Chapter 11
Eleven
Whispers of the Ton
Dearest Reader,
I erroneously suspected the fathers and husbands of London would attempt to hide our publications from our lady readers.
I was mistaken. It seems the gentlemen’s need to be the focus of such feminine desires, is vastly more important than any such misguided notion to protect the ladies from our scandalous ways.
For it is said, that on the pages of Whites’ betting books, the gentlemen are wagering on who will be next to grace our publication and have the women vying for a look at their masculine attributes.
Dare we ask if the next rogue is watching at this very moment while the young ladies in his household are rushing downstairs to breakfast where this edition will be eagerly awaiting them?
It seems most, if not all, of the male gender hope they are the next subject of our talented artist. Yet, this author must wonder how one artist has access to so many delicious treats?
With that question in mind, dearest reader, ponder the mystery as you devour your dessert.
Today’s sweet is a ducal delicacy many have already enjoyed.
Feast your eyes on our very own, Duke of R, another favorite subject of this author.
Will the Duchess of R, who is due to deliver the next peer of the realm any day, allow other ladies of the ton to take the next bite?
My, but one can only imagine what else lies beneath his prim and proper attire. Could a gentleman scanning the accounts of his estate be more enticing?
—The Whispers of the Ton published in 1813 with a drawing of the sensually studious Duke of Ross sitting in his study going over his estates accounts with his sleeves rolled up, displaying muscular forearms while his cravat is draped across the corner of his desk.
The collar of his shirt is open, giving the viewer an enticing peek at his masculine chest covered in dark hair.
The duke’s head may be tilted downward toward his accounts, but his eyes are inviting the viewer to come hither with a wicked gleam no woman could ignore.
Astley was furious with her, with Sir Williamson, with his leg, and probably the entire world.
Good. ?
She poured tea for Sir Williamson first, then Simon, who paced the room like a tiger trapped behind rows of glass windows while the world went on without him.
“My lord?” She held out a cup.
He stopped as if he hadn’t even been aware of her holding out the cup of tea like the peace offering it was meant to be. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly released it before sitting down across from where Sir Williamson sat with a view of the garden and the door.
Once he was seated, she somehow felt vulnerable in her position.
If someone came into the drawing room, she was the first person they would see staring up at them.
If someone came in through the garden, she would never see them approach, but the gentlemen would.
It was made doubly evident when each took a surreptitious glance at each set of doors, Astley more obvious than the highly experienced Williamson, but she saw his casual perusal for what it was.
“It seems, gentlemen, I am the one in the most vulnerable position, once more.”
“Vulnerable in what manner?” Sir Williamson asked while holding a teacup that seemed to get lost in his large hands. He looked utterly ridiculous even on the settee, his legs were too long and his torso too tall. He was a veritable giant sitting in a child’s chair.
“Isn’t it obvious, she’s in my house,” Astley stewed.
“With my back to the garden,” she corrected. “I cannot react to an intruder from behind, and I’ll be the first target if someone enters the room from the foyer.”
“Astley switch seats with the lady.”
Simon bristled at the command in his own home despite having already reached for his crutch. She would have to remember Sir Williamson’s manner of delivery when giving orders. Perhaps it would work for her if she used it on the children. And Simon.
She rose and switched seats with him. “Now, if we may continue.” She took a sip of her tea and looked over the brim of her cup at both men. “My father?”
Simon sighed. “While I was in America on behest of Sir Williamson—”
“Why were you there?” She asked.
“He asked me to go.”
“And what was your purpose?”
“If you’ll allow me to finish without interruption…”
She reached for a biscuit.
“A gentleman by the name of Lucas Tremayne sold off some land to an American businessman. I went to America to learn about the sale.” His eyes slanted in the spymaster’s direction, and she knew they were concealing something they didn’t want her to know.
If Lucas Tremayne had sold any land, then it had to have been her family’s land that he had inherited upon her father’s death.
It was land the Crown could not touch because, unlike their home, which had reverted back to the Crown, the land had been handed down to her father by his grandfather.
If she and her sisters had not been declared bastards after her father’s death, both would still belong to them.
Simon sipped his tea. He hated tea.
“This Lucas Tremayne, would he be the same one who has been escorting Marabella DiSimone around Town recently?”
Simon choked on his tea and Sir Williamson answered for him. “That would be the gentleman in question, yes.”
“And the land that he sold, it wouldn’t happen to have belonged to my father before he died, would it?”
Simon was turning green. Sir Williamson sat back and crossed one leg over his knee as if he were preparing to have a very long battle of wills. “He is the son of the man who inherited your father’s estate. Presently he is merely twenty-two and quite full of himself.”
“He must be if he thinks he can afford Mrs. DiSimone,” she replied.
“Oh, he can afford Mrs. DiSimone ten times over. He’s a very wealthy man.”
That gave her pause. “How has a young man who came from nothing, before he inherited my family’s land, made so much of himself at such a young age?”
“That was my question as well. Your father’s death was deemed suspicious years ago, but the local surgeon had said he was inebriated and fell into the river. An accident like that is not unheard of, so the doctor’s ruling left everyone none the wiser to your father’s actual cause of death.”
It was odd talking about her father’s death in such a chilling fashion, but she suspected it would be the only way in which she would receive the answers she and her sisters deserved.
Otherwise, any suspicions the government had would either be swept under the rug or passed on to Ross as the highest-ranking male member of their family, and Ross would decide if and what the daughters of Duncan Blair were told about his death.
Considering the Crown had given her family home to Ross, she wasn’t sure if his conscience would make him tell Iseabail and the rest of them the truth, or if he would file the information away without a word.
It irritated her to no end that Ross would have such power over their lives when he had married into their family nearly a decade after their father’s death.
“Tell me, who deemed my father’s death suspicious if the surgeon said it was an accident? And if it was not an accident, what was his actual cause of death?”
“We believe it was murder, but beyond that, we have no proof.”
We believe it was murder. Sir Williamson said it in such a calm and aloof fashion he could have said, You have a speck of biscuit on your lip, or I beg your pardon, I have traipsed mud on your carpet. “What makes you believe he was murdered?”
“As you know, Lord Pembrock met with your father just before he died.”
She nodded.
“Lord Pembrock was young and desperate for funds.”
“It seems all the gentlemen of the ton are desperate for funds.” She could barely keep the contempt from her voice. William certainly had been one of them. Her dowery had been the only thing he valued in their marriage.
Sir Williamson nodded as if that was just the way of things. “Lord Pembrock was attempting to convince your father to sell some of his land to an investment company who wanted to build a canal from Inverness to Fort William.”
“My father would never sell his family land.”
“Yes. The morning after their conversation, your father was dead, and your family land, which your father had owned prior to meeting your mother, was bequeathed to his distant cousin, Clyde Tremayne. Mr. Tremayne died in his bed a few years back.”
“And that’s how Mr. Lucas Tremayne came to be in possession of my family’s land. I find it interesting that the men who own the land are dying inordinately young.”
“Clyde Tremayne loved his whiskey, not many were surprised by his early death,” Sir Williamson stated. “And before you demand the land back, you should know your father’s will was clear. Mr. Tremayne has the land legally, regardless of your father’s cause of death.”
“So, someone got away with my father’s murder and potentially his heir’s murder.”
“They haven’t gotten away with your father’s murder yet, and I’m not convinced the senior Tremayne was murdered.” Once again, his tone was matter of fact. There was no conviction, nor was there a lack of conviction.
“How do you plan to catch this killer?”
“Continue to dig. Astley obviously made someone nervous with his questions, which we believe led to his kidnapping by the French.”
“Why would the French care about Astley looking into my father’s death?”
“The French have a vested interest in being able to access Fort William from the North Sea without being detected. Both pieces of your father’s property are on the proposed path of a new canal from Inverness Firth to Loch Linnhe.
If the French could control the canal with spies and Scottish people whose loyalty is for sale, then they could do some serious damage to England and our supply chain.
” Sir Williamson eyed her dispassionately, clearly gauging her response.