After hunting with Hullworth, Lucien returned to Stredwick Lodge—thankfully one hundred percent intact—early in the afternoon. Almost immediately, a missive arrived from Meg, inviting him to tea and demanding the safe return of her handkerchief. He grinned and readily gave his acceptance to the footman, then went to clean up.
Entering his chamber, he discovered that his finest clothes were already laid out, pressed and waiting. His borrowed valet, whom Sylvia had sent over that first day, stood at the washstand, sharpening a razor against a leather strop. Mr. Ector was quiet, discreet and efficient. So efficient, in fact, that he seemed to possess the uncanny ability to read his mind.
Even now as Lucien merely cast a quizzical glance in his direction, wondering how the stately older man could possibly have known he’d wish to look his best, the valet answered without hesitation. “Your Grace voiced a list of advantages and disadvantages earlier, before the hunt.”
“Ah. That explains it.” Lucien had been preoccupied and tended to mutter to himself when he was in a quandary. Sitting down in the chair and before Ector could drape a hot towel on his face, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”
He considered for a moment. “I’m afraid I can offer no impartial opinion. However, at last count, His Grace mentioned three hundred forty-seven advantages to a union with Miss Stredwick and one disadvantage.”
The book, Lucien thought. That was the only thing keeping him from being completely certain. That missing piece of his legacy was tied to the deaths of his parents, his own purpose and his trust. If he just knew where it was, then . . .
But he didn’t. And he may never find it. So was he willing to spend the rest of his life searching, while he let the woman he loved slip through his fingers?
The answer was simple.
When he came out of his rooms a short while later, he was not surprised to see Pell at the sideboard pouring a drink. However, he was surprised to see Morgan.
His sister studied Meg’s note with a concerned frown, then dropped it onto the marble-topped side table. “This is precisely why I had to come. From the conversation I had with her earlier, I knew she was planning something. But then, I saw her whispering to Maeve and Myrtle Parrish, and they each went suspiciously quiet when I entered the room.”
“And?” Pell said. “Surely, people do that all the time when you enter a room. You should be used to it by now.”
“Well, it was obviously something they didn’t want me to hear. And I needed my brother to know, just in case.”
Pell delivered a whisky to Lucien. He was about to decline, but then he was suddenly distracted by the thought that Meg might have compiled a list of her own. And if so, what were the cons?
Suffering an unanticipated swell of nervousness, he tossed back his drink and felt the fortifying burn all the way down. “In case of . . . ?”
“In case you were about to make a mistake of monumental proportion. I saw the way you looked at her earlier, and it’s obvious to me that you’re in over your head. Again. Just like last time,” she said. “I don’t want to see you hurt by trusting her too readily. You need to pay attention to the things you’ve witnessed. Like the fact that you first met her sneaking around belowstairs at Caliburn Keep.”
“Which was likely just as innocent as she claimed. She’d simply become turned around.”
“On the very same day that the book went missing and you found the note in the vault? Come, now, little brother. If not her, then who else?”
He was already growing impatient with this conversation and wanting to be at the main house. However, his sister brought up a salient point. “I’ve been thinking about that a good deal of late, and about the initial report that Mr. Richards provided. In it, there isn’t a description of Lady Avalon. Nothing detailed, at any rate.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not. The pages only stated that she was alluring. Captivating. The rest has all been hearsay and conjecture. In other words, we don’t know with absolute certainty what she looks like. But one of the other men will.” He turned his attention to Pell. “You might recall mention of Mr. Sudworth, who’d allegedly developed the formula for a youth serum that was stolen. Well, I believe he keeps a hunting box in Wiltshire. Would you be willing to look into that?”
His cousin sat up straighter and offered a sincere nod. “I’d be honored, old chap.”
“This is ridiculous, Lucien,” Morgan hissed. “You’re turning into one of them, you know, letting Lady Avalon scramble your wits. I knew I was right to worry when you opened the gate.”
He growled. “I don’t want to hear another word about the bloody gate. I opened it because I was tired of keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length. And yes, I acknowledge that it led to the theft of our family’s legacy. But it also led me here, to a place where I’ve been able to simply breathe and be at ease. And after spending the past two years practically killing myself, I’ve come to realize that I’m exhausted. I want more, Morgan. I hope you can understand that.”
“Of course, I understand. You’re a man, after all,” she offered in a placating manner. “And just so you know, I like Meg, too. She has a certain way about her that makes one forget how devious she can be. I can even respect her for that. She is a woman who knows what she wants, and she won’t settle for anything less. But I wonder—”
“Tell us, o divine mistress of contempt,” Pell intoned raising his glass. “What is it that you wonder?”
“If this might all be a clever ruse, like the last time.” She lifted her hands in surrender. “I didn’t want to say it, but no one else in this room seems to be thinking straight. I expected as much from Pell, who only has snails skulking about in his skull. But you, Lucien, I just hate to imagine that you’re about to fall into another trap.”
“I’ve heard enough,” he said and moved toward the door.
But Morgan wasn’t through.
“Think, brother. You cornered her at her family home. Then she was forced to do something drastic when you started searching the house, room by room. She knew it was only a matter of time before you found something. And she was likely willing to do anything—say anything—to distract you from your purpose.”
He didn’t realize he’d stopped, until she sidled up and patted him on the shoulder.
“Just remember what happened in Italy,” she continued, “and be on your guard. That’s all I’m asking.”
He knew his sister meant well, but she didn’t see the whole picture the way Lucien did.
Even so, he felt his brow pucker as he stepped outside. He didn’t want to give her ramblings any credence. And yet, thinking back to Italy, to all the things that Meg had said that night, and then how she, and the book, were both gone in the morning . . .
No, he thought, refusing to let doubt creep in. He had no proof that she’d taken the book, no proof that she’d taken anything, other than his heart.
And that was all the proof he needed.
* * *
Meg stood in the parlor and smoothed her damp palms down her blue-striped skirts. The dress was tighter than it had been the last time she’d worn it, but she wanted everything to be perfect.
Even so, she was dreadfully nervous by the time Lucien arrived.
However, one heated glance from him and all her jitters faded away.
“You look”—his gaze traveled down her form, lingering here and there, and then back to her eyes—“beautiful.”
She blushed. “I wanted to wear the same dress I wore—”
“On the day we met,” he finished with a grin. “I remember it well. Only then, you had on a little coat.”
“A spencer,” she supplied. “It was too warm for that today.”
And besides, she couldn’t button the blasted thing over her breasts any longer.
He stepped forward and took her hand, her blood rushing warmly beneath the surface of her skin. “Before tea arrives, there’s something I want to ask you . . .”
“And there’s something I need to tell you . . .”
But before either of them could continue, the aunts bustled in with the tea tray on a rolling trolly, their happy hums accompanied by the clatter of the cups and saucers.
“Here we are,” Myrtle chirruped. “And we have something very special.”
Together, the aunts went to the round satinwood table near the corner and set up the tea service, along with a pair of silver candlesticks in the center and two silver domes on either side.
“It’s perfect,” Meg whispered to them as they pressed their cheeks to hers before they slipped out of the room.
The duke grinned and stepped over to the table. “What’s all this?”
“I had the cook prepare something special, and I think you’ll like it.” Meg was feeling shy all of a sudden, her fingers knitting together as she bit into her bottom lip. She gestured with a nod of her chin. “Go on, then.”
He removed the domes with a flourish. A molded canelé sat in the center of each plate. The risen pudding was filled with cream and topped with a spear made of sculpted sugar and resembled a sword trapped inside a stone.
She almost laughed. What a perfectly fanciful dessert for the Duke of Merleton.
“Your favorite,” she said, looking at him expectantly.
It was only then, that she saw the way he’d gone still, his hands remaining aloft with the silver domes in his grasp. His mien was expressionless.
He must have been delighted into speechlessness.
“This is not my favorite,” he finally said after setting the domes on the table.
It wasn’t until she saw those three vertical notches and the stony look in his eyes that she realized something was wrong. Very wrong. “I do not understand. Don’t you like it?”
“This was my grandfather’s favorite. The previous duke. Our cook kept a recipe card in the kitchen with the words The Duke’s Favorite scrawled on the top. And you would only have assumed it was my favorite if you had taken it.”
She felt the color drain from her face. “Lucien.”
“You’ve been lying to me. Are still lying to me.”
“I can explain.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” he said darkly.
“I planned to tell you everything today. I didn’t want any more secrets between us. It all started with that recipe, and that’s the only thing we took from Caliburn Keep. The aunts will tell you.”
“The three of you were upstairs whispering about it earlier today. Doubtless, you were all formulating the same story.”
She shook her head. “No. It isn’t like that. It never was. I’ve been telling you the truth—well, most of the truth—from the beginning. The only things I lied about was that I was never Lady Avalon, and I’ve already told you why, and I did steal the recipe from your kitchens. I had it under my foot when we met.”
“Anything else?”
She swallowed nervously, wringing her hands until they ached. Panic flooded her in icy torrents and settled inside her stomach like a rock. “I didn’t want to tell you this way but . . . Guinevere is my daughter. Our daughter. She was born on May the tenth, last year. Which is nine months after—”
“Italy,” he snapped. “I can bloody well count.”
“I had never been with anyone else,” she admitted quietly, daring to take a step toward him and lay her hand on his sleeve. “I thought for certain you’d noticed how awkward I was. That had been one of my fears—that you had abandoned me because I had disappointed you when you were expecting someone like Lady Avalon.”
“You seemed adept enough.”
His statement was like a slap. She stepped back, her hands falling to her sides as he crossed to the mantel on the far side of the room.
She tried not to take his anger to heart. Keeping all her foolish secrets had clearly hurt him, greatly. And she regretted that.
“When I was certain of my condition,” she continued, determined to have it all out, “I never attempted to keep it from you. I wrote to you. For two years, I wrote to you. That is no lie. And I left you a note in Italy with the book.”
“So you’ve said. But if any of that is even remotely true, then—” He stopped and raked a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply as if fighting for control. But when he turned to face her again, his eyes were dark with fury. “Why didn’t you tell me about my daughter before? You let me assume that she belonged to your brother.”
“I was afraid, at first.”
He scoffed. “Afraid of what?”
“That you’d take her away,” she said and saw his expression turn incredulous. “You hated me when you first arrived.”
“But that changed, didn’t it?” he said on a growl. “We’ve been together every night. You’ve had ample opportunity. So why have you waited to tell me this, if not for the purpose of distracting me from your other lies”—he flung a hand toward the table—“like the fact that you have actually stolen from me?”
“I’m not trying to distract you,” she explained. “Lucien, I love you.”
“And you choose to prove it by ensuring that I’m trapped into marrying you?”
She flinched, her eyes prickling with incipient tears. “I have no proof to offer you that I’m not trying to trap you, other than to tell you that if you were to ask right this moment, I would refuse your proposal.”
“I’m sure your brother will make that point moot before the day is over.”
“No, he won’t. Like I’ve said before, Stredwicks only marry for love—a love shared by both parties, not just one. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask him. He has known the truth from the beginning, and he never approached you with any demand. Instead, he has shielded me as only the most excellent of brothers would have done.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll simply have to put aside your childish dreams of fate and destiny. If Guinevere is mine, she is going to have my name, and you are going to marry me. Then, whatever is yours—or whatever you’ve confiscated—becomes mine. Problem solved.”
He dusted his hands together in a gesture of finality as if he didn’t need her agreement.
“You are still welcome to search every room, but that will be the last thing you’ll ever do in this house,” she promised.
Then, with her head held high, she stormed out.
* * *
Lucien left Hullworth’s study, slamming the door behind him. He’d never been so incensed in his entire life. How dare he refuse to give his consent!
Lucien wasn’t some ne’er-do-well cub after her dowry. He was the bloody Duke of Merleton!
“Brother, I just heard.” Morgan appeared, rushing alongside him as his agitated steps ate up the marble tiles.
He stopped and glared back in the direction of the study and gritted his teeth. “If Hullworth thinks I’m leaving here without his treacherous little sister and my daughter, then he can think again. They are coming home with me.”
“What do you mean?” She issued a haughty laugh. “Surely, you don’t intend to marry her now, after all she’s done.”
“Of course I do. Marrying her is the only solution to every single problem she’s presented since we first met.”
Lucien hadn’t needed to do any lengthy calculations to make his decision. He knew it was the only way. And damned if he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her face when he presented the special license he would obtain. Then nothing—not even Hullworth’s lack of consent—could stop him.
“I see,” Morgan said, her gaze distant and contemplative. “And your pursuit of the book? I mean, it’s likely beneath this very roof in a place you would least expect to find it.”
He nodded, but his mind was on sending a missive to the archbishop of Canterbury. Distractedly, he said, “I’m in no hurry. The book has doubtlessly changed places several times. And if I know Meg, as I’m sure I do, she’ll likely use it to barter with me for her freedom. Another attempt at distraction. But I’ll not be dissuaded. No, indeed. I am too certain this is the right course of action.”
“Perhaps. However, if you found the book first, then she would have nothing with which to barter. You would, at last, have the upper hand,” she said, drawing his attention. “If the book has changed places, as you say, then you’ll likely find it somewhere that you’ve already searched.”
His gaze instinctively lifted as he recalled that the search of the attic had been cut short.
Why, that sly little wolf, he thought and almost smiled. She was about to find out that he would be a thorn in her side for the rest of their lives.