Chapter 14

That ball took first prize for the worst Dru had ever attended. Her brother danced with her after Oliver had paraded her in front of society. Then forced her to acknowledge she had written The Prince of Tirolly by admitting it himself. He continued to act as if the whole thing were a great joke.

All those people she’d parodied, all the quirks she’d noticed and marked down, they were there. She made enemies that night. At least she did not receive the cut direct, though once they read the next two volumes she was sure they would do so. She went into detail about the prince’s court, every courtier a wickedly drawn portrait of someone in society. There was no way back from that. She had nightmares about her ostracism, when someone pretended not to see her or hear her. As if she’d suddenly become invisible. But she saw some people move away as if they had no desire to speak with her.

Her husband took her on to the floor for a country dance. That meant she had to change partners in the course of it. Everyone else laughed and chatted. Her partners gave her a tepid smile or made a polite enquiry about her health, some almost speaking through their teeth. She had no doubt they remained polite because of her family. Nobody wanted to cross the Emperors or, for that matter, the Shaws.

Oliver barely spoke to her. He smiled often, but he mirrored her own expression, the smile with nothing behind it. The only words he said to her in the whole of the dance were, “Keep smiling.”

She did her best, although she was dying inside.

They stayed for far too long. An evening she had been looking forward to had turned to ashes, and she wanted to sink through the floor right into hell. At last, Oliver came over to where she sat with her mother and asked if she was ready to leave.

“I am a little tired,” she said loudly, masking her mother’s words.

“We will see what can be done. Wait at home for us.”

Oliver turned an icy glare on to her. “You will do nothing, ma’am, if you please. This is not your concern.”

The marchioness nodded, equally coolly.

Dru accompanied her husband to the carriage in stony silence. They had two more balls to attend that evening, but they needed no conversation to indicate they were going home.

Once inside the vehicle, when it had rounded the corner so nobody could see them, she let her head drop. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t reply. As if he hadn’t heard her, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned his elbow on the windowsill, staring out into the night.

So finally, Dru received the cut direct.

* * * *

Oliver strode up and down the carpet in Charles’s room. His brother, calmer than he, watched him from his customary chair turned half toward the window. Oliver had interrupted him contemplating the garden, watching a man prune a tree. The tranquility had been complete until Oliver had stormed in, bringing his troubles with him. He could hardly wait to tell Charles and discuss the matter. His brother had a right to know.

“I cannot believe Dru did this.” Oliver turned, facing Charles, whose compassionate gaze nearly undid him. “Everyone knows my wife has made a fool of me.”

“And we cannot allow that, can we?” Charles said calmly. “Don’t worry, brother. We will think of something. I told you not to marry in such a hurry.”

Oliver shook his head in sorrow. “I cannot allow you to concern yourself with the business of the dukedom.” Stopping at Charles’s chair, he gently laid a hand over his brother’s. “Don’t try to hide it from me. I know you’re weaker than you used to be.”

Charles swallowed. “I had tried to hide it from you. But you could have waited to marry.”

“I want an heir in place as quickly as I can.” That meant taking Dru to bed again, something he didn’t feel at all like doing at the moment. Her betrayal had cut deep. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her. “Tell me what Burnett saw again. I need to know.”

Charles sighed. “Oh, dear. Very well. Burnett was on an errand for me.” He touched the book at his elbow. “I had sent him to obtain a copy of this from the publisher. I could not wait to read it. He saw your wife and her sister enter the shop. They emerged twenty minutes later, and Dru was putting something in her pocket. A purse. They looked around them before sneaking down the alley by the side of the premises. I do not think they saw him.” He shook his head, exasperated. “I believe your wife is an innocent. She had no idea of the trouble she would cause or that her identity would be revealed so shockingly. Can you not overlook her behavior? I’m positive she did not mean it maliciously.”

“How can you say that when you are the main target of her insinuations?” Oliver paced again. He couldn’t keep still. What could he do? What was there for him to do?

“You should not approach her when you’re in this mood,” Charles advised. “You will scare her into silence.”

That was true enough.

His wife had gone to the publisher and pocketed the money. She did not need funds so badly, surely?

Oliver halted in his tracks, turning to face his brother.

“A gambling debt?” he said.

Eagerly he grasped at the straw. He would ask, try to find out if she played the tables. Ladies held salons where men rarely featured. They called them literary salons, but many were little more than clubs for gossip, tea, and gambling.

But to sell out a whole family to pay a debt? He followed his own reasoning. “People lose fortunes at the tables.”

Charles pursed his lips, touching them with one long finger. “That could be so. Will you allow me to make a few enquiries? I think the questions are better coming from my people. You are too agitated to face her. She will not speak to you. Stay away for the next few days, dear brother. Let tempers cool.”

If she was in debt, he could help her. Gambling amounted to a sickness in society these days. He’d seen men unable to stop, even when they’d lost everything they had. But after the way he’d made his feelings clear, she would not speak to him. She would not confide in him. Yes, much though he hated to admit it, Charles was right. “Very well. But do nothing without coming to me first.”

Anger still rode him, but a touch of fear curled in his stomach. If he had married an inveterate gambler, he would have to force her to stop. He could never stop watching her.

* * * *

Two mornings later, Dru tapped on Charles’s door. Reading her own book could not be worse than the cold shoulder she’d received from Oliver. She was close to begging him to talk to her. He spoke to her when he had to, but only to ask her to pass the butter or to remind her they had some social event to attend that evening. He never came to her at night. Dru didn’t know a way to cope with this. After their close intimacy, how did anyone walk away from that? She might as well be an unwelcome guest for all the notice he took of her. This must be how discarded mistresses felt. Or couples who detested one another.

“Come!”

Obeying Charles’s gentle command, she entered the room. His smile broke her, but she retained her calm demeanor and even managed to smile in return. The room was flooded with sunlight, and Charles wore spring green, the color of the grass in the garden. A bird sang outside the window. How could anything be wrong on a day like this? Except it was, of course. Everything was wrong.

She went to the table and picked up the book. It would hurt so much to read it. Punishment, perhaps. Taking her seat, she watched Burnett pour tea, part of their daily ritual.

“I wish you and Oliver would finish your stupid quarrel,” Charles said, a touch of petulance coloring his soft voice.

“I wish it too,” she answered, “but he is dreadfully hurt.”

Charles shrugged in that one-shouldered way he had. “Angry, more like. He does that, you know. Always responds with anger. I swear, he needs to control that temper.” He paused, glanced behind him, and motioned for Burnett to leave the room.

The door closed. Beneath the watercolor on the wall stood an odd object. A walking cane, its silver knob gleaming with polishing.

He followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. I keep it in case I might need it one day. I do not think I will.”

The engraving on the top wasn’t fresh. “It looks used.”

“It belonged to my father.” A reminiscent smile touched Charles’s lips. “That is the main reason I keep it.”

She could understand that. If her father—God forbid—died, she would want his spectacles as a keepsake, not the signet ring or something more valuable and less personal. “I see. Do you miss him?”

“Not particularly.” He turned his attention back to her, his eyes chilly. “He always put the dukedom first and then his sons. He was a cold man.”

She had heard different from his mother. Returning the day after the ball, her ladyship had wisely chosen not to comment directly on the breach between the newlyweds. Instead, she’d taken to reminiscing about her own marriage. “He was indulgent to a fault,” she had said. “Always ready to listen to me and attend to my needs.” Perhaps she’d said that to persuade Oliver to do the same. But he had not disagreed, instead clasping his mother’s hand warmly, in a way that brought a lump to Dru’s throat. Would she ever feel his touch again?

But a man in charge of an estate as wealthy and extensive as the Mountsorrel one might take his responsibilities seriously and try to make his sons do the same. However, the soft expression in Oliver’s eyes was not only for his mother. Dru would have sworn he was sparing a thought for his father, too.

Forcing a bright smile, she picked up the book and found the leather marker she had set in it. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes, let’s.” They only had a few chapters to go before the end of the book. “I would dearly love to know what happens next.”

Dru felt sick. “I no longer have the original manuscript, so I cannot read it to you until it is released.”

“But you can tell me what happens. Or do you mean to make me wait?”

“Yes.” Longer if she could, but Dru had run out of ideas. She could not face Wilkins again, and in any case, what good would it do?

“Poor Dru,” Charles said so sympathetically she could not bear it any longer.

After whipping off her spectacles she fumbled in her pocket and found her handkerchief, pressing it to her eyes.

“Does this foolish fuss cause you so much distress?”

She nodded, unable to speak, fighting to regain control. Eventually she lifted her face to him. What she saw, the sympathy and kindness, nearly overset her all over again. He just didn’t understand what it felt like to face the people so ready to condemn her. Seeing her happy ending turn to dust in her hands and to have nobody to blame but herself.

“Oliver will not speak to me about it. He is so angry. I don’t think he will ever speak to me again in anything but a civil tone.” She swallowed and blew her nose, not in the least gracefully.

“You caught many things truthfully. For instance, I have never been completely sure if the disaster that caused me to lose so much was an accident at all.”

Shocked, Dru stared at him. “Someone would have been brought to justice.”

“It depends on who plotted it and what control they had of the outcome.” He met her gaze, his own bleak.

Their father? Why would he—

Dru’s mind came to a complete stop. Oliver? He meant Oliver?

“That’s madness.”

Charles gave her one of his sympathetic smiles. “If it was, it was done on impulse. Oliver had always resented being the heir, you know, and teased me that I had all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. An edge of rivalry always existed between us. But I do not think it. Only, when I cannot sleep some nights, I am reminded of that moment just before. He turned to me…” He shook his head. “Forget what I said, Dru. A nightmare, no more. You see, you are not the only one with a vivid imagination!”

But Dru could not forget. That night, in her lonely bed, she recalled what Charles had said and went over his words. Could Oliver, in a moment of impulsive behavior, have caused the accident? Did he have it in him to do such a thing?

Her heart said no, but she had seen such behavior in him. He was impulsive. The way he’d stolen kisses from her, his sudden decision to propose marriage, and above all the swift marriage ceremony told of it. He could have done something—aimed for a fallen branch, pulled too hard on the reins—and caused much more than he’d planned. That would increase his guilt. That would explain why he flew off the handle so much, instead of choosing to discuss the matter frankly.

She could do nothing about what had happened in the past. But she could help herself in the future. If she could only prevent Wilkins from publishing that book! Would he have distributed it yet? No, it was too early. If he sent it out too soon, the booksellers could preempt the release. They had special customers they would oblige. He would not send them out until the end of the week, Friday or Saturday. Even Saturday night, to give the booksellers, who must close on the Sunday, even less opportunity to read the book and release the details ahead of the planned day.

Wilkins had taken out advertisements in all the newssheets, and they had posted bills all over town. Dru had seen them and longed to leap out of her carriage and tear them down.

“What did he say?”

Charles shook his head. “Nothing important. Only that he did not want the dukedom, and wouldn’t it be fine if we could change places?” He trained his attention on her. “As I said, foolish. He has made an excellent duke. A little dour, but that is his privilege, is it not?” He smiled brightly.

Dru listened to him in horror. That didn’t sound like Oliver at all. But how well did she really know him?

Did Charles know his comments pointed to Oliver perpetrating such an unthinkable act? As an accident, it was a tragedy. A deliberate incident would make it a crime. But Oliver wouldn’t do that. Would he?

She wished she’d known him better before she married him. But she knew she loved him.

* * * *

Oliver sat in his study, tapping his pen against the paper before him. He had dedicated today to catching up with the business that had brought him to London in the first place. But he could not keep his mind on the job. He read everything before he signed it, however tedious he found it, but after perusing the same legal paragraph four times without understanding it any better, he gave up.

He leaned back, letting the worn leather enclose his body. The feeling had always soothed him. It failed now. Because of Dru. His wife, Drusilla, Duchess of Mountsorrel. She was his wife, and he had to find a way to cope with her, to give her what she needed.

After his initial fury had subsided, he received letters from people concerned about his wife’s activities. People she had never heard of, but who had immense influence in society and the wider world of business and finance. They wanted reliable partners, and Oliver found himself crowded out of a few deals. None would make a great difference to his position and wealth, but they were indicators of what might come if he did not stop the rot.

He could divest himself of Dru. While divorce was out of the question, he could create a distance between them. Once they had produced the heir, they need not even live in the same house. But even thinking of that hurt him. Forgoing what he had so briefly found to return to the soulless world of bought women and kept mistresses hurt him in a place he thought he’d hardened—his heart.

In everything else, he’d found Dru a delight, a charming companion and passionate lover. Standing with her had the inevitable risk. Some would call him henpecked. Others would judge that a man who could not control his wife or who considered such a flighty piece a suitable partner for him.

He heaved a sigh and tossed the pen on to the desk. He had become such a sadly predictable, serious person. The hint of devilry had gone, crushed by that carriage as surely as Charles’s legs.

And he had other concerns, which he had shared with nobody. Those strange accidents that had forced him to bring the marriage forward because he was so worried about Dru. They still stood. Losing the wheel of the carriage and a stone in a horse’s hoof—they had been done on purpose. The first could have meant to hurt either or both of them. The second was definitely aimed at Dru. To incapacitate her, to kill her…or to deter her from marrying him?

Oliver sat up, suddenly alert. He needed to talk to somebody. He checked his watch. Lord Strenshall would probably be at his club at this time of day. Oliver could catch him there. He might find Strenshall’s oldest son, too. They needed to know of his suspicions. Then he would make his plans. The book would have to wait. The only person damaged by that was he, and he could take it.

Having made his decision, he strode into the hall and called for his coat, although he found it annoying to have to follow the dictates of society. The day was sunny, and he could easily walk to the club in his shirt-sleeves. Except they wouldn’t let him enter in such a scandalous state of undress. At least his valet had the sense to bring a light coat, one of the fine wool ones with silk lining, together with his small sword. The coat’s wine-red color seemed vaguely appropriate, considering where he was going.

He waved away the offer of a carriage, a hackney, or a sedan chair. He wasn’t soft yet, and the walk would help him clear his head.

Through the West End, where the rich disported themselves and the poor darted among them, selling flowers at extortionate prices, snatching handkerchiefs, snuffboxes, and quizzing glasses. Not from him, though. He only had one of those items, and it was tucked into an inner pocket.

He barely stopped at the surprisingly small and cozy foyer of White’s Club to scrawl his name in the book and toss his hat to the man behind the desk. Then, more reluctantly, he handed over his small sword.

The more imposing entrance held classical columns and a statue, together with a huge painting on the landing of the founders of the club and their distinguished members. Her father was in there somewhere. Probably lurking at the back.

He found his quarry in the main member’s room. Father and his son Marcus, Lord Malton, sat at a small table, a decanter of burgundy between them, desultorily tossing a die. Discarded newssheets lay on a table next to them. The marquess had a paper in his hand, and as Oliver approached, he tossed it on to the discarded pile.

Oliver strode across the polished parquet floor, barely acknowledging the stares and murmurs as he passed. He caught the word “Tirolly” more than once.

He snapped a bow. “May I speak with you?”

Lord Malton hooked a foot in the rails of a nearby chair and dragged it over. “Do take a seat,” he said civilly, raising a finger to get the attention of the waiter. “Do we need a private room?”

Oliver accepted the invitation and took the seat. “Perhaps we do. But the club isn’t full, and if we keep our voices down, nobody will hear us.”

“So you’re not here to call us out?”

Oliver shook his head. “I need to know your family secrets. Who is trying to hurt Dru?”

Ten minutes later, in the private room the marquess had bespoken, Oliver outlined what had happened so far. “I believe the two incidents involving the carriage and the horse are connected. But the book?”

The marquess’s mouth flattened. “Drusilla has scribbled and written stories, poems, and journals for years. None of them reached publication because she took care that they would not. I cannot believe she would risk it this time.”

Marcus nodded. He leaned forward, his elbows firmly planted on the table between them. Oliver saw a man who faced his problems head-on, his blue eyes direct and uncompromising.

“Do you know how the book reached the publisher?”

Oliver shook his head. “Not exactly.” Facing this man, he knew why not. He had backed off. Forbore from asking his wife in case she gave him the answer he was afraid of. That she had taken the book and sold it to Wilkins.

“She always kept her writing carefully locked up.” Marcus lifted the decanter. The cut glass glittered in the beam of sunshine striking across the room as he poured two glasses of brandy.

Oliver retained his glass of burgundy.

“I am certain she never meant it to see the light of day,” Marcus continued.

Oliver picked up his drink and took a reflective sip. The blinding revelation struck him as hard as a slap across the face. His concerns for his brother, insisting on tackling every problem on his own—what good had that done him? He needed help here. “So what’s to be done?” he said.

“More to the point,” the marquess said, “What are we going to do?”

Marcus sighed and leaned back, swallowing the contents of his glass in one gulp. “I foresee a long night ahead. Perhaps we should order dinner. And send for Darius and Andrew. Their particular expertise will be useful.”