Scandal And The Duchess (6 page)

Her words ended in a sad note, echoed by the quiet swish of her dress as she walked away from him.

Steven caught up to her in the wide hallway. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “What happened to you, I mean.”

Rose turned to him, her green eyes softening in the gloom. “You know, you are the only person who hasn’t immediately believed his death was my fault.” She paused. “Or do you?”

“No.” Steven rubbed his hand through his hair to keep himself from reaching for her. “I don’t.”

“They say I deliberately married a man with a weak heart,” Rose said. “And then . . . proved to be too much for him.” Her color heightened.

Steven knew exactly why they’d imagined that—beautiful, young Rose would throw any middle-aged man into palpitations. The journalists saw her lush body and red lips and extrapolated that her physical presence had caused the man’s death. Steven couldn’t blame them for thinking so—wasn’t he still fantasizing about having her in his bed?

But they hadn’t asked her, or the duke’s physician, for the true story. The newspapers had simply declared it, loving the scandal of the young second wife doing in the husband and sweeping up the spoils.

Only Rose had been kept from her spoils.

They entered a room that was little more than a cluster of furniture. At one time, it had been a sitting room of some sort, but now appeared to be a place to store things that didn’t fit in the other rooms.

Rose moved unwaveringly to the end of the room, two large windows letting in light there. Her skirts billowed as she knelt before a cabinet and gestured to it. “This.”

The cabinet was about three feet long and two and a half high and as wide, inlaid with satinwood and other exotic woods Steven couldn’t identify. Rose opened the cabinet’s double doors to reveal a stack of shallow drawers.

Steven saw the cleverness of it as Rose pulled out the entire bottom half of the cabinet, drawers and all, on hidden rollers. The top drawers, which were shallower still, stayed in place.

The entire piece, with its burnished wood—deep golds and ambers with a touch of red—seemed to light up the corner it stood in.

It certainly lighted Rose’s face, or maybe that was her flush of joy. “I always loved this piece. It’s a collection cabinet—for medals or coins, or whatnot.” She opened a drawer in the top section, which was empty. “No one’s used it for years, but I liked it. I was going to keep ribbons and things in it.”

Steven touched the top where a strip of ebony inlay alternated with lighter satinwood to create a chevron pattern.

“It’s lovely,” he said with sincerity. “Old, I take it?”

“About seventy years old. George Bullock was the maker—very famous in his day, I believe.”

Steven liked the feel of the wood under his fingertips. Care had been put into the making of this cabinet, even love.

“This is your choice?” he asked.

“Yes.” She pursed her lips in a moue, and Steven’s heart hammered again. She really should not do that, shaping her mouth in the perfect form to be kissed. “Now to see if Albert will let it out of his sight.”

“Bugger Albert,” Steven said. He grimaced. “On second thought, I won’t. We have a cart waiting outside, and servants to help move it. I say you take it and to hell with Albert. What about the second piece?”

Rose remained on the floor. “Have you abandoned the idea that Charles might have left me something inside the furniture? That it might hold the key to something else?”

Steven had—it was far-fetched. The duke had been a doting, but not very intelligent man, as far as Steven could tell. He’d probably trusted that his son would feel an obligation to take care of Rose and hadn’t worried—reasoned he’d live a long while and buy her plenty of things along the way. He’d likely had no idea his son was a turd.

Steven shrugged. “Let us look.”

He sank down next to Rose, breathing in the scent of her. He needed her—her body around his, the taste of her in his mouth. Her breast had fit well into his large hand, but he’d felt more cushion of it to explore when she was unfettered. A lush woman, barely contained by her stays. Naked, she must be heaven.

Steven didn’t truly believe there was anything in the cabinet, but he couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He started pulling out drawers.

They found nothing. After about half an hour of examining the insides and undersides of the many drawers, nothing turned up. Not a cache of diamonds or other costly jewelry or a small painting by an ancient master worth thousands of guineas. The cabinet had been thoroughly cleaned out.

Rose said nothing, but her disappointment was apparent. “The piece itself must be worth something,” she said. “To an antique collector if nothing else.”

“I can find out for you,” Steven offered.

Rose ran her hand along the edge of the inlay of the top, her fingers lovingly brushing it. Steven couldn’t stop himself imagining those fingertips running as sensually over himself, and he went hard again.

“I hate to let it go,” Rose said, her low-pitched voice completing his ache. “It’s rather special to me.”

“Then keep it.” Steven cleared his throat as he got stiffly to his feet, turning so she wouldn’t see any sign of his lust that might be pressing out his kilt. “I’ll round up someone to tote this out for you. Hell, I’ll carry it on my own back if I have to. It’s going home with you today.”

“Home.” Rose looked wistful. “Only I haven’t got one.” She met his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound sad?”

It did. Steven’s hard-on deflated a little, though not much. If he thought about it, Steven didn’t have a home either.

Not quite true. Steven was always welcome with his brothers—Patrick, who’d raised him, had a comfortable house in Edinburgh; Elliot had a huge monstrosity of a castle in northern Scotland, overrun with Indian servants and his growing family; and Sinclair had plenty of spare bedrooms in London, even if Sinclair’s unruly children did terrorize the house.

But Steven had nothing, no home to return to, no place to put down roots. He enjoyed his visits with his brothers, but in the end they were only visits. His brothers had families. Steven did not. He’d made halfhearted attempts to change this in the past, but put any thoughts of marriage aside when he returned to the army. It was no life for a wife and children—at least, he’d never met a woman robust enough to share it but tender enough to fall in love with.

If he couldn’t change things for himself, though, he could change things for Rose. “I swear to you,” Steven said, “at the end of this, you’ll be able to go home. Wherever you want that to be.”

His heart was beating rapidly as he spoke, however, which didn’t help his headache. He turned and left the room, unable to take her green eyes gazing at him any longer.

***

Steven couldn’t find any servants. The house was dark with the winter afternoon, and no lamps burned anywhere, nor did any fires. The new duke took frugality to an obsessive extreme.

He’d have to go down to the servants’ hall and recruit a few sturdy footmen to help. Shouldn’t be too much problem—no one was doing any actual work in the house that he could see, and Steven was good at rallying people to obey him.

He did run across a servant standing in near darkness in a parlor on the second floor. The windows faced west, so a trickle of light came in, but only enough to show there was a person in there at all. The man wore a dark suit, like the footman John, but had hunched shoulders and spindly legs. Not much good for moving furniture.

A closer look showed Steven that he was perusing papers on a tall table in front of him. Also that his clothes were wrinkled and looked less costly than even the footman’s kit.

This was either a vagrant who’d wandered inside, or the new duke himself, the repugnant Albert.

Whoever he was, he heard Steven’s step, and turned with a jerk. The man looked Steven up and down, his hands curling as his gaze lingered on Steven’s kilt. “What the devil are you supposed to be made up as?” he snapped.

“A Scotsman,” Steven said. “I thought you weren’t at home, Your Grace.”

Steven saw a resemblance to the late duke in Albert, but everything that had been strong in Charles was weak in his son. Charles had sported a receding hairline, as did his son, but the older duke had had a robust mane of white hair to go with his, while Albert’s graying hair straggled in thin wisps. Charles hadn’t been tall, but his back had been straight and strong, while Albert’s shoulders were slumped with too many hours of poring over papers.

“A Scotsman.” Albert repeated. “What is a haggis-eating, sheep-loving bagpiper doing in my house?”

“I don’t eat haggis,” Steven said, letting his accent deepen. “And I never mastered the pipes, much to the despair of my poor brother. As for the sheep . . .” He shrugged. “Could never get very far there. Damp wool makes me sneeze.”

Albert’s scowl deepened. “Get out of my house, sir.”

Steven debated explaining his presence, and Rose’s, but decided to let the man wonder. “Not until I take what I came for.”

“Are you robbing me, then? I’ll have the constables on you.”

Steven folded his arms. “No, you won’t.”

However strong-willed his father had been, Albert had inherited only pigheadedness, Steven decided. He was half Steven’s size, yet he swung away from the table, grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and came at him.

Steven easily caught the man’s upraised arm as it descended, and twisted the poker out of his hand. He propelled Albert back to the table and slammed him face-first onto it. “Only attack if you have the advantage of surprise or superior strength and position.” He pressed Albert’s face harder into the wood. “Or prepare to be trounced. I have a raging headache, and see how easily I’ve bested you?”

“Get off me, you bloody dung-eater.”

Steven’s temper flared through the hangover. “Your own mouth’s plenty full of shit. Thinking about what you’re doing to Rose, I’ve a mind to grind you through this table until you learn some manners.”

“Are you her latest lover, then? What happened to the comte?”

Steven pressed Albert down harder until he cried out. Steven growled, “Keep a civil tongue, man, before I’ll—”

“Steven, what on earth are you doing?” Rose’s exclamation cut into the room, followed by the rustle of her skirts. “Is that Albert? Good heavens, let him up.”

Steven didn’t want to. He’d love to beat son Albert into the table until the man’s face was bloody. That would be satisfying.

But the note in Rose’s voice made Steven release Albert and step away. She was a good woman to feel sorry for Albert in spite of it all, no matter how much Steven didn’t share her sympathy.

“You’re lucky she’s such a sweetheart,” Steven said to Albert. “And that she walked into the room just now.”

“I’ll have the law on you,” Albert snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“No, you will not,” Rose said decidedly. She was an angel in black, her hair and face the only color in the gloom. “Captain McBride is here to help me take the furniture Charles left me, that is all. I’ve rung for John—he and Thomas and James will carry down the chest from the old parlor.”

“What furniture?” Albert snapped. “You can’t take any furniture.”

“It’s in the will,” Steven said, stopping himself from slamming the man into the table again. “Two pieces of furniture, her choice. She’s chosen one; she’ll be back for another.”

“My solicitor—” Albert spluttered.

“May contact Her Grace in London.” Steven went to Rose and took her elbow. “I think we should be off, love,” he said softly to her.

“Don’t call her
Her Grace
,” Albert snarled behind them. “She’s not a duchess—she’s the bloody whore who killed my father. She deserves nothing.”

Steven let go of Rose and swung back to Albert. Albert, eyes widening, tried to evade him, but Steven caught him by the collar, ignoring Rose’s cry.

Slam!
Albert’s face went once more into the table. “She deserves a commendation for not killing
you
,” Steven said, each word tight. “Don’t speak to her again except through her solicitor. His card.” Steven withdrew a card Collins had given him and slapped it on the table in front of Albert’s head. “Good day to you, sir.”

He gave Albert another shake before he released the man’s collar and left him. Rose was staring, wide-eyed, but Steven turned her away and steered her out of the room.

***

“It’s pretty,” Sinclair McBride, Steven’s brother, said later that evening. “What is it?”

Steven had placed the cabinet in the middle of the parlor of his suite at the Langham. Rain fell outside, droplets lingering on Sinclair’s short hair, which was the same shade of blond as Steven’s.

Albert had in the end not stopped John and two other footmen from lugging the cabinet down the stairs and loading it into the waiting cart. The cabinet had filled the small dogcart, leaving no room for Steven and Rose.

Steven had then bade John to fetch the coachman from his tea and have him hitch up Albert’s carriage to take him and Rose to the train. Though worried about Albert’s reaction, John and the coachman seemed happy to do anything for Rose. Likewise, Miles, the town coachman, had been willing to collect Steven, Rose, and the cabinet from the station in London. Rose had won them over.

Not much wonder. One smile from her red lips, one twinkle of her eyes, and men fell over themselves to do her bidding. Journalists with too much time on their hands had assumed she’d used that natural charm to make men do her favors, including in her bed.

Rose was in her bed right now—alone—napping after their trip. She’d told Steven upon their arrival that, thinking it over, she was resigned to selling the cabinet.

She’d looked sad, but resolved, and Steven had sent for his brother to talk to him about the matter. Sinclair had arrived through the now-falling rain, to study the cabinet in curiosity.

“It’s a collection cabinet,” Steven said in answer to Sinclair’s question. “By George Bullock, circa 1815. I’m trying to find out what it’s worth.”

Sinclair pinned his younger brother with a hard stare. That stare, along with Sinclair’s ability to obtain any verdict he wanted in court, had earned him the moniker of the Scots Machine. His colleagues called him that—the unlucky villains in the dock had named him Basher McBride.

The Scots Machine now assessed Steven. “I’m a barrister, not an antiques dealer. Why did you send for
me
?”

Steven shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d know someone who could sell it for Rose. Someone who can be discreet.”

“I know many people who can be discreet, but they’re not all on the side of angels.”

Steven joined Sinclair in frowning contemplation of the cabinet. “I hoped it contained some sort of clue or message for Rose, or had been crammed full of gold coins for her. I’ve looked at it every which way, but . . . nothing.”

“I met the Duke of Southdown once—the former one,” Sinclair said. “Maybe he simply knew the cabinet would fetch a good price, and give his widow a bit of cash. He died, suddenly, didn’t he? He didn’t know he would go so quickly. How would he have had time to prepare for her?”

“Well, he didn’t do bloody enough while he was alive, that’s certain. Collins is browbeating the duke’s solicitors—Rose will have to put her faith in that.” Steven let out his breath. “She doesn’t want to let the cabinet go, but she might have no choice. Her pig of a stepson wants to see her destitute.”

“So you said. He’s trying to prove her a bigamist, is he?”

“He won’t,” Steven said in a hard voice. “She isn’t.”

His brother’s stare became sharper, but finally Sinclair gave him a nod. “If it goes to court, I’ll advocate for her—I agree with you about her innocence. I warn you, though, juries of middle-aged, middle-class, holier-than-thou men don’t like pretty women who marry older men. They know they’d succumb to that temptation too readily themselves, and so they blame the temptress.”

Steven balled one hand. His headache was coming back. “Thank you for the optimism.”

“This is what happens. Be prepared for it.” Sinclair relaxed his stance. “I’ll help as much as I can. I’ll ram her innocence down the jury’s throats.” He studied the cabinet again. “It’s an interesting piece. Ask one of the Mackenzie brothers or their wives. They’ll either buy it to lose in those huge houses of theirs or know someone interested.”

“Yes.” Steven had thought of the Mackenzies, especially Eleanor, wife of Hart Mackenzie, who was Duke of Kilmorgan. Eleanor knew everyone in London and everyone in Scotland, plus she had connections via her husband to people throughout the Empire who might like a nice cabinet for displaying their medals.

But he’d hesitated. Rose had asked him, sorrow in her voice, to please help her find a buyer, then had retired to her room. Steven hadn’t wanted her to wake to find he’d already sold the bloody thing and had it carted away while she’d slept.

Steven had sent for his brother not only for his opinion, but to help keep himself from picturing Rose, stripped down to her smalls, snuggling in her cozy bed. A single wall stood between her and Steven, a piece of wood, brick, and plaster keeping him from watching her sleep, drinking in the beauty of her.

He needed a cold bath, or maybe a walk in the freezing rain. But Steven couldn’t make himself leave the suite.

“Never mind about the cabinet for now,” Steven said. “I’ll wait until Rose wins back her settlements. She might have a place for it after all.” He thought of the warm glow on Rose’s face whenever she talked about her husband, and something stabbed at him. He needed to wrap up this business, take himself to Scotland for Christmas, and forget Rose. Hart always invited scores of people to his Christmas parties—maybe Steven could meet a lonely widow there and forget this one.

And perhaps the rain outside would change to showers of gold, and champagne would flow in the streets.

Sinclair was watching him again. “If you change your mind, Eleanor and Hart are in Town for now.” He shot a look at the closed door, then one at Steven. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t,” Steven said, shaking his head. “I don’t at all. Wish me luck.”

“Mmph.” Sinclair’s expression changed. “
I
need luck. Tomorrow, I look for a new governess. Andrew put beetles into the current one’s bed.”

Steven grinned, his thoughts moving with relief to his energetic nine-year-old nephew. “And the governess fled?”

Sinclair lost his amused look. “No, I sacked her. She decided to lock Andrew into the cellar from whence the beetles came. Because it scared him into silence, she suggested I do this every day. Hence, the sack.” The anger fled Sinclair’s eyes. “Caitriona managed to get the governess’s hair switch off her while the fuss was being made about Andrew. Cat tossed it into the fire. Poor woman was bald as an egg on the back of her head.”

“She can wear a bonnet.” Steven’s sympathy for the governess had died as soon as Sinclair said she’d locked Andrew in the cellar.

“Take care, Steven,” Sinclair said, taking up his hat. He looked as though he wanted to say more, settled for his stern barrister glare, and walked out.

***

Rose couldn’t sleep. She had undressed for her rest, but only twenty minutes later she rang for the maid to help her into her clothes again.

She needed to speak to Steven. Well, to see him actually. To be in the same room with him. His presence comforted her more than anything else had in a long time, had somehow even when she’d thought him a downtrodden vagrant on the streets.

She stepped out of her parlor and made her way down the hall, then stopped short as a tall man came abruptly out of Steven’s rooms.

Rose halted, ready to ask in surprise where Steven was going, when she realized it wasn’t Steven. Same light blond hair, same tall physique, same way of piercing her with his gray stare, but a different man.

Steven’s intelligence lurked in the man’s eyes, but while Steven was restless and moody, even in his hungover state, this man had a quiet intensity about him.

“I beg your pardon,” Rose said, though he had been about to step into
her
. “I need to see . . . my cabinet.”

His gaze flickered with amusement. “Yes, your
cabinet
is doing very well. It will be pleased for your visit.”

“Damn it all,” Steven said, coming up behind the other man. “Leave her be. Rose, this is my brother Sinclair, known on the backstreets as Basher McBride. Don’t let him intimidate you. Sinclair, allow me to introduce Rose, Dowager Duchess of Southdown.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Sinclair was immediately polite, holding out a hand and bowing as Rose shook it. He didn’t release her hand, but remained holding it in his strong grip. “If my reprobate brother becomes too unruly for you, do not hesitate to send for me. I have a house on Upper Brook Street and chambers in Essex Court.”

“That is kind of you,” Rose began.

“Don’t you have a governess to employ?” Steven said, a scowl creasing his face.

“He wishes me to leave.” Sinclair squeezed Rose’s hand again, this time in genuine cordiality. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

His politeness warmed Rose’s heart. So few bothered to be polite to her these days.

Sinclair made a final bow, shot a look at his brother, and departed.

Steven ushered Rose into the parlor. Rose held her breath as she brushed by him in the doorway, his warmth unnerving her. She hadn’t been able to sleep this afternoon partly because she craved to be in his presence. She’d had to give in and rush to see him.

Rose made herself walk to the cabinet, which waited for her in the middle of the rug. “Was Mr. McBride interested in buying it?”

Steven closed the door. Rose was very aware she was alone with him, even more so than she had been at Sittford House, when any of the dozen servants could have walked into any room they’d happened to be in. Here, the door was closed, Steven had no regular valet, and any other staff would knock and wait to be admitted.

Rose couldn’t look at anything but Steven. The cabinet, a masterwork of craftsmanship, faded to nothing. He still wore his Scottish clothes, his blue and green kilt falling in neat pleats to just below his knees.