Nothing But Scandal (22 page)

She owed it to him not to destroy their trust, their relationship, based solely on the words of a former coachman who’d even admitted he hadn’t
seen
exactly what happened the night of her father’s death.

But she owed it to her father as well not to let his death go unexamined, if in fact he did not die in a carriage accident as she’d originally been told.

And so she came to a decision that did not make her proud, or even entirely comfortable.

She would not doubt or dishonor her husband with an open confrontation. No. She would prove Fuston wrong. And in order to do it, she would investigate on her own.

As planned, Alex and Elizabeth removed to the country at the end of October, having attended as many social events as they both could stand before seeking time for themselves. The whirlwind of activities had prevented Elizabeth from lingering on the terrible accusation Fuston had made against her new husband. But now, with the quieter months looming ahead, her mind turned increasingly toward her worries.

Montgrave, the seat of Alex’s dukedom, was a vast, sprawling estate. The main house had been built in the 1600s, then updated by each duke in the line of succession, resulting in a stately mix of history and modern convenience.

Elizabeth loved it at first sight. At the same time, it overwhelmed her, adding to the maelstrom of doubts and insecurity that already plagued her. Was she an adequate duchess? Did her husband hold terrible secrets? And where did she begin, if she truly wanted an answer to that last question?

On the third day after they arrived, she’d sent a note inviting her sister to visit. She and Alex were supposed to be honeymooning, but the huge country house felt intimidating and empty at times—especially whenever her husband was engaged in the many matters of business that so absorbed him. She didn’t think he’d begrudge her a family visit. Of course, she hadn’t expected Charity to arrive quite so soon.

But Charity, anxious to be away from their mother and Uncle George, had readily accepted the invitation and arrived four days later—before Elizabeth had had time to investigate their father’s death and put those doubts to rest. With her sister present, Elizabeth forced herself to put the Fuston matter out of her mind—for now.

“It is lovely to finally be away from town,” Elizabeth confided to Charity on the seventh day of her sister’s visit.

They were comfortably ensconced in the music room. Outside, a cool fall rain fell, making their tray of hot cider and scones especially appealing.

“I vow,” Elizabeth continued, “if I’d attended one more function and seen one more matron of Society eyeing my middle, trying to determine if Alex had been forced into marrying me, well, I believe I’d have been provoked to violence.”

Charity’s eyes widened at Elizabeth’s mention of such an indelicate topic. “Thank you for going to so many functions at all, E.,” she replied. “I know it was, at least partly, for me that you bothered.”

It was true. Charity could finally make her bow next spring, and Elizabeth wanted her to have every opportunity. And that meant making sure Alex retained his position at the pinnacle of Society—and joining him there, keeping her head high and outlasting the rumors that kept popping up.

Her own actions had sparked those rumors, Elizabeth had often reminded herself as she sat through yet another tea, and it would have to be her actions to repair the damage.

Elizabeth smiled warmly at Charity. “You deserve it, since I very nearly ruined your chances for any Season at all.”

“No, father nearly ruined my chances for that, not you.” Charity tugged at a lock of hair. Elizabeth knew it still made her sister uncomfortable to speak ill of their father.

“Well, you’re the only loyal family member I’ve got, and I’m not about to forget it,” Elizabeth declared. “I’m so pleased you’ve decided to stay with us for a while.”

She helped herself to another scone from the tray they were sharing and gazed out the wide expanse of mullioned windows. The rolling grounds of the estate, though exquisitely tended, were turning brown with the onset of winter.

“It’s lovely here,” Charity said, dragging Elizabeth from her reverie. “But I’ve been corresponding with Mother and your friend Lady Pullington, and they tell me if I’m to order a full wardrobe to be ready in time for next Season, I’d best start planning soon. So I think I shall return to London soon.”

“Truly? Must you?”

If Charity left, so did her excuse for not pursuing the investigation of their father’s death. At the heart of the matter was the fact that Elizabeth was loathe to cast shadows of doubt across her new marriage. She was determined to prove Fuston wrong. But didn’t the fact that she felt the need to do so prove she thought there
was
a possibility of truth to the tale?

But her father was, well, her
father
. And Elizabeth was running out of excuses.

Charity gave her a sheepish grin. “E., you and the duke are newlyweds, after all. Surely you don’t want your little sister underfoot all the time.”

“I never think of you as underfoot,” Elizabeth replied loyally.

“Nonetheless, I believe Lady Pullington and Mother have the right of it, in this case. And I do look forward to selecting gowns, and ribbons, and such. It’s been so long since we could do such things without worry over the cost, and truthfully I was too young to care a great deal back when we could before. Your duke has been more than generous to us, E.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said softly. “Alex is a good man.”

Which made what she had to do that much harder.

A Bow Street Runner she was not. In fact, Elizabeth reflected glumly, her skills as an investigator were proving woefully inadequate.

True to her word, and to the disappointment of her sister, Charity had packed up and returned to London two weeks ago. And so Elizabeth ground her teeth and started asking questions…phrased as delicately as possible, so as not to start the staff talking.

She had to proceed slowly. If she ran about asking questions of all the servants at once, they’d surely think her daft, and likely report her behavior back to Alex. So she’d contrived any number of excuses to seek out the various members of the staff, one by one, and pose casual questions.

But she’d underestimated the enormity of her task.

Her father’s death had occurred in late October, a year past. Fuston had said he’d taken the Baron Medford to the Beaufort estate, not to Alex’s London house.

Though the Medfords had wintered in London that year—her mother loathe to leave the entertainments the city offered—Montgrave was not all that far away. And extended house parties were often held at the country home of the host. It stood to reason her father had indeed come
here
.

But finding anyone who recalled that fated evening proved nearly impossible.

The butler, when asked if Alex entertained often at Montgrave in the winter, had stiffly informed her that, as he’d only come into the duke’s employ last May, he could not speak with authority on the duke’s habit, or any lack thereof, of entertaining during the winter months.

The housekeeper, when asked when the guest wing had last been used, said she didn’t know, though she hastily assured Elizabeth the furniture and linens were carefully stored, and the rooms could be readied if the duchess wished them so.

The gardener, when asked Alex’s favorite places to play outdoors as a child, had informed her he’d not known the duke as a child.

The only staff member she hadn’t yet managed to question was Alex’s personal valet, Hanson. The man kept to himself and was as tight-lipped as a nun in a room full of prostitutes. She suspected he’d been in Alex’s service for years, and held more insight than did any of the other servants, but she never saw him outside her husband’s presence.

Finally, Betsy, one of the lower kitchen maids, provided some insight as to why no one seemed to know a thing about their master.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Betsy said when Elizabeth asked if she recalled a friendship between the duke and the Baron Medford. “I ’uz on’y just hired on here in August.” She loaded several loaves of bread into a large basket and folded a cloth around them, then shifted the basket onto her hip.

“Are many on the staff new, then?” Elizabeth asked.

“Indeed, my lady. Most of us just come on in these last few months.”

“Have you any idea why? Was there a problem with the old staff?”

Betsy shrugged. “Couldn’t say. His Grace didn’t mention none, but per’aps he were cleanin’ house, as it was. Sometimes the nobility’ll do that. Start fresh so there’s no lingerin’ ’urt feelins’ or anything.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. “Thank you, Betsy.”

Apparently, Alex had replaced the majority of his servants since the previous fall. But
why?
Had her father’s death aught to do with his decision? Or had he merely been dissatisfied with the performance of the old group of servants and decided to replace them all at once?

It seemed an odd decision, despite Betsy’s reassurance that sometimes the nobility “cleaned house” that way.

Betsy shifted awkwardly, then nodded at her basket. “I’ve got to carry this bread into town for Mrs. Culpepper. ’Er husband’s been laid up with an injured foot, and with ’im out of work, they could use a little extra. The housekeeper says we’ve plenty.”

“That’s very kind of you. Please convey to Mrs. Culpepper and her husband my hope that he soon recovers.”

Betsy curtsied awkwardly and went about her errand, leaving Elizabeth to wonder what had caused the duke to suddenly replace all his staff only months after the death of her father.

She sighed. Alex was an attentive and loving husband. It was so tempting to simply forget this whole matter.

But she’d
loved
her father. He’d always accepted her the way she was—clumsiness, strong-willed nature, red hair, and all. He’d held a lot of secrets, some dishonorable, behind his laughing, easygoing nature. Elizabeth could accept that she hadn’t known him fully, and that his obsession with gaming had cost her family dearly. She also knew that in spite of all he’d done wrong, there was a part of her that would always care for him, and that part had a need to lay him to rest fully.

She had to try harder. If no one knew anything about her husband, then perhaps it was time she learned more about her father.

Alex glanced at Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She was perched on the corner of his desk, seemingly lost in a daydream. He was reviewing the financial sheets of his latest investment, an Indian factory that produced finely embroidered silks. Owning the factory would cut out the need for a foreign buyer, ensuring he was never again the recipient of a substandard shipment such as the corrupted Marks had tried to pass off on him earlier that year.

Having dallied with the fairer sex for years, Alex was well aware of their passion for finery, particularly finery not readily available to their female competition. He had every belief this factory’s fabrics would fit the bill and turn a nice profit for him when sold through select milliners and modistes. As soon as the first shipment arrived, he planned to present Elizabeth with scarves and a gown to complement her vivid coloring. When London’s ladies saw his lovely duchess, the race to copy the new trend would be on.

He jotted a figure, raw material costs, in his ledger.

Elizabeth shifted slightly. A light waft of lavender reached him.

He shook his head. Was that number correct? With his tempting young wife hovering beside him—fresh from a lavender-scented bath, no less—it was difficult to concentrate. Not that he was complaining. Finally he pushed aside the papers.

“The morning grows late. Would you care to luncheon with me, today, my lady?”

Alex flashed Elizabeth his most wicked grin. “Although it’s too cold for a picnic, I’ve asked the staff to prepare one anyway. I thought we might enjoy it by the fire.” He nodded meaningfully at the large hearth and the luxuriously thick rug laid before it.

He saw her eyes widen as she took his meaning. Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out to touch her bottom lip ever so briefly. Alex’s blood heated.

But to his surprise, Elizabeth didn’t return his grin. Instead she seemed to shake herself. “I, er, can’t,” she said, looking away. She ducked her head. “I’ve promised Mrs. Culpepper a visit.”

“Surely you could be late.” He traced a finger down the line of her throat, her bodice, and saw her shiver.

“Um. Well.” She leaned into his touch, then suddenly straightened. “It’s just, I did…rather…promise.”

“Who is this Mrs. Culpepper? I don’t think I like her.”

She batted him playfully. “You oughtn’t say such uncharitable things. She’s one of the villagers. Her husband’s been laid up, injured, for weeks, and they’ve a brood of five, and I thought the poor woman could use a bit of respite and some cheering up.”

Alex’s heart softened fractionally. He couldn’t fault Elizabeth her kindness or charity, but damned if he wasn’t getting tired of things getting in the way of the seductions he’d imagined would fill his newlywed hours.

Having Charity around had been trial enough. Cheerful though she was, the presence of a sister-in-law tended to stifle a man’s plans for impromptu liaisons. Of course, knowing what life had been like for Elizabeth with her mother and her uncle George, he could hardly fault her for offering her sister the chance to escape the same.

Now that Charity was gone, though, he’d looked forward to having Elizabeth to himself. Wasn’t that what the honeymoon period was for?

Certainly not for traipsing about to every function put on by the ton, though they’d done that, too.

And aiding the villagers was all well and good, but there would be plenty of time for that later.

Apparently his wife thought otherwise.

Elizabeth ducked her head again. “I shall return as quickly as possible. Perhaps we might have tea?”

He sighed dramatically, hoping to tease her out of her do-gooder ways. “I suppose we might. It doesn’t have quite the appeal of a fireside picnic, but if that is all the time you can spare…”

“Oh, hush,” she said and leaned forward to kiss him full on the lips.

He kissed her hungrily, felt her lips give beneath his, and dipped his tongue in to taste her, stroke her. Selfish though it was, he hoped every minute she spent at the Culpeppers’ was filled with regret for what she
could
be doing here with him.

Finally Elizabeth pulled back. “I’m sorry, Alex. I shall make it up to you.”

“I fully intend to hold you to that promise,” he told her as she gathered her skirts, scooted off his desk, and retreated from the room.

Damn. He leaned his head against the back of his chair. Was it possible Elizabeth didn’t know why newly married couples kept to themselves?

He supposed not all of them did. Plenty of ton marriages were made without any strong feelings on the part of the participants. He’d avoided such a union for years. But he’d thought what he and Elizabeth shared was different.

Was it possible she didn’t share his near-constant state of desire? No, it was there in her eyes when he touched her. He
knew
she did. So, why was she so difficult to pin down lately?

Elizabeth did visit the Culpeppers. She just didn’t stay long. Since her husband’s past remained a troubling mystery, she’d decided to approach her investigation by examining the last months of her father’s life. To that end, she left the Culpepper home within minutes of delivering a small parcel of preserves and cheese.

She went next to the public room at the village inn, where she’d arranged to meet with the solicitor who’d handled her father’s estate. Rather than draw attention by using a Beaufort carriage and driver, she’d chosen to ride the gentle mount Alex had purchased for her. Buttercup was a placid creature, but Elizabeth had never been an accomplished rider, and the ride was not a comfortable one.

Prying information from a man she’d never met before was equally uncomfortable.

Per her request, the solicitor, Mr. Pearce, arrived with a sheaf of papers detailing the baron’s various accounts at the time of his death. The amounts, nearly all of them negative, were staggering.

Even more interesting were the names. One in particular, one she recognized, appeared repeatedly.

“Garrett.”

Mr. Pearce shifted, seeming to rouse himself to sit straighter. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Lord Garrett’s name appears here,” she said, pointing, “and again here. What do you know of him?”

“Little, I’m afraid. A third partner in a few of your father’s failed ventures. I do know, and pardon my saying it, that Lord Garrett’s estate was better able to absorb the losses.”

“But did they actually know one another?”

She knew Garrett was a frequent card partner to Alex. If she could prove a link between him and her father as well, she might be onto something.

But the solicitor lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I imagine they did, but cannot speak with authority on their personal relationship.”

She turned back to the papers. “And my husband? I see only one mention of him.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Was that debt ever paid?”

Mr. Pearce cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No.”

“I thought I might find more mention of him here…I was led to understand they were gaming partners for some time, along with Lord Garrett.” She was pushing, she knew, but desperation drove her.

The solicitor wearily rubbed a hand across his forehead. “May I speak openly?”

“Of course, please.”

“I don’t know what information you sought this afternoon. But my advice would be to stop asking questions.”

Her heart thudded. “Why?”

“You seem to seek a link between your father and your husband. I can tell you this: all noblemen have agreements, and disagreements, they choose not to record. Some more than others. If you go searching for answers, you may not like what you find—nor do I believe the duke, to whom you owe allegiance, would approve. Most men prefer their private matters left private. Leave the past in the past.” He stood, straightened his coat. “I hope our meeting has been of some value to you, Your Grace, but I think it best if I leave now.”

“But my father—”

“Your father was an unhappy man.” He leaned close, his voice low. “But the man you have married? He is a ruthless man.”

Elizabeth stood numbly as Mr. Pearce departed without further explanation. Her mind whirred with questions, but her body felt mired in sand. “Ruthless,” he’d said. Well, she’d known that all along. It wasn’t proof of anything.

She shivered as she stepped out of the inn and called for her mount.

The ride home was as uncomfortable as the ride there. Her worries remained unabated, and her rump would be sore on the morrow.

She was keenly aware that, if she’d been a better wife and had absolute faith in Alex, she could have spent the afternoon enjoying an intimate fireside picnic rather than traipsing about the cold gray countryside.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?” Alex stopped pacing his study and turned to stare at his wife, who’d just blown into the room like a gust of cold air. Where had she been
this
time? It was clear she’d been outdoors, for her cheeks were still pinkened and her hair mussed. She looked beautiful.

Or would have, if he hadn’t just spent the last six hours wondering frantically where she’d disappeared to, or whether she’d met some untimely end. Even now, members of his staff were searching the grounds.

Elizabeth stopped short. He watched as she smoothed her skirts. Was it his imagination, or did her fingers tremble?

“I’ve only just returned from the village, my lord.”

“The village? What foolish notion prompted you to go to the village with snow clouds looming just above our heads?” He knew his frustration showed, but she had no idea how worried he’d been.

He busied his hands pouring a large brandy, then forced himself into a relaxed stance, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace.

“I didn’t realize those were snow clouds. There are clouds nearly every day in the winter, so I didn’t pay them much attention.”

A servant appeared quietly with tea and Elizabeth paused, then moved to the tray and focused on pouring herself a cup as she finished answering him. Her movements were stiff, her hands red and chapped from the cold. Alex would have been tempted to offer to pour it for her…if he hadn’t been so irritated.

“I visited the Culpeppers again. And—and—I brought a basket of jams to the orphanage. Cook assured me we’d more than plenty, and I thought those children might like a treat—” She broke off, studiously stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

“I see. Another of your noble journeys.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Elizabeth, you may give away every last jar of jam in this house if you like, but not in the middle of December, with snow on the way, and without informing anyone of your whereabouts—let alone going without an escort.”

Really, all this disappearing had to stop. His wife of barely two months was as elusive as a wood sprite. Which, in a way, she resembled at the moment—looking so delightfully windblown, her red hair reflecting the firelight. He should hire someone to do her portrait that way.

Alex rolled his eyes. When had he become such a pansy? He couldn’t even get a straight answer from his wife, and yet he dreamt of fanciful paintings of her. Damn it, how did she do this to him?

Elizabeth sniffed. “You don’t have to treat me like a child. I’ve seen to myself well enough until now.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, warming to his anger again. “A fine job you did of that. Let me see. You ran away from home to work for my sister, then ran
back
home, only to be abducted by your cousin…Yes, I think the evidence stands for itself.

“I’m tempted to lock you up for your own good. I suppose I should have realized, before we married, that you have a habit of disappearing. But, Elizabeth, you’ll be the death of me—if not yourself—if you do not desist.”

She sniffed again. “All right.” She looked miserable.

Alex heaved a sigh, his anger abating. “Likely you’ve caught a head cold out there in this frightful weather. Come here.” He offered her a handkerchief, then drew her into his arms and stood in front of the fire.

He rested his chin on her head, finally relaxing for real. She was back. For now.

He didn’t understand her. When she wasn’t eluding him, she was playful and passionate. And every time she did disappear, she seemed contrite afterward. He could never predict what each new day would bring. Was it too much to ask that she’d give a little thought to her own safety? Or at least confide in him, her own husband, so he could protect her? Bloody independent woman.

When had Elizabeth come to mean so much to him? So much that he’d been nearly paralyzed with terror at the thought of losing her?

In spite of Elizabeth’s reassurances that she would stop disappearing for hours on end, Alex’s gut was uneasy. Instinct told him his wife was slipping away. If not physically, then mentally, spiritually. But he had no idea what he’d done to prompt it. Or how to stop it.

His instincts were confirmed when, two days later, at dinner, she informed him she wanted to travel to London for a spell.

“Why?” he asked, flabbergasted. Who went to London in the winter, unless upon matters of business? Elizabeth was a duchess.
His
duchess. She didn’t need to work for a living.

Elizabeth sat across the table from him. She poked at the edge of her fork until it was perfectly in line with the other silver. “Well, I, er, thought to visit my family.”

“Charity was here just last month.” And though he didn’t say it aloud, she was the only member of Elizabeth’s family he deemed worth visiting.

“Yes, well…” She fidgeted some more. “There is also the matter of gowns for next spring’s Season.”

“I can arrange for the modiste of your choice to come here.”

That didn’t make her happy either.

“That’s very kind of you, my lord, but then there is the matter of accessories, such as hats, gloves, parasols…” She waved a hand. “And of course London has more in the way of diversion than the country. I can’t say why, it’s just, I’ve been feeling at odds lately. It is terribly quiet out here.”

He gaped at her. Mere months ago,
he’d
been the diversion she longed for.
He’d
been the one to brighten her day. They’d had to snatch stolen moments together, and the “terrible quiet” she now described had sounded like a lovers’ paradise. He’d looked
forward
to time alone in the country with her.