No Man's Mistress (36 page)

“It is enough,” Ferdinand said. He took the paper and
read it. His eyes lingered on four of the words written there—“my daughter, Viola Thornhill.” The late earl had made this public acknowledgment of his relationship to her, then. Ferdinand looked curiously at the other man. “Have you just come from Yorkshire, Bamber? It looks as if you have been traveling all night.”

“I damned well have,” the earl assured him. “I may be a ramshackle fellow, Dudley. I may be known as something of a loose screw, but I'll not have it said that I have been a party to any fraud or cover-up. As soon as the chit said she had met m'father here just before he died—”

“Miss Thornhill?”

“She had the effrontery to come calling on me,” Bamber said. “You could have knocked me over with a bald feather. I didn't know she existed. Anyway, I knew as soon as she said it that if he
had
been going to do anything to his will he couldn't have done it that week he was here. I remember because I asked him to go to Westinghouse to have my allowance raised. I was living
on pin
money, for the love of God, and old Westinghouse always made a great to-do about giving me an advance on the next quarter. Anyway, m'father told me he had been to see Westinghouse the day before but he had not been there. His mother had died in Kent or something inconvenient like that and he had gone off to bury her. M'father left London the same day. He sometimes went to my mother's solicitor on small matters. It struck me that he might have gone to him about this—and that other matter the chit mentioned too. In fact, she seemed more concerned about that than about the will.” He tapped the other folded paper.

“Why did these not come to light before now?” Ferdinand asked.

“Corking is not the brightest light,” Bamber said carelessly. “He forgot all about them.”

“Forgot?”
Ferdinand looked at him incredulously.

The earl leaned both hands on the table and looked narrow-eyed at Ferdinand.

“He
forgot,”
he repeated with slow emphasis. “My questions jolted his memory. Leave it at that, Dudley. He
forgot.”

Ferdinand understood immediately. The York solicitor was primarily the Countess of Bamber's. The late earl had used him out of desperation because Westinghouse had been gone from London and Bamber had known he did not have much time left in which to make all secure for his newly restored daughter. The countess had found out about the codicil, and she had persuaded her solicitor to say nothing about it. Whose decision it had been not to destroy the papers, Ferdinand could not even guess. He could merely feel grateful that one or both of them had not been prepared to go that whole criminal length.

“I don't know where to find the chit,” Bamber said. “And quite honestly, I don't intend to put myself out trying. I don't feel any obligation whatsoever to her even if she is m'half-sister. But I won't do her out of what is rightfully hers either. I daresay you know where she is. Will you take her these?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand said. He had no idea what the content of the other paper was or why she had said it was more important to her than the will. She was going to be ecstatic to learn that her unwavering faith in Bamber had not been misplaced. So she did not owe Pinewood in any way at all to him, he thought wryly.

“Good,” Bamber said. “That is it, then. I'm going home to sleep. I hope never to hear the names Pinewood or Thornhill ever again. Or Dudley either, for that
matter. Corking has sent a copy of the codicil to Westinghouse, by the way.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Ferdinand said, an idea popping into his head. “Sit down and have some coffee, Bamber. I haven't finished with you yet.”

“Devil take it!” the earl said irritably, pulling a chair out from the table and plumping himself down onto it none too elegantly. “I would set a light to Brookes's with m'own hands today, and stand around to watch it burn to the ground too, if it were not somewhat akin to shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. What now?”

Ferdinand looked assessingly at him.

Viola felt horribly exposed as she approached the front doors of Dudley House on Grosvenor Square. She was terrified that they would open and the duchess would step out—or that the duchess would be looking out through one of the many windows that overlooked the square. After she had lifted the knocker and let it fall against the door, she was afraid the duchess might be in the hall.

A very superior-looking butler opened the door. His eyes alit on her and then went beyond her to note that there was no carriage and no companion, not even a maid. He looked back at her.

“I wish to see his grace,” she said. She felt as breathless as if she had run a mile uphill. Her knees were unsteady.

The butler raised his eyebrows and looked at her as if she were a little lower on the social scale than a worm. Viola had realized, of course, that the very strong chance
the duke was away from home so close to the middle of the day was not the least of her worries.

“Kindly inform him that Lilian Talbot wishes to speak with him,” she said, holding his gaze with a confidence she did not feel. She reminded herself that she was still wearing the clothes she had worn for the drive in the park. They were the clothes of a lady, the clothes Viola Thornhill of Pinewood Manor had worn for afternoon visits.

“I believe,” she said, “he will agree to see me.”

“Step inside,” the butler said, after such a lengthy pause that she feared any moment to have the door slammed in her face. “Wait here.”

She had hoped he would show her into a room to wait. At any moment one of the doors that lined the hall might open to reveal the duchess. Or she might come down the grand staircase that the butler was now ascending. Viola stood just inside the front doors with one silent liveried footman for company. She stood there for what felt like an hour at the very least but was perhaps five minutes. Then the butler came back downstairs.

“This way,” he said as frigidly as he had spoken before. He opened a door to her right, and she stepped into what was obviously a reception room—a square, elegant apartment with chairs arranged about the walls. “His grace will be with you soon.” The door closed.

Another five minutes passed before he came. Viola thought a dozen times at least of bolting, but she had come this far. She would see it through to the end. If the Duke of Tresham was the man she thought he was, he would agree to her suggestion. Then the door opened again, and she turned from the window.

She felt a strange shock as soon as he stepped into the room. He was as austere, as forbidding, as… frightening
as he had been at Pinewood. Yet he was holding a tiny baby. The child was against his shoulder, making fussing noises and sucking loudly on one fist. The duke was patting its back with one long-fingered hand.

“Miss… Talbot?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

She curtsied and lifted her chin. She would not be cowed. “Yes, your grace.”

“And how may I be of service to you?” he asked her.

“I have a proposition to make to you,” she said.

“Indeed?” His voice was soft, but all her insides jerked with alarm.

“It is not what you think,” she said hastily.

“Am I to feel flattered or… shattered?” he asked her. He cupped his hand over the back of the baby's head when the child fussed in an obvious attempt to find a more comfortable position. There was gentleness in that hand, she thought. But there was none whatsoever in his face.

“I do not know,” she said, “if you are aware that Lord Ferdinand Dudley has restored Pinewood Manor to me. Or that he has offered me marriage.”

His eyebrows rose again. “But do I need to be aware?” he asked her. “My brother is seven-and-twenty, Miss… Talbot.”

She hesitated before continuing. “And I do not know,” she said, “if you are aware that the duchess and Lady Heyward called upon my mother this morning and then took me driving in the park. Or that the duchess has invited my mother and me to tea here tomorrow. I do not wish to cause any trouble for them,” she added.

Two of his long fingers were rubbing lightly over the baby's neck. “You need not fear,” he said. “I do not make a habit of taking a whip to my wife. And my sister is Lord Heyward's responsibility.”

“I am aware,” she said, “that my presence in London can be nothing but an embarrassment to you.”

“Are you?” he said.

“I might have been seen in your barouche this morning,” she said. “I might have been seen coming here. I might be seen tomorrow when I come with my mother. And recognized.”

He appeared to consider for a moment. “Unless you wear a mask,” he agreed, “I suppose that is a distinct possibility.”

“I am prepared to go back to Pinewood,” she said. “I am prepared to live there for the rest of my life and repel any attempt Lord Ferdinand may make to write to me or to see me there. This I will swear to—in writing, if you will.”

His stare was as black as his brother's, she thought during the silent moments that followed. No, blacker. For Ferdinand's stare always gave evidence of some emotion behind it. This man seemed as cold as death.

“This is extremely magnanimous of you,” he said at last. “I assume there is a condition attached? How much, Miss Talbot? I suppose you are aware that I am one of the wealthiest men in England?”

She named the sum baldly, without any explanation or apology.

He strolled farther into the room and turned half away from her. The baby—its eyes were blue—stared sleepily at her. The neck-rubbing was putting it to sleep.

“Apparently,” the duke said, “you do not realize
how
wealthy, Miss Talbot. You might have asked for considerably more. But it is too late now, is it not?”

“It is a loan I ask for,” she said. “I will pay you back. With interest.”

He swung around to look at her again, and for the
first time his eyes looked less than opaque. She had sparked his interest, it seemed.

“In that case,” he said, “I am ensuring the respectability of my name and my family at remarkably small cost. You surprise me.”

“But you must do something else for me,” she said.

“Ah.” He tipped his head to one side to note that his child was sleeping. Then he looked back at Viola. “Yes, I am sure there is. Proceed.”

“The money is to be used in payment of a debt,” she said. “I want you to pay it for me—in person. I want you to get a receipt stating that the debt has been paid in full and that there are no others. I want you to send me a copy at the White Horse Inn, signed by both you and him.”

“Who?” His eyebrows were raised again.

“Daniel Kirby,” she said. “Do you know him? I can give you his direction.”

“Please do.” He spoke softly. “Why, if I am permitted to ask, can you not pay him yourself if I give you the money?”

She hesitated. “It will not be enough,” she explained. “He will discover other unpaid bills or he will claim that I was mistaken about the interest rate.
If you
go to him, the amount will be right. You are a powerful man.”

He stared at her for a long time while his child slumbered peacefully against his shoulder.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I believe I am.”

“You will do it?” she asked him.

“I will do it.”

She closed her eyes. She had not really expected him to agree. She had not been sure if she would be more relieved or disappointed if he would not. She was still not sure. She had not yet permitted herself to look ahead to
the rest of her life, when she must keep her side of their bargain.

“I will wait for that receipt to be delivered to my uncle's inn, then,” she said after giving him Daniel Kirby's address. “Do you wish to say now, your grace, in what installments you will expect the loan to be repaid? And what interest will be acceptable to you? Shall I sign something now?”

“I think that will be unnecessary, Miss Talbot,” he said. “I am sure I can trust you to repay your debt in a timely manner. I know where you may be reached at any time during the rest of your life, after all, do I not? And I am, as you observed a short while ago, a powerful man.”

She shivered.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said. “I will leave for Pinewood on the next stagecoach after the receipt has been delivered into my hands.”

“I am sure you will,” he said.

She hurried across the room and opened the door. The butler was in the hall. He opened the front doors, and a few moments later she was out on the steps, gulping in fresh air. It had been so very easy.

She had just been saved from what had appeared to be an unavoidable future.

Mama and Uncle Wesley had been saved.

So had Claire.

She hurried out of the square, her head down, the warmth of bright sunlight soaking into her. Why did life still appear bleaker than bleak? Why was she cold through to her very soul?

The Duchess of Tresham looked around the open door of the reception room before stepping inside.

“She has gone?” she asked unnecessarily. “Why did she come alone and ask to speak with
you
, Jocelyn? Why did she use a false name?” The duchess had been looking out through the nursery window earlier while nursing the baby and had observed the arrival of Viola Thornhill. She had remarked on it to her husband, who had been reading their elder son a story.

“Lilian Talbot was her working name,” he said.

“Oh.” She frowned.

“She has persuaded me,” he said, “to pay her off so that she will go back to Pinewood and never be seen or heard from again.”

“And you
agreed
?”

“Ah, but it is only a loan, you see,” he said. “We will not be permanently impoverished, Jane. She is to pay me back.”

“She thinks this is what is best for Ferdinand?” she asked. “How foolishly noble.”

“She did apologize for letting me know that you and Angeline took her driving in the park this morning,” he said. “But I promised not to whip you, you will be relieved to know.”

“Jocelyn!” She tipped her head to one side. “You have been terrifying the poor lady. You are not serious about this, are you? You are not going to be odious and break Ferdinand's heart?”

“It is just the effect I have on people, you see,” he said. “You are the only one who has ever defied me, Jane. I married you so that you would be forced to obey me, but we both know how successful I have been at that.”