, and let her out through the breakfast room door to the hallway.
They walked together in silence down the corridor to the front door, then out into the cool morning air.
Vivienne did not speak again until they were safely ensconced in the garden around the back of the house.
It was a small garden, surrounded by carefully trimmed hedges and rose bushes, with just a few yards of grass with an apple tree in the center, under which was a stone bench.
Vivienne sat down upon the bench, and Beatrice sat next to her.
Over the hedges, and the brick wall beyond, she could see the rooftops of London rising up around them, smoke slowly rising from the chimneys of her neighbors.
She looked at her friend, whose brow was knit.
“Whatever is the matter?” Beatrice asked.
Vivienne took a deep breath. “I have heard a disturbing rumor this morning,” she murmured. “Well, I suppose it is not a rumor. It is the truth. But what I am less certain of is how it was disseminated.”
Dread pooled in Beatrice’s stomach. She had a terrible feeling she knew exactly what her friend was going to say.
“This morning, my brother told me there is a rumor spreading that you and the Duke of St. James know one another, from before this Season, and that you spent some time alone together on the road to London.”
Beatrice stared blankly at her friend, not quite processing the words.
“I do not know how anyone found out,” Vivienne said, glancing around again, her paranoia understandable now.
“But the fact my brother told me means it is out in the general public. He is not one who is prone to gossip, nor would he seek out salacious rumors. But he was concerned, Beatrice. Especially because he says he has already noticed a certain amount of preferential treatment that the duke has shown for you, and you for him, since you arrived in London.”
Beatrice’s body felt as if it did not belong to her. She knew how the rumor had gotten out, although not the particulars. Someone must have overheard them last night in the conservatory.
How could I have been so careless?
She closed her eyes, the horror of it filling her up. If the rumor was believed, she would not recover from it. The duke already had a reputation as a rake, and if it was believed they were alone together, unchaperoned, for hours…
Her eyes snapped open. Something terrible had just occurred to her.
“If your brother heard this rumor,” she breathed, “then that means…”
But she was interrupted by a shout from the garden gate. Both women turned at the sound to see Theodore striding toward them, his expression furious. He stopped right in front of them and glared down at Beatrice.
“Is it true?” he demanded. “Did you really spend time alone with the Duke of St. James after everything he did to me?”