Stretching out on his cool, cotton sheets, Will stared at his bedroom ceiling, painted dark green and brown to match the foliage design of the textured wallpaper. It struck him so strangely at that moment to consider that if Elizabeth had lived here she wouldn’t have approved of such a dark ceiling, but Vivian most certainly would. He didn’t doubt that for a minute, though how he knew such a fact, he couldn’t be sure since she’d never been inside his private bed chamber in Morning House. Knowing things instinctively about another person was simply one of those oddities of life, he supposed. And lately he’d begun to realize he knew many things, intimate things, about the Widow Rael-Lamont.
He’d awakened with a strong erection this morning, thinking of her and of the erotic way she’d willingly touched him three days ago. He’d thought of little else since that afternoon by the shore. This morning, however, he’d been dreaming of her hands on him, stroking him as she’d done, arousing him beyond sanity, bringing him to climax. When he woke only a few minutes ago to an empty bed and brilliant sunshine, he actually felt regret. He wanted her here, with him, and most shocking to his sensibilities, it made him consider what it might be like to wake up with her by his side every single morning. He couldn’t begin to imagine that sort of contentment after years of being alone, but after her reaction to him and his desire for her days ago, he was beginning to believe she would welcome the closeness herself. And she wouldn’t care about the dark ceiling.
Groaning, he turned over onto his stomach and shoved his arms under his pillow. The hands on his mantel clock read half past eight. He hadn’t slept so late in years that he could recall, but the dream of her and her nude body teasing his had kept him deep in the realm of fantasy. Yet Clement Hastings would be here in less than an hour and he needed to wash, dress, and get his thoughts in order before meeting the man. He’d received a note late last night by messenger informing him that his agent of inquiry had urgent news he needed to relate in person, but couldn’t be here until after nine this morning. So although Will’s marvelous thoughts consisted of the pink-tipped perfection of Vivian’s breasts, he knew he had to concentrate on the more important matter of the moment.
Finally he rolled onto his back again and sat up, running the fingers of both hands through his hair.
He’d already decided it wasn’t fair to compare Elizabeth to Vivian, for they were so different in every way imaginable. Yet he found it difficult not to do so. They were the only lovers he’d had in his life who mattered to him more than a quick and mutually enjoyable bedding.
Elizabeth had been sweet and young, innocent and soft, beautiful, starkly feminine, and temperamental. Vivian was mature, bold, luscious in her beauty, and although just as outwardly feminine, she was inwardly smarter, her thoughts controlled by a wisdom that certainly comes with age. Yet she was far from old. She carried herself with so much dignity and grace, so much passion for everything—from the mundane planting of flowers, to touching him intimately just for the thrill of watching him respond. Elizabeth had been well-bred and graceful, but Vivian was the epitome of charm and dazzle. Loving Elizabeth, at least in the beginning, had been a joy, an easy attachment to sweetness, a pursuit of discovery, a feeling that required no effort. But loving Vivian…
Will swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbed a palm harshly down his face with an aggravation borne of confusion, then opened his eyes to stare at the blandness of his oakwood floor.
God, if he loved Vivian, and she loved him in return, it would enrich their lives like the gift of laughter. It could be the ultimate discovery for both of them, the final enchantment, the best effort. Not a joy, but the joy. Yet why did that seem so much better to him than the love he’d once felt for his wife? As he considered it now, he realized that in a very strange sense, loving Elizabeth had been the beginning of what should have been a delightful journey; loving Vivian would be like…coming home, the journey’s end. And nothing was ever more comforting, more satisfying, more marvelous than that.
If he loved her—and she loved him back.
Clement Hastings had already taken a seat in the library when Will arrived, clean-shaven, bathed, and dressed in a morning suit of deep blue. Hastings, on the other hand, wore a suit of plum and tangerine, standard attire for him, actually, especially with the corsetlike waistcoat in purple plaid. Will no longer found it worth his contemplation. The investigator simply had strange taste or an even stranger valet.
He decided against sitting at his secretary this morning, instead choosing to relax on his sofa where he could pour himself a cup of tea. Hastings, he noted, had already drunk a cup and sat nervously on the edge of the cushion, a piece of paper in hand.
The investigator cleared his throat to speak even before he was asked.
“Your grace,” he began, “there has been some news.”
He knew that, of course, but didn’t repeat it. “Yes,” he replied simply, adding a trace of cream to his cup.
“Actually,” Hastings continued, “news on two fronts. I’ll start first with Gilbert Herman.”
Will took a sip of the steaming tea, freshly brewed and delicious as always. “Proceed.”
Hastings adjusted his rotund body in the chair, looking now to his notes. The man kept meticulous notes.
“I’ve had Herman followed for the last two weeks, sir, on your orders,” he started, delving into the matter at hand. “As you know, his routine is rather ordinary, though for the last week he’s been working late nights at the theater in preparation for their final few productions before the theater closes and the troop declares its hiatus for the coming winter season.”
Will nodded and leaned back against the soft cushion, lifting one leg and resting his ankle on his knee. This was all very predictable. “Go on,” he pressed, taking another sip.
“Well, sir, at your request, I observed Mrs. Rael-Lamont after the production of As You Like It three nights ago, where she met Mr. Herman, or as she thought, Mr. Montague, to inform him she would be presenting him the manuscript. She appeared a bit agitated, which was to be expected, and he seemed his usual calm and arrogant self. They spoke only for a moment or two, then she left.”
“Left the theater?”
“Yes, your grace. She left and went home alone where she remained for the rest of the evening.”
“I see,” he responded matter-of-factly.
Hastings pulled at his collar, loosening it with two fingers as he looked down once more to his notes, forehead creased in concentration.
“Now, sir, Mrs. Rael-Lamont was followed by one of my men; I followed Mr. Herman. He stayed at the theater until nearly one in the morning, where he then proceeded to The Jolly Knights. He met with the usual barmaid of his choice, drank two glasses of ale, and followed her upstairs.”
“Isn’t that rather typical of him?” Will asked.
The investigator nodded. “Yes, sir, although he’s usually not so late in arriving.”
Frowning, Will leaned forward in his chair and placed his feet flat on the rug. Elbows resting on his knees, he held his cup and saucer in front of him and stared down at the remainder of his tea. “I’m not sure I see the importance of this, Hastings.”
“Yes, of course, sir. I’m getting to that.”
For a few seconds the man studied his notes. Then unexpectedly, and quite surprisingly to Will, he folded them and tucked them into his coat pocket. Leaning forward to face the duke directly, Hastings followed Will’s lead by sitting with elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him.
“Your grace,” he maintained, his tone grave, “there are two things I’m going to tell you that you may find to be a bit disturbing.”
The investigator eyed him for a moment, his thick brows drawn closely together with concern as he waited for a response before continuing. Will suddenly began to feel a tinge of uneasiness settle into the pit of his empty stomach.
Gradually, he leaned forward and placed what remained of his tea on the table between them. “Tell me everything.”
The investigator nodded negligibly, lowering his gaze for a moment to study the plush carpeting at his feet, then raising it again, his eyes sharply focused, his face pulled back in a grim line of determination.
“I and one of my men were in The Jolly Knights, watchful of the interactions around Herman and the other…patrons. The pub was crowded, certainly, but I wasn’t neglectful of my duty by any means—”
“What happened?” he interrupted, his own concern threading his words. He’d never seen his agent of inquiry so unsettled before.
Hastings cleared his throat again. “Well sir, it seems as if Gilbert Herman, for a short time anyway, disappeared from under our noses.”
His eyes slowly narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘disappeared for a time’? I’m not sure I follow.”
Hastings began tapping his fingertips together in front of him. “Your grace, precisely fifteen minutes after his arrival and the completion of his ale, Gilbert Herman took the barmaid upstairs with him, but he never came back down. For a time we thought little of it, until we began to wonder what—if you’ll forgive me—was taking so long. Finally, after more than an hour, one of my men went looking and he simply wasn’t there. There were no windows, and only two extra rooms for the women to entertain guests, I assume, and both were windowless and empty as well. Timmons, my man, found the barmaid asleep on a cot and when he questioned her, she rudely informed him that Herman was only with her for fifteen minutes.”
Hastings paused to take a deep breath then looked directly at him once more. “As I said, the pub was very crowded last night, your grace, but the fact still remains that there was absolutely no way for that man to get past us on the main floor without us noticing, and yet that’s exactly what he did, sir. He had to have walked right out of there without our knowledge, right under our noses.” He finished his statement with emphasis. “The man simply vanished.”
Without clear thought, Will replied, “He’s an actor.”
“Yes, indeed,” Hastings shot back quickly in agreement, “and the oddest thing about this, your grace, is that he was back at the theater for another performance the following day.” He scratched his side whiskers. “If I may be so bold, I’d like to suggest the man is working with someone else, one or both of the men are wearing disguises, and together they have planned this blackmail for months, maybe more than a year, and very, very well.”
Seconds passed in silence. Then, placing his palms flat on his thighs, Will raised himself quickly and began to pace in front of the fireplace. “But what you’re suggesting, Hastings, is that Herman purposely paid off the barmaid to stay upstairs for a time to dupe you, then changed his clothes, maybe his appearance, and left for a short time only to…do what?” He turned to the investigator and paused in his stride.
“I don’t know. Meet with his accomplice? Confuse us because he knows we’re following? But I do think we’re being manipulated, either for pure enjoyment or some more sinister reason.”
“I see. Then that’s the proof that he knows he’s being followed.”
Hastings nodded. “I believe so, yes. As I was afraid of, sir. He’s toying with us.”
Toying with us.
Will shoved his hands into the pockets of his morning suit and started walking again, head down. “He’s enjoying himself.”
“I think he is, yes.”
“Could his accomplice be the blond woman?” he asked after a moment.
Hastings leaned back in his chair. “I’ve considered that possibility, but I don’t think so. When I saw them together the first time at the pub he was clearly disturbed by her presence.” He shook his head. “No, she may be involved, but this is a complex scheme planned by men, and probably men who don’t want her talking. I think that if it got ugly, she would be a liability.”
“As Mrs. Rael-Lamont could be,” he murmured.
The investigator hesitated, then said crisply, “As Mrs. Rael-Lamont certainly is, your grace.”
He stopped pacing at once and stared down at the man, feeling a chilling dampness break out on his neck. “You think she’s in danger?” he asked, his voice low, controlled.
“Yes,” the man replied without prevarication. “Not imminent danger because there hasn’t been a transfer of property or information. She is the manner or means that he’s chosen to achieve a goal, to get something he wants or feels he needs, and he hasn’t received it yet.” Hastings nodded again minutely. “But ultimately, yes. She is in the way.”
Will suddenly felt as if he were thinking in a circle of fog, confusion blending with certainty, theories mingling with facts, and all of it getting them nowhere while they groped in the darkness, perilously closer to the edge of some great abyss.
“Your grace, keep in mind that right now he has the upper hand, he’s smart, he knows he’s being followed, knows we can’t accuse him of anything because there is no proof that he’s done anything even socially improper, much less illegal. He knows he’s being followed and not only does he not care, he taunts us. It’s a most careless thing to do, and yet I can’t help but think he knows this as well, and that it’s some point he’s attempting to make. He’s purposely shown us incredibly abrasive and reckless behavior on his part.”
Hastings leaned on one leg and pointed to the ground to make his point. “The important thing to remember then, your grace, is that he’s overconfident in the extreme. If we proceed with caution, plan our moves very well from this moment on, as he’s done until now, he’ll eventually make a mistake. They always do. And when he trips, we catch him as he falls.”
Such a reassurance seemed arbitrarily vague, and it was no real comfort either, Will thought, staring now out the conservatory windows to the blue sky beyond. But the one thing of which they could be absolutely certain was that Herman had no idea how much they’d guessed about his plan. Will just hoped to God they weren’t missing anything. Hastings was the best in the business, but even he had been outwitted by a man who made a living on pretense.
Will inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a second or two before turning around to face his investigator again.
“We’ll have to assume he’ll suspect I’m giving him a forgery,” he said.
The man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Indeed. It’s imperative that we attempt to think like he does, and suspect as he would suspect. We can’t know his motives, or his intentions, your grace, but we’re smart, too.” He smirked. “We’re smart, too.”
“I want to be there when Mrs. Rael-Lamont hands over the document.”
Hastings’s smile quickly faded. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know what his goals really are.” He tapped his fingertips on the padded leather armrest. “For all we know, he could expect that and be planning for it.”
Will felt his shoulders tense. “For what purpose?”
“That’s just the point, sir, we simply don’t know the details in his mind, or the mind of his accomplices. My experience tells me to continue playing the role he has assigned to us, using every caution, absorbing every detail, until he makes that one mistake—”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Without hesitation, Hastings articulated, “He will. In the meantime, we watch his every move and protect Mrs. Rael-Lamont. That is our prime objective.”
He considered that for a moment, then shook his head and murmured, “I don’t like it.”
“I’ll continue to keep my men on him, sir. I assure you if he changes one moment of his routine before his meeting with Mrs. Rael-Lamont, you’ll be the first to know.”
He supposed it was the best that could be done. Nodding once, he replied, “Very good.” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you, Hastings.”
As clear as that dismissal came through, the investigator hesitated in standing. For several seconds he rubbed his thick chin with the fingers and thumb of his left hand, then said, “One more thing, sir. About the Widow Rael-Lamont.”
“Yes?” he replied gruffly.
Hastings scooted forward in his seat a little. “I had mentioned earlier that there were two disturbing things I needed to convey.”
He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Go on.”
The investigator now made a great effort to scratch the back of his neck.
He’s stalling…
“What is it, Hastings?” he asked very formally, the urgency and power of his position more than obvious in his tone.
The older man’s plump cheeks turned a reddish hue, most unbecoming when contrasted with his purple and tangerine attire. But very telling.
“Forgive me, your grace, but—I do realize you’ve grown quite…fond of the Widow Rael-Lamont.”
Will said nothing, feeling an instantaneous heat to his own face—and a bolt of foreboding slice through his body.
Hastings rubbed his palms along his pants. “You see, sir, as I said before, I’ve had some of my men working in London, and as you requested, did a bit of checking on Mrs. Rael-Lamont’s family.”
“Yes,” he murmured, trying to control the steady beating of his heart.
“So far we haven’t been able to trace her past before her marriage to Leopold Rael-Lamont, a French aristocrat roughly the rank of a baronet, we believe.”
Vivian married a French aristocrat.
Hastings sighed. “Your grace, her husband was apparently a renowned opium addict, who lived off a substantial income he received from her dowry—”
“Her dowry?” he repeated, now admittedly baffled, and thoroughly intrigued.
The investigator pulled down on his waistcoat with both hands. “Yes, sir. Although her family is not from London, and still remains a mystery, or rather, we haven’t found them yet, we do believe that she comes from a home of considerable wealth.”
Will began to stride forward, toward the tea table again, noting oddly enough that his legs felt weak. Something about this was not right.
“Why is she living so…frugally here?” he asked, more to himself.
“Your grace,” Hastings explained, his tone now quiet, sober, “in our investigation we’ve learned that not only is she living on her own income and not her husband’s, she in fact has claimed that her husband died some ten years ago.”
Stopping short of the sofa, Will stared down at the man, small and round and appearing so very uncomfortable in his ridiculously tight suit jacket and tapered waistcoat. His forehead beaded with perspiration, his jowls hung over the neck of his shirt and pinching necktie, and as he squirmed in the winged chair, he looked utterly uneasy.
“Her husband died more recently than that?”
Hastings cleared his throat. “No sir, actually just the opposite.”
His earlier sense of dread exploded, rocking him back on his heels.
“Your point,” he demanded too sharply.
Taken aback by that forceful charge, Hastings’s eyes opened wide. He licked his lips and clarified, “We have reason to believe her husband is still very much alive, sir, and living in France. There has been no recording of his death. Mrs. Rael-Lamont is still married.”
It took hours, it seemed, for that revelation to sink in past a brick wall of stubbornness and disbelief. Then at last, in unequivocal shock, he reached out with both arms and clutched the sofa back with tightly flexed fingers.
“Still married…” he repeated, his mouth going dry with incredulity.
“Yes,” Hastings returned, never looking away.
Jesus. “I don’t understand.”
Hastings finally stood, rather awkwardly under the circumstances, so that they now more or less faced each other, the sofa and tea table between them.
“To be quite blunt, your grace, after careful investigation, we’ve come to the conclusion that Mr. Rael-Lamont did not die, but that he and his wife came to a mutual arrangement regarding their separation. Under these conditions, they would have signed a legal separation agreement, which would entitle her to the money she brought into her marriage.” He paused to let the startling information sink in. Finally, he added, “I’ve no idea why the man would go to France, aside from the fact that he was raised there. But such a situation does explain why Mrs. Real-Lamont is presenting herself as a widow and living in Cornwall. I don’t know how much information you have regarding separation agreements, but they’re binding by law. She can live as a divorced person would, I imagine, in charge of her own funds and without complete social disgrace, but she can never remarry.”
Never remarry.
It had been years since Will had felt such a devastatingly personal blow at such an unsuspecting moment. Even now as he recalled it, learning of the death of his wife at her own hands had been less of a surprise. Still, with his suddenly paralyzed mind, he was nevertheless forced to admit that this situation was not about him. This had nothing to do with his power as a duke, his sensibility as a man, or his worth as Vivian’s lover. This was about a long-held secret, an enormous deception, by a woman he was growing to care for deeply.
Never remarry.
Will bit down hard, jaw tight as he continued to clutch the back of the sofa with both hands, staring blankly at the leather seat. His investigator remained standing across from him, waiting.
He hadn’t really considered marrying her. Not in specific terms. But now that it didn’t appear to be an option at all, he felt a crushing bitterness within, a disappointment for an unrealized lifetime of peaceful dreams and loving companionship. And all along she had known they could never be together as husband and wife, with each kiss, each tender touch, each look from her beautiful eyes. In a roundabout way she had lied to him. That probably hurt the most.
Suddenly, he stood erect, clasping his hands behind him once more in stately bearing. “Do you think this is the information Gilbert Herman is using to force her into blackmail?” he asked, his voice oddly subdued.
Hastings frowned, nodding slightly. “I do, sir. Either he has very good sources, or he has somehow obtained a copy of the separation agreement. Difficult to get, but not impossible with the right persuasion and funds.”
“I see.” Will forced himself to breathe steadily, to allow his racing heart to still, to force his mind to think. At last, he said pointedly, “Thank you for your thorough work, Mr. Hastings. I’m sure I need not remind you that Mrs. Rael-Lamont deserves her privacy, and that the unusual information you’ve uncovered is nobody’s business but her own.”
Hastings gave him a half-bow. “Absolutely, your grace. I am in your ser vice, and it shall not leave this room.”
“Good.”
A rapping at the library door startled them both.
“Come,” he fairly bellowed.
Wilson entered, his features as prosaic as ever, reminding Will that nothing in the outside world had changed as he had in the last half hour.
“Pardon me, your grace,” Wilson interrupted, “but his grace, the Duke of Newark is here.”
Will almost smiled with relief to know Colin Ramsey, one of his most trusted friends, was here at last—and that his forger had arrived.