Kearse poured out two glasses of port. “I’m finding it difficult to believe your head didn’t explode with the force of a cannon just now,” Kearse said, handing over one of the glasses.
Theo grunted without answering his friend, unsure why he hesitated. There had been something innately sad about the duke Theo couldn’t put his finger on. Disgust filled him. He couldn’t believe he actually felt sorry for the man who’d sent his father to his death.
Perhaps it was the question Giselle had posed of someone else wanting the first duchess before Winsome had married her. No one knew much about the woman, and it had been years, just as Giselle said. But what if there had been a man who was furious at her for marrying Winsome.
Theo made a mental note to ask Percival for more specifics. It was past time to learn what really happened all those years ago. He just couldn’t get the image of Winsome’s expression out of his head.
“Have you ever spoken with the duke before now?”
The tension in Theo’s neck was tight enough to snap. He took a sip from his glass. “No. I don’t believe I have. And why should it matter? I have nothing to say to a blustering fool.”
“A blustering, powerful fool, you mean.” A small silence ensued, then Kearse said, “There was an interesting array of women at la Sous Rose last night.”
A small smile touched Theo. “Yes.” There certainly was.
“I believe I recognized Lady Ranstruther and a few of her very close friends.”
Startled by that information, Theo sat forward. Surely Giselle was not one of Lady Ranstruther’s friends. “Is that right?”
“I can’t be certain, of course, but I believe I took a turn about the floor with Lady Philomena. I was shocked to find such a bluestocking in attendance. At a gaming hell. What the devil could she be thinking?” He snorted. “One would never believe the lady had seen anything but the inside of a circulating library.” Kearse shook his head.
For the first time that day, Theo sat back amused. Kearse was never out of sorts.
“So, where did you disappear last night after going up the stairs with that statuesque beauty? Once I spotted Winsome heading in the same direction, I knew that would be the last I would of you the rest of the night.”
“Obviously, I had no desire to confront Winsome. She and I…” he glanced at Kearse and winced. He wasn’t about to tell him he’d taken a virgin and disclose that all his and Percival’s plans for vengeance appeared—currently—for naught. And the most important fact of all? He couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m thinking of not attending Winsome’s Christmas fête.” Theo heard himself say.
Kearse stopped, his glass poised halfway to his lips. “Did you perchance mention this to Urvay?”
A third, unexpected, voice replied, “He did not.”
Theo groaned, looking up into his uncle’s furious face. This wasn’t exactly the way he’d planned on informing Percival of his plans.
His uncle poured himself a glass of Kearse’s excellent port without invitation. “You’ll be there, nephew. Make no mistake.” He tossed back the entire contents of the glass then slammed it on the table and walked away.
“Such an entertaining fellow, isn’t he?” Kearse said.
“Always,” Theo said, wondering how the devil he was supposed to find Giselle.
Ah, but he did have a place to start, didn’t he? Lady Ranstruther’s.
Baron Urvay rue the day his brother had been sent up on charges for the brutalizing and killing of the first Duchess of Winsome some twenty-nine years ago. Nothing had gone right in his life since. It had been around this same time of year, recalling the fresh snow on the ground.
The lovely Elsa. Dainty and soft spoken, beautiful. And her death had changed his life. She should have never married that incorrigible reprobate. The man had married Elsa and had never even given up his whore. His pregnant whore at that.
Elsa hadn’t had to die.
The words pounded through Urvay. Over and over until he thought his head would ignite. He stepped into the cold air on Jermyn Street and stalked the four blocks to his home. He let himself inside, cursing his inept butler and found his houseguest in the parlour having tea before the fire.
“Oh, there you are Urvay. Did you get any more details on the Christmas ball?” Olivia’s voice had a sultry quality that would set any healthy man on an erotic edge.
“Our, er, invitation is set,” he said, barely noting her hands tightening on the book she held. “My nephew will be announcing his engagement to Winsome’s daughter, Lady Sophia, that night.”
“I care nothing regarding Lady Sophia,” she said. “What of Alexandra?”
“She should be present, my dear. She is firmly on the shelf at twenty-eight. She’s likely to never marry. I hear she is quite reclusive.”
A frown marred his houseguest’s lovely, yet lined features. She was a tall woman with dark blonde hair. Her face bore tiny scars from the paint she’d worn on the stage over the years, but she was a still a beautiful woman.
“I suspect she will have no choice but to attend, Olivia. You shall see your daughter. I assure you.”
An unfamiliar pain pierced Winsome’s chest. He couldn’t sit still. And, why the devil should he? There was no one with whom he could play chess.
His wife strode in and grabbed his hand, startling him. “Darling, you are going to wear out the carpets. What on earth is troubling you?”
He didn’t even know how to put his thoughts into words. As a duke, he wasn’t expected to have misgivings or second thoughts for any of his actions. That would be admitting failings. Doubt… human error. He shook his head, stunned by the uncertainty welling inside him.
“Gareth, please. Tell me what is wrong. I fear you will suffer an apoplexy.” She went to the liquor cabinet and poured him a measure of whiskey, came back, took his hand, pushed him into a chair, then handed him the glass.
He didn’t drink, just stared down into its golden depths. After a long moment, he spoke. “Did you ever believe that I held a candle for Elsa?”
“Your first wife?” she asked softly.
He nodded.
“Would it have mattered?”
“I suppose not.”
“You needed an heir; I needed a husband.” She spoke much too matter-of-factly; much too carefully. “Are you trying to tell me you are unhappy with our years together after all this time?”
He frowned. “Of course not.”
“Then perhaps you will tell me what has brought up all this unpleasantness.”
“What of Alexandra? Are you sorry I brought her into our home?”
“Certainly not,” she said with all the outraged dignity he’d come to expect of her over the years. “I shudder to think of the things that child had seen up to the point she came to live with us.”
“Do you think she’s been happy?”
“I can’t say for certain, darling, but I believe for the most part, she has been. She made wonderful friends at school, from Princess Augusta to Lady Ranstruther, to Ladies Philomena and Thomasina. Granted Faustina’s fall from grace did not serve any of them well—” She shook her head. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
Faustina Clara was now one of the most infamous courtesans at Court. Winsome was certain it hadn’t been her lifelong goal, but one could never predict these things. “What of now?” he said, returning to the subject at hand. “What of Alexandra having her own dwelling? I intensely dislike the idea of her residing on her own.”
“Alexandra is nearing thirty, my dear. I fear she is so brittle from bottling her emotion so greatly, she will combust, and I’ll admit, at times, I’m very frightened for her.”
Winsome looked at his wife. Frederika was a force of nature. When Elsa had died, he’d spent the entire following year in his cups. He’d sent away his mistress, never guessing she’d carried his child.
It had taken him years to set his head right. The first year had been one of vengeance, punishing the man who’d dared to hurt Elsa—a man who had a wife and a young child. Was it any wonder Millburn’s son saw fit to give the Duke of Winsome the cut direct? Theodore Millburn had no care for societal dictates. Winsome could crush him with a word, of course. As it was, Millburn wasn’t worth the effort. How fortunate his uncle, the Baron Urvay, was nowhere near Winsome’s status. The fop was an unctuous hanger-on Winsome managed to avoid in most situations.
Yet, it was Millburn’s son, the boy—man—who still carried the grudge. And why shouldn’t he? If Winsome was wrong in having accused Millburn, he’d stolen the boy’s father from him, and one couldn’t bring back a dead man.
For the first time ever, Winsome wondered what had happened to Theodores’s mother. Wondered how he and her son had survived the gut-wrenching trial and final execution. He shook off his misgivings. There wasn’t much he could do to right things at this late date, was there?
“Perhaps I’ll check on Thornton Place for her,” he said glumly. “Do you remember which one?”
The duchess squeezed his hand. “Number nineteen, I believe.”